Arrival at CDG-Terminal 1

The very first time I came to France was ten years ago in June of 1998. A French major who was too shy to study abroad for a year, I had decided to do the short summer program in Paris. I was with a group of about 30 American students, it was the first time I'd been to Europe, and the French were hosting the World Cup that year. Other students who had already been to France had shared their stories with me, filling my head with grand images of the beautiful country and its culture. And so it was with high expectations of French glamor and romanticism that I stepped off the plane into the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Terminal One. The old part.

Instead of my highly-anticipated picture of fashion, beauty, class, and art (yes even at the airport), I was greeted by a thick cloud of cigarette smoke and a terminal that resembled my parents' unfinished basement. My disappointment turned to horrified awe as I watched several agents of the Police Nationale walk by carrying big automatic weapons. Whoa. Had I really just arrived in France?? The last remnants of my naive vision were swept away by the customs agent who yelled at me in English for not having my customs card filled out correctly. Yes, the first time I came in France, I found myself defiantly holding back tears at the baggage claim and wondering if I hadn't made a mistake by choosing to study abroad.

How different from my arrival at Charles de Gaulle ten years later! An experienced traveler who's returned to France many times since my first trip (which did turn out lovely despite the rocky start), I breezed through Terminal One. Well, okay, after waiting in line at the bathroom (only 3 stalls at the very busy CDG!!), I breezed right through. Terminal One still looks like a basement but no cigarette smoke clouded my way. No one yelled at me, I didn't cry and I thankfully did not see the Police Nationale. Instead, Gaby was waiting for me at the gate with open arms and kisses. His mom greeted me with the two bises and a very welcome pastry. From McDonald's. Okay, it's not really French but so delicious all the same and unavailable in American McDonalds, so that makes it special, right? Through the hugs and kisses and then later during the drive to the suburbs just to the west of Paris, I was acutely aware of how incredibly familiar everything was. How pleasant to find that France seemed less a mysterious foreign country and more like a comfortable (and very charming) second home. Was it the American fast food? My dear Gaby and his mom waiting to welcome me? Or is it just that I have become so accustomed to this place? I suppose it's most likely a combination of the three. That said, I'm sure France still holds plenty of surprises, both good and bad, and I'll be waiting to discover them.