I suppose the Eiffel Tower is the piece de resistance, so to speak, of Paris. On our 25 day backpacking trip through Europe, my husband, Brian, and I had 6 nights in the famed city of Lights. We (at least I) found the idea of spending our last night dining high in the tower, the glittering panorama of Paris spread below us, unspeakably romantic. Up there the smells of the city would fade, we would forget about our aching feet, and would gaze lovingly into each other's eyes over candlelight and a glass of excellent French wine. However, we were to spend the evening at Hard Rock Café, watching some pitiful man try to sell flowers no one wanted.
The morning started pleasantly enough. A delectable breakfast at yet another enticing patisserie; some time spent wandering by myself through the charming Rue Cler neighborhood, poking about in bookstores, gourmet shops and odds and ends markets. Brian and I met up midmorning and enjoyed a street performance of a quartet. It was several moments before I was surprised to discover the lyrics were English!
It was to be a good day because today was the day of Tati - the Parisian fashion bargain basement. And in fact, my shopping expedition was quite successful. It wasn't until after lunch that things began to go downhill. We hadn't purchased any souvenirs yet for anyone back home, after over 2 weeks in Europe, and feeling guilty about this fact, we decided to go ahead and take care of that task. The day was getting warmer; the late June sunshine was beating down increasingly more intently as we hatched a plan to visit the Bastille area of Paris. We hadn't been there yet, so we thought we'd take a look at the monument, and then hunt for that perfect "souvenier du Paris" as everything seemed to be labeled in this city.
We descended into the dank urine-soaked stench of the Metro. Litter scraps danced about, sent into frenzied motion by the shuffling feet of hundreds of tourists, beggars, and Parisians. I noticed with dismay that the Metro car was unpleasantly full. We shouldered our way into the packed car though, where I immediately buried my face in Brian's chest. Standing just under 5' 2" I am most unfortunately situated at armpit level to the general public. And on this very warm day, the publics' nondeodorized en masse armpit was not a place I cared to let my nose linger. The sweaty crowd jostled, bumped, and shoved as each stop admitted more odiferous passengers to our confines, while releasing only a few. Sticky flesh was pressed against me as I sought to meld into my husband's protective form.
The train at last reached our stop and we all piled out like a herd of slaughterhouse cattle, not smelling much better. I wondered aloud why the crowd seemed so much worse than on any of our previous rides. As we ascended the tightly packed escalator to street level, I realized why. We had inadvertently stumbled into Gay Pride Day Parade in Paris. Now, lest anyone accuse this writer of prejudice or discrimination, I must point out that it could have been Office Worker, Housewife, or Small Yippee Dog Owner Pride Day Parade, for all I cared; the end result was the same. Masses, throngs, of people milled about everywhere, swarming over the sidewalk onto the street as far as the eye could see. Balloons and signs dotted the blue sky directly overhead. Young men clambered about the imposing Bastille monument, flinging bright yellow Parade shirts into the crowd. Brian jumped up and neatly caught one; now, there's a souvenir!
It was soon apparent that in this melee we were not going to do any shopping. We could barely move without being swept up in the sea of capering people. I had visions of becoming separated from Brian and wondered frantically how we might find each other should that occur. Before such a frightful event could take place, we pushed our way through the enthusiastic partiers and reentered the smelly littered confines of the Metro. The car was alarmingly congested now, and I clung determinedly to Brian, trying not to notice as body parts only my husband should touch made contact with the other inhabitants. We swayed with the motion of the car, forcing me to lean into people I most decidedly did not wish to touch.
I breathed a thankful sigh of relief when we reached the stop for Notre Dame, instantly regretting it as stale smoke, body odor and urine stenches assaulted my overwhelmed olfactories. We stumbled out of the car hand in hand, ever fearful of being caught one in the train, one on the platform.
Finally, now we could buy our blasted souvenirs and be done with it. It was growing late in the afternoon, and we wanted plenty of time to rest in our room before our planned romantic dinner at the Eiffel Tower. We crossed the Seine, heading towards Notre dame, pausing to observe the incongruous sight of a sweat drenched Scot in full kilted regalia blowing valiantly away at his bagpipes. We recalled seeing plenty of gift shops earlier that week in this neighborhood and felt confident we could be in and out in a breeze and get back to our room. In and out of tacky shop after shop we trudged, finding nothing appealing. Perhaps if we hadn't been so hot, sweaty and irritated from our Metro misadventure, we wouldn't have been so hard to please. As it was though, I grew more cross by the minute, staring at displays of gaudy T shirts and scarves, ugly caps, key chains, lighters, shot glasses and other vastly overpriced accoutrements all of course oddly emblazoned with "Souvenier du Paris".
This day would be ruined, I reflected, if we kept this up much longer. My husband's lips were pressed tightly together; a sure sign of annoyance, and I found myself having unkind thoughts about the French, other tourists, and even my unknowing family back home, innocently awaiting their charming, unique and considerately selected gifts. I'd had enough. We agreed to forgo the shopping for now; after all there were still 2 countries on our itinerary, and head back to our room across the city.
This, we were soon to discover, was more easily said than done. Yet again we entered the Metro and sank wearily onto an iron bench to await the next car. When it pulled screeching into the station, I gave it a look of utter dismay. Just the thought of attempting to squeeze my body into the impossibly over-crowded car made my chest hurt. I could not breather at the mere idea. I dropped my head into my hands as tears forced their way past my clenched eyelids. "I can't do it. I can't get on that train," I uttered miserably to my husband. A sudden claustrophobia squeezed my lungs so that I was gasping for breath, lightheaded. Justly frustrated by my reluctance - no, my refusal to take the quickest and easiest mode of transport back to our hotel, my husband nonetheless patted my back encouragingly and waited for my panicked tears to subside. "It's OK," he said soothingly as though to a two year old. "We'll figure something else out." I nodded and rose from the bench, wiping my running nose on my arm, feeling quite like a two year old at this point.
A bus seemed to be the next best way to go. Yes, it may be crowded, but it would at least be above ground and open air. Our first day in Paris we had attempted unsuccessfully to navigate the bus system to do some sightseeing, but surely by now, we reasoned, after five days in this city we could figure it out. Besides, our one week Metro Pass was valid on busses, so it wouldn't cost us any of our carefully budgeted francs.
Our second bus attempt proved to be as futile as our first - worse, actually. We not only boarded the wrong bus, but it was several blocks before we realized we were going in the wrong direction. At the next stop we hastily left the bus, consulted our map, and began walking. Lugging our daypacks, camera, extra film, camcorder and my haul from Tati on painfully aching feet, we soon realized that the 4 or so miles was much too far to walk. We'd been on our feet since breakfast, on legs already sore and feet already blistered from the preceding two weeks of hard travel. After a brief discussion of finances, we agreed to go ahead and take a cab. We shambled a few more blocks waiting for one to appear. When it did, Brian's lackadaisical attempt at signaling it evidently wasn't enough to catch the driver's attention, for he continued down the street. After several more such attempts and upon spying a taxi stand, it occurred to us that perhaps they could only stop at designated locations. Satisfied that this was the case, we waited at the stand as cab after cab drove by, by now, we were convinced, resolutely ignoring us. We remained there for some time before I stomped off in total frustration, much to the detriment of my throbbing ankles.
We raged at the rudeness of the drivers for a while as we plodded along together. Periodically we'd see a cab and one of us would take a stab at it, but to no avail. As we continued step after laborious step, with no eye for the sights of the city, no thought for anything but our painful feet and legs, I grew increasingly incensed. Fighting the little voice in my head that persisted in repeating that it was my own fault for being such a baby about the metro, I began to blame Brian. It was his fault for not being able to hail a cab. If he really loved me he would care that each step I took shot knives of pain through my ankles. That's right, he would hail a cab through any means necessary, even if that meant jumping out in front of one, if he truly loved me! But nope, he just trudged along beside me in silence. I finally burst out and placed all the blame on him for this horrid walk and took off ahead of him as fast as my swollen feet could carry me. Tears streaking my face, my head down, I didn't look back as I crossed street after street , defiantly hoping he'd lose sight of me, and not catch up. Now that would serve him right, I told myself. I felt the eyes of other pedestrians and the sophisticated Parisians dining at the sidewalk cafes, staring curiously at the blonde American sniffling and limping speedily along.
My poor long-suffering husband finally caught up with me, at what cost to his oozing blisters, I'd rather not know, and we made up. No longer mad at him, I directed my anger to the French cab drivers. "It's because we're American," we concluded. "Ungrateful snobbish wretches want nothing to do with us lowlife Americans," we railed. Well, that's quite all right, we decided. We just won't go to their precious Eiffel Tower! We lamented together in this manner for blocks, pausing to rest our feet now and then. We agreed that the city was smelly, the inhabitants insufferably rude and condescending, and the menus entirely too difficult to decipher. Fine then, we'll just go to… horror of horrors; an American restaurant - the Hard Rock Café! So there, Paris!
But we first had to get back to our hotel on the other side of the Seine, near the Eiffel Tower. And we could see the Tower from here, but like Rick Steves says in his Paris guidebook, it's like a mountain, you keep walking to it, but it never seems any closer. I ever so bravely bit my lip though and held back tears, soldiering on in spite of the agonies in my feet and ankles. After an interminable amount of time dragging our exhausted selves through the avenues of Paris, across the Seine, past lush green parks, enticing shop fronts and any number of gloriously blooming window boxes, we stumbled across another taxi stand. We couldn't be more than 6 or 7 blocks from the Hotel du Champ de Mar, but I was ecstatic at the thought of sinking into the back seat of a cab and cruising in comfort the rest of the way. We pushed a button (hmm, there wasn't one on the last one) and oh joyous day - a cab pulled up seconds later. We hastily clambered in before he could change his mind and I directed him to Rue Cler, s'il vous plait. This seemed to be an abominable idea to the driver, judging by that uniquely Parisian way of lifting the eyebrows and clearing the throat. Just to be sure I understood though, he haughtily pointed out in heavily accented English that "eet eez just over there!" brandishing his stubby finger crossly. "I know," I said calmly, "but I'm tired of walking!" and leaned back in my delightfully soft seat, arms crossed.
Throughout the suspiciously long and circuitous route our new friend took, he repeatedly cleared his throat, telling us in the international language of no uncertain terms that we were ridiculous, and a waste of his valuable time. Upon arriving at our hotel, I handed him the 40 francs he demanded (with no extra with which he could "gardez le monnai") and stepped out with all the poise and hauteur I could manage, given my agonizing feet. We retired grandly to our room, where I promptly soaked in the tub and gave thanks for the European shower nozzle that allows one to bathe while reclined in the tub.
Much refreshed and attired now in my new French fashions, I slid my feet into my dress sandals, only to discover they didn't fit. The swollen blobs protruding from my puffy ankles were too large to fit in my shoes! No matter; I was in tres chic clothing, and would not wear my hiking shoes, if I had to forcibly cram my reproving feet into the shoes. This I proceeded to do with not a little whimpering. I was just delighted to not be going to the Eiffel Tower. I couldn't countenance the thought of placing my freshly bathed, deodorized and perfumed body into a teeming mass of people on an elevator at the tower, and attempting to decipher another French menu under the watchful eye of another French waiter looking down his nose at me.
We paused at the reception desk as we left the hotel for Brian to inquire as to the correct way to obtain a cab. We went completely free of accoutrements - no bags, cameras or other dead giveaway items to shout "American Tourist". Armed with the knowledge of how to hail a cab, we headed out the three or four blocks to the nearest taxi stand. My feet throbbed with each step, painfully announcing their overstuffed status in their high heeled sandal, but that was OK. I had on Paris clothing, and at as size one/two I was nearly as slim as the Parisian girls. I was confident that this time, I could hail a cab.
Sure enough, one pulled up to our stand. I coolly laid my hand on Brian's arm to indicate that I would handle this and strode over the partially rolled down window of the car. I smiled charmingly at the driver. "Combien pour aller le Hard Rock Café?" I questioned in my best high school French. To further aid him, I thrust a small map in the window to point out our desired location. Without a glance, he grunted "Non," shook his head fiercely and proceeded to press the button to roll up the window, and drove away - my arm ensconced. I gave it a frightened yank, just in time to avoid a certainly painful dislocation and stared in dismay at the ugly red welt on my arm. I was dumbfounded.
"Let me try it," Brian finally interjected amidst my indignant exclamations. When the next cab pulled up, he asked in slow, clear English how much the fare would be to the Hard Rock Café.
"Eet eez forbidden to tell," answered the driver mysteriously. Brian attempted to explain that we needed to know if it was within our budget. Just picking a large number, he asked if for example, it would be more than 100 francs. None too encouragingly, the driver replied dubiously, "I don't theenk so." That would be about $15 one way, plus back, if he didn't rip us off by going even higher. Thanks, but no thanks.
There was nothing left for these two flabbergasted travelers to do but take the Metro. Mercifully, it was nearly empty. We sat in companionable silence in the rattling car as it shot through the tunnel towards American food.
We arrived to find a 45 minute wait; that was fine as long as we could sit down. We took a seat at the bar and chatted with a fellow American, a California surfer studying art in Paris. When our table was ready, I opened my menu in happy anticipation of English. No such luck - it was in French. I had to laugh though, I'd had enough crying for the day. We placed out order for food that although not precisely American, at least wasn't French either, taken by our Spanish waiter.
As we waited, we noticed a rather sad looking foreign man attempting to sell flowers to passers by. Most ignored him, the rest shook their heads impatiently and brushed by him. He didn't give up though, just continued to show pedestrians his bouquets with a hopeful expression on his weary face. As we watched him, we wondered if he tried to support a family with this line of work. He wasn't aggressive like the many beggars we had encountered in this city.
My thoughts turned to more immediate concerns, and I excused myself to visit the WC. When I returned, a small bouquet of 3 white carnations and a single red rose lay at my plate. I noticed the flower peddler was smiling. So was my husband. I smiled myself. Maybe Paris isn't so bad, after all.
