Hôtels and Hawkers, or How I Spent the Holiday Weekend in Paris

November 1 is a French national holiday. As it fell on a Thursday this year, most people took the 2nd off of work as a “bridge day” (day between a holiday and the weekend). Ok, so Halloween may have come and gone with a whimper, not a bang, but a subsequent four-day weekend was the least the French could do to make up for it. We had a lovely time exploring different parts of the city during a period of relative calm, when many Parisians fled the city for the pleasures of la campagne (the country).

We discovered that we could walk in a straight line from our doorstep all the way onto Ile St-Louis, one of the two small islands in the Seine. From there it was a stone’s throw to the other island, Ile de la Cité, home of the imperious Catedral Notre Dame. Nate and I had both already been inside and the line to get in was winding practically all the way back onto Ile St-Louis, so we were content to just stroll past the iconic building and marvel at its architectural splendor: intricate spire, flying buttresses, stained glass masterpieces, myriad gargoyles...it’s quite humbling. They just don’t build churches like they used to. We then stopped to use the restroom at Hôtel Dieu de Cité, one of the city’s oldest hospitals kitty-cornered from the cathedral. It has all the makings of a normal hospital, except for the gorgeous open-air courtyard located in the building’s center. Roman columns and a vibrant garden flank the grand limestone quad, lending it the air of an ancient agora where intellectuals or senators orated from pulpits to the gathering masses. Leave it to the French to create the ultimate convalescent paradise. I now know where I’d want to recover from surgery.

We then walked around the corner to our true destination: the Conciergerie. Once the seat of French government and then a prison during the French Revolution, the building dates back to the 12th century. It features impressive interior architecture, small historical exhibits, and replicas of prisoners’ chambers, guard posts, and rooms where the unluckiest of the bourgeoisie would be prepped for the guillotine. We also saw a real, live guillotine blade – duller than a butter knife (we had to check), but apparently weighing in at over 40 kilos to ensure it got the job done.

On another day, we went to the legendary Marche aux Puces (flea market) at St-Ouen just outside the city to the north. The market boasts a heady mix of ultra-high and ultra-low merchandise. To get to the really interesting wares, you must elbow your way through the crowded aisles of cheap clothes, boho knick-knacks, tacky souvenirs, and a parade of guys hawking knock-off Dolce & Gabanna belt buckles. (Seriously, the latter itinerant vendors came at you one after another, as quickly and aggressively as the fuzzy yellow orbs flying out of an automatic tennis ball machine. Do they honestly think they can compete when they’re all selling the same exact product in such close proximity? Or are they colluding in an attempt to create an urban army of bling?) Finally, you reach the very back portion of the market, where row after row of magnificent antiques whisk you back in time. Furniture, home accessories, art, weapons, clothes, and jewelry from bygone eras such as the Victorian and Art Deco made for a pseudo outdoor museum experience. A vendeuse selling outrageous Chanel and Shiaparelli baubles even had an article pinned up in her booth about her famous collection; we overheard two customers telling her how they come to Paris once annually to drop major loot at the market (um, do you happen to need any benefactees this year?). We didn’t spend our life savings on crystal chandeliers or 17th century swords, but we had a great time ogling the merchandise.

We then walked back into Paris, eventually climbing steep hills (the first we’ve seen in Paris) and stairways up the back of Montmartre. We ultimately arrived at Sacre Couer, the white chapel of wedding-cake perfection overlooking a nearly 270-degree sweep of the city. Tourists were out in full force, but we had to stop and sit on the steps, taking in the vista and trying to locate our home amid the fray of zinc roofs and architectural landmark after architectural landmark. We couldn’t pinpoint our street, but we could make out the zaniness of Centre Pompidou and the 18th-centry grandeur of Hôtel de Ville; we live roughly just beyond the two. I was reminded of the quaintness of certain parts of Montmartre, as the small chemins surrounding Sacre Couer give the area the feel of a small country village – albeit crammed to the gills with souvenir shops and portrait artists trying to make a quick few bucks sketching out tourists' beaming faces. (In one of the most rarely efficient exchanges I’ve had in Paris to date, one of the portrait artists thought he had me pegged for his next customer and approached me entreatingly, squawking out an eager “Yes?” I curtly replied, “Non” (that is, in French, how you say no), all the while maintaining a brisk pace and hearing Nate snickering under his breath a few feet ahead of me.)

Speaking of sidewalk negotiations, our dining experience one evening made us nearly forget we live in the modern Mecca of servers who can’t be bothered (a.k.a., the land of customer non-service). We were craving Indian food, so we went to Passage Brady in the 10th – two blocks crammed back to back with nothing but Indian-Pakistani eateries. The moment we stepped into the alley, we could see the silhouettes of restaurant hosts bounding outside to greet us and make their never-ending pitches. Uh oh. One after another, they call us a lovely couple and oh, it’s so good you came to eat at the best Indian restaurant in Paris, what a great deal, best prices in the neighborhood, oh it would be an honor to have you this evening, best chicken tikka masala you’ll ever eat… And we’re all apologies and sorry just looking, we’re going to keep walking. I mean, with over a dozen restaurants to choose from, why settle for the first, or even fifth, offer? Again, this was an issue of how a business could compete in such close proximity to its competitors, when they all had very little in the way of differentiation. One host was so bold as to follow us, step in front of us, and block us from walking any further. My silent fury was ignited, but Nate toppled like a deck of cards when the guy offered us free aperitifs and naan. Well, there's the differentiation after all, and I guess you can’t argue with bribery. And man, the chicken tikka and lamb vindaloo were delicious, but way too “farang spicy” (and yes, I’m mixing cultures here, but that’s what the Thai serve tourists eager for some kick but who aren’t at all able to handle the indigenous chilis).

Ahhhh, I love long weekends. I really felt like a local this morning as I grumbled my way back to work and silently identified with overheard complaints of employees returning to their offices from their lovely November vacances (vacations). But the toughest part of the day was learning that there is very likely going to be a weeklong transportation strike starting next Tuesday night. Good friggin’ grief, I’ve barely recovered from the last strike and now it’s going to quadruple in length…At least it’ll make for some interesting blogging.