Now, I am normally not a good sleeper. I’ve consigned myself to the fact that I will be an insomniac for life. But this … I’ve mentioned that our room in the Hotel du Lion D’or has a large open window along the far wall. We had to keep it open as the hotel does not have air conditioning and it was a little close in the small room. The air flow was actually good. The noise flow, however, was even better. All night long it was smoke-laden French voices coming out of the restaurant, babies crying on other floors, high heels clicking on the cobblestone street all sailing through the window and into our trying-to-slumber ears. It was, in a word, horrible.
Not adding to the situation was the “bed” I was sleeping in. The futon was low to the ground and I could easily feel the metal spine in the middle of it. The spine was higher than the rest of the bed meaning that it kind of sloped on either side. I spent the night trying to find a comfortable position while keeping the pillow over my head to drown out the noise. After several hours, when neither of those things was working, I just lay there watching the sky from my post just beneath the window. It seemed to be pre-dawn for a couple of days before the sky suddenly lightened. Then and only then did I manage to go to sleep and even that only lasted until the garbage trucks came.
Traveler’s Tip #7: DO NOT EVER BOOK THE HOTEL DU LION D’OR IN PARIS.
Groggy and not a little upset, the three of us woke up a little after 11:00 and realized that we were to meet a friend of Joy’s at 12:00. I dragged myself off the futon from hell and went into the tiny bathroom. Very quickly, I was again longing for London and its hot showers. Apparently I’d picked a very busy time to bathe because the shower kept flashing hot and cold. I got out not because I was particularly clean or refreshed but because I was frustrated. Not a very good start for the day.
We trudged down the stairs and met up with a woman named Ena and her sister Margaret. The ladies were from Scotland but Ena lived in France and worked for Joy’s company. Her sister was on holiday in Paris. We head to Le Mussett (the sisters’ choice – it took us a second to realize that we’d eaten there the night before) for brunch. Even though the sisters had taken a smoke break before we entered the restaurant, we still ended up seated in the smoking section. Fortunately it wasn’t very crowded.
With the meal over, Joy, Aletha and I continued our walking tour of Paris. Today’s agenda includes the Arc d’Triomphe so we headed to the Champs Elysees. Here was yet another street packed with little restaurants and shops. We did some window shopping with plans to return on our way back from the Arc.
Joy had already told us beforehand that we would definitely go to the Arc as it provides some of the best views of the city. But, she said, she would not be climbing to the top. She’d done it before and told us that those steps are brutal. I was looking forward to the climb and had even spent the last few weeks preparing for it with daily trips up the 4 flights of stairs in my office building. I was psyched but Aletha was on the fence.
I didn’t want to go by myself and make the other two women wait for me at the bottom but none of us was too sure that Aletha could make the trip. She still wasn’t eating but one meal in the evenings and all the walking we were already doing had to be hard on her. But, good woman that she is, she decided to get the full Paris experience and make the climb with me.I didn’t realize how strong she was until we were about halfway up the winding stone stairs. Those suckers were rough. There are several little cubbyholes built into the staircase to provide climbers with a little rest. Even still, that was a hoof, even after all my training. As my pace was a little faster than hers, Aletha told me to go on ahead. I left her resting and made my way to a large landing that housed some benches and restrooms. As I’m catching my breath, I notice that there is a painter leaning on a ladder close to the steps just snickering his head off at the tourists’ efforts. Jerk.
Aletha makes it to the landing and I give her some of my water as she takes a rest. “Are we there yet?” she asked. I tell her that I don’t know but it can’t possibly be much farther. Once she’s rested, we head up another, much shorter, flight of stairs. We’re now in the museum, an area with a small gift shop and lots of displays of Arc artifacts and history. I take a look in the gift shop while Aletha has a seat and makes the acquaintance of a couple from the states. Turns out they took the elevator to the museum and have yet to go the final few steps to the very top. There’s an elevator? Aletha says she definitely would have taken it if she knew. I shrug it off and say we can take it back down if she wants.
With me in the lead, we climb the last few steps to the top. As I step into the light and see the whole city laid out before me, I stop at the stairs to cheer Aletha on by telling her that the view is so worth the climb. On yet another bright clear afternoon, you can see the entire city from the Arc. It is absolutely amazing and again I’m struck by how big the city is. We’ll only walk a small portion of it but Paris, like London, stretches on for miles in every direction.
We walk along the length of the roof to take pictures and we can’t help but notice the circle of traffic below us. There is a tunnel that takes pedestrians from the Champs Elysees under the circle to get to the Arc. And with good reason. I wouldn’t even risk that circle in a car. On foot, you would die. This circle, one of many in Paris, is insane.
There are no lanes, just a mass of cars swerving around. To enter it from one of the side streets, most cars dash into the first space they can find and hope for the best. Buses, on the other hand, just barrel through, stopping all traffic in the process. Why there aren’t more 12-car pile-ups in Paris is a complete mystery to me. We head back down after maybe half an hour, taking the stairs all the way despite my offer of riding the elevator (good woman, Aletha!). Back at the bottom, it takes us a minute to find Joy who had to move from her original spot because a group of smokers had crowded her out. “235 steps. I counted them on the way down,” Aletha informs us. Joy just nods. “That’s why I stayed down here where I could catch a nap.” I just smile at them and offer to lead them in a round of jumping jacks.
Aletha has been given another assignment for her European vacation. Just as she had to find a Beefeater in London, she was tasked to find a specific Louis Vuitton bag in Paris. Easy enough. There are plenty of higher end stores on the Champs Elysees so we head back to begin our search.
There are 3 locations of Louis Vuitton on this street. The largest store is closed for construction so we follow the detour signs to a smaller store down the street. As we’re looking at all these items, few of which were priced less than a thousand euro, we know for a fact that we are in the wrong professions. To think, there are people who come to Paris just to drop some major coin on all the designer fashions. Well, we are really not those people. And Aletha’s friend is also out of luck. We can’t find the bag she’s looking for so we move on.
I have always been a fan of Fendi. I’ve had two of their fine Italian handbags and would love to have a third but they are hard to find in Atlanta. So I was very glad to see that Paris has a Fendi store. Both Joy and I are wild about the handbags we see on the store’s first floor and even though we can’t afford a damn thing, I lead them upstairs to see even more over-priced goods.
One of the salesmen has heard all of our oohs and aahs and figured out that we are too broke to even be looking in this store. He stalks us from the second floor to the third on the guise of pointing out items of note. I don’t care though. I’m not trying to steal anything except a few moments of pretend-time by imagining that one day I might be able to buy this stuff. Especially the tan leather coat with the real fur collar. I don’t even wear fur but that coat was lush. And about 5,000 euros (I don’t even want to know what that is in American dollars). Oh well, I console myself, none of the clothes or shoes would fit me anyway.
From there it was on to Dior as my friends are getting into the window shopping thing. Joy admits that she has never been in stores like these before. But since we’re in Paris, might as well see as much as we can. Dior has the clothes, shoes and bags of the other stores but also has jewelry, perfume and makeup. It also has an entire black family (kids included) doing some serious shopping. My first thought was ‘how do they make their money?’ with the second thought being ‘why on earth would any child need Dior anything?’ This is certainly not the way I was brought up.
We planned to go to the Eiffel Tower but wanted to wait until the light show at night. As it was still light outside we just walked around for a while. We stopped at a café for a little break (and because the desserts in the window looked too delicious to pass up). The non-smoking section was located way in the back. What, are the French ashamed of anyone who doesn’t have a cancer stick hanging out of their mouth? Do they need to hide them from other good and decent folk? It didn’t seem to matter much anyway since the whole area reeked of smoke and the waiter lit up as soon as he left our table.
Maybe it was the smoke or the climb up the Arc or walking along the Champs Elysees, but I was in a French mood. I order a cappuccino to go with my apple tart. I don’t even drink coffee (maybe one cup a month when I’m ready to collapse at work) and certainly not cappuccino. But it just seems appropriate. Aletha and Joy look at me with some wonder and warn me that all that caffeine and sugar will have me bouncing off the ceiling later on.
We do some more walking before we start looking for a place to eat. The place we find is a little on the pricey side (but still not so high-class that they don’t allow dogs. The French love their dogs as much as they love their cancer sticks.) I had this cheesy vegetable/fish thing (I guess you could call it a soup) that was excellent. I don’t know if it was particularly French but it was tasty. Then we were off to the Tower.
It’s quite a long walk from where we ate dinner to the Eiffel Tower but it’s nice to walk along the Seine and take in the sights.
It was very exciting to see the Tower get bigger and bigger as we neared it. We stood at the base of it for a while but since it was still light, chose to get some distance so we could really see the light show. The Trocadero (still not sure if this is a museum or what) is located across the street so we go there to get some pictures and wait. In the street below us, there is a procession folks that looks like Olympic runners. There’s a van behind them as they travel past the Tower and to the base of the Trocadero where they stop next to a bridal party. The couple picked a great day for a wedding. We couldn’t think of a better place to get married than Paris on a beautiful fall day with the Eiffel Tower in the background.After avoiding some over-zealous pigeons, we joined the other tourists on the steps in front of the Trocadero to watch the Tower light up. The show starts around 7:30 (if it’s dark by then) and consists of a bunch of white lights twinkling all over the Tower. We sat mesmerized for a minute (boy, are tourists easy) before we walked back to the Tower for a trip up.
The lines are pretty long to board the elevator despite the fact that it’s a Monday night. The elevator itself fascinates me. There is no vertical shaft at the Tower’s base so the elevator (there are two) travels at an angle up one of the legs. There is a different fee for going to the middle or the top. There’s a highly recommended restaurant at the middle along with a gift shop which explains the split fees. If you’re going to the top (as we were) there are people at the middle who check your tickets. Then they lead you to another elevator that takes you the rest of the way. You also have the option of taking the stairs. When I suggested this to the ladies they just looked at me like I was nuts. Or like that cappuccino was taking effect.
The elevator lets you out in an enclosed area full of info about the Tower and glassed reenactments of the how the Tower was planned and built. On the walls are little flag stickers that show you the direction of every other country in reference to the Tower. A short set of stairs leads you into the open air at the very top. The views of Paris at night are breath-taking particularly on the side of the building where the wind is so strong it literally whips the air out of your lungs. Joy is approached by a nice looking bald black man who offers to take our picture. Turns out he is from Roswell, GA and is in Paris on a very brief layover on his way to a military assignment in Germany. As Aletha and I check him out we realize we’ve lived in Atlanta too long. We are both single women who’ve had little dating success so based on past experience; we automatically assume that an attractive black man from GA must be married or gay. Since he’s traveling with two guys, we lean towards gay. That is until Joy spots the wedding ring. See? It never fails. We really need to get out of the Atlanta area if we ever hope to score.
We go back down the stairs to the enclosed observation deck. After making a circuit of the entire deck, we realize that the line for the elevators ends at the steps we just descended. “No problem,” I say, “we can just take the stairs. Come on, the Eiffel Tower isn’t that tall (ha, ha).” They tell me to go ahead. Even waiting in line, they’d still beat me to the bottom. I can’t argue with that, especially since it was pretty windy.
Back at the bottom, we start the very long trip back to our hotel. We walk past a bunch of guys selling little lit-up replicas of the Tower. Suddenly, one of the guys spots a gendarme (cop) and quick as a flash, there are no more vendors. It’s actually pretty cool. Their stuff is laid out on a cloth that has handles on either side. All they have to do is pull the handles towards each other and they have a handy dandy sack. Sling it over a shoulder and they are no longer illegal merchants but just more tourists walking in Paris. One of these non-merchants walks past us pretty quickly, looking behind him as he goes. It’s so Bourne Identity, which I find exciting. The other women are a little nervous, though. Joy asks me if I’m prepared to use my kickboxing skills to ward off any potential attackers. My response: “I get to kick somebody? Where he at?”
That wasn’t the cappuccino talking by the way. I just like to kick things.
Despite the promise of swift and eager protection, the ladies decide that it is simply too far to walk through unfamiliar areas in the dark. We head to the Metro which deposits us just a few blocks from our hotel. I’ve learned my lessons from the previous night so while the ladies are in the cyber café, I head upstairs for a shower. Sure enough, the water reaches a certain temperature and stays there. The ladies have returned by the time I get out. I drug myself with vitamins and the lovely blue pills that will hopefully knock me out for the night. The three of us have a nice little discussion about jobs, colleges, and adventures in parenting (from the child’s point of view) before we sack out for the night.
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