After 30 hours of travelling from Christchurch, I landed in Paris surprisingly energised. I didn’t sleep much on the flights before and after the brief stopover in Dubai – which was only enough time to do a purposeful walk off the plane, onto the terminal train, and then down the Terminal A concourse to the next flight. I had barely enough time to pee and change back into a t-shirt before jumping on the next flight!
So when I arrived in Paris, it was sheer excitement that was keeping me functioning.
Paris Airport is not much to talk about. Its so understated that after the glitz of Dubai’s glass and steel monster terminals, it looks more like a domestic hub. It took nearly 30 minutes for our baggage to trickle out (what were the guys doing back there?!). But once I got mine, the next challenge was to work out how to push both suitcases at the same time, in the same direction. They are both the 360-wheeled variety, so putting them back to back, clutching the handles with both hands, and rolling them ahead of me at a slight 75 degree angle seemed to work.
First stop after baggage area was the Tourist Information Desk where I purchased my Paris Museum Pass, my Paris Visite to get me on the Metro, RER, and buses, and a train ticket to get me from the airport to Gard du Nord. All signposts are bilingual, so its just a matter of following the ones that say “Paris by Train” and battling your bags through the escalators and ticket turnstiles. Shoving the big bag ahead of me while concurrently clutching the small one and popping the ticket through the slot and grabbing it again seemed to work for me, while to the left and right of me were other tourists making a total hash of it.
An unexpected proposition
It was standing room only for the 30-45 min trip into Paris. I’d read about the local desperadoes who shove their way through the turnstiles at the back of an unsuspecting and puzzled tourist, just to avoid paying for a ticket. I’d unknowingly foiled such an instance the last time I was in Paris. This time I witnessed the consequences: when the 4-5 inspectors came through the train, a young, black man couldn’t produce a ticket.
The conversation was all in French but the body language was easily translated. “No, I don’t have any money”, I imagine he says, as the inspector demands he show him the inside of his backpack. “What is your address? Here write it down. You will be sent a fine,” the inspector says crossly, shaking his head. The youth shrugs, non-pulsed. Hah, so French.
Arriving at Gard du Nord, I immediately looked for a lift to take me to street level. As I waited for it to arrive, a French man attempted to explain to me why he, with no luggage, was taking the lift and not the stairs. Assessing the confused look on my face, he smiled and gently said in English “You don’t speak French”. “No,” I replied apologetically. When we reached the highest level, it was obvious I’d gotten on the wrong lift – this one didn’t go to the street at all.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “I need to find a taxi…” I said, looking around for any sign of where I might head to find one. “They are on strike today,” he replied. Crap. “But I can help you get a train. Where are you going?” As you do on such situations, you immediately say something vague and unhelpful: “To my hotel…” He gently smiled again and said, “Do you know the address…” I show him on my phone. “Ah, Op-per-ra. You want to go to Plas’ Opera. Here this way. You’ll need to get a ticket for the Metro.”
He was a genuinely sweet man. As we negotiated the many stairs and escalators of the Paris underground, him lugging my 24kg suitcase up and down and me slightly jogging to keep up, we exchanged brief biographies. Emilie, a farmer in his 50s, is in Paris selling some of his dairy produce, he tells me. And about to take the 3 hour train journey home to Normandy where he lives with his wife of 25 years (note that for later!) and 19 year old son.
By the time we got on the first train he was asking, in that typical French way (with a smile, of course), if I was married. “No, I’m divorced”, I explained. Have a boyfriend? “Nooo”, I laughed. Not interested in men then? he said puzzled. To which I of course blushed and said something incomprehensible about liking men but not being interested. Through the process of buying another ticket for the Metro (which as it turned out I didn’t need) and then getting on another train to the station where we would go our separate ways, he charmingly explained that he would like to stay in Paris longer and take me for a drink tonight.
“No it would be no trouble to stay.”
“No, no, it doesn’t matter that I am married, we French don’t worry about such things.”
“But I see that you are shy and uncomfortable about this, that perhaps it is not your culture to talk of such things.”
“It is okay, we have some fun, just for the night. I take you for a drink…”
Holy crap. Is this really happening? Seriously?
And so it went until we reached my platform where my train was about to leave. We rush forward, me jumping on and him shoving my big suitcase in with me, nanoseconds before the doors closed behind me. My heart was racing as I looked up to see Emilie on the other side of the glass, a gentle smile and eyes of regret, waving goodbye.
That feeling of coming home
I was still smiling, blushing, and chuckling to myself as I navigated the bowels of the station Opera and came face-to-face with the final hurdle to reaching the street: a daunting 20-step staircase. Oh crap. But then suddenly… drifting on the air… was the sound of bagpipes. Yes, BAGPIPES!! Coming from just above me at the top of the stairs.
Five minutes and many lady-grunts later, I came out into the open and there in front of me was a piper in full Scottish dress giving those bagpipes all he had.
I stopped and stared. And laughed out loud.
A 360 turn and all around me was the Paris I fell in love with: a cacophony of traffic, cars honking at each other obnoxiously as an ambulance in full scream was trying to get through, clusters of Parisians loitering in groups smoking, 3 to 4 story high Parisian apartments looming over me, and the gorgeous Paris Opera House standing majestically behind me.
It was an overwhelming onslaught for all my sensors. And I LOVED IT! If I ever needed confirmation that Paris is, in my heart, my second home, I needn’t have looked further!
However, I now had a bigger problem. Wherethefuck was my hotel? I Googled Mapped it on my phone, which prompted died. Asked a passerby where I would find the street using my Booking.com print out, and they had no idea where it was. Worriedly looked around and spotted Galleries Lafayette – ah hah! I remember it being not far from there. So off I went. Struggling to keep my bags ahead of me on the narrow pavement and the many cobbled crossings.
Eventually I spotted Rue des Mathurins, the street on which I’d find my hotel. Oh crap, I’m only at number 14. I need number 50.
Twenty minutes later a slightly sweaty, disheveled, overweight, grey-haired woman was greeted at the door by her quintessentially calm, elegant, understatedly stylish Parisian hostess. I was then promptly checked it, given the tour of the tiny restaurant (serving only breakfast), directed to an even tinier lift (just enough room for me and my bags), and helped into my room by the hotel’s African maid (who happened to be cleaning the room next door).
A place to lay my head
My room is huge. Called the Junior Suite, it boasts a king-size bed, a spacious bathroom with a shower over a bath (squee!), a small, separate lounge area, and a walk-in wardrobe.
Oh yes, this will do nicely.
The rest of my afternoon – once I’d showered and felt more human – was spent recharging my phone, finding a local supermarket, and booking a table for dinner. At Monoprix, a local chain of department / grocery stores, I bought half-dozen of bottles water and a bottle of grapefruit juice.
I love exploring supermarkets, especially when I don’t understand any of the labels. There’s an international language about supermarkets that easily translates itself; a logic to its aisled arrangements that helps you find local brands of whatever you’re looking for. When you’re faced with an array of juice brands and flavours, rising 2 metres high, then the fun really starts. Well, orange juice is obvious, “sans pulp” of course meaning “no pulp”. But I don’t want orange juice. I want either pineapple or grapefruit juice. I spot “jus de pamplemousse” – doesn’t that sound delicious? So I buy it. This morning, I delighted and reassured to find that its grapefruit juice. And it’s as delicious as it sounds in French.
By the time I lugged my water and juice back to the hotel and had a Facetime chat with my daughter, I barely have the energy to eat dinner.
I’d chosen a bistro called Louis the 16th, just 2 minutes walk from the hotel, and booked it via The Fork website. With a 7pm booking, the website guaranteed me a 40% discount on anything I selected from the a la carte menu. The food was delicious, but I couldn’t finish my steak. By then, I was shaking from fatigue and just needed to sleep!
What a crazy adventure my first half-day in Paris was. Only this wonderful city could have greeted me with an indecent proposal and guided my steps with the sound of bagpipes.
sidalscapes 