Paris

On May 27 I met the guy who had agreed to give me a ride to Paris for the low price of 30 Euros. I'm not sure how much we actually "met", as between us we spoke four languages but none of them overlapped. The awkwardness of this language barrier that I experienced during the six hour drive to Paris from Freiburg, however, was well worth the 165 euro that I saved by not taking the train. And I did get to converse a bit with the driver's four year-old son who was strapped into the back seat, as his mother was Spanish. It was a bit amusing meeting a young black kid who was bilingual in German and Spanish. For the most part though, we just sat in silence and listened to Michael Jackson's Thriller on a loop.

Just after sunset, we finally pulled into a far-out Paris suburb and my ride dropped me off at a Metro station and requested that a couple of teenagers help me get to my destination. The kids helped me buy my ticket and I thanked them and showed off the few sentences of French that I could speak. After that it was a long ride to my metro station, enjoying the cultural diversity of people in this city, then a short walk to my giant, industrial-sized hostel.

I usually try to steer clear of large impersonal hostels, but I decided to book a little late and it seemed to be the only decent place in town still available. So I checked in, got my key card, walked up four flights of stairs, then I was in my room with 15 other beds. And that is where I slept for my three nights in Paris.

Now let me tell you about my time in Paris. First, I did not really meet anyone. The hostel was not conducive to meeting fellow travelers, and I was not conducive to conversing in French. What I did do was walk around the city, sometimes with purpose and at times aimlessly. For I feel that, when all else fails, this is the best way to see a city. I would usually start my day, after breakfast, by taking the metro to some typical tourist destination that I wanted to see, like the Tour d'Eiffel, Arc d'triomph, Louvre, or something like that. I would be thoroughly unimpressed by those sights, then would amble around for hours, walking endless tiring miles.

In this way I stumbled upon many sites that I might have missed by following a guide book, including a couple cemeteries (one housing the remains of Jim Morrison), an antique flea market (where I purchased some cheap records), and a plethora of back alleys and small shops. And while indeed I was unimpressed by many of the tourist sites for which Paris is so well-known, I was enchanted by the spirit of this place. Despite the reputation it has as perhaps the most beautiful and high-cultured city in the world, it is totally non-pretentious. I enjoyed the grungier parts of Paris more than the manicured lawns and promenades because it offered the truest glimpse of this fact.

So a few mundane things I did before leaving: walked for miles, watched the Eurocup championship, drank French beer, spoke a few words of French, and ate some french fries and baguettes and kebab. Before taking the metro down to Paris du Nord station, I took one last walk along the canal by my hostel, one of my favorite spots. Allegedly, a scene from Amelie was shot here. I'll have to re-watch and check.

That afternoon of May 30, I metro'd down to Paris du Nord, went through customs, and boarded a Eurostar bullet train that would zip me across northern France, under the English Channel and on to London in only 2.5 hours. This is as close to flying as you get without leaving the ground. The scenery was unremarkable, only for the fact that we were going too fast to see it. I would soon be at the western edge of the Old World.

I leave you with a few words from my favorite American author, who spent many years living in and attempting to experience Paris to its core.

"God knows, when spring comes to Paris the humbles mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise....it [is] the the intimacy with which his eye rests upon the scene. It [is] his Paris. A man does not need to be rich, nor even a citizen, to feel this way about Paris. Paris is filled with poor people - the proudest and filthiest lot of beggars that ever walked the earth... And yet they give the illusion of being at home. It is that which distinguishes the Parisian from all other metropolitan souls." Henry Miller (in Tropic of Cancer)