Chambre Onze

Hotel Aviatic Paris

In the rain, after quite a journey, I found the hotel.  After few words, the one-armed man behind the desk gave me the key, numbered 11. With my last shred of energy, I climbed a small spiral staircase, the bag heaving against my shoulder, and rope wrapped around my wrist.  The sound of the heavy clank of the bolt turning in the door made it real. I was home, for now.

Or:

Hopelessly wandering through the narrow back streets of the 14^th, Montparnasse, looking for a street that I can not properly pronounce. It starts raining and my shoulders are bearing the weight of all my possessions. However, I am heartened by the few people who I approach; and speaking French passably, they are kind to me and helpful.  A man jogging past, sensing my confusion, does a circle, jogging in place, and comes to me to give directions, still jogging in place.  I find the hotel tucked into the backdrop of this quiet little neighborhood full of food shops.  It is lovely.

Inside, a man with one arm is smoking Lucky Strikes at the front desk counter. A portly woman, I presume to be his wife, is descending the small spiral staircase with a bundle of sheets. I find out his name is Pascal, and he finds my reservation perfunctorily.  In the small lobby are some vending machines; a soda machine with Coke, Kronenbourg and Perrier that is unfortunately out of service since it hasn’t been updated to Euros from Francs.  In service, more importantly, is an automatic espresso machine replete with lattes and mochas. Oddly also, a snack machine that is completely empty but eerily sill lit inside.  Pascal stubs out the cigarette, handing me the key, “chambre onze” and instructs me to settle in on the second floor (you don't count the first as the first).  The stairs are narrow, the steps steep, and everything in miniature scale, and I can almost reach the doorknob from the floor below as I approach.

Ah, the solid clank made by the bolt as I slide it over with my key.  This sound meant relief for a tired and wet traveler.  I let myself in and almost instantly passed out.  But I had to return to Pascal and pay him for a week; a bargain at 160 Euro, cash.  I return to the pale blue room. The room is interior, and I drift to sleep with the image of antennae and terracotta and tin clad rooftops against the grayish blue Paris sky.  It is now 4pm and I say "today is for sleeping" and now it is 10pm and I am rested. And now it is 10:35pm and I am hungry too.  I will go out and see what is happening.  There must be a bistro with food somewhere near.