I booked the hotel because it was within walking distance of the Louvre. It was raining on the walk over, but the clouds were just breaking as I opened the glass doors.
“Oui?”
The receptionist looked up from her desk as I walked across the marble floor, leaving a trail wet footprints behind me.
“Hi. I’d like to check in for my room please.”
I then showed her a printed confirmation email I’d been carrying with me all week.
She frowned, and looked back at me.
“This is not reservation.”
I pointed at the printout.
She sighed.
“This is receipt. Receipt is not reservation.”
I shook my head.
“Clearly, I have a reservation.”
She shrugged, then began typing at her computer.
Stopped. Then typed some more.
At last, she looked up.
“There aren’t any rooms left in Paris.”
I didn’t move.
“Look again.”
~
The dorm was perhaps fifteen feet square.
Six permanent bunk beds already filled the room.
Then a staff member came in carrying a folding bed.
Then another.
And another.
Six trundle beds soon filled whatever floor space was left between the bunks
Eighteen beds—though I was currently its only occupant.
I climbed into an upper bunk, spread my maps and clothes across the mattres, and left for the evening.
~
When I returned just before midnight, all the other beds were occupied.
People sat on the bunks and floor.
Some were drinking. Others were playing cards.
The room smelled of cigarettes and cologne.
One man was in my bed.
My clothes were on the floor beside him.
“Uh … was this yours?”
I looked at my belongings. Then at him.
“Yeah,” I said.
He looked at the floor.
“Sorry.”
He climbed down and took one of the trundle beds as I picked up my clothes. Then he turned to his friends.
“Bar?”
A general agreement followed.
A tall guy with a shaved head was already pulling on his jacket.
“We’re going out, right?”
“Obviously.”
“Where?”
“I know a place near here.”
“What kind of place?”
“Bar.”
“No, no. We’re in Paris. We need to do something.”
A blond guy sitting on the floor looked up from his phone.
“Absinthe.”
“You can’t get absinthe like here.”
“You absolutely can.”
“Not like here.”
Someone laughed.
From my bed, I pulled out my map.
An hour later, the room was empty.
I turned out the lights and closed my eyes.
Then the door opened.
A man stumbled in.
The lights came on.
He tried the key to his locker. Missed the lock. Tried again.
Zippers opened. Clothes rustled. Boots stomped.
“Sorry.”
I recognized the voice. The guy who had taken by bunk.
The lights went off.
A few moments later, another key scraped against the lock.
The lights came on.
Another backpack opened.
Another whispered conversation began.
“Sorry.”
The lights went off.
By morning, I was still counting: seventeen.
~
At the front desk, I complained.
A different woman this time.
She heard my case then moved me into a quiet two-person room without an argument.
I put my bag down.
My new roommate arrived a few minutes later.
Before we had introduced ourselves, he began explaining American capitalism.
He talked for an hour. Then he climbed into bed and went to sleep.
This time, I slept through the night.