Paris

It was so long ago that I’ll almost have to make it up. No, I’ll just keep it brief. If you think writing a travel blog this late after travelling is ludicrous then just don’t read it!

Main points.

After banging my head on a table for six hours at Dublin airport waiting for my plane to arrive, I wasn’t in the best of moods. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to getting from the airport to my hotel at midnight with 25kgs on me.

I powerwalked off the plane in Paris with the suits and their briefcases into the stale smokiness of the airport. The only people left in the airport were cleaners. I found my way to a bus (it was the only one there so I got on it), and then to a train. Now to buy a ticket. How do I buy a ticket? Everyone else seemed to have one already and I didn’t see a machine around. I somehow communicated to a guy who looked like he worked there that I needed to get to Arts et Metiers and wanted to get a ticket. I thought he was being typically French and ignoring me when he left the booth and walked over to the ticket gates. He proceeded to look through used tickets and eventually handed me one saying in broken English that it’d take me to Arts et Metiers and pointed me to the platform saying “last one five minutes!” He even told me where to change. Who said the French weren’t nice! And THEN as I’m powerwalking along one of those huge travellators at the even huger Châtelet–Les Halles station a woman in front of me asks where I’m going and points in the direction of where I need to be (even though I already knew) and points at her watch until I work out that she means to hurry because the last train is near. And she gets even sweeter when we get off the travellator and mimes at me to be careful with my bag.

First night in Paris findings: Parisians don’t live up to the stereotype.

The next couple of days pass just how you’d expect them to in Paris. Walking, shopping, museums and galleries. It sounds like stuff you’d do in any city, but doing it in Paris is somehow different. Walking along beautiful tree lined streets in sunshine that I’d hardly seen on my trip; stopping to look in patisserie windows where chocolate and cream and fruit fought for a position; crossing the river just to see what’s there (quite a bit; you should try it sometime).

OK, so food played a major role in my visit to this city too. I made sure I ticked most things off my French checklist. Crepe – done. Croque monsieur – done. Quiche – done. Red wine – done.

On our first (proper) evening in Paris we were fooled by the map that we contained in our hands and decided to walk to the Champs Elysee via the Louvre. Paris is really huge. I keep forgetting. Is it just me? Those maps should come with warnings. Walking around is lovely, but walking for an hour without feeling that you’re getting anywhere can be a bit much.

We got the the Louvre an hour before it closed (which meant I got in for free). I’ve come to like the racing-through-a-gallery experience an hour before it closes. I don’t feel guilty for not pondering every work and I can walk around without anyone being in my way. Even the Mona Lisa didn’t have much of a crowd, not that I paused for her. I went straight to the big room. Boy were those paintings big. One of my absolute favourite paintings was there in all it’s glory – The Raft of Medusa by Theodore Gericault.

After the lights were turned out at the Louvre and the doors shut behind us we wandered up the Champs Elysees. We got hungry and then annoyed for being hungry on the most expensive strip in Paris where the standard of food is the equivalent of George St in Sydney (well, maybe not quite that bad).

Sephora is one of the greatest shops in Paris. At least that’s what I thought when I was there seven years earlier. These days you’re elbow to elbow with American tourists and the shop assistants just wear t-shirts instead of the finely tailored floor length black coats they once did.

Justine and I parted company at this point so I could go to The House of Live, just around the corner on Rue de la Boetie, to see Sydney band Monsieur Camembert. They’d already started when I arrived so I stood up the back only slightly conscious of being alone and maybe looking like a tourist. Great gig and only somewhat strange to be seeing an Australian French gypsy band in Paris.

It was the night before Bastille Day (traditionally the Fireman’s Ball night) so there were a fair few firemen around. Needless to say, a girl on her own doesn’t last long without being approached in Paris and so this night was no exception. They were lovely boys and we spoke in broken English for a while, but when they enquired if I knew what a French kiss was I decided it was time to run for that last train.

But I missed the last train. The stereotypical French attitude came out when I needed a ticket moments before the last train came. So I heard the train come and go, all the while the attendant pretended he never saw me. So my last 8 euros went on a cab.

Bastille day was a gorgeous sunny day where Justine and I lapped up the sun while watching the military planes do their trips overhead and guys in cute uniforms rode overly ornate horses. Justine had to run off to catch a plane so she could get her luggage from London, but I wasn’t to leave until early the next morning.

I took the opportunity to go to Musee D’Orsay late enough for it to be half price, but with just enough time to see enough of everything. This gallery is spectacular. It has all the loftiness of a a huge train station and the light flows in wonderfully through the clear-ish roof. I bought some postcards of my favourite works, but I’ll have to post them here some other time.

With the gallery closed but still lots of sunlight and energy on the streets of Paris, I decided to do more aimless wandering. I wandered quite far along the Left Bank (is that right?) through St Germain (stopping for fantastic gelato) and then eventually crossed the river at the point where there’s a little island in the middle. Can’t remember it’s name, but I should consult a map and then note it here. I hopelessly tried to cover as many little alleys as I could on my walk back to the hotel. Sadly I didn’t discover anything exciting.

By this point I was over French food and mourning the fact that I was no longer stopping in Singapore (so could no longer have the roast duck I’d been looking forward to). I managed to find a Thai restaurant and despite the French menu, I was able to order easily enough because both me and the waiter knew the names of the dishes in Thai. Funny that. So I had Tom Kha Gai back at my hotel room and packed up my things for an early start the next day.