Paris, France

With map in hand I set out across Paris to find a hostel in which to base myself for a few days. The one I had in mind was located over the river in the east of the city centre, and I was wetting myself slightly at the prospect of biking through the busy metropolis to reach it.

I soon discovered, however, that Paris was an absolute joy to cycle through. Almost all roads had cycle lanes, with some of the major boulevards even having dedicated lanes running right down the middle exclusively for buses, taxis and bicycles. What’s more, when you did share road space with cars, their speed was leisurely and they gave you plenty of room. Granted, it was a Sunday, but I was still pleasantly surprised as I biked over the Seine and to the far eastern side of the city centre.

The hostel I had in mind was in an area that was easily described as “edgy” without quite reaching the realms of “sketchy”, being slightly run-down but nonetheless still feeling safe enough to roam around without a crowbar. The hostel boasted a myriad of facilities, including a bar and a cinema. Being further out from the centre than the others, I felt it was more likely to have a place to stash Ron inside and away from any local youths that might feel the urge to, say, set him on fire and throw him at police, as those in the far northern suburbs had been doing with all manner of objects recently. Indeed, this was the case, as the chap at reception kindly let me carry Ron inside and stow him in the baggage room for the duration of my stay.

I didn’t venture far from the hostel, instead taking advantage of the wi-fi by putting in a few hours of freelancing work and then later propping up the bar, meeting a couple of other travellers: Justin, a thoroughly sound Chinese-American from San Francisco who seemed completely enamoured by Paris and was prepared to do anything he could to move here, and Hisashi, an excitable and friendly Japanese chap who spoke little English but good French. This seemed a bit of a rarity, I thought, and so I enquired of him the reason as to why he had decided to take up French.

“What is leason?”
I rather hopelessly tried to explain the concept of a reason.
“What is leason in French?”
I racked my brains. “Je crois que c’est raison, comme raison d’etre.”
From out of nowhere he produced a battered electronic translator held together by flapping sticky tape and started to press buttons rapidly.
“How you spell leason? L…”
I wrote it down for him, and after some more furious key action, realisation dawned on his face.
“Ah, leason! NO LEASON!” he said with a huge grin.

Oh well.

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