As the sun finally began to show itself in Paris after about
five or so days, I was able to finally put away the cheap umbrella I bought in
London. However, I also managed to develop major blisters on the bottom of both
of my feet. In fact, they were so bad that after walking to the Jardin de
Luxembourg, the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomph, Notre Dame, the Bastille
Monument, and the Louvre I was pretty much toast.
So much so that I could not climb the stairs up the Eiffel
Tower. Instead I spent three hours waiting for the kids and watching the crowd
pass me by during the cool evening. What
an experience. After the people selling wine, umbrellas, plastic bags to wear
as coats, reproductions of the Mona Lisa, and little toys that lit up and flew
into the air finally got tired of me waving them off I was pretty much invisible.
I saw one young couple make out about three feet away from
me for about eight minutes. Then they ran off...presumably to their hotel, I
imagine. There was also the sweet British young gay couple that argued which
way was where they would find the Louvre. They agreed which way to go and I think it was
the wrong way. There was the elderly couple who groaned as they sat next to me
on the bench, sat for about five minutes without saying a word, then left in
silence. And let’s not forget the young couple with the screaming baby. They
kept singing different songs to calm it down. When they walked on they were
beginning to look really desperate.
But nothing compared to the tour group from Boise, Idaho.
A couple of the ladies met by me and waited for the rest of
the group to find them. All of them eventually showed up and surrounded
them...and me. I never said a word and they never acknowledged me. But I was
smack dab in the middle of a group of about thirty Americans very excited about
being in Paris.
“I love this town but they should do something about the
sidewalks.”
“I thought more people here would wear black.”
“The Louvre was nice, but there was no real organisation to
the place.”
“Did you notice that that Joyce woman keeps flirting with
all the men. Even that newlywed boy,
Jake. What a hussy!”
“If Joyce goes near my Willard I swear I am going to smack
that girl down!”
“Isn’t Willard, like, thirteen?”
“Fifteen. But he’s pretty mature for his age. And he’d be happy
to hook up with Joyce, I can guarantee you that!”
“The sparkling lights are like Christmas, only better. Too
bad they are only white. They should be mulit-coloured.”
This went on for about an hour.
Because of my feet I was forced to cancel my trip to Pere
Lachaise cemetery for class to examine the iconography on some of the graves.
This was a real bummer for me. The kids, however, recovered quickly and took
off to go shopping. I am under the impression that they did not recognise how
awesome my class would have been.
We stayed at the
Hotel Ibis Bastille Opera. Ibis is a chain and the place feels like a Comfort
Inn with more pastries for breakfast. It is clean and I liked it, but I have to
admit I got into a bit of a power struggle with one of the cleaning staff.
First of all, I have never met a more miserable and rude
member of a hotel cleaning staff ever.
Usually they are friendly and say hello.
Sometimes I feel it is a bit too much, really. But the lady in charge of my
part of the hotel is the Queen of Bitter!
It has been my experience that when you have an extended
stay at a hotel, say...more than a couple of days, they will adjust to your
needs. If you move a chair they will keep it there for example. In my room I have one garbage can. It is in
the bathroom. I do all of my marking at the desk next to my bed so I move the garbage
can there.
Every time the room is cleaned the basket is moved back into
the bathroom. This is fine. It does not bother me in the least. I just move the
basket back to where I want it because the alternative would be to mark in the
bathroom and I cannot do that because the bathroom is too small for me to do
anything in there.
So, I am stuck in my hotel room keeping off my blistered and
abused feet and dealing with student work. Ignoring the do not disturb sign,
Chuckles the Cleaning Staff From Hell barges in. I say it is okay to skip my room
today and she insists. I insist it is okay to move on and she ignores me. I
then go back to work and ignore her.
She take the garbage can and empties it and puts it back
into the bathroom. I barely notice this until I need to throw something out
from my mess of papers. No...recycling is not really present in Paris. I get
up, get the garbage can and return it to the space I use it next to my desk.
With a great exclamation of disgust she strides over to me
and makes a great display of grabbing my garbage and slamming it back into the bathroom. “For bathroom!”
She hisses at me.
Now...if you know me at all, you know that I always present
myself in the most calm, easygoing, mature, de-escalating way possible.
I get up and grab the garbage can and slammed it back onto
the space next to the desk. “For me!” I declare.
She goes three shades of purple and starts a big intake of
breath but I cut her off “Va!” I said as firmly and as informally as I could,
pointing to the door. She said something in French as she left but I chose to
let her have the last word.
I did not get nougat on my pillow anymore after that
experience.
Paris, like Montreal, is a city that seems to run more
organically than most other major metropolitan areas. I do not recall seeing
very many iphones and blackberries on the streets as people slowly walked along
the Seine. There is something very
special about a place where nobody seems to be rushing to work and everyone
seems to be sitting at a cafe in the middle of the day.
This is fantasy, of course, but it is still very Parisien.
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