How I made it to the hotel is beyond me. I knew I was going to the Place de Clichy metro stop and that our hotel was right there on the plaza. I mean, there was a picture of it and everything. I saw it on the Internet and I'm good with matching pictures so I figured it would be a breeze.
First off—the Internet lies. That picture was SOOOO NOT our hotel.
Secondly—where are the freaking street signs? Oh, nice. They're a good fifteen or twenty feet down the street corner on little placards embedded in the side of the buildings. Nice. To figure out what cross street you're on you have to walk up and down every damned side street.
Third—our hotel is not technically on the plaza. It is on a side street on Rue de Douai. And how do you even pronounce a word with four vowels and one consonant?
But, like I said, I've made it. And in walking around the neighborhood in search of it, I found an Internet cafe so I can give directions to Cain and find out when he's arriving.
On the way into the city, I changed trains somewhere and on the new train a little swarthy European boy boarded with his friend and their jamboxes/karaoke machines. He proceeded to rap and dance until the next stop where he got off. He treated us to a couple of flips and a lot of gyration. Sadly, most of the gyrations were in some old lady's face. She seemed quite unimpressed, as if—either she'd seen her share of boy parts before, or—she had no interest in little boys at all. I was torn between being annoyed by the dirty little metro performer or being excited that I was on a metro in a big city with a real live little street urchin performing for me! [Note: the previous blog post's photo montage was inspired by the metro boy and all of the train travel]
(Place de Clichy in front of what the Internet would have you believe is our hotel)
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