Thursday, September 19, 2019

Put it down to Jet Lag.

3.27 am. ‘Comfort Single Room,’ somewhere in Paris.
Jet lag meine Freute. That’s a lame parody of the title of a Bach chorale - Jesu meine Freute - Jesus my Joy. You get it. I know this couple who gave jet lag the finger in Rome by visiting all the tourist sites in the small hours. The photos were magical, as were their smiles. But given I’m alone here, I’m not quite brave enough to go wandering, even in this quiet arrondissement - district - of Paris. I’m defeating JL in my own practical way. Great time to alphabetise my travel wardrobe. No. Cheap unfunny line. But I did roll and categorise. Not me on the floor, my clothes into packing cells.

I’m trying to ditch some weight. Again, not from me, from my rucksack on wheels. I’m fine. Will be even finer after lugging that capacious behemoth up and down too many steps between Charles de Gaulle airport and my hotel in the thirteenth.

My room is actually a perfectly comfortable single. Which sleeps three. Albeit compactly. Great shower. Good locale with lots of choice for eating and shopping. What am I? Trip Advisor?

No bouloir  - kettle  - in the room but there’s hot and cold in Reception. Water, not service. Farque. JL. Loving the licence it affords one! It’s like being drunk. Perhaps I’ll regret this blog post later.  Unfortunately, the hot water dispenser wasn’t working. Meant the night concierge had to get up off his improvised bed to boil a regular kettle. Nice of him. I even got to practise a little French. ‘Vous êtes un ange,’ - you’re an angel - I said, bowing at him, my hands folded in prayer. Wonder what he thought of my bra-less nightie-leggings ensemble. With all due respect to myself, I didn’t think there’d be anyone at the water dispenser at 2.30 am in a petit hotel in a quiet Paris district.

Now. About my missing wallet, euros - not all of them - and that little divet that you use to remove a SIM. Total mystery. Was I robbed? If so, with skills like that the thief is an artist who deserves their own reality TV show. Such sleight of hand. Magic. Or did I inadvertently leave the wallet somewhere  while I was doing something? (Set that precedent in Munich in 1980. Still got the mauve beret but never saw the travellers cheques again.)

I’ll know in 24 hours whether I’ve developed a cold. A little jetset princess did more than a few point blank coughs into my face as she slept, kicked and snotted her little way from Melbourne to Doha.  Possibly why her mum and dad had her relocated to the spare seat next to me. (Another bloke and I thought we’d lucked out with the space between us until 90 minutes into the flight.) The parents had to consider what was best for them and their other child. I jest. No idea why that poor kid got stuck between two strangers. C’est la vie.

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