Paris. In my mind the name conjures  images of pastries/macarons/croissants, monuments, Haussmann buildings, chic fashion, wine, the Eiffel tower, starving writers in garrets (a la Moulin Rouge), palaces, history and the French Revolution, the Sorbonne, the French language, poets and philosophers, museums like the Louvre, cathedrals like Notre Dame, artists in Montmartre, and the list goes on.

Where to start? I am here for ten days but is that enough time to see what I want to see, even though I have been here as recently as 8 years ago? No it is not. But a rest is in order too and very much so. I need to prioritise and health comes first. I need a break from hostels. I need some time on my own so no Servas either. I turn to Air BnB the night before I leave Dublin and find and book a cheap apartment (for around €30 per night which is great for Europe and Paris, I’m told), arrive via train to Gare du Nord, and, assisted by a woman I just met called Marie-Lisette, I get a taxi to the designated address.

I am stressed and running later than expected, and lacking wifi again to contact the owner. I was supposed to meet him at 430pm and it is now just after 5. I ask the taxi driver in French if I can borrow his phone to call the mobile phone number I’d been given. He shrugs as only French men can do and proffers his phone but because I have no wifi I cannot access my Air BnB account to get the phone number. Frustration. I see some people entering the address I am going to so I get out, thank him quickly and run to the door with my bags. In many instances in Europe, there is an outer door only accessible by number or swipe, then an inner door with the same; which is great for security. The building is 6 storeys tall on Rue Barbès – as I am to discover it is a fabulous location.

I wait inside the small lobby for an opportunity to get through the inner door. I don’t know what I was thinking; maybe just go inside and wait? I have a name but I don’t know the flat number, only that it is on the sixth floor. An elderly man wearing a long tunic and round white skullcap is at the mailboxes – I find out later that many Tunisians live here alongside many from other French colonies such as Congo, Niger etc. I ask him in French if he knows the man I am looking for. He shakes his head and asks which floor. I say the 6th but he shakes his head again. More frustration. I try and work out how I am going to get wifi. Maybe a nearby café? A younger man overhearing our conversation interrupts us in English with, “Are you wanting the Air BnB flat on the sixth floor?” Flabbergasted, I say yes. It turns out that he is the man I am looking for, who was on his way outside to wait for me. I am speechless. K  – a friend of the owner and managing the property for him – is Tunisian and has great English.

He immediately lifts up my large suitcase which weighs about 18 kg and heads upstairs. Six floors. No lift. By floor 4 I am puffing a bit but he shoots ahead and opens the flat door for me. I arrive not long after, thinking this will be great exercise for me over the next ten days.

The room is small, single bedroom size, a bit shoddy and of questionable cleanliness. The bathroom/shower is tiny and so is the kitchenette but it is workable. There is a small bar fridge, a toaster oven, and a single pan size portable cook-top. I ask K how to use the cook-top. He tries to switch it on but it is obvious that the dodgy-ness has meant it’s stopped working. He decides to buy a new one there and then and disappears downstairs to the street re-appearing 15 minutes later with a brand new one. There is no washing machine but I decide I can hand wash anything small when I shower.

The ceiling, being in a top floor Parisian attic or garrett, is sloped but fortunately this is over the bed area so I don’t have to worry about bumping my head on the ceiling. K then opens up the sofa bed into double-bed size and it fills the room right up to the wall shelves. Later I will have to do a type of sideways judo roll over the bed to get from the window to the rest of the flat. I am not worried. It will serve my purpose. There is no wifi in the flat (which was advertised on the website) but he explains that I can use the Free wifi, an open network available to the public. Yay! Finally, easy access wifi. But there is a catch as I find out. It slows down with the more people using it, so it does not work between the hours of 8-10 am and 6-8 pm. K shows me how to flush the toilet  – a disconcerting side effect is that the kitchen sink bubbles up whenever you do it – and politely explains everything to me not only as a tenant but almost as if I am his mother making sure I know how to use everything. It is a sweet gesture.

The best part is the view. My windows look onto the church basilica of  Sacre Coeur, about 400 metres away up the hill.

The next morning my task is to find food at the close by supermarché. I buy a ten pack of chocolate croissants – one for each morning – some chocolate milk – because you have to drink hot chocolate with your croissant! – fruit, nuts, garlic, eggs and mushrooms for omelettes, juice, and a bottle of Rosé wine from the French actor Gérard Depardieu’s vineyard to have with my snacks of olives and dip for dinner. It’s easy to eat simply and cheaply when on my own, especially with a fridge and cooktop.

I spend the next two days holed up in my room resting, updating this blog, laying around reading, sleeping a lot, and taking a montage of the Sacre Coeur from my window in all its day and night time finery.

 

By day three, refreshed and revitalised, I am ready to venture forth.

The French know how to do long picturesque vistas on boulevards lined with green towering trees and overlooked by grand Hausmann buildings decorated with ornate porticoes and balconies in iron lace. In cities with a metro subway I cannot feel the atmosphere of the place when I descend into the depths in one area and emerge in a different area, in the process missing everything in between. So I walk; aware of not overdoing it and pacing myself, but enjoying breathing it all in. It will be good see what I have seen before and discover that which I have not. Did I mention that I like to walk around cities? There is a French word for this – flaneur – that is someone who walks around and observes. I will spend the next few days being a flaneur. Plus it is gorgeous weather (18-20 degrees) and Paris puts on a great show.

But Paris doesn’t even have to try to make you fall in love with it.

Walking south through my suburb toward the Seine I wander without destination and come across interesting corners and other delights: the Folies Bergere, an Australian pub where I have Belgian beer (?), the magnificent Opèra with its golden statues, and the famous Moulin Rouge. Just to stand outside these well-known landmarks and gawk is great. I forgot to mention that Paris is the city of love, of course. I see many wedding photographers, grooms and brides while here.

I then switch back north toward the Sacre Coeur near Montmartre, loving the typical Parisian character, and hoping to arrive in time to catch the afternoon light there before making my way back home around sunset (730pm ish).

 

Through cobblestone streets, I arrive at the bottom of the basilica grounds and look up. Sacre Coeur is breathtaking.  I pause to have my Amelie moment next to the merry-go-round then head to the stairs. Children are happily playing with chalk on the concrete, unaware of a strong military presence with soldiers carrying rifles not far away. I will come to see a lot of these soldiers at various famous monuments around Paris. It is a sober reminder of what has affected the Parisian way of life, but as a tourist it is also comforting.

Of course there are also many touts selling miniatures of the monuments, ready to scatter at the first sight of police. The soldiers ignore them. I hurry up the stairs so I can get a look inside the church before sunset.

But before I enter the church there is a show outside. A busker (?) has decided to put on a show for all the people sitting on the steps waiting for sunset over the city, so in a way he has a captive audience and a fabulous backdrop. He starts with a few basic tricks with a soccer ball, then jumps up on a pedestal continuing to balance the ball while doing handstands. During the routine he takes of his shirt  – this gets a round of applause and hoots – showing off impressive abs that I can see clearly even from my vantage point, especially after I zoom in closer with my camera. For his finale, he climbs the nearby lamp-post, still doing soccer ball tricks, and poses in mid-air. He then clambers down and humbly places a hat on the pedestal for tips, getting quite a bit of money for his effort.

The sunlight is hitting the church perfectly. It is only right to pause to enjoy it.

Now for a peek inside. It is a working church so after bags are checked at the entrance the public walk in respectful silence through the enormous doorway. I can hear the glorious melodious harmonies of nuns singing.  They sound like angels.

It is now time to enjoy watching the city as dusk falls.

I head down some stairs toward home relishing my first full day out and about in Paris. And what a great way to end it. It was a good dose today. 14,000 steps.

But my day is not yet done.

I stop by the small supermarket on the way home to get some wine and cheese for tomorrow evening. It is now dark and, after climbing the 6 flights of steps in my building, I reach the landing of my floor to find that the hall light is not working. I fumble with my bag to get my phone out as a torch so I can open the door. I try the key in the lock and turn but nothing happens. I try again. And again. And again. After five or six tries I am stumped. I cannot unlock the door. What do I do? I cannot contact K because his phone number is inside the flat. And, guess what else of course? I cannot use the wifi as it is slow due to peak period. I am a little frustrated but I decide to wait until the wifi is faster, in about 30 minutes. Pardon the pun, but I feel a little bit down, and definitely out, in Paris.

Just then a neighbour approaches, a middle-aged man. In French I ask him for his help, explaining my situation. He thinks for a moment, shrugs, and reaches into his work bag and pulls out an enormous pair of pliers. I am taken aback. Where exactly was he hiding them? He attaches the pliers to the key to assist it to turn in the lock. I hold my phone as a torch for him but I cringe every time he twists the pliers, worried that he will break the key off in the lock. Then I will be up for the cost of replacing the key and getting a locksmith out after hours to fix the lock which could cost me up to €500 he tells me as he pulls and wrenches his weight against the lock without a care. Eventually he gives up. The lock is refusing to budge. I am happy in a way in the knowledge that my door is so strong and safe. He tells me something I don’t understand in French and walks away to his apartment. I thank him thinking that he has given up. But, no. He returns a moment later with a different tool – a type of paint scraper. What does this guy do for a living? He then inserts the paint scraper between the door jamb and the door trying to lever the lock open. Bits of paint and splinters of wood from the door fall to the floor. How can I politely ask him to stop? He is intent on not being beaten by this door. He actually levers off the outer casing of the lock, leaving just the key part. I am freaking out. I suggest that I will wait til the owner comes and get him to sort it out. This idea is a good one and the man ceases his efforts, tells me the owner will have to break the door down, and leaves with his tools. I breathe a sigh of relief.

So I sit in the dark at the top of the stairwell checking the wifi every now and then – which is still not working properly – and wait. It is now almost 830 pm.

I am a little concerned because I wonder that if K cannot open the door, he will have to pay for me to sleep in a hotel maybe – something I was not looking forward to without my clothes or toiletries, but doable in this bizarre situation.

Then I see another neighbour approaching, a young guy. He is startled to see me sitting in the dark. I apologise to him. He asks me in perfect English what is the matter? I explain my situation. He is immediately concerned for my welfare, and very thoughtful and helpful, offering the use of his wifi and his phone, a drink of water or the use of his toilet. His name is Pierre. I am blown away by his aid. With the use of his excellent wifi I access my Airbnb account and am able to call K. Yay.

K is very sympathetic and apologetic. However, he is outside Paris and cannot get back to town for another hour and a half – around 10 pm. I tell him he cannot expect me to not go to the toilet or eat anything during that time, surely (although I do have my warm bottle of wine and some cheese still in my bag). He politely asks can I go to a café and wait for him, please? Frustrated but unable to do anything about it, I say yes.

While I am having this conversation with K, Pierre’s neighbour and friend from one floor below, A, climbs the stairs to invite Pierre to dinner. Pierre tells him of my dilemma. Five minutes later I am sitting at the dining room table in A and his girlfriend C’s flat, drinking my wine that I just happened to have with me and eating a  feast of a sumptuous roast chicken and veges meal, getting a little drunk on wine, atmosphere, and good fortune.

We have such a wonderful time. I feel so relaxed and comfortable with these kind people that I have just met and cannot believe my luck to be with a great group. We chat in French and English and discuss housing, jobs, politics, Paris, France, Sarkozy, my trip, Iceland, and lots of other wine-fuelled topics, and I forget about the time. When there is a break in the conversation it suddenly dawns on me and I check my phone. It is 1030 pm. Uh oh.

I borrow Pierre’s phone to call K. K answers, a little short with me, and tells me he arrived at the flat, waited for half an hour, and went home. Oh no. I apologise and ask him to come back as I am now at the flat (K lives close by). I wait for him downstairs this time and open the outer door for him. I hope he cannot smell alcohol on my breath.

We climb the 6 flights together and  I go through the same procedure with me holding the phone torch, but K has no tools to open the door. Instead, he has brought a little oil in a jar to wet the key with. I tell him that the lock is the problem, not the key, but he tries it anyway without success. What is it with these men? He keeps trying and trying but nothing is working. I am hoping that in the semi-dark he cannot see the marks from the paint-scraper-levering incident. He pauses a moment to call his friend, the owner. They have a quick discussion in French. With increasing alarm as I listen, I can make out that K is suggesting we break the door down, then I go inside and shut it and wedge a chair or something up against it overnight and he can get it fixed in the morning. I wait anxiously while K hangs up and informs me of what he suggested. I am silently relieved to hear that the owner’s response was that it is a bad idea and tells him to keep trying.

Then, K is talking to me and fiddling with the key in the lock and not concentrating on what he is doing while I am holding the torch and asking him about staying in a hotel, when the lock miraculously unlocks. We both pause a moment and look at each other in the torchlight, stupefied. K gently pushes on the door and it opens, and he has this great smile all over his face. I say, ‘what did you do?’ He replies, ‘I wasn’t thinking about it.’ He seemed to believe that was the reason why it worked.

I am so happy I could cry. I have had a roller coaster of an evening, and I am sure the wine has helped with me feeling emotional. We both enter the flat and K has a closer look at the lock from the other side, trying it a few times. I am concerned that I will have an issue tomorrow. He tells me to turn it slowly, without force and without thinking about it, and it will work. K also tells me to call him if there is an issue. I thank him  and apologise again for earlier but he brushes it off. He sets off downstairs almost skipping.

I wait a few moments until I am sure he is gone and walk back down one flight to let my new neighbours know that all is well and to thank them for their hospitality.

I then gingerly shut my door on a moveable feast of a day.