Bent Words

Bent Words

December 01, 2004

We finished our cool drinks in the quaint cafe and headed down rue du Lafayette as the rain dissipated. We heard the unusual and obnoxious sounds of a European police car with its 'NAH NAH, NAH NAH, NAH NAH,' although even that bold noise could not be held as irritating considering it was in Paris. It was wonderful to travel down these streets, but John and I were both becoming immensely tired of carrying our bags. John spotted a cab and as we came upon him, John looked at me.

"Give him directions, Laura."

"What?!"

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead!"

I turned to the driver and said, "S'il vous plait, Montparnasse. 32, Boulevard Pasteur et Hotel Innova."

"Oui," he said and in the taxi we jumped.

I looked over at John and smiled.

"He understood what I said!"

"Of course he did. Very good, Laura."

We drove down a million streets whose names I recognized from my maps and from my "Walks Through Hemingway's Paris" book with absolute awe. The traffic was very tight and the driver rarely stuck to the painted lines on the street. He would give little honks of his horn on occasion, indicating his exact location to other drives and inquired in broken English as to our purpose in Paris. He understood that we were on 'holiday' and I even went so far as to introduce myself in French.

"Je mapel Laura."

I pretended to understand his name and returned with an enthusiastic, "Enchante, Misseur."

My giggles were interrupted by the sudden scenery before me - The Louvre. John grabbed my arm and there it was and there I was looking at it. All lit up in the dark night with massive elegance, the newly built glass pyramids in the center shone brightly over the pedestrians passing by or taking pictures. My nose was pressed against the window. I finally sat back and wiped the unctuous spot clean with my sleeve, only to return a moment later as we crossed the Seine river. I recognized the Boulevard St. Germain as we turned and noted how lit up and busy the street seemed to be. We made our way down and to the right on rue de Vaugirard and I could not help but squeal as John casually pointed out the Eiffel Tower. Although we were miles away from its actual location, it rose tall and seemingly winked at only us with its bright flashing lights. I exhaled, realizing I had not been breathing for some time. We turned left onto Boulevard Pasteur and lost sight of the beautiful tower.

John paid the cab fare and there we stood in front of our little hotel. I looked up at the front of the building at all the balconies and secured my bag onto my shoulders before we entered. The gentleman behind the counter greeted us with a 'bonsoir' and I inquired about our reservations. Luckily, he spoke a decent amount of English and told us about the room. I asked if we might have one of the rooms with a balcon and he checked to be sure that we could, although he warned us that that particular room was quite small. It had two beds and a private bathroom and that was all I needed to know since I had learned many locations only had one community bathroom per floor. The gentleman explained that breakfast was between 7 - 10 a.m. and would cost eight Euros per person before we rode the 'lift' up to our small room on the fifth floor.

I set down my bags, immediately claiming the bed nearest the balcony doors and looked around. It was a very small room with barely enough space for the two single beds which were pushed completely together. The walls were a bright blue and nearly hid the opening to the bathroom which John was now putting to its first use. I gingerly opened the balcony doors and gasped with pleasure as walked out onto the small cement space. My hands slipped over the delicately designed framing and I curled my fingers around rail to look over the busy street. I yelled to John several times before he joined me and together we looked down at the all of the scooters and motorcycles and small cars crowding the boulevard, the quick paced pedestrians maneuvering through each other on the side walk and at the large cobblestone divisions between street directions. This is where all of the scooters and motorcycles and bicycles parked - some locked, some not, but all having the freedom of parking wherever they chose. I took a picture of John standing outside on the balcony, presenting the tall Montparnasse tower over his shoulder. A few more photos of the room and the buildings opposite us were necessary before I could calm down.

I kept glancing at the phone and knew I had to call my parents. I fuddled in vain with the calling card for some time before simply dialing out per the instructions over the phone. On the other end, I finally heard my father's voice and greeted him inappropriately with a 'bonjour' as it was evening and the correct greeting would have been 'bonsoir (this fact I would gain before the night's end).' The reception was terrible for him and each of my sentences were broken down into one or two words although I could clearly hear his every comment. I rattled on that I had given directions to the cab driver and that I was okay before slowing down enough to be understood. He laughed and sounded more enthused than I could give myself justice to and I gave him our phone number before hanging up and saying 'I love you' in French. A few of those parting tears that I had experienced earlier clouded my vision and made finding the bathroom door quite difficult, but I succeeded.

John and I took turns taking showers in the small bathroom and while he was taking his, I moved the desk's chair to the open balcony and leisurely smoked two cigarettes. I hugged the city with my eyes and watched the people in their apartment across the street going about their everyday business. A voice in my head kept repeating the words, 'I'm in Paris. I'm in Paris," and I knew I would not realize the full impact of my location until perhaps a week after returning home. John jolted me from my thoughts and inquired as to whether or not I was ready. I was most definitely ready for Paris. Whether it was ready for me, was another story...

We paused in the lobby of the hotel to have a cigarette and look over its charm. It looked exactly as the pictures we had seen online when choosing this particular place with large comfy sofas and a spacious front window. The gentleman behind the counter requested our key and informed us that he would give it back upon our return. The doors closed at midnight, but there was always someone there who would let us in if we pushed the buzzer near the door. We were rather hungry and decided to eat at the first possible location as to not travel too far on our first night and I unnecessarily reminded John we had to eat in a cafe.

"I don't know, Dear Heart, it might difficult to find a cafe in Paris."

"Can I please chalk up all of my stupidity to jet lag?"

"You may, but I know better."

We were still laughing and smiling as we passed through the doors of the Cafe au Metro on the corner of our street and rue du Dr. Roux. A waiter seated us in the corner of the bar and next to the window, but I was not facing the street and thus I took in the entirety of the cafe. It was a very small brown colored rugby bar with what appeared to be mostly regulars. I was taking it all in and could barely speak and was very thankful that John took over the ordering of two beers and a couple liqueurs called Martini. It was red with a small slice of lemon and I could barely drink it, but John ordered two or three more for himself. We noticed a small group of men at one table with a plate piled high with seasoned potatoes and a slab of meat. John beckoned to the waiter and signaled with his hands that we would like to have what the gentlemen were having. With the barriers of communication barely broken, the waiter produced a large single plate of potatoes and another large single plate of lightly dressed lettuce. John and I looked at each other wondering what happened to the meat, but did not complain for even a moment. A small jar of mustard with a tiny spoon was produced and we sparingly placed a portion of it next to the potatoes. The potatoes were wonderful and I knew exactly why container of mustard was so trite - it was the spiciest type of mustard I had ever tasted and held its sting upon your tongue long after the last bite. We heartily ate our meal and drank our drinks until nearly 11:00 p.m..

With our eyes drooping and our stomachs mostly full, we headed back down the boulevard toward our hotel. Retrieving our key, we headed upstairs and fell into our beds. I was asleep within an instant of shutting my eyes. In the middle of the night, I was barely awakened by John's movements about the room and the dim lights of the bathroom. I heard the hotel room's door shut loudly at least two or three times and finally realized that John could not sleep. Upon his last exit at about 5:30 a.m., I found myself unable to rest and walked out onto the balcony to breathe in the cool, crisp air which seemed much too generous for late November. I wrote for awhile at the small desk and listened to local news channel in French. By 6:30 a.m., John returned and I had showered and downstairs we went to wait in the lobby for breakfast. John stated the room was too small and he felt very closed in and thus had gone for a few walks. He was also very quiet that morning, barely uttering a word.

*** To be continued...

Written at 2:19 p.m.