Speed Tourism

28.5 Hours in Paris

How long do you need to meet an old friend?

I was in Paris this weekend to meet up with an old friend I went to university with.

Back then we had pretensions of being serious writers. We dressed like writers, smoked like writers, and drank like writers.

When we met up at Pont L’Alma on Friday lunchtime, we both looked like we’d been run over by a bus: Ill-fitting jeans, baggy T-shirts, unkept hair, worn shoes. If we hadn’t been with our wives, we would have been arrested for vagrancy.

Such is the passage of time, eh?

Lunch — Friday

The panic started quickly. With our planned lunch stop busy, we were left on the street without a restaurant.

This is my worst fear. Aimlessly wandering around a foreign city looking for somewhere to eat. With nobody able to agree, the whole lunchtime search can rapidly turn into a full-blown argument. And I didn’t want that — I hadn’t seen my friend for twelve years.

Luckily, my wife is more decisive than me, and after seeing the potential for a meltdown, suggested we eat at the first restaurant we see, regardless.

We found one, and at this point I want to congratulate my friend for risking the Tartare de Beouf. If you’ve never had this French speciality, it’s raw beef with a raw egg on top.

I like raw meat. My friend doesn’t, but at least he had the guts (literally) to say so:

“I don’t like it. But I’m glad I tried it, otherwise I would have just eaten pizza.”

We finished lunch and wandered to the Musée d’Art Moderne. This is a great museum. One, it’s free. Two, it has some great paintings. And three, they have great toilets. TAKE NOTE for future trips!

Friday — Evening

After the museum, we raced to our hotel as we hadn’t checked in yet. It was further than we thought, so by the time we got there we only had 30 minutes before we had to leave again to meet my friend for dinner.

I quickly necked a can of Leffe I’d bought on the way to the hotel (classy!) and headed out.

“Let's get the bus,” I cried to my wife.

“We don’t have a ticket,” she argued.

“Don’t worry, I’ve just necked a can of strong lager, I smell like a bum. They’ll just kick us off if anyone catches us.”

They didn’t, and we met my friend in a tiny bistro that reminded me of the History classroom at school. Where if you lingered too long on your own at the end of the lesson, the teacher would molest you. Such is the British Private School system.

My friend noticed my uneasy looks, but said the restaurant had good recommendations. I decided not to mention paedophiles, and ordered some beer.

Saturday — Breakfast

There’s nothing better than an unlimited hotel breakfast. Especially if you visit hotels once every five years like I do.

I’d eaten well the previous day, but when faced with a gigantic selection of pastries, cheese, ham, coffee, cereal, and toast. It’s a dream.

Of course, I over did it, and had to spend the next hour sitting in the hotel lounge gripping my abdomen. But I got to read the beginning of a book about a hotshot lawyer who travelled to India to do the Vipassana retreat. And then wrote a book about it and made loads of money.

Saturday — Lunch

We weren’t meeting my friend today as he had a busy schedule, so we’d said our goodbyes the night before. We therefore had the day to meander round Paris, which was great for me.

I’m not a sightseer. I like to wander and see the city as it is, stop off for a beer or a coffee or a meal whenever I fancy it.

We walked towards Jardin des Tuileries via the Arc de Triomphe. So OK, I did want to see this.

And the Eiffel Tower too (from afar)

We finally arrived at the Jardin des Tuileries, and I instantly needed a pee. I nearly got arrested in my youth on a trip to Paris for peeing on a statue, and I didn’t want a repeat of that.

“You could always use the toilets?” my wife suggested looking into her phone. “They are about 100 metres away.”

If only we’d had Google in 1994!

I relieved myself along with 500 other desperate people from all over the world. It was like an international pissing competition on who can pee the longest and hardest whilst making the loudest satisfying noise.

It’s hard wandering around a large European city, I can tell you.

Saturday — Afternoon

After the park we were hungry and that slight fear of the restaurant nightmare loomed. It was already past 2. Where do we eat?

We wandered into the 1st Arrondissement where people pay €500 for a sock designed by Vivian Westwood. People were actually queuing outside these boutiques to throw their hard-earned money at designers who were already stinking rich. Human stupidity never ceases to surprise me.

So anyway, we found a great little bistro and I ordered the classic Croque Madame.

Unfortunately, the chef forgot the egg, so it changed back into the Croque Monsieur, but it was nice all the same. And washed down with more wine, it crowned a great end to a great 24+ hours.

Saturday — Evening

After lunch, and faced with a three-hour drive back home, we caught the train back to Versailles where we’d left the car.

We headed off and were immediately taken back towards Paris by the satnav, having mistakenly set the destination to the hotel.

I wouldn’t have minded. But we had to get back to the farm and the slow pace of rural life

Shit…!

Thanks for reading this dashing story. For more totally unrelated pieces: