Paris and Other Disappointments

by Adam Rozenbachs

  Dad had never seen a machine gun. Dad had never seen a police officer with a machine gun. Dad had never been on a train in a city that required a police officer with a machine gun. I’m sure it had him thinking, ‘What sort of unsafe, overpopulated, machine-gun-needing hell hole has Adam brought me to?’

  The train was packed, feeling more like we were headed to the footy at the MCG on a Saturday afternoon. Except that it was midday on a Tuesday. Dad wasn’t used to overcrowding; he drove everywhere, so catching public transport was rare. He lived in the suburbs and worked even further away from the city, so didn’t generally have to deal with masses of people like this. When he did, it was fleeting. Melbourne’s population sits at around 5 million, whereas Berlin and Munich were a comparatively small 3.5 million and 1.5 million. This had lulled him into a false sense that European cities were easy to handle. Paris’s 11 million people had caught him unawares, not least because all of them seemed to be on our train.

  Getting around a foreign city’s transit system is daunting. It’s an overload of colours, names, trying to work out which stations connect, buying the right passes, and for us, lugging around a caravan-sized suitcase.

  After an hour of very quiet travel from the airport, we arrived at the Hôtel de Ville station in the Le Marais district. I’d been told by a friend who’d once lived there that this was the older, gothic-architectured section of Paris, and a cool neighbourhood to boot, so it would have a lot of good bars and clubs for us to not go to. It was more rustic than anywhere we’d been in Germany; it had a kind of lived-in feeling, like a well-worn couch. Berlin felt almost brand-new in comparison, and I suppose that was courtesy of Allied bombing. The streets in Paris instantly felt a lot busier, both on the roads and the footpaths as people scurried about their day.

  Arriving at what I thought was our accommodation, we waited for our host to show up and let us in. And waited. And continued to wait. We stood out the front, checking out the Parisian sights on our street, a bakery and a boarded-up store. We couldn’t even ease the boredom by reading the graffiti scrawled across the plywood.

  When our wait drifted out to half an hour, I felt the doubt start to creep in. Were we even at the right place? Were there two Le Marais districts? Had Airbnb closed down overnight? Was this the right Paris? According to my initial email correspondence we had the correct street and number, but it only led us to two huge, solid steel gates. Behind which I assumed was our apartment. The longer we stood there the more my anxiety grew, my brain telling me I’d completely stuffed this up.

  Dad wasn’t saying ‘don’t worry about it’ like he did with the satnav in Germany, which only added to my stress. I tried to console myself with the thought that if the apartment fell through, it wouldn’t be that much of a disaster; we were hardly in the outer reaches of Patagonia, discovering the only motel in a tiny country town had been transformed into a craft brewery. We could find someone else.

  Then Jose arrived, a young Spanish guy whose name I only remembered from the childhood joke about the Spanish firefighters Jose and Jos-B. Turned out Jose being over an hour late was the least of our problems. Naively, I’d expected him to speak English. But why should he? We were in France and he was Spanish; neither of those countries required English. This was on us.

  Had I been a more diligent student it wouldn’t have been a problem, but my Spanish was based on starting lessons on four separate occasions, then giving up each time after learning the numbers, how to ask where the toilet is and the all-important ‘beer please’. My French was even less than that.

  Through about three broken languages and excessive hand gestures, we managed to ascertain which apartment we were supposed to be staying in. This aroused pretty significant suspicions on my part, as I figured if it was his place he would more than likely know which one it was. Clearly we were dealing with the frontman for a bunch of apartments, not something I was used to with Airbnb. My previous experiences had been that the person letting the apartment was the person who owned it.

  We also worked out that we were now waiting on someone else for the key, adding to the feeling we were being duped, because why didn’t Jose have it? I’d never before heard of a pre-host, the person whose role is to stand around with confused tourists, smiling and shrugging at them until the actual host arrived.

  Jose’s blasé attitude didn’t help ease the tension that was steadily building. The upside was that, once we worked out Jose couldn’t speak English, Dad and I talked openly about what a dodgy situation this was. In case Jose had a basic grasp of English he wasn’t letting us in on, I instructed Dad to talk quickly, making it harder for us to be understood.

  Even though Dad didn’t blame me for the situation we were in I certainly did, and as I was launching into my one hundredth apology, Key Man finally arrived. Dad stayed remarkably calm, mainly because Jose and Key Man were strangers to him and he didn’t want to lose his cool in front of them. I knew what being ten minutes late could do to him, and this was now out to ninety.

  Key Man seemed pretty casual about the whole thing, laughing with pre-host Jose, as though his lateness was routine and we had nothing to be concerned about. He happily took us through the iron gates and into a giant courtyard that led to our apartment, smiling, asking us what we thought of Paris so far. He didn’t get a lot of joy from us.

  In Berlin, staying on the third storey without a lift had led to a fair amount of commentary from Dad. Not necessarily complaining, but weighted remarks, the ones that come across as jokes but aren’t as innocent as they first sound.

  ‘Fucking lift would be nice,’ he said to me (with his eyes), as we headed up the stairs in Paris.

  As we rounded a very tight corner with the world’s still-heaviest suitcase to head up a fourth flight of stairs, I couldn’t help laughing out loud. This whole situation had become a farce; a ninety-minute wait followed by four flights of cramped stairs. I was hoping Dad would see the funny side of it when we sat down with a beer later.

  Then the door to the apartment opened.

  The overwhelming train ride followed by the annoying wait for the key were both forgotten in an instant. That was a positive. The downside was we were now dragging our suitcases into the single worst apartment I’d ever seen.

  Dad was quiet, and I wasn’t sure whether he was holding his tongue in front of the strangers or if he’d been reduced to a catatonic state. Sweat dripped down my temples, either from carrying the luggage up those stairs or sheer embarrassment at what I’d booked. I barely heard Key Man as he explained where everything was, staring in disbelief at what we were being shown. As he left I gathered my senses enough to ask for the wi-fi password, which he provided, and then I closed the door behind him.

  I turned slowly to face Dad, finding out very quickly he was far from catatonic and had indeed just been holding his tongue. What he said to me isn’t fit for print, but in short, my reply was, ‘Yes Father, agreed, this isn’t a very nice place.’

  Dilapidated would probably sell the horror of the apartment short.

  The front door opened straight into the kitchen, which contained a hotplate that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a camping ground, covered in grime from a thousand barbecues and only ever rinsed off when teenage boys pissed on it.

  The couch looked as though it had been picked up from the hard rubbish collection outside a Vinnies, the second-hand store having decided it was too rundown and dangerous to sell. It sat on a ceramic tiled floor that at one stage must’ve been the surface for a bowling-ball-dropping competition. Displaced tiles and random jagged edges meant footwear was not optional.

  The only window in the place was in the lounge, overlooking the courtyard we had just waited out the front of. A shabby curtain/rag was pulled across it, barely hiding the pitiful amount of light getting in.

  The bedrooms contained sheetless mattresses, which in a past life must have been used to soak up spilled colostomy bags. If the mattresses were sponges (which they technically were)
I would’ve tossed them out long ago, but at least they were hygienic because there was no way bacteria would have been stupid enough to stay.

  As the host left he said there’d be linen delivered later, the cleaners having forgotten to drop it off when they were there earlier. Which, from the looks of it, was 1987.

  I’d stayed in worse places. There was a backpackers in Laos that had the shower in the toilet cubicle, a neat design choice I didn’t discover until I picked up a soggy and unusable roll of toilet paper at a moment where I very much needed a dry roll of toilet paper. But I could safely say Dad had never stayed anywhere this bad. His experiences were his house, which he liked, or if he and Mum ever did travel in Australia, hotels.

  This apartment had the feel of a half-house you would see in a warzone, and I wasn’t sure if we were in the still-standing half or the rubble. Either way, the bomb had blown the sheets off the mattresses. I was surprised the people of Damascus hadn’t offered to sponsor us.

  ‘Let’s go grab a beer.’ I blindsided Dad with this offer, but I needed to get him out of the apartment so we could figure out what to do. We both knew it was shocking; soaking in all its disgusting features, both figuratively and literally, wasn’t helping.

  Fortunately our wait had meant the time had drifted into mid-afternoon, so we found an open bar, ordered a couple of beers and attempted to work out our next move. The quaint cobblestoned streets of Le Marais were going to have to wait.

  I desperately searched online for a hotel to stay at, but nothing was available in the area or within our budget, though Dad was willing to expand it, which showed how desperate he’d become. But as it became more and more depressingly obvious we were going to be forced to stay for at least one of the four nights we’d booked, Dad began to sulk. His sense of humour deserted him, and he wasn’t open to any topic of conversation other than the shocking accommodation.

  I’d never seen behaviour like this in him, because at home he usually had some sort of control over every situation. Sitting around wallowing wasn’t his style. When he ended up in intensive care because of a serious car accident, his pelvis shattered, arms broken and head trauma resulting in eye sockets as black as coal, he defied the doctors and was in rehab weeks before they thought he’d be.

  Now, for the first time ever, he’d basically given up. He was homesick, miserable and probably blamed me for the terrible apartment. Why wouldn’t he? I certainly did.

  Dad was adamant we should leave Paris immediately. I was equally firm about staying, reasoning that once we got out of the apartment and started hitting the sights, it wouldn’t be so bad.

  Dad wouldn’t let it drop. ‘I’m serious, Adam, I think we should go.’

  ‘We can’t. For starters, we’ve only been here for three hours.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So? So I’m not getting back to Australia and when people ask me, “How was Paris?” I’m saying, “I don’t know, only popped in for the afternoon.” It’s not going to happen.’

  Dad wasn’t happy with my response, but I couldn’t let his rashness dictate our plans. The day had exposed vulnerabilities in him I’d never seen, or even knew existed. He was sore, homesick, and he missed Mum. He wouldn’t even be able to relax at the end of the day because the apartment was so unwelcoming.

  In the past he would’ve carried on stoically, but he’d been worn down to the point of despair most travellers reach at one time or another. A stomach bug might take hold, leaving you drained in the bathroom, desperately wishing you could be sick in the comfort of your own toilet bowl at home. It’s not a fun predicament to be in, and this was Dad’s first exposure to the feeling. He desperately wanted to go home, but I couldn’t let him do it.

  There are times responsibility thrusts itself upon us. That’s how heroes happen, like Dad saving someone from drowning; he didn’t think about it, he just acted. Now it was my turn. I stepped up and took full control. Not just the logistics, but getting Dad through this emotionally. I had to use my instincts to make our remaining time as easy as possible. And enjoyable. I didn’t want it to turn into a hostage situation.

  Stepping up filled me with dread. I’m never the responsible one. Only weeks earlier I’d been fined for drinking on the train. After leaving one party and heading to another, I decided to take public transport. Turns out the public transit system is not as au fait with the ‘traveller’ as taxis are. Sometimes you just need a drink with you on a journey, in case – god forbid – you sober up.

  The moment I sat in my seat, the protective services officer made a beeline for me, deciding a fine was in order. Which was fair enough. I knew it was illegal. Once again I’d flown too close to the sun and had my wings burned.

  As the officer wrote out my fine, I absentmindedly took another sip of my drink, which drew his ire.

  ‘Mate! What did I just tell you about drinking on the train?’

  I didn’t help myself when I responded, ‘Can you fine me twice?’

  Turns out he could.

  Before the trip with Dad, the last time I’d been put in charge of someone else hadn’t ended well. Most of my friends had kids, and they assumed because they were responsible enough to look after them, I would be equally responsible. Turns out my friends are fools.

  Jess was one of my oldest friends (in terms of the length of our friendship; she’s not 104). She was one of the first in our group of friends to have a baby. I was even asked to be Rory’s godparent, a nominal title that didn’t really mean much other than that I’d shown a keen interest in him when he was born.

  The usual spin on being a godparent is that you are expected to take care of the child should his parents die. (Spoiler alert: they did not.) But when Rory got to about two-and-a-half years old, Jess asked me to babysit him for a night while she and her husband went to the theatre. Sensing my reluctance, she attempted to persuade me, saying, ‘You’ll be fine, it’s just for the night.’

  I reminded her of my track record. ‘It’s a lot of pressure. I can’t even remember my passport; how am I supposed to remember his allergies?’

  She countered with, ‘Seriously, Adam, you can do it. What could go wrong?’

  Hundreds of scenarios ran through my head, from losing him to me somehow pulling the fridge down on top of myself and choking on slowly defrosting stale ice cubes (I have a vivid imagination).

  On the night, I followed Jess’s instructions to the letter. I entertained Rory for a while (watched him draw), gave up trying to get him to brush his teeth after about forty seconds and finally gave him his bottle as we readied for bed.

  Then I put him in his cot. As Jess said he would, Rory called out once I’d left him, summoning me back to the bedroom, where I was instructed to sit with him until he fell asleep. I waited until his eyes closed, then eagerly went back to the lounge to watch Foxtel, which I didn’t have at home. Here I had access to channels I normally couldn’t watch, in particular the modelling channel.

  As I sat back down on the couch, Rory called out again, and we began what was clearly a nightly dance. This time he didn’t realise I was determined to stick it out until he fell asleep. I sat beside the cot, just about able to make out his wide-open eyes in the semi darkness.

  ‘Go to sleep, mate.’

  I figured I’d be back out watching TV in three minutes, five at the most. It turned out that the kid had stronger mental fortitude than me. He lasted a good fifteen minutes, staring at me unnervingly as I tried to pretend he wasn’t. I was starting to regret giving him a couple of pre-dinner Red Bulls.

  But I had to prove that I could outlast a two-year-old. Eventually I did, something I was way too proud of.

  Just as I was about to reacquaint myself with the models, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I stepped into the backyard, not wanting my conversation to wake Rory. I kept it short, in case he woke again and called out.

  Ending the call, I grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t turn. I knew instantly that I was locked out, but refused to believe it. I
tried turning the handle harder, which has never worked but I hoped might on this occasion. It only confirmed what I already knew.

  Unable to get into the house, there was only one way of checking whether Rory was asleep or awake: getting on all fours and sticking my head through the doggy door. Continuing my luck, it was so low that I couldn’t even reach up and open the door from the inside. Why couldn’t they have had a bigger dog, rather than a now long-gone tiny one? On the upside, there was silence inside the house. At least Rory was asleep.

  I stood back up and cased the joint, looking for an entry point into the house. It felt like being a burglar, but one whose only possible means of entry was ‘completely unlocked door’. To my dismay the front door was locked, as were the two front windows. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was expecting; this inner-city house wasn’t going to have lax country security.

  Walking around the place, the only window that looked at all accessible was the one into Rory’s room. I knew that wasn’t the way to go. And if I was going to break in and startle him awake, then I’d at least want to be in full clown costume so as to completely ruin him for life.

  During my lap of the house, my friend Nat rang to hear how it was all going. Word of me babysitting had filtered through our friendship group, and I had the feeling Nat had been put up to inquire about my progress. I explained my situation in the hope that she might provide a solution, but had to hang up when I was met with howls of laughter.

  Every scenario I came up with ended with something broken, possible police attendance and a screaming, traumatised child. I stood in the backyard, feeling utterly useless. At least I had my phone with me. As I pulled it out of my pocket, resigned to the fact that it was time to call the locksmith, I was startled by it ringing. It was Jess. I figured that via Nat, word had passed pretty quickly all around Melbourne, the theatre production pausing to tell Jess she needed to call home immediately.

  I answered, reluctantly. ‘Hey Jess.’

  ‘Hi! How’s it all going?’ she asked. The positivity in her voice told me she didn’t know what was going on. I saw this as my chance to play it cool. If I paid off Nat and broke into the house silently without traumatising her son, Jess would never know.