Paris for a day - 06/04/06
Welcome to a new edition of Maria and Fletch abroad. Whilst it is true that we have been slack and not updated our blog for some time, this reflects the relatively ‘hum drum’ nature of our current existence. In the past month since leaving the Eastern European capital of Wych Cross for the Scottish/Australian Mecca of Staines, Maria and I have been working 48+ hour weeks and tying up some loose ends. Beyond a flying visit to the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, and a day at the British Museum during which I found I have become cruelly afflicted with ‘museum burnout’, our time has been used most unfashionably constructively. We found some relief through Maria’s keen powers of observation and the Daily Telegraph. Armed with four ‘passwords’ from editions of the ‘Tele’ we booked cheap Eurostar tickets and embarked on a quick visit to Paris.
Having convinced our Scottish managers of the grave necessity of our visiting the French capital, we secured a day shift on Tuesday, a Wednesday off and a Thursday night shift. They punished us by organising a Leffe tasting session for Thursday morning, but our enthusiasm remained. Thus on Tuesday we completed our shift at 5pm, and after a brief scramble to pack a minimum of essentials, headed off to catch our train.
The train from Staines to London stops at Waterloo, which by happy coincidence in the London port for the Eurostar. After a brief fight with the evening crowd, a nutritionist’s delight complete with onion rings, and a magazine grab for the journey, we checked through customs and boarded the Eurostar.
The Eurostar is a train much like any other. The seating is aircraft style and whilst relatively comfortable, the only remarkable feature it has is its length. As you walk down the platform to the ‘cattle class’ end of the train, you being to think that you are going to walk to Paris!
We arrived on time, though late in the evening, at the Paris terminal, Gare du Nord, so we were glad that we had booked a room on laterooms.com that is about 50m from the train station. We crawled into bed about midnight, French time (an hour later than British summer time), and set an alarm to herald the day of adventure we had been looking forward to.
On Wednesday morning, fortified with croissants and strong coffee, we decided to catch a bus tour around the city. An open topped, double-decker bus with multi-lingual commentary is a great way to get your bearings in an unfamiliar city. The tour let us get on and off the bus as much as we liked and services ran every fifteen minutes. Our bus tour started, where else, but the Eiffel Tower. We caught the metro, now being quite adept at deciphering what were once incoherent squiggles, but which to the experienced eye are in fact maps of the mass transit systems in a sprawling metropolis such as Paris, to a station not far from the Eiffel Tower and, surprisingly, right next door to the Australian embassy. It’s a stirring moment when you walk out of the station expecting to see a great cultural icon and the first thing you see is the Southern Cross, fluttering proudly in the cold morning breeze. It makes one walk that little bit taller (‘cause of course I’m not tall enough as it is).
The crowd around the tower didn’t seem too overwhelming so we decided to take the bus tour first and the tower later. After a quick jaunt around the Sene including the Louvre, we made our first stop the Cathedrale Notre Dame. A beautiful, gothic cathedral, the building of the Notre Dame commenced in the 12th century, but took 200 years of voluntary labour to complete. The result is a soaring, buttressed space of great proportions, with intricate stained glass and a very spiritual feel, compromised only slightly by the constant procession of tourists which abates not even for mass. Maria and I stayed for a service, and it gave us a sense of what mass must have been like before Vatican II, since we didn’t understand a word of what was being said. Obviously the spirit of socialism and denial of economic rationalism permeates even the Catholic Church in France, as it took no less than nine priests to say a midday, weekday mass. Surely some of these would be of more use in the struggling antipodean diocese where masses aren’t being said for want of a parish priest. Unfortunately I haven’t the connections with Benedict that I had with JP, so I am powerless in this instance. Anyhow, the side chapels and ecclesiastical artwork made the visit a very satisfying experience.
After a few photos it was back on the bus, with our next stop on the Champs Elysee. We took luncheon within sight of the Arc de Triumphe and, as per usual, my love of anchovies led me to a soul searching bout of menu envy. The espresso to finish my meal reinforced me for some more exploration, so we trekked the thirty odd metres to the Arc de Triumphe for a goosy gander and some photos. As a monument to Napolean’s ego, it is quite a statement and the carving is of the highest order, showing all of the restraint the French are famous for.
Back on the bus and off to the Eiffel Tower. The signage on the queue promised us less than a half hour’s wait for our tickets. ‘Great’ I thought, and a mere ten minutes later we had our tickets. What nobody mentioned was the hour we had to wait in the queue on the 2nd level in the freezing wind before being able to ascend to the very top. A large group of hyperactive, Spanish high-school kids raised the irritation levels somewhat, although I’m sure it would have been worse had I been able to understand them. The view from the top was moderately spectacular, but it was the journey in the elevator that really made the wait worthwhile. The true size of the tower can not be appreciated without that ascent.
Our obligatory visit to the tower complete, we decided to cap off our day with a visit to Sacra Cour. We caught the metro to the base of the hill upon which Sacra Cour rests, and caught a contraption called a ‘furniculari’, but which I would call a cable-car, to the summit. We entered the very eastern inspired church just as the priest was launching into his homily as we had a peek at the various side chapels and shrines around the sides and rear of the church until the priest started the eucharistic rites. At this point we sat and listened, for the dome roof, complete with painted scene of Frenchmen and angels attending Jesus in glory, beautifully augmented the real harmonies being sung by real nuns with really bad habits. This time the worshippers were disturbed by a noisy school group, but a very serious looking black man in a suit ushered them outside for a real tongue lashing. The feeling of peace and tranquillity in Sacra Cour is impossible to express in written form, and since I wasn’t allowed to take photographs, you will just have to go there to see what I mean.
After Sacra Cour, we wandered around the streets of Mont Martre before catching the metro back to Gare du Nord for a bit of kip before our 9.10 train back to London.
I write this from the Eurostar on the return journey. Overall I think Paris is a beautiful city to visit, and I’m sure I shall do so again, perhaps when we’re fabulously wealthy, so as to submerge ourselves more into the culture and culinary delights it has to offer. Anyhow, that’s all for now, so take it easy, and we’ll write more soon.
PS And congratulations to Joe and Nicole, whose 8 pound 2 ounce baby girl, Rachel Elizabeth, was born today. Good luck to you both!
Fletch’s tip for new travellers.
You may not speak the same language as the annoying adolescent trying to push in front of you, but a judicious elbow to the ear translates into any language.
