30 October 04
The Catch-Up Chronicles: Part I
Well, well, well. There has been so much going on, so much to think about and assimilate, that I have made the jump into Frog territory without writing about it before hand. I suppose I did indicate last time that I was departing on 18 October, and since I’m writing this on the 30th, well you surmise correctly that I am now in Strasbroug, France.
I’m finding it a little difficult to balance my time in my new life; between my new obligations with Hanane’s family (which ties-in with our marriage and the month of Ramadan), studying French, and trying to get caught up with my design projects (a million thanks to my clients who have been graciously patient while I have been making the transition to France) I have been a little disoriented to say the least. Lately I’m feeling like I’m always forgetting something (and I probably am), or that I’m not allocating enough time and energy to the things that need them most. I’m sure it’s just a matter of getting into a comfortable routine with things, and each day does seem to be better. One of the little milestones I would like to achieve in this settling process is get to the point where I’m making posts here about events as I recently experience them, rather than two or three weeks after the fact. In a step towards making that happen, I’ve decided to write a series of lengthier posts devoted entirely to bringing things to the present, thus The Catch-Up Chronicles. I would write just one long post (generally my trend anyway) but that would simply be working against the time management problems I currently having (without a doubt). Anyway, topics include my journey here, meeting Hanane’s family (including the traditional engagement ceremony…Yipes!), and my impressions of Strasbourg. So, without any further delay, here is Part I:
The Flight
I left for France early Monday morning on the 11th. My family came to the airport with me, which really meant a lot to me (thanks everyone) because I know it wasn’t easy at 5:00 in the morning, especially for my mom, as I know she’s not a big fan of airports. Upon arrival it seemed we didn’t have much time for proper goodbyes because the line to the international gates was rapidly becoming a mile long, and like obedient sheep we had to queue-up. I really wanted to just sit for a while with everyone and have some quality words of comfort and some good, long hugs. It will be a while before I see my family again, and I’ll miss them a lot. (I’m sorry about that morning, my family, I really wish we had more time in the final moments.) As it was, I had to rapidly get through security and at that point I was out of range from my kin. Bon voyage!
The flight was long but not terrible. The domestic portion of the trip, from Portland to Detroit was the worst of it and uncomfortable; it was a full flight and I was jammed up by the window three-people in. Thankfully the other two gentlemen (and they truly were), were not much for talking; we all just politely read, slept, and jockeyed for better sitting positions. Saying that I slept wouldn’t really be true, as I just can’t sleep on planes. It’s a curse. No matter how tired I am, I just can’t do it. Oh sure I can close my eyes and look the part, nodding and drooling, but I can never drop completely off into that state where I’m actually sleeping. It’s more like torture. Fucking torture.
The flight to Frankfurt was 100% better. International flights, in my limited experience, are always so much more tolerable, even with the longer air-time. I had an aisle seat, which I prefer, and an empty seat next to me. All was good. This flight was also the first time I had seen the new video systems that are built into the back of every seat. There’s a remote control-looking device on each armrest that you can detatch and use to navigate the video screen. Options include your music selections, movies, games, and a couple of other things I don’t recall. It took me a good hour to figure out how to use the remote, or rather realize that it wasn’t working properly to begin with. I think I was the only one who managed to crash my video display and bring up a DOS command line; achieved by rapidly, aggressively, and repeatedly pushing the “Main” menu button out of frustration. When I got this screen, I figured the pilot would think I was hacking the system, so I just staired at it for a bit (wasn’t much else I could do) and braced myself for the lecture from the steward that never came. After a few moments, the screen flickered a couple of times and the normal display returned. The remote also magically reverted to “accomodating mode,” and I was then able to use the damn thing. I watched one movie, The Chronicles of Riddick (a little weak but not absolutely terrible), but mainly I read my book or nodded in torturous half-sleep.
I actually bought two books to read, which were recommended by acquaintences in Seattle because of my journey to France. I’m just mentioning this to let those folks know that I did buy the books and I have/am reading them. One was Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris, and the other was Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik. I read the Sedaris book first. It was OK, not the riot I was expecting it to be. I did enjoy the chapter about his brother, “The Rooster,” as it reminded me of my own brother in way. I’m now about half way through Gopnik’s book, and I like this one much more, mainly because it goes the distance of actually making some comparisons between American and French life with the purpose of doing so. It does get a bit too sentimental in parts for my liking, and in that respect Sedaris’ book shines (it’s not sentimental at all), but otherwise it’s not bad. Neither book is exactly a read-in-one-sitting type of grabber. One thing about both books that bothered me is that the authors’ experiences both take place in Paris, and they speak of Paris as though it is a direct reflection of all of France. In fact, to us Americans, it seems, Paris is the epitome of France, just like the McDonalds hamburger, to the French, is the epitome of American cuisine. Neither of which is totally true. I haven’t yet seen Paris for myself but I’ve been told much about it by people who have and it doesn’t seem anything like Strasbourg; nor, I am sure, is it like many other places in France either.
The Baggage Disaster that Nearly Happened
I had mentioned in a previous post that I was packing my life into four check-in bags to bring to Strasbourg. Mission was accomplished, though there are a few things I wish I had been able to pack but couldn’t. Anyway, when I originally checked my luggage in Portland, I paid the extra fees for the two additional bags (anything beyond two will cost you), and was assured by the kind lady at the check-in counter that my bags would be waiting for me in Strasbourg (confirmation #1). Normally this is what you would expect, right? As it happened, my travel situation was to fly to Frankfurt, where I would then transfer onto a shuttle bus for a 2-1/2 hour ride to downtown Strasbourg. My concern was whether or not my baggage would be transferred from plane to bus without me having to worry about it. The Frankfurt airport Website seemed to indicate that I needed to personally collect my bags and then port them myself to the shuttle. Yet here now was the nice ticket lady telling me no, I did not have to worry about my baggage, and yes, they will be transferred to the Shuttle. I was relieved (because those were some big, heavy-ass bags), but still uneasy because of the condradicting information.
When I got to the Frankfurt airport, I was a bit lost, of course. All I knew was that I needed to get to Terminal A, which is where the shuttle would be departing from at the appointed hour. Thankfully I had plenty of time, nearly a 3-hour layover. I managed to find my way to a tram, which ran to the other side of the airport where Terminal A was located. I found a Lufthansa shuttle counter, which was the very shuttle I was taking to Strasbourg. I went up to the agent, showed him my shuttle ticket and again asked if my bags would be transferred to the shuttle for me. Again I was told yes (confirmation #2), and that I only needed to proceed to the shuttle waiting area. Now feeling more confident that my bags were in good hands, I found my way to one of the exits points. This particular exit skirted the baggage claim area altogether. It was still early in the morning, and it didn’t seem to me that there was much in the way of customs or security. There was just one guy in the booth who asked to see my passport. He looked at me curiously (as all customs agents do), stamped my passport, and nodded me through. I then went to find where the shuttle would arrive, just to know, and then to buy a phone card to call Hanane. Hanane was a bit more skeptical about the baggage issue, but I brushed off her concerns with the recent knowledge from the Lufthansa ticket agent that my bags would transfer without my intervention. Yet Hanane’s concern still lingered in the back of my mind, as she’s generally right about these things and considerably more internationally travelled than I am.
After my call with Hanane, and since I still had plenty of time, I decided to find a cafe to have some coffee and read while . After about 2 hours (leaving me 30 minutes until departure), Hanane’s concerns about my baggage began to weigh on me so I decided to get a third opinion about the situation. I made my way up to the main Lufthansa counters and after being redirected about three times to different counters and different people, an agent finally assured me rather confidently in a language reminiscent of the streettalk spoken in Blade Runner, that my bags would indeed be waiting for me in Strasbourg (confirmation #3). Now all hesitation I had about the baggage was gone; I was going to get on that shuttle knowing my goods would get there too.
With about 15 minutes to go I decided to go to the shuttle area to see if it had arrived. Sure enough, there it was, and there was already some passengers sitting inside. The driver was in his seat and looked as if he was thinking about departing early. I walked up and he opened the door. I asked him about the luggage. He looked at me as if I had lost my mind, and I knew right then and there that I was supposed to get my luggage myself. With only about 10 minutes to go before he left, I began to panic. I uselessly stammered something about what I had been told. He waived my words off before I could even finish, shook his head while doing so, and with choppy English (thick with German accent), said “we never, never, never bring bags to the bus,” which I think was his way of saying I’m not responsible for your shit, man. He must have read the look on my face, because he then said “I leave at 9:30 sharp, I’m sorry.” Without even waiting for him to finish speaking, I darted back into the airport and hurried to the baggage claim exit.
I had to indicate to a guard that I needed back into the baggage claim area to find and retrieve my bags. I had to show him my baggage claim tickets, but he otherwise let me in without much concern. It didn’t take me long to find my goods, sitting forelornly on the floor in a line with several other bags near the reclaim office. I didn’t even bother to find someone, I just loaded them onto a cart and rushed back to the exit hoping that security wouldn’t gang-tackle me in the process. This time when I made my way back to the baggage claim exit, I faced the kind of customs agents I had originally expected to see, the scary kind, looking at me suspiciously with the gaze of executioners, and of course right when I’m in a desparate rush. Right away they wanted to know why I had so much luggage. The one doing the talking would ask me questions and then supply answers in the form of other questions before I had a chance to even speak, like “why do you have so many bags,” and then “you are bringing a lot of gifts, yes? I became more uneasy by the second, but after a little of this game the tall, blond German finally let me through the exit, and thankfully without me having to explain my marriage intentions, which surely would have made things more difficult. I rushed back to the shuttle area with my big load of bags. The bus was still there and the driver watched me, without offering to help, as I loaded my bags into the belly of the shuttle. I had successfully made it to leg three of my journey; baggage disaster avoided.
Later on it donned on me that the customs agents had initiated dialogue with me in English, as if they knew I was American before I even said a word. This bothered me a bit because I didn’t like thinking I was that easy to peg, especially since they probably had no idea what flight I was coming in on (or maybe they did). But then I realized why this was probably the case, there had been quite a few American military on my flight to Frankfurt, easily distinguished by their haircuts, military t-shirts, and tattoos. Since I have a shaved head, and could probably pass for a soldier, the customs guys probably just assumed I was an American G.I. and spoke to me accordingly. That might also explain why they didn’t drill me more thoroughly about my bags. Hmmm.
Final Leg and Arrival
Just a few days before I left for France, Hanane had finally told her family about our relationship, and then a little later about my anticipated arrival.
[For those that don’t know, Hanane (my beautiful bride-to-be), and I have been in a long-distance relationship for over five years, and her parents never knew about it. Not because we didn’t want to tell them, but because she was afraid of being exiled from the family if she did (it’s a religion thing). Anyway, I’m very happy to report that all is in the open now and progressing very well. Her family has been amazingly understanding, though I did have to undergo “the big change.”]
Much to our surprise, her father actually offered to drive all the way to Frankfurt to pick me up. I told Hanane no. First of all, I intended to plant some long, hard kisses on my woman the moment I saw her, and I didn’t want poppy around when I was doing it. Second, the idea of having to meet her father right off the plane was just too much. (Can a brother at least get some sleep first?). So I caught the shuttle bus from Frankfurt to Strasbourg as originally planned, and enjoyed the 2-1/2 hour ride through the beautiful, and I mean BEAUTIFUL, German countryside all the way to Strasbourg.
The shuttle ride was actually the most pleasant leg of the trip. The bus was nearly empty except for a handful of people so I had plenty of room to myself. It was also rather quiet, which must have been that well-known German engineering at work. The windows seemed much larger than busses I’ve been on in the U.S., reminding me of the observation car in an Amtrak train. And to cap it off, the weather on my arrival was perfect, warm and sunny without a cloud in the sky. As I traveled down the highway, I could see these little towns at the base of these big rolling hills, all around the towns were these immaculately groomed agricultural fields, not big fields like in the U.S., just modest ones that looked adequate enough for the towns themselves. The fields stretched up the slopes of the hills until they hit the treeline, where it was likely too steep to be practical for growing anything. The belt of trees would run the rest of the way to the top of the hills. Then, somewhere on the hillcrest, overlooking each passing town, was a castle, tower and all. And that’s the way it was for miles (or rather, kilometers); there would be a quaint, red-roofed town in the lowlands with a single cathedral parked in the middle with its steeple rising above everything else. The town would be surrounded by agriculture and livestock, and the fields would creep up the hillsides to the forest edge. Then somewhere at the top of the hills would be a large stone castle, one for each town. The entire scene literally looked like something right out of a picture book for children about knights and princesses and whatnot. It wasn’t hard to conceive that each castle was the home of a rich Baron who governed the corresponding town, while in return was kept prosperous by the townsfolks labours.
(The castles were too far away for my camera to be much good, but the top photo on this page is a good example of the kind of castles I was seeing (whether or not it was the same region.)
I knew I had crossed into France when I crossed the Rhine (and also when I saw the sign that welcomed me to France). From that point it was a short trip to Strasbourg, and I got more and more excited with each passing kilometer. Everthing was interesting to me, from the vegetation to the architecture to the way people appeared on the street, and I was trying to look in every direction at once. The change from coutryside to city center seemed rather abrupt. I don’t know if that’s just because of the particular way we came in (sans city view), or if it’s just the effect one gets due to the city’s low architectural profile (there are no tall buildings here; everthing is no more than four or five floors, except the cathedral which is the pinnacle of the city). After winding through the edge of town and dropping off a couple passengers at a Sheriton hotel (ha! tourists), the shuttle made its way to the center train station. As we pulled up, there was Hanane and her sister waiting for me. It turned out to be a good thing that Hanane’s sister was there with her own car. Hanane’s car (and for that matter 95% of all cars in Strasbourg), was too small to hold all of my baggage, so we split the goods between the two autos and headed back to my new home.
(End of Part I)
