I remember Paris. A phrase I became accustomed to hearing was “c’est ta faute.” The occasional “imbécile” was thrown onto the end of it.
I arrived in Gare de Nord, Paris’ Eurostar train terminal, at 10am on New Year’s Eve. It was -10°C and foggy. A soft yellow light bordered the glass dome ceiling and exit archway. Rue de Dunkerque, the outside street, was cobblestone. I thought it was a footpath and the taxi drivers thought this warranted death by Mercedes.
“If you got killed it would have been your own fault,” one driver yelled from his window. “Where are you going?”
“Hotel Sofitel, how did you know to speak English?”
“Your hat,” he winked.
I removed my knitted beret and loaded my duffel bag and suitcase into the boot. After about fifteen minutes it began snowing, and fairy lights adorned to most roadside trees were switched on. I squealed at familiar sights - Le Arc de Triumph, Le Tour de Eiffel, Starbucks.
We arrived at the hotel by noon. It was four storeys, flush within a row of shopfronts and cafes. The driver reminded me to never leave my bags unattended. I thanked him and got out of the taxi. I heard the doors lock.
“€60” he said, as he wound his window down. I ordered him to check the meter.
“Check it yourself.”
No meter.
I waved my arms at the hotel doorman. He smiled and waved back. I waved a €5 note at him. He and two others put their red coats on and ran towards me. After an exchange of “sacrebleus,” I was told taxis which don’t have a meter operate on a fixed price basis.
“You would have known this if you read the sign,” one of the doormen pointed to the dashboard. “It is not the driver’s fault, he does not speak English.”
The driver smiled and held out his hand. I gave him my entry to the Louvre, and he released my luggage. He lit a cigarette as he was pulling out and said “c’est ta faute, imbécile.” Translation: It was your own fault, idiot.
Katarina Taurian
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