Paris in Two Days

 

It’s time for me to get back into writing, so I’m starting with tales of my travels last year with my sister.

Arriving on the Eurostar from London with heavy cases and hand luggage, we were tired, but eagerly looking forward to three nights and two full days in Paris before our river cruise to Normandy and back. After a long wait in the taxi queue we were directed to an old station wagon. I greeted the driver in French and showed him the confirmation for our hotel, with the address clearly printed at the top. It included the words Gare du Nord, so I assumed it was a district as well as a railway station.

With Gaelic theatricality, our man strode over to another taxi, thrust my paper under the driver’s nose and, although I couldn’t understand the words, his grunts and frowns made it clear that he did not want us as passengers. The second driver responded by lifting his hands in a tough luck mate gesture.

Our man swaggered back to us, still complaining, but after a few more pleas from me, and an expression of total incomprehension from my sister—for whom this was an introduction to France—he loaded our luggage into the rear of the station wagon.

‘What’s the problem?’ I asked, in English, then French.

‘Why don’t you walk? Look, the address is Gare du Nord?’ He spoke in French, stabbing a finger at the address on my paper, then turning to point at the sign above the station.

I tried to explain that we didn’t know where the hotel was and the rough cobblestones made it impossible for two ‘senior’ ladies to transport our cases, despite their four wheels, over any distance. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders, sighed loudly to drive home the message that we had ruined his day and waved us into the vehicle.

Regretting the lack of my small French/English dictionary, tucked away in my hand luggage, impossible to get at from the back seat, I tried again to decipher the cause of his anger and apologised if the journey was too short. I don’t remember my exact words, but I assured him that I would pay enough to make it worth his while.

One assumes that taxi drivers who collect passengers from the Eurostar know their way around Paris, especially when the destination has caused so much controversy. When the meter read fifteen euros and we seemed to be re-tracing our route for the third time, I realised that our man didn’t have a clue where the street or our hotel was located. Without my mobile phone and its international roaming ability (also tucked away in the hand luggage) I couldn’t even call the hotel for directions.

We stopped at the lights of a busy intersection. Our driver didn’t know which way to turn. I suggested, in my best French, that he pull over and phone the hotel on his mobile. Instead, he dragged a dilapidated street directory from under his seat and proceeded to thumb through it, retrieving pages as they fell around him, collating them as best he could, searching for the street.

Why did a taxi that collected passengers from the Eurostar station not have some form of modern navigational aid? I did query that, but didn’t get an answer and by then we just wanted to reach our destination. I leant over, picked up his mobile from the passenger seat, pointed to the phone number on my hotel confirmation paper, and insisted that he call them. Within about a minute we were there.

It was a single lane, one-way street with no space to park and an ancient archway and gate at the far end. It probably was hard to find. I reluctantly handed over twenty-five euros, which we later realised was at least triple the correct price for the distance.

In front of the Paris Opera Hotel  – on a very quiet, narrow street.

Our rooms were as quiet as promised, and surprisingly spacious for a hotel in central Paris. We were in a residential area, mixing with the locals who lived in neighbouring apartments. We joined them for dinner that first night at Richer, a bistro around the corner, where our starter of white asparagus with smoked fish, followed by pigeon for me and fish for my sister, lived up to the rave reviews I had promised. One waitress spoke English but all the other patrons and the rest of the staff spoke only French – not a typical tourist destination.

Back in my room, I watched a group of seven or eight young men, some European, some I assumed of Arabic or African descent, who had gathered on the pavement opposite the hotel. Listening to music on their mobile phones, talking and smoking, they were well-behaved, just youngsters socialising in the limited space available.

While it was light outside until nearly ten o’clock, I wasn’t aware of the nearness of my neighbours. Lace curtains at the windows on both sides of the street provided sufficient privacy until, ready for bed, I walked out of the bathroom and could see everything inside the apartments facing me. I made a quick retreat, grabbed the bathrobe provided by the hotel, switched off the lights which made me visible to anyone caring to look, and closed the drapes at my windows. With very little traffic, there was hardly any noise from the narrow street and not really a need for the added protection of double glazing, but I was grateful for the peace and had a good night’s sleep.

The next morning we were up early and on our way, via the Paris Metro, to the Jardin Tuileries, the Champs Elysee,

the L’Ouvre and as much of central Paris as we could squeeze in. Travelling underground, I misjudged the stations and, in the rain, we had to cross over Place do la Concorde with its multiple lanes in each direction. We soon discovered that, despite the traffic lights, Parisian drivers, especially those on motor bikes, would prefer to run over pedestrians. They’re in such a hurry, speeding from one set of lights to the next, zipping from lane to lane and carrying on like bulls about to charge at each inflicted stop. I grabbed my sister’s hand, yelling at her to stay in the middle of the pedestrian pack, and run to the next pavement. It was just our first narrow escape as all drivers in Paris seem to have a killer instinct towards pedestrians.

On reaching the safety of the Tuileries garden we collapsed in fits of laughter and decided that a nearby toilet should be our first stop. Having experienced the rarity of such establishments in the city, I was prepared with a supply of single euros. Excitement over and comfort restored, we walked through the gardens, towards the L’Ouvre. Being a Monday, the museum was closed, but my sister didn’t mind. She wandered as if in a dream.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she sighed, clicking her camera, ‘I’m in Paris.’

Buildings that were formerly palaces now house police stations;

 

 

perfect roses bloom in a park that adjoins the Tuileries garden;

even the lamp posts are objects of beauty. Perhaps our eyes observe these details because everything is new, but I’ve been here before and yet, to me, Paris is still a marvel of architectural beauty and, like the women with their meticulous attention to detail in every aspect of their appearance, the whole city seems to proclaim its obeisance to a god of beauty.

A Parisian Police Station.

Despite the Monday closure, the area around the L’Ouvre was buzzing with tourists, young couples taking selfies on mobile phones, pedlars selling bottled water or hats and suncream, none of which we needed as we had supplies of all requirements in our backpacks.

A young woman approached us, offering a ring which she had appeared to pick up from the ground. ‘Is it yours?’ She held it out for our inspection. ‘Do you know who dropped it?’ she asked when we shook our heads.

How kind, I thought, noticing that it could be an engagement ring. We were still standing near the woman, assuring her that we couldn’t help in finding the owner, when a young man, dressed in cream trousers and jacket, approached us. His words to the woman were not immediately clear, but his attitude was, and she quickly walked away.

‘I apologise,’ he said, in response to our dumbfounded expressions. ‘I am off duty today, but I work in the museum. She is a known trouble-maker. The ring is just one trick they use to catch tourists.’

We thanked him and continued on our way, stopping a couple of times to warn others who were her intended victims.

Hunger called, so we went in search of food. Wandering past the myriad tourist shops that line the Rue de Rivoli, we stopped to admire a display of porcelain sculptures;

shiny red and gold dresses, black lace stockings and very interesting poses.

And we couldn’t entirely ignore the tourist shops – fridge magnets, calendars, t-shirts and the usual tatt. A couple of post cards sufficed.

I wanted to find a cafe that catered to real Parisians. We passed numerous establishments displaying photos of Anglicised versions of French dishes, but I wanted the real thing. Half an hour later, tired and even hungrier, we found a corner bistro filled with French looking men and women and I asked for a table inside – smokers cluttered the pavement outside. Tiny tables against the wall, mirrors in the timber facade behind them, stone-tiled floor, and a buzz of French chatter seemed to offer what I sought. My sister followed meekly, not understanding a word, but when the menu arrived, and a bottle of water was priced at eight euros, she did understand that, and suggested we go elsewhere. Food in Paris is expensive, especially when the venue is anywhere near the river and museums.

‘Relax and enjoy the ambiance,’ I suggested, while reading the menu and accepting that this would not be value for money. In fact, when our food came, it was delicious as only the French can produce, no matter where I eat and no matter what the price.

Our next destination was across the Pont Neuf and finding our way to the Notre Dame Cathedral.

I have stood in awe beneath those stained glass windows each time I visited Paris, but having promised my sister a gobsmacking site, I was once again rewarded, and doubly so, when her lips quivered and tears trickled down her cheeks.

‘Thank you, darling,’ she whispered, flicking away tears with one hand, while struggling to capture the perfect shot before another tourist got in the way.

Unable to drag her away from photographing every single window, I wandered around and found a series of timber carvings, depicting scenes from the life of Christ, so I too, was busy with my camera, having found yet another treasure in this amazing building.

Le Musee D’Orsay was next on our list, but, despite our attempts to walk there in time before last admissions at 4.30pm, my feet let us down and we arrived just in time to be directed away from the closing doors.

‘Come back another day,’ the gloved and hatted guard said.

‘You’re not open tomorrow,’ I pleaded, ‘and we are only here in Paris for two days.’

A shrug of his uniformed shoulders indicated just how stupid he regarded anyone who would expect to see all of Paris in such a short visit.

Seeing my distress, my sister said, calmly and sensibly, ‘Look, we knew we couldn’t do everything. It’s fine. I’m very happy with what I have seen. We’ve had a great day, we’re both tired, let’s find a taxi.’

After the problems of our previous taxi ride, we gave the address of a busy corner near our hotel. Buying dinner for that night was easy, in a local mini-market—ready made salads, bread and smoked salmon, with a bottle of wine and some fruit and nuts. Again the only language used was French, and again I was grateful to the nuns in my high school.