See Paris and Die

“I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles” kept repeating in my mind as I huddled in the shelter of Alèsia station, protected from the deluge that gave no signs of abating. Commuters jostled past me, oblivious to my plight as I tried to read the now sodden map.

‘Stuff it!’ I said to no one in particular.

I dragged my suitcase to the ticket sellers window and asked directions, while I pointed to a street on the map. She averted her gaze and slammed the ticket window shut.

‘Bloody charming! Welcome to Paris,’ I mouthed to the window.

I trudged down the ramp, getting soaked to the bone in the process and scanned the street for a taxi. By now the rain was a solid wall and I could barely see beyond a metre. I must have looked like a drowned waif because a man wheeling a bicycle stopped in front of me and offered to help.

‘Where do you need to go?’ he said in good English.

I waved the sodden map at him and pointed to the street where I’d booked accommodation on Air B&B.

‘It’s not far, but better to take a taxi,’ he said then looked around at the empty rank. ‘I’ll call one for you.’

He waited until it arrived, explained to the driver where I needed to go, then took his leave with a smile and a wave.

Warmed by his gallant act, I started to feel better about my decision to come to Paris.

Five minutes later the taxi pulled up at a rustic building and the driver released the boot but didn’t get out to help with my luggage. Couldn’t blame him – it was teeming down – but I didn’t tip him.

I dragged my small case to the door and rang the bell. A woman, with deeply etched lines on her face – the mother of the owner – appeared at the window on the first floor and shouted something in French. Within minutes, she opened the front door and uttering some more unintelligible sentences, motioned me towards a narrow staircase. The floor shifted beneath my feet and in the gloom of the dank foyer I discerned sheets of loose Masonite which had been placed over a rough cracked concrete floor. I picked my way across the moving surface and struggled to climb the stairs while dragging my suitcase behind me.

We reached a pair of doors on the first-floor landing and entered the open one. It gave into a minuscule sitting room, where I plonked my case down. The woman pointed to a corner of the room which was cordoned off by a wooden bar – it was the kitchenette! She walked towards a doorway that opened into the bedroom where a massive empty bookcase occupied an entire wall. I looked to the right where a doorway, sans door, was the entry to a Lilliputian bathroom.

The woman turned back to the sitting room, nodded towards the hydronic heater, handed me the key and a phone number scrawled on a shred of paper, then bolted out the door.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. So much for wanting to experience Paris from a resident's perspective. The apartment was a far cry from the romantic description and carefully staged photos on Air B&B. In her emails, the landlady had been friendly and had explained how she and her husband would be away travelling, but her mother would look after me. Yeah, sure.

I stood in a daze for a while before I noticed I was shivering. I unlocked my case and rummaged through the contents until I found jeans and a windcheater. The mother had pointed to a folder on the bedside table before making her escape. It contained instructions for an ‘enjoyable stay’. I noted the hot water needed to be turned on, so thawing out in the shower was out of the question for at least an hour. I towelled myself dry and donned the warmer clothing.

Still shivering, I went back into the loungeroom and tried to decipher the instructions for turning on the hydronic heating. Nah. I heard a commotion outside the door and rushed to open it. A young couple were leaving the adjacent apartment. They reeled back in surprise, then smiled and said bonsoir.

‘Hi there. I’m letting this apartment and having trouble with the heater. Would you be able to help me?’

Blank stares.

I beckoned them into the loungeroom and pointed to the heater.

‘Non. Jeus suis désolé de dire.’ Much shaking of heads and upturned hands. The couple made their getaway down the rickety staircase.

Undeterred, I called the number the mother had given me. A male answered and I was relieved when he replied to my greeting in English. He took me through the instructions, and between the two of us we got the recalcitrant heater to warm up. I sat on it for a while until I thawed out, watching my fingers turn from blue to pink as the circulation returned.

The rain was pelting against the window as I stared down into the darkening street. What was I doing here, stuck in the burbs with no one to have my back? My joie de vivre had deserted me. The spur of the moment decision I had made in Melbourne, weeks before, seemed frivolous now. I cast my mind back to that pivotal day, when I had had the damning ultrasound.

So starts the adventures of Seanna Rydel ... more to come.

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