Paris, Day One

Allison, Lesley, Katie, and I all piled onto the 1:20 train to Rome on Thursday—the first leg of our journey to Paris. Uneventful, we headed for the Terravision shuttle office after reaching the Rome Termini Station where we purchased tickets at 8 euros each. We only waited about 15 minutes until we loaded our things onto a chartered-type bus and made our way across Rome to the Ciampino Airport. Things were still uneventful as we boarded our plane for a 6:50 take-off. Things got sketchy when we disembarked at Beauvais and bought 13 euro tickets for the shuttle into Paris. I was about to load my carry-on when I thought it would be best if I removed my wallet and passport and kept them with me. I got my wallet and then reached for my passport. It wasn’t where I expected it to be so I kept digging around, slowly becoming a bit frantic. I searched my pockets, the rest of my bag, and then repeated with no results. My passport was gone, probably left on the plane. The others got off the bus and went back into the airport and over to the information desk with me in the lead. I asked the attendant if she spoke English and as she did, explained the situation. She called Lost and Found but nothing from the flight had turned up and, as it was a Ryanair flight, more passengers had already been seated and the plane was in transit. After a very horrified moment, I collected myself and asked her what I had to do. I had to call the American Embassy in Paris and get a new passport. After she took my name and several numbers and gave me the number and address of the Embassy, I thanked her and sat down. As my phone was not allowing outgoing calls, I used Katie’s to phone the embassy where I was directed to an informative recording regarding lost and stolen passports. I learned that I would be required to present my driver’s license, travel itinerary, and someone who could vouch for my citizenship and that the Embassy opened at 9.
There was little more to do than to get on the shuttle and head into Paris. By the time we reached our stop it was after 11. We headed for the metro (station Porte Maillot) and rode it to station Concorde. From there we were to take a connecting line to station Felix Fauvres but showed up only to be informed that, due to the transportation strikes, there were no more metros that night. We were stranded. We climbed out the sortie and looked around. We were right in front of Place de la Concorde where an Egyptian obelisk now marks the spot where the guillotine of the Reign of Terror once stood. We walked to a nearby taxi stand but after trying to engage one of these we realized the hotel in the front reserved all of them. We tried to hail taxis but with no luck—most whizzed by full of passengers and those that were empty were, I can only assume, reserved elsewhere. Tired and downtrodden I approached two Gendarmes and asked for advice. They suggested we go down the perpendicular street and try to hail a taxi since there was no hotel crowd to deal with. We did just that but, after many failed attempts, a taxi pulled up and a couple who had been sitting nearby pushed their way forward and got inside. Katie went and talked to a different pair of policemen. When another taxi pulled up to drop off its passengers, the policemen talked with the driver, who refused us passage. Empty car followed by empty car went by. Finally, we were passed by a small and extremely well dressed group of British. Lesley began talking with them and asked if, as English speakers in Paris, did they have any suggestions for hailing taxis. We ended up telling them our story and they insisted that we follow them back to their hotel where they would have the concierge call a taxi for us. It was the man’s 70th birthday.
So we spent about a half hour in front of the Hotel Bristol before our very own taxi really did show up. In the meantime, the British man (a Mr. Manzel, I think) had come to check on the concierge’s progress twice. While I was extremely grateful for his much-needed help, I felt like a bedraggled street urchin when he invited us in for coffee. This we all refused, having intruded on his birthday celebration quite enough, and in any case were soon whisked away to our hostel, The Three Ducks.
It was like a brightly painted prison. However, as it was 1:30 am, all I could see was that is was like a prison. You had to access the rooms by going through a bar which probably banned non-smokers. We had to pay extra for both sheets and towels. Leslie met a friend from school, Kris (who had actually booked this “fine” establishment), and roomed with her while Allison, Katie, and I were in a four-person room with a man. We half-joked and half-believed that he was going to murder us in our sleep. I confess that I slept with my wallet under my pillow and my suitcase on the foot of my bed. The bathrooms were unbelievable and freezing cold, the only showers where open to the outside air and low temperatures and you had to keep pressing a button to maintain water flow. It was the grossest, scariest place I have ever been. But despite it all, I was asleep by 2:00 am.