London and Paris on the cheap

I'd never encountered the term "screever" until I was getting ready for a trip to Europe. My wife and I were modeling our visit loosely on "Down and Out in Paris and London," and it was there, in George Orwell's 1933 text, that I came across the word. His friend, Orwell explains, was a "screever -- that is, a pavement artist" who set up shop near the Thames River, hoping to impress passersby with his drawings of famous statesmen.

When we arrived in London we saw that, at least in one way, nothing had changed. All these decades later, screevers of another kind have annexed their own bit of sidewalk on the South Bank of the Thames, a sort of open-air studio that the city has set aside for graffiti artists and urban portrait painters. Here, the same sense of discovery that energized Orwell's earliest writing fuels artists who work in pinks, greens, silvers and other exotic colors found in the local hardware store.

Like Orwell's pal, these pavement artists labor in the shadow of Waterloo Bridge, where one needn't look hard for Orwell's creative fingerprints. One morning a used bookseller laid out his wares on rows of battered folding tables under the bridge. Amid titles by fellow Brits sat a copy of "Animal Farm." It was an old Penguin paperback, and the once white belly of the publisher's trademark bird had yellowed with age. Nonetheless, he was asking 25 pounds, about $40, an amount that in the early 1930s would have made Orwell king of the hobos.

Given our current economic climate, many of us would happily sign up for this brand of royalty, which makes "Down and Out" such a timely travel handbook. Just reissued in a handsome hardcover from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, the book -- smaller in scope than Orwell's "Animal Farm" and "Nineteen Eighty-Four" -- focuses on a writer whose life, between wars, is circumscribed by poverty.

To be sure, it's not to be followed to the letter when visiting these two great European cities. Holidaymakers shouldn't take this article as an exhortation to sign on for 14-hour dishwashing shifts in Parisian restaurants or to shack up in London's seediest boardinghouses. But in this time of global belt-tightening, one can't read Orwell's recollections of penury without feeling a bit of kinship.

Finding freebies in London

Orwell complained that in "London ... it costs money even to sit down." This remains true if one seeks out the city's newer, glitzier tourist attractions. For instance, twin admission to the London Eye and Madame Tussauds, the wax museum that shares a South Bank storefront with the massive Ferris wheel, will run you 39 pounds ($63).

A better bet are the city's world-class museums, many of which (the National Gallery, with its Monets and Seurats; the British Museum, home of the Rosetta Stone) don't charge for admission. And as it happened, we found one of the trip's most arresting sights at the Tate Modern. Admission: free.

On display until May 2, Ai Weiwei's "Sunflower Seeds" takes up most of the museum's basement gallery. The Chinese artist has covered more than 10,000 square feet of floor space with millions of tiny, porcelain sculptures that have been shaped and painted to resemble sunflower seeds.

A piece like "Sunflower Seeds" might be judged a success if it spawns imitators. By that standard, the Indian chefs of London are among the nation's most influential artists. My wife suggested we sample some of the city's famous curry dishes. With so many restaurants to choose from, we decided to eat Indian on successive nights. In the process we experienced the highs and lows of dining out far from home.

Brick Lane is said to be the place to go for Indian food, and a stroll along this street in the East End presents visitors with 30 or more eateries to choose from, each offering their versions of masalas, nans, biryanis and tandooris. At dinner time an assertive emissary outside each front door calls, "Best price," before offering some combination of free cocktails/appetizers/desserts to lure diners.

We had a more relaxing time at an Indian restaurant on the other side of the Thames. Orwell, who worked in a few kitchens, writes that "the surest sign of a bad restaurant is to be frequented only by foreigners." And so, based on praise from the city's online foodie community, we chose Hot Stuff, a family-run eatery in south London. On a chilly autumn night, our plates of chicken and rice and paneer were perfect: colorful, pungent and restorative.

Owner Raj Dawood packed our meal that we carried back to our room. He was interested to learn that a couple of Americans had sought out his restaurant, but then proceeded to note that his place had made the international press on several occasions. "Cheers," he said, and we were off into the night, clutching a bag of hot food and a handful of plastic forks.

Apartment life in Paris

In the 1930s Orwell found London "quieter and drearier" than Paris, though he did suggest that the French are less polite than their counterparts in other countries. "Most French people," he wrote in "Down and Out," "are in a bad temper till they have eaten their lunch." Most of the French we met were patient with our feeble attempts to speak their language, helping us with directions and telling us where to buy the International Herald Tribune.

After staying in an impersonal business hotel in London, my wife had decided that we were going to stay in an apartment in Paris, and after some research we opted for one rented by 8Hotels. At the top of a winding staircase on the fourth floor we found a quaint one-bedroom with floor-to-ceiling French windows, a wall of classic literature and a nice selection of local wines. We were thrilled. At $175 a night it wasn't a "Down and Out" rate -- unless you compare it to some of the other rooms we priced.

Our base in the 5th arrondissement put us near the Left Bank of the Seine, a short walk from Notre Dame and a few Metro stops away from the great museums and the Eiffel Tower. If you're reading this, you're interested in Paris, which means you're up to speed on this city's mustn't-miss tourist sites. So I won't go on about the Musee d'Orsay's exhibition of early European photography (on view through the end of May) or the hordes of "art connoisseurs" who overrun the Louvre.

We pocketed the money we might have spent at the Louvre's gift shop and headed to the great English-language bookstore Shakespeare and Company, where the stairwell is lined with portraits of writers who have immortalized Paris on the page. Henry Miller is here, as are Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, Edith Wharton and, of course, Orwell. For those of us sick of the Borders-ification of the U.S. book market, this place, in the 5th arrondissement, is a treat. Shopkeepers wedge fiction and memoir, new and used, into nooks like the charmingly crammed "Old Smoky Reading Room." The ceiling is lined with ancient, rough-cut wood beams and there's a gigantic atlas set out for the geographically minded. There's even a typewriter for visitors who want to experience the technology of another century.

We also loved the 3rd arrondissement's historically Jewish quarter, on the Right Bank of the Seine. We decided to walk down Rue de Rosiers, and we weren't alone. The lane is lined with restaurants, most notably the bustling L'As du Falafel and Sacha Finkelsztajn, a purveyor of cheese, caviar, strudels and chocolate. Mix and match a few of these filling, bite-size portions and you'll be not much worse for the wallet.

Around the corner from Rosiers is Rue du Marché des Blancs-Manteaux, an address that left Orwell rather unimpressed: "I found it a slummy back street." Today it's still a back street but not at all slummy; where it intersects with Rue Vielle de Temple, we stumbled across the sort of unexpected thrill that makes traveling worthwhile.

A group of artists had gathered in a hall about the size of a high school gym. It was a gallery show, of sorts, but not the kind where people drink white wine and speak in reverent whispers. Near the entrance a knife-wielding draftsman etched a larger-than-life, cartoon-inspired portrait of a statuesque woman. He was also in charge of the music, and when a record was done playing, he put down his knife, hiked up his jeans and ambled to the turntable, where he replaced it with another sampling of French hip-hop.

Walls were lined with politically minded paintings and collages that made creative use of desk drawers, masking tape and magazine clippings. The artists had names like Czarnobl and Miss Tic. A young volunteer said she and her friends regularly put on similar shows in various parts of the city. She was particularly proud of the "open-air gallery" that her arts group, Espace d'animation des Blancs Manteaux, had recently established in the 11th arrondissement. Best of all, everything was free.

We were thrilled with our discovery. And just as happy with the "Down and Out" era price.

Kevin Canfield is a writer in New York.