Not Las Vegas, Paris France
Rollling along in the Eurostar, enroute to Paris. This is a perfect way to travel. Seats were reserved, the French border control checked passports at the London St. Pancras station, and boarding was completely orderly.
I love that there was a plug onboard in for the laptop.
Apparently, when I made the reservation I ordered a Kosher meal (a tactic learned years ago when traveling by air in coach class—for fresher food). Each carriage has 3 attendants. My breakfast was excellent, although the portions would have killed anyone to eat. Served on china with stainless utensils (guaranteed to be “new” and not used to assure Kosher), I had freshly squeezed OJ, fresh grapefruit sections with some fresh pineapple slices, four types of hefty cheeses, delicious smoked salmon, a custard with cinnamon coconut topping, matzo, and coffee. The attendants passed coffee and tea from large pots throughout the journey as well as mineral water served in heavy glass.
Like the tube, everyone is very quiet except the four Americans who are loud, elderly couples from Minnesota. It is embarrassing that my countrymen do not notice the norms and adapt rather than disturb and annoy the other passengers who are reading or speaking in hushed tones.
The scenery is English country side. I assume that we are traveling south to cross the channel where there is only 22 miles of the English Channel between France and UK. Oops…….guess we are in France. I just saw two signs in French. That was quick. Where ever we are, there are large vast fields of flowers growing commercially. Calais, says a sign.
I now realize that there will be too much adventure in this new landscape and culture for me to have a minute missing London.
I will say the Europeans have much better means of moving from place to place than we do in the States. Their public transit and trains are organized, efficient, low cost, and comfortable. I’m signing off to see the amazing countryside.
Saturday night
The French train depot is clean and well signed. Coming in to Paris, there were miles of gread public art but impossible to catch on camera due to speed of train and rain pounding the windows and roof. I got a cab to the address of my studio, hoping that Jean Philip would meet me despite my losing his phone number (“Call one half hour before arrival”). Here is the address as we approached—does not look like accommodation, but the secret code on the entry alarm worked and in I came with my very heavy luggage. Nobody here. I trudged up three flights of stairs to what looked like it might be a rental—on the landing I heard footsteps which turned out to be Jean Philip and his sidekick (trainee, boyfriend, last night’s lay??). They opened the door and to my relief, the studio is fine. The entry and stairs not so promising.
Seeing that there was less than ¼ roll of TP and no spares I knew I better find some for my 3 day stay (Shannon—no laughing at my obsession to have plenty of TP). Well, I walked around for about an hour looking for anything that might have TP. The pharmacist (one of the ONLY ones to speak English) balked and said: “Of course not. Non, ce n'est pas un supermarchés." Ah, at last a word to remember: supermarché. Within 10 minutes I found a marché, but I got the same response in asking for papier toilette: Scowl. “Non, ce n'est pas un supermarché.” OK. Off I go making sure I have landmarks to find my way back to the hotel—because, I left the map in the studio.
Finally, with that mission accomplished and some bubbly mineral water, too, I returned. After a shower, things were looking up. The shower stall is so small that I could shampoo with only one hand—using two would outstretch my elbows beyond the capacity of the stall. The other oddity is that the toilet is electric flush. So, press a button. Wait. After 5 minutes of belching noises and loud burps from the plumbing—comes a sound like a 747 warming up. Then the flush is complete.
I remembered Jean Philip’s warning now: Use only a very small amount of papier Toilette or it will clog. Oh, oh, no.
The futon is for day use. If you look closely you will see there is Murphy bed behind it. I had one of those years ago when I lived in St James Park in West Adams. Cool for a small space. The problem with that one on Scarff Street was that if you didn’t clamp the mattress tight after changing sheets (which I do a couple times a week—another peccadillo), the mattress would shimmy down the wall and get stuck in the alcove causing the bed to jam up. It took three strong men to work out of that mess, so I have some apprehension.
After the supermarche outing, I was feeling very out of it wearing trainers with a skirt. So I dressed up in good flats, tights and skirt for my scouting out the city. The walk was fantastic as around every corner was new, beautiful site. I didn’t care where I was or where I was going—just wandering. I ended up walking through squalls of rain interspersed with sun for a couple hours. The city is really smaller scale than you might think from a map. My studio is in the 1st arrondissement about 2 blocks from the Louvre and another direction a long block to the Tuileries.
Before long, I was at the Place de le Concorde.
Enjoyed window shopping and walking under the alcove as the rain was brutal whenever the strong wind blew it in. Then there minutes of sun.
Dogs are everywhere, but these are very special ones. They speak French and respond to the commands in French.
Aimed for studio again and with a change of shoes was off for dinner. Jean Philip had three recommendations for moderate priced “restaurants de cuisine francaise proches.” I was not hungry after the Eurostar breakfast, but knew I should have some soup and vegetables before the day was over. Well, that was an interesting experience. First I ordered (at the garcon’s recommendation) Café Gourmand. It smelled funny and I suspected correctly it was an alcoholic drink. He had disappeared, so I took a teaspoon and got a taste. Beyuch. I don’t know what the concoction was, but that was 9 Euros wasted. Now, I was completely fermished and any few words of French were gone. So I ordered what looked like potato and veggies only to get served—Cheeseburger and French fries with a vegetable salad. Hmm. Looking around me for the next hour I watched table after table of tourists get surprised when their plates came—three Asians next to me spoke both English and Chinese: they laughed at what they got. Some Germans across from me could not recognize what they ordered—so either the waiter was passive aggressive, or I need to do more studying.
As usual in EU, including UK, one cannot expect to get service or a check in a timely manner. So, two hours after I sat down, I finally cleared the tab. Although I wanted to go see the Eiffel Tower lit up tonight—tomorrow will be soon enough. I had a long day and am tired. Plus, I have to deal with the Murphy bed and pray that there is no fire because I can barely navigate the warren of stair to escape with lighting.
My other observations from today.
1.There seems to be a higher tolerance for the crazy here than in London or the States. I saw a woman with dreds dancing with the pigeons in the square. She had her Ipod earbuds in, her Bob Marley hat on, and she was swaying—whatever way a pigeon landed, she would swoop down and follow the bird until another one came along. She was there both times I passed the square—so at least 3 hours. Plus she was talking outload to nobody.
2. In the train depot there were two young women begging who both looked battered. One had scrapes on her cheeks, glassy eyes and she was begging in 3 languages. The other one had a black eye and smelled of alcohol. Everyone seemed to ignore them
3. There is a lot of yelling on the street. Plus, even when pedestrians have the little green man light indicating, “Walk,” cars will come within inches and honk. “Toot toot,” yield to the crazy driver.
4. Strangest of all. Near the intersection of L’Opera and Rue de Honor, I watched a little Fiat stop in the intersection. A tiny, old, Asian woman in a down coat exited the car, walked around it, kicked the driver door closed with what looked like all her might, and yelled, “C**ks*cker. F you.” And she parked the car right there. In the intersection and went into a bakery. Never* saw*that*anywhere. Nobody was in the car.
I have not found Paris dirty as many of my students observed. Rather, the buildings are beautiful, although marred with a layer of soot. Not much litter on the streets. I guess if Paris were a woman, she would be an eccentric one with very old, valuable jewelry wearing expensive costumes. She would have, however, a Kleenex tucked in the wristband of her $8,000 watch and some schmutz dribbled on her blouse. London, on the other hand, would be a woman in a tailored suit with perfect, matching and predictable accessories; unlike Paris, there would be no doubt that London was wearing all her under ware.
Au revoir.
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