But the troubles were all because of my luggage, which they divided into two classes. And hence my two rules:
(1) When crossing the English Channel, on no account take with you any luggage except hand-luggage.
(2) On no account take any hand-luggage.
These rules, carefully observed, will insure a happy, peaceful journey, for the accommodations for personal comfort are admirable.
The railroad train from Calais to Paris is a clean marvel of light gray upholstery, and white antimacassars sized like a pillow-sham. The cars are exceedingly comfortable and the whole ride a delight.
I reached the Gare du Nord about seven o’clock in the evening, and, after a maddening experience with criminally imperturbable officials, I took a cab to my hotel.
Accustomed, all my life, to the few scattering cabs of New York City, I had thought London possessed a great many cabs; but Paris contains as many as London and New York put together. The French capital is paved with cabs, and of such a cheapness of fare that I soon discovered it was more economical to stay in them than to get out.
I well knew I must fight against the insistence of “first impressions”; but after all it was Paris, and I had never been there before, and the ride from the station to the Place Vendôme might therefore be allowed to thrill me a little.
Some of the streets seemed rather horrid, but after we swung into the Boulevard and came at last to the Vendôme Column, with a pale little French moon just appearing above it, I was ready to admit that Paris might go to my head, even as London went to my heart.
My chosen hotel, The Ritz, was once the old palace of the Castiglione, and still retains much of the palatial manner.