I used to think of my Paris hotel as my home away from home. It was the place I went to every time I visited Paris. I knew the chamber maids, the concierge--I'd bring them little presents from Montreal and they always seemed happy to see me. Even when they were busy bumping me out of my room.
Once I even got bumped to another hotel. And when I came back, they tried to bump me again. This time I got pissed off, threw my hands in the air and said "Non."
It worked. Even though I felt embarrassed to be acting like the ugly American and giving the kindly concierge a hard time.
But it made me wonder: who are these people I'm being bumped for? Are they terribly important? Big tippers? Or couples madly in love that take precedence over a single woman traveller?
I once booked at a left bank hotel called the Familia, recommended by my brother who loved both the service and the rooms. Maybe I should have arrived in drag, because I got a room over an airshaft. I knew there were cute rooms with a balcony but for some reason they weren't for me. Instead of a view, I got surround-sound: every fart from across the shaft bounded and resounded. When I threatened to leave, the clerk merely shrugged his shoulders and wished me luck finding a room during the fashion salons.
I grabbed my bag and went looking. And found an incredibly cute room at the Bersoly's St. Germain near the Musee Dorsay. I had a great sleep, a great breakfast and went off to Belgium for the day. When I got back, my bag was packed and in the lobby. The clerk shrugged, saying a regular had shown up and I was being bumped. It made me livid that someone touched my stuff but there was nothing I could do. I was exhausted and on the street. The hotel I was bumped to was charmless with a T.V. bolted to the ceiling but luckily it was only for a single night and then I was back to my usual hotel.
The staff commiserated with me and made me coffee and I vowed never to stay anywhere else.
The nicest room I ever got was when I arrived unannounced, with a man in tow.
The worst room I ever got was when I made a reservation, half a year ahead of time, for my big birthday. Specifying that I didn't care what it cost, that I wanted the nicest room.
It didn't matter what I wanted. What I got was a closet above the outdoor smoking area.
When I complained, the clerk looked surprised. When I wailed that it was an ugly room, she shrugged, saying they had uglier. (I retorted that I'd had those too.) But she did take action when I started waving my hands around, asking why I was being treated like someone off the street.
I got a double room above the garden; so nice that when my usual chambermaid came by with my breakfast, she asked how I managed to get that room. I wish I could have said it was because I was a favoured guest who had been returning year after year and kept in touch with Christmas cards and e-mail. But that didn't seem to matter.
I knew I got what I wanted because, like a true Parisian, I'd taken a fit. After all, this wasn't my home but simply a room at a hotel.
There are a lot of rules in the city of light. Every Parisian knows them; no-one wants to tell you what they are.
I once stayed at a little hotel in the woods with my boyfriend. We took off for the day to explore a nearbye vineyard and got lost coming back. When we pulled up to the hotel, the door was locked, the lobby completely dark. (For a moment, I thought of a horror movie where the masked serial killer had everyone captive in the cellar, awaiting the lone young couple returning unawares.) We peered in, certain there was some staff somewhere: a night watchman, a chambermaid, somebody. My boyfriend circled the hotel to no avail, looking for a way in. To our dismay, we had to finally give up and find a room at a cheesy roadside motel. (Yes, they have those even in France.)
I couldn't sleep, enfuriated by being locked out and without a toothbrush.
When we returned the next morning, the concierge simply shrugged. "C'est normale." At a certain hour, they always locked the doors--after all, we didn't say we were going to be late. (And like the bad children we were, we were left in the cold.) Why didn't we know?
Everyone is all too willing to tell you when you're breaking fashion rules. They tell you you're looking "sportif" and you don't have to be wearing Reeboks, shorts and a Tilley hat. Just comfortable shoes. (Okay, I've never mastered the art of walking in stilettos over cobblestones; I think Parisian women practice from birth.)
No cafe, not even Starbucks or MacDonalds, wants to let you use their toilet anymore. Unless you've sat down to buy something. That's the rule. Then you get a receipt with a code to unlock the bathroom door. (Except of course, all you have to do is pick up someone else's receipt or wait for someone to come out of the bathroom and grab the door.)
Then there was the time I returned to my hotel room after an exhausting day of shopping. I had rinsed out some socks and undies and was relaxing with a glass of wine when I noticed this lovely framed notice that had magically appeared on my bedside table next to the remains of my ham and cheese crepe. It read:
To our dear guests,
We ask that you please not wash
and hang laundry in the room.
There is a laundromat on "rue Thouin"
opposite the hotel.
Also please do not bring outside food
into the room.
Thank you very much for your understanding
and consideration.
La Direction.
It wasn't that I wasn't understanding and considerate; I just hadn't known the rules.
Tant pis Paris.
Montreal is looking more and more like the Paris of the North. Not because of the restaurants or the French factor but our student protests and strikes. As much as I complain about the inconvenience here, there's never been a time I travelled to Paris when there wasn't some sort of disruption.
There's frequently a traffic jam on the way to-or-from the airport because of a manifestation. If you're taking a cab, just make sure you're not on the meter. Better yet, take public transit, unless of course there's a strike. There's always the shuttle. You can catch up on your sleep while it's crawling its way into the city.
Paris is a great city to walk around so a public transit strike or a gas strike is really no big deal. Just keep telling yourself that.
It is a big deal when the museums are out on strike. Imagine Paris without the Louvre. Or the Musee D'Orsay. Or the Orangerie or the Picasso Museum or the Musee Rodin. Why even bother going to Paris?
But really, the whole city's a museum. Statues abound in every park, on every street corner. There is always some sort of exhibit in the Jardins des Tuilleries and Montmartre is all about street artists.
The best thing to do is simply take it for granted that if there's anything you really really want to do, it will be affected by a strike.
There was the day of the general transportation strike, on the day I was leaving France for another country. I had planned to take a leisurely trip on the Thalys but since the train clerk could only shake her head, I walked over to the Eurolines office and bought a busticket. ( I admit I was wary about the 5AM return pick-up by the side of the road in a small Dutch city and I probably should have gone with that feeling, instead of the bus.) Since the buses and metros were out, I simply gave myself the day to walk from my hotel across Paris, figuring that if I got tired, I could grab a cab on the way. Except they were all out in sympathy. At least I didn't have a heavy bag. And I got to sleep all the way to Holland.
Paranoid about missing the bus back, I arrived 15 minutes early and waited. And waited and waited. Because it was so early there was no-one to call because no office was open; no place to go for a coffee, no place to go for a pee. So I waited for two hours until the first commuter train and stood all the way to Belgium. By the time I grabbed the next train to Paris, I'd resigned myself to spending the extra 100 Euros, figuring I'd grab a window seat, a cappucino and relax. Wrong. The train was double-booked and it was impossible to move from wherever I sat. Unless I wanted to stand.
By the time I got back to Paris, I was plenty pissed and when I discovered the metro service still wasn't up, it gave me the adrenaline to walk all the way back to the hotel.
And I bellyached, plenty, but it never stopped me from going back. Bellyaching is part of the Parisian experience--throw up your hands and people will take you for a native.
I used to think of my Paris hotel as my home away from home. It was the place I went to every time I visited Paris. I knew the chamber maids, the concierge--I'd bring them little presents from Montreal and they always seemed happy to see me. Even when they were busy bumping me out of my room.
