In Seine

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the spring of hope. It was the winter of despair. Paris was a trip.

We got on the Eurostar at 6.30AM (GMT) after another night bus Odyssey across London. The Eurostar is superb transport. It takes you from the middle of London to the middle of Paris (eliminating the trek out to the airport), without all the stress of going through rigorous security and then being hurtled thousands of feet into the air to be exposed to all kinds of radiation. And it’s greener than flying.

The train dropped us off at Gare du Nord in North Paris, and we gleefully trotted off to our nearby hotel to drop off our luggage. Our walk took us through the most intriguing neighborhood. The streets were lined with Restaurants Indiens,  shops selling sari fabric, and bouchers musulmans (which hopefully refers to the religious persuasion of the employees and not the wares). How strange to go to all the trouble of leaving England to find yourself in the middle of Tooting*.

On arrival the hotel seemed small and cheap, but then it was a two star hotel, and we hadn’t expected much.  We blithely left our possessions, and excitedly headed out toward the Montemarte. It now seems to be our habit when touring a city to first find stairs to the highest point in the city and climb them immediately.

We spent a few hours perambulating about the Montmarte, a charming and quaint, if aggressively touristy part of the city, with the Moulin Rouge at its foot. At lunch we dined in a little cafe, with words of such illustrious artistes, as Kate Bush, Vanilla Ice and the Charlie Daniels Band scrawled across the wall. In addition to featuring good food and service, this cafe also had a most interesting solution to the eternal bathroom dilemma. We had a great time, and thought: “Paris is going to be swell.”

And this is what we thought right up to the moment we saw our hotel room. After lunch we went to check in properly at the Hotel Meryll. As, we trundled around to the elevator it became apparent that the building was under renovation. “Fair enough,” said M, “It probably needs it.” “I don’t know,” said J, “Seems pretty sketchy.” Then we found the smallest elevator we had ever seen. “Fair enough,” said M, “At least they have one in this old building.” “I don’t know,” said J, “Seems pretty sketchy.” We took the elevator up to the fourth floor and found our little Parisian garret room. It was a tiny room two-story  room with a spiral staircase up to a little loft with beds and a window that looked out at Sacré Cœr. The television and heater were plugged into a single extension cord which hung from the slanting ceiling, the only outlet on the second floor. It smelled stale and the heater didn’t work. “Fair enough,” said M, “It’s funky and charming. We’ll ask them how to turn on the heating.” “I don’t know,” said J, “Seems VERY sketchy.”

So we went out to see the sights of Paris. Sometimes you really need to go abroad to discover the glory of home. An example of this is the Paris Metro. It is dirty and infested by obnoxious teenagers, the trains are ancient and tiny, the maps are indecipherable, and the routes are unwieldy. God bless our lovely Underground.

But I digress. We wandered around the Ile d’Cité, taking in Notre Dame. J was delighted and M perplexed to find a chapel to Our Lady of Guadalupe, complete with Mexican flags, in one of the North Aisle of the Cathedral. It was getting dark as we left Notre Dame and we set our sights on seeing la Tour Eiffel by night.

So we set off on a march down the south bank of the Seine. Numerous times on our gruelling hike we stopped at a cafe for refreshment only to leave promptly upon being handed a menu that priced a cup of coffee at €4.60, only to finally arrive, too exhausted to protest, at the establishment that serves the €5 cup of coffee. Not special coffee. Not served by an albino rhinoceros. Just a cup of coffee.

Apparently there was a manifestation pro-Palestinian at some point during the afternoon (or so we managed to glean from some very cute if non-English-speaking cops), and the streets were lined with a battalion of armoured cop cars, full of riot-geared bazooka-toting policiers. We finally arrived at the foot of the big steel albatross. It looked exactly like it did in all the pictures, and was slightly more exciting than the daily shipping forecast.

Dejected, exhausted, and hungry we returned to the north. This was when we discovered the true character of our neighborhood. Gangs of menacing youths loitered in the train station. A small band of Catholics were serving soup to a crowd of homeless people under the eaves of the station. Drunk men fought in the street. All around were neon pink signs advertising “Sex,” the tawdry remnants of the once recherche Parisian tart scene. Fearing for our safety, we hastily purchased a baguette and cheese from an épicier, and raced to the relative safety of the hotel.

The night host at the desk was sweet but incompetent and could not make the heater work. He moved us downstairs to a room that smelled like cat pee, with a disintegrating mattress, and gray mold growing on the ceiling. “Oh well,” said M, “At least we’re warm, and safe, and can rest.” Then the electricity went off.

The fellow at the desk managed to turn it back on, but it kept going off periodically throughout the night. We spent a restless night, sleeping with one eye open in case the building should catch fire, a riot break out in the street, or the fumes of the renovation begin poisoning us.

Breakfast was as you might imagine, with nearly fossilized baguettes and a grossier breakfast lady who snarled, “un croissant, un person,” with all the smugness of the Soup Nazi, when we dared approach her for a replacement.

And so we prematurely checked out of the Hotel Meryll, assuring the staff we would be contacting their manager in true American fashion, and booked ourselves a night in a nice hotel in le Marais. Once at our clean, lovely, hotel, in the lovely if über touristy neighborhood, we were nearly kissing the ground with joy. The host at the desk was so chatty and accommodating, and we were given a room with a balcony overlooking the Rue de Rivoli.

From here we set off for the Louvre, where we took in the world’s great art until we were giddy and perhaps slightly high.

To be continued…

*South London neighborhood with a large Pakistani and Indian population.