An Escapade of Idiots in Paris
Qualities such as having cash on hand, feeling comfortable navigating through any big city, and having a good understanding of your alcohol are importantfor traveling. Especially in Paris, where meals span from expensive to ‘might as well buy a ticket back to the States.’ There is little common direction to the streets, such that if you don’t know the Rue Dauphine you would not be able to find it by counting‘E 57th… E 60th… E 65th’on a map. And where there is so much a drinking culture that it is embarrassingto know only “red” versus “white,” instead of Pinot Noir versus Merlot or Pinot Grigio versus Chardonnay. These are the qualities a person must adopt before visiting Paris –unless of courseyou want to have the same hectic experience as my friends and me.
All our shortcomings were terriblyevident our first day when we took a trip to the Eiffel Tower.
The six of us (four guys and two girls) had just arrived in Charles De Gaul airport after a nearly seamless nine-hour flight. I say “nearly” because of the hour we spent on the runway before takeoff and the sound of my friend (Bobby) hurling into a paper bag for twenty minutes straight. Upon landing and collecting the luggage we had a hellish time trying to find a cab. After a heated debate about the meaning of the phrase, “unmarked cab” we decided we’d been on our feet far too long and dove into the nearest car. Darien handed the driver a sheet with ** Rue Cabanis scribbled on it. Naturally we were dead tired, swaying on our feet after finally checking in and climbing the four flights that led to the room.The six of us could only afford to share one room so close to the center of the city.
It was only 9 in the morning.
My friend, Carey, was shouting at those of us lying on the beds to get up or we’d feel like crap –so we regretfully got out of the hotel and walked around before our plan to see the Eiffel Tower as our first sight.
One thing about Paris though, the city itself is a sight to behold. Just trudging down the street we saw buildings hundreds of years old, with intricate stonework and plaster vines on patios and doorframes. It was difficult to walk with our heads craned to view the building visages that rose above us. Brad even ran into one of the many roadblock poles that rose from the sidewalk. He reacted as thoughhe’d been punchedin the gut. Everyone laughed and a French kid pointed. Phenomenally, this cheered us up with euphoric quickness. Brad was soon laughing at his own mistake despite the ache and embarrassment.
The view of elegantly dressed men and women eating breakfast at open cafes soon enticed us into trying the croissants and coffee that looked so good. We sat at the outdoor wireframe tables of a place called Nouvelle Mairie and were soon helped to what we expected to be like an American style feast.
In hindsight it’s not altogether incomprehensible that the coffee and burgers (eclectic combo, I know) we ordered were not going to be what we expected. Carey, Bobby, Brad and Joey ordered the burgers. I am not a know-it-all but I have heard beef in France can get sketchy. As it turns outthis is true. What they got was all the makings of a burger –except for the cooked part. Between two large buns sat a hunk of raw ground meat. Honestly, the chef could have waved the beef over a candle and have browned it more. I guess that teaches us to order anything “medium.” Needless to say they sent back the meat and ended up compromising with the waiter, accepting the fact that even “well done” wouldbe very, very rare.
The coffee and pastries Raquel and I ordered was an expansive array of tarts, croissants, éclairs and fruit. We received it with watering eyes –and mouths for that matter- and had the humor at that point to be amused by the little paper shots that the waiter placed before us (he did so with a sort of slow emphasis as if to say to Carey and the rest who ordered burgers, See! This is real breakfast). The cups held about four ounces of dark, steaming liquid. Raquel and I held them up with curiosity and clinked them together as though progressing into any old teenage ritual. Weupended them into our mouths. Our faces contorted from bitterness and grounds.
The waiter walked to the end of our table with sugar and cream then nodded towards our empty espressos. A smirking grimace on his face, he asked us if we wanted another. English clear, he’d obviously known it his entire twenty-some year life. We nodded appreciatively and the others laughed, “Anyone else! Don’t laugh at them ‘till you try it.” Prompted they each said yes, “This time you better drink it right.” He made a puckered face and gestured towards the cream causing us all to laugh this time. Near the end of our meal we were full and awake at last with the strong espresso working quickly to our heads.
The bill came and our eyes bugged out of our heads with the meal’s price –which we later determined was not a specially priced meal. Eighty pounds out, we still left a tip (even though there was some already included in the bill). It was out of impulse that we left it on the table however our waiter saw it and reacted by running us down and sitting us down back at the table. “Stay put!” he said forcefully though he marketed a broad grin.
After a couple of confused minutes of chirping each other over whether or not he was going to force feed us some more “burger,” we were erupted into gleeful acknowledgement of a large bottle of champagne he was carrying on a tray vicariously. Surrounding it were simple thin crystal flutes. “On the house!”
Naturally we had to clap and Joey spoke up, “Wait, we’re short one. Where’s yours?”
“Ah, I’m working.”
“Ohh, come on…” “But it’s on the house!” “One little sip can’t hurt,” he fell under the barrage and was soon pulling up a chair, drinking and flirting with Carey. He caught on fast and was soon heckling us about the food we ate, the way we ate it and any other silly thing he could dig up among our petty arguments. We made fun of Bobby for getting sick, Brad running into a pole, and myself for looking like I’d just rolled out of bed. It felt like an eternity, but we managed to drain the bottle in twenty minutes. Carey was flushed and we began to feel ourselves swaying in our chairs.
All of a sudden, out came the cashier spewing French in a stream of abuse to our now rosy-cheeked friend. “See! I told you you’d get me in trouble.”
At which point we were far too buzzed to come with any clever response. We said our good byes, walking off in no particular direction at all, waving and only slightly saddened that we had to leave our new friend. Overall, we were just coming down from such a great experience; we could hardly believe it was real.
We were laughing at each other for no reason at all and continuing to walk. The sidewalks soon shrunk with the pressing buildings closing in on the narrow cobbled roads. The buildings here were even more ornate; some faces of worn painted wood, blue and green, showing off colorful macaroon pyramids, century old empty armor suits holding up foil swords in salute to passerbys, or mountains of cheaply bound pages stacked eight feet high leaning oppressively against the large windowpanes. We walked into some of these and curiously explored the dank twilight that snuck into each respective shop. We flitted through water-damaged pages, bought expensive chocolates, and even stood before a 120 year old painting for twenty minutes before Joey turned over the price tag; $7500. We abandoned the place quickly –spurred by the accusing eye of the collector who could surmise our age and therefor rightfully accuse us of not being fit to handle such precious product.
We had sobered enough by this point to take in our surroundings and finally face Raquel’s question, “Where are we?”
Carey, responsible as always, took the map and looked at the surrounding buildings for one of the elusive street signs that adhered to walls at each intersection. We spotted them (Rue d’Arras and Rue Monge) and decided the best thing would be to strike North until hitting the river and then finally heading West towards the Eiffel Tower. Little did we realize it was a good three miles away.
Regardless we trudged along with little foresight and constant reminders of how naïve designating the Eiffel Tower as our first sight was. Along the river we passed the magnificent soaring towers of Notre Dame, we passed a bridges with locks that coated the insides of the handrails and hung down above the water in vines as though golden tendrils of a weeping willow. We also passed the giant clock face of Musée d’Orsay. Between these, the splendor of Palais Bourbon and the view of Jardin des Tuileries across the river, we had seen so much already. We were looking at up at the tower in awe from Champ de Mars when we finally arrived. But it wasn’t just this solitary structure that impressed so much upon us. I realized that in our attempt to visit our first attraction, we saw the city.
We waited in a winding line for the elevator to the top of the tower and viewed what had yet been hidden. In the distance rose the obelisk of Bastille. The Arc de Triumph was in the distance. Modern glass buildings also rose with ant-sized men and women abandoning for metro stations and parking structures. We stayed at the top, walking in circles and zigzags taking pictures from every possible angle and direction, for two hours or more. It was an awesome experience, to see so much all at once.
Brains filled by snapshots of fleeting structures and sullen wandering thoughts, we found solace in one of the things our waiter-friend had told us, “Bastille is where all tourists go at night.” So we found it on the map –realizing it was a tourist destination with bars and way too far to walk to- and got a cab to take us there.It was eight at night (or 20:00) when we arrived. And our stomachs were aching from having last eaten ten hours ago. We could not imagine dropping so much money again and settled for an in-and-out Greek place that served shaved meat off a large rotisserie and french fries with gravy. It was cheap, which was good considering the price of drinks at the bars we walked past.
Further into the night however we were enchanted by the crowded narrow streets and could care less about a glass of wine here or there. It was all about the company we found and toasting to each new round and each new setting.
The night wound by quickly though we stayed until two.
I sat at the bar in preparation for one last hurrah before finding a cab to take us back when the barman came up to me and uttered something in French.
“Parlay vous ingle?” I stuttered in terrible form.
“American huh?” He said in accented English.
“Yeah.”
“Well you must not have been here so long, you went the entire night like this.” He gestured to my friends –one of only a few groups to remain this late and the only group to still order drinks.
“Got in this morning, but I think we saw pretty much everything already. Feels like we’ve been here a week.”
He chuckled a little at this, “Let’s make a deal, huh? Come back tomorrow –if you still think you have seen everything, you get every drink in this bar for free.”
“And I don’t owe you a thing if my mind changes?”
Shaking his head and chuckling some more, “Oh, you’ll betoo busy to come and give anything to me.”
Asinany case we tried heckling residents here, he was right. Wedid not end up coming back the next day, or any day after that.