Paris Rules

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.