Edition: U.S. / Global

FRUGAL TRAVELER; See Paris, if You Get Around to It

Published: January 19, 2003

SOMEHOW, in many years of traveling, I had managed to miss Paris. This was more a matter of circumstance than plan -- when Europe has been on my agenda, I always gravitated to places such as Britain, Spain and Italy, where I had friends or business, knew the language or felt a strong personal connection.

When I started to travel professionally, my no-Paris status became something of a running joke among my friends, most of whom had been there several times. At some point, just to be ornery, I decided to see how long I could hold out and how many exotic destinations I could add to my list without setting foot there.

On one of these trips -- was it in Buenos Aires, the ''Paris of Latin America,'' or in Vientiane, Laos, the ''Paris of Southeast Asia''? -- the silliness of this began to sink in. I remember losing my way in a web of Laotian boulevards arranged like spokes in a wheel, undoubtedly by homesick French colonial civil engineers, and taking a photograph of yet another public monument meant to evoke the Arc de Triomphe, and thinking, ''Isn't it about time you took a photo of the real deal?''

And so, last November, I finally ended my no-Paris streak. Before leaving on my six-night trip, I managed to work myself up into a unaccustomed frenzy of preparation. I didn't know anything about Paris and I didn't speak French, and as my departure approached I began to recognize that lurking behind my lifelong avoidance of Paris was a certain trepidation.

So I called everyone I knew and asked for help. Friends and colleagues rallied to the cause; Pavia downloaded her Palm Pilot files of favorite boutiques in St.-Germain-des-Prés, Wendy sent her list of favorite little hotels in the Marais by e-mail. By the time I boarded the taxi to Kennedy Airport, my notebook bulged with enough addresses and tips for three weeks of exploring. And just in case I might get lonely, the girlfriends had come up with telephone numbers of two Parisian men-about-town, one a concert promoter, the other a tango dancer.

Leaving for Paris with the number of a tango dancer does wonders for your confidence. And it increased exponentially after I landed at Charles de Gaulle and managed to negotiate the Métro all the way to my hotel, the Résidence Monge, in the Latin Quarter, without missing a beat -- speaking very basic, atrociously pronounced French that nevertheless seemed to get me where I needed to go. (And won approving smiles from the Parisians I'd always supposed would laugh disdainfully at such incompetence. So much for that canard.)

The Résidence Monge, at $68 a night, hadn't been my first choice, but with two weeks' notice, every other hotel under $100 that had been recommended by guidebooks or friends was full, even in November.

Not expecting much, I was happy to find spotless premises, a smallish room with a real double bed (not twins pushed together), pretty Provençal print curtains and a bathroom with a shower stall and toilet. My room faced the street, but the double-glazed French windows kept the noise down, and I was comfortable. The low price at the Monge (in the Fifth Arrondissement) doesn't reflect a lack of creature comforts, but rather its location a Métro stop or two from the tourist haunts around St.-Germain and the Sorbonne.

I settled in. I called the tango dancer. Alas, he was out and always would be, but when I tried the number of the concert promoter, Enrique Nalda, I got a warm invitation to meet him in a few hours at Les Éditeurs, a cafe near the Odéon on the Carrefour de l'Odéon.

At Les Éditeurs, the banquettes and chairs were red velvet, and the tables modern, against a backdrop of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. ''This is a real Parisian cafe,'' Enrique said, welcoming me to his corner table. ''The Americans all go to the Deux Magots down the street, and you certainly should visit it, but I think that here is more local.''

In the next few days, following his example, I made Les Éditeurs my office-cum-pit stop, staking out a banquette table and observing the bookish types who frequented the nearby tables (the cafe hands out its own literary awards each year). Soon I understood that it didn't matter if my hotel was outside the center of Paris action -- better to save the money on lodging and spend it on more-important things like hanging out over espresso (about $3 at Les Éditeurs), restaurants, shopping and sightseeing.

Which wasn't so expensive, at least when I followed Enrique's advice on how to spend a perfect first day in Paris. His suggested itinerary, carried out on a brilliantly sunny Sunday -- the only time I'd see blue skies for longer than 15 minutes during my trip -- began with a stroll across the Pont Neuf, and then along the banks of the Seine to Notre-Dame. As I entered the cathedral at about 1 p.m., light flooded through the stained glass windows, flickering pink and purple on the Gothic stone walls.

Crossing the next bridge, over to the Île St.-Louis, I paused to listen to organ grinders, and then made my way to the Berthillon ice cream kiosk at the other end of the bridge, ordering Enrique's recommended choice: dark chocolate with bits of glaced mandarin orange.

Enrique's Paris, I decided, sucking the last chocolate and orange bits from the cone, was pretty perfect.