A Good Day To Dress Like A Tourist

“Today’s a good day to dress like a tourist–I would even argue that it’s the perfect day to dress like one!”

One year ago this very day, the beautiful French morning was slipping away, and I couldn’t believe I was wasting time defending my choice of vacation attire.

The Boss Lady and I had decided to go to Paris to belatedly celebrate 10 years of marital bliss, and we were kicking it off with a trip to the famed Palace of Versailles. And frankly, I didn’t give a ----- that I looked like a tourist.

After all, everyone else there was going to be dressed like a tourist, so why bother pretending to be a local?

Further, I didn’t fly across the ----- Atlantic Ocean so I could try to impress strangers with my fashion choices.

I came to enjoy myself, and by golly, I wanted to be comfortable.

It wasn’t long before the Boss Lady conceded to my airtight logic, acknowledging that our luxurious kid-free sleep-in fest that morning had put us behind schedule for the day. We were both pretty eager to get a jump on a long day of sightseeing ahead of us and were relieved to be at least getting out the hotel door before lunchtime.

The night before I had done some cursory research into how to get to Versailles–since it was outside of Paris a few kilometers, it wasn’t part of the standard Metro (Train/Subway) service area. However, it didn’t seem too complicated: just let the person working the ticket booth know where you were headed and they would select the right ticket for you. Then, after only one station change (according to Google Maps), and BOOM! Easy-sailing to our destination.

Sure enough, it was easy as advertised getting the tickets we needed from the local ticket agent–and cheaper than expected too! The total price tag came in around 7 € each. Not too shabby…

Moments later, we found ourselves trying to figure out which Metro Line in which direction we were supposed to take, when a kind gentleman our age noticed our confusion and came to our rescue.

After showing him our tickets and letting him know that we were headed to Versailles, he started slowly shaking his head before breaking the bad news to us: we had been sold the wrong tickets.

Boy was I pissed! But I was at least thankful he had caught it before it got us into trouble. I was getting ready to head back to the ticket booth and give them an earful, when he told us “No, no, they will probably just sell you the wrong ticket again. When you get to the Versailles station, tell them you accidentally bought the wrong tickets, and they will refund your money. Now, what you really want to do is go down that way and around the corner, and you will find the right machine that sells the ticket you need.”

He was pointing kind of vaguely in the direction that I thought we needed to go, so I figured it would be no problem finding the ticket machine of which he spoke.

We thanked him and scurried off in that direction, commenting to each other “French people are so warm & kind!”

…and then we promptly got lost. Whatever machine he was directing us to was most definitely not “just around the corner.”

Right when we were getting ready to turn around and try to backtrack our way through the maze of underground tunnels in which we found ourselves, we saw none other than our Friendly Helper jogging to catch up with us. He had noticed us heading in the wrong direction and was trying to catch us before we got lost beyond all hope.

I mean, talk about going the extra kilometer! Forget what you may have heard–Parisians are the best!

With us in tow, he guided us to a secret, out-of-the-way ticket machine that had what we needed. Knowing that we were probably running behind, he quickly swiped through the screens, briefly pausing to show us that we needed tickets that would let us travel to Zone 7–the outermost Zone, of course. Before I knew it, it was time for payment, and the screen was showing a total of 51,50 €. Ugh.

Sure it was a bit more than I had wanted to pay, but it didn’t seem too unreasonable that it would be ~12,50 € per person each way. Eager to get on the road, I decided to bite the bullet and started to pull out my credit card.

Once, again, our Kind Helper intervened just in time to save me the embarrassment of having my American card being rejected.

“This machine only takes French cards. Here, let me swipe my Metro Employee ID card so you can be sure to get that discounted price! You can just pay me back, no problem!”

Fortunately, I had a 50€-bill and a 2€-coin on me. But by this point, I had become slightly wary of the situation, and before handing over the money and taking the tickets from him, I asked, “Wait a second, how do we even know you work for the Metro?”

With a charming grin he said “Sure, check out my ID!” as he flashed us the card that had been hanging around his neck. We exchanged goods, and while I was relieved to finally have this mess straightened out, I thought it was a bit curt of him not to offer me my 50 Euro-cents in due change.

“Okay! Well, thanks so much for helping us out today! I don’t know what we would have done without you!” I told him with 75% confidence as we finally headed off to our train.

As we settled in for the ride–it was going to be close to an hour before we got there–I decided to make sure that things were indeed in order. As I studied the map on the wall next to my seat, I started to have my doubts about the directions our friend had given us.

Sure, we could stay on that train and get to Versailles…eventually. But the ----- thing had to circumnavigate almost the whole of Paris before getting there. Fortunately, when given enough alone time with a map, I become something of an expert navigator. I realized that we could switch trains at the next station and we would get there twice as fast by taking the one that was actually headed towards Versailles instead of the when headed away from it. Go figure.

But honestly, the seeds of doubt were already well-established in my head before our Friend’s direction-giving skills came into question. So there I was, with a bit of internal dilemma on my hands: do I attempt to live in ignorant bliss and enjoy the rest of our day…or do I dare ask the question that is no doubt on the tip of your tongue right now:

How much does a Metro ticket to Versailles really cost?

After about 15 minutes debating with myself, I finally concluded that knowledge was power, and it was better to face the truth.

I busted out my phone to look up the answer…only to find that I couldn’t get a decent enough signal for my internet to work worth squat.

As I waited in agony for one inconclusive webpage after another to pull up, I tried to distract myself with the various posters, ads, and PSAs plastered about the train car. I found this one¹Well, similar to this one–I couldn’t find the exact one I remembered reading. particularly amusing:

Less exciting, but equally informative, was one similar to this one:

Now, in full disclosure, I didn’t know but a lick of French, but I could deduce well enough it would easily be a fine of a good 50 € each for trying to sneak around with the wrong ticket. Hmmph. Interesting…

I kinda chuckled to myself, thinking “But do they ever actually check these things? Yeah, right…”

Meanwhile, I had finally got a decent signal on my phone again, and eventually found enough information to satiate my curiousity.

The Boss Lady noticed the pensive look on my face and asked what was up. I let out a sigh worthy of any agitated French man, and broke the bad news to her.

“I’m pretty sure we got scammed.”

“What? No way! He was so nice!”

“Yeah, of course. Most conmen are. Let’s talk to the ticket people when we get there and find out what tickets we really have. We need to get a refund of our unused tickets anyway.”

When we rolled up to our destination station, first thing we did was just that. And if for some reason at this point your were under the impression that French people were incredibly helpful by nature, let me tell you that the French woman working the ticket office was here to promptly dispel that notion right out of your pretty little head.

When it was finally our turn, we went up to the window and I did my best to explain the situation.

With judging eyes, she silently motioned for me to show her the tickets we had been sold. Saying nothing more than letting out an almost satirical contemptuous grunt, she punched numbers into her handheld calculator and held it up for us to see.

“Theeez are childrenz ticketz. They are only worth thees amount.” she said with a French accent so thick I feel almost racist for trying to put into written form.

I forced myself to look at the calculator. It’s blue-green LED eyes stared back at me: 1,59. Fuuuuuuuck.

That bastard had got us real good. Those didn’t even cost that ----- $2–and if we had been caught trying to use a kid’s ticket, it would have been our ass on the hook for the ~100 € fine we surely would have faced.

But it wasn’t enough for her to confirm my fears. Oh, no, the humiliation did not end there.

Apparently, since we had been using childrens’ tickets, she felt she needed to explain it to us like we were 5-year-olds.

Wagging her finger at us, she informed us that “Thees man, he is a bad bad man. Don’t give money to him. He is a peeek-pocket–a bad man!”

I didn’t have much of a reply for her. Not out loud, at least.

I was sure carrying on the conversation in my head, though: “Well, no shit, lady. A lot of ----- good your advice is going to do us now–at this point you’re just rubbing it in!”

Muttering to myself, I took our 7 € refund and promptly threw the kiddie-tickets in the trash before they got us into further trouble–not that anyone was checking the tickets, though. We were so done with this shit.

Well, not really. It never feels too fuzzy to not only get mugged, but being duped into willingly handing over your cash all the while thanking your thief.

I’m not gonna lie: my ego was lightly bruised, and it was yet to be seen if this incident would single-handedly ruin one full day of our vacay.

While we ate our picnic lunch in the wind outside the palace gates, we unpacked the events of the day thus far.

“First order of business: we’re Americans, and Americans don’t let the terrorists win!”

We resolved then and there to not let some slippery French asshole rob us of the joy that this perfect mid-Spring day had to offer us.

In fact, he hadn’t robbed us of anything.

No, we had chosen to invest 50 € into learning that helpful strangers should be told to ----- off—potentially saving us from losing much more in cash and credit cards that a literal pickpocket might make off with. Maybe even avoiding being assaulted, sexual or otherwise.

One might consider some Paris “street smarts” to be priceless…but it turns out it has a very specific price: 51,50 € (well, actually 52 € if your “instructor” doesn’t give change).

Yeah…come to think of it (we tell ourselves), that was probably the best spent money the whole trip!

So we won the most important battle: we had willed our shenanigans into being a laughable and memorable start to what we were determined to make a day worthy of the highlight reel of our marriage! How’s that for mental fortitude, eh?

However, that left me still with a few concerns. Namely, I was a little pissed at myself because I was right there to the point of calling this guy’s bullshit and walking away. All the red warning lights were going off in my head…and I ignored them. So my judgment had proven true, I just didn’t have the guts to listen to it.

I should note that throughout all our post-hoodwink-realization discussions, the Boss Lady couldn’t stop gushing about the skill with which this dude had pulled the wool over our eyes.

“You gotta admit, he was real good! Like, really good. The only thing I could think the whole time is that he was being so helpful!”

“Don’t. ----- Remind. Me. And whose side are you on anyway? Don’t you talk about that ass-hat pick-pocket with admiration!”

…which leads me to the next point of consternation: it’s bad enough that I had warning bells go off in my head and didn’t heed them. But maybe I should be more worried that this whole thing went down without a single one going off in the Boss Lady’s head?

Taking the time to reframe things in our minds turned out to be a fantastic investment: we ended up having almost a picture perfect palace day–replete with renting a rowboat on the beautiful water channels in the Gardens, followed by ice cream and waffles. It was perhaps the most Frenchiest of days a non-Frenchman or -woman could have ever hoped for…

Satisfied with all the sights and sensations we had taken in that day, around 6:30 we decided it was high-time we get on a train and head back to our hotel in the city. It had been a long day, and we were plum tuckered out, even napping along the way. We had more than earned it: we had had enough adventure for one day…

We had to change lines a couple of times, along with the prequisite labyrinth-like adventure of tunnels, stairs and escalators.

We were in the home stretch of our journey when we noticed some hub-bub as we came up some stairs. My system went into high alert, ready to spring into action to defend us against anyone who would do these two innocent tourists harm.

To our surprise, we came upon a scene that roughly looked like this:

Well, ----- me sideways and call me Sally–it looks like they check them tickets after all. And they bring the guns and dogs when they do!

Yes, that’s right. We would have been fuuuuunked if I had not faced up to the fact that I may well have been made out to be a ----- fool by a trickster. Luckily, I wasn’t too proud; by pulling my head out of my proverbial ass, I was able to rect-ify²Yes, ----- straight I just made a butt-pun. the situation quickly and had unknowingly saved the day.

Though I was pretty sure I was handing them the legit tickets, I about passed out from subconsciously holding my breath until they officially gave us the all clear to pass. And then I came thiiiis close to throwing up with relief afterwards.

It had been one long-ass French day.

The next day we had tickets booked for the Eiffel Tower later in the morning, so had a bit of time to kill while we waited for our appointed time to arrive. We decided to wander around the nearby area and hopefully find some cute little French cafe so we could enjoy an idyllic Parisian breakfast.

As we meandered through the park that surrounds the Tower, a complete stranger tried to engage the Boss Lady in conversation:

“Excuse me, Ma’am–“

She didn’t even let him finish, simply, yet effectively stating:

FUCK OFF.

oh ho! Looks like Somebody learned their lesson…

In the 11 and half years of our marriage, I don’t think I had ever been prouder of her than in that moment.

The point of the story is: marry someone who is willing to drop the f-bomb on a stranger in order to protect you from getting duped (again). Now that’s true romance…

On a side note, true love is being willing to be seen in public with this hunky piece of pickpocket bait:

Content created on: 15/16 May 2020 (Fri/Sat)

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