Luxury

One of the nice things about my job is that they do all the animation in Paris, and occasionally (when the big boss is there and the timing is right) you get to go over and work in France. I’m here now, my third trip in eight years, second in the last two. The previous times I stayed at Le Marquis hotel, which is between the Eiffel tower and the studio. A four star joint with a homey feeling, the rooms are small but nice. I was there last summer and everyone was really nice and even tolerated my habit of shopping for food and eating it in the breakfast room at all hours of the day. I like it there a lot, yet when I was asked where I wanted to stay this time I felt a desire to try something new. Why not broaden my horizons and possibly my room size? Paris is a big beautiful city. There are other streets to stay on besides the unexciting Rue Dupleix, a generic, one way scar in the 15th arrondissement.

Jackie, my boss’s assistant (my boss is my good friend of thirty-five years, but he’s also my boss and I get a kick out of calling him that) told me she likes Le Cinq Codet, and so I say, “I’ll take one of those” and don’t give it a second thought until the car drops me off in the 7th, the glorious golden dome of Hotel National des Invalides (where Napoleon is buried) looming overhead. Okay, now we’re talking.

I walk up to the front desk and it’s a whole new world; the lobby larger, the concierge blonder, the vibe more upscale. I get my key and go up to the room, but it’s even smaller than the rooms at the Marquis, a lot of beige, cream and light wood squeezed into tight quarters. Then I go down to the breakfast room, which is bigger, fancier and less quirky, and suddenly I’m homesick for the lo-fi funk of Le Marquis.

I go back up to the room and email Jackie. “Sorry to be a diva, but is there any way I can check out of here and switch to Le Marquis, guess I’m a creature of habit.” Ten minutes later she writes back, “All good. Stay at Le Cordet tonight and you’re booked at Le Marquis starting tomorrow.” I have a decent night’s sleep, grab a morning coffee from a guy who barely looks up from his phone, and head out about noon, rolling my suitcase on cobblestone past the Ecole Militaire. I walk into the Marquis, see the small Filipina woman who runs the breakfast room and say, “I remember you.” She looks at me a beat and says “I remember you too” and I immediately feel better. Moments later I bump into Katie (French pronunciation), the woman who runs the place. About forty-five and tall with an unkempt bob, Katie wears jumpers with dark tights and flat shoes. Her mouth is all gums and overbite, a veritable museum of teeth. She also says “I remember you,” and I say, “Must be the hat,” referencing the worn, straw fedora I wear. “No,” she says. “I remember you.” This touches me far more than it should or maybe it touches me exactly as much as it should.

Thirty-five years of writing family films has worked its way into my DNA and when called upon I can usually rise to the occasion. The boss and I have a shorthand we developed decades ago, and though there are periods where my services seem expendable, there always comes a time when my particular skill set is needed. The work must be going well cause they ask me to stay another week. I tell the young woman at the front desk I need to extend my stay and she tells me it is not possible, that the hotel is fully booked. This does not make me happy, but as opposed to getting sulky I decide to see it as an opportunity. Ever since I started riding the rent-a-bikes Paris has become my city. I decide to look up some hotels in the 7th and take a bike tour, surveying each until I find the ideal spot.

My first stop is the Comtesse, on Avenue de Tourville. It’s a beautiful tree-lined thoroughfare, lots of “Lime” bikes always parked along it to speed off on. The concierge at the Comtesse looks me over and asks me if I know the price and I tell him, “Don’t worry, I just look like a bum.” He takes me up to see a room. It’s tiny, expensive and no fucking way. I leave slightly disillusioned and head for the next place on my list, but on the way I see a joint called Hotel Le Tourville, which is run by the same company as Le Marquis. I walk in and there’s a young blonde with dark roots behind the desk. A Russian transplant, she speaks great French and pretty damn good English, and though her style is a tad robotic (like she’s following the training manual), I give her the benefit of the doubt. She shows me a perfectly fine room on the first floor that has a nice little patio. Overcome with a surge of boldness, I say, “I’ll take it,” the patio, with its little sitting area tipping the scales. I should also mention that there’s a 100 year old Underwood typewriter in a case by the front desk and two more elsewhere in the lobby. The hotel was a famous haunt of writers back in the day (Victor Hugo specifically) and even has a “Poet’s weekend special!” I don’t look for signs from the universe but when they smack me in the mouth I take the hint. I tell Vlada (the Russian’s name) the company I work for will pay. I send Jackie an email and she takes care of it or at least gives them a card to keep on file. I can check in tomorrow at two.

Gema, the Filipina, and Phay, a wonderful young Kenyan school teacher who doubles as breakfast room deputy, serve me my coffee and we say our goodbyes. In a week, we’ve bonded over movies and colonialism but all good things must come to an end. On the way out Katie asks me where I’m going, and I tell her that the concierge (who is seated right next to her) said there were no rooms so I checked into another hotel. Katie does not like this one bit and quickly hits the computer. The concierge was wrong, there is a room if I want it. But I’ve got that patio in mind and that beautiful tree lined Avenue. It’s around the corner from the Rue Cler where I do all my shopping, and I cannot halt my Parisian evolution even for wonderful women like Gema, Phay and Katie.

I get to the Hotel le Tourville at 1:30 hoping the room is ready. There’s a young African cat behind the desk who tells me not yet. I take a seat at a little table in the lobby by the coffee machine. Two girls about twenty with bare midriffs and jeans slung low on their hips plop down in chairs and break out their phones, and I realize the culture is over and the world is going to hell in handbasket. Okay, maybe that’s over the top, but they radiate a bored dissatisfaction that in combination with their nubile flesh antics spells some kind of soulless doom. I’m not loving the vibe here, but decide to take a walk and get a hold of myself. I come back at two and Vlada is now behind the desk. She tells me she needs my credit card to guarantee my stay, and I say but you have the company credit card, but she says that’s just an authorization and starts to get a little Soviet Politburo with me. When I ask if I can cancel my reservation after a few days if I don’t dig the room she tells me, “No.” I’m not liking that one bit and so she gets the manager on the phone for a tense conversation in French, but when she gets off, it’s still “no.” “I have to stay the whole week even if I don’t like the room?” “Yes.” But then she says I can cancel the entire reservation if I want, but have to do it now and pay for one night as a penalty. This is all too much for me. I am trying to write about talking cats, sociopathic raccoons and adorable mini pigs, I can’t handle do or die decisions about accommodations. “Alright, let me just see the room again and I’ll tell you what I want to do.”

She lets me into the room and I hate it, the patio smaller and uglier than I remember. We go back out to the front desk and I ask her if she can get Le Marquis on the phone. Katie picks up. “I’m over at the Tourville and I’m not happy.” “Good,” she says. “Come back home.” I feel more maternal love in that one moment than I got in my entire childhood career.

I Uber the few blocks and roll my bag back into the Marquis. It’s been ninety minutes and I feel like a soldier returning from war. Katie welcomes me back and says she’s taken care of everything, I won’t have to pay the one night penalty at the Tourville. In minutes I’m back at my spot on the umbrella’d patio happily writing away. Katie comes out to check on me and asks if they can bring me a coffee. I say yes, and she smiles and says, “We like having you here,” and I realize that for me this is true luxury, far beyond any four-poster suite at the Ritz Carlton. To be known. To remember and be remembered. To have taken the time to connect with people, especially those who are serving me, and make sure they know that we are on even footing. That I am full of appreciation, not expectation. In fact, I can think of nothing more opulent than holding the elevator door for an older African housekeeper and seeing her royal face light up when she smiles and says “Merci.”