What to do with 12 hours in Paris
First of all, as much as possible, don’t go to Paris and spend only 12 hours on your first trip to such a magical city. But in case you find yourself in situation similar to mine last May, when I decided to go with my Paraguayan friend David five minutes before he left for Paris from Brussels, here’s what we did and I suggest you do and don’t do.
I was in Paris on a whim, so I didn’t have Lonely Planet Paris or any other travel guide. With only 12 hours in the city, I did a quick scan in my head of all the novels and movies I know that were set in Paris and I’d want to do a pilgrimage to, but hey, it’s Paris; you already know what you want to see there. True, it will feel that there’s more to do than you could handle in 12 hours, so your brain simply closes shop and decides to go to the usual haunts (it’s doable!). So the first thing we needed to do was the obvious: Get a map, find the limited spots I’d get to see, and figure out our route. The maps were available for free everywhere in Gare du Nord, where we got off. Like me, you’ll probably want to just prance around and get lost in a place where almost every angle is a picture-perfect sight, but you’ll have no time for that, and even with a plan, you’d still get lost. At least we did, because it was a Saturday and the tourist crowd, especially at Tour Eiffel (Eiffel Tower), was a riot.
Our first stop was the church of Sacre Coeur (Sacred Heart) at Montmartre. Our friend Francesca suggested this, since it’s (supposedly) walking distance from Gare du Nord and David’s hotel, the Timhotel. It was also David’s first time in Paris; he’d planned a solo trip in advance, but he didn’t have a specific itinerary of what to visit, so he tagged along with me on his first day, and we took turns taking each other’s pictures. (There’s a tip: try not to go alone in Paris if you have only 12 hours especially if you’re a huge cam whore.) I couldn’t be more grateful. Because of David, I now have high expectations of every Paraguayan.
I was all set to walk from his hotel to the historical church, but David suggested we commute and save precious time and energy for when we reached exact tourist spots. The difficult but important choice had to be made by myself, as David had an extra day: time and energy conservation versus sightseeing by walking. We ended up with a mix of both, as the first train station (La Chapelle) we saw going to Montmartre was closed, and we had to wait and take a bus. The traffic was horrible due to some weekend market, but it was also our first reminder that Paris today is not just “romantic” in that we think of it only as a honeymoon city but more importantly it’s Romantic in the 18th-century sense of being exotic, full of vibrant and multicultural people. The bus was also where I was first tested my French-speaking skills in Paris, as I had to ask the other passengers for directions. It’s true that a little “Bonjour” goes a long way, so 12 units of French got me even farther. That morning, it meant a free ride on the bus (we didn’t have tickets and they didn’t seem to accept cash).
The traffic was becoming as bad as Manila’s (i.e., no signs of movement after 15 or so minutes), so we got off and walked all the way to the church. The bus driver said it was a 10-minute walk away, but despite our efforts to walk (more like run) as though we were on Amazing Race, it took us no less than 20 minutes to get to our destination. (This was not the only time; we later observed that you’ve got to double a Parisian’s walking-time estimate to get the real estimate.) Still, it was very much worth it, as the view of Paris from the church, being the highest point in the city, enveloped us like a warm motherly embrace. “We’ve made it, we really are in Paris! But wait, where’s the Eiffel Tower?” Locating the tower in our panoramic view of the city was not the priority though, because also facing the view is a historical church that was just as grand and magical. We got in, said our prayers (mine was just mostly “Thank You”), and left. We later found the view of the Eiffel from the sides of the church, covered by foliage. That moment was when my heart seriously skipped a beat.
From the church, we passed by the beautiful district of Montmartre and its chic shops and restaurants to get to the closest metro station, Anvers. By this time I learned my lesson of not trying to ask just any random person for directions, because there is a huge chance that he/she is also a tourist, just as lost as you are. I also found out, that a good way to “detect” locals is to watch for those who just got off or are about to get on their motorbikes; some may be helpful, others may not be (how could a local not know where that is?). We did find Anvers station eventually, but just like La Chapelle, it was closed. We walked to the next station, Pigalle, which was also not operating for the day. (It wasn’t so bad as the distance was only probably like from Ortigas to Shaw station, but still, we were trying to conserve energy.) I don’t know what it was that told us that there had to be a station that was open, but we kept on walking. It was also my chance to sightsee. My view? The Paris red light district. We had no idea. By the time we got to Blanche (the next station thankfully being open), we stumbled upon the historical cabaret Moulin Rouge, and a photo-op was in order.
A tip we were given is to purchase a carnet, a set of 10 metro tickets you can use everywhere for a minimal cost. From Blanche, we took the metro to Charles de Gaulle Etoile, which was only seven stations away. The Arc de Triomphe was just outside, but the station was like a maze; I still had to ask for directions out. There were no motorbikes around to help me detect locals, so I approached the first Parisian-looking dude I saw. I asked: “Comment nous allons a l’Arc de Triomphe?” (How do we go to the Arc de Triomphe?) “Do you want my answer to be in English or French?” was his courteous reply before he gave us directions. I was simultaneously embarrassed and relieved. To this day I can’t help smiling when I look back to that moment.
Standing across the Arc was indescribable. David was also just as silent and astonished. At one point, while our eyes were fixed on the wonder before us, he said, “Man, think of all the things in your past that led you to this point in your life.” David is a guy who knows how to turn the waterworks on.
We didn’t get to go to the Arc itself and see the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, partly because we couldn’t figure out how (I was tempted to just jaywalk across to it), partly because we didn’t have time. Also, from the Arc we could already see the tip of the Eiffel, which got us itchy, so we sauntered off in the direction of Le Tour. We went by instinct, so I couldn’t suggest or tell you the specific streets or route to take, but the walk took us around 30 minutes (although every Parisian we asked always said 10 minutes; no surprise there anymore). It was a tiring and lovely walk along some residential areas. David and I couldn’t help pretending that we lived in one of the posh apartments.
Seeing the Eiffel Tower up close was certainly overwhelming, but we were also just weighed down by exhaustion and hunger. David had only a total of six hours of sleep the past three nights in our conference in Brussels, and I had eaten only half a granola bar that day. He commented, “Man, I don’t know where we get all this energy from!” To which I replied, “From the fact that we are in Paris, maybe?”
Another lesson for me and a tip for you: Never go to the Eiffel Tower hungry. Paris is known for its good food, but there was no good food near the monument. But we were starving, so we settled for a hotdog sandwich (on baguette). Another tip is more like a reminder: Don’t go on a Saturday; it’ll feel like all the tourists of the world have decided to descend upon Tour Eiffel all at once. Last but not least, if you plan to go up the tower, get a pass online; the line still will be horrible, but a little better than the regular one for those without pre-purchased tickets. My trip was a whimsical one, so I don’t blame myself for not knowing about that useful little trick. We were about to line up to get tickets anyway, then David reminded me, “This will take hours, man. If we do this, we won’t have time for the Louvre. So it’s either we go up this tower or off to the Louvre.” It was a no-brainer for me.
The walk to the Louvre was probably twice or thrice longer than the walk to the Eiffel, and the famous pyramid wasn’t big enough to guide and assure us that we’re in the right path. The walk may have been longer and we may have felt lost many, many times, but the view was just perfect. Seriously: literally perfect. We passed by the Musee d’Orsay, the Trompe l’Oeil, and all other remarkable sites I’ve forgotten the names of. That was also when we understood why Paris is the city of love, having encountered couples that were conducting their honeymoons right on the sidewalks of Paris.
It was almost 5 p.m. when we got to the Louvre, which was as peaceful as the Eiffel was crowded. I had no intention of going in and seeing the “Mona Lisa” anymore, because the pyramids (yes, there are more than one) were enough for me. It’s said it’ll take you a week to see all of the Louvre; I had five hours before my train back to Brussels. It was like the wonderful finale to our long, exhausting pilgrimage. At the risk of sounding like a flailing fanboy rather than a coherent writer, the place truly was 360-degree perfect. Massive camwhorage occurred, as you might expect.
I might not have had a copy of Lonely Planet, but I had David who knew enough French history to put some of the Louvre’s many historic architectural details in context. It was starting to drizzle when our crash course was taking place (not to mention we were terribly underdressed in the cold weather), so we thought it best to take the bus back to Gare du Nord. We were instructed to get off at Gare de St. Lazare and take a different bus from there, where we finally had a decent meal in one of its little restaurants. I had steak and frites, which was basically French fries, and you could have as many as you wanted. Asking for your leftovers to be wrapped for takeaway is not in vogue in Europe, at least in Paris and Brussels, as I learned. Leftovers are almost considered an affront to the host, I was later told.
One of the reasons I was glad we ate in Gare de St. Lazare was the opportunity to see a polluted part of Paris. Knowing that the city could be like any other with its flaws made it even more perfect to me, although said flaws were practically cancelled out by the view from the bus going back to Gare du Nord. When we got there, we dropped by David’s hotel then back to the station. My train left shortly afterward, and I slept the entire trip. I don’t know how I managed to figure out the complicated Brussels metro system, but I succeeded in dragging my carcass to Hotel Metropole, where I collapsed into bed as soon as I could. Early the next day, I packed for Amsterdam and Manila, and left.
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Joseph blogs on www.JosephMansilla.com.
