We raged at the rudeness of the drivers for a while as we plodded along together. Periodically we'd see a cab and one of us would take a stab at it, but to no avail. As we continued step after laborious step, with no eye for the sights of the city, no thought for anything but our painful feet and legs, I grew increasingly incensed. Fighting the little voice in my head that persisted in repeating that it was my own fault for being such a baby about the metro, I began to blame Brian. It was his fault for not being able to hail a cab. If he really loved me he would care that each step I took shot knives of pain through my ankles. That's right, he would hail a cab through any means necessary, even if that meant jumping out in front of one, if he truly loved me! But nope, he just trudged along beside me in silence. I finally burst out and placed all the blame on him for this horrid walk and took off ahead of him as fast as my swollen feet could carry me. Tears streaking my face, ! my head down, I didn't look back as I crossed street after street , defiantly hoping he'd lose sight of me, and not catch up. Now that would serve him right, I told myself. I felt the eyes of other pedestrians and the sophisticated Parisians dining at the sidewalk cafes, staring curiously at the blonde American sniffling and limping speedily along.
My poor long-suffering husband finally caught up with me, at what cost to his oozing blisters I'd rather not know--and we made up. No longer mad at him, I directed my anger to the French cab drivers. "It's because we're American," we concluded. "Ungrateful snobbish wretches want nothing to do with us lowlife Americans," we railed. Well, that's quite all right, we decided. We just won't go to their precious Eiffel Tower! We lamented together in this manner for blocks, pausing to rest our feet now and then. We agreed that the city was smelly, the inhabitants insufferably rude and condescending, and the menus entirely too difficult to decipher. Fine then, we'll just go to? horror of horrors; an American restaurant - the Hard Rock Café! So there, Paris!
But we first had to get back to our hotel on the other side of the Seine, near the Eiffel Tower. And we could see the Tower from here, but like Rick Steves says in his Paris guidebook, it's like a mountain, you keep walking to it, but it never seems any closer. I ever so bravely bit my lip though and held back tears, soldiering on in spite of the agonies in my feet and ankles. After an interminable amount of time dragging our exhausted selves through the avenues of Paris, across the Seine, past lush green parks, enticing shop fronts and any number of gloriously blooming window boxes, we stumbled across another taxi stand. We couldn't be more than 6 or 7 blocks from the Hotel du Champ de Mar, but I was ecstatic at the thought of sinking into the back seat of a cab and cruising in comfort the rest of the way. We pushed a button (hmm, there wasn't one on the last one) and oh joyous day - a cab pulled up seconds later. We hastily clambered in before he could change his mind and ! I directed him to Rue Cler, s'il vous plait. This seemed to be an abominable idea to the driver, judging by that uniquely Parisian way of lifting the eyebrows and clearing the throat. Just to be sure I understood though, he haughtily pointed out in heavily accented English that "eet eez just over there!" brandishing his stubby finger crossly. "I know," I said calmly, "but I'm tired of walking!" and leaned back in my delightfully soft seat, arms crossed.
Throughout the suspiciously long and circuitous route our new friend took, he repeatedly cleared his throat, telling us in the international language of no uncertain terms that we were ridiculous, and a waste of his valuable time. Upon arriving at our hotel, I handed him the 40 francs he demanded (with no extra with which he could "gardez le monnai") and stepped out with all the poise and hauteur I could manage, given my agonizing feet. We retired grandly to our room, where I promptly soaked in the tub and gave thanks for the European shower nozzle that allows one to bathe while reclined in the tub.
Much refreshed and attired now in my new French fashions, I slid my feet into my dress sandals, only to discover they didn't fit. The swollen blobs protruding from my puffy ankles were too large to fit in my shoes! No matter; I was in tres chic clothing, and would not wear my hiking shoes, even if I had to forcibly cram my reproving feet into the shoes. This I proceeded to do with not a little whimpering. I was just delighted to not be going to the Eiffel Tower. I couldn't countenance the thought of placing my freshly bathed, deodorized and perfumed body into a teeming mass of people on an elevator at the tower, and attempting to decipher another French menu under the watchful eye of another French waiter looking down his nose at me.
