Arrived Paris

Being a seasoned immigration officer and Francophone, as we line up in the non-European passports queue (ie: the Americans and all the other scum queue) I am practicing my best French phrases for the formidable French entry officials, only to find myself 'stamped-in' before I even mumble out my first bonjour.

As we drive from the airport to central Paris (why am I the only one to wonder if the driver is legal ? Why can't immigration officers ever relax ?) we are all playing it cool. We have that world, weary traveller discussion about how freeways and majors roads look the same the whole world over - you know the one, the bored 'I could be anywhere in the world' . But then, peeping into view, between outer suburban Parisian tenements, comes Sacre Couer, atop Montmarte. What a contrast, here one minute I am educating (some would say preaching to) Tom's niece Gemma about urban poverty and disenfranchisement in 21c Paris, and then this iconic symbol of bohemian, sophisticated France steals my thunder.  Soon that, as we skirt the central Parisian arrondissements on the ring road route the Effiel Tower pops into view.  The excitement builds as we gaze over glorious lead roofed apartment buildings and then, as the Arc de Triumph comes into view and we realise that our route is going to take us around the famous roundabout we are almost squealing with delight.  By the time we hit the famous cobblestones of the Champs Élysées we are frenetic and any sembalence of the sophisticated traveler is entirely gone. We are smitten. 

L'apartement

We are then dumped in central Paris, to await our landlady. This has always been the dubious part of the arrangement, meeting the landlady in a corner cafe and handing over squillions of Euros in cash!  No, we did not use an agent for this booking, but everything on TripAdvisor is the gospel truth (isn't it?).  

Success, she finds us.  Hard to miss I guess, six Australians standing on a street corner with luggage.  I am 'bonjouring' every passerby in what I hope is a chic Parisian manner, but I am most disappointed to find that most are Aussie tourists.  Our story now takes a bizarre turn when we discover our landlady  is not French Marie, but is in fact Balinese Ari - well, the phone connections are not great.  Ari has been living in Paris for three years (again the immigration officer in me is curious), and prior to that was selling sarongs on a Balinese beach to none other than my sister-in-law, Lesley.  Well,  turns out that Ari and Lesley are old mates and they reminisce old times as we settle in.  I muse that Ari probably uses that line on all Australians and one-in-three it probably turns out to work, but she does actually seems genuine.  The world is getting such a small place.

Luckily Tom and I have been warning everyone the apartment is quirky - it turns out to be an apt description.  Well, it is hard to find something in central Paris for six people, comprising two couples and two singles.  All I wanted was an apartment with casement windows and wrought iron balustrading and the apartment offers that is spades.  The tatty furniture, well that just adds to the charm. 

So time to break out the Cointreau (thanks to DXB duty free), le fromage and the canard pâté and toast our arrival. We follow this up with dinner and for our first evening in Paris my companions choose a local bistro and they order pizza, pasta and kebabs. You just can't take the Melbourne out of some people.

Our companions finished the day with a night trip to the Eiffel Tower, but as an avowed sufferer of vertigo I forgo the tower and head home to bed; so exhausted that the pounding bass rhythms from the nightclub downstairs are no impediment to a sound night's sleep.