Parigi (Paris)

“When things go wrong don’t go with them”

- Elvis Presley



There are two types of travelers: "reservationists" and "wingers".
"Reservationists" are the planners, the list-makers, the ones who like to be in control. They make safe choices because they fear the unknown. They’re assured of a place to stay, so it takes the worry out of travel. The only downside is that, once the reservation is made, it’s made. They’re stuck with their choice, and sometimes it’s not a good choice. It could be a bad room (or apartment, or house) or a bad town. "Reservationists" sometimes miss opportunities: maybe there’s a better room or house or town nearby, or a quaint cottage next door, that’s nicer and less expensive.
"Wingers", on the other hand, are more easy-going and adventurous--they trust that things will work out. They have the flexibility and freedom to come and go as they like. They fly by the seat of their pants and often end up finding interesting, inexpensive options, places that don’t advertise on the internet. The downside is that sometimes they DON’T find these places—sometimes they end up spending the whole day in fruitless searches when they could be out having fun, or they end up paying for a last-minute, expensive, undesirable room, or they’re forced to go to another town.
When things go WELL for either the "reservationist" or the "winger", it’s all good—but when things don’t go well, they say, “If only I’d known…”
But we never know, do we?
Now I don’t want to place blame, so I won’t say who’s the "reservationist" and who’s the "winger" in my marriage, but nevertheless we ended up in Paris late on a Friday evening with no reservation and a very loose grasp of the French language.
A few hours earlier, we had called a Paris rental agency from the car, luckily reaching an English speaker. We explained that we wanted to rent an apartment for a week, starting right away. The agent said it would be impossible, since all the short-term apartments in Paris were booked up, and the few that were not booked would take a week or more to arrange. We found this hard to believe (but in retrospect, we shouldn’t have).
So once we reached Paris we drove straight to a different rental agency, but the agent there patiently explained the same thing. Seeing our dejected faces, he said to come back the next morning and he’d see what he could do. We found a hotel a few blocks away, where we spent too much for a mediocre room, and then later found a restaurant around the corner, where we ate a likewise mediocre dinner.
Paris wasn’t working out so well, but we tried to stay positive. It was PARIS, after all. At least we were in a good neighborhood, the Latin Quarter, which locals refer to proudly as “the 5th”, meaning the 5th arrondizement (district) in Paris. Paris is broken up into 20 different arrondizements, bisected by the River Siene. The Latin Quarter is on the left bank of the river, lively and full of restaurants and shops, with narrow cobbled “rues” (streets) and several universities, the Sorbonne among them. At one time, the students and professors in this area all spoke Latin, which is how the Latin Quarter got its name.
The next morning, we went straight to the rental agency where we met with a well-dressed young woman who told us she’d received the man’s note from the night before, explaining our situation. She gave us a very disapproving look, and then said the possibilities were very unlikely. She looked at us like we were typical, over-privileged Americans who, as usual, expected the perfect little apartment, just because we wanted it. She gave us no hope whatsoever and seemed impatient to get rid of us, so we backed out the door, saying we’d check in later, but we knew she wouldn’t do anything, so we never went back.
Determined to find a place to stay in Paris, Jeff took off on foot, to walk around the neighborhood and look for apartment rental signs, or just a good, inexpensive hotel. Jenna and I went to an “internet point” where we spent the next several hours in a stuffy, crowded room lined with computers, where customers paid outrageous prices to peck away on their sticky keyboards and communicate on the internet.
Communicating on-line continues to be one of the biggest challenges on this entire Italian adventure.
Jenna was occupied with her email account and computer games, but I spent my time Googling numerous variations of "Apartment + Paris" and following the links. Each time I’d find a rental apartment that seemed to fit the bill (size, price, neighborhood), I’d send an "inquiry" and one of three things would occur:
1) an immediate response, saying the apartment was not available
2) a response saying the apartment was available, but it was too late—it would take at least a week to arrange it, or
3) no response
After several hours I had no leads but I did have a raging headache. I was starving and cranky, and I couldn’t believe how we were spending our first full day in Paris. What about the Eiffel Tower? Jenna and I hadn’t even seen the Eiffel Tower. (Jeff, who’d at least been to Paris once, knew where to look and had seen a quick glimpse of it when we arrived). We met up with Jeff and went out for lunch to a walk-up joint that served us tasteless, rubbery ham and cheese crepes.
We began to develop a growing suspicion that Paris was a big fat "X".
I learned the concept of the "X" and "O" days from my friend Valerie:
"X" days are bad: the "X" is a barrier that appears at every opportunity, thwarting actions, shattering plans, dispelling ideas. It’s a day full of traffic jams and long lines, arguments and accidents, misunderstandings, bad food, and no vacancies.
"O" days, on the other hand, are good: the "O" is an unobstructed tunnel, a pathway of ease and tranquility. It’s a day of perfect timing, unexpected opportunities and pleasurable experiences.
We refused to believe this "X" couldn’t turn around to an "O" (but again, in retrospect, we shouldn’t have). We still held out hope that Paris was the place we should be. So we threw the rest of our lunch in the trash, and walked to a nearby address that advertised online as having short-term apartments. But we discovered that either the building had been torn down, or the address didn’t exist. Perfect.
We walked for another hour in the Saint Germaine area, where the streets were lined with a tantalizing combination of bookstores, coffee shops and gourmet take-out places that served things like foie gras, herb-roasted chicken, poached salmon, fresh oysters on ice, and quiche.
At the exact moment when we were nearing the end of our rope, we finally got lucky. We found a hotel with a nice, spacious high-ceilinged room and a French balcony, looking down on one of the narrow, bustling pedestrian streets below.
Our luck had finally changed! We could settle here, at least for a few days. We could take in the sights, unwind a little. I envisioned delectable take-out dinners in our future.
But then we found out the room was only available for one night.
At this rate, we’d be moving every morning, looking for lodging all day, and we’d never have time to do anything else!
Why was Paris so busy in October?
“Well” the desk clerk said matter-of-factly, “there really isn’t an ‘off season’ in Paris.” He went on to explain that October was an especially busy month, because the city was not only flooded with tourists but also with business conferences and professional people.
We paid for the room for one night, but couldn’t completely relax since we had to pack up and move again the next morning. We weighed our options: the hotel/restaurant expenses were adding up quickly. We could either keep trying to turn the "X" into an "O" or we could cut our losses and move on--after all, that’s the freedom of the "winger".
Maybe Amsterdam spoiled us the previous week, because everything seemed "O" so easy, or maybe it was divine intervention steering us toward greener pastures, but we decided to leave the next morning.
The decision was disappointing, because I have to admit it, I had this girly romantic notion that we’d find a sweet little apartment in a quaint part of town, that we’d buy food in outdoor markets, that we’d visit the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre Museum and see the Mona Lisa. We’d stroll the Champs-Elysees and walk around the Arc de Triomphe, and I’d find out-of-the-way resale shops full of inexpensive chic French clothing. But most of all I imagined that we’d sit in charming little sidewalk cafes, drinking espresso, watching men with black barets and tight little mustaches, and women wearing high heels and Vogue outfits.
It’s so hard to live without preconception.
But with the decision made and darkness approaching, we knew what we had to do.
We bundled up and walked a few blocks to the Metro stop where we took a train to the Eiffel tower.
That gleaming Paris icon was lit up beautifully in the darkness of that clear, cold October evening. We stood and looked.

By the time we got back, all the take-out shops were closed, so we sat down at a nearby restaurant and ate more plates of mediocre food. We knew we’d made the right decision to leave the next day.

The next morning, we packed the car and Jeff took us on a 20-minute speed tour of Paris: whipping past the Notre Dame Cathedral, glancing at the exterior of the Louvre Museum, speeding down the Champs-Elysees, with a quick spin around the Arc de Triomphe.

Our weekend in Paris complete, we went on to fulfill Jenna’s #1 wish...

NEXT UP: Paris Disney