Paris - I'll have a double-helping of Beauvais

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[youtube=bqRRW9lWYR0][youtube=iGldDIEDl08]

The one & only plane at Beauvais Airport was the one we landed on. It was noticeably chillier than Barcelona. The baggage claim hall smelled like a barn. Maybe the sheep here are given an EU subsidised package holiday before they become chops on a Parisians plate. Beauvais as you might have worked out is a long way from Paris.
So we boarded yet another bus with a cracked windscreen (every single tour bus we rode in Europe had one). My first impressions of European buses were from watching them on TV transporting people from Srebenicia.
Only single seats remained; I sat next to an Aussie woman living in Paris. As we talked she told me about teaching French businessmen English and I told her about our honeymoon. She was interested in my iPhone, the way I talked she said I should work in technology. I already have and would rather not again; I told her. The conversation faded and she retreated to her iPod, me to my iPhone.
As the buildings grew from farmhouses to high rise we entered Paris and followed the Seine up to Porte Maillot..Opposite the Air France building (Now Air France KLM) we alighted into the late afternoon sun and disappeared again into the metro. It was really, really good to be finally off the bus. Wouldn't want to do that more than once a day.

If I was a Parisian I'd be rightly proud of the Metro lines. They spread out under Paris like brightly coloured cat-cradles looking at the map we purchased. Although it has the same annoying ticketing problem as previously experienced. Once again, every time you went through the turnstile, you had to retrieve from your purse/wallet the impossibly small and easy to lose ticket to feed into the machine and then replace it in said purse/wallet. All of this must be accomplished with hoards of impatient Parisians nipping at your ankles, as well as manoeuvering your luggage. And to think, from the upset Frenchmen backed up behind us spurned someone who chose this absurd system. We just made a train. Getting our roller cases aboard, I was a couple of seconds too slow to grab a handhold. As the vicious torque bit and the train jerked forward I face-planted the floor and made some people laugh. Things were about to get worse before they got better.
A couple of line changes later and we arrived at the Abbesses station in Montmartre. Montmartre is about the highest hill in Paris. Access in and out of the station requires using either 200 winding stairs or the elevator big enough for a Hippopotamus (meaning it could fit 50 people in one go).

Our Hotel was thankfully 50 metres from the Metro stop. We wheeled our way in. Greeted by 'Jacques', who looked surly enough to play rugby for the French, he pointed to the elevator big enough for Edith Piaf and a handbag stuffed full of Laudanum. Definitely no Hippos.
At our floor we shuffled along the U-Boat narrow corridor to our room. We'd paid a lot for this room. More on it later. For now I wanted to use my laptop.
My heart sank as I opened my backpack and found nothing there but the power cord.
I like stiffing travel insurance companies as much as the next traveler. My $800.00 'puter could suddenly become a $4500 Macbook Air. But nothing could replace the photos I had on that computer. The only thing backed-up was the plug hole in our bathroom. At least I was right, telling that lady on the bus I shouldn't work in technology. Some frantic calling got me through to Beauvais Airport lost and found. The lady cheerfully told me that yes, a laptop had been found on our Ryan Air flight. Non....I could not get them to put it on the next bus to Paris. There was nothing for it. I had to go back to Beauvais. Cringing at my forgetfulness which cost money & 4 hours, around midnight I skulked back to the hotel with the laptop.

As mentioned, we'd paid a lot for our accommodation. Much cheaper places offered free WIFI. This wasn't one. Instead you pay to use the local WIFI provider, Orange (Lemon would be more suitable). As they offered unsigned security certificates when you connect. Unsigned security certificates are a bit like shouting out your credit card number in a restaurant full of Nigerians. Repeatedly, as it turned out. Somehow I got connected, but paid 4 times over. As I write this my credit card hasn't been used in the Upper Volta, so I guess it's alright. I promptly forgot the password issued and the helpline Orange provided was kindly out of use.
Some people need crack cocaine, others a warm cup of cocoa. I NEED internet.
Rather than calmly take things on the chin I'll have a tantrum. Try as hard as I might it's something that when tired, hungry and angry is bound to happen. I hope that the people around me know it's not about them. Unless you work for Orange.
Having a day off from everyone helps when I'm deeply unhappy. It gives me time to sort out those little things that make my day. The time-out flag went up. We went off to do our own things.
Three simple tasks. Go to a laundromat, backup the photos and sort out my WIFI subscription.
Clean clothes are the thin line between madness & sanity. Montmartre must have a lot of dirty people (AKA artists, poets, absinthe drinkers). It took ages to find a laundromat that was actually in working order.
Using mime language with another foreigner somehow the wash instructions were deciphered. I moved onto backing up. Across the pretty little square complete with a carousel, gypsies and the Metro stop in the middle was an internet cafe. In the poky little internet cafe with my knees hitting the wall under the desk I grinded through the Microsoft experience and emerged 2 hours hours later with 3 DVD's of pics. Anyone reading this, get a portable hard drive. Doofus here had forgotten to bring his.

Finally I had found an Orange shop full of real, live French sales 'assistants'.
Orange by the way is the former state telecom monopoly. French workers + State enterprise ='s a big fat NON. “Non, I cannot help you. We don't have anything to do with WIFI, you will have to ring them”. All the boyhood prejudices instilled in me from reading Commando comics were welling-up. I left the store to look for a pay phone, after 4 broken phones I found one. The 0800 wouldn't work. Remember the stone I accepted from the street beggar in Madrid? Somehow getting things sorted came down to petty superstition. It must be bad luck. I threw it away. Trying my cellphone to call 0800 I walked into a shop and asked if I had the number right. Then kindness shone. A lady let me use her phone and finally I got my password back. Suddenly the rage I felt, lifted away and the world was right again.
I could have quite easily used the free WIFI in the larger parks in Paris as I discovered; But I had to get what I'd paid for. It's the principle of it all.

It's a small crime to have a bad mood in Paris. Bad moods should be reserved for being in the back of a cab, stuck in a traffic jam with the cabbie listening to Leighton Smith or reading Garth George's Herald column. So after my crusade for internet I found myself underneath the Eiffel Tower. Soldiers patrolled with guns and silly berets that looked like they'd interfere with their ability to aim properly. They looked bored as hell.
3 of the 4 legs of the tower take you up. 1 of the 3 has only stairs. Naturally I'd picked the shortest queue and 30 minutes later had the onerous task when Michelle arrived of informing her we'd be walking up....800 steps or so..
The nicest thing about our travels was when we could share something special together.

Reaching the lifts on the top of the second level my vertigo was starting to kick-in.
I don't have a problem with flying or rock-climbing but I do with tall buildings with big windows or even better 19th century Iron constructions towering over Paris. Once the doors clunked shut on Wonka's great glass elevator I felt better. The lift took it's time. Our height had doubled once we spilled out into the highest viewing area. Dusk was setting in, for miles around the city seemed to be soaked in Orangina as the sun slid down. The girders below us now crossed deep blue by arc lights adding a solemn tone.

I wanted to stay round until it got dark. Light adds soul to buildings. At nightime even drab concrete is enlivened and transformed into something else. Even the Sky Tower.
So on another night we discovered that in Paris, statues, churches, a river and it's people become something else. We took the open-topped double decker bus on the illuminations tour. Rugged-up against the cold we sat for 90 minutes watching the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Champs Elysees, The Louvre, Opera House, Arc de Triomphe......slide by bathed in gold, blue, red & green lights.
The Eiffel Tower for 6 minutes on the hour puts on a pulsating show of diamond-like lighting.

Death in Paris can have wildly different outcomes for the departed.
Calling the Catacombs a hidden delight is a bit crass. It's more a tidy, dignified underground display of bones to commerate those no longer with us. There is no sign in neon or souvenair stands signaling the entrance. Just a simple plaque and a queue 60 minutes long at lunchtime.
For something so profound it only costs 7 euros. We wound & wound our way down into the earth.
Finally on the lowest level, we walked for 500 odd metres in the cool damp. Finally, after turning a corner we were confronted by piles & piles of skulls, thigh, arm & leg bones artfully arranged like a cork board in the recesses. The city had faced a cemetery crisis and the dead were piling up. An abandoned quarry was found. Slowly but surely the caverns filled up. The walk took us through another 1 kilometre of bones. The only thing that I saw die down there was my camera battery. When they let you down here it's in small groups so it's not a pushy, put-upon experience. Do go.
If you've been a bit disturbed by the Killing Fields of Cambodia don't worry. It's not the same. We left at the other end feeling somewhat happy to have gone and spent time with the dead.

In my teens, Jim Morrison along with Bob Marley were convenient idols for the pot-smoking faction in our group. Everything he did seemed to revolve around validating drugs. My poor brain could never handle dope. It left me super-paranoid and able to eat everything in the nearest pantry. Consequently I came to dislike The Doors & anything by The Wailers as it was an instant cue to smoke up.
Marley is buried somewhere else, but Jim Morrison is buried in Division 6 of the Pere Lachaise Cemetery, Paris. It took some time searching but we found his grave.
Morrison's sad, shabby departure is commemorated with a plot stuck behind another headstone like a smashed car shoved to the back of a wreckers yard.
As I squeezed around the people to take an awful shot of the bland headstone the teenage girl next to me shed a tear. As we had looked for Jim we'd come across a collection of graves ranging from humble to grandiose crypts. The lady we had our late lunch next to had passed away in 1996 having lived since 1902. Her husband by her side had been here since 1988.
Apart from Mr Morrison there are many more famous people buried here. It seems to be a cemetery for philosophers if you take a look at the list. Neither of us had delved too deeply into philosophy.
So off we went.

A mob of Parisians came to Versailles (Outside of Paris) to kill nobles at the start of the French Revolution. Marie Antoinette (M.A) managed too escape the mob using hidden doors in her salon. M.A could have put her knowledge of hide & seek amongst other useless pastimes to good use and hid in the massive gardens instead. I'll try to describe what we saw.
Taking a plumb line, stretch it for two miles. Now at a right angle to the two miles go fifty feet each way. Level the earth, where it's too steep throw some staircases with carriage ramps on either side.
At the base of the two main stairs build huge bronze fountains. Now throw some gravel down on the 100 foot by 2 mile concourse with occasional grassy bits. Adorn the pathways with marble statues every fifty feet. Got it?.
Versailles, save for the vanity & narcissism of the nobility which the ordinary Frenchman paid dearly for (but in the end cost the nobles their heads), is a masterpiece.

By chance we bought our tickets at the Information Bureau on the way up to the grand palace. (Take note those of you who are planning to visit). This saved us queuing with the masses for 60 minutes or more with screaming kids unchecked by their already sun-stroked parents.
The Republic of France has no qualms using this wonder to instill yet more pride into the French, State ceremonies still regularly take place here.
Maybe there is a residual arrogance that somehow influenced the 20 year peace treaty also known as The Treaty of Versailles*. It was signed in the Hall of Mirrors, which we walked through.
You can imagine Prime Ministers Lloyd George and Georges Clemenceau's senses warping surrounded by such grandeur.

All through the Palace the floors are covered in marble & parquet. Walls drip with gilt and cherub-laced ceilings are painted by old Masters. A whole wing is devoted to portraits of the Kings, Queens, Dauphins and their court of clergy, writers, philosophers and physicians.
The French monarchs weren't totally stupid. Being 'well-bred' instilled a certain animal cunning which gave Louis the bright idea of controlling his court by putting them all under one roof.
Versailles became the worlds first luxury conference centre beating Waipuna Lodge by centuries.
Like Waipuna, as you gaze over the distant lake down the path (actually Waipuna, features mud-flats at low-tide) you couldn't relax at the Royal Court. Losing favour of the King could cost you everything. It was a constant battle of wits where the rules changed often and like the Office Party or work weekend away it was excruciating without loads of booze.
And, rather than 48-72 hours of unpaid overtime you could be stuck here for years trying to get the King's favour. The prospect of living here, unwashed most days of the year, with lead-based makeup and strong odds of not making the A Team, made it much nicer just to be visiting.

After the Palace we promenaded down the grand concourse past the semi-vandalised statues. The peasants got rather angry and broke off a few arms and legs. Towards the bottom of the path we spotted boats on the lake. I wouldn't be surprised if they had recreated naval battles. The dimensions are staggering. If it was pavement rather than water you could land a 737 on it.
Each arm of the cross-shaped lake is about half a mile long by 150 feet wide. After 20 minutes of rowing we'd (no I'd - Michelle kindly volunteered to Captain) just reached the cross waters.
By now it was the late afternoon.
We'd enjoyed it so much that on the spot we decided to come back. The biggest secret is that the Park at Versailles is free! Anybody can turn up at the public gates with their picnic and bicycles.
The Palace is nice but when it comes down to it for the jaded castle tourer it's just a bunch of rooms with views. There is nothing 'just' about the park. It's all superlative. What a place to have a bit of a lie down. ^

I won't bore you with the details of our return. I will quickly mention that getting a good picnic spot with enough shade to last you the whole day requires walking or biking your way around the lake to the far left-hand arm (That is looking down the lake from the palace). I mentioned running out of shade. If the weather forecast says it will be sunny & hot on Saturday, it will be. Unlike our glorious rain-swept isthmus you and I call Auckland; Europe benefits from the stabilising effect of a large land-mass making the weather very predictable.
The park is huge, so rent bikes, or if you're into complete inactivity then maybe a golf-cart. There's probably a driving-range here somewhere.
We hadn't been as prepared that day. The lake track takes about 25 minutes to bike around if you're in a hurry. Don't be like us and miss the fountain's scheduled display times on the weekends.

Paris has undergone some careful town-planning, the main boulevards are wide enough to stop barricade-building. So although the nobles found the masses revolting they could never revolt.
As the century rolled-over, technology moved along and barricades stopped working but they still had the Maginot Line to keep out the Germans.
In 1940, as the Generals carefully waxed their mustaches at French Army HQ, courageously located 200 miles from the front line. The Germans launched an unsportsman like tank-led attack through forests guarded by a few French peasant reservists dressed in uniforms with bright red, WWI era trousers. All the better to spot & shoot them, Fritz must have crowed.
In no time Paris was declared an open city, shortly after the French surrendered and most of France, along with Paris became Nazi occupied. Being lovers, not fighters, surrender has its benefits. Unlike cities like Rotterdam which were bombed to smithereens, Paris sustained comparatively little damage during WWII and is intact today.

So the grand boulevards remain today for you and I to walk down. If Hitler had have won the war in Europe he had plans to completely level Paris.
One thing the Germans could have done was paint some lines down the Champs Elysees' footpath.
Since they're good at shooting people the French might have payed attention.
Belligerently stubborn, Pierre will let his poodle crap anywhere it feels like, leave it there, then walk haphazardly down the wide footpath inevitably, unconsciously forcing you out of the way.
The Champs Elysees (or Michelle says 'The Shops Elysees') is now lined with prestige stores like Louis Vuitton & Cartier. Car makers have also gotten in on the act. Renault has an F1 car in their showroom along with a couple of the latest ridiculously powerful hot-hatches the French are known for.

Down by Notre Dame, we'd wandered across an architectural time-warp of sorts. Some of you reading this will relate, some of you will think I'm a Trekkie, the rest of you puzzle away. The Pompidou Centre is like a Borg Cube turned inside out exposing the bright, primary coloured duplo blocks found in a kindergarten they've 'assimilated'. A KinderCube you could say.
Kids grow up and finish playing with duplo, the same can be said about the 80's shopping centre nearby. Getting inside to have a look was proving difficult. They'd cunningly placed all the doors somewhere other than logical. Instead after circling a couple of times we left the exterior to the homeless already there and drifted off further into the city.

Let me introduce you to Food Rule #3. When you find a good restaurant cling to it.
Montmartre has many eateries. Most of them around where we stayed belonged in the French Quarter Disneyland experience. The brighter than bunting & the more seats outside will alert you. A French/English menu confirms you are wasting your money on overpriced, badly cooked food with poor ingredients. Also, there was a rash of 'Italian' restaurants for that authentic French dining experience. New Food Rule #4: Pizza's can wait for Italy.
We were lucky to find a little gem of a restaurant only a couple of streets away from the tourist trail. 'Le Jardin d'en face' at 29, Rue des Trois Freres, Montmartre, serves deliciously simple fare. The tiny restaurant seats about 10 outside, maybe 20 inside. One single waiter madly zipped around serving the whole restaurant so everything moved a little slower than we were accustomed to. But we kept coming back because they served decent Filet Mignon, Lapin (Rabbit), Two kinds of Canard (Duck) all ordered from the French only blackboard menu (pic included). Not a laminated set-menu in sight. They were all young and friendly and didn't have a problem filling the place every time we were there.

Then we tested Food Rule #3. One night, we chose a bright, large, empty restaurant that purported to serve Moroccan food. Out came the laminated menu, wasting money makes me anxious and I was reaching for the tranquilisers. So we both had salads. The 9 euro salad plonked in front of me consisted of raw red pepper, a few slices of waterlogged tomato & the kind of lettuce you should only serve in burger buns. For dessert I had the crème caramel, I took one bite of the squishy gelatinous pudding which left an uncomfortable sensation in my mouth.
Our bank balance wouldn't allow us to spend the rest of our lives at Le Jardin, we had to eat breakfast and lunch too.
Meager cafe breakfasts of coffee, buttered bread & orange juice add up to 10 euros each. We did that once. Instead we found a supermarket and dined in our Hotel room for breakfast. After breakfast we'd go back to the supermarket and buy meat, cheese, bread, fruit & chocolate for our packed lunch. One day we had time to do some proper shopping.
Rue Lepic close by offered a fine collection of Butchers, Bakers, Greengrocers & Fromageries.
Inside each poky little shop you took a number and jostled your way forward to point at what looked delicious. “I'll have 2 of those, 1 of that”. Soon both our sets of hands were clutching bags filled with wonderful cheese, bread, pastries and fine salami.
A constipatingly steady diet of white bread weeks prior had put us off trying the real, moreish Parisian Baguettes until the last day we were in Paris. Their fresh texture with that little hint of iron from the oven was fantastic with cheese & ham. French food seems to be about creamy depth.

We were lucky to be here. Grateful that outside our hotel room lay so many things to do & see.
The hotel room was one of the most expensive we'd paid for and easily the tattiest. Prominently displayed at the entrance were numerous 'awards'. Best collection of rot? Surliest, most uncooperative service? Oldest, threadbare linen? We have a winner.
The bathroom door had to be kept closed at all times to stop the smell of mildew.
After a week in Paris it was sad to move on but we wouldn't be crying over leaving the Hotel Regyn Montmartre.
We nearly got sucked into a street brawl that flared up in front of us on our last morning.
On our way past the cafes lining our street a skinny young man pummeled a drunken man to the cobblestones. Michelle only just dodged the now horizontal men socking into each other with fists, elbows & knees with random men joining in. We made our way down the street to buy our food for the long wait at the airport.
This florid display of French street-thuggery had de-escalated into name calling with occasional attempts by the younger rottweiler-like man to restart the kick boxing. The older man, his facial muscles straining around his mouth forcing out words “You are bastard!, You are bastard! With outstretched finger.

Arriving at Beauvais gives you the barn yard experience. Leaving is a drawn-out affair nervously guessing which gate will be yours. Like the last flight out of Saigon (1975) priority boarding counts for nothing. Ryan Air sell roughly a 3rd of the plane 'priority boarding'. So we'd made sure we were first in line. Before long a line stretched behind us. Then 5 minutes before boarding we discovered our flight to Treviso, Venice was after the Pisa line we'd triggered off.
At the front, I turned around, pointing at the ticket in my hand to the old man squashed in behind me. I said “Treviso?”, “No Pisa!!” With his hands he jabbed a sideways thumbs-up out of the queue and his face crackled into a triumphant, slightly sinister grin reminiscent of an old Mafioso whose picture was in the Mafia paperback I had just finished.
5 minutes later and the priority queue I'd just left, held back by one last barrier was set loose towards the aircrafts steps. Old Mafioso Man may have had poll position but two young lads sprinted past him into the plane.

A tough start in Paris eventually turned into an enjoyable, one week stay. If we'd stuck-around I'd have to learn to speak proper French. The biggest problem I think Morons face is their inability to communicate. Being an honorary Moron in Paris just wouldn't do. Luckily Michelle's gift for Francais saved me/us on many occasions and things turned-out delightfully.
Paris, sophisticated & stylish with a cool elan**.
We had started to get comfortable and had adapted enough to almost belong here but would being a Parisian make life simpler?? Some the rules in the Gallic rulebook & attitudes where at odds with the beauty surrounding us. So visiting, (maybe for a lot longer next time) is a safe bet for a grand experience.

* An appalling piece of work.
To find out more go to..HTTP://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Versailles

^See for yourself with the Tour de Versailles video on this blog.

** Rough English equivalent is spirit.

Many of you have already been to the places I've recently visited. If the tone is patronising to any readers out there then I'll say this....I write what comes to mind and cannot read yours. If I tell you how to do this or that, it's meant to help, if you haven't already been through it. I hope something I say is useful, or at the very least entertaining.

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Photos

Peddle Car Kids
I felt really lucky to get this shot.

Chandelier from the heavens
Versailles

Blue Steel
Sorry, as much as I hate Zoolander and all the prats who purse their lips. I couldn't get away from that title.

Sunset
Eiffel Tower

Crossed Bones
Catacombs

That's right
Funny what's engraved on headstones

Chariot Fountain
Versailles

City of the dead
Charming diorama on the way into the catacombs

Confiscated
People try to steal bones form the catacombs. They check all bags on the way out. They didn't find the femur stuffed into my sock.

Daytime
Eiffel Tower

Ferret
A refreshing change from yappie little dogs allowed to crap everywhere.

Golden Gate
Versailles

Hall of Mirrors
Versailles