Thus far, part 2

The End
So I'll skip the week that I was at home. Well, at home and in Las Vegas for two days. It was a good diversion I suppose but I was also completely spastic with nervous energy. So I got home on Tuesday and had my last San Diego meal: Nico's bean burrito, then Golden Spoon with Matt. Sigh.
Wednesday was just a completely awful day. I would pack for about half an hour, then go upstairs and try to distract myself for an hour, then go try again. I was basically just falling apart. It's one thing to pack up and leave home for 9 months, but it is quite another to pack and realize that you will never be back in this house again. Who knows when I will be back in San Diego again. Every time I think about it I feel sick to my stomach. Somehow I made it through that day and topped it off with fondue and take out Ruth's Chris creme brulee. After dinner, Matt picked me up and we went to Torrey Pines Beach for the last time for the forseeable future. I ran to the shore to put my feet in, but ended up falling off a small shelf and nearly face-planting. It would have been even more funny if it wasn't so uncomfortable. The water was disconcertingly warm -- maybe 70. I don't think I've ever felt it that warm during the day. Matt took me home around midnight and somehow I got to sleep that night.

The Plane

Thursday morning. My mom woke me up, I don't remember a whole lot but I packed up the last of my stuff. I sat in the back seat with Puck. We left the house at 6:30 and got to LAX around 8:45. My flight was at 12:40. For the first hour there I just laid in the back seat and tried not to lose all control of my bodily functions. Around 10 we went in, got Puck checked in, somehow managed to skate through the extra fee for bags over 50 lbs. I got through security and went to the newsstand to buy a converter and a bottle of water. I ended up smashing my toe with my suitcase and bleeding all over. Nice start. The flight to Montreal was pretty uneventful. The movie sucked so I watched Entourage on my computer. Not a single scrap of food was served, but I did have club soda so I needed to pee but didn't want to make the people next to me move. No more window seats on international flights. At the Montreal airport I exchanged $20 and got some chili for dinner. By the time I had eaten that and bought a Cadbury bar (mmmmmm), the plane was boarding. That flight was pretty long but I don't remember a ton of that either. I watched Blades of Glory which was better than I thought it would be. I slept a little but it was hard. For some reason though, when we were descending, I couldn't keep my eyes open. Bad time to fall asleep.

The Arrival

The line for customs at Charles de Gaulle is always bonkers so I just toughed it out. But the baggage claim. You would not believe. I think there are 8 carousels in terminal 2 at CDG, 4 on each side of the terminal. Well, for whatever reason, that morning 6 flights came in at one time and they put them all on one side of the baggage claim area. So there were maybe a thousand people with carts, no room to move, and some hideous BO. First I looked around for the courtesy phone my shuttle company told me about, but I couldn't find it. Luckily, my magical cell phone was able to make calls to Paris, so I just called the shuttle company to let them know I had landed. I ended up just standing in the baggage claim for a good 45 minutes while it cleared out. I managed to find all of my bags, and I saw the customs agent bring Puck up the special baggage counter. Sidenote: remember when I got him vaccinated, microchipped, and had a vet fill out a health certificate for him? Yeah, I didn't have to prove any of that. Anyway, by the time I got everything together and found the shuttle driver with my name on a sign (I felt so fancy), it was 12:30. I was the only one in the shuttle, and we left.
When we were about half way to Paris, the guy's company calls him and says he can't take just one person so he has to go back to the airport and pick up this family. Whatever. I knew I was going to be late anyway (I had a 1 pm appointment with the property manager to let me into my apartment). So we get this family, drop them off, and head over to my neighborhood. First of all, he didn't know where he was taking me when he picked me up. Then he insisted that he couldn't drive down my street. I live off of a roundabout that he kept driving the wrong way around, and then turning off on the street right before mine. So after circling about three times, he parks and tells me he can't get any closer. It was only about a block away, which would have been fine had I not brought two rolling suitcases, two duffel bags, and a cat. So I beg him to leave the car and help me take my stuff to the door. I start crying, he kind of laughs at me. He insists in the two minutes he might be gone, he would get a parking ticket. So what did I do, I took my shit in two trips, left it on my doorstep, and prayed no one would steal it while I was gone. Pretty sure that fucker didn't get a tip. Anyway, now it was 2 pm so I had to call the property manager, but I didn't think my phone would work so I hadn't written her number down. I pulled out my trusty laptop and used the wireless from the cafes down the street to get her number out of an email and call her. As I sat on the stoop with five pieces of luggage on the sidewalk, three cars went down the street. Fuck that shuttle driver. But Madame Lasse came, helped me get my crap up to the third (fourth, technically) floor, and I was in. I was also completely drenched in sweat, so I took a shower, texted my mom, and went straight to bed. I woke up that evening, starving as I hadn't eaten anything since the blueberry pancakes on the plane, but the only thing in the apartment was quick oats. So I put in some sugar and called it a meal. Then I went back to sleep.

To be continued again.

The process thus far

I suppose that this story starts a year ago, but it starts to get really interesting about, oh, two weeks ago. Two weeks exactly, actually. So after packing up most of my life (my bed, TV, and other household stuff are living in a West Oakland storage space) on August 16, Puck and I started rolling south toward Santa Barbara. My car is old and the air conditioning doesn't work, which is usually fine for me, but the poor kitty was basically overheating from the time we hit San Benito County. I spent a while frantically looking for a Petco or Petsmart where I could put him on his leash and take him inside, but no such luck. Ever notice how by the time you see the huge signs advertising Target and Bed Bath and Beyond, etc, you've already missed the exit? Yeah. Anyway, he toughed it out, panting bright pink nose and all. He had an interesting time in hiding in Lauren's apartment. For those of you just tuning in, Lauren is my best friend. We have known each other since she wore sparkley magenta horns on the first day of eighth grade. I thought she was weird.

Anyway, the following morning we woke up at the crack so she could go to work and I could get driving to LA. In an attempt to secure a visa appointment at the last possible moment, I made one at the French consulate on Wilshire Blvd. for 11:15 am. Anticipating traffic in the Valley, I left promptly at 8:15, but not before counteracting a previous brain fart and running to Kinko's to print out a visa application and get some passport pictures taken. I also went to The Coffee Bean for the first time in my life. I have to say, impressive pastry selection. The drive was pretty smooth sailing until the southern end of the valley, but luckily once you get on the 405 it's only three exits to Wilshire. After driving around trying to find the building and I spotted a parking garage. I snagged a spot on the ground floor and left the windows open for the cat. Of course now I had to worry that a) he was still suffocating and b) my car was being stolen. I made it about 10 minutes early, and the process was going rather smoothly until my second trip the window, where the woman asked for a copy of my passport. Huh? I definitely read the list of documents needed to apply about 97890845 times, and a copy of my passport was not on there. So she sends me across the street to the federal building (with 20 minutes until the consulate closes), where I ask a security guard where I can make a photocopy. He says the post office or the cafeteria. The post office doesn't do copies, the cafeteria is closed. So I'm sweating, frantic, and running back to the consulate. In the elevator I almost asked some people if they were going to their offices and if I could use their Xerox machines, but I reasoned that this bitch sent me to the wrong place, so she should deal with it. She made the photocopy. I waited for the Consulate General's signature, then got the hell out of there. Puck survived.

It tooks four hours for me to get home. No joke. I left the consulate at 12:15. LA traffic wasn't great but not horrible. It was pretty smooth sailing through most of Orange County. I got off of the freeway in Carlsbad to get gas around 3. It took me an hour to get home from Carlsbad, and that's only because I got off of the freeway at Manchester and took the coast. I literally thought I might never make it home. But I did. . .at 4:30.

To be continued.

Bienvenue!

So this is my Paris blog. I figure instead of writing long, drawn-out emails to everyone individually, I'll condense it all here. I know blogging is trendy and lame now, but I promise not to take myself seriously and that there will be interesting things here. I would've started this sooner but I feel like now I've had enough time to settle and distance myself from the hellish ordeal that was getting over here, so I can write about it and laugh. I have an extraordinary memory so if the details bore you, skip over or whatever. Stay tuned.