Paris Trip Day 1: Lessons in Patience

Finally make it to Paris after one of the most stressful trips out of any country I've ever had in my entire life. The stress, of course, was compounded by the fact that I was travelling alone. Arrived in the airport at 10, in plenty of time for my 12.40 flight to Detroit. Everything seemed fine. This is, of course, the way every great adventure begins.
About half an hour before boarding I go through security and settle on the floor in front of the gate, Sudoku book in hand (apparently no store in the airport sells crossword puzzle books anymore, sudoku being the 'in' thing to do while waiting).
Announcement 1: There is a little computer trouble with the plane, but we will know more in 10-15 minutes.
Ten minutes later, we are permitted to board, and settle into our seats. I begin a conversation with my seatmates, both of who grew up in rural Pennsylvania close to each other and have daughters who dance ballet seriously. The woman's daughter dances 20 hours a week in addition to studying for her Political Science major in college. The man beside me was impressed, his daughter only dances 5 hours a week. I thought to myself that both of these still equals the time spent by the regular architecture/interior design student in studio. Our conversation is interrupted by announcement 2.
Announcement 2: The computer problem has not been solved, as they first thought. The part that will need to be replaced cannot be found in the greater San Francisco area and must be flown in from Detroit. All those with international connections in Detroit to report to the Northwest counter for rebooking.
At the Northwest counter, I am rebooked on a British Airways flight to Heathrow, with a connection to CDG that will put me in Paris only 3 hours later than originally planned. Brilliant. I practically run over to the international terminal and wait in line for half an hour to check in for my London flight. Finally at the counter, I am told that I must go back to Northwest and get a FIM. A what? A FIM, or flight interruption manifest. In other words, what British Air needs to get "paid" by Northwest for my flight. Great. Run back to Northwest in Terminal 1, as the flight leaves in an hour and a half, and get the elusive FIM. No apology for putting me in training for the Olympic Sprint. Another run back to British Airways, where it takes the agent half an hour to book me. Then, of course, she says she can't book my bag all the way to Paris, as I am on standby for both the London and Paris flights. I will have to pick them up in Heathrow and recheck them in with British Air. Fine, I say, just get me there.
Run through security with no problem to wait on standby at the gate. None of my other formerly Detroit-bound companions are there. As boarding begins, I am pulled aside by a TSA agent who says he must hand-check my bags and his female counterpart will come to hand-check me. Okay, I say, as long as it doesn't affect my getting on the plane. I get patted down, and the female TSA agent scoffs at my having had to be checked in the first place. I agree with her wholeheartedly.
On the 9-hour flight to London, my consolation is that there is a free seat between me and a grandmotherly woman who spent her waking hours attaching pictures of a nice-looking bearded man (I'm assuming her son) with album corners to a red paper album.
Heathrow. I follow the signs to "baggage reclaim" only to find that I must cross the border into Britain before even getting my bag. I explain all this to the passport control officer, a young Indian gentleman with a very London accent, and am told I must go to the connections desk and get my flight to Paris confirmed before I can be given a temporary visa into Britain. Fine. The nice English lady confirms my flight with a "lovely" call to Terminal 4, and I'm back in line to get into Britain. In front of me is an African lady with her four children, ages 2 to 10, pleading with the officer to let her in. He refuses, for what reason I am unsure, except that, like me, she has no visa for Britain. As he writes out my temporary visa, he says under his breath to the officer beside him that she had overstayed in the US as well.
Finally welcomed into Britain, I head for the baggage reclaim. Alas, no bag. The gentleman at baggage service informs me that by bag had been tagged for Paris and should arrive with me. Thank you, British Airways Erroneous Agent.
I take the underground train to Terminal 4 (brilliant! all airports should have such quick transport) and, before I can finish even a page of my book, am going towards my next departure gate. Arrive just in time for boarding to begin, down a flight of stairs and outside onto the "puddle-jumper" to Paris. I spy two gentlemen who had been on my Detroit flight.
Charles de Gaulle airport. No bag. British Air says it was tagged for my plane, but may not have made it. It will have to be sent to my hotel. Just as well, I decide, I don't have to lug it down to the Metro and drag it to the hotel. Per Dian's excellent advice I look for the Air France bus that will take me directly to Gare de Lyon, where I can take the Metro two stops to the hotel. All accomplished with no problem, and my minimal French.
Hotel Sevigne. Narrow spiral stairs or claustrophobic elevator. I choose the former. Teeny tiny room, but comfy and recently renovated. And a beautiful view of rooftops from my fifth-floor room.
Not wanting to be tempted to sleep, I decide to go for a walk across the bridge to the Ile St. Louis, along the quay overlooking the Seine and through to the Ile de la Cite, where I board a tour boat. I bravely decide to sit up top, where it began to get so cold that my teeth were chattering and my lower half began to get numb. But the buildings in the city were lit, and the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance, and it was a great way to end my more than 24-hour day.