1. The ride into town
Everything you have heard about Parisian waiters is no longer true. The days of the rude, snobbish Parisian waiter are over. They now realize there is a lot of money to be made from the tourist if you treat them well.
But, everything you have ever heard about Parisian taxicab drivers IS true: they are reckless, belligerent, aggressive, and rude. They have not changed a bit since the day I first saw Paris.
As soon as I got off the plane, I called a friend--a girl I had met in New York--and told her I was in town. She gave me her address on the Rue d'Argout on the Second Arrondissement. But in those days, I could neither pronounce the name of the street nor had I any idea that Paris was divided into twenty districts called "Arrondissements."
I rushed out of Charles De Gaulle Airport only half understanding where I was going. And, still groggy from the liters of alcohol I had drank on the flight and in Amsterdam, I got into the first cab I saw.
The taxi driver said something to me in French, opened the trunk and invited me--with a sweeping hand--to throw my luggage into the trunk. So much for extending any kind of courtesy to the passenger.
I was about the get into the back seat of the car when another driver came up and started shouting at my driver. From his gestures, not from any words of his since I could understand hardly any French, I gathered that I had gotten into a cab that was not the first in line. I, of course, couldn't care less what their taxi-stand protocol was. All I wanted to was to get the hell out of there, get to my friend's apartment, and get a drink. My priorities were well set, although in reverse order.
My driver slammed his door shut, opened his window so he could continue shouting at his opponent, the opponent kicked my driver's car, which prompted my driver to open his door and threaten to get out of the car, more shouting, and gesturing followed. I just leaned over and put my head against the rear seat head rest and promptly fell asleep.
We were rolling along the exit of the airport boulevard when a shout from my driver woke me up. A phrase from my high school French classes popped into my head: "Où allez vous, monsieur?" That was close enough to what the driver was shouting for me to understand that he wanted to know whas where to take me. A frightfully bizarre dialog followed:
"Yesss allezzz a roe des Argots," I mumbled.
"Quelle? Où? Je ne comprends pas, monsieur!"
"Oui, oui, les rus del Argusts, or something like that." Then, I wanted to add a bit of information that would (I thought) clarify things: "It is in the second rond derrier, or something like that."
"Mais, qu'est-ce que vous dites, monsieur? Êtes-vous fou?"
I remembered enough of my high school French to know he thought I was crazy. It was later that I found out I was directing him to the round rear end.
"Mais, non, mais non," I said trying to sound like Jean Gabin in the movies I had played hookie to see as a teenager.
"Sest tres sample," I said, "ist le rou de Argout."
The taxi swerved across three lanes of traffic and on to an emergency stop. The maneuver threw me up against the rear door window and then to the floor of the taxi. When I got up, the driver was rifling through a book of street maps. He finally found what he was looking for and he thrust the book at me and pointing at a spot on the page he said:
"Est-ce ceci? Est-ce la rue?"
I tried hard to focus. I got a piece of paper out of my pocket, looked at it, looked at the page and to the street his grubby finger pointed at, and nodded,
"Yup, that looks like that's it."
The driver threw the book down, put the car into gear, and rushed out of the emergency parking space midst much honking and yelling from the drivers he cut off.
About twenty minutes later, we arrived at the number 8 of the Rue d'Argout. It was a small street, indeed, as my friend had said. It was hardly a block long. But, I was to find out, it could not have been in a better place for a first time visitor to the city: the Place des Victoires was just a couple of blocks away; the Rue d'Argout ended at the Rue du Louvre on one end, and the Rue Montmartre on the other. The legendary Paroisse Saint Eustache, surrounded by great restaurants like the Pied de Cochon, and wonderful bistros was just blocks away, too. And so was "the stomach of Paris," as Les Halles, the greatest open outdoor market in the world was known. I was to wander around it just a couple of year before it disappeared. (I recommend people see "Le Temps des assassins," with Jean Gabin for the extraordinary shot of the market as it was in its prime; it can be seen from above through great crane shots and down and dirty as the characters in this movie, titled "Deadlier than the male" in English, wander around in it.)
The entrance door to number 8 was large and painted a bright red. As the taxi driver rumbled away, my friend come to the balcony and yelled down,
"Hulooo, I'll buzz you in, wait a sec."
The buzzer sounded and I pushed the heavy door open. I dragged my luggage in after me but then stood there wondering where I was to go since I had walked into a courtyard with several doors and windows.
But, my friend came to my rescue. She came out of one of the doors, smiling. She came up to me, embraced me, and kissed me on both cheeks, and said,
"Just leave your stuff there; no one will touch it. I'll take you later to the hotel I booked for you. It's not far away."
She led me to the door from whence she had appeared and then up a wide, noisy, old, wooden stairway. Two, huge brown wooden doors led to her apartment. She asked me to leave my shoes at the door and we went into the living room which was furnished with large pillows and carpets. Several ladies dressed in beautiful saris of various, strong colors sat on the carpets and leaned on the pillows. There were drinks on a large, low, lacquered table. The drinks looked invitingly like whisky highballs.
"Mother," said my friend, "Rodolfo is here. You remember him from New York."
"Ah, yes. The young man who kept dropping things." The other ladies snickered at this.
I went over to "mother", or Ama, as everyone called her. And extended my hand.
"Young man, I do not shake hands while I am having my afternoon drink and eating tidbits with my fingers. And, do sit down before you give us all a crick in the neck from having to look up at you."
I blushed and did as I was told. The other ladies giggled and my friend said,
"Oh, mother, stop being so rude." And then to me: "Would you like a drink?"
"Oh, yes, please," I said.
Ama looked at me with eyes that were like a cobra's, ready to strike.
"What are you doing in Paris, young man?" There was an accusatory tone in her voice, like that a police investigator might use on a suspect.
"I, well," I stammered, "you see, the company I work for, that is, they are building a theater, the French, not our company, and since we, I that is, I did a, well, we were the first to build..."
"You do know that it is best to speak in complete sentences, don't you, young man? It makes it so much easier for a listener to understand you."
"I'm sorry, " I said laughing nervously, "what I meant to say is that our company was the first to build a hemispheric theater outside of the US. There have been four built in Mexico. The French asked for a consultant to help them get the one they are building right, since we have solved most of the problems that kind of theater presents."
"Hence they sent you here."
"Yes."
"And pray tell, what is a hemispheric theater?"
"Well, imagine a hollow sphere, cut in half, then set on a 16 degree angle. But the half sphere is 80 feet in diameter, and under it, people sit to watch movies or audiovisual programs about the stars, since there will be projectors and a planetarium in it."
"Very interesting," she said, although by her tone it was obvious she meant the opposite. The other ladies again giggled.
My friend came in with my drink and some munchies in a bowl. She put them on the low table, and said,
"Rodolfo, these ladies are my friends. They work for Air India so when you come to India to visit, they will help you find the best and cheapest ticket to get there.
The two ladies said in a chorus, "Oh, yes, indeed."
The time passed with gossip and chit chat between Ama and the visiting ladies. I had my drink and relaxed. I was about to ask for another when my friend said taking me by the hand,
"Come, let's go to your hotel because you have to check in before three PM."
I wished everyone a good afternoon but no one seemed very interested in my leaving. So, I followed my friend to the hallway door, put on my shoes, and off we went.
My luggage was at the street door, untouched as my friend had said it would be. I picked it up and we walked to the hotel.
It was a family hotel in the Rue Bouloi, just three short blocks away from the Rue d'Argout. It was a small affair with just three floors beside the lobby floor, and four rooms to each floor. I was given a small room on the topmost floor. The bed and television matched the smallness of the room but it was clean and quiet. It had a window that looked out into an alley. The alley was lively because the patrons of a bar and a restaurant went in and out at all hours. When I opened the window to let some fresh air in, accordion music drifted up from the restaurant.
"I think I'm going to like this room," I said.
"So am I," said my friend.
Next my first Parisian Adventure in Part 3.
Everything you have heard about Parisian waiters is no longer true. The days of the rude, snobbish Parisian waiter are over. They now realize there is a lot of money to be made from the tourist if you treat them well.
But, everything you have ever heard about Parisian taxicab drivers IS true: they are reckless, belligerent, aggressive, and rude. They have not changed a bit since the day I first saw Paris.
As soon as I got off the plane, I called a friend--a girl I had met in New York--and told her I was in town. She gave me her address on the Rue d'Argout on the Second Arrondissement. But in those days, I could neither pronounce the name of the street nor had I any idea that Paris was divided into twenty districts called "Arrondissements."
I rushed out of Charles De Gaulle Airport only half understanding where I was going. And, still groggy from the liters of alcohol I had drank on the flight and in Amsterdam, I got into the first cab I saw.
The taxi driver said something to me in French, opened the trunk and invited me--with a sweeping hand--to throw my luggage into the trunk. So much for extending any kind of courtesy to the passenger.
I was about the get into the back seat of the car when another driver came up and started shouting at my driver. From his gestures, not from any words of his since I could understand hardly any French, I gathered that I had gotten into a cab that was not the first in line. I, of course, couldn't care less what their taxi-stand protocol was. All I wanted to was to get the hell out of there, get to my friend's apartment, and get a drink. My priorities were well set, although in reverse order.
My driver slammed his door shut, opened his window so he could continue shouting at his opponent, the opponent kicked my driver's car, which prompted my driver to open his door and threaten to get out of the car, more shouting, and gesturing followed. I just leaned over and put my head against the rear seat head rest and promptly fell asleep.
We were rolling along the exit of the airport boulevard when a shout from my driver woke me up. A phrase from my high school French classes popped into my head: "Où allez vous, monsieur?" That was close enough to what the driver was shouting for me to understand that he wanted to know whas where to take me. A frightfully bizarre dialog followed:
"Yesss allezzz a roe des Argots," I mumbled.
"Quelle? Où? Je ne comprends pas, monsieur!"
"Oui, oui, les rus del Argusts, or something like that." Then, I wanted to add a bit of information that would (I thought) clarify things: "It is in the second rond derrier, or something like that."
"Mais, qu'est-ce que vous dites, monsieur? Êtes-vous fou?"
I remembered enough of my high school French to know he thought I was crazy. It was later that I found out I was directing him to the round rear end.
"Mais, non, mais non," I said trying to sound like Jean Gabin in the movies I had played hookie to see as a teenager.
"Sest tres sample," I said, "ist le rou de Argout."
The taxi swerved across three lanes of traffic and on to an emergency stop. The maneuver threw me up against the rear door window and then to the floor of the taxi. When I got up, the driver was rifling through a book of street maps. He finally found what he was looking for and he thrust the book at me and pointing at a spot on the page he said:
"Est-ce ceci? Est-ce la rue?"
I tried hard to focus. I got a piece of paper out of my pocket, looked at it, looked at the page and to the street his grubby finger pointed at, and nodded,
"Yup, that looks like that's it."
The driver threw the book down, put the car into gear, and rushed out of the emergency parking space midst much honking and yelling from the drivers he cut off.
About twenty minutes later, we arrived at the number 8 of the Rue d'Argout. It was a small street, indeed, as my friend had said. It was hardly a block long. But, I was to find out, it could not have been in a better place for a first time visitor to the city: the Place des Victoires was just a couple of blocks away; the Rue d'Argout ended at the Rue du Louvre on one end, and the Rue Montmartre on the other. The legendary Paroisse Saint Eustache, surrounded by great restaurants like the Pied de Cochon, and wonderful bistros was just blocks away, too. And so was "the stomach of Paris," as Les Halles, the greatest open outdoor market in the world was known. I was to wander around it just a couple of year before it disappeared. (I recommend people see "Le Temps des assassins," with Jean Gabin for the extraordinary shot of the market as it was in its prime; it can be seen from above through great crane shots and down and dirty as the characters in this movie, titled "Deadlier than the male" in English, wander around in it.)
The entrance door to number 8 was large and painted a bright red. As the taxi driver rumbled away, my friend come to the balcony and yelled down,
"Hulooo, I'll buzz you in, wait a sec."
The buzzer sounded and I pushed the heavy door open. I dragged my luggage in after me but then stood there wondering where I was to go since I had walked into a courtyard with several doors and windows.
But, my friend came to my rescue. She came out of one of the doors, smiling. She came up to me, embraced me, and kissed me on both cheeks, and said,
"Just leave your stuff there; no one will touch it. I'll take you later to the hotel I booked for you. It's not far away."
She led me to the door from whence she had appeared and then up a wide, noisy, old, wooden stairway. Two, huge brown wooden doors led to her apartment. She asked me to leave my shoes at the door and we went into the living room which was furnished with large pillows and carpets. Several ladies dressed in beautiful saris of various, strong colors sat on the carpets and leaned on the pillows. There were drinks on a large, low, lacquered table. The drinks looked invitingly like whisky highballs.
"Mother," said my friend, "Rodolfo is here. You remember him from New York."
"Ah, yes. The young man who kept dropping things." The other ladies snickered at this.
I went over to "mother", or Ama, as everyone called her. And extended my hand.
"Young man, I do not shake hands while I am having my afternoon drink and eating tidbits with my fingers. And, do sit down before you give us all a crick in the neck from having to look up at you."
I blushed and did as I was told. The other ladies giggled and my friend said,
"Oh, mother, stop being so rude." And then to me: "Would you like a drink?"
"Oh, yes, please," I said.
Ama looked at me with eyes that were like a cobra's, ready to strike.
"What are you doing in Paris, young man?" There was an accusatory tone in her voice, like that a police investigator might use on a suspect.
"I, well," I stammered, "you see, the company I work for, that is, they are building a theater, the French, not our company, and since we, I that is, I did a, well, we were the first to build..."
"You do know that it is best to speak in complete sentences, don't you, young man? It makes it so much easier for a listener to understand you."
"I'm sorry, " I said laughing nervously, "what I meant to say is that our company was the first to build a hemispheric theater outside of the US. There have been four built in Mexico. The French asked for a consultant to help them get the one they are building right, since we have solved most of the problems that kind of theater presents."
"Hence they sent you here."
"Yes."
"And pray tell, what is a hemispheric theater?"
"Well, imagine a hollow sphere, cut in half, then set on a 16 degree angle. But the half sphere is 80 feet in diameter, and under it, people sit to watch movies or audiovisual programs about the stars, since there will be projectors and a planetarium in it."
"Very interesting," she said, although by her tone it was obvious she meant the opposite. The other ladies again giggled.
My friend came in with my drink and some munchies in a bowl. She put them on the low table, and said,
"Rodolfo, these ladies are my friends. They work for Air India so when you come to India to visit, they will help you find the best and cheapest ticket to get there.
The two ladies said in a chorus, "Oh, yes, indeed."
The time passed with gossip and chit chat between Ama and the visiting ladies. I had my drink and relaxed. I was about to ask for another when my friend said taking me by the hand,
"Come, let's go to your hotel because you have to check in before three PM."
I wished everyone a good afternoon but no one seemed very interested in my leaving. So, I followed my friend to the hallway door, put on my shoes, and off we went.
My luggage was at the street door, untouched as my friend had said it would be. I picked it up and we walked to the hotel.
It was a family hotel in the Rue Bouloi, just three short blocks away from the Rue d'Argout. It was a small affair with just three floors beside the lobby floor, and four rooms to each floor. I was given a small room on the topmost floor. The bed and television matched the smallness of the room but it was clean and quiet. It had a window that looked out into an alley. The alley was lively because the patrons of a bar and a restaurant went in and out at all hours. When I opened the window to let some fresh air in, accordion music drifted up from the restaurant.
"I think I'm going to like this room," I said.
"So am I," said my friend.
Next my first Parisian Adventure in Part 3.
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