The last time I was in Europe, having climbed numerous tall edifices to the top and not being too afraid, I thought that fear, at least from tall buildings and not cliffs overlooking the Bay, would dissipate as they had before. With that line of thought, I woke up around 9 this morning, tied back my heavy hair (made strange by the Dove shampoo I had to buy at the Franprix) as chicly as possible, and set off.
First fear: sitting in a cafe alone for the first time and ordering food in French.
At the small cafe on the Rue de Rivoli that I'd spied the night before, a French-speaking Japanese woman overrode my order for a "petit creme," saying "cafe creme?" instead. Ah well. I sat out in the terrace (really the sidewalk with heavy plastic and clapboard enclosing it), and drank while two other young women drank their cafe cremes and smoked their cigarettes. My best friend had given me 3 tasks in Paris: drink coffee in a cafe, smoke a cigarette, and hook up with a Parisian boy. I could only promise 2 out of 3. In order to do this, I went to a nearby Tabac to purchase the requisite cigarettes. Now I know why I only smoke cigarettes when tipsy. It's like pre-partying to get yourself ready to do something you don't normally do.
Began my walk using my Walking Paris book, but using it mainly for directions and less for what information was in it, as I'd read it the night before. Began at the Pont Sully, on the furthest end of the Ile St. Louis, where you're greeted by this small little house on the corner. Walked up the quay and down the Rue St. Louis, unsuccessfully able to find the door into the church but marking where the Berthillon shop is located. Then up the other side of the Ile St. Louis to cross onto the Ile de la Cite. Then came Notre Dame. The view from the little park behind, where you can see the buttresses and the stained glass of the ambulatory was amazing. I walked around to the front, hurrying in instead of taking photos like the throng outside on the Parvis de Notre Dame (the square in front of the church is called a parvis), and joined in the noon mass. There was a policeman sitting to the left of me during mass, and he was praying fervently. I wondered whether something was troubling him or if he just always prayed so passionately. I could understand the ire of the locals at foreigners and/or tourists who persisted in taking flash photography all during mass. I suppose after a while they give up hope of stopping this practice altogether.
After walking around the ambulatory, I exited and got in line for the Tower climb, where I bought my 6-day Museum Pass. Oh...the steps...I'd forgotten about the stone steps in such monuments, narrow and worn smooth and sloping from the thousands, millions of tourists every year. Thankfully, every time the climb got just too much, there was a little alcove in which one could catch one's breath.
Stepping out onto the Galerie du Chimeres (the Gallery of Gargoyles), excitement over seeing the strange stone creatures in the flesh, so to speak, vastly outweighed my concerns that if not for the wire "cage" they'd built, I would undoubtedly not have made it around the very narrow balconies with their sheer drop. Taking very very deep breaths, I walked around to see the large bell, named "Emmanuel", who has been put out of commission and now sits up in a dark belfry. You go through a tiny wooden door and up a flight of wooden stairs (through mesh netting on the sides of the stairs you can see the structure of the cathedral going all the way down, and the sounds of another mass beginning). The bell is enormous, and I can imaging Quasimodo swinging from a thick rope trying to ring it. In the other belfry the bell rang, and I half expected both towers to start shaking. Thankfully, they didn't.
Outside, there was the option of going all the way to the top or begin your descent onto terra firma. I wavered. My legs seemed to either not have recovered from the day before or simply grow weak at the thought of getting further from the ground. In the end I opted for the better part of valor ad climbed up more stairs to the top. It was windy, but the view was even more amazing. Sometime after I'd made my way around the tower to get the full 360-degree view, the wind began to blow even harder, so hard that the wire "cage" we were in began to sway. Time to leave.
Going down the steps was just as difficult, if not more difficult than climbing. Legs all wobbly, steps sloping downwards so one little misstep could send you bottom-first down the endless spiral staircase. I kept my eyes on the people in front of me and just kept pace with them. Before I knew it, we were outside. Yes, I deserved a treat, a very nice lunch in the Brasserie de L'Ile St. Louis, right where the bridge connects both islands. The owner and server were both very friendly, the one even tut-tutting me for not finishing my large platter of very sagnant (trans. 'bloody') roast beast because I was busy writing. Well, it had to be that bloody because I'm sure if cooked any more it would be inedible. It was rare at its rarest, just the way I like it.
It had rained while I ate lunch, but had slowed to a very light mist by the time I set out to finish my walk. Back on the Ile de la Cite, I went to the Conciergerie, the old prison where they kept Marie Antoinette before they beheaded her. There were a couple of rooms where they had recreated her cell, with two 'soldier' figures on one side of a low privacy screen and, seated with her back facing you, a black-veiled figure who looks as if she may turn around at any moment. Too much like a horror movie in the making for me. Upstairs they showed different cells, those for peasants who couldn't afford beds to sleep on while in jail (who could, really...you're in jail...) and those for noblemen or the bourgeoisie who could at least afford cots and a double or single room.
Down the block from the Conciergerie was Ste. Chapelle, which I dearly wanted to see, but the line outside was fifty people deep and five people wide. I was too tired to even think, much less push past all these people. I took the long way home, crossing the Pont au Change and walking around my quartier until I got to the hotel. If it is a little sunnier tomorrow I may go to Ste. Chapelle first thing, as the doors open, before heading off to the Louvre and Orangerie and perhaps the Arc.
Hoping to be on Paris time by tomorrow.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Paris Trip Day 1: Lessons in Patience
Finally make it to Paris after one of the most stressful trips out of any country I've ever had in my entire life. The stress, of course, was compounded by the fact that I was travelling alone. Arrived in the airport at 10, in plenty of time for my 12.40 flight to Detroit. Everything seemed fine. This is, of course, the way every great adventure begins.
About half an hour before boarding I go through security and settle on the floor in front of the gate, Sudoku book in hand (apparently no store in the airport sells crossword puzzle books anymore, sudoku being the 'in' thing to do while waiting).
Announcement 1: There is a little computer trouble with the plane, but we will know more in 10-15 minutes.
Ten minutes later, we are permitted to board, and settle into our seats. I begin a conversation with my seatmates, both of who grew up in rural Pennsylvania close to each other and have daughters who dance ballet seriously. The woman's daughter dances 20 hours a week in addition to studying for her Political Science major in college. The man beside me was impressed, his daughter only dances 5 hours a week. I thought to myself that both of these still equals the time spent by the regular architecture/interior design student in studio. Our conversation is interrupted by announcement 2.
Announcement 2: The computer problem has not been solved, as they first thought. The part that will need to be replaced cannot be found in the greater San Francisco area and must be flown in from Detroit. All those with international connections in Detroit to report to the Northwest counter for rebooking.
At the Northwest counter, I am rebooked on a British Airways flight to Heathrow, with a connection to CDG that will put me in Paris only 3 hours later than originally planned. Brilliant. I practically run over to the international terminal and wait in line for half an hour to check in for my London flight. Finally at the counter, I am told that I must go back to Northwest and get a FIM. A what? A FIM, or flight interruption manifest. In other words, what British Air needs to get "paid" by Northwest for my flight. Great. Run back to Northwest in Terminal 1, as the flight leaves in an hour and a half, and get the elusive FIM. No apology for putting me in training for the Olympic Sprint. Another run back to British Airways, where it takes the agent half an hour to book me. Then, of course, she says she can't book my bag all the way to Paris, as I am on standby for both the London and Paris flights. I will have to pick them up in Heathrow and recheck them in with British Air. Fine, I say, just get me there.
Run through security with no problem to wait on standby at the gate. None of my other formerly Detroit-bound companions are there. As boarding begins, I am pulled aside by a TSA agent who says he must hand-check my bags and his female counterpart will come to hand-check me. Okay, I say, as long as it doesn't affect my getting on the plane. I get patted down, and the female TSA agent scoffs at my having had to be checked in the first place. I agree with her wholeheartedly.
On the 9-hour flight to London, my consolation is that there is a free seat between me and a grandmotherly woman who spent her waking hours attaching pictures of a nice-looking bearded man (I'm assuming her son) with album corners to a red paper album.
Heathrow. I follow the signs to "baggage reclaim" only to find that I must cross the border into Britain before even getting my bag. I explain all this to the passport control officer, a young Indian gentleman with a very London accent, and am told I must go to the connections desk and get my flight to Paris confirmed before I can be given a temporary visa into Britain. Fine. The nice English lady confirms my flight with a "lovely" call to Terminal 4, and I'm back in line to get into Britain. In front of me is an African lady with her four children, ages 2 to 10, pleading with the officer to let her in. He refuses, for what reason I am unsure, except that, like me, she has no visa for Britain. As he writes out my temporary visa, he says under his breath to the officer beside him that she had overstayed in the US as well.
Finally welcomed into Britain, I head for the baggage reclaim. Alas, no bag. The gentleman at baggage service informs me that by bag had been tagged for Paris and should arrive with me. Thank you, British Airways Erroneous Agent.
I take the underground train to Terminal 4 (brilliant! all airports should have such quick transport) and, before I can finish even a page of my book, am going towards my next departure gate. Arrive just in time for boarding to begin, down a flight of stairs and outside onto the "puddle-jumper" to Paris. I spy two gentlemen who had been on my Detroit flight.
Charles de Gaulle airport. No bag. British Air says it was tagged for my plane, but may not have made it. It will have to be sent to my hotel. Just as well, I decide, I don't have to lug it down to the Metro and drag it to the hotel. Per Dian's excellent advice I look for the Air France bus that will take me directly to Gare de Lyon, where I can take the Metro two stops to the hotel. All accomplished with no problem, and my minimal French.
Hotel Sevigne. Narrow spiral stairs or claustrophobic elevator. I choose the former. Teeny tiny room, but comfy and recently renovated. And a beautiful view of rooftops from my fifth-floor room.
Not wanting to be tempted to sleep, I decide to go for a walk across the bridge to the Ile St. Louis, along the quay overlooking the Seine and through to the Ile de la Cite, where I board a tour boat. I bravely decide to sit up top, where it began to get so cold that my teeth were chattering and my lower half began to get numb. But the buildings in the city were lit, and the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance, and it was a great way to end my more than 24-hour day.
About half an hour before boarding I go through security and settle on the floor in front of the gate, Sudoku book in hand (apparently no store in the airport sells crossword puzzle books anymore, sudoku being the 'in' thing to do while waiting).
Announcement 1: There is a little computer trouble with the plane, but we will know more in 10-15 minutes.
Ten minutes later, we are permitted to board, and settle into our seats. I begin a conversation with my seatmates, both of who grew up in rural Pennsylvania close to each other and have daughters who dance ballet seriously. The woman's daughter dances 20 hours a week in addition to studying for her Political Science major in college. The man beside me was impressed, his daughter only dances 5 hours a week. I thought to myself that both of these still equals the time spent by the regular architecture/interior design student in studio. Our conversation is interrupted by announcement 2.
Announcement 2: The computer problem has not been solved, as they first thought. The part that will need to be replaced cannot be found in the greater San Francisco area and must be flown in from Detroit. All those with international connections in Detroit to report to the Northwest counter for rebooking.
At the Northwest counter, I am rebooked on a British Airways flight to Heathrow, with a connection to CDG that will put me in Paris only 3 hours later than originally planned. Brilliant. I practically run over to the international terminal and wait in line for half an hour to check in for my London flight. Finally at the counter, I am told that I must go back to Northwest and get a FIM. A what? A FIM, or flight interruption manifest. In other words, what British Air needs to get "paid" by Northwest for my flight. Great. Run back to Northwest in Terminal 1, as the flight leaves in an hour and a half, and get the elusive FIM. No apology for putting me in training for the Olympic Sprint. Another run back to British Airways, where it takes the agent half an hour to book me. Then, of course, she says she can't book my bag all the way to Paris, as I am on standby for both the London and Paris flights. I will have to pick them up in Heathrow and recheck them in with British Air. Fine, I say, just get me there.
Run through security with no problem to wait on standby at the gate. None of my other formerly Detroit-bound companions are there. As boarding begins, I am pulled aside by a TSA agent who says he must hand-check my bags and his female counterpart will come to hand-check me. Okay, I say, as long as it doesn't affect my getting on the plane. I get patted down, and the female TSA agent scoffs at my having had to be checked in the first place. I agree with her wholeheartedly.
On the 9-hour flight to London, my consolation is that there is a free seat between me and a grandmotherly woman who spent her waking hours attaching pictures of a nice-looking bearded man (I'm assuming her son) with album corners to a red paper album.
Heathrow. I follow the signs to "baggage reclaim" only to find that I must cross the border into Britain before even getting my bag. I explain all this to the passport control officer, a young Indian gentleman with a very London accent, and am told I must go to the connections desk and get my flight to Paris confirmed before I can be given a temporary visa into Britain. Fine. The nice English lady confirms my flight with a "lovely" call to Terminal 4, and I'm back in line to get into Britain. In front of me is an African lady with her four children, ages 2 to 10, pleading with the officer to let her in. He refuses, for what reason I am unsure, except that, like me, she has no visa for Britain. As he writes out my temporary visa, he says under his breath to the officer beside him that she had overstayed in the US as well.
Finally welcomed into Britain, I head for the baggage reclaim. Alas, no bag. The gentleman at baggage service informs me that by bag had been tagged for Paris and should arrive with me. Thank you, British Airways Erroneous Agent.
I take the underground train to Terminal 4 (brilliant! all airports should have such quick transport) and, before I can finish even a page of my book, am going towards my next departure gate. Arrive just in time for boarding to begin, down a flight of stairs and outside onto the "puddle-jumper" to Paris. I spy two gentlemen who had been on my Detroit flight.
Charles de Gaulle airport. No bag. British Air says it was tagged for my plane, but may not have made it. It will have to be sent to my hotel. Just as well, I decide, I don't have to lug it down to the Metro and drag it to the hotel. Per Dian's excellent advice I look for the Air France bus that will take me directly to Gare de Lyon, where I can take the Metro two stops to the hotel. All accomplished with no problem, and my minimal French.
Hotel Sevigne. Narrow spiral stairs or claustrophobic elevator. I choose the former. Teeny tiny room, but comfy and recently renovated. And a beautiful view of rooftops from my fifth-floor room.
Not wanting to be tempted to sleep, I decide to go for a walk across the bridge to the Ile St. Louis, along the quay overlooking the Seine and through to the Ile de la Cite, where I board a tour boat. I bravely decide to sit up top, where it began to get so cold that my teeth were chattering and my lower half began to get numb. But the buildings in the city were lit, and the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance, and it was a great way to end my more than 24-hour day.
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