Going to Paris

After a brief nervous sleep, a trip to Cedar Rapids chauffered by an unhappy boyfriend, an emotional good-bye, a flight to Cincinnatti, a flight to Atlanta, a brief visit to the members-only Crown Room in the Atlanta Airport where they called my sister "Kristin Godger" (she is married to Christian Kotscher), an eight-hour overseas flight in uncomfortable seats with vegan food that horrified my sister, and about an hour of sleep...my sister, Micki, and I fulfilled our dream. We landed, together, in Paris.

My sister and I have been talking about going to Paris together for many years. She's been there before, but I never have. She took French in college. I took German. But being so enamored with food and travel, of course Paris is a required destination. And finally, after much talk and planning and a mutual suspicion that the other would back out, there we were. In Paris. For real. On so little sleep, it was a little hard to believe.

But my sister and I get right down to business, and we like to do things for ourselves. So, rather than pay any of the eager taxi drivers tooling for cash-rich American tourists, we decided, bravely, suitcases in hand, to take the train into the city where I had never been before, and where my sister hadn't been in decades. After much studious gazing at the French train schedules, we purchased two tickets and boarded the train. We changed several times and at last, arrived proudly in the city, at the subway stop near the hotel we had booked for one full week: The New Orient Hotel. This small, charming hotel in the 8th arr. has a kind and friendly owner who gave us water and coffee and had our room made up early. It felt like the middle of the night to us, but in Paris, it was early afternoon.

We climbed the steep spiral staircase (I'm with my sister, you see, and we don't do elevators), we found our small room with two twin beds, a small desk, a private bath, free wireless internet, and television with a movie channel (in French, of course).

But tired as we were, we couldn't imagine going to sleep. We decided not to waste another moment of our first day. We studied our mapos, including a more comprehensive and detailed street map we had picked up at the front desk, and deciedd to follow the Montmarte walking tour in my book of Paris walking tours. And so, we set out.

First, we walked to Picasso's apartment, a small building in front of a small square called the Bateau-Lavoir. Then we walked up and down the colorful Rue des Abbesses, up the Rue Thologe, past the windmills, and finally to the Place du Tertre, where we ordered an early dinner in one of the outdoor cafes just in front of Sacre Coeur, surrounded by artists hocking their paintings. La Mere Catherine, a place we would visit again, may be a tourist trap and overpriced, but it was just what we needed that evening--Micki ordered the cheese ravioli she wished she would have had on the train, and I ordered the penne pesto. Just right, and the waiter must have seen our fatigue. He was warm and friendly. I had a hard cider, softly carbonated and golden, light and brightly apple-flavored. Perfect.

A cat jumped around on nearby tables and a little sparrow landed, cheekily, right on the edge of our bread basket, boldly nibbling on a baguette.

After dinner, we peeked into Sacre Coeur, and then went around to the front, to see the spectacular city view from the steps. Full, content, and sensually filled, we meandered down the hill, wandered past the Moulin Rouge, strolled through the less savory part of the city, then finally found our way back to the hotel.

Micki showered, I downloaded pictures and checked me email, and finally, we wound down and felt ready to turn in early. We wanted to be completely rested for a big day of sightseeing tomorrow.

I am already awed by how lovely and inspiring and exciting this city really is. Of course, I'd heard it was, but it's different to see it for myself. My book to read on this trip is Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, which adds to my feeling that this is a city for writers. But I was tired, so as I write about my first day, I start to dream while awake--or drift away to sleep while writing. So it's time for bed. In Paris. Bon soir, Paris.