Part II
Paris
May 25-27, 2008
Our saddle-sore cycling adventurers now were speeding through the French countryside. Having departed Strasbourg after a final 35 mile leg of biking, they were bound for Paris on the TGV (train à grande vitesse, or "high-speed train"), munching a baguette and cheese. The bikes had been disassembled, folded and re-stowed back into their Samsonite suitcases. The train traveled at up to 200 mph to cover the 300 miles in about 2 hrs. 15 min. I think I knew some people in college who traveled the similar distance from Seattle to WSU/Pullman in close to the same time.
A bit of culture shock awaited me at the Gare du Nord, the big train station in Paris where we disembarked. I can’t remember now what I expected of Paris…probably tree-lined boulevards, charming sidewalk cafes, the Seine with the famous bridges and all that postcard stuff. It exists somewhere in that city, but my first meeting with Paris was something more like New York City. Busy, noisy, crowded, dirty and chaotic. Well, maybe not chaotic if you are used to it, but it seemed overwhelming to me with new road signs that I can’t read, traffic rules I can only guess at and certainly some etiquette details I was unaware of as car, bike and pedestrians mixed and mingled on these narrow, crowded streets.
Paris
May 25-27, 2008
Our saddle-sore cycling adventurers now were speeding through the French countryside. Having departed Strasbourg after a final 35 mile leg of biking, they were bound for Paris on the TGV (train à grande vitesse, or "high-speed train"), munching a baguette and cheese. The bikes had been disassembled, folded and re-stowed back into their Samsonite suitcases. The train traveled at up to 200 mph to cover the 300 miles in about 2 hrs. 15 min. I think I knew some people in college who traveled the similar distance from Seattle to WSU/Pullman in close to the same time.
A bit of culture shock awaited me at the Gare du Nord, the big train station in Paris where we disembarked. I can’t remember now what I expected of Paris…probably tree-lined boulevards, charming sidewalk cafes, the Seine with the famous bridges and all that postcard stuff. It exists somewhere in that city, but my first meeting with Paris was something more like New York City. Busy, noisy, crowded, dirty and chaotic. Well, maybe not chaotic if you are used to it, but it seemed overwhelming to me with new road signs that I can’t read, traffic rules I can only guess at and certainly some etiquette details I was unaware of as car, bike and pedestrians mixed and mingled on these narrow, crowded streets.
In the plaza area in front of Gare du Nord, we reassembled the bikes and hitched the suit
case-on-wheels trailer and were ready to roll. Again I wonder: can I do a quick shirt change stripping down to my jog bra? Of course, women topless sunbathe here, but what unspoken rules will again make me stand out like the foreigner that I am? Oh well, if Mia Hamm can do it, so can I (actually, this is Brandi Chastain, another soccer player; I always thought the famous jog bra shot was Mia until I googled this photo). But I digress.
case-on-wheels trailer and were ready to roll. Again I wonder: can I do a quick shirt change stripping down to my jog bra? Of course, women topless sunbathe here, but what unspoken rules will again make me stand out like the foreigner that I am? Oh well, if Mia Hamm can do it, so can I (actually, this is Brandi Chastain, another soccer player; I always thought the famous jog bra shot was Mia until I googled this photo). But I digress.It was about a 2 mile uphill ride to the backside of the kinda seedy Montmartre arrondissement. It was around 5 p.m. on a warm sunny afternoon and the streets were hopping with all sorts of activity. Even with the narrow streets, confusing intersections and lack of consistent pattern to following signals (as far as I could tell), drivers still seemed to yield well to bikes. Much of the time there was a bike lane physically separated from cars/peds by curbs or railings. We checked in at the hotel where I’m told that the room was spacious by Paris standards since you had maybe a 2 foot margin to walk around the bed instead of having to walk over it. The shower required a turning-sideways motion to squeeze into the stall.
After a blessed hot shower, it was time to explore the neighborhood. Three steep flights of steps and a coupl
e steep streets and we were atop Montmartre, one of the 2 hills in otherwise flat Paris. Sacre Couer was the attraction up there. Boy, did I ever just roll off the pumpkin cart! I was surprised at the hoards of tourists covering the place like ants on… well, an anthill(feel free to offer a better metaphor). But then famous phrases like “Springtime in Paris” or “Paris in May” come to mind.
e steep streets and we were atop Montmartre, one of the 2 hills in otherwise flat Paris. Sacre Couer was the attraction up there. Boy, did I ever just roll off the pumpkin cart! I was surprised at the hoards of tourists covering the place like ants on… well, an anthill(feel free to offer a better metaphor). But then famous phrases like “Springtime in Paris” or “Paris in May” come to mind.
Sacre Couer was the first of my many visits to famous sites. I had all of the next day to myself to explore and the routine went sort of like this: walk to site, look at it, think “uh huh, yep, that’s pretty impressive, I do believe I’ve seen pictures of that before, I can see that it is famous and kind of awesome”. Then with little more than a 10 second pause and wanting to avoid the hoards (and certainly not get in any long lines to see the innards of these places), I’d move on to more miles of walking to the next quick stop at the next famous site or other.In this manner did I “visit” Sacre Couer, Arc d’ 
Triumph, Avenues des Champs Elysees, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and some of those bridges with famous sculptures that I didn’t bother to look up the names for. Speaking of the Louvre (which I wasn’t exactly speaking of), I walked through the Jardin des Tuileries which, according to my map, is a mere block west of the Louvre. That “block” seemed to stretch for 3 football fields. That “jardin” - I didn’t get it- it was packed dirt with rows and rows of trees in a straight line. It wasn’t very pretty or appealing. Maybe I was strolling up the service path or something?
Triumph, Avenues des Champs Elysees, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and some of those bridges with famous sculptures that I didn’t bother to look up the names for. Speaking of the Louvre (which I wasn’t exactly speaking of), I walked through the Jardin des Tuileries which, according to my map, is a mere block west of the Louvre. That “block” seemed to stretch for 3 football fields. That “jardin” - I didn’t get it- it was packed dirt with rows and rows of trees in a straight line. It wasn’t very pretty or appealing. Maybe I was strolling up the service path or something? Over and over on my walking tour I underestimated the distance between the sites. I set out that morning thinking I’d hop on one of the rental bikes from one of the “dispensers” arou
nd town and do some cruising and sightseeing on 2 wheels. I would have loved to, but the dispenser didn’t like my credit card. Merde! (It’s a pretty cool idea, check it out: Paris Embraces Plan to Become City of Bikes ). So I hoofed it for hours and miles in my pretty but not very functional “Athena sandals” as I like to call them.
nd town and do some cruising and sightseeing on 2 wheels. I would have loved to, but the dispenser didn’t like my credit card. Merde! (It’s a pretty cool idea, check it out: Paris Embraces Plan to Become City of Bikes ). So I hoofed it for hours and miles in my pretty but not very functional “Athena sandals” as I like to call them. The area around the Eiffel Tower was nice. A few blocks away was a relatively quiet and clean neighborhood that seemed sort of residential. I enjoyed checking out little stores and boulangeries. Ah ha! And this area, or arrondissement is rue Cler, I just discovered as I checked Rick Steve’s Best of Europe guide. He recommends it and he describes it like this: “Lined with open-air produce stands six days a week, rue Cler is a safe, tidy, village-like pedestrian street.” Well, on a future trip maybe I’ll stay there.
By lunchtime, I’m catching on to the great subway system. I needed to be in another part of the city to meet my friend for lunch, so it was time to negotiate my way to the Metro, as the Paris subway is called. After a brief learning curve figuring out the purchasing of tickets, readi
ng the route maps and connections and oh yeah, finding a station (I think they’re kind of hard to spot) I got hip to zipping around town. I felt like a pro feeding my ticket in the dispenser and retrieving it as it popped out the other side, then crashing through the turnstile, hurrying down corridors and stairwells into the echoing bowels of Paris (How’s that for an attractive description? Really makes you want to go there, oui?). I got the knack of hearing the sound of an arriving train or noticing the people around 
start to run and I would follow, hop on with seconds to spare before the doors snapped shut. There is no margin for dallying; these subways are prompt; it stops, people quickly pour out and then board, the buzzer gives a brief warning and that’s it - the doors close and it speeds off to the next stop. It was fun, probably because I never missed a train, boarded the wrong one or was pick-pocketed, otherwise I’d be singing a different tune.
The morning of my full day of Paris, with all the walking was sunny, cool and windy. I was wishing I’d worn jeans and my running shoes instead of a skort and sandals. By afternoon it was raining pretty hard (all the better to liquefy and rinse away the doggie droppings one must watch out for on the sidewalks, especially when one is wearing their pretty Athena sandals). I did have my fine orange Arc’teryx rain shell on so I wasn’t totally ill-equipped.
By lunchtime, I’m catching on to the great subway system. I needed to be in another part of the city to meet my friend for lunch, so it was time to negotiate my way to the Metro, as the Paris subway is called. After a brief learning curve figuring out the purchasing of tickets, readi
ng the route maps and connections and oh yeah, finding a station (I think they’re kind of hard to spot) I got hip to zipping around town. I felt like a pro feeding my ticket in the dispenser and retrieving it as it popped out the other side, then crashing through the turnstile, hurrying down corridors and stairwells into the echoing bowels of Paris (How’s that for an attractive description? Really makes you want to go there, oui?). I got the knack of hearing the sound of an arriving train or noticing the people around 
start to run and I would follow, hop on with seconds to spare before the doors snapped shut. There is no margin for dallying; these subways are prompt; it stops, people quickly pour out and then board, the buzzer gives a brief warning and that’s it - the doors close and it speeds off to the next stop. It was fun, probably because I never missed a train, boarded the wrong one or was pick-pocketed, otherwise I’d be singing a different tune.The morning of my full day of Paris, with all the walking was sunny, cool and windy. I was wishing I’d worn jeans and my running shoes instead of a skort and sandals. By afternoon it was raining pretty hard (all the better to liquefy and rinse away the doggie droppings one must watch out for on the sidewalks, especially when one is wearing their pretty Athena sandals). I did have my fine orange Arc’teryx rain shell on so I wasn’t totally ill-equipped.
My extensive grasp of the language was this: “Bonjour”, “merci” and “Parlez-vous anglais?” and just to limit communication even more, I’d always seemed to mumble it due to feeling self-conscious about my feeble attempt. Despite the Parisians usually downplaying their grasp of English (or just wanting to make me work a little harder), they usually had no problem with the basics.
A stop at a bar near the hotel before turning in for the night was in order on my first night. The bartender later said I had the deer-in-the-headlights look as I stared mutely at the drink menu. He leaned over the bar and in a fine New York accent said “Whadalyahave?” Yeah, he was a transplanted New Yorker (they can be as foreign-seeming to a Pacific Northwesterner as Europeans are).Food. Paris is famous for it, but I was unimpressed with the small sampling I tried. Oh sure, fromage et pain is all fine and dandy, but who wants that all day? And I don’t do meat, and 
certainly not mollusks or amphibians. After a disappointing dinner the night before, a so-so breakfast and disappointing lunch that day, I decided to stick with what had provided the best of eating in my limited experience so far: boulangeries. I sampled freely from several bakeries the rest of the afternoon and into the evening trying pretty and tasty pastries and breads, probably taking in a good 3000 calories in doing so. And to be fair, my last dinner was pretty good. I was frustrated again at the dearth of vegetarian offerings (every salad I had was just plain boring, the crepe I ordered turned out to be a crusty, icky omelet…) and at this last place had the option of salad or mac n’cheese. I wasn’t willing to try any more salads, so went with Mac n’ cheese (since there was no offering of a healthy, fresh veggie dish like I was hoping for). But this wasn’t Kraft Mac n’ cheese, it was definitely tasty and probably provided another too-generous helping of calories to top of the afternoon bakery stops.
certainly not mollusks or amphibians. After a disappointing dinner the night before, a so-so breakfast and disappointing lunch that day, I decided to stick with what had provided the best of eating in my limited experience so far: boulangeries. I sampled freely from several bakeries the rest of the afternoon and into the evening trying pretty and tasty pastries and breads, probably taking in a good 3000 calories in doing so. And to be fair, my last dinner was pretty good. I was frustrated again at the dearth of vegetarian offerings (every salad I had was just plain boring, the crepe I ordered turned out to be a crusty, icky omelet…) and at this last place had the option of salad or mac n’cheese. I wasn’t willing to try any more salads, so went with Mac n’ cheese (since there was no offering of a healthy, fresh veggie dish like I was hoping for). But this wasn’t Kraft Mac n’ cheese, it was definitely tasty and probably provided another too-generous helping of calories to top of the afternoon bakery stops.
Early on my final morning, I went to the Metro one last time, dragging the suitcase with bike inside and other travel duffel bags as I headed for the airport. I transferred to the RER, a train that stops at Charles De Gaulle airport. I breezed through the open gate following everyone else, wondered briefly why some people were going through the turnstile with tickets. What the hell, I’ll just go through the open gate, I thought. Well, at the other end, a ticket was needed to get you through the last turnstile to exit the train station and I didn’t have one, nor did I see a ticket dispenser in sight to try and make good on having gotten by with a free ride. Despite my usual honest streak, I looked furtively around and then crawled underneath the stile dragging my bags behind me. Whew! No one saw! I made my escape back home to Seattle and was welcomed by wonderful sunny spring weather. 
No comments:
Post a Comment