The reality started to sit in that I am in Paris by myself for who knows how long. Back on the phone (again) Bill rattled off suggestions for how to spend tomorrow. None of it sounds too fun alone.
I’d actually called him for the name of the restaurant he liked on his trip here with Todd. Not that the idea of eating alone is appealing. Bill suggested throwing caution to the wind and treating myself to a really fancy dinner. That didn’t sound any more fun alone than a cafe. I can’t get the tv in the room to work (maybe I should ask for the key to Patrick’s room to see if it works). I might as well go eat.
I studied the metro map in my guidebook, then when I’d sufficiently memorized the route, went across the street to the metro station.
Apparently still a bit distracted, I got on the wrong train. Three times. Well, one time I got off at the wrong stop to escape from a woman who thinks she can sing and shares her lack-of-talent with passengers courtesy of a speaker she drags around and set up right in front of me.
It also didn’t help that the station where I could make a quick and easy connection is closed for renovations and that means taking a different train a different direction to get onto the line I really need.
Anyway, I’d just gotten back to where I’d started to just start the whole process over again when Bill called again. I figured he was checking up on me to make sure I wasn’t pouting in the hotel room. Where are you? Struggling to get anywhere at the metro station across from the hotel. They’re there. At the hotel. Like a big goofball, I hung up and rain (well, walked super fast) back through the tunnel and up and down stairs across the street to the hotel and to the room. Patrick, Julie and Sarah were there.. thanks to their emergency travel passports and new train tickets. They told me how awful it was knowing someone had gone through their stuff at their hotel in London and stolen their passports.. and how great the police and the embassy staff had been.
They hadn’t eaten, so we decided they’d freshen up and I’d try, try again to find my way on the metro.
That’s when Patrick pulled the toiletry bag out of his suitcase (it snaps in)… and found the lost passports behind it. Despite tearing everything apart in London… even digging through the pockets of dirty laundry… the passports had gotten stuck in a spot so secret they’d gone undetected. Hundreds of dollars and countless hours had been wasted. You can only imagine how furious Patrick was with himself.
I refused to let Patrick declare today the worst day of his life. Or second. Or third. I gave in to putting it in the top ten. But I told him he could not let it ruin the rest of his day. Besides, he was getting hungry.
I managed to get us on all the right metro trains to find the cafe. By the time our food arrived, Patrick was laughing and joking about the whole passport thing. Julie didn’t seem ready to find it funny. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help.