This summer I broke one of my cardinal rules in travel: I traveled to Paris during August when crowds are largest and prices are steepest. Usually I prefer to hit a major tourist destination when most of the horde has already departed. I accept that I am a tourist, I don’t try to pretend I am anything else, but man-oh-man, do I hate to wait in hot, sweaty lines. I also find it a bit hard to relax and feel like I am far away from home when surrounded by Texas accents.
Is it just me or are we Texans like brilliant, sexy, fashionable pigeons!? We are everywhere and we always sound the same. "Oh mah gawd yawl!" doesn't really sound as charming in the hills of Connemara.
There is a good reason for our departure from the usual Tiny Guide Tenets. The mother of my man’s good friend lives in southern France, and we were invited to stay with them for a week. Here is a cardinal rule of travel one should NEVER break. When invited to stay someplace rad for free, one must accept. Period. On the way to Uzès, we had a 36 hour layover in Paris while we waited for the friend’s lady friend to ready herself and us for the TGV trip.
36 hours is NOT a long time to spend in the city of lights, but we had both already been there in several previous trips and had learned that (unless one is a masochist or an art historian or investigating ancient secrets of something-or-other) the Louvre is to be avoided and the best things to see and do are just out there in the streets waiting to be discovered. So, as soon as we dumped our luggage (and as soon as I had woken from a deep, dark, hour-long nap) we accompanied Dominique to her place of business, the ultra-fabulous punk-rock hair salon: Rock Hair!
#1: Begin and end all things in a cafe!
Dominique’s salon is next to Place de la Bastille, a major hub on Paris’ efficient and speedy metro. Before heading in to start choppin’ locks, she always meets her staff of friends in a neighboring cafe right on the plaza for coffee.
Cafes have been the heart of Parisian public life for at least a couple centuries, and something tells me it hasn’t changed all that much in that time. People sit facing the street, sipping delicious coffee, maybe nibbling on a little pastry, and soaking up the city. Gazing out over the random passers-by can give you all kinds of clues as to what you’d like to do next. Examine shopping bags to see what shops are popular, study quotidian Parisian fashion, read your map under cover of the menu, give it all up and start drinking red wine at 11 am…you wouldn’t be the first to do so.
If you care, and my father doesn’t (for one), there is a basic guideline the French follow when ordering coffee. Generally, drinks with milk (cappuccino, cafe au lait) are consumed in the morning, followed by innumerable espresso (cafe) shots all day long. A “Café American” or “Café Allongé" (Ka-fay all-on-jay) is espresso diluted with hot water, and generally the closest you will get to a venti Starbucks during your stay.
Note on Etiquette: Usually your waiter will speak enough English to take your order and get your money, but MARK MY WORDS: don’t start off a conversation in English before at least attempting to say something in garbled French. If you and your fanny pack wander in off the street shouting about how you can’t understand why French McDonald’s doesn’t put enough ice in their soda, be ready for legendary Parisian rudeness. If on the other hand, you wander in and say “Bonjour,” (bon-joor) with a big smile, and then ask “Anglais?” (Ang-lay) before saying anything else, you will likely see that outside the heavily touristed areas, people are quite polite. In fact, whenever you enter a shop or pass a salesperson, it is considered polite to say “Bonjour” - literally “Good Day.” American’s have a bit of a (sadly well-earned) reputation for thinking the rest of the world should act and speak the way that America does. That idea is quite unwelcome in grand old Paris. Discovering the way people relate to one another in another country can be just as exciting as finally seeing the Mona Lisa.
#2: Get a Haircut!
I speak a little French, but not much. In fact, it’s pretty horrible, so when I decided to get my haircut I knew that would be of little help. Thankfully, Rock Hair (as most salons do) has a slew of hip magazines to flip through and one stylist who speaks flawless English. You could go to the trouble of finding the perfect cut and showing the photo to the stylist, but I prefer a more reckless approach. I sat in the chair, and when my stylist, Virginie, asked me what I wanted (I assume that is what she was saying) I just said “Comme tu veux” (Veux is pronounced to rhyme somewhat with book)- “Whatever you want!”
Here’s the logic:
A) Paris is fabulous, and Parisians are pretty fabulous.
B) The people in Rock Hair definitely look more fabulous than me.
C) They make a living out of making people like me look more like them.
D) Hair grows out.
At the end of my experience, I had an adorable little layered cut that made me look precisely 75% hipper, a new fabulous feeling of being .001% Parisian, and a fun story to tell.
#3: Rent a Bike!
As soon as I had a new ‘do, it was time to run around and see stuff. Whenever we travel, we always try to rent bikes if we can’t bring our own…not because we’re fitness nuts (we’re not), but because riding a bike is one of the best ways to get to know the lay of the land in a far away place.
Paris has, as of late, been investing millions in improving their bike culture. I bet even those of us who who have been a few times haven’t noticed the wide, airy bike lanes circulating through the center-most arrondissements and outer neighborhoods. In addition to tracks, the city had just introduced the Velib’ (“Free Bike”) program two weeks before our arrival.
Users sign up as a member with a credit card, then get free - yes FREE - use of a bike borrowed from any kiosk in town for 1/2 hour. If you use it for 1 hour, it’s 1 Euro (what’s that, $1000 now?) for 2 hours, another Euro, and more than 3 hours it jumps up to 4 Euro. They are designed for commuters and errand runners who need to jump quickly from place to place. Most intra-city rides will not last longer than 1/2 hour.
For those of us who want to take away a bike for more than that, 4 hours or a whole day, the Mairie de Paris (“Mayor’s Office” / “Town Hall”) has installed Roue Libre (“Free Wheel”) locations in some of the most central parts of town - including Place de la Bastille! Right near Rock Hair! For something like 11 Euros on a weekday or 15 on a weekend, you can cruise away on a sturdy, comfy 3 or 5 speed bike.
Our first day took us all up and down the beautiful, real-estate-envy-inducing Canal st. Martin. The next morning we really indulged in a ride all around the circle of the centre-ville (“downtown”) in beautiful, sunny weather. All in 5 hours, we went from Place de la Bastille, south by Notre Dame to the Latin Quarter, across to the Jardins de Luxembourg (Paris’ Central Park), up to the Eiffel Tower, past the Louvre, through the Tuilleries (the gardens in front of the museum), alll the way up to Montmartre Cathedral and back down the canal to Bastille. Needless to say, we slept pretty hard that night on the TGV down to Avignon. I think I dreamed I was Amélie!
#4: Paris Plages
Along the bike route that second day, we slipped down to the banks of the Seine river to see what all the fuss was about. You see, Paris is rumored to be empty of natives (all on vacation) and hot as heck, so many books will tell you to avoid the city. We were so pleasantly surprised by what we found in this so-called deserted town.
Paris Plages means “Paris Beaches.” 15 feet below street level, the entire river is bordered by quays of cement and stone. Normally, you’ll see a few people jogging or making out down there. (Tourist cruises famously like to shine spotlights on amorous couples at night). During the weeks of Paris Plages, the city moves in acres of temporary cafes, misting fountains, bocci ball courts, tanning stations and performance stages. All day long, the perpetually tanning Parisians wander from coffee to chair to wine to bike to ice cream. It’s a wonderful thing to see.
I found the Children’s Obstacle Course of Death (my coinage) to be culturally significant. The children donned helmets and a safety harness before climbing up a rope ladder to a crows nest of sorts, then had to scale the rock wall of the quay before sailing over to the burning pits of hellfire on a rip cord. There was no actual burning pit, but there might have been, judging from some of the wailing that was going on. One poor child froze - shrieking - when he saw the rip cord, and some poor girl fell off the climbing wall and lost her shoe. The harnesses were important at this point, because there was no safety mat underneath.* “What-wha-wha!?!?” You ask? Nope. No padding. Just the hot, sun-beaten stone.
In the US, if you see a sign that says,”Beware! Dangerous Drop-off!” you may be sure that you are not in imminent danger of falling. If you see the same sign in Europe, look for something to hold on to, as you may have already fallen into some bottomless abyss. I am not sure if this disparity is due to our overly litigious society, or due to Parisians rather dark sense of humor.
*Ok, so maybe there were a couple mats...
#5: Eat what you're told
After wandering around, and hanging in a cafe, the final tenett of Tiny Guide Traveling is to try your best to depart from the guides to find your own little slice of heaven. Often a guide will point you in a grand direction, like my favorite restaurant ever, Acqua al Due, but it will keep you closer to the Texas accents. If I stuck to the books I never would have found Da Enzo in Rome - home of the best fried artichokes on planet Earth. (Of course, I am pretending that I am not writing a guide. We’re just buddies! I am sharing with friends!) Stay at a smaller hotel instead of the Best Western and beg the person at the desk to tell you not where he or she would send the Texans, but where he or she goes on a night off. It can be quirky, it can be ethnic, it can be far. If not the concierge, then a friendly barmaid or a hefty construction worker who wants to practice English. Just force SOMEONE to share with you…to help you out of the box and into the real city.
I won’t tell you where we went, but I will say that it started with salmon tar-tar, progressed to too much rosé, and ended up in a rock-a-billy bar in Belleville.
I will tell you, however, where you should eat if you ever visit New York.
Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait till tomorrow…
<--EEEEEEEKKKKK!
