Paris (Above picture taken at Faou’s place in Paris while enjoying dinner and company.) A plane ticket for 30 euro to Paris from Barcelona with no added fees? Yeah, I‘ll take one of those. What’s the catch? Oh, just three hours of extra bus riding because “Barcelona” doesn’t actually mean Barcelona and “Paris” doesn’t really mean Paris. And throw an hour delay on my flight for good measure. So, my trip to Paris gets started off on a slightly sore foot. But after the two hour long bus ride from Beauvais (the “Paris” airport that was 60 or so miles outside of Paris) I arrive to the outskirts of Paris slightly past midnight. I’m entirely unsure of my actual location—not that it really makes a difference—and I’m lacking a place to sleep for the night. I filter toward the bus’ exit with the rest of the passengers. The idea of sleeping in a metro with the best and the brightest of Paris crosses my mind—it sounds better than 100+ euro hotel room. I grab my bag from the storage underneath the bus and follow the thirty or so other people toward the nearest major intersection. It’s cold. Very cold. At the intersection, I catch a younger dialect of English from a group of three in front of me, two guys and a girl. Maybe they know of a cheap place to sleep for the night? I ask. They sound slightly unsure likely thinking to themselves, “Who the fuck is this guy? I’m not going to end up in the storyline of  ‘Hostel’ here…” But after talking to them briefly, I find out that they’re all from Santa Cruz, California. A minute later I find out that one of them is a third year at UCSB—an Environmental Studies major! A couple minutes later I find out that I was at the same club two nights before (where I spent waaaay too much money and got waaaay too drunk) and partied literally within feet of them, and the girl was enrolled in the same abroad program as the guys I was staying with in Barcelona. The connections I have with these three are uncanny. After I ask if it’s alright to follow them to their hostel (in the least “horror film” way possible), one of them mentions that they originally reserved their hostel for four people but one person bailed so an extra spot was made available and offer me the spot. Wow, this is perfect. The four of us finagle our way through the foreign metro system and find our stop. Unfortunately, I offer little in terms of French speaking ability or map navigating skills and play follow the leader. After a little more finagling of streets, we find the hostel approaching 1 am. The door is locked but the lights are on. We ring the door bell. A solid three or four minutes go by. Could this have been too good to be true? Finally, a little old white haired French lady comes to the door with a smile and lets us in. None of us speak any French. She doesn’t speak any English. After a few very frustrating minutes of hand motioning, some broken Spanish, and speaking very slowly while over annunciating English, we get a key to a room with four very tiny beds. Mission accomplished. Alarms are set for 10 am for a day of Paris exploration. I get some much needed sleep. Alarms are silenced until 12 pm. But once the blinds were opened, Paris overwhelms the room—massive snowflakes cascade into a park adjacent to our hostel. The scene is surreal. I put on the clothes I was wearing the day prior and go downstairs to pay for my visit. After a few more minutes of attempting to tell the old French lady that I was leaving and wanted to pay, I end up forking over 22 euro for my stay. A bit steep but at least I had a bed to sleep on… Moments later, we’re out the door and on the frosty streets of Paris. Any precipitation has stopped by the time we begin our journey for the day. I have my life sack on my back and my computer/toiletries bag in hand. We walk through the city with Notre Dam as our final destination. Along the way, I’m awestruck by the architecture—every other building looks like it should be recognized as a national monument of sorts. My camera is out of memory so I’m unable to get any shots to keep for long term. Huge bummer. I stick to appreciating the moment for what it is, and continue on while the other three snap their point-and-shoots at what surrounds. We take our time walking through the streets, stop at an open food market, and peruse buildings and parks along the way. We can see what looks to be a large cathedral in the distance, likely Notre Dam, but it’s getting later, somewhere around 4 pm, and I’m in need of internet so that I can contact Faouzane (who goes by “Faou”) so that I can get the address to his place. Faou is the man who’s flat I was going to stay at for my next four nights. I sent a couch surfing request to Faou on couchsurfing.org a couple weeks prior and he responded with something to the effect of “Yeah sure, Matthew.” We meander through the streets on our way toward Notre Dam and finally, after several failed attempts, I find a restaurant that has internet. I break from the group, knowing that my immediate concern should be solidifying a place to sleep that night, not seeing Notre Dam. I thank the three of them for letting me tag along and they continue their trek toward Quasimodo-country. I attempt to send Faou a message on couchsurfing.org, and unfortunately get no response. 6 pm approaches and I begin to worry that I’ll be stuck with an over-priced hotel room. Finally, I get a response from Etienne, Faou’s roommate, with a detailed set of directions to his place. My prayers are answered. Thank you, Higher Power. I follow Etienne’s directions exactly and fortunately come across a market on the way and grab a preemptive “thank you for letting me stay at your place” bottle of red and a bottle of white. After being buzzed in, I approach their door which is slightly ajar and holler out, “Bonjour!” with a very bad American accent as I enter. I get no response—as if I wasn’t insecure about my French pronunciation already… Hmmm… I walk in and follow the hallway corridor to find Etienne chopping onions into a large pot. My eyes immediately well-up. He gives me little more than a glance and nod as a welcome. They have couch surfers stay at their place all the time—I quickly realize that I’m not special. After he’s done chopping the onions, Etienne shows me around the place and gradually opens up a bit. His English is quite good and he’s able to carry a conversation easily. I get settled and begin my Barcelona blog post in their living room. After a few more minutes, a man comes into the room and introduces himself as a fellow couchsurfer. His name is Natan, he’s 20 years-old (but looks quite a bit older), and he hails from a coastal community in the north eastern part of Brazil. Natan’s English is fairly good and we sit and talk and drink the bottle of white I bought earlier. Natan is a boss: he recently won a full scholarship to study abroad in Brighton (in the UK), has a job secured for post-college, and is traveling around Western Europe for the next few weeks on a loan. As Natan and I talk, Etienne informs me that Faou is sleeping off what I assumed to be a Saturday night hangover. He awakens from his afternoon slumber and enters the room a few minutes later. Faou’s an African Parisian (is that PC? or even C?) who was born in the Ivory Coast and stands about 6’3” with an athletic build. He greets me with a big smile and handshake. We all sit, drink, and talk while Etienne finishes preparing dinner. The conversation switches between languages—from Portuguese (which Faou and Natan speak), to French (which Faou and Etienne speak), and back to English (which all three of us speak). I find the entire situation very interesting and feel like I’m in the middle of something quite unordinary. We eat the very tasty pasta dish that Etienne prepared and end up watching the movie “Drag Me to Hell” on their projector, which projects a seven or eight foot screen on one of the walls in the living room. I wouldn’t recommend the movie, however, I would recommend the whole projector screen setup. That shit was phat. Faou and Etienne go to their rooms, and Natan and I decide that we’ll sightsee around Paris the next day together. The next morning comes and we make our way to the infamous museum of all museums: The Louvre. We spend close to four hours there and see most of what the museum has to offer. I see paintings that had only been tiny pictures amidst textbooks in their grand scale. Some of which were absolutely massive and magnificent works. Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa” was as I expected: not that dope in person but, I guess, worth seeing for the sake of being able to honestly respond “Yes” when the question of “So, you saw the ‘Mona Lisa’ then?” is asked by everyone and their mother… And their mother’s mother. Call me unappreciative. Despite that, the rest of the museum was quite intriguing. Natan and I decide to head to the Eiffel Tower after our time in the Louvre. Right after we arrive to the tower, the entire structure transforms from stark, cold and formidable to a warm, mesmerizing spectacle. It starts by illuminating in a yellow glow, then flashing lights begin. It looks like the structure had been dipped in glitter… But in a very tasteful way. We grab a bottle of wine on the way back to the loft and later enjoy a delicious meal prepared by Faou. The next three days are spent sightseeing during the day with Natan and eating at Faou, Etienne, and Pawlo’s (the third roommate that wasn’t around very much, but was also a really interesting person) place during the evening. Each night Faou has different friends come over to drink wine and eat dinner with us. With the guests who speak English (which most of them do), conversation is nearly endless; I find that there’s so much to talk about even with complete strangers while traveling. (Which, I guess, is a fairly implicit aspect of traveling that I didn‘t appreciate initially.) Faou’s brilliant cooking and contagious good nature attract many Parisian friends, and I find that even with the incredible amount of beauty contained within the city and so many sights to be enjoyed, the most rewarding part of Paris is spent at Faou‘s eating and conversing with the locals. My stay at Faou’s ends after the fourth night and I leave his place by taxi at 4:30 am to catch my flight to Berlin at a much closer Paris airport than the one I had flown in to. Everything goes relatively smoothly and I arrive in Berlin at 8:30 am, get off my flight, leave the terminal, and I‘m happily greeted by my dear friend, Deirdre, who‘s place I‘ll be staying at while in Berlin. With so much uncertainty associated with traveling, and so much planning, coordinating, and luck required for it all to go smoothly, I find it incredibly comforting to see her awaiting my arrival. It’s another small moment of victory for me, and I couldn’t think of a better way to end one leg of my traveling expedition and begin another. If you ever get the opportunity to couch surf, I highly recommend it… Especially, if you’re going through Paris and have the chance to stay with Faou, Etienne, and Pawlo. Straight up awesome dudes. And I realize that this post was a little long and perhaps a bit dry… I’ll try to spice it up a bit more next time. Thanks for reading. Songs of Paris: Coeur de Pirate - Comme Des Enfants & Yeasayer - One

Paris (Above picture taken at Faou’s place in Paris while enjoying dinner and company.)

A plane ticket for 30 euro to Paris from Barcelona with no added fees? Yeah, I‘ll take one of those. What’s the catch? Oh, just three hours of extra bus riding because “Barcelona” doesn’t actually mean Barcelona and “Paris” doesn’t really mean Paris. And throw an hour delay on my flight for good measure.

So, my trip to Paris gets started off on a slightly sore foot. But after the two hour long bus ride from Beauvais (the “Paris” airport that was 60 or so miles outside of Paris) I arrive to the outskirts of Paris slightly past midnight. I’m entirely unsure of my actual location—not that it really makes a difference—and I’m lacking a place to sleep for the night. I filter toward the bus’ exit with the rest of the passengers. The idea of sleeping in a metro with the best and the brightest of Paris crosses my mind—it sounds better than 100+ euro hotel room. I grab my bag from the storage underneath the bus and follow the thirty or so other people toward the nearest major intersection. It’s cold. Very cold. At the intersection, I catch a younger dialect of English from a group of three in front of me, two guys and a girl. Maybe they know of a cheap place to sleep for the night? I ask. They sound slightly unsure likely thinking to themselves, “Who the fuck is this guy? I’m not going to end up in the storyline of  ‘Hostel’ here…” But after talking to them briefly, I find out that they’re all from Santa Cruz, California. A minute later I find out that one of them is a third year at UCSB—an Environmental Studies major! A couple minutes later I find out that I was at the same club two nights before (where I spent waaaay too much money and got waaaay too drunk) and partied literally within feet of them, and the girl was enrolled in the same abroad program as the guys I was staying with in Barcelona. The connections I have with these three are uncanny. After I ask if it’s alright to follow them to their hostel (in the least “horror film” way possible), one of them mentions that they originally reserved their hostel for four people but one person bailed so an extra spot was made available and offer me the spot. Wow, this is perfect.

The four of us finagle our way through the foreign metro system and find our stop. Unfortunately, I offer little in terms of French speaking ability or map navigating skills and play follow the leader. After a little more finagling of streets, we find the hostel approaching 1 am. The door is locked but the lights are on. We ring the door bell. A solid three or four minutes go by. Could this have been too good to be true? Finally, a little old white haired French lady comes to the door with a smile and lets us in. None of us speak any French. She doesn’t speak any English. After a few very frustrating minutes of hand motioning, some broken Spanish, and speaking very slowly while over annunciating English, we get a key to a room with four very tiny beds. Mission accomplished. Alarms are set for 10 am for a day of Paris exploration. I get some much needed sleep.

Alarms are silenced until 12 pm. But once the blinds were opened, Paris overwhelms the room—massive snowflakes cascade into a park adjacent to our hostel. The scene is surreal. I put on the clothes I was wearing the day prior and go downstairs to pay for my visit. After a few more minutes of attempting to tell the old French lady that I was leaving and wanted to pay, I end up forking over 22 euro for my stay. A bit steep but at least I had a bed to sleep on… Moments later, we’re out the door and on the frosty streets of Paris.

Any precipitation has stopped by the time we begin our journey for the day. I have my life sack on my back and my computer/toiletries bag in hand. We walk through the city with Notre Dam as our final destination. Along the way, I’m awestruck by the architecture—every other building looks like it should be recognized as a national monument of sorts. My camera is out of memory so I’m unable to get any shots to keep for long term. Huge bummer. I stick to appreciating the moment for what it is, and continue on while the other three snap their point-and-shoots at what surrounds.

We take our time walking through the streets, stop at an open food market, and peruse buildings and parks along the way. We can see what looks to be a large cathedral in the distance, likely Notre Dam, but it’s getting later, somewhere around 4 pm, and I’m in need of internet so that I can contact Faouzane (who goes by “Faou”) so that I can get the address to his place. Faou is the man who’s flat I was going to stay at for my next four nights. I sent a couch surfing request to Faou on couchsurfing.org a couple weeks prior and he responded with something to the effect of “Yeah sure, Matthew.” We meander through the streets on our way toward Notre Dam and finally, after several failed attempts, I find a restaurant that has internet. I break from the group, knowing that my immediate concern should be solidifying a place to sleep that night, not seeing Notre Dam. I thank the three of them for letting me tag along and they continue their trek toward Quasimodo-country. I attempt to send Faou a message on couchsurfing.org, and unfortunately get no response. 6 pm approaches and I begin to worry that I’ll be stuck with an over-priced hotel room. Finally, I get a response from Etienne, Faou’s roommate, with a detailed set of directions to his place. My prayers are answered. Thank you, Higher Power.

I follow Etienne’s directions exactly and fortunately come across a market on the way and grab a preemptive “thank you for letting me stay at your place” bottle of red and a bottle of white. After being buzzed in, I approach their door which is slightly ajar and holler out, “Bonjour!” with a very bad American accent as I enter. I get no response—as if I wasn’t insecure about my French pronunciation already… Hmmm… I walk in and follow the hallway corridor to find Etienne chopping onions into a large pot. My eyes immediately well-up. He gives me little more than a glance and nod as a welcome. They have couch surfers stay at their place all the time—I quickly realize that I’m not special. After he’s done chopping the onions, Etienne shows me around the place and gradually opens up a bit. His English is quite good and he’s able to carry a conversation easily. I get settled and begin my Barcelona blog post in their living room.

After a few more minutes, a man comes into the room and introduces himself as a fellow couchsurfer. His name is Natan, he’s 20 years-old (but looks quite a bit older), and he hails from a coastal community in the north eastern part of Brazil. Natan’s English is fairly good and we sit and talk and drink the bottle of white I bought earlier. Natan is a boss: he recently won a full scholarship to study abroad in Brighton (in the UK), has a job secured for post-college, and is traveling around Western Europe for the next few weeks on a loan. As Natan and I talk, Etienne informs me that Faou is sleeping off what I assumed to be a Saturday night hangover. He awakens from his afternoon slumber and enters the room a few minutes later. Faou’s an African Parisian (is that PC? or even C?) who was born in the Ivory Coast and stands about 6’3” with an athletic build. He greets me with a big smile and handshake. We all sit, drink, and talk while Etienne finishes preparing dinner. The conversation switches between languages—from Portuguese (which Faou and Natan speak), to French (which Faou and Etienne speak), and back to English (which all three of us speak). I find the entire situation very interesting and feel like I’m in the middle of something quite unordinary. We eat the very tasty pasta dish that Etienne prepared and end up watching the movie “Drag Me to Hell” on their projector, which projects a seven or eight foot screen on one of the walls in the living room. I wouldn’t recommend the movie, however, I would recommend the whole projector screen setup. That shit was phat. Faou and Etienne go to their rooms, and Natan and I decide that we’ll sightsee around Paris the next day together.

The next morning comes and we make our way to the infamous museum of all museums: The Louvre. We spend close to four hours there and see most of what the museum has to offer. I see paintings that had only been tiny pictures amidst textbooks in their grand scale. Some of which were absolutely massive and magnificent works. Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa” was as I expected: not that dope in person but, I guess, worth seeing for the sake of being able to honestly respond “Yes” when the question of “So, you saw the ‘Mona Lisa’ then?” is asked by everyone and their mother… And their mother’s mother. Call me unappreciative. Despite that, the rest of the museum was quite intriguing.

Natan and I decide to head to the Eiffel Tower after our time in the Louvre. Right after we arrive to the tower, the entire structure transforms from stark, cold and formidable to a warm, mesmerizing spectacle. It starts by illuminating in a yellow glow, then flashing lights begin. It looks like the structure had been dipped in glitter… But in a very tasteful way. We grab a bottle of wine on the way back to the loft and later enjoy a delicious meal prepared by Faou.

The next three days are spent sightseeing during the day with Natan and eating at Faou, Etienne, and Pawlo’s (the third roommate that wasn’t around very much, but was also a really interesting person) place during the evening. Each night Faou has different friends come over to drink wine and eat dinner with us. With the guests who speak English (which most of them do), conversation is nearly endless; I find that there’s so much to talk about even with complete strangers while traveling. (Which, I guess, is a fairly implicit aspect of traveling that I didn‘t appreciate initially.) Faou’s brilliant cooking and contagious good nature attract many Parisian friends, and I find that even with the incredible amount of beauty contained within the city and so many sights to be enjoyed, the most rewarding part of Paris is spent at Faou‘s eating and conversing with the locals.

My stay at Faou’s ends after the fourth night and I leave his place by taxi at 4:30 am to catch my flight to Berlin at a much closer Paris airport than the one I had flown in to. Everything goes relatively smoothly and I arrive in Berlin at 8:30 am, get off my flight, leave the terminal, and I‘m happily greeted by my dear friend, Deirdre, who‘s place I‘ll be staying at while in Berlin. With so much uncertainty associated with traveling, and so much planning, coordinating, and luck required for it all to go smoothly, I find it incredibly comforting to see her awaiting my arrival. It’s another small moment of victory for me, and I couldn’t think of a better way to end one leg of my traveling expedition and begin another.

If you ever get the opportunity to couch surf, I highly recommend it… Especially, if you’re going through Paris and have the chance to stay with Faou, Etienne, and Pawlo. Straight up awesome dudes. And I realize that this post was a little long and perhaps a bit dry… I’ll try to spice it up a bit more next time. Thanks for reading.

Songs of Paris: Coeur de Pirate - Comme Des Enfants & Yeasayer - One

  • December 26, 2009, 1:21pm

          1 note

Notes

  1. matamatics posted this