August 9, 2009
We arrived in Paris on Friday morning. We had stayed up the entire night before for an official Dublin Pub Crawl.
The previous night was fun. We were led to new pubs, and our entire MSU group was together for the first time since the beginning of the trip.
Despite many hidden pub treasures, we somehow ended the night at two of our usual hangouts. Portherhouse Central where American music is the main source of excitement for tourists and locals and the Purdy Kitchen where Irish sleeze balls thrive at the site of a female body.
The morning after these places sound terrible (because they are) but for some reason with a drunken glow, techno and sweaty Irish men are appealing. All the pubs close by 12:30 in Ireland so we seem to always make our way to those clubs.
That said, it was a rough plane ride to the city of love. Actually I’m not sure if it was rough because within 30 seconds of warming up my squeaky airline seat, I was asleep.
The words, “It is 28 and sunny here in Paris,” are something I wouldn’t mind waking up to again soon, hangover and all.
After our hostel days in Belfast, my travel partner and I decided to fork out the few extra euros needed to stay in a hotel. With the budget still tight, we ended up at a Holiday Inn, good for our wallets and our travel nerves.
The first obstacle came on our taxi ride from the airport. With my wrinkly list of French phrases, I was prepared to chat up the driver until we realized we didn’t write down the address of our hotel.
We muttered and sputtered and occasionally injected Holiday Inn, but our first French friend was baffled and offended. Through jibberish and hand motions, we agreed on City Centre.
48 euro later we were amidst quaint cafes, neo-classical buildings, and statues embellished with gold.
I had been told Paris is romantic.
“Your heart will melt.”
“You’ll want to fall in love.”
“Paris is for lovers.”
Those words are completely trivialize the romance of that city.
While all those things are true, they really just don’t sum up the romance that is Paris. Before this weekend, I was bewildered. People are romantic, lives are romantic, cultures are romantic, food is romantic. So many things are romantic. Yes, cities have personality and zeal. Some are romantic and I’m sure Paris is just that, I thought.
But it is true. With each block we walked in the city center, my heart softened. The architecture echoes with age and knowledge and the people stare cooly into the distance unaware of everyone else.
Golden statues juxtaposed against the bluest sky and cafes on every corner with petite, round tables.
I felt like an outsider surrounded by unresponsive locals seemingly analyzing Botticelli and DaVinci while I pondered the pronunciation of Champs De Elysee.
I don’t know what it was but Paris was truly magnetic.
We had a carb heavy breakfast: croissants, french bread, sweet rolls and coffee. We were served by a handsome French man critically giggling at our attempts to speak French from a lined piece of paper.
After breakfast, we sought out a wireless cafe to track our Parisian accommodations, the Holiday Inn, our American haven within the city of love.
After a battle with google France, we had our address and hoped for a much cheaper cab ride. We made it to the hotel and we’re wide eyed when the concierge greeted us in French. We made our best attempts to articulate the romantic words but it only took one twangy “Bon jour” for her to launch a new beginning in English.
The Holiday Inn in Paris is no different than in the U.S.– a bit dingy and worn but sufficient for the cost.
After checking in, we were directed to the metro. We mastered our French basics and Parisian transportation in no time.
We rode to the Eiffel Tour where we chose a welcoming cafe. We savored our dinner, and I branched away from my vegetarianism for a taste of frog legs. The meaty texture irked me at first but the flavor and fresh tomato sauce rectified my fear.
My dining partner fulfilled all American stereotypes with her request for a cheeseburger and inquires about ranch dressing and extra ketchup.
We left dinner and wandered the streets of Paris, slowly making our way to the Louvre. I couldn’t stop taking photographs and eventually my memory card protested. We were pestered by the street artists, haggled by restaurant owners and gaped at by many. I tried so hard to blend but it seemed impossible for tall, blonde Americans to camouflage with mysterious French women in skinny jeans.
The Louvre was overwhelming, and it was impossible to take in all of the artwork. It is beyond me to analyze that much artwork in one visit and I could have spent more than my entire 3-day Paris holiday in one wing of the building.
On our way in for the night, we stopped at a roadside stand for crepes — nutella, whip cream, cheese, banana, strawberry. The options were infinite.
After demolishing our crepes, I attempted to use my broken French in search of an ATM. The crepe master laughed and responded in a perfect American accent.
“There’s one just around the corner.”
The next morning we woke up long before the city, had another carb heavy breakfast and began to explore the city.
It was a long, exhausting day and we ended our day observing the immense Louis Vuitton store on Champs De Elysee. As we dodged our final French inquiry about bags and trunks, rain awoke French shoppers and tourists. Umbrellas shot up, newspapers and magazines were given new life as their words ran away and feet of all sizes scattered and slid.
In our American spite, we too covered our heads and ran for the nearest cafe. We chose a budget-friendly wine and received it with a bowl of doritos. How very French.
We ended our day in Paris with a block of brie, a loaf of fresh bread and a cheap bottle of champagne underneath the Eiffel Tower.
