Ça c'est Paris
It was late afternoon after a few red wines and a long city stroll, and there I was staring into the abyss otherwise known as a dark, damp, dank squat toilet. For a moment, I wasn't sure where I was: some rural Asian outpost, or Paris?
Well, this was Paris, and this particular toilette was in a crowded bar. I'd paid two francs for the privilege. As I quietly thanked God that I had left my haute couture hanging in the wardrobe that morning, I entered the cubicle only to discover moments later that the loo light was on a timer but that's another story!
Yes, Parisian toilettes are a strange affair. First, there is the huge selection of public conveniences from underground men's pissoirs (which I am yet to see anyone enter, let alone exit), to that high-tech version of the port-a-loo the self-flushing "Tardis." For two francs, these chrome and concrete wonders provide 15 minutes of privacy on even the busiest Parisian boulevard. Sure, it's a bit wet inside, but that's the price you pay for cleanliness: these wonders of dunny design flush from the ceiling down with a fumigant that would kill a Bastille rat. Ominously, children under 10 aren't allowed to enter on their own!
Secondly, Parisian loos are full of surprises. You could be in a swank little cafe, but one look at the bathroom and you'll want to cross your legs for a month. Other times, the WC comes complete with bottles of French cologne, those peculiar automatic plastic seat covers that can keep a novice entertained for ... well, minutes, and even fresh flowers (one I frequented had a vase of Australian wattle of all things!).
But the problem of finding a half-decent toilet pales into insignificance when you consider some other Paris peculiarities. Take crowds, for instance. When I visited in early November, it was pretty squashy, with Japanese and American tourists fighting for elbow space at certain photo opportunities. But in the summer months, when Parisians depart the city en masse, the tourists invade. No matter what time of day or night, and regardless of weather, it's a war zone out there.
Divided into 20 zones or arrondissements, Paris is a sprawling mess of streets, avenues and boulevards. My favorite thing is to spend whole days wandering, looking at the apartment blocks with their wrought-iron balconies, louvers and flower boxes. Shop windows are big and colorful and cafe tables and chairs litter the footpaths.
But if you want to find a place on your own, forget it. You'd have more luck finding a Frenchman who doesn't like baguettes. There's even a permanent crowd at the grave of the late Doors singer, Jim Morrison, in the P`ere Lachaise cemetery, for God's sake.
And there's no respite to be found in Parisian parks either. These manicured pieces of art are few and far between. Jardin de Luxembourg and Jardin Des Tuileries are two of the biggest and the locals love them: they sit in them, eat in them, kiss in them, and on weekends, dressed in shiny tracksuits, they go jogging in them.
As for visiting the tourist hotspots the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and the Sacre Coeur cathedral I often felt like I'd joined a slow-moving queue. Want a look at the Mona Lisa? A take-a-ticket-and-wait system would probably work best. Stroll along the Champs-Elysees? It feels as romantic as a walk through a lunchtime crowd on ulica Marszalkowska.
I foolishly ventured into Galeries Lafayette Paris' premiere (and most expensive) department store that stocks everything from Vivienne Westwood's nouveau punk to John Galliano's designs for the impossibly thin. It was a panic-attack inducing experience. I'd hate to think what the crowds are like at sale time an all-out brawl perhaps? After 20 minutes, including a quick moment spent appreciating the building's glorious glass-dome ceiling, I had to get outta there. Besides, I later discovered some great bargains around Rue de Turenne in the 3rd Rue d'Alesia in the 14th arrondissement where there are discount outlets.
I also partook in that great Parisian pastime trawling through other people's stuff at the spectacular Marche aux Puces where there are more than 2,000 stands selling antiques and bric-a-brac. A quick ride away on the (crowded) metro, the marche was just as packed, with people haggling over everything from pieces of chandelier glass, to tre`s expensive Louis-the-something chairs.
And when the crowds got to me, and my feet and mind were aching from taking too much in, I just stopped at a cafe. And the good news is that the only problem with Parisian cafes is the variety there are so many to chose from that even a bad Parisian cafe is a good Parisian cafe. And they're not expensive! Un express, un cafe au lait, une chocolat chaud they were all good. And of course the baguettes were always crisp and light! And oeufs scrambled, fried or dressed up as an omelet helped me on my way each morning.
At lunch, well, it was almost a crime not to drink red wine. Some of the best meals I had were cheese plates great wedges of cheeses delivered to your table with a basket of baguette to help yourself, washed down with a bottle of house red. Or a selection of pate, foie gras, hams and sausages all great fare for the hungry tourist who doesn't have a cholesterol problem.
On the streets, food was just as accessible crepes and foot-long baguettes were for sale on almost every street corner. Chestnut sellers, chocolatiers, patisseries, boulangeries, charcutiers ... how do French women stay so slim?
And because of the French colonial days, there were plenty of great North African and Vietnamese restaurants too. My rule of thumb is, get off the main squares and boulevards and roam the small streets for the little eateries where the locals dine usually with great results. It also gives you a chance to do a bit of people watching because in Paris, everyone looks like a wealthy socialite, an out-of-work artist, or star-crossed lover.
