Paris

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It's the point of no return on Ryan Air. I fasten my seatbelt, VERY TIGHTLY and we take off. Miraculously we make it to cruising altitude without losing an engine of part of the fuselage. I decide that I need a drink. After all it may be my last. I look at the menu and see that the prices of beer is right over the top. I didn’t realise we had it so good in Oz. I order a soda water for 1.8 Euros. Not cheap but I figured I saved so much on the fares what the heck. The flight attendant hands me a plastic cup and a tiny can of soda water that wouldn’t drown an ant. I consumes it one gulp and saw a fellow passenger drink from her own bottle of mineral water. Last time they’ll sting me like that. Amazingly the flight is ten minutes ahead of schedule. As we come down to land I can see that we have clear skies. Vast improvement on Rome. I have a feeling that this isn’t going to be the smoothest landing in aviation history. And I wasn’t to be disappointed. They wheels hit the tarmac at speed causing the aircraft to bump back up in the air for a split seconded. There were truncated screams from several female passengers which seemed to amuse the French couple sitting next to me.

Most of us board the shuttle bus into the city. It was a long drive taking almost an hour. I tried to buckle up but my seat belt was jammed under the seat. The young French guy next to me offered to help but also gave up on it as well. I found the French I flew with were great. Don’t know where this French arrogance stuff comes from. As the bus rolled on I shut my eyes and drifted into a half world between sleep and consciousness. It was like I was on the cusp of dreaming. I must have been more fatigued than I thought. We drove by miles of green countryside as the sun began to set. We eventually got into Paris at a little after ten We trudged off to the Metro station where I bought a reasonably priced ticket to Ledru-Rollin. I knew this would be a hard day but I was finally on the last leg.

The ticket attendant was friendly and spoke very good English. I headed down to the station and asked a commuter if the train was going to Bastille station where I needed to change trains. I hopped on board and was surprised to see so many people commuting at that time of night. The Metro is amazingly efficient as ever as I enjoyed the twelve Station commute. I remembered some of the stops from my previous journey. I had to shuffle around my bags to make room for other commuters. They seemed quite appreciative and smiled in acknowledgement. A smile goes a long way when you’re travelling. Universal language. The stations looked a bit shabbier than what I remembered which was a little sad as we’re talking about icons such the Champs Elyese. Took a while to navigate my way through the rabbit warren of tunnels to find Line 8 which lead to the last metro station on my agenda. The train pulled in five minutes later and I stepped out onto the Ledru-Rollin platform.

I was dreading the hike ahead of me to the hostel. I checked out the exact location on google maps and estimated that I’d need to pass five streets on my left before getting there. Two Streets later and I’m at Rue Trousseau. And several doors down at Bastille Hotel my room awaited. I’d made it through a double flight with minimal collateral damage although my badly chafed thighs might argue against that rosy assessment. The guy behind the counter wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs. Maybe he was tired which made for both of us. All I cared about was that I’d found the right place and had somewhere to sleep. I checked out the bar directly across the road. Woman pulling beers was English and served Guinness pots at pretty well the same price Euro that you’d pay using Oz dollars. I soon lost my thirst much to her surprise. Several meters away at Bastille Hotel backpackers were surfing the net courtesy of a patron paying the English pub for twenty minutes of net access.

As I prepared for shut eye I could hear the plumbing making loud noises. Luckily it didn’t go on for too long. Guess everyone had had their showers for the day? The room was reasonably large and clean and had its own shower which was a bit of a bonus. It was also pretty quiet there apart from the sound of someone opening and shutting heavy doors down below. Don’t think I got a full night’s sleep but I was feeling okay anyway. Took the lift down to 0 floor and grabbed some breakfast, a baguette on a plastic serving tray. Someone else’s breakfast as it turned out. The indignant look on the young French backpacker chick said it all. Think I set back Franco Oz relations decades with that gaff. I apoligised and waited my turn but the damage was done. It seemed that most of the guests there were Froggettes. It was like being the centre of a backpacker chicks convention.

Chatted to the girl on reception who told me about the location of a supermarket. It wasn’t a full sized store but had a decent range of food, especially cheeses. The prices of the shelved merchandise is displayed on small led screens. Haven’t seen that before. Got myself a half sized bottle of local vino after spying a couple of bottles of cab sabs on sale. A little girl pushing a micro shopping trolley was running amuck in the aisles. Rammed right into me. No apology and no parent to be seen. The Girl at HB reception confessed to being Hungarian as if it was a crime. She told me it is fine to drink in the parks. I was wandering if she was polling my leg. So on my next outing I checked out a local park and discovered that she wasn’t fibbing. There were at least three people sitting on park benches happily drinking while talking to friends, reading the paper etc. Kids were playing in another section of the park and everyone seemed to get along famously.

Couldn’t find the internet place ‘Milk’ recommended by the receptionist but I wasn’t alone. She said a number of people had had difficulty finding it. I wandered down a road by the park and found a place that had a big sign INTERNET. Unfortunately there was also a security shutter halfway down the entrance. A middle aged guy in decent threads stood tight against the corner of adjoining shops with his back to me. Looked to me as if he was having a piss. I’ll leave it to Inspector Magnet to solve that mystery. A well dressed young Parisian told me that the internet place had closed a while back. He said in perfect English that I could rent the property off him if I liked. I declined the offer with a laugh which he returned in kind. What’s all this crap about no one speaking English in Paris. After this latest road block I was wondering if there was a conspiracy on hand to ban the use of the internet in tourist districts. Seconds later I turn the corner and spot a functioning internet café in a street where one of the ubiquitous fresh food markets has been sprung up. The proprietor even allowed me to plug in my lap top directly and charged two euros an hour for access. Finally I could get my banking done and check emails. Don’t like it when I’m out of the communication loop. Oh and yes he spoke good English.

I went back to HB and opened my bottle of plonk using a supplied cork screw. A word I wrote down for the receptionist to learn in English for Boozginners. The red wasn’t too bad actually. Be good for washing down a baguette and brie sometime soon. I tried to get her to look into booking me for one more night but she didn’t seem too motivated in that regard. Then I saw a sign atop the doorway saying the hostel is strictly for people twenty-five or under. I wondered whether I’d slipped under the age radar by booking online. Maybe the receptionist didn’t have the heart to tell me outright that I’m a clerical error and that old farts like me aren’t wanted around here. Or maybe it was the red making a travel weary old bastard like me totally paranoid. I’ll go with the latter theory.

Wasn’t able to access my room again until 16:00. All the guest’s security key cards are disabled between 11:00 and 16:00 so I headed off outside for a bit of aimless wandering. Central Paris is very compact with an abundance of small businesses dotted along the streets. Makes for good variety. Passed by an Indien restaurant. Funny how the spelling is just slightly different. Nothing remarkable to see but good to check out the neighbourhood. When I got back the Hungarian girl asked me if I still wanted to stay another night. It appears I was being paranoid after all. I paid for one more night and retreated to my room. The pevious day’s events caught up with me as I flaked out on the bed in the late afternoon. Ventured downstairs to the dining area at around 21:30 and found the place was packed with people drinking wine and eating. Wished I hadn’t drank during the day so I could join them.

The following morning I went down to breakfast and was confronted once again by a sea of Froggettes diligently sipping coffees and munching on bagguettes with strawberry jam. It was as if this is really a young girls only hostel with a few of us let in on an anti discrimination quota. Two girls I’d met on the first night said hello and I sat next to them. They told me they were Canadan from the western part of the country. I would have picked them as Asians but on closer examination they may have been Canadian Indian descent. It was good to have a conversation with fellow English speakers. I suspect that most of the guests here are provincial French. Went to Gare De Lyon (local large railway station) to get information on trains running to Cherbourgh. Couldn’t find an information booth anywhere. Saw a group of serious looking soldiers walking through the concorse carrying some very serious guns. The place looked a bit run down and way past its glory days.

Walked down toward Bastille Metro. Noticed that there was an Irish pub there with a happy hour between 6-9. Walked through a huge open market with all varieties of food. There are open markets everywhere in this city. Every third business appeas to be a café. You wonder how they all survive. Went off in the opposite direction in search of a huge park to the Nth West . Couldn’t find it but ran into some uni students in a much smaller park. They wanted me to place a casting vote on whether to return to school or skip class. Guess which option I chose. I was approached by an elegant lady on way back toward the hostel. She started blubbering to me in French not realising that I’m a pseudo pom. She was quite embarrassed when I revealed my ignorance of her native tongue. I must actually look like a local. Is this a good or bad thing?

All that walking here and in KL caught up with me. Discovered I had extreme heat rash and would have to sit it out a while. It was still only about 15:00 so I had time recover for the stroll to the Irish pub. I orderef a pint of Guinness which was 5.50 Euros. Not cheap by UK and Oz standards. Still it was nice to relax in a pub where I could strike up conversatins. The barman turned out to be a Kiwi but I couldn’t pick his accent. Nice guy who was going out with a local French girl. A bearded middle aged yank sat next to me who was more than happy to big note himself. I think he was totally full of shit to be honest. Says he was from Seattle and then tels me he isn’t looking forward to winter in a few weeks. Hello! The US is also in the northern hemishpere where summer is knocking.

Bought a baguette, slice of brie and a bottle of inexpensive red from Monopolix (local supermarket) Went back to the hostel and ate and drank to my heart’s content. Don’t remember much more about the night after emptying out the contents of the bottle of red.

Had a bit of a fitful sleep - not surprising. One of the staff told me where the major bus depot in Paris was loacted. Luckily not far from here. Next step was to find which ferries departed from France to Plymouth. Normally I’m pretty good at mining informatin out of the net. This time however it was total frustratin. Many sites were in French and others only has ferries leaving early morning or around midnight. I’d almost given up on this idea. Rang a friend back in Melbourne via the internet and got a pretty good line.

The manager back at the Hostel told me that there was travel agency for ferries that might be able to help me. The staff there were indulging in their daily communial lunch. I commented that the French love their fot. Manager retorted that Parisians love three things - food, wine & strikes. That made me smile. Found the travel agent up the road but it was closed. Maybe they were at lunch? I took a digital photo of the door to the agency listing the opening hours. I showed the photo to the lady who’d helped me find the bus station. There was no mention of closing hours for lunch on the sign. So I went back an hour later but the doors were still closed. Returne another hour later. An elderly French couple stood outside the agency looking a little bemised and confused.

It appears fate has cast its die. I was never meant to travel on the Cherbourg ferry. Pity I was looking forward to catching up with Steve in the UK. I may just see if I can get a night at a hostel in Canterbury on my way to London. The Hungarian girl returned to work behind reception. Every day they seem to have a new face behind the counter. It was good to see one of these people make a reappearance.

The next day I see if I can book a room in Canterbury. Only thing available is dorm accommodation. Better off staying where I am and biding my time. It’s not ideal though. Being thrown out between 11:00-16:00 is a real drag, especially if it is lousy weather outside. Go to the local laudranmat. Ask a young black lady how it works. She helps me out and it’s simple once you get the hang of punching in the number of the appliaance on a key pad before paying. A boistress group of black guys do their washing as well. They look as they they just stepped out of Nairobi. A chick and two heavily hung over guys from Texas walk in. I explain how the laundramat works and they’re most grateful. Then I hear her read out the instructions. I assume she reads French. No, English instructins were there all the time in smaller print. Another strike against this blind man.

The weather takes a turn for the worse so I head off to the supermarket to grab a baguette and some brie. I also buy an eight pack of Heiniken which is on special. I grab a seat at a table near the window and start eating and drinking. The hotel staff have taken ages to set up the tables and chairs for us to sit on. Usually there’s seats available around 12:30-13:00. Today it was after three on the day when it was rtaining. Really sucks that you have no where to go in bad weather. The beer went down really well in spite of the fact that it was warm. Sounds like I bought a lot of beer but the bottles were tiny. Maybe half normal size.

Went to breakfast and found it was crowded out with school kids. Had to wait in line for my baguette. Bought a metro ticket and checked out the nbus station at the end of the line. It wasn’tb the most picturesque place on earth with overpasses and kids dragging up and down the main streets on high ptched mini nbikes. Saw a sign for Euro coaches within the metro station. Bus information guy tells me that there are no buses to Calais. I have to take a train. So I leave the metro station from hell and head off down the track to where the large city park I couldn’t find the other day resides. I see people walking up a set of steps off the street. Could this be the secret entrance to the park. It was but instead of entering a park I found myself walking around a giant cemnetary. On closer examination there were headstone icons dotted on the graphic of the ‘park’.

Looked around for places to eat after grave stone spotting. All the cafes were pretty much the same from what I could gather. Help to know a local to put me onto the best place. Bought a roll from a baker around the corner which turned out to have a tuna filling. Tasted good and was reasonable value. Felt like quaffing some wine while sitting in the local park. Fronted up to the local supermarket at 14:00 and found it’s closed. Apparently they do that early on Sunday’s.

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Comments

[TC]

Paris
'We look before and after, we pine for what is not, our sweetest songs are those, which tell of saddest thought.' The words of old Percy Shelley come to mind as I read your Paris bog, my friend. As a fellow weary old bastard, I too have indulged in fresh bagette, washed down with a glass of vin ordinaire whilst ticking into a little runny brie. And that, sir, is all one really needs when in Paris.