Paris, 1997

April, 1997 Paris, France

At about 7:00 in the morning, I step off the Eurolines bus from Victoria Station, London.  I know that in a general sense, I am in Paris, but other than my destination, that is about all I know.  I have five words of French, about four hundred American dollars, and a few things stuffed into a backpack.  The next leg of my journey will be successful when I arrive in Munich.

When I check at the Eurolines desk, I find that I can take a bus to Munich, but not for over twenty hours.  Even then, it will be a bus.  I think about the ride from London.  I was on the bus for seven hours, less the time on deck for the ferry ride across the English Channel.  The bus was drafty, noisy, smelly, and uncomfortable.  I am told the distance to Munich is precisely twice the distance. 

After meandering around the small station for about an hour, thinking about my lack of options, I suddenly hear a deep, mellifluous voice behind me.  Most of the voices in the station have been English, but none of them were directed toward me.  I turned to find a friendly looking man in his fifties good naturedly approaching.  He inquired:

“Ah, my friend, I see you are at a loss; you are still here.  Allow me to assist you; I have a hotel nearby where you can stay for a very affordable amount.  You can rest, have something to eat after your long ride, and see Paris when you are ready.”

“Thank-you, but I’m not staying, I have to get to…”

“Ah, but surely you have a few days to see the great city.  Come, come to my hotel.  For a mere sixty dollars American per day you can easily access all of the great sites.”

“Really, I don’t have time to stay as I have a meeting in Munich…”

“Son, don’t rush through.  You have much business to do, and many meetings which will wait.  Paris is a city that must be seen!  Come to my hotel; you can refresh yourself, see some of Paris, a city that demands a young man’s attention.  When you have visited, we can take you to Gare de l’Est where you can catch a train to Germany.  Come, come with me, my friend…”

“Thank-you, no.  I’m sorry, I have to be leaving.  Thank-you, I’ll be back some other time.”

I make like I have plans and leave the bus station.  Without a plan, I walk out the doors and give Paris a hopeful look.  As the vernal equinox is almost two weeks past, morning has broken over la Ville Lumière, but I see nothing that suggests romance, architecture, or history.  I am, after all in the périphérique, an obscure metro station labeled Gallieni.

Fortunately, there is an underground stop right at the bus terminal in Gallieni.  I walk down into it and inquire at the window.  Unfortunately, all of my inquiries are met with a friendly but dismayed shrug and raised palms, as if to say, “Sorry, sir, I do not understand what you are asking.”  I try dropping into cave-man lingo, “You schedule?  Munich.  Train.  Germany.  Train?  Ticket?”  I get the same response.  I do not know that none of these words are the same in French, not even the city names.  I thank the young woman and walk back outside.  On the way out, I pick up a subway card.  It has the diagram of the entire system printed on it.  It is not a city map, but a relative location chart of each subway stop, by name.  I wonder if I can figure out where the train station is from the chart.  The gentleman called it Gare de l’Est…There!  The name of the station is clearly marked on the subway chart.  There was a Gare du Nord, so I assume I am heading for the “east train station.”  It is only eight subway stops from Gallieni!  I am suddenly sure that I can easily walk a mere eight stops before dark; it is still morning, but I sense that I had better be somewhere when darkness falls upon the world-sized city.

I set out in the direction I think is correct.  All I have to do is go west for four stops, veer northwest for a couple more, then due north for the remainder.  Sure, the subway is underneath me, and the chart indicates absolutely no surface features, but I figure I will know I am on the right track when I see the next blue “Metro” sign.  I only reverse my direction six times before assuring myself I am going the right direction.

As I walk along the avenue avenue de Gallieni, I look around for recognizable landmarks, of which I know very few.  I see nothing noteworthy.  It is a beautiful day, so I relax and walk.  Oddly, the farther I walk, the more degraded the city seems.  I don’t think the city should get progressively dirtier toward the tourist section.  I have walked for well over an hour though, so I am reluctant to reverse direction.  Finally, I have to stop.  All along the avenue, there are dirty little stalls, as if something is sold from them at times.  Between the stalls are piles of refuse and some garbage.  I think about rats and quickly retreat from the area.  Little do I know I am in the midst of a famous area, the puces sauvages, a rather famous “black market”.  As it is Friday, nothing is happening, but I am glad; I did not want to meet the people who were connected with the area, no matter what they were up to. 

In time I do find some rather picturesque streets; I am especially taken with the side-streets.  In Paris, a person can walk along a main road and find it diminishing with splits and crossroads, until one finds that he is walking along a narrow way, apparently on the very doorsteps of apartment buildings.  This happened a couple of times.  I am happy to find that people are friendly and interested in helping.  Unfortunately, I do not meet anyone who speaks English; stabbing at my subway chart I give a hopeful smile.  With no exceptions, everyone more or less gathers that I want the next Metro.  With no exceptions, everyone spends at least five minutes engaged in highly complicated hand motions, describing the path I need to follow.  I cannot decipher the highly complicated motions at all.  It is more like a set of random dance moves than instructions.  In each case, I can at least discern my general starting direction, along with a couple of major turns.  The subway chart is, of course, extremely simplified. 

I made my way in this fashion until around mid-afternoon.  I must have been averaging at least one mile per hour, considering the stops, inquiries, and wrong direction corrections.  Of these corrections, there were many.  Eventually, I picked my way until I found Porte de Bagnolet, Gambetta, and Père Lachaise.  I had wasted a lot of time walking in the black market direction, and I am worried that the distance to the train station is too great.  Père Lachaise is an interchange with more than one subway line as well as bus lines.  I do not know that within yards begins what is perhaps the most visited cemetery in the world, a hundred acres of above ground stone sepulchers lining cobblestone pedestrian avenues.

I enter the subway station and stop at a turnstile.  I watch other people enter the station.  Some walk up to the turnstile, slip in a ticket, and walk through, retrieving their ticket on the other side.  Others walk up to a vending machine on the wall, insert a coin, punch in five numbers on a numerical keypad, and retrieve a ticket, which they use in the turnstile.  Some people consult a schedule, others seem to already know their number.  I feel desperate.  I have no hope of figuring out any printed schedule.  I look around and wait.  Person after person walks up, inserts a coin, punches numbers, and retrieve a ticket.  I finally think, “oh what the hell…”  I walk up to the vending machine, insert whatever large coin is in my pocket and punch five random numbers.  Zip!  A ticket pops out and I retrieve it.  Sure enough, it goes into the turnstile, I go through the turnstile, and retrieve my ticket on the other side.  I am off at last!

I am able to get a train to Munich (that is a different story) and make my next connection.  As I ride in comfort and relax, I nurse some regrets about Paris.  I know very well that I have only four hundred dollars, and am expected in Eastern Europe, but it does not sit well with me that I have spent the entire day in Paris and have seen no famous sites.  I certainly have seen a lot of memorable things, but probably nothing anyone has put on a post card.