As I read Tahir Shah’s Paris Syndrome,
a flood of memories poured over me. Memories connected to false hopes and
crushed dreams associated not with Paris or the city itself, but with a failed
relationship, loosely connected to Paris, that has greatly affected my life and
choices. When this relationship lay in the wreckage of confusion in Marseille,
I hopped on a train to Nice, and then on to Paris for a brief moment to meet up
with a friend who was also piecing together a shattered heart. We had a plan. We
would meet in Paris. I had an international driver’s license, so we would drive
north to Omaha Beach in Normandie, retracing the footsteps of her grandfather.
I met my friend near Gare du Nord,
and we headed straight for the car rental area. Renting outside of America, I
dreamed of a finally getting to drive a French car, a Citroen or Peugeot. You
can imagine my disappointment when I found that the car in our spot was a tiny
little Ford Fiesta. Regardless, we loaded up the car and drove out of the
parking garage into the streets of Paris to begin our journey north.
Driving out of the city was deceptively
easy. Parisian traffic seemed low key and more orderly than I had imagined, and
I adeptly weaved my way onto the A14 heading north, briefly waylaid by a
passing emergency vehicle. The drive back into Paris did not echo our drive
out. Beautiful and ingenious as it may seem, Paris can be a nerve-racking mess for
contemporary drivers without a GPS.
The plan seemed easy enough. On
our return trip from Caen, I took the A14 and aimed for the peripherique, a
road which circles the city and drops drivers near to their destinations. As an
inexperienced Parisian driver, I missed the turn onto the peripherique and
headed straight into the heart of Paris, a spinning round-a-bout full of
traffic, an intersection of five roads, ten spokes.
My head hurt.
Feeling pressure because we had
to return the rental on time, I imagined the worst. Chances were that we would
get lost, take the wrong spoke, and spin in the wrong direction, possibly
toward another, perhaps even more convoluted round-a-bout.
It was here, entering this giant
mess of five roads coming together into a centrifuge, shooting cars in every
direction, that my friend, fighting motion sickness to read the map, must have
said something like, “Take Avenue de Wagram.”
“What?!”
As I drove into the round-a-bout,
trying to keep abreast of traffic, in this land with no divisions between lanes
and a hundred cars merging into one place, it was all I could do not to lose
it. “I don’t know which street that is!”
Parisian roads are labeled like
those in most of the world outside of the Les
États-Unis. That is, they are not on sign posts clearly discernible to a
speeding vehicle, rather they are on the sides of buildings easily
understandable to a pedestrian or, as in Haussmann’s time, a horse and carriage,
but nearly impossible for a vehicle traveling nearly 40 miles per hour (65
km/h). It was not as if I could just slow down and approach each spoke timidly
while inquiring about which road to take. That surely would have meant being
crushed by the oncoming drivers inside our tiny Ford Fiesta.
Feeling as though a giant crevasse
had opened between us inside the car, I yelled to my friend, “Forget street
names! Just count! How many do I need to go? How many spokes?”
She counted frantically, figuring
how many spokes we had already passed, egged on by the distress and urgency in
my voice. Cars screamed past us as I tried to keep control and not veer too
close to the center or edge of the centrifuge.
“Three more spokes!” she yelled
across the void.
One.
Two.
Three!
Suddenly, we were out of the
first round-a-bout. We passed the first test, and the crevasse closed. We were
back to sitting close, side-by-side, separated merely by the bucket seats and
gear shift.
As each subsequent round-a-bout
approached, we developed a strategy. A) Determine which road we had ended up
on. B) Find the road on the map. C) Count how many spokes to the correct road. D)
Check to make sure we ended on the correct spoke before hitting another
round-a-bout. We proceeded with this strategy for what felt like an eternity.
In reality, we probably drove through the heart of Paris for twenty minutes.
Then I saw it, a sign for Gare du
Nord! “There it is!”
I was elated. We had somehow survived Parisian traffic and
countless round-a-bouts! We had made it!
Then I looked down at the gas
gage.
Nearly empty.
Oh well. I did not care if we got
charged me 9 Euro a liter for a tank of gas. I was not about to venture away
from the portal that would take the car and us down into a garage and off the
streets. I had had enough of Parisian traffic and of the crazed people who
drive there. I still have not determined who regularly drives in Paris. I have
not met a single Frenchman who has said, “Parisian traffic? No problem.”
Instead they look at me like I must be crazy trying to drive through the
streets of Paris.
Exhausted, we dropped the car and
walked back to the apartment my friend was lodged in. It was 9pm. We had yet to
hear from her hosts, who were out of town. I still did not know if it was ok
for me to stay. At 10pm, my friend got a message. The girlfriend was not
comfortable with a stranger staying in her apartment. I was kicked to the curb
to look for a hotel near Gare du Nord.
For those who do not know Paris,
this is not a comfortable neighborhood for a solo female traveler. Full of
shady, back alley dealings, I was skeptical that I would find a hotel suitable
for sleeping before my flight back to Marseille. Rather than tell my friend
about my discomfort. I googled the nearest hotel, called to make sure they had
a room, and headed out.
The hotel was “a stone’s through
from Gare du Nord [and] doubled as a bordel”.
I know that Tahir Shah’s book is fictional, but I imagine that in his travels Shah
has experienced a place much as I did, a place I found in an exhausted state,
at the last minute. After a long drive through the convoluted streets of Paris,
I just needed a place to sleep.
On the exterior of the hotel, a sign
with red letters in English but not in French said, “Guests may not have
visitors.” Shaking off the red flags that were mounting, I entered. Next to the
forbidding sign, there was a TripAdvisor sign. That should mean something, right?
I took a breath and pushed the door in. A bell rang and the man sitting behind
the counter hardly looked away from his television. I confirmed that I had just
called, and he told me the total. I promptly handed him a card to pay. That was
when he finally looked up at me.
“No cards,” he grunted.
I scrambled, taking out my wallet
and counting and recounting my cash. The total for the room was something like
54 Euro. I only had 40 Euro, 44 with coins. I hesitated. I really did not want
to venture back out on the street to find a cash machine or another hotel. I
showed him that all I had was 44 Euro. He grunted and grumbled something about
barely making ends meet. Then he took the money and gave me an old-style hotel
key. Apparently at 10pm, I was an inflow of cash when there might have been
none otherwise.
As I headed toward the narrow staircase that
would take me up to my room, I took in my surroundings. Dark, due to nicotine covered
light fixtures and no natural light from outside, the interior of the hotel was
uninviting. I climbed the stairs as best I could, lugging a suitcase behind me.
At the top of the stairs, I found the elevator door straight ahead and my room
door directly to my right. I unlocked the door and walked into a tiled floor
room, immediately turning around to lock and deadbolt the door. I heard the
bathroom facet dripping, inhaled stale cigarette smoke, and heard the
television through the thin walls. Luckily, my flight left early in the
morning, and this would be a short night.
I was paranoid about bugs and the
sounds coming from rooms all around me, but the hotel really was not bad. In a
different circumstance, I might have thought it quaint. Even though I was
exhausted, I did not sleep well on the uneven mattress, and in the morning, I
skipped breakfast and got away from the hotel as quickly and early as possible.
Badly needing sleep, I headed for the airport to fly back to Marseille and
deal, once again, with wreckage and collect my things.
While I did not ever experience Paris
Syndrome as extreme as Shah’s characters, I can see exactly why such an occurrence
would happen. The city is touted as the most beautiful in the world, but the
reality is both beautiful and gritty. It is a city of contrasts. A city with
fabulous food, architecture, and history, and a city full of crazed drivers,
prostitutes, and grime. A city I have spent as little time in as possible.
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