I write to you today from the 2nd floor of a McDonalds about 500m from the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Elysees. I am unshowered, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and tired of Paris. Already.
Our train arrived about 1:30pm. Immediately, we were assailed by beggars and vagrants of every variety asking if we spoke English, throwing change cups in our faces, and in general attributing to a very tense atmosphere of “oh my God I’m going to be pick-pocketed.” We got to the Metro Station only to stand in line as a long line of tourists fought a ticket machine that only took coins. We got to the machine, and realized that we were about 2 Euros short of our 12 Euro “book” of metro tickets (which, in reality, were 10 pieces of loose paper about 3cm x 7cm). The metro was a maze of staircases going both up and down (just to get to one platform), we had the great misfortune of getting on a train full to the brim of people not normally considered pleasant by the Western World. We had to change trains (which meant another maze of stairs in multiple directions), and finally arrived at our location. The location was loud and busy – the city with a high energy buzz, right?
I booked our lodging around the first of March. The place had 4 out of 5 star customer ratings, excellent reviews, and pictures of a place that I would expect for 60 Euros/night from a liquidation booking agency. It had free Wi-Fi, free breakfast, and an excellent balcony view of the City and the Montmartre Sacre-Coeur, depending on which side of the building your room was on. Turns out all of these criterion were true – except they forgot to mention the following:
1. Wi-Fi was slow, unreliable, and required login information that expires periodically.
2. Free Breakfast consisted of a loaf of bread. Not even French bread. Instead, a loaf of sandwich bread in a bag from a market. The butter came from a big tub.
3. The balcony was excellent, except the room adjoining was a hell-hole. I expound in the following.
The hotel room had no in-room bathroom. The shower was down the hallway and the toilet was on a different floor. Yes – we had to go downstairs to pee. The far-away toilet didn’t even have a sink. The room DID have a sink, but it didn’t drain. It’s not because the plug was in it. It just didn’t drain. There was a hole in the wall next to the sink – and not a beautiful, charming, Parisian hole, but a hole created from water damage and rot.
Now, keep this in mind as I continue.
We arrived around 2pm, but the accommodations weren’t ready until 4. Amanda and I put our luggage in the storage room – a small, unattended corner closet that smelled of dried piss. We thought “ok, this is just the luggage room. We expect it to be kind of ugly.” The hotel had a “charm” of age, so we just thought it was turn-of-the-century Parisian charm. You know, like in the Aristocats. We decided to leave our luggage in the locked room and see some of the city. We took the subway (which, by the way, was still ugly, dirty, and smelly with very un-handicap-accessible stairways) to the Arc de Triomphe. The view was amazing and I thought, “Ok. This is worth it.” We walked down the Champs-Elysees, found a charming sidewalk café and had lunch. It had a charming server with lots of energy, ready to take our order with humor and spunk. We ordered, Amanda went to wash her hands and came back with a very disturbed look. This restaurant, which was charging 12 Euros for a modest bowl of Pasta and 6 Euros for a bottle of water, did not have a sink with running water in the woman’s bathroom. My stomach churned a bit. I pulled out my hand sanitizer, and decided to not touch my food with my hands. The server brought the bread out. It was sliced baguette in a charming little wicker bowl. My hands were still not pristine, so I ate it with a fork – much to the dismay of the Parisians surrounding us. After eating 3 pieces, we saw the bottom of the dish – it had dirt in it. Not like flecks of dirt or a random stray hair, but crusted dirt. Dirt that remains after one carries a clod of dirt in that bowl. It was disgusting. We paid our exorbitant amount for the restaurant and left.
The day went about normal. We visited the Lourve (it was opened until 10 on Friday), saw Notre Dame, walked along the Seine, saw some Tuilleries, and were tired. We went back to this place where some ill-advised people choose to spend the night.
We checked in, were given our key, and got on the lift. It wasn’t big enough for two people to stand in the slightest degree of comfort. Now imagine two people, one with a big suitcase and bag filled for 2 ½ weeks in Europe, the other with a backpack and a weekend’s worth of clothing on this thing. The doors closed (only partially, I might add) and Amanda’s face was squished against the back wall, my arm was pinched by the gap between the doors, and every part of our bodies was touching another surface. “Think Thin, Adam. Think Thin.”
We got to the top, saw our hellhole, and the night was ruined. It was 11pm, no other hotel would accept us that late, we had already paid, and there was nothing we could do. Some choice words were exchanged, lots of complaining, and we went to bed on the old, drooping mattresses of our worn out beds with questionably laundered sheets utterly angry and ready to quit and go home.
The next morning, I went to the downstairs toilet. It wasn’t functioning, and I will save you from the true description by describing it as “full.” I felt my empty stomach begin hurling. I immediately grabbed my computer, used the internet to find another hotel. I made the reservation, went up the 6 flights of stairs, told Amanda to get up and we left. Checked out, complained, only got 1/3 of a refund (“Our cancellation policy doesn’t allow us to refund you the entire amount”) and hauled our stuff.
The subway line serving that place of beds and inadequate plumbing is closed today. Here we were, two Americans who speak no French with lots of baggage at 7am on a Saturday walking long distances to a subway line that actually functions. The curbs had flowing puddles of water, trash covered the streets and sidewalks, a certain Eau de Filth filled the air. Amanda warned me not to let my bag run through the streams cascading through the streets. I turned around and said “at least there is running water in the streets.”
We finally made it to the alternate hotel. Our luggage currently sits in the attended luggage room (which didn’t smell like a litterbox), and we had the opportunity to “freshen up” in the freshly cleaned and functioning downstairs public restrooms. We can check in at 2pm, at which time we will promptly shower and feel human again. After our experience in “Parisian restaurants” where servers handle money, pick up trash off the ground, and then touch your glasses that they put ice into with their bare, unwashed hands, we are jaded. The bistros and brasseries aren’t serving real breakfast (apparently a small cup of expresso is sufficient for this variety of humans), so we went somewhere advertising free internet, which just happens to be McDonald’s. We’ll go to the Musee d’Orsay when it opens.
Until then, we hope for Paris to get better. Really.
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