I hate Paris. I know, City of Light, yada yada yada. Everyone wants to go there.
When I was entering the table-setting contest at the Orange County Fair every year, the most popular theme was always Paris, even though most of the entrants only dreamed of visiting.
But allow me to point out that Paris is not the only city of light around. We have one much closer. Can you say “Las Vegas?” I’m not smart enough to compare the kilowattage between the two cities, but I’d bet, mile for kilometer, Vegas would win, hands down. Probably based on Caesar’s Palace alone.
And actually there’s even a “Paris” in Vegas. You could just go to the Paris Las Vegas Hotel & Casino and save yourself a 10-hour flight, even go up in the Eiffel tower and all. I don’t know if the waiters would be snooty enough, though. If you’ve stayed there, maybe you can let me know.
Paris Las Vegas hotel and casino is seen in Las Vegas. NevadaIn Vegas, you don’t have to change your money into Euros. You don’t have to try to speak French and have people look down their noses at you because you can’t pronounce “arrondissement.” Of course, there’s no Seine river, but you can go next door to the Venetian and take a gondola ride on a canal so clean that the water is Tidy-Bowl blue.
So, by now, you’re probably thinking to yourself, “OK, Marla Jo, if you like Vegas so much, then why are you going to Paris?” And that’s a very good question, to which there are two answers.
The first answer is that my friend whom I’ll call Pinky is in Paris for five months, and I really can’t go five months without seeing her. That’s the kind of friend she is.
And the second answer is, because it’s free. You know how much I love free stuff. I will be mooching off Pinky the whole time I’m there in her rented three-bedroom apartment near the Seine, with an elevator. This is a huge thing, because most of those old historic buildings in Europe are legally unable to install elevators because of building codes that hate Americans, so we have to hike up umpteen floors to reach our beds.
This is bad enough, but when you’ve been walking all day on cobblestones, your feet feel like they’ve been attacked by a dozen meat tenderizers and the last thing you feel like doing is hiking upstairs.
So not only will I have a free place to stay, but a kitchen where I can cook. This saves a ton. Plus, I was able to use credit card points I’d been hoarding to buy my plane ticket, so the flight was free, too, except for the international taxes.
Let me explain. As many of you know, my only passion in life other than my kids is travelling. Even when I’m gimpy. But I’ve only been to Paris once, and I hated it. I was 22 years old, and on my first trip to Europe, on a package tour of great European capitals. We had just been to Vienna, a gorgeous city where everyone was shockingly nice to us, and where I saw my first opera for the equivalent of only 91 cents.
Then, we went to Paris. I was speaking my (admittedly inadequate) college French, but, still, no one ever smiled or behaved warmly for even one second. Unbeknownst to me, I was coming down with the flu, but I just had to go see the Louvre. I mean, it’s the Louvre. I dropped off my backpack at the coat check, and went inside, fighting through massive hordes of maniacal other tourists, trying to get close enough to see the Mona Lisa. (They should really rent cattle prods.) It was disappointing, because the painting is surprisingly small and you only get nine seconds before someone from a race of giants shoves you out of the way.
The line to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre (Photo by Trevor Summons)I did my best to tromp around the enormous former palace and see some of the other masterpieces, but I was drooping, so I left. Then I realized I had come out the wrong exit, and I had to walk about 13 miles back to the front of the building to reclaim my backpack. Did I mention how huge it is?
When I came back out, I saw a coffee truck with some tables and chairs, and realized I desperately needed some java, so I went up to the little window and ordered some. Then, feeling worse, I gratefully sat down at a table, forgetting what our tour guide had told us, which was that if you wanted to sit at a table, you had to wait for the waiter to order your coffee. You could not order from the window and then sit.
The waiter saw me disobey this rule of etiquette and came up to me, screaming, in French, for me to leave. I just wanted to drink my coffee, so I ignored him. He kept screaming.
I could go on about that visit, but it really encapsulates my experience in Paris. So, yeah, I’m only going back to spend time with Pinky. Plus, in the middle of my stay we’re flying off for a few days to Morocco, where I’ve never had anyone yell at me.
I’ll let you know how it goes. And I won’t be going to the Louvre.
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