World Travel Guide Online

Maybe Paris Isn’t So Bad, After All
Paris, France

Brian and I, before we turned into ugly Americans

I suppose the Eiffel Tower is the pièce de résistance, so to speak, of Paris. On our 25 day backpacking trip through Europe, my husband, Brian, and I had six nights in the famed City of Lights. We 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 we would gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes over candlelight and a glass of fine French wine. However, we were to spend the evening at the Hard Rock Café, watching some pitiful man try to sell flowers no one wanted.

The morning started pleasantly enough. We decided to purchase souvenirs. The day was getting increasingly warm as 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. The Metro car was unpleasantly full. We shouldered our way into the packed car where I immediately buried my face in Brian’s chest, trying to avoid the non-deodorized en masse armpits. I wondered aloud why the crowd seemed so much worse than our previous rides. As we ascended the tightly packed escalator to street level, I realized why.

We had inadvertently stumbled into the Gay Pride Day Parade. I am not prejudiced. It could have been Office Worker, Housewife, or Small Yappy Dog Owner Pride Day Parade. The end result was the same. Masses 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 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.

I breathed a thankful sigh of relief when we reached the stop for Notre Dame Cathedral, instantly regretting it as stale smoke, body odor and urine stench assaulted my overwhelmed olfactories. We stumbled out of the car hand in hand, ever fearful of being separated.

Now we could buy our blasted souvenirs and be done with it. It was growing late and we wanted plenty of time to rest in our room before our planned romantic dinner at the Eiffel Tower. 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, 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 oddly emblazoned with that “Souvenier de 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. I found myself having unkind thoughts about the French, other tourists, and even my unknowing family, innocently awaiting their charming, unique and considerately selected gifts. I’d had enough. We agreed to forgo the shopping and head back to our room across the city.

We entered the Metro and sank wearily onto an iron bench to await the next car. When it pulled screeching into the station, the thought of attempting to squeeze my body into the impossibly over-crowded car made my chest hurt. I could not breathe. 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 and 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 toddler at this point.

A bus seemed to be the next best way to go. Yes, it would be crowded, but it would at least be above ground, in open air. After five days in this city, surely we could figure out the system, even after a first unsuccessful attempt. Well, we not only boarded the wrong bus, but we went in the wrong direction. At the next stop, we hastily left the bus, consulted our map, and began walking. We soon realized we were too exhausted and we were lugging too much to continue.

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. After several more attempts, we decided to go to a taxi stand. We waited as cab after cab drove by. By now we were convinced we were being resolutely ignored.

It’s because we’re Americans. 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!

We had to get back to our hotel on the other side of the Seine near the Eiffel Tower. We could see the Tower. Like Rick Steves’ Paris 2002 says, it’s like a mountain, you keep walking to it, but it never seems any closer. After dragging our exhausted bodies through the avenues of Paris, across the Seine, past lush green parks, enticing shop fronts and gloriously blooming window boxes, we stumbled across another taxi stand. We couldn’t be more than six or seven blocks from the Hotel du Champ de Mar, but I was ecstatic at the thought of sinking into the back seat of a cab.

We pushed a button (hmm, there wasn’t one on the last one)! Out pulled a cab within seconds. We hastily clambered in before the driver could change his mind. In response to my directions, he haughtily pointed out in heavily accented English that “Eet eez just over there!”

“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, the driver 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 forty 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. 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. No matter. I was in très chic clothing, and would not wear my hiking shoes. I forcibly crammed my reproving feet into the shoes with some whimpering.

As a taxi pulled up, I asked, “Combien pour aller le Hard Rock Café“?

“Non,” he grunted, pressed the button to roll up the window, and drove away – my arm ensconced.

I gave it a frightened yank, and stared at the ugly red welt on my arm. I was dumbfounded.

“Let me try,” 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.

There was nothing left for us 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.

The Eiffel Tower at Sunset – without us in it!

Finally we were at the café. We placed our order with our Spanish waiter for food that although was not precisely American, neither was it French. As we waited, we noticed a rather sad looking foreigner attempting to sell flowers. 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. When I returned, a small bouquet of three 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.