Trenches
Our trip on the swankest ferry Dover has to offer left many a little seasick, and we woke to find ourselves parked next to the Arras trenches. This is a memorial site of German and French troops during World War I; the green earth is still pockmarked like a young toad from artillery shells, despite the old trees that grow from within. The trenches themselves were at first full of girls taking pictures (posing ridiculously, as usual), but everyone began to fall silent in the narrow corridors of earth, preserved by white stones that looked like sandbags and ladders underfoot. Everywhere I looked, there had been men loading, trying to sleep, writing home, sitting among dead friends and cat-size rats, yelling, grunting, crying out in fear, all waist-deep and unrecognizable in the sucking mud. What was most amazing to me was not the green craters or the labyrinth of trench, but that if the French had been stationed stage left in the wing, the Germans were as close as stage right. The distance between them wasn’t even large enough for a soccer game. Julie asked if I wanted a picture taken. I shook my head and she nodded. No one wanted to smile at such a sobering voyeurism.
Accordions are Overrated
After several more small naps (French countryside is utterly uninteresting), we rolled into Paris about 6pm and everyone scattered to buy carnets (little one-way Metro passes) and get euros from an ATM. The Metro was considerably smellier than the Tube and needed WD-40 in the worst way. I went with Rachel, Jessica, Nicole, and Amanda (I’m a bit of a sheep on group outings) and by nightfall ended up at our very first crepe stand. I was impressed at their English. We headed out onto the square, Nutella crepes in hand, and saw the Eiffel Tower gilt in caramel lights. There was a band playing some kind of ambient Mongolian music with chimes, dozens of vendors with light-up trinkets, and locals sitting and chatting. As we looked and chewed, the Tower lights began to pop like a million glittering fireworks. We cheered. No accordion or French bread, but we had crepes and it was our very first night in Paris. We were more than a little excited.
Waiting for the summit is a little like a Disneyland ride, except that people keep offering to sell you stuff in line. If you can prove you’re under 25, you get up to the top for 11.50, rather than 13.10...if you want, you can climb the stairs halfway for 8.50 and not be able to walk the rest of the week. So the five of us, about 10:30pm, finally ended up at the cusp of romantic daydreams, surrounded by a million Asians and zero PDA. It was sooo cool to see Paris at night...the Seine glowed under all the city lights, and little boats floated underneath. I didn’t spit off the top because, honestly, I was so incredibly thirsty. I did stick my face through the cables and look down, something everyone should do at some point (it’s like that part in Ferris Bueller, except the night wind is a bit freakier).
We met a really cute couple from New York who asked us if we were on missions. His wife was trying to convince him that he hadn’t shut his eyes in the last picture, and Jessica offered to take it again. Eventually we all ended up in a group picture with them and chatted in line about school and where they’d travelled. Amanda and I eventually got separated from the rest of the group, so we stuck with the New York couple until the crammed elevator ride down. Ever aware of my bag, I stuck close to Amanda, who did the same.
The Big Lift
At the bottom, we couldn’t find the others. It was 11:15 at this point, and the vendors were swarming on anyone who looked remotely like a tourist. We ignored them all, looking around nearby crepe stands, people crossing the street, and even stood up on a platform to look around. There were quite a few people still milling about in packs, but nobody was to be seen.
After a few minutes, I suggested we head back to the crepe stand on the square. We chatted happily for a few moments, pleased that we were at least together, when my bag felt suddenly much lighter. I looked down and that monstrous black clasp was undone. Flipping it open, it took one second to register that my wallet was gone. Staring around and trying to breathe, I felt like I’d been hit by a bus and everyone near those stairs was a suspect. Amanda asked what was wrong and after a few moments, I said loudly, “My wallet’s been lifted.”
She asked what was in it, where it had happened, was it the New York couple, what should we do now? I needed to get back to the hotel as soon as possible and use the Seely’s cell. Thank goodness Amanda was there; she was very businesslike and handled our transfer out of there with no problems. I’d had one debit card, my driver’s license, 25 euros, my Student I.D., a National Gallery pass and my international card. My pounds and Tube pass were in London, my passport in my hotel room, my Metro and Museum pass in another part of my purse. In short, everything of real significance was not in my wallet at all. My debit emergency numbers were photocopied in this event, and I needed to renew that license soon anyway. By the end of the Metro ride, I was feeling positively cheerful about the whole thing. Amanda agreed to keep this whole incident on the down low—I’d had a fantastic time at the Eiffel tower, and I didn’t want to taint anyone else’s experience.
Apparently it was a good idea; after calling my bank, I came back to find Annie on her bunk, looking a little shaken. I relayed my story which paled in comparison with hers—she and four others had taken the Metro to Saint Michel’s, and two Frenchmen decided they were cute enough for their charming attention. One went up to Caroline and started stroking her arm, saying things like Mademoiselle and other things we couldn’t understand. Caroline did her best to ignore them, and all the girls fell silent. It became apparent to the men that these girls could not speak French, and for no reason at all (in the middle of the crowded train) started yelling obscenities and f-bombs and making these horrible sounds at the girls, most of whom are nineteen and don’t know what to do. They got off at a stop and started walking away, only to find the men following them across streets and into other public places. It took fifteen minutes for them to get bored and give up. Annie said it was really scary. I didn’t know what to say to her or what she could have done. We were in for an uneasy night.
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