Lost in the Iron Lady
Erin Hildebrand
Being 18 is a strange time in life; for
the first time you really have to grow up and think about where you want your
life to go and who you want to be, and you have to act on these decisions and
make them real and go forth into the “real world.” It’s so easy to get lost and
caught up in yourself and sometimes the only way to really figure it out is to
physically get lost. Getting lost sets you back to primal instincts, you make
choices because those choices are going to save your ass. You make better
decisions when you’re nervous, you rely on your gut and can’t afford to
half-ass anything. It’s all about survival. When I was 18, I traveled out of
the country for the first time[1].
But it’s not enough to just go somewhere unfamiliar, you have to really be
there; eat the food, use the wrong verbs, and take the wrong trains: c’est la vie[2].
Immersing yourself in everything unknown has a profound effect on you; you’ll try
anything once, take advice from complete strangers[3],
or maybe realize you’re completely alone in one of the most amazing places on
Earth[4].
And if you’re lucky, you’ll turn around and realize the group has abandoned you
and be forced to break from the fog that has clouded you in your 18th
year.
On my second week of travel, I took an
excruciated river cruise over the English Channel into France. For all the
hype, it’s really not that great. If you’re into gluts of artists, ghastly graffiti,
and garbage, Paris is the city for you. There’s traffic and tourists every
corner you turn, also pigeons and squirrels who are every bit as snobby as the
people that occupy the city. But if you can overlook all of the rubbish, the
rest of the city will amaze you. The Montmarte will change your life if you
want to navigate the cobblestone streets and tight alleys; you’ll eat things
you’d normally cringe from if you stay open minded[5].
I have never been so captivated by architecture in my life: simply recalling
Notre Dame de Paris sends ripples down my spine, the Arc de Triomphe draws your
attention and holds you still in awe. But Paris’ most famous structure, the
Eiffel Tower, holds particular sentiment for me.
It’s a huge structure; it seems
otherworldly when you stand directly underneath it and look up into the spire,
the most beautiful radio broadcasting tower in existence[6].
The ground beneath it is crawling with tourists, schoolchildren, beggars, and
crippled people. There are military men carrying machine guns everywhere, large
and menacing in their uniform berets. As we were standing in line for the
massive elevator, a group of mute women approached our group and began trying
to force us to sign papers and give them money. The papers claimed they were part of an organization of deaf and
mute homeless people living in Paris, but our guides told us to stay away from
them and to protect our pockets. Fous-moi
la paix[7].
Pick-pocketing is extremely common in Paris, most of all in the Louvre and
at the Tower. The elevators in the Tower are much bigger than average lifts, and
everyone becomes instantly claustrophobic. It was raining when I got off the
elevator and walked onto the first platform; the first level of the Tower is
189 feet high. But no one wants to linger on the first level, everyone who goes
to the Eiffel Tower wants to go all the way to the top. So, I got out of one
elevator and into a line for another; overall, that is the gist of my entire
time in Europe: lines, elevators, stairs, and tiny hotel rooms. The line was
long, but the view was nice; Paris, like most art, is much more beautiful from
far away.
On the second level, there is a gift
shop. Shot glasses emblazoned with “I HEART Paris,” checkbooks with artistic
representations of the Mona Lisa, and cigarette cases showing black and white
portraits from the 40’s. I guess this distracts some people, but 379 feet
wasn’t high enough for me. I proceeded to get onto another elevator and go up
the last leg of my journey. The
observation deck of the Eiffel Tower is a different world; you stand 990 feet
in the air and look out over 37 miles of Paris. You can see Notre Dame, the
insanity that is the Champs-Elysees[8],
and the Parc du Champ de Mars, complete with tourists picnicking. The main deck
is enclosed in glass, because of the strong winds, but you can climb a little
higher if you’re willing to brave the elements. The only thing separating you
from the open sky is a fence; I can’t begin to imagine how many people had
tried to throw themselves from that place. I could see the appeal, your last
moments gazing upon one of the most beautiful sights the manmade world has left
to offer, the strong wind beating against you and almost promising to whisk you
away to a better place. I could have spent an eternity up there, but when
traveling with groups, everything has a time limit. By the time I regained
myself, I realized I was totally alone, save my friend Victoria. Merde[9].
The group had moved on without us and we were stranded 108 stories high,
standing atop 10,00 tons of iron. It’s the kind of feeling that makes you feel
small and insignificant. No one we tried to ask for directions spoke English[10].
We were lost, on an island with manageable dimensions, signs, and stairs. There
is a certain type of disorientation that goes with not understanding the
language of a place, a dense crowd, and a panoramic view of Paris. I felt like
I had lost a part of myself, I was genuinely frightened, rushing around like a
mouse in a maze. We kept finding the stairs, the same stairs over and over
again. The stairs are the slotted kind that are always outdoors, these types of
stairs have always scared me. I always felt like I’d slip right through them. We
almost went down them, but the climb down would have taken an hour, at least: the
elevator was a necessity. By the grace of an elderly couple[11],
Victoria and I found the “down” elevator, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of
being trapped and totally lost at the same time. There was nowhere I could go,
no streets or alleys to wander down, and yet I couldn’t find a way out of that
structured labyrinth. What an oddly poetic representation of my life at that
time: I had just graduated from high school, about to embark on a life that I
had (and still have) no real plans for, I was out of the country and traveling
with people I didn’t know, and I was extremely dubious about my choice for
college. I suppose life is my Eiffel Tower: beauty mixed with crushing
confusion and sometimes loneliness, a terrifying web that I must navigate, a
magnificent place that I am trapped.
[1] Going
through customs for the first time is almost life experience enough. You know that you’re not a terrorist, but then
a large European woman in Heathrow looks at you funny and suddenly you’re
positive there’s a bomb in your carry on and everyone can tell and airport
security is going to come in any second and take you down and then it’s 25 years
in London Tower because that’s still a punishment in the UK, right?
[3] This
is not always advisable. French people have a huge prejudice against Americans,
you ask them for directions to a restaurant in broken French and they direct
you to a crack house where you’re kidnapped and sold as a sex slave.
[5] Escargot
looks exactly like the snails in your garden because they are the fucking snails in your garden. I don’t care who you are,
it’s a knee-jerk reaction to cringe from seeing that on your plate.
[6]
Probably, I haven’t visited other radio broadcasting towers to compare.
[8] There
are no traffics lanes and traffic laws do not apply to any accidents that occur
on the Champs-Elysees. I kid you not, it was the scariest driving experience
I’ve ever had and I was in a bus. Imagine being in a Mini Cooper like 75% of
Paris, you are a flea on the cat fight that is the Champs-Elysees.
[11]
By the grace of following an elderly couple for 10 minutes.
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