Paris – Home of the Louvre, with its many famous sculptures and paintings.
Notre Dame, the great cathedral on the Seine. The Arc de Triomphe, at the end
of the Champs-Ḗlysées. The Tower, warm-up project for Mr. Eiffel’s Statue of Liberty.
And the food; the extravagant cuisine in 3,000 restaurants and cafes. If only
we had a week or two for the food. But, alas for your writer, there was only
one day to take in all the sights and sounds and tastes, for he arrived two
days after dear Tricia and Brian and Natalie.
They took full advantage of all the touristy sights in the 36 hours or
so they have been here, and are now thoroughly exhausted.
Weep not for me, dear reader, for your author had visited Paris a
couple of times in the past: once, when he and an army buddy took a possibly
unauthorized trip away from their posts in Erlangen, Germany, and much
later with an expectant wife and our 2 ½-year-old. During the latter trip the place was closed
down because of the frequent strikes. The Louvre was closed; Versailles was
closed; even civility was on strike. Tricia became disoriented away from the
hotel and no matter how much she pleaded, no one would help her find her
way. The memory of a young woman in tears with a child in stroller
facing such a rude populace kept us away from more than 30 years, and I
decided to spend as little time as possible in this city of horrible people.
Speaking of strikes, a few days before our departures, the two largest air
traffic controllers called a 6-day strike, beginning Tuesday and ending Sunday.
They weren’t demanding anything in particular; they just wanted to protest some
performance plan adopted by the government that they say will cause air service
disruptions in 2020 or so. They cut the strike short when their fellow air
traffic controllers in Belgium (where they also speak French) called their own
strike, threatening to shut down Europe. The French rail strike that
preceded the air strike has apparently wound down, so perhaps our bullet train
ride on Wednesday will actually take place.
The French are different
from us in their love for strikes, and in other ways as well. They all seem to love smoking; you can hardly
have a meal without being surrounded by cigarette smoke. Their politicians take pride in having public
paramours, and their racy television scenes would cause apoplexy in some of
us. Their responses to inquiries are so
curt that they might be considered rude in other places. Signs with a down arrow actually direct you to go straight
ahead. Their first floor (premier étage)
is our second floor. They all
think their country is the center of the universe, while everyone knows that it's the USA that's the center of the universe.
And take a look at Charles De Gaulle Airport, where Terminal 3 is located between
Terminals 1 and 2. Who would have thought to do that that, except the French?
In any event, after an overnight flight from Atlanta, I connected with Brian,
Natalie, and Tricia, who had hopefully seen all they needed to see in the past
36 hours or so. It took a while to
connect, because after I rode in on the train to save 48 euros in cab fare,
they had already left for Versailles. I
took a 2-hour nap to recover from the overnight flight, and set out to meet them at a
prearranged sandwich shop near the Notre Dame Cathedral. Since I had 2 ½ hours to get there, I decided
to drop by the Eiffel Tower first to make my very first selfie (see, I know the lingo of these kids--aren't you impressed?).
It seemed so simple. I walked the two blocks from the hotel to the
Metro station, and after wandering around trying to find the light green number
6 line, I boarded the train and headed through the 15 or so stops that would
take me to within walking distance of the tower. After 10 or so stops, suddenly an
announcement was made in French and the entire load of passengers exited the
train while I sat, wondering what to do next. Finally, a conductor in a
threatening voice convinced me that I should exit as well. It turns out that repairs were being made up
the line and there was no further service to be had, but at least it wasn't another strike. Someone who spoke English told me to find the light blue number 13 line and go to the
Invalides station, and then transfer to the yellow C line which would take me
to the tower. It took quite a while to
find the blue number 13 line, and a while longer to determine which direction to take,
but finally I was headed to the yellow C line.
Upon arriving at the crossroads for the yellow C line and spending more time trying to determine the right direction to take to the tower, I looked
at my watch and realized I only had 45 minutes left for the family rendezvous. So I gave up on the Eiffel Tower and went the
opposite direction on the yellow C line, toward a transfer station where I
took the purple number 4 line two stops to the Ste. Germain station, which
was two blocks from the aforementioned sandwich shop. Friends, transferring between lines on the
Paris Metro is an exercise in frustration.
The signs are not always clear, and the distances you have to walk to transfer lines make
you wonder if you might have made better time without the subway. Finally, after eating up the entire 2 ½
hours allotted for the trek, I made it to the sandwich shop in the nick of time.
At Notre Dame Cathedral
To celebrate our reunion, after visiting Notre Dame and other sights, we
dined at a fancy restaurant named Bistrot Paul Bert, which happened to be located
at 18 Rue Paul Bert. We were unable to determine whether the street was named
for Paul, or the restaurant was named for the street. And we couldn’t find why
the letter “t” had been added at the end of the word "Bistrot".
Midnight seems to come quickly here,
and it’s time for bed. More tomorrow,
from Normandy.
Charlie
and Tricia
©2014
P.S. Did I mention the banana chocolate brownie ice cream that distracted us briefly after our luncheon reunion?
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