The sirens are different. That was my first thought as I alighted the Eurostar at Gare du Nord. The sirens are different and there are people everywhere. Arriving in Paris at 7 pm, I wasn't expecting it to still be light. Nor as busy. Ah well.
My next thoughts were to getting to my hotel, and remembering that when crossing the road you have to look right first, not left. This is going to take a bit of getting used to. Making the footpaths even more precarious is the addition of the bike lanes which take over half the pavement. Cyclists have no shame, nor a sense of humour. I'm not going to stare them down. They are scary. No helmets. No desire to slow for slow-moving tourists with a death wish.
Following the instructions on my phone, I made it to the hotel in the 10th Arrondisement in about 20 minutes.
The hotel is down a little street off Boulevard Magenta. It's everything you'd expect from a Parisien hotel. White-washed, elegant and small. And this is okay. Great even.
On arrival, a Brazilian couple were checking in. The concierge was having to translate between French and Portuguese. They wanted tickets to the Eiffel Tower and couldn't decide whether they wanted to go on Friday or Saturday, or to the second or third level... I sat down with my bag and listened intently.
After half an hour, it was my turn.
Things I have discovered. Although I was fully expecting to get the normal Parisienne attitude of "I can speak English," after the opening "bonjour," I'm getting none of this.
Nope, people in Paris are happy to talk to me in French.
I call this winning.
I explained to the concierge that I was here for two nights, then after, I was here for five nights with Catherine Deveny's group. Catherine Deveny, in French, comes out as Kahtreen Deyvenay. It's cute. He tried to talk to me in English. I responded in French.
"Je dois payer maintenant?" (Do you want me to pay now?")
That did it. After that, EVERYTHING in French.
And it's okay. I worked out enough. I was in room 608. The lift was on the right. Breakfast was between seven thirty and 10.30.
Not hard.
My old French teacher would be so proud.
(Even better, while waiting for the Brazilians to get their lives in order, I was joined by a VERY hot bloke. He commented that my French was great. That did wonders for the ego).
After taking the pokey lift up to my pokey, but lovely room, it was time to get some dinner.
There was a new concierge at the desk.
"Bon soir. Je cherche pour une epicerie. Vous pouvez, m'aider?"
"Epicerie?"
"Groceries?
"Ah." He corrected my delivery, then continued in French. Groceries, and bistros, were around the corner. Easy.
I thanked him, and then said thank you for letting me speak French.
"No, I understand everything you're saying. You're going well."
A similar response came from the lady in the bistro around the corner, where I parked myself on a wicker chair on the footpath and had a light dinner of steak tartare and a beer. It was bliss.
As I was paying the bill, I got chatting to some people at the bar. Yes, in French. The lady behind the bar was impressed that an Australian could speak such good French. The couple had a daughter who lived in Tasmania and Canberra. I asked them why...
They also said it was refreshing to have somebody who tried to communicate in their language. The American and the British never do...
"Mais je suis Australienne. Je voudrais ameliorer. Je besoin de practiquer." (I'm Australian, I want to get better. I need practice. "
So, it seems the secret of cracking these French people - try and speak French. Even if you stuff up, apologise and keep trying.
They are more forgiving than we are led to believe.
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