A Paris Hotel is Never a Home

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.