A weekend in Paris

Last Saturday we arose early and walked down the street to la gare to board a train to Paris. Eighty dollars for four second-class tickets (in a gesture of generosity and good spirits that would not last, Lee deigned to travel with the un-washed masses… looking back, I’m surprised she did not demand a first-class ticket).

It’s two-hour ride to la gare Austerlitz (sp?) in the southeast corner of Paris. We walked about ¾ of a mile to our hotel – I became tense about half way there, worried that I had mis-read the map, impatient with Lee’s endless questions: “Is that our hotel? Are we almost there yet? What does it look like? What’s that building? Do they have Pat a Pain in Paris? Can I have a piggy- back ride?” This proved to be a sign of things to come during the remainder of the weekend!

We checked into the hotel – not a bad spot, but none of the luxury to which we have become accustomed at Hotel de Bourbon in Bourges. I’ve read stories about the social and political difficulties France is experiencing as it struggles to absorb immigrants from northern-Africa and eastern Europe. We had a glimpse of this issue in that our hotel over-looked what I assume was a low income housing development. The residents, all clad in dishikis and tunics, gathered in the court yard, husking corn and preparing food over small fires… a scene from Tunisia a few blocks from the river Seine.

Our first destination was a large department store called Galleries Lafayette. We walked to the closest Metro station, purchased an all-day pass, and rode to the Madeleine stop. Lee began to struggle from the outset, tired, cranky and not at all interested in exploring a new city on foot. By the time we arrived at Opera Garnier, she was engaged in a full Category 5 melt-down. As a result, the trip through the department store was somewhat rushed.

It’s worth noting that the words “department store” do not accurately represent the Galleries Lafayette, and I’m not sure I can do it justice with more words. The place is huge – nine stories tall, spread over two city blocks; the are entire floors devoted to Men’s Casual Wear, Children's Formal Wear, and Women’s Lingerie and Seduction (I lingered there a bit). At the center of the store, a gilded balconies ring an indoor courtyard beneath a stained glass skylight.

The sales departments are sorted by brand – giving me the impression of a huge shopping mall, but with all the wears housed under one roof. Acres and acres of fashionable clothes, accessories, baggage, perfume, etc. Predictably, I found nothing I liked or wanted to buy.

After not-shopping for forty-five minutes, and bodily dragging Lee for several more blocks, we retreated to a small restaurant for lunch. By unanimous consent, we agreed to scrap our plans for the remainder of the day, and board one of the many double-decker tour busses we had seen around town. Ceil’s idea of seeing Paris from a tour bus, while initially distasteful to me, was a master-stroke, and salvaged what was becoming a truly awful weekend.

As luck would have it, the Open Tour company had their main offices and the terminal for their busses right across the street. There are several bus companies in Paris, and this one operated five or six different loops, each covering a different part of the city. The beauty of the system is that after buying your ticket, you’re free to hop on and off any of the buses, and are thus able to explore as you please, but also use the buses to get around town. A pre-recorded narration described the history of notable buildings, museums and squares in several languages. Despite the cool temperatures and occasional showers, we enjoyed the open air atop the bus.

We took two of Open Tours loops that afternoon, getting a sense of the city much more quickly than we might have on foot. One of the stops was only two blocks from our hotel, where we retired for naps late in the afternoon.

On Saturday night, we set out for the Eiffel Tower via the Metro, stopping for dinner along the way. For once, our moods were in synch, and we spent an hour and a half walking through the parks around the Tower, and admiring the view from it’s base. The queues for elevator rides to the top were quite long (we later learned that the lines are usually longer still!), so we chose to forgo the views and make calls to the US from the quintessential Parisian tourist destination.

Alas, as the hour grew late, spirits lagged, and it was a mad dash back to the hotel to get everyone tucked in for the night.

We woke on Sunday, determined to have a better day – I made a pledge to myself that I would not be overly attached to my plans and expectations and would remain ever flexible. That lasted about seven minutes. Ceil had troubles of her own, and felt quite nauseous all morning. The breakfast at the hotel was pretty lousy – what food that had not run out of was quite good, but they had long ago run out of silverware, plates, and the like.

Nonetheless, we remounted the trusty Open Tour bus and headed for Notre Dame. Obviously, it’s an amazing structure, but the throng of tourists undermined it’s effect on me – I think the Cathedral in Bourges is more striking, though far more crude.

Ceil’s woes intensified during our walk through the Cathedral, and for the remainder of our trip, whenever some vomits, we will refer to it as “sneaking out the side door of Notre Dame.” Once again, my French failed me as I was confronted by alarmed security guards demanding that Ceil come back inside – thankfully, the situation was easily communicated through some simple and universally recognized pantomimes.

We beat a hasty retreat, and when Ceil accepted my proposal that we seek out a pharmacist, I became truly alarmed – she is usually quite stoic and disdainful of medications. We found a place near-by, and the woman behind the counter was very helpful – not sure if “chaque mois, les mals de feminine” means anything in French, but it got the point across. She set us up with two meds and a glass of water. Within an hour, Ceil was entirely recovered.

After lunch we set out to find Shakespeare & Co. , a famous English-language book store along the left bank of the Seine. We spend an hour or more (and 300$ or more) on books – Miles preferring Tin Tin and Asterisk & Obelisk comics, while I sought to remedy my ignorance of French history, picking out several weighty tomes.

The rest of the day was filled with more time on the tour bus; soon it was my turn to be a petulant and whiny cry-baby, and I openly confess to sulking for the better part of four hours after a disagreement about our agenda for the final hours of the trip. Sigh. (Who was it that said, “Where ever you go, there you are.” Too true.)

Finally, we’re back at the train station, heading south, Lee in roaring good spirits, full of energy, me still quite sullen and grouchy, and Miles and Ceil, even-keeled as ever, wishing that Lee and I would just pull ourselves together.

This week Ceil mentioned that although life in France is not particularly difficult, it’s wearying as you feel like you’re doing everything for the first time – a trip to the laundry mat is not just a trip to do the laundry – it’s doing the laundry for the first time. These small challenges add up and by the end of the day, you’re quite exhausted.

With this in mind, we’re glad to be done with so many “first times” associated with visiting Paris: taking the train, finding a hotel, riding the metro, exploring the city, buying books, riding a tour bus, going to a pharmacy, and “sneaking out the side door of Notre Dame”. We plan to return at least once a month before we leave – and the visits will surely get better and better.

More news to follow shortly…