Friday: In Transit, AgainDuring a totally frantic morning, my friend arranged for a loan and signed papers to purchase a new apartment; her son and I waited in the car watching the clock tick down to departure time. She’d decided to coordinate our departures from Grenoble, which meant a train transfer for me in Lyon, while she was off for two weeks sailing off Corsica. Although five years of French did not prepare me to understand railroad announcements, (and, in truth, travelers in the US would have a similar experience with the LIRR), it was a lovely ride through the incredibly pastoral French countryside. Huge areas are rural and much as they have been for centuries.
I noticed on the Internet after Dany booked my hotel in Paris on the phone using SNCF, France’s train association’s offer of 40% savings, that there was no way the hotel could be near the train station as claimed. Now, as I stood in Gard du Lyon, a huge railroad station to the east of Paris coordinating the city map, with the RER train and Metro maps, I was frustrated by my inability to speak enough French to call for exact hotel directions. So I made a best guess as to the station and learned that the huge Acueill signs were for information booths. Since in French, information is l’information, it would seem that an information booth could be identified with a large I; nonetheless I had broken the code and got directions to the general vicinity. Immediately, I realized that the ticket, billet, machines were only in French. With suitcases in tow, I circled the station to locate a human ticket agent, and was informed (incorrectly, I later learned) that day or weekend Metro passes did not exist. I bought the suggested 10 tickets, good for both Metro and RER trains. Fortunately, escalators were available in the up direction at each change of station. I arrived at Denfert-Rochereau above ground on a busy city street. With no idea of which way to go, I tried to hail a taxi. Non! Three rejections from passing empty taxis cued me to the fact that the system must work differently here; a sign saying Taxi’s was across the street, complete with empty taxis in a row. Ah, to my good fortune, a Chinese taxi came by and I knew I was in luck as no Chinese man could know French and not English. Yes, he had found my hotel before, but it was very difficult – many one way streets. We sat; he studied the city atlas; the meter crept up. He was knowledgeable and delightful and $15 later I found myself on a tiny street in a dubious neighborhood with no idea of where I was, but armed with the knowledge that the subway closes at midnight and that a taxi to the airport would cost me $65. My three nights with Lyndsay was now to be two.
No, please not hereA peek into the lobby of Hotel Jardins du Paris confirmed that the Internet pictures lied. A wizened elderly man greeted me cheerfully (into his lair?). This was definitely a step down from the hostels of my past, and as Lyndsay would show me the next day, from hers also. He had my reservation and quickly calculated a rate of 47 euros per night, or 141 for three nights, much better than the 197 the SNCF had offered (1 euro = $1.25). My mind spun; it was already almost 8 pm, I had no way to reach Lyndsay who would be arriving in a few hours and no idea how to get another room. He offered his last room. Yes, I could see it. Alas, this is the photo I forgot to take – from some old French film, vintage cots! For a moment I imagined I was in black and white, but it was clean and complete with a private bath. Deal done and I had the pleasure of the better rate. Suspiciously, he had to put through the charge again even though I was quite sure I had seen the charge already on my bank statement. I seriously considered the in-room wifi, but at $35 for24 hours, and a caveat to not shut off the computer, I decided to go off line.
Motherly GuiltUgh… 8:30 and no mother could leave her daughter to negotiate finding this place, and finding my way to Gare du Nord definitely beat waiting at the hotel. Ironically our correct metro station, Alesia, was only one beyond where I had gotten off and begun my taxi expedition. Seven minutes and I was at the Metro.
Lyndsay’s train was due to arrive at 10:53 but I watched hopefully as each of the three earlier London trains arrived, hoping to escape early from the seedy under life of Paris at night. I purchased a phenomal sandwich, galette, my second railroad station sandwich of the day, and superior to any in the US, and sat reading the most apropos book, The Dante Club. Social bums and beggars added to the general ambiance. When Lyndsay arrived it was as if light re-entered the City of Lights. She took the hotel in stride having arrived with very low expectations after reading the reviews. We feel asleep anticipating two days of adventure.
Saturday: Paris, Day OneAfter a petit de jeune, notable for its instant coffee and cocoa machine, in a surprisingly delightful cave under our hotel, we were off for a wonderfully sunny day. None of travel agenda, ever materialized as we were swept along by a series of slight misjudgments in Metro stops. From Les Invalides we walked along the Left Bank to Ille de la Cite and Notre Dame. Lyndsay had visited and ascended to the its top for the view in January and we were able to avoid that queue. On our way to Sainte Chapelle, we realized that time was running out to meet a friend at the Arc de Triompe by 3, so we stopped and I had one of the most memorable lunches of my life at a sidewalk café: slices of duck breast in a poivre sauce with spectacular green beans and fries. At the Arc, Lyndsay surprised me when Liz, her roommate from McGill and now best friend from London, appeared. We enjoyed a leisurely coffee on the Champs d’Elsyees. As this was July 2nd and the French take off the month of July for vacation, major sales were in progress everywhere and we went into the shopping district of Les Halles. It was funny to examine prices from two viewpoints: high by US standards, and a bargain with the strong pound. Truly dragging by this time, we went off to Sacre Coeur, a site I had never visited before. How beautiful as the evening’s long rays pierced the stained glass windows. Surprisingly, construction was only undertaken at the end of the last century. We finished the day with two ice cream sundaes at a café looking up at the church and enjoying the crowds. Back at the hotel, the proprietor (concierge is simply too assuming a title) informed me that I had double paid. Unfortunately, he could only refund his cheaper fee. Lesson learned: the railroad takes a big cut, more than one night’s stay.
Sunday: Paris, Day TwoIt began to seem possible that we might do all of Paris in two days. Actually, Sunday was two days: one, a packed day of sightseeing and great shared experiences, and two, the saga of departure.
Carousels and children were everywhere around the city. A huge ferris wheel is located next to the Louvre reminiscent of The Eye in London. In Paris, it is part of a mini amusement park. The French, more so than the British, seem immersed in showing their children a good time. Our day got off to an anguished start as we walked blocks in the area of St. Germain-du Pres in pursuit of crepes for breakfast. After half an hour we wound up back were we started, observing that the area has two distinct components – an upscale residential/shopping area, and a touristy, student area. Our crepes were square, not quite as intended, but well-nourished we set off for Musee D’Orsay and its marvelous Impressionistic works. From its roof, is a great view of the Louvre and the East bank. I especially enjoyed the guided tour Lyndsay provided, bringing to life obscure painters whom she had studied at Pratt. From there we walked to the Tuilleries garden where we stretched out on a bench and soaked up the wonderful weather. After recovering our stamina, we walked to 22 Rue de Rivoli to Angelina’s, upon the recommendation of my friend Alice. The long queue was a minor price to enjoy the gilded ambiance and phenomenal hot chocolate with Chantilly cream. Only the waitresses seem incorrectly cast, as they were all foreigners in traditional French uniforms.
We then walked the length of the Louvre, which is truly huge, in search of a Metro stop. Now, to add to our ongoing series of chance encounters, Lyndsay met three other friends from McGill, one of whom asked if she were available to be photographer, outside Paris, at a wedding in October. As she had interned with a wedding photographer in Seattle at the beginning of art school, this was a dream offer come true.
We had planned one last experience to complete our two day Parisian marathon, a cruise around Paris. Unfortunately, travel again compromised our plan and our train simply announced that it was stopping before our destination. We walked and walked along the Seine; no really, Lyndsay prodded and poked at me. When we found a boat station, their tour did not include the Eiffel Tower. “Okay, Mom, only two bridges to go.” And it was, also, truly worth the effort. We got the best seats for photographing, on the side of the boat, and were enchanted by all the old Parisian songs and by the exuberance of all those enjoying life on the banks of the Seine – lovers, families, a Tango dancing club. We simply could not have had a nicer two days together.
Some random observations from our weekend in ParisIt really was not necessary to purchase the three day museum pass at 45 euro; in fact, the first Sunday of each month, entrance to the D’Orsay, at least, is free. Similarly, the daily metro pass which we later learned was available was probably overkill as we used 20 tickets between us. Paris seemed more of a melting pot than New York. Good walking shoes are essential – I can’t overestimate that as I did not have any.
The Saga of DepartureThe endless light of the evening skies constantly tricked our bodies, but after finishing the cruise at 9:30, the impending countdown to the midnight closing of the Metro hung over us. We enjoyed a quick salad close-by our hotel with our first beers of the weekend, never had a wine. Then, back to the hotel for a quick shower and change and off to the Metro. Lyndsay sweetly came along to the major transit change station to help cart my now seriously-overweight suitcase down and up stairs. After a warm hug, I was off.
A few stops later, a growing anxiety creep over me - something was wrong. In the pit of my stomach, even though I did not want to acknowledge it, I was on a Metro for Charles de Gaulle Etoile and not on the RER for Charles de Gaulle Aeroport. I realized that in our last moments of zeal, I had boarded the wrong train and had no option but to get off and go back, i.e. lug everything up and down multiple staircases to the correct line. How could I, at my age, have given my last euros and telephone card to my daughter, and now potentially find myself at midnight in some random area of Paris with no money for a cab and no way to reach anyone. Were those the black blobs from the movie Ghost flying through the open subway windows? From being a somewhat comatose, sweaty done-in traveler, the adrenaline kicked in and while I did not ever lift the suitcase, I was able to methodically heave it along step by step. Now, on the correct train, I noticed that the line would eventually fork. After sticking my head out at a couple of stations, I realized that each time this train arrived, the lights for the aeroport stations were not lit. Off the train again, I waited at 11:45 for the final and correct train. I knew that Terminal 2 was for Air France, but when I ascended to the aeroport itself, there were six optional wings and no airport personnel except for maintenance. I chose one and trouped off down the endless automated walkways in this incredibly modern beautiful space until I found some other travelers camped out and decided it was safe to join them. Every seat in the aeroport was metal with permanent armrests to assure that no one could stretch out to sleep. Each time I dozed and awoke a different person was up and restless. By 4:15 my flight appeared on the monitor, obviously in a different wing and I was off again. As my 7 am flight time approached, the terminal began to come to life, but the duty free and food concessions remained closed. The huge storm which had been forecast for Sunday hit with vengeance. Lightening was on us and the planes could not be loaded. We departed an hour and a half later, exactly the transit time allowed for my connection in Madrid back to the US. Aboard Air France, the only difference between this coach breakfast and the first-class one of a week earlier was the lack of a proscuitto open-faced h’or d’oeuves (considering the incremental cost for those actually paying for first class, that’s one very expensive nibble) – the Nescafe instant remained constant. The Madrid connection involved a change of carriers, so after a few frantic inquiries, Continental was located at the opposite end of the airport. The plane was an hour delayed giving me time to pop into Duty Free. The 7 hour flight on a full 777 was not conducive to sleep, although the film, Sahara, would probably have had me asleep in my own living room.
As the immigration forms were passed out, I felt the transition to normalcy slowly returning. Then, a speedy stop through Customs and out to Carousel 6. When do you give up? After memorizing the remaining suitcases? Never! After 45 minutes, a pleasant airport official approached me and suggested that my bag had not made it to New York and that I could proceed to the Baggage Service office on another level. As the customs official at the exit area noted, I made it and that’s what was important; I could always get another suitcase. In any airport, this must truly be The Office of Horrors. Those who choose to work therein should be blessed and well compensated -- what great scenarios occur for anger management study. The only redeeming factor was that I had only my laptop and Duty Free bag now to carry on the Air Train/NJ Transit/LIRR connections home. The schedules conspired to connect so well that there was no time to even call my dad, and I rang his doorbell and surprised him at almost 5 in the afternoon.
As I sit here on Tuesday awaiting today’s flight from Madrid, I ponder the irony of so much effort going into getting this bulky overweight piece of luggage to the airport if it never makes it home. I lament the pictures of Paris still in the camera in the suitcase and ponder my replacement wardrobe…
