Solo Travel in Europe 2

June 4, 2002, Tuesday, Paris, France

(1) Arriving in Paris

Deep in sleep, I was suddenly jolted awake by a commotion. Peering out the window, the bus was stopped in a tiny parking lot with no signs indicating where we were. A glance at my watch—only 6 o’clock, and the arrival time in Paris was supposed to be 6:45. So I ignored the students who rushed off the bus at every stop to smoke, assuming this was just a temporary halt. I adjusted my inflatable pillow and tried to go back to sleep. But something felt off—through the window I saw those students pulling their luggage from the bus’s hold and walking into the station. I quickly stopped the last girl getting off and asked, and that’s when I realized we had already arrived in Paris.

In a flurry I gathered my things, only to find my leg all sticky. The carton of milk I’d tucked into my small bag for the bus ride had spilled, soaking me and turning the contents of my bag—documents and all—into a mess. Even my Interrail Pass and return ticket were victims. The only saving grace was my passport, which had been safely tucked inside a cover. Dragging all my luggage into the station, I hastily checked if my camera still worked—it seemed to power up for now… I didn’t overthink it. With my wet spots concealed by the two bags slung front and back, I hurriedly followed the last passenger out of the station.

That’s when I heard Mandarin! I was asked quietly, “Are you Chinese?” I turned around hesitantly, thinking someone might need help, because the woman’s voice and look were so familiar. But she looked timid, and her tongue seemed clumsy as she nervously started reciting what sounded like a script: “We have pickup, hotel, tour guide…” Oh dear, a rookie at work, probably out soliciting customers for the first time. I didn’t want to discourage her, but I had already booked a room, so I could only apologize and follow the other passengers down the escalator into the metro passage.

The metro station was right at the bottom of the escalator. So early in the morning, the ticket windows were all shut. The group of students had vanished, and only a few people from other carriages were queuing at an automatic ticket machine. I joined them, only to find it accepted coins—I only had a few euro notes exchanged in the UK. Luckily, Visa cards were accepted. The screen was all in French, though there was a simple English instruction sticker beside the machine. The machine sold single tickets, orange tickets, and carnets of ten. I selected a carnet for €9.60 (single tickets were €1.30), inserted my Visa card, and a line of French appeared on the screen. I had no idea what it said; I asked the person behind me, who turned out to be Chinese too and also couldn’t understand. I guessed it meant the card had been accepted (though I always had doubts about the usability of my Bank of China Visa card), so I took the card out. Immediately, another French line popped up. Just as I suspected I might have removed the card too soon, the machine noisily whirred and clattered. Involuntarily I counted ten clicks, then glanced down at the ticket slot—there they were, ten thumb-sized cards. So it really was ten separate tickets; I had thought it was one ticket usable ten times. Clutching these tiny slips felt surreal. OK, time to enter the station.

I had emailed ahead to ask how to reach my hostel. There were only three bus routes from this station, all terminating here, so I didn’t need to figure out which direction to take. I tried to insert my ticket into the gate machine… it wouldn’t go in. I flipped it over… still no. Looking at the person entering through the next gate, I realized… I was trying to slot it into the ticket exit. Yep, still half asleep. I shook myself alert, widened my sleepy eyes, and finally spotted the nearly invisible slit—with no markings, just a 2-centimeter gap. This time it beeped and let me through, the ticket now stamped with a row of characters that left ink all over my hand. The metro station had tracks on both sides. An old train that didn’t look much like a metro was just closing its doors on the left. Panicking, without even checking the huge station name on the front of the train, I rushed aboard, still uneasy (completely forgetting there was only this one line—how could I board the wrong train anyway?).

The train was genuinely old, rumbling along at a slow speed, so slow I could clearly make out the walls and lights in the tunnel. The good thing was lots of metro maps were posted inside, simple and clear, showing exactly where to transfer at each station. I got off at République (a major station) and saw obvious signs on the wall directing how to proceed. Next I needed to transfer to Line 8 toward Rollin, direction Créteil (this direction indicator is crucial; you navigate the station entirely by it). I followed the arrow up the stairs to the right, and once up, no wandering needed—right in front, at a T-junction, clear signs on the wall indicated which way to which line and direction. So I found my way very easily and confidently boarded the train.

At Rollin I got off, found the exit toward the street where my hostel was, and headed out. The hostel was at number 126 on this road. I kept an eye on the shopfronts, walked all the way to 127, 128, then doubled back… 125, 124, a whole row of small stores with doors tightly shut! At 6:30 in the morning, the street was nearly empty; even food stalls weren’t open. The only person around was a heavily made-up old lady click-clacking toward me in high heels. I asked her for directions, pointing to the address. She didn’t speak English, replying with a single simple French syllable. When I still looked baffled (if I knew French, would I be asking in English?!), she upped the difficulty, saying a long French sentence and making sharp chopping gestures with both hands, as if indicating a tall building. My pupils began to dilate… The lady grew impatient, grabbed my hand, turned me around, and walked me until we had a clear view of a street ahead. Then she firmly gestured left. I finally understood, immensely grateful, and kept saying “Merci, merci” with my newly learned French. Turning into that street, just a few steps later I spotted the hostel sign. But its facade was so shabby, adorned only with a few tattered, wind-beaten flags, the entire entrance barely two persons wide. I had to double-check the French name of the hostel to make sure I hadn’t stumbled on a similar-sounding one.

I pulled open the door. A French man with curly hair tied in a ponytail sat behind a tiny counter. Seeing someone enter, he glanced up listlessly and said nothing. This was the “friendly” promised in his listing? I tried a few words in English; he seemed to understand little (or didn’t want to). I showed him my booking form. He glanced, nodded, and said “yes,” then declared check-in was only possible at 3 p.m. No choice—I stored my luggage and planned to return later. Coldly, he gestured vaguely downstairs to the left, then went back to his own business. Next to reception was a small dining room of about ten square meters, where four or five people of various ethnicities were eating breakfast. I wasn’t in the mood to see what was on offer. Just then, someone carrying a large bag opened an extremely narrow door leading downstairs, and I hurriedly followed. Down there was a chilly stone cellar, with two small rooms lined with a few sets of shelves—no locks, no lockers, no guard, accessible to anyone coming and going. I had no other choice, so I took out my laptop and valuables to carry with me. Checking that no one was around, I also quickly changed my clothes, because the restroom up there was about 1.5 square meters, just barely enough to squeeze into and sit.

Now I had to tackle breakfast. Outside, I hadn’t seen any open shops, so I had to eat here. Today I wasn’t entitled to the free breakfast included in the room rate, so I had to pay an extra €2.50—really pricey for what it was. The staple was the classic long, hard baguette, and that was it. Plus an automatic drink machine with coffee, chocolate, and hot water. On each table were butter and jam for spreading. I sat down, not feeling very good about it, imitated others by slicing the baguette open and spreading jam, but after half I just couldn’t eat anymore—it was so dry, it stuck in my throat. At least the drinks were free-flow, though I felt a bit embarrassed to keep going back for more. While chewing, I studied a free map from reception, pondering how to spend my first day in Paris.

(2) Château de Versailles

Since it was Tuesday and many Paris museums were closed, I decided to go to the Palace of Versailles, which only closes on Mondays. To get there, you can take the RER (Paris commuter train) and walk 600 meters. But my hostel had no RER station nearby, and Versailles is outside the carnet ticket’s valid RER zone. So I had to take Metro Line 8, transfer to Line 9, and ride to the terminus in the direction of Serve. The metro ride took a full half-hour—not sure if the metro was slow or the distance far, but I dozed off twice in my seat. Emerging from the station, I saw a small clearing with a few public buses. Carnet tickets work on the bus too—just validate them in the onboard machine. The bus ride also took half an hour, but supposedly it drops you right at the palace gates. Half-asleep, I realized I was the only passenger left, so when the driver finally stopped, he knowingly announced to me, the sole rider, “Versailles.” I looked around but saw no such building. I confirmed with the driver again; he pointed straight ahead, and then I noticed across the street, behind a square, there was a palace—not overwhelmingly majestic at first glance, but on closer look, rather grand and ornate. Still, it fell short of the “glorious image” built up from travel books. Crossing the street to the palace gates, I started looking around—for Chinese tour groups, the best way to find a free guide. Hehe…

Luckily, there was a Cantonese-speaking group and a Mandarin-speaking “cadre” group (all round-faced, short, with beer bellies, wearing identical black leather shoes, some with a bag under their arm—very typical cadre images!). While they were assembling, I dashed off to buy a ticket. I found the entrance in the building’s right wing, but instead of a ticket window, I first encountered a security check, just like at an airport—bags go on a conveyor belt. After passing through, I saw the ticket counter. I paid €30 for a 3-day Museum Pass. The pass gives entry to almost all Paris museums and lets you skip the queue—just show it to the ticket inspector at the front, and they let you through a little gate. I didn’t use that perk much because queuing to enter wasn’t time-consuming; it was skipping the ticket-buying queues that really saved time.

I entered the first hall, looking around as I waited, and soon the tour groups caught up. Without a free guide booklet, walking on your own would just mean passing through rooms as if they were prettily decorated apartments. With commentary, it all clicked: oh, this is where nobles waited to see the emperor; that painting is of so-and-so or his wife; this table was used by Louis XV (even if that didn’t matter much to me, it beat glancing at it like ordinary furniture). Hearing these details gave that satisfying “aha” moment—this unassuming object once had such a glorious “history.”

Initially I followed the Mandarin group. The guide was very thorough, explaining related history. Much of Versailles’ history is tied to the French Revolution and Louis XIV–XVI, but I had no real interest in this period. The main takeaway: Louis XIV was an enormous narcissist. Almost every hall, big or small, featured his handsome statue or an oil painting—long curly brown hair, chiseled features, noble bearing, a strikingly handsome man. Until I saw the obligatory realistic portrait… What a letdown! It almost made me laugh out loud. The real figure was a world apart from those earlier representations: this so-called Sun King was short, plump, and extremely fat, wearing white stockings and bright red high heels (women’s?). The only similarity was the long wavy hair.

The Mandarin guide was too conscientious, so detailed that her pace was slow. When the Cantonese group caught up, I “defected.” Their guide was a middle-aged woman, but after just five minutes, she pointedly addressed the air beside me: “Sorry, I can only take ten people, so…” Hmph, so petty! It’s not like you earn less just because I listen in! I switched to the English guide, but that French-accented English I could only half understand. It was interesting to note the three guides’ styles: Mandarin gave detailed, historically accurate commentary, citing classics; Cantonese loved cracking jokes about the king—his weight loss, tooth loss, and history of constipation; English tied everything to romance, filling Versailles with a romantic atmosphere. In the end, I deliberately slowed down to wait for the cadre group to catch up.

Walking through the exhibition halls of Versailles gave me a sore neck, because my head was constantly tilted 90 degrees upward. The palace has little else—its furniture was all “revolutionized” during the French Revolution—leaving only ceiling paintings, carvings, hanging ornaments, and large oil paintings hung high on the walls. So nearly every room you entered looking up, and exited looking up. The paintings were mostly mythological: goddesses submitting to the French king, or the king conquering all four continents (only four were known then). Just a few royal portraits let you glimpse the true “splendor” of the king (most didn’t look that great).

After a half-day in the palace, from the windows I kept glimpsing an orderly, lush garden outside—vast and tantalizing. So eventually I lost focus, and soon I scampered out to stroll the gardens. The garden required a separate ticket; I recalled that previous materials said admission was charged only on Sundays when the fountains were running, so I hesitated. But since many had recommended it, I bought a ticket anyway (€3). The garden spans several hectares, with flowers, trees, and shrubs meticulously arranged and trimmed, and many exquisite statues and fountains dotted throughout. Whether viewed from afar or up close, it was praiseworthy. Sadly, it wasn’t the blooming season, so there was plenty of green shade but hardly any flowers.

I stayed at Versailles for four hours before leaving, a bit disappointed. The legendary treasure house wasn’t as stunning and awe-inspiring as I’d imagined, and not many areas were open today. Probably the formulaic adjectives in the books I’d read had been too exaggerated. I walked toward the station, planning to take the RER back to central Paris. The station is 600 meters from the palace; since Versailles is a suburb, my map didn’t cover it and there were no signs outside, so I just followed the direction where tourists kept coming from. Crossed the road, turned right at a crossroads ahead, walked a bit, then asked someone—and realized the building on the left that I’d mistaken for a theater was actually the RER station; I hadn’t noticed any sign outside. Without a second thought, I tried my carnet ticket in the gate—it beeped in protest and was rejected. Many others had the same issue. A staff member in a booth reminded me that Versailles lies outside zone 1-2 of the standard tickets, so I had to buy a separate ticket. I hadn’t encountered this on previous metro rides, and many exits didn’t even require a ticket to exit, so I’d thought the zone system had been abolished. At the ticket window, a flat fare of €2.35—even for a single stop—was a real rip-off. The ticket was yellow, otherwise identical to the blue carnet tickets, and it worked fine. The RER had a timetable posted in the station; less frequent than the metro, but the speed was comparable because it made fewer stops.

(3) Île de la Cité (Notre-Dame), Pompidou

After studying the transport map from the metro ticket window for a while, I decided to get off at Cité, where the famous Notre-Dame Cathedral, thanks to Victor Hugo’s novel of the same name, stands. Exiting the station, I found myself right by the Seine. Along the riverside promenade were little bookstalls and art stands leaning against the railing. On the island in the middle of the river were several ancient Gothic buildings, their distinctive soaring spires particularly eye-catching. I couldn’t tell which was Notre-Dame right away. My strongest sensation now was hunger! So finding somewhere to fill my stomach was the top priority. I passed many sidewalk terraces and cafés, each with a chalkboard outside listing menus and prices—the cheapest were €7. Finally, at a small bread stall on a corner of a little square, I found something more reasonable. Without caring, I grabbed the biggest cheapest one—bread stuffed with greens and meat, €2.50. I bit down, and it crunched—harder even than the hostel’s baguette in the morning. Oh, French bread! Do they enjoy grinding their teeth or something? The one redeeming note: the tuna filling was decent.

Chewing on my bread, I crossed the road to a small square, where an unknown building, so ancient it had turned black, stood before a bronze statue and an elegant fountain. People sat along the fountain’s edge and the roadside railings—some waiting, some listening to the two French guys in green Scottish kilts playing bagpipes. So I also perched on the railing, “enjoying” my first lunch in France. A group of school kids on a field trip gathered in front of the street musicians, sitting cross-legged, their cute faces upturned as they listened earnestly, taking a mid-tour break. Soon it was time to move on; one by one they stood up, dug into their little bags or pockets for coins, and dropped them into the instrument case. When the duo finished a tune, they just had time to wave at the last kids descending into the metro, calling out “bye-bye” loudly. Somehow, this scene jolted me—lazy and sun-drenched, I suddenly remembered: This is Paris.

I nibbled at my baguette for ages without finishing what I think was called a “bugnet,” and ended up feeding the rest to the Parisian pigeons. Then, with the outline of Notre-Dame’s roof on the opposite bank as my guide, I crossed the bridge. I’d read many opinions that Notre-Dame wasn’t really worth seeing, that people only visited because of Hugo’s fame. I disagreed—if I had to choose between Versailles and Notre-Dame, I’d pick the latter. The dazzling multi-colored stained glass alone had me mesmerized, wanting to photograph every piece to savor later. Not to mention the exquisite architecture, the delicate ceiling carvings, and the sacred, tranquil atmosphere that fills the cathedral. Even someone like me, usually dismissive of religion, found myself wanting to sit down on those old wooden pews, sincerely pray, and feel a moment of peace.

Just after I left Notre-Dame, a few thunderclaps came out of nowhere, and the bell tower closed on the pretext of lightning safety. I had to leave, disgruntled, and wandered around Île de la Cité. The island boasts many magnificent European buildings, many unnameable, which also hid the one I was actually looking for. I nearly did a full loop before finally finding the chapel (later someone told me I’d found the wrong one anyway!). But this chapel really had little to see—unless you’re well-versed in French Revolutionary history. Just a few rooms with wax figures, said to be where many were arrested during the Revolution and later used as a prison, and an empty kitchen. Nothing else.

Finishing the entire Île de la Cité, it was already 5 p.m., but there was still plenty of daylight left. Checking the map, it seemed the Pompidou Centre was nearby, so I crossed the Seine toward the other side of the island. Pompidou wasn’t open today; I went solely to see its controversial, “factory”-like architecture. I’d seen many photos before and thought it looked quite modern, not factory-like at all. Until today, when I reached its rear and saw those unadorned blue pipes—nothing like the front views often photographed—I totally agreed: Yep, it looks like a factory. These pipes seem randomly arranged; apart from the “cute” blue hue, there’s no beauty to them, much like the dark Eiffel Tower that’s inexplicably called a romantic symbol of Paris. I admire Parisians’ tolerance for art, but that very tolerance fosters innovation across artistic currents. In front of Pompidou is a shopping area with many shops selling paintings, crafts, and T-shirts, priced cheaper than elsewhere. For instance, I found a shop selling 12 ordinary postcards for €1.25, a much better deal than the €1 per card elsewhere.

From Pompidou, I decided to walk back to my hostel. The route passes several sights, like Hôtel de Ville and Place de la Bastille, so I figured I wouldn’t get lost. Of course, the streets were quite complex, and I asked directions many times. Parisians were generally warm—regardless of English ability, if you pointed to your destination on the map, they’d gesture and mimic to tell you how to get there. Along the way, every street and alley was lined with shops big and small, but the prices were shocking. Even roadside stalls selling non-branded clothes in messy piles charged forty to fifty euros; branded ones were worse—a T-shirt for €100. Jaw-dropping.

This walk, for someone who’d been up since yesterday and slept poorly last night, felt long. Several times I considered giving up and taking transport, but a little after 7 p.m., I finally made it back to the hostel. The person at reception had changed, and his attitude was indeed much friendlier. I had to pay the four nights’ room charge upfront. Originally I’d booked ten nights for visa purposes; telling him I’d stay only four, there was no extra penalty fee. He wrote a receipt and told me to keep it safe, as proof for picking up keys (you had to hand in the key at the front desk when going out) and for breakfast each morning. After retrieving my big bag from the basement, I hauled myself up to room 401—per European floor numbering, that’s the fifth floor. No elevator, just a narrow staircase barely wide enough for two average-sized people to pass. In the room, there was already a warm Brazilian girl, Camila. Chatting, I found out she had also taken the Eurolines bus from London the same time as me, just a different coach. The four-person room had two bunk beds. The mattress quality was terrible; whenever someone turned over at night, the whole bed creaked and clattered, disturbing everyone. There was a small toilet and shower; you had to keep pressing the button to get water. Later a Taiwanese girl said you could lean your back against it while showering, but that didn’t work well either. After dark, the only light was a dim little lamp by the door, impossible to read or write by—apparently typical of many places in France. I was too exhausted to complain.

(Paris)