"We are in a hostel situation!"

So to set the stage for the telling of the Parisian adventure, let me divulge how I pregamed Paris. Even when it does not involve alcohol and Southpark, I frequently refer pre activities as pregaming, because as real pregaming does, these aforementioned events greatly contribute to the actual event.

On Monday March 12th, I had a paper for Dutch Social Policy. March 9th through the 11th were to be spent in Paris. Obviously, any logical person would do the paper during the week before. But I was unfortunately quite sick and very miserable, spending a vast amount of time and energy finding a doctor, getting medication, and not being a total loser about the whole situation. (Imagine the pity party: I’m alone, cold, in the rain, sick, and lost. Yeah, feel bad, I did.) Sooooo, this paper gets started on Thursday night. But, oh wait! I have to pack! And go to Megan’s for dinner! Long story short, I spend 1 – 4 AM writing a paper on human trafficking. Sleep til 7:30 so I can shower before they shut off our water, then finish my packing, and rush to Centraal.

We make it on the train without a hassle. First goal attained. Life here in Europe tends to be a process for us – nothing is simple, easy, or cheap, and we have accepted that. So, it’s important to realize that that is the first goal. Before the night is out, we are on like number 27 and its 3 AM.

Now, I’ve had about 3 hours of sleep, and while I’m used to sleep deprivation, it lowers my tolerance for most everything. Some would say I don’t have all that much tolerance to start with, but that’s up for debate. Within minutes of being on the train, my tolerance is maxed out. Here is the problem. I’m not a prude in any sense of the word, but I hate public displays of affection. HATE. Now, I’m not a total asshole, I’m ok with some mild touching, but the whole making out, on top of each other practically, on a train…no. Stop acting co-dependent and inconsiderate; it makes me want to throw shit at you – and on a bad day (or good, depending how you view it) I just might. Between the couple across from us, and the “slurping” sounds (Kristen’s delightful word choice) behind us, I am preoccupied with planning our weekend and hating most of the world. Eventually, planning aside, I am allowed to pass out and ignore people.

Arrival, Paris Nord, 14:06. We realize we have no idea what we are doing. We are approached about seven times by apparently Eastern European women and girls, asking if we speak English and if we will give them money. I am alternately very sympatric and very suspicious, and decide its best if we pretend we don’t speak English. Thus, we exit Nord with a map of Paris in hand, clinging to each other and responding to all requests in Spanish.

Now, did I mention we don’t have the address to our hostel? I, being the clever bunny I am, decided that the booking information would be the best thing to forget at home. But, Sam has the address; we’ll just call him! …Now if Sam just answered his phone. Well, I remember the information said it was a short walk from the Eiffel Tower, so we honestly decide that going the Eiffel Tower and walking around is the best game plan. Here’s where it’s quite understandable if you’re questioning my logic, but remember, Maria’s life is just one big ball of irony.
We jump off the metro and begin walking. All of sudden, Kristen announces she’s found it. Being the ass that I am, I almost inquire upon what she has found, until I look up.

…Duh. As we head toward the Eiffel Tower, a street artist commences to accost us; I, for some reason, hate soliciting with a fiery passion, and will go out of my way to avoid sellers/Mormons/scam artists. It is fortunate that Kristen is both more socially resourceful in such situations, and asks the man about directions. He points to the building behind us – an information center. Within, we find a woman who googles (the answer to all problems) the hostel, draws directions on our map, and points us the right direction. Um, score!? We check in at the “front desk” (i.e. bar), enter our room, and begin to scream. I called my Mom at work to tell her that her daughter would be spending the weekend in a Cuban Guerilla Military Training camp, complete with sketchtastic courtyard with scanty roofed showers and toilets, bunk houses, scratchy wool blankets, and the opportunity to fight for your own life at every turn. We hold each other, eat our chocolate, and decide that sleeping in one single bed (again) is perfectly acceptable, even desirable.

Not to be discouraged, we re-gather and head to the Louvre. The Louvre is one of the most spectacular museums/buildings/institutions ever. First of all, it’s the LOUVRE. Secondly, it’s so big, it’s mildly unfathomable. Literally we got lost in Ancient Egypt. We could not get out of Ancient Egypt for over 45 minutes, all we wanted was to see the Mona Lisa and leave, but oh no. Osiris had other plans…and that was the dumbest thing I’ve thought out loud in at least a week. We managed to escape and want nothing more but to be outside. We are supposed to meet Sam at the Louvre, but we can’t get through to him and want to head back. By luck, we get back to the hostel in time to discover his train came in late and we meet up in the bar.

After dinner, we decide to head to Montmartre for the Erotic Museum – as if we don’t get enough of that type of thing in Amsterdam. We get to see the original Moulin Rouge, which on top of the Louvre basically makes my night. The Museum is like a lot of erotic museums I’ve been to (…); quite amusing, slightly disturbing, and greatly lacking historical information on the “artifacts.” When we leave there, it’s about half past 1 and the metro is closed (why do metros close so early? Serially) and we begin the stroll across Paris – which bears a striking resemblance to the Trail of Tears across Montreal except: 1) Paris is bigger, prettier, and Frencher, 2) This walk is more like 5-6 miles, not 2. To say the least, it’s a really great idea for the first half hour. By 3, we are back, making our beds in the pitch black, so to not waken our Canadian roommates. Here is where the hostel situation elevates. A general ruckus is going on outside our door, and then a bag of cement mix is dropped in our door. I head into the bathroom; Kristen follows.

Me: “Hm, that’s weird; it sounds just like someone is talking in our room.”
Kristen: “That’s because someone is in our room; I shoved Sam at him and told him to make him leave.”
Me: “Oh, well that’s good.”
When the drunken Portuguese – we think – leaves, we finally allowed to pass out, and that we did.

"So, I see you brought home some cement last night?" One of the Canadian backpackers inquired. Oh no, some guy dropped that in the door. "Well, watch out if they back a cement mixer up to the door!" Oh Canadians, how I love you. We head out with the intention of doing everything. First we walk up to the Arc d'Triumph and the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Then we continue on to Notre Dame, where Sam's little brother is supposed to be visiting with a school group, but Sam can't get through to his brother's teacher, and the whole "look for a kid about 14 years old who resembles Sam" is not helping either.

We tour the Cathedral as mass is being said in the center. It is kind of a strange contrast; a few hundred tourists, a few dozen languages, way too many camera flashes and Catholic Mass. Afterward, we head across a bridge to this little island and find lunch, which we eat in the park behind Notre Dame. We then tour a World War II monument in honor of the French who were deported to concentration/work camps. As such monuments are, it is a somber reminder of a war that deeply scarred this continent. While we teach the Holocaust, Anne Frank et al in America, it is here that people lived it.

We head across town to a vast cemetery in which the likes of Proust, Moliere, and Jim Morrison are buried. Make sure to check out the photos - while I realize my interest in cemetery architecture may seem morbid, you have to admit these structures are quite awe inspiring. Energy lagging, (despite the chocolate for breakfast and the ice cream for tea, and yes, I do support the British tradition of distinguishing a specific time of day as tea time) Kristen and I end up laying in the grass for a while, before deciding to split up, so we can rest and Sam can find his brother. I had no plans of napping, but once my bed was made, I passed out.

Dinner was a truly multicultural experience; we had Italian food, served under promise of Greek Cuisine, from Middle Eastern men listening to Arabic radio. Ironically, we also returned that night for crepes. We spent most of the evening wandering our neighborhood and having tea (!) An early bed time was welcomed, as the extreme sport of tourism was not over yet.

Sam's choice of the Musee D''Orsay on Sunday morning was arguably the best decision I've seen a man make in ages. An amazing collection of pre/impressionism/post and several other schools/styles all housed within an intriguing architectural design (read: we got lost in it) brought me so much joyness. I could have moved right in and gotten a job on the spot. Obviously I decided against this plan and after lunch and saying good bye to Sam, we headed to the Catacombs of Paris. Several million peoples' remains lie in repose in the former quarries below downtown Paris, quite often arranged in geometric patterns, by priests with too much free time. (See: picture of the skulls in a heart shape). The best part was the sign of the impending doom of the sink hole hanging over our head - in which the writer, with an obvious sense of humor, decided in the last sentence to mention it had been reinforced with concrete.

We emerged into the sunlight, met some more Canadians who half-led us back to the metro station. We headed to the Eiffel Tour like good little tourists, but with only 3 hours left in Paris, and over a two hour wait in line, we ditched that plan quite efficiently, and spent our time sitting in Commerce Park, eating baked goods and watching kids play soccer.

Half-asleep in the train station, I open my eyes and am reminded of this amazing magnetism I have with children. A 3 or 4 year old little girl with a lolly pop is standing in front of me, looking for entertainment. Her parents don’t call her away, so we try to figure out what she’s telling us (yeah, that’s how little French I know) and play peek-a-boo and such. No one children like me, shit. Of course, when she starts prodding us, balancing water bottles on our heads, and then tries to climb on top of Kristen, the American in us screams “law suit” and we quickly relocate. The Dutch don’t even consider suing people; but hell, we know the risks.

First class ride home and we now know why first class tickets cost an extra 30 Euro – because that’s about how much food they serve you. We literally were served food 4 times and they gave us lots of water without harassing us. It was awesome.

Surviving the hostel situation was a feat that will go down in history; filed under “never stay in a hostel again.” Our next trip to France will be spent in a hotel, for sure. And that will be in May – Maria goes to Nice and probably won’t ever leave the beach. Say your farewells before then.