I loved Paris…until I didn’t.
I’m here to do some quick video shoots, then meet up and spend some time with my team in Birmingham. I land in Paris and get to my hotel, piece of cake. Once my Uber driver finds out it was my first visit, he turns the meter off and drives me all through town, so proud to show his town off. I get the whirlwind tour before he unloads me at my little Latin Quarter home for the weekend.
I land in Paris and get to my hotel, piece of cake. Once my Uber driver finds out it was my first visit, he turns the meter off and drives me all through town, so proud to show his town off. I get the whirlwind tour before he unloads me at my little Latin Quarter home for the weekend.
I try SO hard to stay awake until at least 7. My boss says I should stay up until 9, but I haven’t successfully made it that late yet. This day I make it to 4:30PM. -Or whatever the hell that is in 00:00 hours.
I get up, lay out my photo equipment, make sure all batteries are charged, check to make sure everything I need is in my bag, then watch a BBC documentary about making cheese before drifting back off.
Monday morning I head to the location, and nothing is working. Mic isn’t recording audio, or the audio recorder isn’t recording audio. Regardless, the mother effing audio isn’t working and this is my one job and ARGH!!! So I default to backup plan B and record the audio with a 2nd lavalier that works on my iPhone, but still record the backup audio with the shotgun mic into my camera. Sweet! Problem solved.
Off to the Eiffel Tower to record B roll that says, “No doubt we’re totally in Paris!” Then reach into my bag to call and Uber and…my bag is open and the phone is gone.
The gadget that translates for me, has my boarding passes, calls my Ubers, finds my hotels, Facetimes my family for me, keeps me in touch with my boss…GONE.
Paris pickpockets. And I really thought I had carefully guarded against them.
I head back to the hotel where the innkeeper books me for another night, then I plug in my iPad and start trying to figure out if I can find the phone or at least retrieve the FREAKING AUDIO I JUST RECORDED.
Nope to both.
(Lesson in redundancy, at least I have the shotgun mic file.)
I sleep poorly, get up early to catch my flight but sit in the lobby of the hotel because the cab driver says, “Late is on time in Paris!”
Oh. That’s so cute. I decide to try this line on my boss sometime.
Du Gaulle airport is where joie de vivre goes to die. Easy to exit, ridiculously traumatic to enter. I’ve never seen the movie 300, but I feel like there’s a similar mood set here. Everything is a struggle. Every step, every person you cross, every roadblock yields to a new roadblock. Security is locked up for 4 hours because of a threat, so naturally it’s best to keep a thousand people standing right there in line until it’s lifted. Then customs, then a second tier of customs.
Then I finally make my way toward to gate and buy a pair of Beats headphones because, dammit, I’m entitled to something nice after winning my way through this 7th gate of hell.
Feeling resigned, lost of any will left to fight this ridiculous trip, I find a luggage trolley, load my gear, quietly push my way to my gate, then slip on my new headphones to listen to “Music for Airports” by Brian Eno and suddenly realize exactly why he chose this title. Because you need audio opiates at the airport.