This morning I checked out of my hostel in the 1st arrondissement (between the Louvre and the Pompidou), and, at around 9am headed up to the 9th arrondissement to compare a cheap apartment I found on auboncoin.fr (which is like French craigslist) with another hostel from the same company (Bureau des Voyages de la Jeunesse or BVJ - kinda like French YMCA). I also went straight away to check out the Bikram yoga studio in Montmartre. The studio is amazing and I can't wait to get in and get started. Today will be my fifth day in a row and I'm feeling more determined than ever.
After popping my head into the studio (which is also beautiful and fully-equipped with mats and showers), I set out to hunt down the hostel. It was a short five minute walk away, but when I arrived, the thick blue doors were closed and locked and there was no answer when I buzzed the front desk. Hmmmm... I dialed the number for this hostel and who picks up but the guy who just checked me out at the Louvre location! Yep. They told me this location doesn't open until tomorrow, and that I needed to go back and stay one more night at the Louvre location. So, this got me thinking that maybe the apartment was going to be the best course of action since these hostel people were not doing the most stand-out job. Maybe if this apartment really sucks AND if the price is right...
By this time, I had been schlepping my bags all over the metro and Montmartre for a few hours and my shoulders were begging me for a break. I found a cute little corner cafe that looked like an appropriate spot to people-watch and bang out some postcards, so I sat down at a tiny outdoor table. After about ten minutes I realized no one had seen me sit down, so I popped my head in and asked if it was okay that I sit "there" indicating the location of my tucked away table. They said no problem and sit down and we'll be right out to take your order. So, five minutes later, server #1 popped out to take my order. Cappuccino?? No problem. I was forewarned that the milk takes at least five good minutes for her to properly froth. I said that was absolutely fine as I was especially fond of a frothy foam. Flash forward five minutes and out comes said server with a cigarette and a friend. I just patiently wrote second-hand-smoked cappuccino-less postcards. I thought for sure she's going to come right out after her cigarette break with this coffee... Nop! Four postcards later and almost an hour after I had originally sat down I thought, "Okay, there is no foam on earth luxurious enough to merit this wait", so I popped in to cancel my order. My servers eyes doubled in size when I told her I was still waiting for my coffee. She shot daggers at server #2 (who said, "Here it is!" and pulled my cappuccino out of the refrigerator???). I told them not to worry about it and took off laughing a little to myself and in hopes of finding some speedier service...
So, there I was, installing me and my bag-lady-like assortment of gear at cafe #2. I ordered and enjoyed a cappuccino. Brilliant. The bill came and forty-five minutes later I finally came to terms with the fact that no one was coming back to pick up my money and bring change (since I didn't have the exact amount). Oh man. Here we go again. Ha (by now I was laughing a little less enthusiastically)! I jumped up and loaded my shoulders with luggage and brought my tab with the money inside. Server #2 accepted the bill with incorrect change and quickly brought it to server #1, who was casually flipping through the morning paper, and didn't even turn around, but instead burped out a "Merci!" as if to accept my incorrect change as a tip for ignoring me for an hour. I literally stood and stared in disbelief, mouth agape, in the direction of the back of my server's head. I honestly did not know what to do next. Finally, the barmaid broke the silence - "Are you all settled?" she asked. I replied, "I'm settled, but I haven't received my change yet." Server #2 brought over my change and I rallied my caffeine-calibrated body parts to find this apartment...
Once I had properly explored this neighborhood and deemed it as safe and cheap and a great way to get out of the most touristy parts of Paris, I arrived at the apartment building as-advertised. The ground floor was spiffy with an enclosed courtyard and glass doors and beautiful spiral staircases, but - not unlike many apartment buildings in Paris - as I climbed up six stories the stairs, the walls, the ceilings, the welcome mats appeared less and less storybook... By the time I got to the sixth floor; there was a solid stench, the wall paper was discolored and peeling, and the ceiling was dripping with a questionably dank substance. First, the landlady showed me the working toilet on the floor, equipped with one tiny wrought-iron-barred window. From there she steered me down a narrow hallway, a walk that had me wondering which dingy apartment door was hoarding the toilet seat... Haha! Finally upon unlocking the door to possibly my own place in Paris for the next five nights, I discovered that the "apartment" was the size of my mom's walk-in closet. Oh my gosh - so small! Free wifi, yes, working kitchen, yes, heater, yes, clean sheets and towels, yes... I wondered what was exactly the price of privacy (as that was exactly the opportunity cost here). I left, thanking the landlady for her time and apologetically admitting that I was not prepared to pay 235 euro for four nights in hell (she pounced a last-minute 100 euro deposit on me - huh?). I jumped on the bus back to the Louvre hostel location and happily unloaded my things in my original room (assuring myself that - no matter what the price - clean and safe was an unbeatable combination)...
With little time to spare, I was off to yoga! On my walk to the studio I spotted a - hold up, what?!?! - MEXICAN restaurant. With burrito on the brain, my concentration in class suffered, so much so, in fact, that while the rest of the class conquered the spinal and seated series' I was already settling into cheese enchiladas. I ate and tried to grasp how much like a sitcom my day had been. Not much of anything happened and, at the end of it all, I ended up exactly where I started.
Still, in Paris - here, where the streets are paved with poodle poop - the fun never ends!
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