on the road less travelled in Ireland and france

It was our first day in France. How would we handle the jetlag, the airport and finding our way to our accommodation in Paris?

Day 1: Touching down in the city of light

By Conal Healy

Sunday, April 28, 2019: We arrived in Paris, France, mid-afternoon. The day was cold. Grey clouds cast a pall over the landscape. It was early spring, it felt like winter. We had just flown halfway around the world from the heat of sub-tropical Australia in early autumn. It had been a long flight, 28 hours.

Fran had the long queue wait through Immigration at Charles De Gaulle Airport. As an Australian she had to join the Non-European Passport queue. Being Irish, I am ushered swiftly through the European Community passport control and had to wait for Fran. We cleared custom and immigration, stepped in the Arrival lounge … and were officially in France.

We hit the airport train station, I have been to Paris many times and knew the machines that issue tickets come complete with language options. I picked the English language option and get to single tickets to Paris. No problems there.

Now to find the train platform. Despite asking for assistance from three helpers …we landed at the wrong platform with a trolley loaded with luggage and the lift appears to be broken. We were stranded on an empty railway plaform on a cold, grey Sunday afternoon … throw in jetlag, hunger and fading adrenaline, well let’s just say the City of Light wasn’t exactly shining.  Welcome to Paris.

The problem was the lift refused to drop down to our level (it was being hijacked by people on the levels above) or arrived full of passenger with suitcases piled high. Eventually we got lucky and an empty lift arrived. We found the correct platform and boarded the empty train to Paris.

The train into Paris is not worth writing about, you do get to see that Paris is not all Haussmann boulevards and Belle Epoche residences – it is also an urban wasteland. Welcome to Paris.

We ride the train into Gard du Nord, lug our luggage down the stairs in the metro system and ride the metro to Gare d’Est. A man helped Fran lift her heavy suitcase up the stairs.

We saw a woman fail to make the first step on an escalator and falls, taking her husband with her. Luckily a second man comes to their recue and helps them to their feet, otherwise it could have been a very nasty accident. Welcome to Paris.

We knew the address of the Airbnb (it is close to Gare d’Est), so we decided to set out on foot lugging our luggage, rather than getting a taxi.

We pass a mobile soup kitchen handing out food parcels to (mainly) men who appear to be living on the street.

We were using Google Maps, it leads us through a park where a band of knocking out some jazz to a small crowd of onlookers. The day is cold but people are out enjoying the Sunday afternoon foray.

Google Maps brings us along the Canal St Martin, passed an open-air low-profile public pissoir (being used). Fran is taken aback by the sight of a grown man apparently pissing nonchantly in the street while people passed by. 

Google Maps leads up to the apartment, then sends us the opposite direction.

We kept walking, we have suitcases on wheels, back packs and hand luggage. Then Google Maps leads us back down the Canal. In frustration we give up on the app and start using our eyes.

We locate the address on Quai Valmy, find the door, used an intercom to call up a housekeeper who is there to welcome us.

We push back the heavy wooden door, it reveals a central courtyard with four/five floors.

It is still early spring so little is in bloom. There are bikes and cars parked here. We make our way to the C entrance, just as people are moving a cooker out – we hold the door and smile. The Airbnb is on the third floor.

Fran sets off up the dark narrow wooden stairs, I spot a narrow lift (which Paris is famous for) and load it up. There is just enough room for the suitcases, turned sideways. I too stand sideway as the lift’s inner door snapped behind me.

We come to nickname the lift, The Coffin. But it did gets the luggage to the apartment.

The apartment is fantastic. Bright, modern and very Parisian. This will be a Paris experience.

I wander around as Fran gets a rundown about apartment from the housekeeper. There is a problem, the maid can only speak Portuguese and a little French. I speak a smattering of French, to Fran this is a foreign language. Most of the conversation is in sign language and broke phrases.

The housekeeper leaves, we throw down our luggage and decide to go out for a walk before the jetlag forces us to a bed. We slept on the flights and knew we have to push on the evening to help adjust our body clocks.

We walk out of the apartment, pulling the door behind us. We walk across the canal bridge, it is steep, we are almost at canopy level with mature chestnut trees. It feels magical to be here, on a spring night in Paris so far away from our home in sub-tropical Australia.

We walk down the Canal St Martin, it is still early on a Sunday evening, cafes and bars are filling. We stop at Cafe Du Nord. It comes recommended. I had checked out the menu online from Australia.

It looked like your average Paris cafe. We ordered two pints of beer and sat down to enjoy the free bowl of pretzels. Then a group of “independent tourists arrived, we couldn’t bear their voices, we finished our drinks and left. It was still light so we kept walking, eager to see the streets of Paris.

We took a street that ran off the Canal and soon realised we had left the hipster haven behind us.

The street became grittier, the shops less appealing. The local grocer was there. The butcher was selling fresh meat and roast chicken. Small Clothes store selling garments that were never going to be hip, the type of clothes parents insist their young children wear.

We walked on and discovered the Paris where most Parisians live. Local bars and cafes were almost empty. 

With our legs tiring and our stomachs rumbling we retraced our steps, checking out the menus and the crowds. We passed knots of people sitting by the edge of the canal, chatting, flirting and grabbing bottles from a carton of Heineken, enjoying the now-cooling spring air. In a park a couple of junkies were shooting up. Welcome to Paris.

We ended up at a cafe near the apartment and ordered food. It was obvious this was where the locals ate. And the café/bar, L’Atmosphere, seemed to have sneaked in a few extra tables to cater for them. It is all a bit squishy but was very atmospheric. We ordered pints of beer and something off the menu.

A few hours later we were feel no pain and ready to give in to jetlag.

We rode The Coffin in fine style and were already dreaming of our first night in Paris.

We had started this very Long day in Australia  on the opposite side of the planet, we had flown by air to Charles de Gaul airport, found our way across Paris to Canal St Martin and had an evening out.

Now we were ready for bed, to relax, unwind and allow sleep to restore us. 

And this is when the merde hit le fan.

We stepped out of The Coffin to discover the key refused to open the door of the apartment.

We tried everything, the locked door refused to budge. We tried to call the owner – no answer. Defeated, we gave up and decided to get a room for the night at a nearby hotel. It was a body blow. 

Suddenly a door on the opposite side of the landing opened, out stepped a neighbour who took the keys from us and magically opened the Airbnb apartment.

There was a knack to opening the door, apparently. The neighbour wished us a pleasant Bon Nuit, walked away know he wouldn’t hear from the tipsy tourists who were staying next door for three nights.

If we wanted to leave that apartment we would have to master that dodgy door lock. We fell into bed, relieved and exhausted. Our holiday was off to an interesting start. 

Welcome to Paris.