Rendezvous in Paris

I was surprised my Aunt Dale remembered our "date" in front of Notre Dame.

In 2006, I was leaving Paris with a high school exchange the night Dale arrived. While I ate my last dinner at "Jardin de Notre Dame," she ran from restaurant to restaurant checking for me. Without cellphones or a specified meeting spot, we never connected. Before I left for my flight, I called her hotel and we vowed that we would one day remedy this missed rendezvous. One day, we would meet by Notre Dame.

The Italian restaurant wasn't Notre Dame, or even French for that matter, but I didn't care. Just to make it here from Bristol through the London-Paris Eurostar Chunnel, just to fulfill that promise of being in Paris with Aunt Dale and Nancy Schwinn, was surreal. So much had to happen right to have la pleasure of sipping rose wine and inquiring "ou sont les toilettes, monsieur" in my rusty Franglais.

For instance, it was complete chance that English and only English classes started a week late at the University of Bristol, freeing up a whole semaine. Upon hearing this news, I was agitated. In Bristol, you enroll the old fashioned way: going to department heads, smiling the "study abroad smile," and endearing yourself to them in the hope of being granted admission into a course. It was while I was making my case for admittance into a Postcolonial Literature class that the department head said I would not start until the following week, so why don't I cool down a little bit (I was shocked when my top five courses were all full or unavailable to study abroad students and was letting him know). He offered no explanation why English courses start late. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find an explanation for much of how England's academia works. Why not register online like back in the US? Why can't I be admitted into this Postcolonial Lit class? Why can't I take 50 credit modules (instead of the you-must-take-60-or-else standard) if it allows me to take classes I'm interested in rather schedule-fillers because I'm pretty sure I didn't come across the Atlantic to play patty-cakes for 10 credits? Instead, I heard the same thing over and over: Study Abroad students aren't allowed to _____ (fill in the blank) because they're study abroad students.

Understandably, most students would leap for joy at a week off, but my heart sank. Vacations are great, and I would regret wishing a hasty start to the semester as soon as it began, but right now I wagered that the best way to get comfortable in Bristol was to do what I came here for: study.

But Paris wasn't a bad alternative. Plus, if I was really so keen on studying then I figured I'd take notes from Dale and Nancy, both of whom boast lengthy travel resumes and resolves that didn't shrink from 6-8 miles of walking per day, as tallied by Nancy's pedometer. (Dale lives in Honolulu, so since she lives what most of us consider a dream vacation she must be a darn good traveler.)

Atop the Eiffel Tower, Dale pointed out city sites like a pro. We lunched at the Amelie movie cafe and the cafe Ernest Hemingway and the other expatriates frequented. We took a boat ride on the Seine, visited the Musee d'Orsay, didn't let a greedy chain-smoking waiter fool us into paying extra tip money above the 20% he'd already commissioned us. We had drinks at Irish pubs, cappuccinos at McDonalds. In short, a fantastic trip.

Dale and Nancy had a picturesque view of the Eiffel Tower from their room, glittering like a jewel in the night sky. I had a view of a snoring saxophone street performer with greasy gray hair who had yelled at me for asking him too many questions. For both of us, it was perfect. I'm still amazed that this sojourn to Paris worked. I guess if good travelers notice and capitalize on opportunities, then that (along with chance) fulfilled the long-awaited rendezvous.

Now, if only my classes were delayed a week longer...