Joc V.
Yelp
When I got off the plane, my feet were so swollen my shoes looked like they were baking a couple of brioche loaves. So it was essential for me to check in to the hotel to get some much needed rest and for my feet to deflate from their sad, bloated state. Upon arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport, we encountered our first rude French person in a surly cab driver who took one look at us and whipped off a quick, "Next cab for you" in dark, inscrutable Fringlish (English with thick French accent). The second cab driver came for us in roughly 45 minutes. Of course, it started to rain. Not a very auspicious beginning.
We arrived at our hotel, checked in with a very friendly bell clerk who asked where we were from. We always say San Francisco, because really, I could say Union City and I might as well be saying "Buttmunch, Idaho" because I'd get the same blank stare. The French have a thing for San Francisco, perhaps because it engenders the same scorn from conservative middle America who thinks nothing good ever hails from the city of lights or the liberal hippies from that city of gays.
Unfortunately, the room he assigned was not ready and I walked into a very unpleasant smelling and looking room. We informed, not complained, of the room's current state and received an apology but not a different room. We got the same room after being told to come back in 30 minutes. The brioche loaves in my shoes continued baking.
I was a little disappointed to have received the same room; it was like seeing the before of the before and after picture. The room was the size of a thimble but who stays in their hotel room in Paris? Actually, everything was small: the elevator (Pru and I went in 2 separate trips); the tub--might as well bathe in your sink. But once again, you are in Paris. Only sleep in your room and enjoy the vast offerings of the city.