“We are now beginning our descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport,” the captain’s jarring voice came over the intercom. I was fast asleep.
I did not sleep the day before I embarked on this long journey, which took me from Abuja through a hectic layover in Addis. Somehow, the call informing passengers about descent always pulls me back to earth. It wasn’t different on this occasion.
I couldn’t wait to touch down in Paris, the picturesque capital of France and a global centre for art, fashion, cuisine, and culture.
It was my first time in Paris, the City of Love. I had already been told to find a French lover because c’est la ville de l’amour. One of the foremost proponents of this finds a French lover would always say in Yoruba wa gba omo, Paris babe! in his usual teasing manner.
I was in the City of Love, but making it through this Oshodi/Upper Iweka motor park called Charles de Gaulle Airport (CDG) upset my exhausted limbs.
As I wobbled through the airport to find immigration, the only thing that went through my mind was a silent prayer hoping that Ethiopian Airways did not leave my luggage behind or I had to wait forever to get my luggage.
I made that prayer, thinking that was the most important thing to worry about. Little did I know that the airport at the City of Love had other plans. I tripped at the sight of the crowd before me waiting to get through from immigration to baggage claim.
I arrived at CDG at about 7:00 a.m. (Paris time) but did not make it to the chauffeur waiting to fetch us – I was with another journalist from Rwanda who I linked up with in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
Well, my prayers were answered. My bags arrived, and I did not have to wait forever to pick them up. But the experience of my colleague from Rwanda was different. It took a while before he found one of his bags. He left the airport without the other bag.
At this point, I was starting to question the love in the city because I could not describe how I felt then. We finally made it to the chauffeur in the company of two other journalists from Kenya and Senegal. We were off to the accommodation provided by the Ministry for Europe and Foreign Affairs, France (Ministère de l’Europe et des Affaires étrangères).
Adventure begins
About 45 minutes later, we arrived at our accommodation. You would expect that the person who said she was tired would sleep, right? Well! Your thoughts are as good as mine. Instead of sleeping, she co-opted Francis, the Kenyan journalist (who at the end of the trip to Paris became François Mitterrand, a former President of France), to begin ticking off recommended places to visit.
Indeed, Kenyans are who they say they are regarding long distances. Towing over me like the Iroko that he is, Francis had me walk the longest I have in a long time; it was a great way to lose some pounds.
I set out with Francis at about 5 p.m. to catch a metro we had never used. Did I mention that his French is as bad as my Swahili? While Francis needed some quick French class, I was already taking some at L’Institut Français du Nigeria so I could ask for a location using “ou est,” after that, you would have to speak some English.
We got into the metro station on Olympiades and met a charming young man who spoke English. That was my cue to ask him how to get to the first location. Francis does not believe in asking for directions. He would say, “Getting lost is part of the adventure. You will just walk back.” This Naija Sisi was tired of walking!
“Bonjour (you have to let it go high), do you speak English?” I asked the young man who was trying to buy a ticket. He graciously said, “Yes, where do you want to go?” I quickly responded to the Eiffel Tower.
How dare you go to Paris and not see the Eiffel Tower? Indeed, your village people will be unhappy with you. Do you now see why I did not rest?
The young man went to the map. Did he just walk to a map? I wish I paid more attention to my geography class and the classes that tried to teach us how to read atlases and maps. One of my many had I known windows opened, but I slammed it closed immediately, not the time!
“You are here, line 14. You will buy your ticket here and board the metro to Bercy, where you will get off and get on line 6, from where you will ride until you get to Bir-Hakeim and walk to the tower,” the young man graciously explained, adding that it was the fastest route to get to the Tower.
I looked at the time. It was almost 6 p.m. The good Samaritan showed us how to buy metro tickets (we left Paris as experts) and were on our way to see the Eiffel Tower. Navigation from here was easy, and viola, the Eiffel Tower.
Oh, the crowd! Everyone was here to see the tower, like me.
Agbado in Paris
Walking towards the Tower, something interesting popped up on the street. You will not believe it, just like I did not. I laughed my heart out because of the symbolism of what I saw – Agbado (corn) in Paris! We met a Bangladeshi selling roasted corn on the walkway. He sold two for five euros.
When I saw the man and his pretty corn, I tapped Francis to give him a quick gist on how this fruit has become famous in Nigeria and a symbol of the new administration. The story would have been complete if the seller imported the Agbado from Nigeria, but they were a Spanish breed.
We saw the Tower but could not get in because everyone was trying to go up. The queue was long, too long. By my watch, it was well past 7pm but the beautiful summer sky was selling us a false reality. It could not have been brighter.
It was time to return and get the desired rest, but we needed to eat something close to the African kitchen. It was before the culinary adventure started. We did not find anything African around the area, mainly because we needed to know the terrain. We ate what we saw, and it was good enough.
The next day was a rest day. We were ready on Sunday morning to hit the ground running. We recruited Junior, a South African journalist whose favourite expression was “hectic.”
Hey, football fans, get in here! Our first stop for Sunday was Stade de France. I know that look on your face. It was the same look on the faces of Francis and Junior. Francis almost threw a fit when the stadium’s insignia did not appear in his pictures. We had to take another, making sure the insignia was sitting pretty.
From the stadium, we were on our way to Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, gutted by fire in 2019. Again, many tourists were trooping in and out to see the cathedral under reconstruction. You would recall how sad the world, especially Catholics, was at the news of the fire that year. I suddenly felt sad looking at the building surrounded by detailed information about the fire and what had happened since then.
I snapped out of my reverie. Why be sad? The building will come alive soon.
We were running late for the Avant L’orage exhibition at Bourse de Commerce – Pinault Collection on Rue de Viarmes, where we met the very kind Joel Savary who retired on 5th July.
Joel was our man throughout the trip; he was kind, gracious, patient, available and everything nice. He, however, did not work alone. There were George and Geoffrey to help the group.
You must be wondering why no female name has popped up. I was the only female in the team of eight African journalists, seven men and one woman.
George and Geoffrey were translators who worked with us to make our work seamless. They were super efficient guys!Sommet pour un Nouveau Pacte Financier Mondial
Then came Monday and the week of the Sommet pour un Nouveau Pacte Financier Mondial. Off the record, meetings were scheduled ahead of our arrival, and it was time to get into them. It was time for business, which also meant the end of tourism.
But really, what makes for tourism? It will be seeing places I have never been to, and in Paris, tourism must include eating le pain (the French make bread differently). I could not help but ask George why the bread was so hard. His response was patriotic: “That is how we love them.”
We went through the days and the meetings like brave journalists. Wednesday, the last day for the off-the-record meetings, was to prepare us for the two-day summit. Joel had set up dinner at a five-star hotel where we had an all-French menu. Interestingly, it was nice! I have one question: why were the portions, especially the starter, Tatum de légumes du Soleil, so small?
Fast forward to summit day. The job had to be done, and the rest was a blur. The next time I woke up was to the voice, “We are now commencing our descent into the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport.
Did I mention we had very professional chauffeurs? I am not in a hurry to forget Memet (Mohammed), my chauffeur, or our chauffeur (for my group), a very nice Turkish-French man who ensured our stay was smooth and enjoyable. He would not move the bus if I were not in it. “Chiamaka?” he would say while trying to ask my whereabouts.
Memet made and sold kebab (what we call shawarma in Nigeria) before he became a chauffeur. He made sure to buy me a kebab during the trip. Thank you, Memet!
Paris is a beautiful city, and the best means of transportation is the metro. When you stay underground, you go fast, and you avoid traffic.
