europe... meh

 

Eiffel Tower...

Pont des Arts a.k.a. "Lovers' Bridge"...

 

Baguette...

 

St Peter's Basillica...

Cinque Terre...

Vernazza...

Rome...

 

Dubrovnik...

 

 ...

Summer in Amsterdam...

phoneless in Paris

 

So I managed to navigate through my Euro trip without any major hiccups, missed flights or lost property. Until Paris.

On my sister’s last night, I suggested we ditch our local watering holes for a kitschy terrace bar in the 20th arrondissement open for the summer called La Grande Prairie. It was here that I befriended the suave cocktail-mixing Spaniard working in the terrace bar, who somehow wasn't put off by my less-than-perfect French. After clocking off, the Spaniard left with us in search of a good kick-on spot.

I remember him handing us some roadies for the walk. And not much else.

When I woke up, head spinning and too early yet to even be hungover, I discovered that my dear iPhone was gone (notice how iPhone users never call their iPhone their phone? It’s an iPhone user thing that those Android kids would never understand).

I logged into iCloud to access the 'Find My iPhone' application, and (le sigh...) it was on the move. I watched the little dot zip around the map of Paris until it became just too depressing.

I was supposed to meet a good friend that day to go to Versailles, but somehow fudged up her meeting instructions and, without any way to contact her, wound up exploring Marie Antoinette's stomping grounds solo.

Here's an idea: how about not visiting Versailles when you're wretchedly hungover, with queues that snake up and down the entrance for a kilometre in the searing summer heat? Marie, don't get me wrong—your chateau is divine, but a few more chairs and drink vendors would've been lovely.

Later that day the sexy Spaniard, who I’d had the foresight to add on Facebook, asked me out on a date. We’d made plans to meet at the giant statue outside Republique metro station at 10pm sharp; it was all very Sleepless in Seattle. I realised that if I was to pull off this little rendezvous I would actually have to be on time, like people used to be in the olden days before smart phone technology and SMS. This was going to be tough—particularly if my last meeting attempt was anything to go off.

As date hour approached and I scrambled around for my hair dryer, the door started buzzing. It must be a mistake, I thought, I’m not expecting anyone. I ignored it and continued my dryer hunt.  A little while later, my sister Facebooks me in a state: "Where are you?? My flight’s been cancelled, I was buzzing the door before!". Whoops. This wouldn't happen if I had a phone.

When I met her at the door she burst into a teary recount of her shite day at Charles de Gaulle. I was running behind schedule and I could feel the panic rising. I tried to comfort her while I blitzed through my hair and make-up (which I'm sure just oozed sincerity). I felt terrible leaving her like this. I sent the Spaniard a quick Facebook message to warn that I might be a bit late, and rushed out before waiting for a reply.

As I approached the metro, I realised that I'd forgot something and had to sprint back to the apartment. Five flights of stairs and about 100 curse words later, I returned to the subway, sweaty and tired, and caught the two lines to Place de la République, arriving at the fashionably late time of 10.15pm.

When I stepped out, it was pouring rain. I hurried out of the station and headed for the giant monument in the centre of the square, shielding my freshly primped hair (which quickly proved futile). Oh, and no Spaniard to be found.

I circled around the enormous statue to be sure, then retreated to the undercover metro station. Dripping wet and crippled with indecision about my next move, I shivered away a few minutes next to the stairway, hoping that he would have the good sense to look for me in here and wasn’t somewhere getting saturated himself.

Without any better ideas, I found myself heading towards the statue again. As if to mock me, the rain was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. Hair was now a wet mess. Clothes were soaked. I stared up at the Place de la République monument, musing over the prospect of lightning striking the towering bronze figure, just to make my night complete. I did one final loop of the statue. No Spaniard. It was 10.35pm and time to cut my losses; he either didn't show up, or went home before I arrived. I glanced one more time at the statue before plodding back down into the subway.

When I arrived back at Cadet Station, I gave into defeat and ordered a cheeseburger from the McDonalds on the corner. I returned to the apartment, and as I was relaying my date fail to Marg, suddenly noticed the message on my computer screen:

“Where are you hiding ;)”.

And another one from earlier: “Let’s just meet at 10.30pm then”.

Gah! I’d left before he’d sent the update. We'd probably missed each other by minutes. Hate not having a phone.

I actually set out for Republique once again. Can you believe it? Am I insane? Perhaps. This time, however, the elusive Spaniard came good and fun times were had by all.

Now, I'm sure there's a lesson somewhere in this experience. Something about punctuality, persistance or Gen-Y's unhealthy dependance on iThingys? I dunno. But let it be a warning for all to take good care of your belongings, particularly while meandering around the globe.