Paris, Part One: Arrival
Instead of getting each other useless junk that we might never use, Peter and I decided that we’d have a joint Christmas present of a short holiday in Paris. Neither of us had ever been there, it’s loaded to the brim with cool places to see, and Peter wanted to break out his school-learned French.
I was very excited to go on this short break as I had just finished up my tech writing contract and had a week off before starting my new job. It felt like my last taste of freedom before becoming a salaried, holiday-hording regular worker. I was also excited because it was PARIS and I was going to try to be fashionable. Or at least I had bought a couple of cute outfits just for the trip.
We arrived in Paris in the afternoon and found our way to the baggage claim area easily. Charles de Gaulle airport is much better to arrive into than to depart from. When you arrive there, you just follow the crowd and gape at how absolutely dated it looks. I’m sure it was all super-futuristic in 1970 but now it looks like it was built by the set designers of 2001: A Space Odyssey.
On the advice of a friend, we took the Roissybus to the Opera House because that’s supposed to be a cheap, convenient way to travel, especially if you’re staying in that general area. Unfortunately, there had been an accident between the airport and the Opera House and the bus ride was interminable. The bus had a ticker that would tell your destination and how much longer it was going to take to get there. A nifty idea but it gets completely disheartening when you start to see the time increase instead of decrease. We felt trapped in a nightmare as we watched the mocking little ticker, for an entire half-hour, tell us that we were 22 minutes from the Opera House.
We finally arrived at the Opera House, found a tourist office, and got directions to our hotel. We had to walk about 15 minutes to get to the hotel, but after the plane and the bus, it felt good. The air was cold and crisp. The buildings were huge, impressive, and very French-looking. After the luggage disaster of Berlin (in which I put a higher premium on packing efficiency than on practical carrying), I’d learned my lesson and we each had a large wheeled bag, which allowed us to zip easily along without the lugging, cursing, and whinging that occurred in Berlin.
At one point in the walk, we were crossing a street. It was beginning to get dark and when I looked up the street, I could see the Sacre Couer in the distance. Lit up, it looked like a ghost church floating above the city. It was almost mirage-like. That moment would become one of my favourite Paris memories.
Our hotel was in a little cul de sac called the Cite Berger, which is lined with at least 8 hotels. You get into the cul de sac through an arched gateway and although the street is narrow, cars can go through. I’d booked the hotel on Priceline and then looked it up on TripAdvisor, which allows people to post reviews for hotels.
Based on the reviews, we were expecting a basic budget hotel in an area that you would find either grotty or charming depending on your assumptions and biases. Yeah, the archway was a little dark and graffiti’d but it really wasn’t that bad. The lift was tiny but our room was only on the first floor (second floor really). Our room was small, but we’d expected that. The bathroom was really, really small, but still held a toilet, full bath, and sink. It was basic accommodation at a reasonable price and we came to Paris to see Paris, not to sit in our hotel room.
After dumping our bags, we set off to find this photography museum whose name escapes me. Wednesday nights are free and Peter’s a photographer, so this seemed to be a good idea. Oh, this reminds me, Peter’s camera was banned from this trip. I know, amen’t I a meanie? This trip was about us, about having a fun adventure and relaxing. If the camera came, then the trip would be about photography, talking about parallax distortion and density filters, and planning everything around sunset and sunrise.
So yes, we set off to find this museum, which after about an hour of walking, including a pit stop to buy Peter a nice winter overcoat (for the bargain basement price of 50 euro and a dashing hat for 20 euro), we found the museum. I’m glad it was free because it was a bit too bleeding-arty-edge for our tastes. We spent a minimal amount of time in the museum, then got out of there.
We decided to walk along the Seine with the intention of walking to the Eiffel Tower. It was cold but invigorating and we walked quite a distance before realizing we were still very far from the tower. As part of my fashion crusade, I was wearing a pair of Clarke’s slip-ons, which while comfortable and fashionable were not really made for walking miles and miles. My feet hurt something awful and I don’t think Peter’s were doing that well either.
We could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance and kept thinking it we would be there soon. When we pulled out the map, we were sorely disappointed. Paris is huge – way bigger than I really thought it was. I don’t know why I had the impression that it was somehow compact. It’s not. We decided to leave it for the night, hop on the Metro and find a place to have dinner near our hotel
I left the ticket purchase and Metro navigation in Peter’s capable hands. Our first experience on the Metro was in a station that also does suburban rail. I was half-convinced that we’d hop on the train and end up in Paris’ version of Wheaton, Illinois, but Peter’s an able navigator and he got us on the right train. Our Lonely Planet book recommended the Chartier Restaurant, which happened to be just across the street from our hotel. It was cheap, recommended, and well-located so that’s where we ate.
The place is described as a Paris institution and there’s a timelessness about it. The older waiters, the bored cashier, the smoking, the high ceilings – you could be dining there anytime in the last 100 years and it would be basically the same. It’s the sort of place where, of necessity, you share a table with strangers and the etiquette seems to be to studiously ignore the other party. We shared a table with some 30-something French women, one of whom spent part of the dinner yapping on her cell phone.
For my main course, I had an Alsace dish of sausages and sauerkraut. It was delicious, but sort of difficult to eat. The sausages were quite juicy – very tasty but a hazard to others. At one point, I cut into the sausage and released a stream of juice, which I’m pretty sure hit the woman next to me. I was mortified, but she appeared to either not notice or to be ignoring me with such ferocity that even if she had noticed, she couldn’t say anything.
The other mortifying moment for me was when I had to use the toilet. I have a special gift, an ability to find a bathroom in any public establishment. I got up from the table, followed by bathroom-senses to the front of the restaurant, edged to the right and found what seemed to be the entrance to the bathrooms. But all I could see was the outer door, which was unmarked. The first person to come out was a man and I glimpsed an inner door, which was opened to reveal a line of urinals.
I looked around, trying to see if the Ladies’ Room was somewhere else, but this seemed to be the only bathroom. In the five minutes I stood there, at least 4 guys came out of the bathroom, but no women. I stopped a waiter and asked him where the toilet was and he looked at me with the sort of pity mixed with contempt that made me want to shrivel up and blow away. He pointed to the very door I’d been eyeing and then he scurried away. When I went into the outer door, all became clear as the door to the Ladies’ Room was immediately behind it although it really did feel like you were going into the Men’s Room in order to get to the Ladies’ Room. (I soon got used to this though as it seems like this is how it is in a lot of Parisian establishments.)
We left the restaurant full and happy, stumbling across the street to our hotel for a well-earned rest.
I was very excited to go on this short break as I had just finished up my tech writing contract and had a week off before starting my new job. It felt like my last taste of freedom before becoming a salaried, holiday-hording regular worker. I was also excited because it was PARIS and I was going to try to be fashionable. Or at least I had bought a couple of cute outfits just for the trip.
We arrived in Paris in the afternoon and found our way to the baggage claim area easily. Charles de Gaulle airport is much better to arrive into than to depart from. When you arrive there, you just follow the crowd and gape at how absolutely dated it looks. I’m sure it was all super-futuristic in 1970 but now it looks like it was built by the set designers of 2001: A Space Odyssey.
On the advice of a friend, we took the Roissybus to the Opera House because that’s supposed to be a cheap, convenient way to travel, especially if you’re staying in that general area. Unfortunately, there had been an accident between the airport and the Opera House and the bus ride was interminable. The bus had a ticker that would tell your destination and how much longer it was going to take to get there. A nifty idea but it gets completely disheartening when you start to see the time increase instead of decrease. We felt trapped in a nightmare as we watched the mocking little ticker, for an entire half-hour, tell us that we were 22 minutes from the Opera House.
We finally arrived at the Opera House, found a tourist office, and got directions to our hotel. We had to walk about 15 minutes to get to the hotel, but after the plane and the bus, it felt good. The air was cold and crisp. The buildings were huge, impressive, and very French-looking. After the luggage disaster of Berlin (in which I put a higher premium on packing efficiency than on practical carrying), I’d learned my lesson and we each had a large wheeled bag, which allowed us to zip easily along without the lugging, cursing, and whinging that occurred in Berlin.
At one point in the walk, we were crossing a street. It was beginning to get dark and when I looked up the street, I could see the Sacre Couer in the distance. Lit up, it looked like a ghost church floating above the city. It was almost mirage-like. That moment would become one of my favourite Paris memories.
Our hotel was in a little cul de sac called the Cite Berger, which is lined with at least 8 hotels. You get into the cul de sac through an arched gateway and although the street is narrow, cars can go through. I’d booked the hotel on Priceline and then looked it up on TripAdvisor, which allows people to post reviews for hotels.
Based on the reviews, we were expecting a basic budget hotel in an area that you would find either grotty or charming depending on your assumptions and biases. Yeah, the archway was a little dark and graffiti’d but it really wasn’t that bad. The lift was tiny but our room was only on the first floor (second floor really). Our room was small, but we’d expected that. The bathroom was really, really small, but still held a toilet, full bath, and sink. It was basic accommodation at a reasonable price and we came to Paris to see Paris, not to sit in our hotel room.
After dumping our bags, we set off to find this photography museum whose name escapes me. Wednesday nights are free and Peter’s a photographer, so this seemed to be a good idea. Oh, this reminds me, Peter’s camera was banned from this trip. I know, amen’t I a meanie? This trip was about us, about having a fun adventure and relaxing. If the camera came, then the trip would be about photography, talking about parallax distortion and density filters, and planning everything around sunset and sunrise.
So yes, we set off to find this museum, which after about an hour of walking, including a pit stop to buy Peter a nice winter overcoat (for the bargain basement price of 50 euro and a dashing hat for 20 euro), we found the museum. I’m glad it was free because it was a bit too bleeding-arty-edge for our tastes. We spent a minimal amount of time in the museum, then got out of there.
We decided to walk along the Seine with the intention of walking to the Eiffel Tower. It was cold but invigorating and we walked quite a distance before realizing we were still very far from the tower. As part of my fashion crusade, I was wearing a pair of Clarke’s slip-ons, which while comfortable and fashionable were not really made for walking miles and miles. My feet hurt something awful and I don’t think Peter’s were doing that well either.
We could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance and kept thinking it we would be there soon. When we pulled out the map, we were sorely disappointed. Paris is huge – way bigger than I really thought it was. I don’t know why I had the impression that it was somehow compact. It’s not. We decided to leave it for the night, hop on the Metro and find a place to have dinner near our hotel
I left the ticket purchase and Metro navigation in Peter’s capable hands. Our first experience on the Metro was in a station that also does suburban rail. I was half-convinced that we’d hop on the train and end up in Paris’ version of Wheaton, Illinois, but Peter’s an able navigator and he got us on the right train. Our Lonely Planet book recommended the Chartier Restaurant, which happened to be just across the street from our hotel. It was cheap, recommended, and well-located so that’s where we ate.
The place is described as a Paris institution and there’s a timelessness about it. The older waiters, the bored cashier, the smoking, the high ceilings – you could be dining there anytime in the last 100 years and it would be basically the same. It’s the sort of place where, of necessity, you share a table with strangers and the etiquette seems to be to studiously ignore the other party. We shared a table with some 30-something French women, one of whom spent part of the dinner yapping on her cell phone.
For my main course, I had an Alsace dish of sausages and sauerkraut. It was delicious, but sort of difficult to eat. The sausages were quite juicy – very tasty but a hazard to others. At one point, I cut into the sausage and released a stream of juice, which I’m pretty sure hit the woman next to me. I was mortified, but she appeared to either not notice or to be ignoring me with such ferocity that even if she had noticed, she couldn’t say anything.
The other mortifying moment for me was when I had to use the toilet. I have a special gift, an ability to find a bathroom in any public establishment. I got up from the table, followed by bathroom-senses to the front of the restaurant, edged to the right and found what seemed to be the entrance to the bathrooms. But all I could see was the outer door, which was unmarked. The first person to come out was a man and I glimpsed an inner door, which was opened to reveal a line of urinals.
I looked around, trying to see if the Ladies’ Room was somewhere else, but this seemed to be the only bathroom. In the five minutes I stood there, at least 4 guys came out of the bathroom, but no women. I stopped a waiter and asked him where the toilet was and he looked at me with the sort of pity mixed with contempt that made me want to shrivel up and blow away. He pointed to the very door I’d been eyeing and then he scurried away. When I went into the outer door, all became clear as the door to the Ladies’ Room was immediately behind it although it really did feel like you were going into the Men’s Room in order to get to the Ladies’ Room. (I soon got used to this though as it seems like this is how it is in a lot of Parisian establishments.)
We left the restaurant full and happy, stumbling across the street to our hotel for a well-earned rest.
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