I do not believe I will be sharing any more stories from Ireland. There isn't much to say. We drank so much beer and cider in classic, heavy bar glasses that I got an accidental bruise on my finger that will soon castrate my nail; Galway was like heaven after a grueling eight hour bus ride from Belfast; and we didn't exactly do a damned thing in Cork besides go to the Blarney Castle, which I found a waste of time, money, and effort lugging around my camera just to take pictures of what I'm positive is simply the mini version of the Hogwarts theme park.
I must describe to you, though, how I happened to go to one of the best cities in the world. Our last night in Cork consisted of devising the several plans we had for our last days in Ireland. The group consented that returning to Dublin would be the best idea since we all were to fly out of there anyway. But I was a bit tired of Ireland and didn't see what else Dublin had for me, and I happen to have an enormous crush on the l'île de France. So I bought a ticket and the next evening was headed for Paris.
(Although this shot is not exactly
flattering, I found it fitting. You
can see the bruise on my finger
and how sweaty and lonely I was at the Louvre.)
For some reason I wasn't at all concerned with where I'd lay for my head for the three nights I was to stay there before I returned back to Dublin to catch my flight home. I only got concerned when nearly all the hostels were booked (and expensive), and the one Parisian I knew was in Thailand. The other dear French girl I knew was several hours away from Paris. On my Facebook status I asked if anyone knew a place I could crash in Paris for a few nights. Well, if the one Parisian guy I knew was in Thailand, my one Californian Aunt would certainly be in Australia, right? My Uncle George relayed the info to Aunt Carol, who commented on my status.
"Tonight is my last night in Paris. Let me know if one night helps."
Um, yes.
My first thought was, great! This will save me 40 euros and give me time to find my own hostel.
My plane was too late to use any airline shuttle service, so an expensive cab ride seemed to be the only option. I didn't even tip the guy, but in my head he didn't care because I winked at him. A doorman helped me out of the car and opened a golden door into the Park Hyatt Vendôme. Oh. My. God.
Traveling with a backpack and having a weakness for Top Shop means you have to wear as many clothes as possible, plus those boots you swore you'd need, with your extra socks stuffed in your coat pockets and the mini backpack your friend gave you on your front side like those trendy baby sacs, except I was the one who needed to be carted around because I looked like a special child sweating from the Parisian heat soaking through my multiple layers. I smelled. My backpack looked like a huge boil bobbing through the immaculate lobby.
After verifying that I was in fact Carol's niece and I was not here to assassinate her sumo-wrestler style, they gave me a key and I crept into her dark room.
"I'm awake."
"Oh, sorry. I'm just going to take a shower."
"Did they tell you I got you tomorrow night, too?"
"No you did not." I tried not to yell.
I was almost mad at her. It was too nice. Here I am, Miss Mooch, advertising on Facebook for a measly couch, perhaps a blanket, and come to find out I will be staying, not one, but two nights in a very posh hotel often visited by celebrities and the like. (Apparently that same weekend Eva Longoria and her husband were there, and I think Justin Timberlake? I don't remember.)
I stirred at the sound of her getting ready in the morning to eat breakfast and leave for the airport, but the next thing I knew I was alone in the room. Later she told me she tried to wake me up several different times but I was a stubborn sleeper, probably because it was the first real, comfortable bed I had slept in in two weeks. Luckily, breakfast was complimentary to me, another big thanks to Carol and her golden or diamond or some other gem or metal membership.
With a tummy full of fresh juice, coffee, smoked salmon and other trimmings of the sparkling buffet table, I set off to get lost in search of the Rodin Museum. After I came back to the hotel, changed rooms, showered again (the shower was bigger than my space at the hostels and had two faucets), and ate the complimentary chocolates, I ran to the Eiffel Tower to meet up with a bike tour group I had booked online while in Cork, then shared some wine with some flight attendants and pilots on the Eiffel Tower lawn at 1 in the a.m. Weird day.
I drank a lot of wine on this trip. I, like most people I guess, pledge allegiance to the saying, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." As you know, Ireland for Hannah meant beer and cider. And so Paris had to mean wine and cheese, two things I would take a bullet for.
The next day I roamed around a bit and sat in a garden staring at a map not looking for anything in particular for about 20 minutes. I heard some Americans, so I wandered over and sat down.
"Hi."
"Hi." A couple stood up after they concluded the conversation and left me and the tall, well-postured young man to ourselves.
"Where are you from?"
"Chicago."
Jonathan was a dancer who, just for fun, auditioned for the Opera in Paris and was now taking the week to travel by himself. After we talked for four minutes and each discerned we were not interested in romancing, killing, or mugging the other, we spent the rest of the day together consuming three bottles of wine, walking until I got the blisters described in a previous post, eating cheese on the Champs Elysées, and dancing a bit to smoky techo music. I stayed up all night the last night so I wouldn't have to find a bed to sleep in then flew out the next morning.
I want to go back to Paris desperately. But more than anything, I want to share it with someone. I don't know what it is, but Paris really is meant for lovers. I didn't really believe it until I experienced those few days I had to myself, probably because my last trip to Paris was anything but charming. All I want to do is take someone I love to a crêpe stand and show them how delicious the simplest treat can be. (Sorry for the sappiness. But I'm really hungry and nothing sounds better than thinly fried batter and Nutella.)
Thanks again, Carol and George, for this extraordinary adventure. I am not only grateful for the coincidence but also for your extreme generosity. You're great!
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