The writer in the midst of the tourist melee at Versailles.Jay Armstrong
Sometimes things don't go as planned – and those moments often make for the best stories. Tripping columns offer readers a chance to share their wild adventures.
I had been to Paris once before, but it was really just a one-day pit stop in a race to get to the south of France. Ever since, I've wanted to see Paris properly – on foot, and maybe with a baguette under my arm.
Six years later, my husband and I set off in business class (a first-time indulgence courtesy of scrupulously collected Aeroplan points), so the trip got off to a great start. But that's where the pleasure factor started to peter out. My fantasies of being in Audrey Hepburn's celluloid Paris were about to get a reality check.
On the way to our apartment in the 2nd arrondisment we stopped at a café across from a large monument. As I took a bite of my eggs, I saw a man approach the monument, lean against it and proceed to, well … dishonour it, so to speak, in broad daylight. We laughed it off.
Just before we reached our pied-à-terre, we passed a strange-looking store front. It turned out to be a live-sex playhouse, functioning as a more-respectable massage parlour during daytime. We passed this place twice a day and saw some unsavoury transactions, but decided we should give it that infamous Gallic shrug – live and let live.
Our apartment was suited more for Lilliputians than any real-size human beings. The bathroom was minuscule: you could do many things without moving at all. Not exactly the accommodations we expected given the pictures online, but we were in Paris, right? So we put these annoyances aside.
Then we ran into a few pickpockets. We had been warned by our landlord upon arrival but didn't really grasp the artfulness of it all. On Day 2, as my husband tried to read the map in a crowded metro station, his wallet visible in the back pocket of his jeans, I noticed three toughs elbow one another and walk toward us. I quickly stepped in behind him and they suddenly dispersed. A day later on the Pont Saint-Louis a diminutive woman bent down to pick up a big gold ring right at my feet. "Is this yours?" I shook my head. "Do you think it's real gold?" she asked. I sensed something odd, and walked away. Half an hour later, standing at yet another bridge, the same woman started her shtick again. As she showed me the ring, I started to laugh. "We've done this before, haven't we?" I said. Twice in one day – did I look that gullible?
We spent the week exploring. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Marais, the Champs-Élysées, Versailles and more – it was all lovely to behold. And yet, each place was jam-packed with tourists, all frantically clicking their cameras and shouting with excitement. This incessant melee chipped away at our enjoyment.
Paris was both amazing and frustrating, as most cities are. And once we began to accept the hordes of tourists, the relentless motorcycle noise, the crowded and complicated metro and the steep prices of pretty much everything, we began to enjoy some quintessential Paris pastimes. We sat in cafés, lingered in artsy Montmartre, walked along the Seine, cooed over adorable French kiddies on school trips and indulged at fine restaurants.
I certainly didn't get that Audrey Hepburn-in-Paris experience, but I did get a true joie de vivre adventure. And I still love Paris.
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