France Blog 7--Paris (Part 1)

One cannot stay far from Paris’ reach in this land.  We were presented with a traveling puzzle:  How to travel south from Bordeaux, France to Seville, Spain without staying overnight in a two-bit town along the way.  Solution:  Train north first. We weren’t necessarily looking for a reason to go to Paris, but the opportunity was just too easy.   We left minutes after Jeremy arrived home from school on Monday, his last day of class until the next Monday, and took a TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse, or high speed train) to Paris.  I don’t think Jeremy allowed himself to expect much, and jokingly called any affection I had for the city of lights simply “Over-Romantic and unsubstantiated.”  I may tend towards the drama of romance, but France, just as much as Paris, always had a hold on me, even after spending a decent amount of time getting to know its ways.

 I still refused to expect anything out of our hostel.  We decided to get a private room, instead of a room in a dormitory, at Vintage Hostel, near Gare du Nord (“Close!  1/3 of a mile! Walking Distance!”) and at the base of Mont Martre (“Close!  You can see Sacré Coeur!”).  All of the other hostels I have stayed at in Paris before claimed similar things, and more.  Clean!  Fun!  Great Staff!  Renovated! Close! Which to us meant bed bugs, plugged shower drains, suspicious sheets, a layer of hasty paint to attempt to cover any mold, noisy party rumblings until 3am, un-helpful staff who it seemed were paid to scowl from behind the reception desk/bar, and certainly never ever close to anything worth being close to.  Logically my expectations were low.

After quickly navigating the subway from the train station in the South of Paris to the train station in the North (and paying to use the restroom for the first time since we arrived in France!), we began our trek to our hostel. It was dark when we arrived, and the managers at each café we passed greeted us with an atypically warm “Good Evening!” and a smile.  The streets were busier than those in Bordeaux, but not overwhelming.  The wet pavement from a recent rain reflected the streetlights and café signs with a certain radiance. Our travel packs were small, but were already a bane to our shoulders as we marched the 1/3 of a mile to our hostel. Yes, only 1/3 of a mile, as they promised.  We couldn’t believe it, and had to ask at the front desk if we were at the correct spot. It was clean and colorful, with a smiley, humble, and quite helpful reception.  However, our proper judgments were reserved until we met the room.  Mr. Smiley reception man directed us to use the elevator to traverse the 6 floors between our room and us.  Giggles escaped our American lips when we pulled the elevator door open.  We had only brought daypacks for our week-long trip, but the green-carpeted elevator was so tiny and square that mayyybeee a small child could have squeezed in with us.  Happily it was functional and clean, as was our little room.  It could fit no more than the double bed it housed, but it had a modern feel with deep colors and brushed-steel lights.  A large curtained window posed next to the bed, which opened up to a 1’ x 3’ wrought-iron laced balcony. Directly across the narrow road  shone the lights from our neighbor’s slanted attic chambers. Ratatouille’s Parisian abode came to mind.

Jeremy discovered a little tenseness when he stepped onto the 7-stories up ancient balcony. Sacré Coeur, the cathedral atop Mont Martre, peeked out from behind the chimneys to glow a welcome to us. We tried to capture the vision of the national treasure with pictures, but nothing came out correctly.

We donned our light sweaters, grabbed a metro map from Mr. Smiley, and headed out to meet the Eiffel Tower in time for the midnight twinkling light show. My only goal was to show Jeremy the Eiffel tower and head back to the hostel before the metro closed.  I experienced too many lengthy 1a.m. strolls with Amie and Sarah Kate on our first trip, and my mom and Erle on my 2^nd trip, as we all somehow managed to misread either the local time or the time the metro closed, or under-estimate our travel time to the metro.  Either way, I was determined to have learned my lesson and act as an experienced, seasoned traveler with my mantra as my guide: Missed metros dampen experiences.

We tried to be sneaky and take the commuter train to the base of the tower instead of taking the metro and walking a mile, but after waiting for about 15 minutes, discovered that our stop was the end of the line. Zut, alors! Realizing that our midnight goal was not to be reached, we still scurried on over to figure out the closest metro stop. 

Deserted, dimly-lit tree-lined streets led us along sleepy Seine (which apparently houses fish for the first time in years, thanks to higher anti-pollution measures).  The watch ticked away happily, while breathless, we raced towards the direction of the famously tall iron lattices.  Kaboom, it pierced our line of sight, a golden smoldering of metal and lights.  Both awe and disappointment easily fit into this reunion. Yep, it still looked the same.  Yep, it’s just like the movies.  Yep, I’m still myself. But HOLY COW it looks the same!  Its just like the movies!!  And happily I’m still me, but now with a warm hand to hold.

Thoughts of the metro’s last call refused to escape our practical minds, so instead of finding our way to the base of the tower, we enjoyed it from a distant street corner. A few camera flashes and kisses later we bustled back to the fluorescent lights and tiles of our homeward-bound chariot.  Hunger and happiness overwhelmed my ability for shame and self-criticism when we missed the last run of our connecting tram.