Paris: Day by Day

Day 1:

We arrive in Paris on the Eurostar. Upon leaving the train station Rich reads our directions to the hostel in Montmarte. Earnestly and loudly he mispronounces Rue de Dunkerque as “Roo da Dunkerkoo”. Our occupation as American tourists has been firmly and publicly cemented. 

In our first five minutes in Paris I see more beautiful women than I have in the past year. All tact and charm goes out the window. My ineptitude is not helped by a steep language barrier and the shock to the system that is beautiful women after weeks in Iceland and Scotland (more sheep than people in those places).

Through more mispronunciations and only a few wrong turns we make it to the hostel (Tirrill’s credits this to his great sense of direction and natural intuition). This hostel houses the nicest room we’ve had yet: two windows, enough space to actually hold us, less creaky bunk beds, a desk, and the crème de le crème, our own bathroom. We laugh, we cry we group hug, we smell our collective B.O. Rich immediately puts our private shower to use.

The unwashed lads set out to find cheap wine and baguettes. In the market we find one-euro bottles of red wine and Tirrill finds a ten pack of Kinder Bueno bars. My cashier, completely unprovoked and in very limited English, attempts to sell me less than legal substances. I politely and nervously refuse. He kindly insists. This back and forth goes on for a few minutes before he finally hands me my receipt and I make my escape. Maybe buying three bottles of wine and nothing else sent the wrong message…

I open our bottles of wine and we collect the freshly showered Rich. I also open a bottle for a random Australian in the hostel. In 3 minutes of conversation she supports Rich and mine’s assertions that Australians make friendlier first impressions than almost any other nationality. We head up the numerous steps to Sacre Coeur to procure a view of Paris at night. We succeed. It is beautiful. 

Artsy wine bottle photo. Rich is such a hipster.

While lounging on marble steps in the Parisian nighttime air we are mistaken for actual Parisians by a nearby group who ask us to come talk and drink with them.  Our dumb and vacant stares upon being asked this question in French inform the girl of her incorrect assumption. We hang out anyways.

This girl mentions she is the talent agent for the young blonde guy in her “drinking on the steps” group. We politely ask him about his acting career. He casually claims to be “in” an upcoming Michael Bay film, Project Almanac, and that he is currently in Paris for Taken 3. We assume he has bit parts and move on with the conversation. Eventually the two groups part ways and we are invited to meet them for dinner the next night if our plans can accommodate it.  We exchange names, take a group photo, and go home. We also get croque monsieur and kebab wraps on the walk home, excellent decision.

 (The photo was on the talent agent's phone. We don't have it.)

Day 2:

We wake up wishing we hadn’t drank cheap wine. In our rehash of the wonderful night before we decide to google the “actor” we met. The results yield a surprise. Johnny Weston, our blonde friend from Sacre Creur, seriously undersold himself to us. He’s actually an actor, not just one of the hundred nameless Taken thugs that Liam Neeson has made his recent career out of beating to a pulp. He's the lead actor in the aforementioned Michael Bay film and he's 5th billing on Taken 3.

We take the metro to Paris proper to explore all the necessary sights for Zeke and Tirrill’s first respective visits to the city. We hit the Arc De Triomphe. It’s beautiful and grand. We watch the ridiculously hectic roundabout, eagerly and morbidly waiting for a wreck. I think we would have really enjoyed the coliseum in Rome.  We walk the Champs-Elysees. We see the Grand Palais. We see the Eiffel Tower. We see the Hopital des Invalides. We took the metro home with one of the most beautiful girls in Paris. Rich was speechless. I stared. Tirrill had his back to her. Zeke mustered more class and poise.  She is new a Great White Buffalo, Great White Buffalo, Great White Buffalo...

Arc de Triomphe and the hellish roundabout

Eiffel Tower (and sock monkey and Hobbes)

Hopital des Invalides

Day 3:

Versaille. We encounter a miserably long line in the hot sun. We share said line with an extremely friendly and interesting family from Utah on vacation and the wait flies by. We find a true appreciation for the word “baroque” while exploring the opulent trappings of the palace. Zeke and I derive all too much pleasure out of the absurd and random details of various paintings decorating the walls. Our giggling earn us the disapproving looks from 8 year old school children, their handlers, and old german couples.

 (Missing the Versaille photos that Rich has yet to upload. Stay tuned on Facebook for the aforementioned opulence.)

 We venture into the gardens. We see fountains, ponds, flowers, trees, statues, kissing couples, arguing families, canoes and ponies and golf-carts we couldn’t afford to rent, more statues, hidden restaurants. We do some prime people watching. We get lost. We keep on stumbling upon more and more buildings and properties scattered across the 2,014 acres. Tirrill’s map reading skills get us off the property before it all shuts down for the night. At the metro stop a very obvious pickpocket sidles up to our group. I stare him down. He makes a move for Zeke’s wallet. Zeke stops his attempt with a quick hand in the wallet pocket maneuver whilst giving the petty thief an “are you kidding me" eyebrow raise. The world’s worst criminal then hops on the next train in embarrassment.  We return to the hostel and eat a sickening amount of bread, cheese, chorizo, and of course Kinder Bueno's. We watch Switzerland get crushed by France in the world cup.Their goalie is awful.

This guy. Diego Benaglio.

Day 4:

More exploring of Paris. We see Notre Dame. We eat street food. We see the Lourve. We sit by a fountain in the blistering sun and watch ducks. We see the Luxor Obelisk. I loved it. We watch people almost get conned into a shell game. We lose interest and retire to a shady patch of grass. A nearby family grows weary of our roughhousing and general shenanigans. The dad stares us down angrily, we continue, they move away. We are victorious. We head back to Montemarte to see Sacre Coeur in the daylight. It is equally beautiful in the sun as it is at night. On the steps outside I see my 84^th example of blatant and heavy PDA. Paris obviously has different expectations for that behavior than Chapel Hill.  We walk around Montemarte aimlessly in the sun. We drink our last bottles of cheap French wine. We play our 43rd game of spades and eat more Bueno's. We retire early to guarantee a good night’s sleep before our 5:30 am wake up call.  Paris has been an absolute delight. On to Lisbon!

(Missing some photos here that are still on Rich's phone. There's one with the obelisk silhouetted against the sun which is casting a halo around the golden top of the great monolith. It is such a sick photo.)