After a night on the plane, the lure of getting to the hotel and sleeping was the main draw. 6.30 am is early in any country. The hotel room walls lacked any right angles. All the furniture tried to put some order in the room, but the walls won out. The sink basin was at a precarious position to its pedestal. I had checked on two occasions that the room would have a shower in the bath, but the definition of shower should have been discussed. Apparently, a handheld shower attachment on a bath faucet that is so low one can only sit in the tub with the water spray is a shower. Hell, we could even pretend that that is a bidet for all its basic purposes. At least a flushing toilet has a pretty standard meaning.
"Easy sightseeing" before jetlag: down through the Marais to Notre Dame, over to Ile St Louis where a jazz band sang "Dream A Little Dream Of Me", up to the Bastille, west to Place des Vosges, colonnaded square where both Victor Hugo lived and Henry II was killed. That DK Eyewitness book series isn't worth much--no mention of the king's death at all! Quick email check while French teenagers played Diablo against each other. They were commanding large armies of demons, but in a friendly manner. Wandered in the direction of the hotel, though that was euphemism for lost, for camembert, baguette, red wine, yogurt picnic spread. Fell asleep hearing little girls laughing out the window in the street around midnight.
