Sonntag, 14. Okt. 2007, 9:00 GMT+1

If I thought the Frankfurt HBF was unfriendly for sitting, it's nothing compared to Paris. Again following Alex and Courtney's advice from this summer, I went to the tourist information center and asked about hostels in the area.

"They're probably all full. You know that tonight is the semi-final of the Rugby World Cup between France and England, right? But here's a list of all the hostels in the city, with addresses, phone numbers, and metro stops."

Excellent, thought I, and if I can't get a room, I'll just....sleep in the train station?? I was pretty sure God wouldn't let it come down to that, and I said a quick prayer.

I couldn't exactly start calling hostels to see if they had room, so I looked for a quiet place around the station to sit and look at my options. Finally I settled at one of those obnoxious "standing" tables and spread out my map of the city.

First, I located and circled all the metro stops mentioned on the list. Then, I searched closer until I found the streets where the hostels were located, and next to them I wrote the hostel names and addresses. Finally, I penciled a route through the city that would take me to each hostel on the list and most of the major landmarks. If it took me all afternoon to find a room, at least I could see the city while I was out.

The good thing about spending all that time staring at the map was that I became very well acquainted wiht the layout of the city, but as it turned out, the very first hostel on the list had a room for 19€ with breakfast included. I looked no further.

Paris

Europeans often comment that everything is bigger in America. But after a day of walking in Paris, I don't think that's always true.

Not nearly as large as, say, Los Angeles, Paris nevertheless takes quite a bit longer to conocer a pie que Luxembourg. Sin embargo, I was trying even harder now to conserve money, so I still chose to hoof it rather than purchasing a metro pass.

Walking from my hostel towards the city centre, the buildings that I pass grew more and more impressive. Unfortunately, with just a free tourist map, I had now idea what most of them were. Each one, however, seemed bigger than the last, until finally I came to the one building I could have identified with no map at all: The Louvre, with its famous glass pyramid in the center courtyard.

For being the most famous city in the world, I was actually surprised to learn that it only costs 9€, and was tempted to go inside. I decided against it, however, when I thought about how little fun it would be by myself, and also the fact that I don't think Willow could forgive me for going without her.

That is also the moment when I spotted the Eiffel Tower, and although I was supposed to be looking for a call shop to talk to my friend Ale who lives in Versailles, I found myself drawn toward the tower that loomed not so far off.

For a while I had an Empire State Building moment (If you've ever been in New York, you know that the Empire State Building is so big around that when you stand at the base of it, you can't see the top). At one point I had given up on finding it and starting walking towards the river, when suddenly it came back into view, and I found myself drawn toward it once more.

I am the only person I know who got a picture of the Eiffel Tower with a giant rugby ball in front. Almost as cool, and possibly even more unique than my picture from last summer with the giant soccer ball in front of the Brandenburger Tor in Berlin.

There was a moment that day as I stood staring up at the tower when I caught myself thinking, "That's not the real Eiffel Tower."

Then I laughed at myself, "Of course it's the real Eiffel Tower! Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because the real Eiffel Tower is in Paris. You must be in Las Vegas."

Without even realizing it, I answered myself out loud: "I'm in Paris!"

Fortunately, with all the noise from the rugby fans who surrounded me, no one heard.

Beyond the giant rugby ball was a giant screen from whence I heard playing a tribute to Pavarotti, and I was tempted to stay and watch the game from there. But I had seen on a "fan map" that there was another giant screen set up in front of the Hotel Ville (just across the river from Notre Dame Cathedral, where I had wanted to go anyway so I could see what time mass was the next day). Plus, I still hadn't found a call shop. It was 19:30 when I left the Eiffel Tower, meaning I had an hour and a half until game time. I was then reminded just how big of a city it is.

It was fully an hour later by the time I sat myself on the Astroturf in front of the Hotel Ville. No Pavarotti was playing, and with my limited understanding of written French, the announcement that flashed across the screen seemed to be telling me that the game would not be broadcast there. My suspicion was soon confirmed by a loud Englishman (only he said "match" and not "game"), and I knew that I could still catch most of the game if I headed back to the tower, but my feet were really hurting at this point (I'd been walking around the whole day in flip-flops), and the Eiffel Tower was quite the opposite direction of my hostel, so instead I started heading slowly in the direction that I was going to have to traverse later anyway, hoping to find a "pub" along the way.

I found a promising one. Drinks were, of course, ridiculously overpriced, but it was happy hour until 9, so if I ordered anything before the game it would be cheap. Unfortunately, I could only use credit card with purchases over 16€, and they weren't serving any food. My only options, then, were to use up the rest of my cash on a drink that I really didn't want anyway, or buy 3 overpriced drinks that I didn't want to avoid spending my cash. Luckily, the waiter ignored me for a while, and when he finally came back towards the end of the first half to ask what I wanted to drink, I left.

My feet hurt. I know that's a lame thing to say when I was the one who chose to walk around Paris in flip-flops, but it's true, and by the time I left that pub I was limping home. I limped inside several more pubs along the way to check the score, and at one of these pubs I acquired a follower. Danny, was his name, a black Frenchman.

There's no way to say this that won't sound racist to an American, but I've been in Germany long enough that it doesn't bother me. (1) Until being in Paris, I hadn't seen so many black people since leaving L.A. (2) French black people act more like American black people than German black people.

In Germany, one sees very few black people anyway, and the few I've seen don't attract any attention because they all dress, act, speak, and look German. American black people,  on the other hand, aren't recognized so much by the color of their skin as by their way of being. American black culture is something I've tried to explain before to a German, but it's something that is much more easily recognized than described.

Walking with Danny Saturday night, I could tell that he is very French, but also very black, and I observed a little of that "black culture" that I'm used to as he stopped to greet some friends, outside MacDonald's, of all places.

Danny walked with me all the way to my hostel, but I wasn't scared. He had given me an out very early in the conversation. He asked, "I hope I'm not bothering you", and I get the feeling that if I had said he was, he would have left me with no questions asked. Then, however, I would have been walking the streets of Paris alone at night, and I couldn't trust that the next person to stop me would have been as polite as Danny, so against my better instincts, I let myself trust him. I had to; I was limping alone through the streets of Paris, for crying out loud! He was a complete gentleman. He walked me to my hostel, gave me his phone number, and asked me to call him the next day.

Did I really plan to call him? No, not really, although he was so nice, I actually felt bad that I didn't. Then again, I never even called Ale whom I was supposed to meet for coffee Sunday afternoon.

My feet still really hurt when I woke up Sunday morning. I even caught myself wondering whether it was possible to fracture or sprain one's foot just by  walking to much. I still don't know the answer to that, but since the pain was located on the bone rather than the join, I know it couldn't have been a sprain, and since there was no swelling involved, I'm pretty sure it couldn't have been a fracture. Whatever it was, it forced me to spend almost an entire day sitting around my hostel. I managed to limp out in the morning for mass, but I couldn't even stand when I was supposed to, and I was literally crying from the pain as I limped back to the hostel afterwards.

I've come to the following conclusion: You can still have fun travelling in Europe without money, but if you can't walk, you may as well stay home.