Part 8: Never pick a fight with a street toilet in Paris

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I wore myself out in Paris. One day of walking, walking, and more walking.
There’s so much that’s been said about this city, I’ll do my best to be original.
Someone gave me a great guide to the city of Paris for Christmas last year, and I was determined to use it. I did. I hiked across town to have lunch at the place it recommended as a “best value,” only to find that it was only open for dinner.
I found the next place it recommended, a hidden wine bar called “Le Baron Rouge.” There was a wonderful selection of vin from all over the country, and I happily trusted the barkeeper’s selections. The atmosphere inside was very social and chatty. I was the only American inside this elbow-to-elbow joint. I got by on my French alright until I think I butchered a word so badly that the man told me to just speak English and he’d try to understand. (There’s a video from this bar online with this posting).
I wanted to photograph the Eiffel Tower in daylight, so I had to hurry across the city through the subway to make that happen. That meant no time for the Louvre, which was very sad. Next time I suppose.
I made it to the tower, bought some flowers for myself, and went to take the elevator to the top.
They kicked me out of the elevator. They said, your €5 ticket to the tower is for the stairs only. Now, I would have paid an extra € or two for an elevator ticket if somebody had offered it to me - but they didn’t. Now to get my money’s worth I had to march up their 1,000 steps, after hiking all over their city. Blast! Okay, well, it WAS the Eiffel Tower, so of course I shut up and started climbing. When I got to the top, it was completely worth it of course. I sat down and meditated for a while. Then I wrote a postcard, and bought souvenirs for friends back at home. For those of you who don’t know, souvenir is actually the French word for “memory.”
Next it was the Champs-Elysees. I had it in mind to dine there, if I found something that really struck a chord with me. I’m sure this street was once full of brand names that seemed quite extravagant. Today almost every store was represented with satellite stores in malls at large cities I’d visited around the planet, or in outlet malls in inglorious places like the I-80/I-69 interchange in Northeastern Indiana, which isn’t far from Fort Wayne, which holds the distinction of being the American city with the highest percentage of divorced adults (something like 48%) - don’t ask how I know these things.
I didn’t find anything I wanted to eat there, so I decided to eat at the jazz club I was heading to called “Le 9.” In a very short time I had become a master at navigating the Parisian subway, which runs on a tighter schedule than the London trains, but certainly not as tight as Berlin. You bet your ass those Germans will be ON TIME.
I found my way to the club, and received three courses of heaven, a 100ml bottle of sparkling French water, and a liter of wine for a reasonable price. As the band started up, I did an assessment of the audience. I’d hoped that in Paris I would see bright young people who were excited about jazz. No such luck. There was the same crowd you’d expect to find at any jazz club in a white American city - middle aged upper-income honkies who like to think of themselves as jazz fans, and a handful of black musicians who actually come to listen to the music and usually sit by themselves. In fact, the band was pretty much the same. It was all white too (except for the black drummer and bassist, of course).
The singer, a young lady who is quite attractive in her own way, wore a type of ridiculous clown pants. They looked like some kind of medieval pantaloons. I don’t think it’s a fad, as I haven’t seen anyone else wearing them.
After the jazz, my planned evening had come to a close. I didn’t want to leave Paris. Just one night wouldn’t be enough. I walked as far as I could, looking to push my departure back further and further, hoping to find just one more hidden jewel before leaving this city. I found myself in a dirty, dark area, and began to feel a slight bit nervous. I looked to place myself on a map, and saw that I was on “Crimee Street.”
My host for my stay in Paris was a sweet woman named Corinne, who lives in the miniature village of Trilbardou. Corinne, a teacher in her late forties, lives with her 16-year-old daughter, Ann. Corinne cooks excellent meals, and plays the trombone. I’d highly recommend her to anybody looking to go dancing in Eastern Paris anytime soon. There is only one shop in all of Trilbardou, a boulangerie/patisserie.
I must also note that it was in Paris that I lost my second fight with a public street toilet. This one ended up being much worse and far more embarrassing than the first. After waiting for the guy inside to finish his business and emerge, I hopped inside as soon as he was done. I waited for the door to close, and it would not. In retrospect, I gather that I was supposed to wait for it to close from the OUTSIDE, but I didn’t realize that it was a “smart toilet” and was reacting to my activity. When the door didn’t close after about 30 seconds, I got tired of waiting and decided to use the toilet anyway. I pulled out my stuff with the door still open about two feet. I was nearly through, when the automated voice shared with me in French a command that must have been the equivalent of “stop what you’re doing and get out.” As an added precaution to ensure I would heed its command, it decided to FOLD THE TOILET I WAS ACTIVELY USING - INTO THE WALL. I was tragically unprepared for this, and sort of felt I must be on candid camera or something. I was able to pause my stream long enough to make a break for the sink. As soon as I took a step in that direction (door is still open mind you) an alarm begins to sound like an incoming attack on the bridge of The Enterprise. I immediately bail out of this port-a-potty from hell, taking only the time to zip myself up properly. As soon as I stepped outside, I changed my expression to that of a confused passerby, wondering what type of deranged individual must have set off that hideous alarm sound…and slipped away.
Beware, the potties of France.

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Photos

at the tower
At the top of the Eiffel tower

mon scooter
my scooter

The Bastille
Le Bastille!

B at Eiffel
At the top of the Eiffel tower

bumdog millionaire
Note to self, if busking doesn't work, just add puppies!

my room
I took the pill, when I should have drank from the bottle

City of Light
from the tower at night

goats
Album is called "The Goats". I like

Parisian Jazz
At Le 9 Jazz Club

beautiful house
This house is simply gorgeous

Corinnes House
This is where I stayed

trilbardou
square in Trilbardou

Trilbardou
this is about the whole town

dudeschoc
The dude's chocolatier