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Published: September 7th 2012
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The naval voyage was as expected smooth with light winds to lead straight in and out of Calais. The fog that had descended upon us in Canterbury was thicker and colder on the French edge. We wound our way through the French countryside, the roads mounded high with turnips. Toward the cobble stone roads of Paris. A devilish route but the weather began to lift as we escaped the wintry coast. Laura was able to enjoy the views of rural France whilst detection was unlikely on such diminutive tracks that we took, avoiding the grand French highways with their towering toll gates, gave me some respite from the Gendarmerie and Interpol. The road system in France is seemingly directed to confuse and bemuse the average touring party with every road leading to another toll, roads renamed and renamed to disallow speedy progress.
The rolling fields to either side without fence or barrier gave a rather sullen feel with a low grey cloud cover giving the impression of driving through a panoramic photograph with infinity left and right but up and down containing us within a 2d plane. And on we went.
After eight long hours we reach the edge
of the sprawl, its decay and congestion engulfing us. The world expanding upwards as tall buildings pierce the clouds above. Workers ahead reaveal the softness and depth of the city by one after another falling out of sight through a man hole. The roads are slick from a recent rain and as the sun decends into darkness the colours that fill our view are orange and a gloss black. Horns blare as we crawl forward through the choked streets towards those famed cobbles that we aimed for.
We break through the major circle of carriages and find ourselves at the eye of the automotive storm, in a paradise of architecture and life. The Blacks and greys are now much more alive mingled with the greens and blues and yellows of the passersby, the reds of the brake lights and oranges of the indicators having melted away. Real human life rather than the angry snarling creatures that we had be weaving and ducking through. The hum of a cafe where a man rests and enjoys the evening papers, another street on and a patron splashes onto the street with pastis clasped and a fine cigarette impossibly supported on his lower
lip as he wends his way along the paved ways and drops into a little alley out of sight. The speck of light that we see in the distance grows, although the scene is flooded at regular intervals with ornate wrought iron lamps. This speck is of obvious shape, a cathedral. I turn to see Laura studying the map. Notre Dame I gesture, as we descend toward it. Rumbling over the stones down toward the Seine. She looks at me thinking that it seems unlikely that with there being no cars how could we possibly be in centre. But she wasn't looking at me but at the vast higgledipiggle of wires and pipes that make up the skinless Pompidou on our right.
A fine spot I think to rest up and catch a breather after such a while. We pull along side the road and make our way to the soft glow of a restaurant, burgundy sash windows and a name that reminds us of a novel we read about this city pulls us in and my head still swirling from the the hard drive now behind me, we order bottle of the house red and settle in to
some bread sticks. We had arrived.
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