Day 1 of 30: Getting to day 1

What a mission to get here. Miami International is a disgrace to our country. It’s not nearly as bad as Detroit but getting up there in a hurry. I check in after an hour and 15 in the line behind a 3 year old that said “mommy…mommy…mommy” about once every 30 seconds. No wonder they let him wonder around without even looking back. 

An hour later and I’m past security. I have a 90% hit ratio on TSA feel ups. At least they didn’t take me to the back room and put their hands down my pants like last month to JFK. I walked a good 15 minutes to the gate. No trolly or tram in sight. What if I was 60 or just finished off a one pounder at B&B? I’ll leave it for them to worry. As luck would have it, the same exact gate that Claudio and I used in March to Madrid. FML. I get in the terminal walkway and there are drug dogs and about 15 undercover police randomly selecting the lucky ones. I get picked right off the bat by the first guy. He’s a good 250 plus lb 6 foot 5ish gentleman. Checks my passports and asked me everything about my life, my job, my intentions, and financials. Even asks “What are you going to do if you loose your credit cards?” Ummm….”Call my Dad?” He laughs and lets me go. Five more personnel later and I get pulled over again. I’m finally in the plane. Strapped in and waiting to take flight. I have the stomach pains and heart palp’s of a little girl on the first day of a new school. I'm strangely enjoying the anxiety.

Sleep…Sleep…Sleep.

I’m here! Bags came in less than 10 minutes and customs was less than 5, line and all! What a dream. It took me 8 times as long to leave my own country. I arrive at my destination without any hiccups. I’m to meet a man across the street from my apartment. Knock…Knock…Knock…Knock…nope! 2 hours later on the floor in the hallway wondering if it’s time to get a hotel. A nice gentleman from the building offers to take me for a coffee after having seen my stranded coming in and out of his place. Or perhaps the neighbors were starting to complain. 

Alexander is a friendly man in his late 50’s, retired and leaving for Tunisia tomorrow on a vacation. His English is very bad but he is trying so hard. I ask “How long”. Him, “Ten years.” I don’t correct him but chuckle on the inside. He introduces me to his young daughter who is visiting from Marina Del Rey where she lives with his ex-wife and “A Man”, he mention’s with disdain. She can’t be more than 14 and acts polite but looks a bit bothered that her father is taking a young woman out for coffee that he picked up in the hallway. He take’s me for a stroll around the block, introducing me to his neighborhood pals and restaurateurs. They give him high fives when they think I’m not looking. He tells her in French that he wants to invite me to lunch with them. They argue for a moment and then she gives me the directions, trying her hardest to not let on that they were discussing it. Poor thing. She’s totally freaked out by it all. I tell them that I have to work but may stop by afterwards. He gives her a stare down. 

4 flights of slanted stares later, I’m at my new home. It’s gorgeous! There is so much love and character.  Little bits of art all about obviously picked over time with much taste. No mass produced tchotchke or stark white wall’s in sight. Beautiful flowers on the window sill and a bottle of wine with my name on it.  It’s more than I dreamed of. I wish you could feel it in the pictures. 

Right next door is a grocer. I go in at Miami lunch hour, 6pm here. Waiting in line to pay and all of a sudden, all of the checkout ladies  are speaking to me at once. I’m sorry. “I don’t speak French” I say in English. BIG MISTAKE! I know better but I freaked. It was instinct. I’ve never been anywhere where I had to be ashamed to speak my language. It's like the moment they know I don't speak French, they speak even faster, chuckle and roll their eyes. I figure out what they are asking in less than a minute but that doesn’t matter. They were saying you can only come to this line if you are paying with a card. I had both. They act like I’m not standing there and continue the giggles. I come home to immediately put on music TV. The only thing almost guaranteed to be in my language. It worked! I feel better. No worries, I’ll try another grocer tomorrow. Gianni – You were right. I had my freak out, “What the heck am I doing here” moment but breakdown averted, thanks to a little Brittney and Bruno Mars on the tube.

Work is done, big gulp of wine and I’m out the door for a stroll. There is a huge concert in the Plaza Hotel-de-Ville 2 blocks from home. There are thousands in the streets. After a couple strange men encounters I opt for a stroll down the Seine. I want to take pics but it’s hard enough to not talk and let my English out, revealing my vulnerable tourist self. Safety it is. My first glance of the Eiffel Tower! What the hell is that awful spot light on the top? I consider getting all the way there but I peaked at 5 approaches by strange men and decide I’ve pushed it far enough. One of which offered me cocaine and a date - charming. Back to my casita to rest up for the morning and enjoy a movie. 

Night…Night…