Heavy rain sprayed the windows of the airplane and bounced off the tarmac. We'd landed at Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle and I took note of the jackets the airport staff was wearing. Bright lime green...exactly the same shade as my own raincoat. Already a fashion misstep and I hadn't even deplaned.
Do as I Say and Not as I Do #1: In the winter, Parisian women wear navy, black and brown. If they are feeling adventurous, burgundy. No one, unless they are directing traffic at Charles de Gaulle Airport, wears lime green. Ever. Pack accordingly.
It is possible to stay in Paris at little cost. You will pay the price in other ways, however. From my travel book I found a hotel in the Marais for forty-two dollars a night, including a breakfast of bread and café au lait or hot chocolate.
Draped in heavy, dusty curtains, my living space was dark and oddly romantic, in starving-artist fashion. I pulled the fabric aside then wiped grime from my hands. A small balcony overlooked the busy cobblestone street lit in neon and corner lamps. Traffic swished below in rainfall. A small bedside lamp gave the room a warm glow and hid muck stuck in corners.
I wanted out into the city. I grabbed an umbrella and my guidebook, and searched for dinner.
Do as I Say and Not as I Do #2: Arriving at a Parisian eating establishment anytime before eight p.m. for dinner is foolish. Do that while wearing a lime green rain jacket, and you'll be delegated to Ringling Brothers status. I sat at a window table, the only customer in the restaurant. I proudly (one could say defiantly) ordered a prix fixe meal and a glass of red wine, and watched Parisians scramble on tiptoe through puddles outside.
The soundtrack to my dining experience was the drone of a vacuum cleaner as a waiter cleaned the floor in preparation for real guests, who would arrive well past my six-thirty seating. I ignored the vacuuming fellow as much as he ignored me.
The food, to be honest, was not great. An ordinary green salad, a bland imitation of beef Stroganoff, and pudding pretending to be mousse. The joint pissed me off and I felt like an idiot, which pissed me off some more. My first Parisian dining experience made me grouchy. I'd made my entrance as a rube.
Perhaps a hot bath and a good night's sleep would excise the disappointment and help me start the next day with a fresh attitude. Back at the hotel, I turned the bathtub spigot and watched a dribble of cold water splash against the tub enamel. I waited, touched my fingertips under the spill, and the penny dropped: forty-two dollars a night in Marais does not buy hot water.
I sponged off in the cold, whipped into pajamas and socks, climbed into bed, and fell asleep to the slurpy sound of tires on the street.
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