Today started off as a lazy day where the best thing was leisurely sitting outside of a cafe, sipping an absurdly strong — and tiny — café with a croissant, watching the people go by while the sun shone down in full force. It was warm, it wasn't raining and while I was sad at all the things I didn't get to see (Victor Hugo's maison was apparently right around the corner from where I was staying, and the sewers will just have to wait until next time), I feel like I cracked through Paris's shell.
Now I'm a little grumpy. I wanted to head to CDG early so I could hang out in the lounge and get a bit of food in me and sit in a comfortable chair, and I walked and walked and walked all over the airport to find out the lounge was closed. Not just that, but it closes every day at 13h30. Like, why? Why would it only be open for six heures par jour? And in Paris, of all places, one of the biggest and busiest cities in the world.
But meh, enough complaining. After the splendour of my hotel for the past two nights, I had to take things down tons of notches so I started looking for a hostel to stay in for my third night in Paris. I knew I wanted to stay in a funky, vibrant, hipster-ish arrondissement so when I found the Bastille Hotel for just €16/night and for a two-person room, I was sold. And when I got out of Ledru-Rollin station and saw what was on the street ahead of me, it felt like coming home. I dropped off my bags in the luggage room and wandered off, greeted by a French version of London's Brixton.
I was immediately drawn to Boulevard Richard Lenoir because of the sights, sounds and smells. It was jam-packed with people and tented vendors and the farmer's market was on a closed-off street where it was impossible to walk faster than a snail's pace. Because I didn't know if I'd be charged a bazillion euros if I took the coffee in my hotel room, I was in need of a pick-me-up and found it at Terres de Cafe. It was a tiny little coffee shop where I only needed to know how to say une café, s'il vous plaît and à bientôt and where I could sit by the window and watch all the action going by.
Sitting there, I also discovered through the power of Google that I was within spitting distance of Place de la Bastille so I finished my coffee, walked like Mr. Bean to the square and was bowled over by le Colonne de Juillet. Wow! It was so big and the angel at the top was so shiny and golden that I unashamedly gawked at it, as only a non-Parisian will do.
Later that night, we went out for a couple of drinks around town: first an Irish bar that was rich on pseudo-character and low on authenticity, then a hole-in-the-wall crêpe place for a quick bite and last at the Why Not Paris? bar. Before I knew it, it was almost 01h30 and I was thinking about how not nice it would feel to get up early the next morning instead of having the luxury of sleeping in. Getting up wasn't that bad, and I still had my leftover baguette sandwich from the market the day before. Gosh, but I loved that market. For just a handful of euro coins, I got my favourite cheese — Saint Agur — for just €2.50 for 250g, an heirloom tomato, a multigrain une petite baguette and a fried chicken thing that was perfect when cut in half.
I have to stop talking about food. The lounge is closed and I have to — grumble, grumble — pay for my food this time. Gah.
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