Creative Non-Fiction | Travel

Tout Complet

Two Brothers’ Nighttime Adventures in the City of Lights

While rummaging through some stuff in our basement the other day, I came across an old shoebox. Brushing off the dust, I opened the lid and discovered a stash of letters, postcards, and other memorabilia dating back forty years or more.

One aging color postcard, in particular, struck me. It was postmarked Portofino Italia and addressed to me. It pictured the harbor of Barletta on the one side, a hand-written note dated June 13, 1979, on the other:

Well arrived at home. Dear greeting to you and Ronald. - Agostino

I smiled. Yes, I remember! Agostino! Agost, for short. Our unwitting travel companion during the first great adventure abroad for me and my brother, Ron.

It was our first night in Paris — Saturday, April 28, 1979 — and the three of us found ourselves in the same unenviable predicament. No place to stay! Complet! read all the hotel lobby posts. Full. No Vacancy. It was a May Day holiday weekend, and not a room could be had in all of Paris!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I must admit, the memory of it all is a little fuzzy. Forty-two years… Well, you know how it is. Neural synapses not firing on all cylinders these days. So, I gave a lifeline call to my brother Ron, an inveterate diarist with a great associative memory — and a brain that’s nine years younger than mine. I figured he could help me fill in the gaps.

I had also taken pictures (35mm slides, actually) during the trip, but needed to retrieve and scan them. So, between Ron’s journal, my pictures, and our collective memories, I managed to reconstruct the following account of our memorable trip and first night in Paris.

A Latter Day Lewis and Clark

Early March 1979. While in the process of switching jobs — a career shift of sorts — I experienced an epiphany moment.

Before starting my new job, why not take some time to do something daring and completely different? Go somewhere I’d never been. I may never get the opportunity again.

So, I reached out to my brother, Ron. We were both single at the time. I figured the time was right for both of us. I was 30. He was 21.

“How would you like to take a trip?” I asked.

“Sure, I can afford some time off. Where do you want to go?” Thinking maybe I was talking about a Spring ski trip to Vermont or something.

When I suggested Europe, two ping-pong ball eyes stared back at me. “Really?”

He had to take some time to think about it. Maybe all of five minutes. “Sure! I’d be up for that!”

Once committed, we began to make plans. Had to work fast. We felt like Lewis and Clark! New lands, new adventures! As far as I knew, we’d be the first in our family to venture outside the country — I mean, aside from Canada and the Caribbean. (Our older brother, Dick, had previously vacationed in Nassau during med school.) But in my mind, those trips didn’t count.

I remember growing up around the dinner table or at family parties when our dad, in a moment of carefree wanderlust, would whimsically talk about flying to Europe. After a Brandy or two, he would turn to brother Dick and say something like, I’ll brush up on my German. And you, your French. We can make it happen! Verstehen-Sie? But it never did happen. Ron and I would be the first.

Following Dickens’ lead, we decided to focus on London and Paris. And maybe hit Normandy while we were in the neighborhood. But definitely Paris — City of Lights! I’d finally get to use the French I’d learned in school. L’art de la conversation, my favorite college speaking course with Madam Hopfinger. (That was her married name. She really was French.)

What Ron and I lacked in travel experience we made up for in youthful zeal and confidence. Preparations? We would just “wing it!” Travel light. Like a weekend trip to the Jersey shore. Only with Passports and airline tickets. That’s all we really needed, right? No travel agencies. No Rick Steves. No hotel reservations! No complications. Just wing it! Lewis and Clark, remember? I’m sure they didn’t make reservations.

Fortunately, back then passports took only a few weeks to process. So now all we needed were the tickets. Two roundtrips, British Air, Philly to Heathrow, departing Tuesday, April 24th, returning Saturday, May 5th.

So, with passports, tickets, and a stash of American Express Travelers Checks in hand, we packed our bags and hit the friendly skies. Oh, and not to forget Ron’s journal and exercise log. He wouldn’t let a simple thing like a trip to Europe disrupt his daily push-up routine!

Fast Forward to Saturday, April 28

5:30 PM. Bracing myself against the ferry’s passenger deck railing I leaned forward, braving a brisk splash of salty air as I tried to catch my first glimpse of the distant French coastline.

A half-hour out of Folkstone, the cliffs of Dover were now just a white smudge on the horizon to our backs as the Vortigern plied a steady course through the choppy channel waters toward the French port of Calais. The deck and railing vibrated with the rhythmic drone of the large ship’s engines. My brother, Ron, stood by my side.

As I stood there staring across the English Channel, my thoughts went back to June 6, 1944. I imagined myself taking part in the D-Day landing, anxiously awaiting my encounter with destiny. How that must have been. The gut-wrenching uncertainty of it all! History and hindsight is 20–20. But to the GI’s and sailors of Operation Overlord, success or survival was not a given. The only certainty was in the moment. And the private thoughts of so many.

Of course, our Calais-bound course would take us far from the actual landing sites of that day: the beaches of Omaha, Utah, Gold, Juno, Sword. In my mind’s eye, ours would be a diversionary, imaginary landing. After all, Calais was where the Germans actually expected the Allied invasion force to land, that being the narrowest point of the channel. So, that is where they had concentrated their defenses. Fortunately, the Allies’ ploy worked and marked the beginning of the end for the Nazis war machine.

The two-hour crossing gave me and Ron time to relax, enjoy a meal in the ship’s galley and review events leading up to this moment. We didn’t know it at the time, but this would be our last meal for quite a while. Ron pulled out his journal and made a final entry for yesterday: “Did 43 push-ups. To bed at 12:14 AM.”

Back on deck, I joined Ron at the rail to resume our watch for the French coast.

“I think I see it!” he said, at last, pointing. “There! Just between those two cloud banks.”

“Ah, yes! I think you’re right,” I said, straining to see. Though I really wasn’t convinced. But he was probably right. I wiped the spray from my glasses. Nine years younger, he had the keener eyes, for sure.

Ron was right, of course. As we prepared to disembark the ferry in Calais that Saturday evening, I set my watch forward one hour to French local time: 8:00 PM.

Since arriving in London almost four days earlier, our vagabond approach to travel had served us well, and I had hoped our good fortune would continue on the continent.

In London, we didn’t have to search for lodging. It found us! On our initial arrival at Victoria Station, an elderly man with a German accent approached us and asked if we were looking for a place to stay. He and his wife operated a B&B on the north end of London, 72 Fairhazel Gardens, off Findley Road, and he would routinely come to Victoria Station seeking young, trustworthy travelers.

He said he had a knack for “picking out the good ones. Never failed!” Ron and I looked at each other. Then, back at the old gentleman. “Sure!” I said, “Lead on.”

Once in Calais we quickly boarded the next train for Paris. I checked the schedule. We wouldn’t be pulling into Paris’ North Station (La Gare du Nord) till close to 11:00 PM, much later than I had hoped. With a sigh, I began to regret having missed the earlier ferry out of Folkstone that afternoon. Peering out the window at the fast-moving French countryside, counting haystacks, barns, and sheep along the way, daylight was slowly fading, as were my hopes of finding a place to stay in Paris.

An uneasy feeling began to gnaw at my gut. But, after striking up a friendly conversation with another fellow traveler — a young, lone, bearded chap from Australia — who regaled us with his adventures of the road, the time passed quickly and I began to feel more hopeful.

Our train pulled into La Gare du Nord at 10:55 PM. (Trains are always on time in Europe. You can set your watch by them!). Ron and I grabbed our bags and immediately hit the streets to find a place for the night. The area wasn’t lacking in hotels. What was lacking were available rooms!

“Complet!” the lobby door sign read. One after another. Full! No Vacancy!

We quickly learned why. It was May Day Weekend, a serious holiday in Europe. I felt so stupid!

Lewis and Clark be damned, we should have made hotel reservations!

We decided it would be best to rent a locker in the train station for our bags while we continued searching on foot for a nearby room. We’d just take what we needed for the night in a small gym bag. Surely, we would find a room somewhere in the city.

As we repurposed our luggage and fussed with the locker key, two young French girl passers-by giggled, drawing Ron’s immediate attention. I thought I heard one say, “Amusant, n’est-ce pas?” Then flittered off.

Turning back to our locker I noticed another gentleman, about my age, short and stocky, in jacket and tie, tending to another locker not far from us. I bravely decided to use my French and introduce myself. He smiled and reciprocated. I soon learned he was not French at all, but Italian! A fellow traveler, in the same predicament as ourselves. I had to chuckle. Not so stupid. At least, not alone and stupid!

Turns out he was an education administrator who had come to Paris to meet with fellow administrators at the City University (La Cite Internationale universitaire de Paris) on the south edge of town. He had decided to arrive a few days early to do some sightseeing before tending to business.

His name was Agostino. Or simply, Agost.

Midnight in Paris

And so began our long and tiring midnight trek through the streets of Paris. From top to bottom. What started out as a simple room search quickly devolved into a nightlong bistro crawl as it became apparent that we were not going to find that elusive room. At least not until we reached La Cite Universitaire where Agost promised that his friends would lend a helping hand.

For me and Ron, this would be our first impressions of the “City of Lights.” But Agost, having been here before, seemed to take it all in stride. He would prove to be a most delightful companion and de facto tour guide. Formidable! as the French say. We found ourselves alternating between spoken French and English as we continued through the night. He thought our American English accent was especially entertaining.

“You speak through your nose!” he said with a laugh. Then proceeded to imitate our speech, exaggerating our nasal intonations.

I had to chuckle and finally admit he was right. Was this a local Philly or South Jersey thing? Don’t really know. I just never noticed it before.

Paris is a place of contrasting pleasures and hardships. Nighttime just seems to accentuate the best and worst of each. Like fireflies on a warm summer evening, les dames de la nuit emerged in all their abbreviated finery to reclaim their stands along the length of La Rue Ste Dennis. The City of Lights shone red in this part of town.

“They must all be waiting for a bus,” Ron deadpanned.

Agost just sighed with laissez-faire nonchalance.

As the ladies plied their wares, scattered puddles of huddled humanity lay dormant in the open air, claiming choice portions of the sidewalks and alleyways where steam gratings provided a certain measure of warmth and comfort. The occasional scent of stale urine wafted harshly on the senses, forcing us to quicken our step or turn away.

As we neared the heart of the city, cabaret and bistro life blossomed and offered welcomed relief for our weary feet — and bladders! As one club neared closing time, we sought refuge in another. I lost track of the number. If we couldn’t find a hotel room, then the bistros would at least provide warmth, a WC, and a roof over heads.

One smoke-filled club featured a solo guitarist performing a rendition of the Stones’ wildly popular “Angie.” Local patrons were duly impressed by his daring English performance, applauding him with shouts of “Bravo!”, clapping as cigarettes hung precariously from lower lips.

“I like American music,” Agost said as we left the bistro and continued south toward the River Seine and the Ile de la Cité. A presumed attempt to make up for his earlier slight. (But, aren’t the Stones English? I thought.)

“I especially like your famous Italian American singer,” he added. Raising his voice and arms to the star-filled sky he proceeded to deliver his best rendition of Frank Sinatra.

“I did my…way!” he sang, drawing out the “my” and omitting the pronoun “it.”

Ron and I exchanged smiles. “Yes. Frank Sinatra is one of my favorites, too,” I said.

Then, with a silly grin, he launched into a chorus of “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore.” With that, he had exhausted his repertoire of American music.

With weary resignation he added with a sigh, “Just think. Years from now we will all look back at this day and laugh!” Then challenged the night with a hearty guffaw.

It was 3:30 AM when we crossed the Pont d’Arcole to the Ile de la Cité where Ron and I caught our first glimpse of the mother of all medieval Gothic cathedrals: La Notre Dame de Paris. We would later see it in the daylight, but nighttime offered a unique first-time viewing experience.

The oblique façade accent lighting only enhanced the mystical qualities of this magnificent edifice. Or maybe it was just the long day and my tired feet finally taking their toll.

Continuing down La Rue de la Cité and crossing over the Petit Pont we entered the famous Left Bank, or Latin Quarter, of Paris. The mystical was now replaced with a new kind of magic as the ghosts of famous writers, artists, and philosophers seemed to permeate the air. Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Matisse, Picasso, Sartre, Miller — the list goes on and on.

Someday, I thought, someone will produce a film about this place and that special time in history. (Oh, wait! It’s already happened! Woody Allen’s 2011 film “Midnight in Paris,” starring Owen Wilson. Check it out.) The region today remains a bastion of creativity and learning, the home of Sorbonne University and a plethora of student-filled cafes and bookshops.

The pre-dawn hours found us far south of the Sorbonne near the Parc-de-Montsouris. Cafés replaced bistros in our search for temporary “lodging.” Wiping the sleep from our eyes we sipped our café au laits and enjoyed a croissant or two at a boulangerie/café that had just opened its doors for the day.

One by one we began to nod out as we sat there nursing our coffee and aching feet. The proprietor rushed over waving his arms in the air like he was shooing flies away from a fresh batch of cream puffs.

“Allez vous ens! Allez!” he exclaimed. “Ce n’est pas un hôtel!”

No, truly. This was not a hotel. Duly aroused from our slumber, we apologized — “Désolé, monsieur” — paid our bill, and proceeded on our way.

It was almost 8 o’clock, Sunday morning when we finally arrived at our destination, La Cité Universitaire de Paris, where Agost, true to his word, was able to contact his friend for help. She was able to find a room for the three of us at a UNESCO hostel located near Le Jardin du Luxembourg, 13 Rue de Vaugirard. But it wouldn’t be available until later that afternoon.

So, with the hope of a new day, the three of us took the Metro back to La Gare du Nord where we retrieved our bags and exchanged some traveler checks for French francs. Compared to our nighttime odyssey, this trip took no time at all.

The trains were clean, sleek, and comfortable. We had to be careful not to doze off and miss our stop! Bags in hand, we backtracked to the Luxembourg station where we located the hostel. It was now almost 2:30. Slumping and dozing in our chairs, we waited in the office as they readied our room, which we were obliged to share with a fourth guy — another Italian named Pierre.

Ahh, finally! A soft bed to lay our weary heads! Our first opportunity to lie down since leaving our B&B in London over 32 hours before! But first things first. Ron performed and logged 42 pushups in his journal.

We were hungry, too. After a three-hour nap, Ron and I went out for a spaghetti dinner. Our first real meal since our ferry crossing. After exploring the Latin Quarter for a couple of hours, we were back in our room by 10:30. We talked a while, reviewing events of the past two days. Then hit the sack. It was 11:10.

From that point on, things settled down and for the next few days, we continued to share Agost’s company, teaming up to do the typical tourist things: The Louvre, Eiffel Tower, L’Arc de Triomphe. And finally, back to see the Notre Dame Cathedral in the bright light of day! What a transformative experience!

But I must say, my biggest disappointment was La Place de la Bastille.

“Where is the Bastille?” I asked, fully expecting to be awed by the sight of this famous prison. How sheepishly stupid I felt when I learned it was destroyed by French revolutionaries almost two hundred years ago! A monument, the July Column, now marked the spot. Impressive in its own right, but hardly what I was expecting.

It was Thursday when we finally parted company with Agostino. He remained in Paris while Ron and I set off to Normandy to visit the medieval city of Bayeux, the Bayeux Tapestry, and the D-Day beach landing sites.

We promised to keep in touch, and I must have exchanged contact information with him at the time, but I could never locate it after all these years. Unfortunately, the postcard he sent me didn’t have a return address.

I regret not trying harder to get in touch with him at the time. But As the years passed, life happened and the imperative waned.

Perhaps, Agost, if you are reading this, you can respond with a comment!

Au revoir, mon ami! Arrivederci e grazie!

Three years after our European trip, Ron and I collaborated on an LP rock album (Lights in the Sky) that featured a song inspired by this night in Paris. I wrote the words and Ron the music. We called it “Tout Complet,” or Totally Full, taking some liberty with the original French “Complet” posts.

You can click here to visit my website for the lyrics and music. Hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading…and perhaps listening! You can follow me on Medium.com at Stephen Goldhahn

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