Paris: Day One

Because we gained six hours flying east, and the trip took about eight hours, we landed around 10:30 a.m. in Charles de Gaulle airport, some miles north-northeast of Paris. After breezing through security checkpoints (my passport was checked but, strangely, not stamped; the wife’s was), we got our luggage without incident, and found ourselves in the predicament of how best to get to our hotel in the heart of Paris. Taxis were out of the question, being way too expensive. That left either the train, the metro, or the bus, none of which (obviously) we were familiar with. The guidebook my wife brought along and studied on the plane recommended the Roissybus as a quality, inexpensive means of travel, so we sought that out. It cost 2 euros a piece to board it, and we spent 15 or 20 minutes circling Charles de Gaulle picking up other passengers at other stops. Once full, the bus began an hour-long ride into the city, traversing, it must be told, some less-than-pristine sights (I’m talking slums and ghettos).

A brief note about money. Based on some calculations I made with the Euro-Dollar exchange rate in mind, I figured we should budget about 125 euros a day, 750 euros for the entire trip. Since one euro equaled around $1.30 as of about three weeks ago (and the bank tacks on a fee for the transaction), it cost me $1,009 to buy those 750. I quickly learned that Paris is a tres expensive city to visit, in part due to this disparity with the exchange rate. Anyway, I was often the bad guy on the trip as I was the one who held us to budget, no matter what weapons my wife would use against me (i.e., guilt, tears, silent treatment, whatever). However, I will acknowledge that as our trip neared its conclusion, she did contribute by offering several money-saving alternatives.

Another side note: I’m not a big car-watcher, but I was amazed at the brands of autos I saw waiting for the Roissybus (and later walking all about the city). The predominant vehicles were Volkswagens, followed by, in no particular order, Citroens, Puegeots, and Renaults. In the whole five days I saw but one Honda and one Ford. All cars are small; there are no SUVs in Paris. Even the vans are small. There are also a ton of bicycles in the city. Everyone bikes – artistes, businessmen, ladies in skirts, even hobos. I later learned that the city has 20,000 bicycles for rental, and we saw numerous rental stations all over. You put in your payment (a lot of people used a card they purchased at a cheaper rate), select your bike, and the machine unlocks it for your use.

The Roissybus dropped us off the Palais Garnier, the grand operahouse of Paris, just slightly west of the center of the city. I envision Paris as a lumpy potato laying on its side, with the river Seine making a rainbow shape in the lower half. The Garnier was roughly – very roughly – about a third of a mile north of the Seine, but were you to walk to the river you’d probably clock at least a mile, due to winding roads and parks and whatnot in your way. Out hotel was about a hundred yards closer, the Place de la Concorde near the ancient Egyptian Obelisk that marks the foot of the Champs-Élysées, still in that southern direction toward the Seine.

So there we are, two tourists from America, huddled on a busy street unfurling maps to see where the heck we need to go and, even more difficult, trying to orient ourselves. I found comfort that we were not the only ones; it seemed most of the Roissybus occupants were on the same street as us doing exactly as we were. It was at this moment that we were attacked by the Female Indian Petitioners.

“You speak English?” she asked, seeing us juggling maps and luggage. “Yes,” my wife replied, to which a clipboard petition was thrown in her face. Thinking this young Indian lady needed a translation, she translated it for her, but, no, the woman wanted my wife to pen her name and who knows what else to the petition. My wife shook her head; “No, I don’t sign anything unless I know what I’m signing.” Still she kept pestering us to sign it, so we just upped and moved across the street. A second Indian Petitioner acosted us on the way. By the end of our trip we were approached by at least six and maybe ten Female Indian Petitioners (I lost count). They usually hung out at all the tourist spots: Opera House, Tuileries, Louvre. It got so annoying that I routinely answered “Nyet” to any inquiry of “You speak English?” from a clipboard-weilding sub-Asian continent personage.

Unfortunately, Paris was a lot warmer than what the weather channel predicted, and ergo what we packed and were wearing was, uh, unfortunate. The temperatures and hauling close to forty pounds of wheeled luggage through the busy and crowded streets got us sweaty and irritable in no time. Several times we had to re-adjust and re-orient ourselves according to the maps and the streets. One neat feature of Paris is that the street signs are blue plaques posted into the walls of the buildings at streetcorners, ten feet above the ground, so it was relatively easy finding where you were.

Soon the streets we walked parted and a massive, colonnaded structure came into view. It must’ve been a hundred feet high, surrounded by two dozen columns and a massive staircase. Sculptures of what I assumed to be Christ, the Apostles, and Mary Magdalen adorned its upper walls. This appeared to be the Madeleine according to the map. We were heading in the right direction. I wanted to explore it, but the wife was getting tired and wanted to reach the hotel.

We traveled south along the busy Rue Royale, and I quickly spotted the Obelisk, a towering dark monument covered with hieroglyphics and sported a triangular golden top. We were at the Place de la Concorde, facing south. Just beyond was a bridge over the Seine. To the east, leftward, were the Tuilieries and the Louvre beyond; to the west, rightward, was the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, culminating in the Arc de Triomphe a mile or so northwesterly. The Eiffel Tower was also to be seen beyond the Seine in a southwesterly orientation.

A right turn brought us to the Hotel Crillon – one of the best hotels in Paris in terms of opulence and service (and probably price, too). Upon entering we were immediately accosted by hotel staff who refused to allow us to carry our bags a meter further. The pleasant chill in the marbled room cooled our sweaty bodies as we checked in. However, as the room would not be ready until 3 p.m., it was suggested we have lunch while they safely stored our luggage.

We agreed and headed back up towards the Madeleine, where the wife had earlier spotted an attractive streetside bistro. We sat down and immediately ordered drinks – she a wine, me a Heineken. It seems I would be doomed to spend my French vacation drinking German and Belgian beer, as that seemed to be all the beers restaurants stocked. Heinekens and Kronenbourgs. I did have a glass or two of wine, usually with dinner, but none that amazed me. Similarly, to be completely honest, this restaurant’s fare didn’t leave a great impression. I got fries without ketchup (I don’t think the French use ketchup) and a bloody, fatty steak that passed for “medium.” My wife liked her meal, though, and that proved a precedent for the meals to follow.

Returning to the Crillon, we completed the check-in process. A young French concierge-in-training, Kevin according to his badge, gave us a tour of the legendary and long-lived hotel. Very plush, filled with amenities, bristling with professionals devoted entirely to making our stay as comfortable as possible. The room was impossibly luxorious. Spacious, cool, an oasis from the bustling streets. Upon entering you’re greeted by a large mirror and a mini-bar; walk down a few steps and there’s a sitting room. A massive bed fills the next part of the room. I joke that it must’ve been twenty-feet across, and my wife jokes that she never even knew I was in bed with her. Regardless of the size, it was possibly the most awesomely comfortable bed I’ve ever laid upon. A large flatscreen teevee faced us from one corner, and a large antique writing desk from the other.

Behind the wall adjacent to the bed was a walk-in closet. Inside was a table and mirror for madame to apply her makeup. There was a safe for me to store my shrinking pile of euros. Two separate rooms across the closet held the toilet and bidet, and the tub and shower. The tub was set into raised marble; the shower was so large there was a stone bench inside it; a pair of his and her sinks separated the two.

We unpacked and rested for an hour or so, then showered and dressed into some fancy clothes. A dress for C, a jacket and collared shirt for moi. The wife had it in mind to eat somewhere nice. Kevin had mentioned this phrase in his tour for us: when you stay at the Crillon, you have to realize you have access to the best concierges in the city. Indeed, that phrase made the greatest impression on her, and she intended to test it out whenever possibly, much to my and my wallet’s chagrin.

(Another tidbit from the tour that made an impression on us: the Crillon will be closing – for two years! – for renovations. Not one wing, but the whole entire hotel. That amazed us. Apparently, the French don’t do capitalism like we do. What American hotel would close completely – for two whole years! – while renovating? My immediate thought was – what would Kevin or any of the other workers do during this period? France moving as quickly towards socialism that it is, would they simply be paid by the government not to work, or would they be reassigned elsewhere? I think we were both too shocked to ask Kevin any follow-up questions to this revelation.)

Freshly showered and dressed, we made our way down the four floors to the elegant marbled receiving area of the Crillon. My wife beelined towards Serge, the concierge on duty, and told him her simple request: a nice modest streetside cafe with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Serge consulted some maps and a well-hidden computer and made some suggestions and phone calls. Finally, we decided on a bistro called Le Coq in the circle he called Trocadero, about a mile or so due east and a quarter mile north of the Tower (which was across the Seine from this location). The only catch was that our view of the Tower would be obscured by two large semicircular buildings, the Palais de Chaillot. No problem, we agreed. I tipped Serge ten euros.

A ten-minute taxi ride costing around 8 euros brought us to Le Coq, and we opted for a table outside. Big mistake. Like most large cities, I suppose, the only place people are now allowed to smoke is outdoors. And Parisiens love to smoke. We were sandwiched between a dating couple on my right and a pair of young ladies, later joined by a student-type, on my left. All five bathed us with cigarette smoke. Nonstop, chainsmoking cigarette smoke. Every bite of food, every forkful of organic material en route to my mouth traveled through a cloud of smoke. I felt the onset of a headache, and I myself was a smoker only eight years ago. But it was no fun, and made my lobster pasta dish unpalatable. With this meal I had wine instead of beer, and it made no impression.

However, we were rewarded with a spectacular evening. (One thing I noticed that I can’t logically explain is that it doesn’t really get dark in Paris until 10 p.m. or so. Weird, to have so much ambient outdoor light at 9 ...) We crossed the street and made our way towards the gap between the two buildings that made up the Palais de Chaillot – and glimpsed the lit-up Eiffel Tower in all its glorious splendor. My wife choked up, and, I must admit, I wasn’t prepared for the sheer beauty, grandeur, and elegance of the scene. An open courtyard with young kids, older couples, and tourists lay before us, the Pont d’lena Bridge over the Seine, then Le Tour Eiffel.

We snapped some photos, navigated the crowds and dodged the legions of smelly stinky hustlers selling all sorts of junky trinkets on massive key rings. In no time we were at the Tower – and strolled beneath it. 400 feet between each of the four pillars, nearly a thousand feet tall. One pillar was still open, allowing sightseers to purchase a ticket to take an elevator ride to the top, but we did not do that. We walked through and beyond, continuing southeast, onto the Parc du Champ de Mars. About two or three hundred yards away we turned and watched as the Tower suddenly exploded in a galaxy of bright, dancing, sparking lights, for ten minutes, as it does every hour on the hour after dark.

Just then an older Frenchman approached my wife, rose in hand, and insisted on giving it to her. No, no, she politely demurred, then a little more forcefully, but he persisted. Finally, feeling flattered, she accepted the rose. Upon which he sidled over to my side of the fence we were leaning against, and held out his palm. Oh no, I just got shook down. Mifffed, I pulled out my wallet and handed over a five euro bill. Suddenly his smile disappeared. “Ten,” he said, the first words he spoke during this whole encounter. I pulled out a ten and when I handed it to him noticed his fat thumb securely holding down the five I just gave him. Not wanting to haggle – indeed, before the thought even occurred to me – somehow my ten was gone, and so was he, melted into the darkness in a blink of the eye.

That was the most expensive single flower I ever gave my wife.

Needless to say, there was a little friction between the two of us ... but only for a little while. This is Paris, no? So we walked for a bit – in the wrong direction. We were heading southeast, and our hotel was northeast, back over the Seine. After a half-hour, we pulled out the omnipresent map (we had three or four of varying sizes and detail with us) and plotted a course back to the Crillon. It was getting late and our feets were starting to get very, very tired.

We charted a northward course over the Avenue de la Motte Picquette and the Boulevard de la Tour Maubourg. These streets seemed to be somewhat commercial but more probably residential, as most everything was dark save for the streetlights due to the hour. There was the occassional streetside bistro we’d pass, though none were as hopping as those we’d seen north of the Seine. Eventually we hit the river after a mile of walking, and crossed over the wide Pont de l’Alma bridge, very quiet as the hour approached 11 p.m.

It was a simple walk directly eastward parallel to the Seine a half-mile or so to the hotel. A dark, tree-lined route pointed our way to the Obelisk in the distance. We passed such unlikely-named thoroughfares as the Avenues Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill – even passed a statue of the stocky, cigar-chomping British Prime Minister. An occassional bicyclist passed us and a few cars every now and then.

A couple blocks from the hotel I caught sight of a man rummaging through a trash can in the park adjacent to our sidewalk. Then he caught sight of us, and immediately forgot about the trash can. He started directly for us, and he was about fifty yards away.

I caught sight of my wife catching sight of him. We quickened our pace, and I saw her glance back. “Is he following us?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, and I immediately felt slightly nervous, and, oddly, slightly ennervated.

After a hundred yards she turned and looked back again. “He’s right there,” she said, speeding up, and I followed. Vague images of being held up with a knife or something by a crazy random man flashed through my mind. Wildly I looked for a stick or something, but none was to be found on the well-manicured walkways of Tourist Paris. “Should we go into the street?” I asked, and the wife surprised me with a quick, emphatic “Yes!”

There were cars driving back and forth along this route parallel to the Seine. We didn’t care. We walked right into the street, headed right for the cement divider, and walked that towards the Champs-Élysées Obelisk, now comfortably close. Right now I wanted one of those tiny police cars to stop us. We went another short block, and our would-be assailant was no where in sight. Adreneline still flowing, we hoofed it over to the Crillon, took some photos, and made it up to our room by midnight. A shower, a quick call to the girls (it was 6 p.m. their time), a call down to the desk for breakfast, and we were sound asleep in that giant bed within five minutes of lights out.