(The following is a submitted story by Dana McMahan. You can contact Dana at mcdana_1974@yahoo.com. You can submit your own travel story through our web submission form.)
I suppose the Eiffel Tower is the piece de resistance, so to speak, of Paris. On our 25 day backpacking trip through Europe, my husband, Brian, and I had 6 nights in the famed City of Lights. We (at least I) found the idea of spending our last night dining high in the tower, the glittering panorama of Paris spread below us, unspeakably romantic. Up there the smells of the city would fade, we would forget about our aching feet, and would gaze lovingly into each other's eyes over candlelight and a glass of excellent French wine. However, the Fates and several ungrateful French cab drivers conspired to nudge us toward an evening at Hard Rock Café, watching a man try to sell flowers no one wanted.
The morning started pleasantly enough. A delectable breakfast at yet another enticing patisserie; some time spent wandering by myself through the charming Rue Cler neighborhood, poking about in bookstores, gourmet shops and odds and ends markets. Brian and I met up midmorning and enjoyed a street performance of a quartet. It was several moments before I was surprised to discover the lyrics were English!
It was to be a good day because today was the day of Tati- the Parisian fashion bargain basement. And in fact, my shopping expedition was quite successful. It wasn't until after lunch that things began to go downhill. We hadn't purchased any souvenirs yet for anyone back home, after over 2 weeks in Europe, and feeling guilty about this fact, we decided to go ahead and take care of that task. The day was getting warmer; the late June sunshine was beating down increasingly more intently as we hatched a plan to visit the Bastille area of Paris. We hadn't been there yet, so we thought we'd take a look at the monument, and then hunt for that perfect "souvenier du Paris" as everything seemed to be labeled in this city.
We descended into the dank urine-soaked stench of the Metro. Litter scraps danced about, sent into frenzied motion by the shuffling feet of hundreds of tourists, beggars, and Parisians. I noticed with dismay that the Metro car was unpleasantly full. We shouldered our way into the packed car though, where I immediately buried my face in Brian's chest. Standing just under 5' 2" I am most unfortunately situated at armpit level to the general public. And on this very warm day, the publics' nondeodorized en masse armpit was not a place I cared to let my nose linger. The sweaty crowd jostled, bumped, and shoved as each stop admitted more odiferous passengers to our confines, while releasing only a few. Sticky flesh was pressed against me as I sought to meld into my husband's protective form.
The train at last reached our stop and we all piled out like a herd of slaughterhouse cattle, not smelling much better. I wondered aloud why the crowd seemed so much worse than on any of our previous rides. As we ascended the tightly packed escalator to street level, I realized why. We had inadvertently stumbled into Gay Pride Day Parade in Paris. Now, lest anyone accuse this writer of prejudice or discrimination, I must point out that it could have been Office Worker, Housewife, or Small Yippee Dog Owner Pride Day Parade, for all I cared; the end result was the same. Masses, throngs, of people milled about everywhere, swarming over the sidewalk onto the street as far as the eye could see. Balloons and signs dotted the blue sky directly overhead. Young men clambered about the imposing Bastille monument, flinging bright yellow Parade shirts into the crowd. Brian jumped up and neatly caught one; now, there's a souvenir!
It was soon apparent that in this melee we were not going to do any shopping. We could barely move without being swept up in the sea of capering people. I had visions of becoming separated from Brian and wondered frantically how we might find each other should that occur. Before such a frightful event could take place, we pushed our way through the enthusiastic partiers and reentered the smelly littered confines of the Metro. The car was alarmingly congested now, and I clung determinedly to Brian, trying not to notice as body parts only my husband should touch made contact with the other inhabitants. We swayed with the motion of the car, forcing me to lean into people I most decidedly did not wish to touch.
I breathed a thankful sigh of relief when we reached the stop for Notre Dame, instantly regretting it as stale smoke, body odor and urine stenches assaulted my overwhelmed olfactories. We stumbled out of the car hand in hand, ever fearful of being caught one in the train, one on the platform.
