Signs are only sometimes helpful when you are aiming to experience something cool. Take Dakar for example. A dearth of signs, yet many pockets of cool.

A couple of things I learned during my trip to Paris, some of which you already know:

1. Paris and Disney are mutually exclusive. I’m sorry, but as Tupac says, that’s the way it is. And it’s more than just an issue of authenticity. I mean really- check this photo out. Would you ever dream that it was taken at a Disney theme park:

 I’m bored just looking at this picture. And there’s my seat, in the second row on the end. In addition to having ZERO leg room, I had to pay attention! Outside, screaming children in $100 princess dresses were prancing about while I carried out my duties as the anti-princess of this conference room.

2. I love escaping EuroDisney to spend a night in a proper hotel. It lets me run in Paris. Which I also learned this week that I love.

Okay that one was probably self-evident. 

3. You can wander outside said hotel room, in search of a great pain au chocolat AND get a great random haircut….all in just hours before your plane leaves.

4.  There are some things that you just can’t plan.  Like buying a week-long train/metro pass, and then learning the following day that the bloody French are going on strike (again). 

Okay, so the trains were running at reduced capacity- not a full-blown grève. Still, it caused me to alter my plans…which yielded bewildering results…

3. The law of averages suggests that even remote possibilities will sometimes come to fruition. Just ask this guy:

Me and Jean-Philippe. Apparently the cosmic dice determined that we should meet up for drinks near the Louvre that afternoon.

Most of you have seen this on Facebook- I apologize for the redundancy- but this one merits repetition.  Here’s the story behind the photo:

After day three of the conference, I needed to head into the city for dinner with future co-workers (Navy stuff: work-related with wine!). Due to the perpetually on-strike French transit workers, I hitched a ride with some friends who were headed to a concert in the 19th arrondissement. I figure that I have a better chance of catching a metro than waiting for the RER train in the MiddleOfNowhere EuroDisney. So I get close to a metro and jump out of the car, figuring out how to make my new route into the city center on this particular line. It’s rush hour, and the trains are full. Still, I make my way inside a train, displaying my typical “I’m not looking at any of you, so don’t bother me” face that I find so effective.

About four stops down the line, I shift myself further back, and bump into someone’s hand. “Pardon” we both say at the same time, and I shift my eyes up to briefly apologize (see, I’m not all mean!). 

I look up at who it is and freeze, doing a double-take. He is doing the exact same thing, and I guarantee we are both thinking “no way!” in our respective languages.  

He says something to me in English, and I respond in French. I forget exactly what was exchanged, but I guarantee it was something along the lines of “what the Hell are you doing here?!” Everyone on that particular train then gets to then bear witness to what must be the most reunions that I have experienced.

Jean-Philippe was the host brother of my good friend Jesseca (who incidentally was the person who urged me to go to Senegal, after she was a Peace Corps volunteer in Guinea).  That was back in 1993-1994, when Jess and I were naive and impetuous exchange students in Grenoble. I hung out at Jean-Philippe’s house all the time, and while I may have been a rotten exchange student to my own five host families, I have lots of fond memories of the Roux family.

Sigh. This is Grenoble. Even though I was an exchange student there for a full year, I am pretty sure that I spoke more French to Jean-Philippe in the hour or so encounter than I ever did way back then.

And he smokes just as much as he did at 16.

So, to wrap this story up, Jean-Philippe doesn’t even live in Paris. He wasn’t even going to travel up from the south on this trip, due to the strikes. Additionally, that afternoon, he was going to take a taxi, but instead opted for the metro when he couldn’t get a cab.

Kinda neat, huh?

 Anyways, my week in Paris/Disney was quite a blur. Before I knew it, I was back on the RER, heading for the airport.  Being serenaded by this guy as soon as I got on the train was completely appropriate:

Oh yes, I will fly.

And now I am back in Dakar again. Weaving around the city in taxis, where already my taximen have rededicated themselves to improving my Wolof. Today, I had to gently break it to my driver that I already knew what “am nga jëkër” means, but I appreciated his subtlety. 

On the flip side, I am improving my french, one household item at a time. This is the case since it seems like each day something new breaks, and I must figure out how to explain it to my landlord so that someone can come (or not) to fix it. 

Today’s word? Tuyau.