Paris: Arc de Triomphe - Not All Travellers Are Created Equal

Fatigado is a terrible tourist.  He emphatically proclaims that a person should sightsee for two hours, then rest.  He is a very big fan of resting, as it turns out.  He likes to sleep in.  He likes to ease into the day.  He is fond of an afternoon siesta.  Coca Cola seems to have a large appeal.  And underwear stores (he loooooves underwear).  He is linked to facebook and the Internet like it is an umbilical cord.  What he is not so partial to, is walking.  Or sightseeing for too long.  Monuments don't hold a great deal of interest.  Stairs of which there are more than 6 or 7 in a row can cause much consternation.  The thought of female Boobies will make him shudder.  Small spaces, local cuisine, spiral staircases, thousand-year-old churches, heights, smiling in photos, being forced to use an iPad instead of a MacBook Air, ill-fitting clothes - all can cause an impromptu high-pitched wail and flailing of the hands.  And do not get him started on the lack of availability of authentic tacos anywhere outside of Mexico (he looooves tacos).

For all of these reasons (and many, many more) his disjointed tourist activities provide great entertainment to the observer.  And on occasion, hair-tearing, eye-rolling, you're-on-a-one-way-ticket-back-to-Mexico frustration for Apple.

Crossing the road - Arc de Triomphe:
Fatigado (not smiling) & I
[Image courtesy of Apple 7.04.2011]



We witnessed one of these squealing, hand-waving implosions first-hand at the base of the Arc de Triomphe.  Admittedly we had walked a very long way (roughly 5km if my map reading skills can be trusted, which is iffy) - beginning at Le Marais, through the Tuileries gardens, up the Champs Elysee, and all the way to the Arc de Triomphe.  A very long way for anybody, let alone someone who has a biased view of when a rest stop should be imposed.  I am sure in Fatigado's book, a distance like that should have had at least seven rest stops, probably with a compulsory nap thrown in for good measure.



The famed spiral staircase -
Arc de Triomphe

The top of the Arc de Triomphe can only be reached by climbing its 40 stairs.  I see your eyebrows arch in scepticism.  Only 40?  Those of you who have actually climbed the stairs of the Arc de Triomphe may, like me, be surprised by this fact because it actually feels a little more like 140 however I have cross-checked this against details of how to reach the Arc de Triomphe which are helpfully provided in the visitor information found on the official website (which also obligingly ads in capital letters DO NOT TRY CROSSING THE TRAFFIC CIRCLE!).  The thing is, those 40 stairs are also thoughtlessly housed inside a dark, windowless, narrow-ish, circular, concrete, internal stairwell.

We lined up.  We paid our 10 € (despite the fact the official website says 8 €).  We started to ascend the stairs.  Apple and I had gone no more than five steps when an indignant howl erupted behind us.  Where. Is. The. Elevator? Fatigado had cornered an unsuspecting employee and demanded access to the promised elevator.  When this was not granted ("It is only for disabled people, Sir"), the squealing and hand waving knew no bounds.  Refusing to walk up the stairs, Fatigado stormed away.  Apple was not amused.  The unsuspecting employee looked slightly startled at Fatigado's rather heated response at being banned from the elevator. 

I may not have been cluey enough to take Online Trainer's advice and actually train for a marathon but I certainly know how to impose a fake injury when I need one.  Swiftly improvising, I haughtily explained to the unsuspecting employee that Fatigado had sustained an ankle injury and that we had been assured he would be able to take the elevator to the top.  Presumably because Fatigado was still shrieking like a banshee and flapping his hands about (which deftly diverted the unsuspecting employee's gaze from both of Fatigado's healthy, uninjured ankles), the unsuspecting employee - being French and preferring to avoid any type of distasteful scene - herded him to the elevator immediately.  Crisis averted.

Apple and I continued on. During our ascent we passed a 100-year-old granny slowly inching her way up the stairwell.  It was a defining moment.  Apple's lips pressed thinly together in annoyance.  Hands on the railings, Granny took a short break, gathered herself and gradually moved on.  Apple shot a meaningful look my way.  You see?  YOU SEE?  He huffed.  I saw.  Nothing more needed to be said.

Arriving at the top we found Fatigado moodily wandering around the Arc de Triomphe museum, hands fanning his face; still traumatised by the event, still hyperventilating.  "I doan' laik skinny stairs, I doan' laik" he sniffed in his defense. 

Coaxing a smile out of Fatigado is sometimes akin to prying apart the jaws of a crocodile locked on its prey.  Impossible.  Even though we were standing atop a famous monument, in Paris, on a beautiful, sunny day, he did not look impressed.  The anxiety had worn him out and taken the edge off the view for him.  He needed to rest.