巴黎游记
Two and a half hours of light sleep, restless and fragmented. It wasn’t until the faint stirrings of the passenger beside me that I woke, realizing the train had arrived in Paris—my last visit here was just before the Olympics.
A light rain was falling. I jogged out of the station and caught a bus along the narrow streets. About twenty minutes later, a wooden doorway came into view, tucked beside a corner street sign. I had arrived. Deeper inside the courtyard, halfway down the hallway of a six-story apartment building, stood an old elevator just large enough for one person. The floor formed a third of a circle, wrapped in red felt. In its center, a few yellowed buttons marked the floors in slender, serifed type—like a language from another era. I pressed the floor number, and with a shuddering ascent, I arrived at someone else’s home.
When traveling alone, couchsurfing remains one of the most affordable and intimate ways to connect with a city.
The apartment was full of a quiet, natural presence. From its muted tones and soft light to scattered books, cameras, oil paintings, and photographs of varying sizes, the space whispered traces of the person who lived here. But they were gone. For now, I was the only one moving through it.
At some point, the rain had stopped. After a brief rest, I headed out to find the Chinese restaurant I had pinned in advance. The narrow shop was packed with diners drawn by its reputation, the line spilling out onto the street. Voices echoed through the cramped space. Behind the counter, the aunties were busy packing orders, calling out over the noise, “What do you want—anything else—what else—”
The shop accepted only cash, and I had brought only my phone—so naturally, a bit of confusion followed at the register. After apologizing and promising to return with cash, I rushed out, trying my luck at a few nearby stores. The first two declined. At the third, I managed to exchange some euros under the pretense of needing change for a meal. By the time I returned, the warmth had long left the bag. The auntie, still kind and talkative, repacked the tofu pudding and fried dough sticks without a word of complaint. The simplest breakfast, the most familiar taste—on foreign soil, that warmth lands differently.
After finishing the tofu pudding, I wandered through a few more food shops and strolled with the fading light until I reached the Pompidou. I moved up and down the building’s transparent escalator tubes. As night fell and the red glow of the lights came on, my first day in Paris drew to a quiet close.
两个半小时的中度睡眠，辗转反侧。直到被邻座轻微的动静搅醒，才发觉列车到达巴黎——上次来已是奥运会前夕。
天空飘起细雨，从火车站沿街道小跑搭上公车。约莫二十分钟的路程，当一扇木质大门和角落的街道号映入眼帘时，就到了住址。往里走，在这栋六层公寓的走廊中央，有部只可容纳一人的老式电梯。脚底是个被切去三分之一的圆、延伸出的弧面包着红布、居中几颗发黄的按键标着楼层，衬线字体扁而细长，像是另一种年代的语言。按下要去的楼层，在颤颤巍巍地晃动中，就来到了别人的家。
独自旅行，沙发客是最划算且贴近城市的方法（之一）。
这是个自然气息很重的屋子。色调、灯光，到书本、相机，四散的油画和尺寸不一的影像，零零碎碎勾勒出一个人的痕迹。但屋主不在，这空间唯一活动的人是自己。
雨不知什么时候停了。卸下行李休息片刻后，便动身前往早就标记好的中餐店。狭小的铺子里挤满了慕名而来的食客，队伍排到了门外边，交谈声此起彼伏。只剩柜台的阿姨们忙的手在打包，嘴里反复念着“要什么——，还要什么——”。
只收现金的店，和只带了手机的人，不免在结账时闹了些笑话。再三和阿姨嘱咐换了钱来买单，就匆匆踏入几家商铺询问，不出意料地被拒绝。终于在第三家店，借着就餐的事由换了些欧元。返程时，袋子的热气早就散尽，阿姨亲切地啰嗦了几句，又重新盛了豆花、装好油条。最普通的早餐，最熟悉的味道，异国他乡难免亲切。
吃完豆花，再光顾几家美食店，和黄昏走走，就到了蓬皮杜。穿梭于透明管道里上上下下，当夜幕降临，扶梯亮起红光，巴黎的一天就这样结束了。