We’ve been playing it fast and loose with the schedule, so we’d been fast and loose with the hotel bookings. I’d booked us a place south of Dover as soon as we got off the boat. Often there’s little downside to this when you’re in a touristy region with a lot of churn because rooms spontaneously open up. This time the power of databases failed us.
When I walked into our hotel lobby, a customer was having a heated argument with the guy behind the counter. She said she already paid for a room, but the guy insisted the room didn’t exist: According to him the booking service had been double-booking his rooms.
“People have been arriving all day to take rooms that somebody else is in!” he groused. “I’ve called them and mailed them to make it stop, and they tell me nothing!”
She was unimpressed by this explanation, and said so. Meanwhile, her husband was out on the front steps, looking for another room with his phone. Instead of using some specialized app he was calling hotels, one by one, and asking if they had a vacancy. He was done trusting databases for the night.
Just then, another guy came downstairs in a big hurry, slammed the keys to room number three on the desk and said “I have an urgent call. I need to leave immediately!”
The customer looked at the keys and said “How about if we take that room?”
The manager reluctantly agreed and said “I’ll go up and see if it’s clean.”
While he was upstairs, the customer wandered outside to check in with her husband, who had just finished booking a room at another hotel about a mile away. The three of us complained together about how insane it was that the hotel couldn’t prevent its own double-bookings. I pointed at the bicycles and said, “We came here on bikes! Now we’re going to have to ride all the way up the hill to the campground to find a place to stay.”
The manager came downstairs and declared “The room looks fine.”
Instead of taking it, the customer turned to me and said, “Hey, we have a room booked already and we can get a refund from here. Why don’t you take that room instead?”
And thus was the bacon of Nick and myself saved.
The manager called a taxi for the customer and her husband, and Nick and I moved a bunch of bags up into the room. I had already paid for an adjacent room that was currently occupied, and the cost was the same so there was no additional charge. As I signed the standard paperwork I chatted with the manager, and learned that he had purchased the hotel 51 years ago and rebuilt it from the ground up. He’s from the Canary Islands and has been taking groups of school kids from there on group outings to major cities across Europe for 37 years, with transportation and interpreters, as a way to enrich the community he’s from. He showed me a brochure with pride, and the prices looked very reasonable.
When he heard we were from California he said, “I’ve taken a bunch of vacations to there! It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world!” That’s quite an endorsement from someone who grew up on the Canary Islands.
“Hey, you know what? For the trouble, the next time you come through here you can stay for free.”
“That’s really nice of you! Although, it might not be for a long time. We don’t get to ride much and there’s a lot of amazing country to see here.”
He shrugged and said “I already done 50 years here. I can wait a bit.”
As an introvert, I felt deeply uncomfortable for the first week in Paris. I arrived in an introverted state of mind, desiring solitude, and a chance to sit down and work and think quietly, perhaps in some nice green spaces. Paris laughed at that.
Any time of day or night when I went outside, I saw throngs of people walking around and sitting at tables conversing with each other. Every night, even at the grand hour of 3:00am, the river near my apartment was thickly lined with people, most of them young, some of them eating food, some sitting on chairs or couches hauled to the edge of the street, all of them talking. The crowds waxed and waned, but they never, ever went away.
It was constant and eternal, the conversation. I was not used to the physical closeness of the seated crowds. The equivalent closeness back home would be at a ballgame, or a concert, or some other collective activity. We were packed close, and if you weren’t talking, you were the odd one out. Almost no one sat alone.
Back home I could enter a coffee shop with plenty of space to sit down, and be completely undisturbed as I sat among other people, most of them working on things or reading quietly, with the occasional conversation happening in between. I would have room to spread out papers, or a laptop next to a plate. Often there would be music filling out the atmosphere. I found almost no recorded music playing in Paris. Because, why bother? The talking would just drown it out. It was like the busiest part of a thriving downtown, reproduced around itself, spiraling outward to the size of an entire city. There was no place you could go, outdoors or in, aside from your own home, that wasn’t in line of sight from at least one other person, and usually a crowd.
I don’t know whether my initial discomfort with this was because I am an introvert most of the time, or because I couldn’t speak very much French, and felt isolated due to that. But one thing that only occurred to me in retrospect is that I was witnessing a version of urban life imbued with so much energy that it actually squeezed out the presence of the smartphone, and the internet in general. There was so much audible conversation vibrating in the air that the wireless signals now permeating everything were superfluous. I’m certain the people here have cell phones in just the same quantity as any other modern city, but I saw them far less than back home. When people sat down at a table, they conversed with the person across from them, and almost never pulled out their phone, except perhaps to check something germane to the conversation. Why be concerned about information and dialogue happening miles away when there is so much directly in front of your face, pushing into your ears?
This is about an hour of waiting in line for a few scoops of ice cream. I’m sure it’s tasty but, I’m going to go with a different vendor, thanks…
I arrived here by train, and I imagine almost all the other tourists either did the same or arrived by the airport, which means the impression we’re building of France is confined to this city. The rest of France, and French people in general, could be wildly different. I get that. But I can say this about Paris: Nowhere else have I seen such a combination of narrow streets, packed bars, tiny tables decorated with “no laptop” signs, public parks so covered in people that the green of the grass is drowned out by the colors of clothing and skin and food, self-assured pedestrians striding out into traffic, bicycles and scooters barreling through narrow corridors cut into throngs of people, and gawking tourists with sunburns and sore feet. I’ve seen this stuff in other European cities, including large ones like London and Copenhagen, and bicycle-mad places like Amsterdam, but not to this manic degree. Not to the point where it feels like an expression of something fundamentally different beneath. The city feels ripped out of modern time, existing in a space where things invented this century are treated as a suspicious, uncool intrusions. Especially things that create metaphysical distance between people, like the smartphone.
Maybe I’m reading too much into this. But I imagine someone living in Paris would find practically every other city in the western world to be lonely by comparison. Even though there is a language barrier for me, the press of constant dialogue and the sense of being insulated from all of the change and chaos of the outside world by the buffering chaos of the city itself is weirdly reassuring, as though I’m experiencing a unique synthesis of being anonymous in a crowd while also being intimately close to everyone here with me.
There’s a beautiful little park here, somewhere, under all these people.
On the other hand, how intimate is it, really? Americans are known for being very gregarious in public encounters, even with strangers, telling them all kinds of personal details about their lives, to the point where many foreigners feel like their privacy is being grossly invaded during the average subway ride or transaction at a supermarket. And I suspect that reaction would be the same even for a Parisian wandering around New York. I think they would feel hesitant, and the funny, scrappy, slightly pugilistic dialogue that’s been the baseline of my random exchanges in New York or Chicago would probably feel uncomfortably aggressive to them.
And if you took a million Americans and crammed them together in a city as close as Paris, would we all sit alone at tiny tables on the street hunched over our cell phones, too afraid – or too overworked – to talk to one another in this way? Or would we would blossom into our own American kind of dialogue?
Actually I suspect most of us would immediately feel hemmed in by the lack of space to pursue hobbies and keep equipment. I mean, hell, I occupy a lot less space than the average American my age, but even I have five bicycles and a heap of touring hardware, which I keep crammed in a garage.
When Ann was planning her portion of this trip, she said, “I’ve done plenty of London and Berlin, and it feels like enough. But I could always do more Paris.” Now I understand why.
I came here on a bike loaded for wilderness-level touring. I couldn’t help it, because that’s the load-out I used in Iceland and the bike has been stored in a basement, untouched, since the Iceland tour finished almost two years ago. When I got here – to a rented apartment on Rue de la Fontaine au Roi – I stripped all the bags and gear off the bike and threw them in a closet, and have been going around with nothing but a phone, some Airpods, a house key, and a very sturdy bike lock.
Tried this cafe a second time, but the mocha was no better.
Tried this cafe a second time, but the mocha was no better.
Parisians seem to love the recumbent. Of the thousands of bicycles I’ve seen so far in the city, I haven’t seen a single recumbent, so it gets a lot of commentary. I understand why it would be rare: Paris has turned out to be what I would call an “expert level” place for bicycling, much more so than any other giant city I’ve been to in Europe, and you need to be very good on a recumbent to avoid injury in a place like this. Relatively speaking, Amsterdam, Brussels, Hamburg, Copenhagen, and London are all easier.
Back in the US, I’d say New York is relatively easy, and so is most of Boston and Chicago. In terms of danger I’d say that Paris is not top of the list – downtown LA occupies that spot for me so far – but it’s a strong second place. It’s not fear of deliberate violence I’m talking about, but the risk of accident, from the sheer press of people and the contempt they show for the rules. And it bears repeating: This is Europe. I have yet to experience bicycle touring in, for example, Rio de Janeiro or Bangkok. I’m sure Paris would be way down the list by then.
The weather is perfect, but the air quality is pretty bad. I’ve noticed that smog laws in Paris are treated as suggestions, especially by people on ancient scooters and mopeds. While biking around I’ve encountered entire city blocks that stink of car exhaust to the point of making me feel physically ill.
And I’ve gone to believe that the French take a dim view of laws and government in general, which I suppose is great where personal freedom is involved but is also a barrier to organization and urban planning, even daily logistics:
Will a shop respect its own posted hours? Maybe. Will you get warning when a street is closed for construction? Maybe. Will the bus actually stop where the schedule says? Maybe. Will the postman deliver your package? Maybe. Will there be a bike lane? Maybe. Will it be on the left, right, or middle or the street? Take a wild guess! Will there be a delivery truck parked right on top of it? Maybe. Will the train be on time? Maybe. What platform will it arrive on? Nobody knows until 20 minutes before it’s due to leave, ever, even if that train line has been operating for years, and even then it may be wrong.
Every intersection is a free-for-all hash of bicycles, people, cars, and scooters. Crosswalks are a suggestion. Crosswalk signals are less than a suggestion; they are ignored. On the other hand, people almost never honk their horns regardless of the thickness of the snarl or who is technically at fault, because the response they are most likely to get is, “screw you, this is France.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. What sort of organization would I expect, from a nation whose most truly defining era is still the French Revolution? Where laws, for the vast majority of its history, were used to funnel wealth upwards first – into the laps of clergy and kings – and organize people second? The nation I come from owes an incalculable debt to the same thinkers and activists that drove the French Revolution, and the influence shows, but I get the impression that the French had to swing a lot harder to knock their tyrants off their posts, and that impact is still echoing around in the culture here.
That’s a cerebral place to go, starting from a description of the air and the traffic… No doubt it’s subjective and I’ll have other impressions as the days continue.
I woke up from an unpleasant dream and realized my sleep apnea insert wasn’t placed correctly. The little sleep quality graph on my watch was mostly red lines. Drat!
The first decent mocha I’ve had in Paris. Thankfully not the last!
A work in bronze by a sculptor named Benoît Lucien Hercule. Died in poverty at the age of 65, in 1913.
I pedaled around in search of breakfast snacks and a change of working environment, and found a place about five blocks away that made a very chocolatey mocha and a good eggs Benedict, and seems to tolerate laptops.
When the mocha looks like mud, you know it’s gonna be good.
When the mocha looks like mud, you know it’s gonna be good.
It was still very crowded and not really a pleasant place to work, but the mocha was encouraging. The barista confessed “Sorry, we don’t know how to do it iced.”
I lingered just long enough to answer a few emails, then went back to the apartment so I could work in peace. Most of the afternoon was spent going over documentation and tweaking the “continuous integration” process for my project.
I have to admit, I didn’t really like the job. The project I inherited was over-designed and far too complicated for the needs of the company. Maintaining it was painful. I wanted to rewrite it in a much more compact form but was never granted the freedom. This kind of work is very exacting and highly abstract, and if you’re not really enthusiastic about the project you’re doing it for, you spent a lot of your work time fighting against your own brain, which is in a state of constant rebellion. (Like Paris.)
Nevertheless I did battle for about five hours, then went on another ride to clear my head.
Don’t walk under the ladder propped in front of the Lucky Bastard Cafe. It’ll just confuse things.