Cheap Flights = Scary Nights

27 euro Paris - Marsielle. Did you just pee your pants? Cause I did.

I thought flying from Paris to Marseille with Ryan Air would be cheaper, faster and more fun. Ha. I have more fun plucking my Grandma’s chin hairs. Forget about the 15 euro for a bus from the center of Paris to the RyanAir-only airport and  you can forget the 50 euro extra charge for heavy bags (anyone keeping track? That’s 155.) it was the delay and the havoc it caused.

We were meant to leave Paris at 6 and arrive in Marseille at 7.  Enough time to see the city, eat at a sidewalk café and get some sleep. Oh plans, how funny you are.

6:00 pm rolls around, “Zour flight iz delayed.” Ok, we had an hour to play with. We looked at French gossip magazines and talked to fellow backpackers.

7 o’clock: “Zee flight iz delayed more.” Hpmh. Our hostel for the night assured me they could pick us up at the airport but the shuttle service would promptly stop at 9. Ok, ok, breathe. There was still a little time to play with here.

8 o’clock: “zee plane will be boarding now.” Worse than the Southwest cattle call, French babies, French baby mommas and French men with one leg started running for the gate, legit running. Coming from a culture where we appreciate a good line, this was intense. Another check for stereotypes came true: Frenchies hate lines and avoid them, even if it means one-legged man would trample French baby – it happens.

Boarding the annoyingly orange plane, we found ourselves even more delayed on the tarmac. And then the panic set in: I took one year of French… in 6^th grade… 10 years ago. I also, in my pursuit of knowing everything, stupidly read reviews about how unsafe Marseille is.  How was I going to get us from the airport to our hostel with no map, 50 euros cash between us and only remembering, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir”?

It was now 11:00 and outside the airport. And then the rain started. 

Me, to nice-enough-looking-French-woman: “pardon, parla-vous ingelse?”

The worst up-down of my life: “scof, non!”

Ooook then. People were rapidly leaving the airport and security guards just locked the doors behind us.

An orange taxi approached, “would you ladies like a ride?” I could hear my mom’s voice, “Don’t get in cars with strange men!” This was a strange man, and this was his car, and we were getting in it!

My sister and I were glued to the rate meter. 15 euro..25 euro…30 euro…..45 euro…..50 euro. And we hit our limit. I mimed our predicament and the taxi driver drove us into some small town (at this point, I kinda knew we were going to die tonight) and stopped in front of an atm. aaand it had stopped raining. Ok, maybe we weren’t going to die that night.

The taxi driver dropped us off in front of the train station and pointed down the road to our hostel. We threw money at him and proceeded down the road. 1456,1457, 1459… wait we need address 1458. And it started to rain again. Up and down we walked, searching in vain for 1458. There’s not a soul on any street, it’s pouring buckets and we’re both so sleepy, we’re picking fights about whom to blame for this predicament (which is RyanAir, btw)

One of us decided that we should try the train station. It’s midnight now and the doors are locked. Just as Karin was fighting back tears and I was sweating my face off in the middle of a rainstorm, three security guards approached us. They could not speak a lick of English and started singing Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean is not my loverrrrr!!” and miming directions to our hostel “gauche….eerrmm, left?”

We found it, checked into our hostel , got into our room and our male roommates were snoring.

I can’t make this stuff up.

My Life as a Nanny

My life is full of some seriously unbelievable stories. My need to share them with not just my friends has been nagging at me for awhile. 

Once I do tell my friends all the bat crazy shit that’s happened, they can’t seem to believe me and then shout, in public areas, that I’m lying about whatever misadventure I’m retelling. Maybe writing this will add to my non-existent street cred, doubtful but can you blame me for trying?

On that note, the tipping point getting me to write this blog was me sharing a story to my dearest (and married) friends at the mall: 

As I was pulling extra baby wipes out of my uncommonly-large-but-perfect-shade-of-red Berksha messenger bag, for my friend’s one-year-old, they commented, “you’re like our nanny!” That N word produced a negative physical reaction. My eyebrows started sweating, I replied “I was a nanny.” 

I said it like I had been a former coke addict and a line was sitting in front of my while my tweeked out friends talked about how sweet the wallpaper dance was. I sheepishly handed over the baby wipes when my surprised friends asked me why I wasn’t a nanny anymore. 

And then, calm-as-day, I replied “while I was going to the toilet, they unhooked a shower head and sprayed me.”

Pause.

“You’re lying.”

“No, how could I make that up? It’s what nightmares are made up of. The kids had timed me in the toilet and knew, umm.. when I’d be a bit longer in there. They picked the lock, ran to the shower and sprayed me like the water contained nanny-repellent”

“You’re seriously lying now,” said my friend, who still hasn’t moved from the crowded walkway of the food court and was attracting looks by his increasingly loud exclamations.

“I don’t have proof besides the emotional scarring 6 and 8 yr old Italian boys can leave on a 22 year old American girl.”

“God, your life is interesting.”

Devil Children

Touristy, Relaxed Vacations are Not a Myth

This was my expertise in booking a trip: nothing.

Our family ‘vacations’ (if the torture of being surrounding by your immediate family for 365740 hours straight could qualify as a vacation) consisted of loading up the ’91 Toyota Previa, spending 4 days en route to New York, seeing 'South of the Border' and staying at whichever hotel my dad's rewards points would grant us.

Our stay-cations (which is now my favorite word and would have been used by my 12-yr old self incessantly had it existed) had my sister and I swimming at the local Hyatt while my mom ordered chicken fingers at the bar (we're spending money!)

While at college, I was lucky enough to spend spring break at a friend's house in Jamaica and didn't have to plan a thing and enjoyed every hazy moment.

A week before our flight across the world, my sister, the planner extraordinaire, came down with the 'flu' aka I'm-not-being-held-responsible-for-booking-our-trip-cough-cough. So, I was left with google search and my lack of planning abilities.

So, here I am, 22 years old, planning an European Grand Adventure with my sister. I was figuring out hostels, b&b's, hotels, airplanes, reviews, stars, in-room sinks and train schedules in military time.


This is how I pinched Euros, hung out with locals, and enjoyed tourist traps all while having a real vacation.

Airplanes and Promises

circa March 2008

my sister, Karin: "you're going to graduate this May."
me:"yup, in a hot three months. I have a semi-failed internship, and don't think I'll pass Childhood Literature. so, two W's for me."
sister: "let's go to Italy."
me: "I couldn't think of a more logical response."

Three months later we found ourselves on a transatlantic flight. Pulling out of the gate in Tampa, I leaned into Karin, "I'm not even nervous. We have no effin idea what we're getting ourselves into and I've been more scared walking into a 7-11."

Karin: "That's cause we have each other."

and there we have it, our relationship summed up. We have each other. We've already faced challenges and ended up coming out more vibrant. We seen stuff, we survived. Signing up to teach English in Italy at summer camps really did seem like nothing. ha.

Would I have been nervous if I knew what this flight was bringing me to? I can pinpoint this exact flight as changing the course of my life. What if at the moment the plane pulled from the gate, I had a glimpse into what was waiting for me, would I have asked to turn around? Would I have cried until someone asked if I was ok? An anxiety attack? More than likely, I would have sweated, asked for a double rum and coke, used the cocktail napkin to wipe the perspiration off and would turn to hear my sister say, "It's going to be ok: we have each other."