Oui, mais Non

I caught the train from Soissons to Paris on Sunday morning, with Matthew.

He was a sweetheart and stayed with me as I navigated the transfer from the train to the metro I needed, heading toward Notre Dame. That’s where my accommodation was. I definitely could’ve done it on my own, but sometimes it’s nice to just switch off… and let someone else take the lead.

We ended up waiting in an excruciatingly long line for me to get a metro ticket… and I felt bad because Matthew was anxious to get home. The girl in front of us seemed to be having one issue after another… and her transaction was taking forever. At one point, I genuinely thought we might be living there now… in that line… at the Gard du Nord station.

That’s how long she took.

Eventually, she got her ticket… and then I managed to get mine.

There was a deranged lunatic onboard singing and preaching at full volume, for the entire duration of our metro ride. I had absolutely no idea what she was saying because it was all in French, but Matthew filled me in from time to time. Apparently, it was the ramblings of someone either schizophrenic, fanatically devout, heavily junked-up, stupefied… or… all of the above.

I suspect a heavy dose of all of the above.

I had one major issue with my Paris accommodation… check-in wasn’t allowed until 4:00PM, but my train arrived at noon. I had reached out multiple times to ask if I could drop off my bag a bit earlier, but they never responded. Well… they actually did… but only after some pestering and persistent nudging. And it was nothing more than a generic reply containing a link to paid luggage storage service. No explanation, no “sorry for any inconvenience”… just a link.

So, I took that as a “no.”

It felt like all our “conversations” were either handled by a bot, a third-party service… or someone who simply didn’t care. The responses I received were either cold, militant and borderline threatening… or nonexistent.

Some might blame it on a language barrier, but that doesn’t excuse a complete lack of politeness or basic courtesy.

Long story short, I still had to find a place to store my backpack for a few hours until I was permitted to check in.

4:00PM seemed a long way off.

I really had no desire to be wandering the city… lugging an anvil on my back… and searching for a luggage locker.

I did manage to find a luggage locker online… and about a 15-minute walk away from where I was going to be staying… which was the closest I could get.

When I arrived, I realized I was completely out of my element. I had absolutely no idea how it worked. There were about three dozen lockers… but it was a self-service setup with no one to assist… and no clear instructions posted anywhere.

I just stood there.

Usually I pride myself on being fairly self-sufficient and quite quick to figure things out… but I was at a loss. After standing around ogling like an idiot for a while, I finally resorted to asking ChatGPT what to do. That’s when I learned you had to pre-book a locker online.

Thank goodness for ChatGPT.

So… I pulled up the website, chose my present location, and went about trying to reserve a small locker for my pack.

Denied!

Pardon me?

Apparently my exact location was fully booked for the entire day of THIS day… which was the day and the ONLY day I needed to store my luggage. The website did provide a list of a few other locations “nearby” with availability… but what’s “nearby” when you don’t know the city super well… and you’re carrying a massive great slab on your back.

Annoying.

That’s what it is.

I was just about to figure out which one was closest to me when I received a message from my accommodation hosts… or bot… whatever.

My room was ready.

Wow!

Three and a half hours early… it was a miracle. Had I prepaid for a locker, I would’ve been completely out of pocket… and out of luck getting a refund. I turned around and headed straight for my accommodation.

My place was near Notre Dame, in a really trendy and fashionable part of town. Getting into the building was easy… and once inside, I was met with six flights of stairs to climb.

That’s right.

I was on the sixth floor. The top floor. That meant 129 steps up a steep, winding staircase (153 if you count the steps I took between floors and staircases). By the time I reached the top, I was huffing and puffing and completely out of breath… but I found my room.

It was the ONLY time I’ve patted myself on the “back” for having a backpack. I can’t even imagine the trauma of having to haul actual big, heavy luggage up these stairs… let alone down.

When I arrived, the cleaning lady was still finishing the laundry, but within mere minutes, she was done and let me in.

It was tiny.

So tiny!

Microscopic.

Possibly the (second) tiniest room I’d ever stayed in. Amsterdam took first place in that department.

As you enter, the bed was against the left-hand wall… and it was somewhere between a single and a double… but definitely not either. At the foot of the bed was an out-of-commission fireplace, and across from that, right in the middle of the room, was a small shower stand. Directly behind that was a cupboard and counter with a small sink, a washer and dryer… and… that was pretty much it.

How they managed to get a washing machine and dryer in there is completely beyond me, but I guess they didn’t want to haul dirty laundry up and down six flights of steep stairs. The toilet was communal… and out in the hallway.

There was no fridge, which was a little bit of an inconvenience for someone who appreciates whites and rosés. Personally… I think they could probably put a small one in place of the impractical fireplace structure. But… who am I to say?

It was adorable.

Seriously adorable.

The best part? The view.

Looking out over Paris, watching the sun set over the rooftops… it was spectacular.

I later discoveted that my room is what’s called a “chambre de bonne.”

What’s that?

A chambre de bonne is a small, single-room apartment typically found on the top floor of old Parisian buildings. They were originally meant for household servants… bonnes à tout faire…hence the name.

Tiny, but perfect.

It was exactly what I needed… plus a little step back into Parisian history.

After settling in and appreciating my surroundings (and my tremendous view), I went for a walk. I was fairly exhausted, so I didn’t venture too far, but I strolled along the Seine, past the Notre Dame, and down a few narrow streets… exploring… before heading back to my cozy, little den.

On the way, I felt obliged to grab some cheese, a baguette… and some French wine…

It would have been rude not to!

The following day, I had a food & wine tour scheduled at 11am. in the Notre Dame district.

Matthew had recently become a food tour guide in Paris, so I was thrilled to join his tour. If you’ve read any of my blogs, you know I’ve done my fair share of food tours… some incredible and awe inspiring… and some absolutely shit. The great ones are unforgettable and the absolute reason I started my Nibble company in the first place. The bad ones are a waste of time and money.

*like remember the guide in Doha who smoked the whole time and barely spoke to us?

Tours can be a crap shoot… and reviews don’t tend to help much either.

Matthew’s tour?

Phenomenal.

This was the first food tour I’ve ever taken where I left absolutely stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite. Every stop was filled with delicious food and delectable wines, making for an indulgent and satisfying experience. By the end, I was so full that all I wanted to do was take a nap.

Good thing it was raining when the tour ended… so I didn’t feel any intense guilt for heading back to my chambre de bonne to slip into a food coma.

What did we try?

~ Croissants seeping with Charentes-Poitou Butter.

~ Pierre Hermé Macarons.

~ Buckwheat crêpe (galette).

~ Quiche - not Lorraine obviously for me… but a savoury vegetarian slice.

~ 18 month aged Comté cheese.

~ Celeri remoulade.

~ Roquefort with Quince Jam.

~ Baguette Monge.

~ Fig bread.

… and so, so much more…

I didn’t even mention the cider, the multitude of white and red wines… or the Folie de l'Espinose brut sparkling wine!

Everything was parfait!

Matthew was an incredible guide… blending history, storytelling, food and wine effortlessly. He covered the history of the area, the Notre Dame fire and restoration, and even threw in tidbits about World War I, World War II, and the French Revolution. You could tell he loved what he did, and the rest of the group were smitten with him.

At one point, during my brief visit to Paris, I had considered visiting Notre Dame now that it was reopened to the public, but after seeing the absurdly long lines, I quickly abandoned the idea.

Next time…

Yes… a while ago, during my travels, I decided that I was absolutely done with churches.

And caves.

And forts.

And museums.

I didn’t really say I was done with forts and museums before… but having experienced so many in the last few months, I do think I need a break.

When you travel extensively… and you cut out all those things mentioned above… well, it doesn’t leave much left. I should NOT include the Notre Dame in the “not going into anymore churches” category. Victor Hugo would be utterly disgusted with me.

The shame!

Everyone had recommended that I visit the Shakespeare and Company bookstore near Notre Dame while I was in Paris. I had it pinpointed on my Google Maps… but I’m at a complete loss as to why I never visited it before.

On my first day, I avoided it like the plague. The line to get in was ridiculously long and I just didn’t have the patience to stand in the cold and wait. But on the second day, I decided I could endure the chill and wait it out.

I really did want to go in.

The wait wasn’t too bad… and once inside, it was everything I had hoped for… charming, historic, and full of character. Looking back, I’m kicking myself for not buying a book just to get the iconic Shakespeare & Co. stamp.

At least I know for next time: I’m going back, I’m buying a book… and I’m getting that stamp.

It’s funny how Paris has such a reputation for rude people. I’ve been here six or seven times… and I’ve only ever had the experience of encountering the kindest people. Sure, I’ve admitted before that I feel intimidated speaking French in front of native speakers… especially in Paris… but no one has ever been outright rude to me when I’m attempting to speak another language.

Well… except for that one snotty girl in the Fismes bakery. But that wasn’t in Paris.

And she was awful.

Anyway… back to Paris.

While I was out and about, wandering around the city, I stopped in the Marais district for a kir. I found an adorable little bistro along my stroll… and it was screaming for me to come in. I couldn’t fight the temptation… so in I went, sat at the bar. The girl at the bar was lovely and patiently allowed me to practice my French.

When I was ready to leave, I pulled out my card to pay.

Uh oh…

The bartender pointed to a sign above her that basically said all purchases under €16 had to be paid in cash.

Did I have any cash?

Non.

My wine? €3.50.

Oops.

My options were:

~ Drink a lot more wine. Four more glasses, to be exact.

~ Order food I wasn’t hungry for. I’d already eaten recently.

~ Order food for later. I really didn’t want to haul around expensive take out on my Parisian exploratory tour.

~ Panic.

Panic seemed my best option… obviously right after drinking four more glasses of wine.

I briefly considered offering her American dollars considering I had some on me… but that felt like the fastest way to be mistaken for an American tourist… not exactly what I wanted. At all.

I was stuck.

Then, completely unfazed, she just smiled and said, “It’s fine. Come back and pay whenever.”

Whenever?

What?

She told me I could return in the afternoon, later that evening, the next day… whenever I wanted.

“Ce n'est pas un problème.”

I was shocked.

Aghast!!!

Right in the heart of Paris… here was this complete stranger… trusting ME… a foreigner… to walk out without paying AND without leaving any collateral … and come back later with the money.

I couldn’t believe it.

Did she think I would come back???

Of course, I promised I’d be right back. I must have promised a million times before I actually walked out the door. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

I made my way to the closest ATM… which was a fair trek away… got some euros, and returned about 15 minutes later. She just smiled like it was nothing.

To this day, I still can’t believe it.

Paris has an unfair reputation.

Parisians are wonderful.

What do I love about Paris?

Mostly I both love and don’t love how good everyone looks in a beret. I was determined to buy a beret… and it became my number one priority as soon as I got to Paris.

Of course, the moment I actually started shopping for one, I realized very rapidly that berets were not for me. I tried one on… and I could not have looked more ridiculous had I tried. That was the end of my beret search.

I will not be getting a beret while I’m in France. It probably explains why I’ve never bought one in all the times I’ve been to Paris… because I look absurd in a beret.

I’ll just keep wandering around in my silly orange toque instead.

I love French cheese. Well… most of it. Let’s be honest, I’m not a fan of Munster cheese.

But the rest of the cheese? Oui.

The wine? Oui.

The Champagne? Oui.

The pastries? Oui.

The macarons? Oui.

The bread and the baguettes? Oui.

The croissants and the pain au chocolates? Absolument parfait.

Mostly, I love dramatically saying “croissant” in the exaggerated accents of Lumière from “Beauty and the Beast” or Chef Louis from “The Little Mermaid.”

I love the bicycles, the slow strolls, and the way café chairs are all perfectly arranged for people-watching.

I love the charming streets and the iconic landmarks. I love the fact that centuries of art, architecture and history are on display at every turn. I love the intangible magic about Paris that makes people fall in love with it.

Especially me.

The charm. The nostalgia. Walking along the same streets once wandered by Napoleon and Josephine, Edith Piaf, Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Marie Antoinette, Charles de Gaulle, Coco Chanel… and Zaz!

I love Paris.