Being Golden, and Paris, again

May 30, 2008

Sometimes when I travel I’m somehow “golden.” And sometimes—not. The last two days have been a scattering of both. The good news is that it makes me more willing to go home tomorrow to my own routine. The bad news is that I have to leave France to do so.

Leaving Le Grau du Roy, I went to the train station and was told that no, I’d be taking a bus to Nimes for my train to Paris. So I lugged my stuff to the bus, asked the driver if he’s going to Nimes, and hauled over my big traveling duffel. He looked at it, lazily walked over to lift the bus’ cargo hold, and waited. I realized that he wasn't going to load my luggage, so I loaded it myself. It’s heavy, but I travel by the “don’t pack what you can’t carry” philosophy. I hopped on the bus and watched, bemused, as other passengers loaded not only themselves, but their little dogs, too. They also have to stow their own luggage in the cargo hold, so at least it wasn’t personal.

The bus trip was long and lumbering, but went through some really beautiful countryside and tiny picturesque towns. One particularly beautiful town was Vaunvert; it looked like something out of a medieval movie. At times the roads were so narrow that long lines of cars going the other direction would wait in line for our bus and the trucks in front of it to make a tight turn so that they could continue on their way.

I’m now familiar with the Nimes train station, so I decided to pick up a quick lunch at a pizza place across the street that Jay had recommended. I went in the door and ordered a pizza. “No pizza today—just sandwiches.” So I ordered a sandwich. And waited. And waited. It’s now 20 minutes before my train leaves, and those high speed bullet trains leave on time—AND they only give you about five minutes to get on before they take off. I ask for my sandwich. “Two minutes.” More minutes pass. I finally receive my sandwich in time to wolf it down before heading for the train platform. The train arrives, I lug my stuff aboard. Someone is sitting in my reserved seat. It looks like she’s with her boyfriend. I take another seat, figuring I’ll only make a fuss if someone arrives later down the line and I’m sitting in their reserved seat.

The train ride seems faster than four hours. I get off at Paris’ Gare de Lyon and wait in the taxi queue. I get a taxi right away. The driver opens the trunk of his car, takes a look at my duffel and shakes his head sadly. I say, “Monsieur, I can lift it—I’m sure you can.” He looks beleaguered. I lift it into the boot, saying, “Surely you can lift this.” I get in the cab and choke on the smell of the cabbie’s body odor. Luckily, I can open my own window and hang my head out like a dog. I give the driver my hotel address. He doesn’t understand me, so I show it to him. He knows where we’re going, makes noises that sound like he’s telling me that my pronunciation of the name of the street is what threw him. We start winding our way through the Paris streets. He seems to be going in the right direction, so I’m content. Eventually he stops, points, and says, “Number 5.” I look up. It is number 5, but we’re on the wrong street. My hotel is not in sight. I say, “No, c’est ne pas la rue.” He answers, “Oui, c’est ca.” I say “no,” and show him the written address. He starts (no lie) screaming at me and pounding on the front passenger seat saying, “C’est ca, C’est ca!” I finally had to show him my paper again, point to the street we were on, and loudly start spelling its name in French alphabet: “Be, eh, seh…” to get him to see we were on the wrong street. “Oh.” No apologies. He turns the cab and moves on. I am furious. I get out the 20 Euros I’m going to have to pay him ($23 US). I leap out of the cab and pointedly lift my duffel out of the trunk. He looks at me in fake surprise and says, in French, “Didn’t I get you where you wanted to go,” like I’m some kind of idiot. I didn’t know the French for my response, so I said in Enlgish, “You yelled at me and took me to the wrong place.” His answer, “We’re here,” as if I’m supposed to be grateful—as if it’s somehow my fault. I shove the money at him and say, “oui, maitenount!” with the emphasis on “NOW,” though I doubt the emphasis one would use in the US by saying, “yes, NOW” translates into French.

The hotel Derby Eiffel is a typical mid-priced French hotel. A two-star with small rooms and no-frills decoration updated to a three star with the addition of mini-bars and television. I’m given a room that’s been added on to the back of the building—maybe it used to be quarters for the hotel owners before the chain the bought the hotel. Access to the room is via a little courtyard (somewhat charming until you realize it’s the smoking section for the hotel). The room has no window (no natural light) and no ventilation.

I wonder if that’s a small favor, due to the smoking lounge outside my door. I ask for another room and am told by Michelle at the desk, “I have no rooms now, I’ll look into it tomorrow.” I ask what to do about the heat in the room without a window to open and am told I have AC. I go back to the room and notice a 3’x2’ independent unit blocking the closet. I turn it on. It makes a lot of noise. In the bathroom there’s a hole in the wall that is sealed with duct tape. Did I mention I’m paying $125 US a night through Expedia.com, and the “regular rate” is 160€ (close to $200)? The hotel Spinaker was also a three-star and cost 109€ a night and the quality difference is staggering.

Okay, I tell myself, it’s one night, and I’m in Paris. I ask Michelle for a dinner recommendation. Michelle has a creepy little damaged voice that sounds like she should be dubbing the kid-killer in horrow movies (you know, the "seven days" voice from "The Ring"), only with a sexy French accent. She tells me about a place down the street, and says, “it's good for you, say my name—maybe they’ll give you something.” I go and get a seat outdoors in the first sunshine I’ve seen 10 days. I tell the waiter I’m there for dinner. And I sit. And I sit. I watch the servers get out tablecloths and prepare tables. The sun goes behind a building and I’m now in cool shade. I catch the waiter’s eye. He goes on setting tables. I’m thirsty. I check my watch—it’s after 7:30, so they should be serving. Finally I think, “There are plenty of good restaurants in Paris,” and leave.

I walk two blocks down the road to a lovely place where I have the 38€ prix fix menu and a beautiful French ambiance (above). I chose an entrée that was a wonderful salad of grilled tomato and eggplant with a ricotta cheese layer. My plat was a whitefish cooked in coconut milk served over spiced mashed potatoes. For dessert, fruit immersed in champaign. It was lovely; much better and half the price of the fancy meal I had eaten the previous night at the Spinaker. I went back to my weird little room and watched “Out of Africa” dubbed in French.

I woke slowly this morning, showered, packed for the plane, and made a reservation for an airport shuttle. I started off to walk Rue Cler (famous for its traditional French shops). One of the sidewalks I was traveling was set up under tents for an antique sale. They had covered the sidewalk with red carpet, and I tripped on a curb I couldn’t see, falling flat on my face and scraping my knee. The Madame of the antique show sat me down and fed me water to make sure I was all right. I was, but I my mood was just about ready to go back to my hotel and call it a day. Instead, I went to a café and ordered café au lait and a croissant. I sat in the sun and tried to reclaim my travel mojo.

I walked down charming Rue Cler (where I found my French cologne that I can’t buy in the US anymore) and then began walking to the Museum Orsay, famous for 19th century painting and sculpture. On the way, I stopped by a restaurant that had a fabulous view of an intersection and a park, and comfortable chairs outdoors in the sun. I decided to order a leisurely lunch. Salad and omelette. Apparently it was a fancy place: attractive men in expensive suits kept driving up for valet parking in expensive cars. Women wearing chic suits were meeting for lunch. I had a great time people-watching, and even though my little lunch wound up costing more than my dinner the previous evening, I enjoyed it.

I walked to the Museum and toured the art. I wasbthere the last time I was in Paris, so I could zero in on my favorites. After a while I got hot and tired and went to the museum café for an Orangina. It had a rooftop gathering space, from which I took the photos in this blog entry. I was ready to leave the museum, when I realized that there was a whole gallery that I didn’t see on my last visit. In fact, it turned out to be the most famous gallery of the museum, with tons of Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Pizarro, Renoir, insert-your-favorite-impressionist. It was very beautiful. There were many versions of Monet’s cathedral at Rouen, a beautiful deep cerulean “Water Lilies,” and, to my surprise, “Whistler’s Mother” (I wondered if he’s the only American displayed in the museum).

A lovely sunny walk back to the hotel; upon returning, I Michelle rasped at me, “I can’t give you a new room—you should have told the person in the morning.” I explained that she had said she would take care of it, but no, just like the cab driver, it was my fault. Maybe so. My French is not great. Even though Michelle was speaking English.

I think I’ll take some guesswork out of the evening and go back to the lovely restaurant I went to last night. At least the waiter there is handsome, attentive, speaks English, and “loves New York.” And LeBron James.

Tomorrow I fly back to Cleveland.