Paris - Day One

I didn't step off the Eurostar at Gare du Nord, I strutted. I walked through that station like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, giddy as a schoolgirl to be starting my adventure, and pleased to be back in the city of lights.

It was a straightforward Metro trip to my hostel, where I quickly dumped my stuff and hopped back on the Metro, headed for Pont Neuf station. Having visited Paris for a few days a year or so ago I figured I couldn't fail if I started from such a central location, and that I'd soon be nonchalantly wandering familiar back streets like a local. Half an hour of confused bumbling later I realised the reason that nothing was familiar was that I was on the opposite side of the river to where I imagined I was. Slick.

Once I regained my bearings I must have wandered about for a few hours. It was strange being back here again, especially as my memories of most key places are romantic ones, and I was now walking the dark, cold streets alone. I was also feeling the same sort of first-day-of-travelling uncertainty I had in South America - 'I'm in Europe. Indefinitely. For months. Aaaaaaargh..." etc.

I'd been expecting both these feelings. Perhaps that's why I was feeling them. Luckily I found a solution to both through some basic Man Therapy; a small restaurant in the Latin Quarter, with a textbook example of the small, friendly, old French waiter (Gallic smile, black waistcoat, white apron - the works), where I ordered myself a couple of beers, some good rare steak, and watched the football on tv. The waiter wasn't happy when Manchester Utd beat Lyon, but he didn't take it out on me. I helped the beer and steak down with some profiteroles, and helped that down with some more beer.

I returned to the hostel a happy man.