Down and Out in Paris....or the Whore's Bath

I am not uncomfortable with the bare bones comforts that some European hotels offer. I find it completely livable and in most cases it makes more sense than some American decisions. Having a key that fits into a light switch to ensure that the squandering American idiot doesn't leave the lights and tv running is brilliant. I don't even mind the "one W.C." per floor rule.

But that was the farthest things from my mind after a glorious Air France flight. (Seriously, one bad bout of Turbulence about halfway through.) I spent the majority of the flight watching the individual tv set that each seat has. I watched the First Season of New Girl and Les Miserables again. Though I am terrified of plane crashes, I will say that living through Russell Crowe butchering Javert again made me temporarily contemplate the pain to gain ratio of death. But thankfully Hugh Jackman saved the day.

After waiting for nearly two hours at the Customs patrol, where an attractive Frenchman barely looked at my Visa and look annoyed when I asked for the accompanying stamp, I made my way out of the hotel. I had quickly deduced that my 52 pound (2 pounds over weight but Air France let it slide) suitcase and my pink carry on, backpack and coat made it impractical to take the train. I am very familiar with the metro system here in town and taking the train is the absolute best thing you can do, unless you're a 120 pound weakling with three pieces of luggage. So I had worked the taxi from CDG into the budget.

CDG is roughly 32 km outside of downtown Paris. And the drive is often terrifying as European drivers and motorcyclists tend to have very little regard for their own lives. But I arrived safely in Montmartre. I always breathe a little sigh of relief when Paris stops looking like the empty farmlands and industrial buildings of the Roissy-CDG suburb and starts looking like the Paris you know, with tight streets and cafes.

I picked the Hotel Bonsejour, because it was cheap and had decent reviews. I knew to expect bare bones. What I didn't expect was that I couldn't get into my room until 230. The wife of the owner kindly offered to take my luggage into the breakfast kitchen and lock it in there.
However the rules of the hotel harken back to one of George Orwell's lesser known works "Down and Out in Paris and London", recounting the story of a young man who struggles to make a living in the aforementioned cities and lives in sometimes DEPLORABLE conditions. Upon leaving each day, I would have to turn my key into the office. I may not leave things in my room. And most importantly ....I had to to return at 2:30 to get into my room. Although they showed it to me and....it was a room.
So for a few hours I stumbled aimlessly through the stress of Montmartre, searching hopelessly for wifi. I know it's ridiculous to be in Paris and not want to wander through the sights of one of Europe's most beautiful cities, but my initial urge was to contact everyone. My phone no longer works and I felt panic at not being able to speak to anyone. I ate lunch at one place and when my room wasn't quite ready at 230, I went back and ate at ANOTHER place, purhcasing wifi to lament my loneliness. I wasn't even hungry. I missed my family. I missed my friends. And honestly, more than anyone else I missed my dog. I saw a bichon at a nearby table and that sent me into tears. But the carbohydrates of thai beef and rice with basil were comforting.

I trodded back to my hotel, hopelessly lonely and feeling sort of overwhelmed and exhausted, carrying a bag of Thai food that I hadn't even really wanted to buy. The hotel manager saw me and turned over my key. He instructed me in a variety of languages. We started in French. He switched to English and then by the end was answering my questions in Arabic. I asked for his help in carrying my 50 pound suitcase up the stairs and he paused and looked thoughtfully at the rickety old stairs. (OH. Yeah. No elevator. Also very common in older European hotels) He switched to English/French. "Here. You're a good girl. I will let you store it at the porte à côté, in the kitchen next door. We lock it." This is where my bags had been all day and I had to carefully weigh (pun intended) the options I had. I knew that all the important items were in my carry ons. I had a few days clothes, my papers, and my electronics all with me. All that was in the bag are literally 52 pounds of clothes and shoes. The old gentleman was clearly of no use and even with all my hours logged at Planet Fitness, a 52 pound suitcase up 4 flights of stairs just overwhelmed my already exhausted body. So I agreed with the promise that I could get access to it anytime the hotel was open. I only hope if anyone steals it they are a size four and wear a 6.5 shoe

I made it to my room. Realized too late that the hotel's only shower was opened by key only and that the management had long since gone home. So I vowed to wash the 24 hours off me in the morning. I wandered back outside for a while and combed these streets I love so well. And finally I came upstairs ONLY to find that I could not get the wifi to work. I heard the voices of a couple in the hall and they appeared to be speaking some sort of Slavic language which I assumed was Russian. I opened the door and addressed the gentleman. "Vous conaissez le mot de passe pour le wi-fi?" In french Wi-fi is pronounced wee-fee. The boy looked confused, so I did what all Americans do when French doesn't work. I tried English. It actually is very widely spoken and if that doesn't work, you're usually just reduced to awkward sign language. But as soon as I pronounced "WI-FI" instead of "WEE-FEE" he lit up instantly. He grabbed a piece of paper and in broken English tried to read it to me. But I just deciphered it on my own. After a few "Thanks!", I closed my door. but then the fun started. The couple began arguing loudly and the girl came to my door and yelled, what I assumed were the only English words she knew. "WHORE!" "Bitch!" "PIECE OF SHIT!"

I stood in silence deciding not to argue, because to communicate I would have had to launch facetime or skype and find an available Russian speaking friend to translate and more importantly, because history teaches us to never engage in a land war with Russia. She slammed the door but within minutes I could hear them making up. (Oh yeah. Thin walls)


But after the day I had had all I wanted was a hot bath. But that was not going to happen. I couldn't even get a shower until the morning. Finally, in an act of desperation I began running the hot water in my sink and threw a towel on the floor. Using my water bottle and a bottle of shampoo I spent 12 euros on because it was the only thing I could find in my neighborhood this late (and it smells nice) I washed my hair. Then, using the precarious balance one achieves from months of physical fitness (Thank you Planet Fitness and Pikeville YMCA), I shaved each leg while balancing on the other. A few more areas were cleaned and as I scrubbed what I could, I then realized that I was taking what is commonly known as a "whore's bath." Not flattering, but certainly appropriate given the Russian lady had yelled at my door just moments earlier.
My only prayer tonight is that tomorrow is slightly better and that I get to see my fellow ESL friends, Robert and Sarah who are currently in town. That, and that no one steals my 52 pounds of clothes.