Paris Journal 2009 – Barbara Joy Cooley                        Home: barbarajoycooley.com

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It was so good to arrive in Paris without jet lag on Saturday evening.

 

On Saturday morning, Carol and Ron drove us to the Princes Risboro train station, about 10 minutes from their home, and we immediately caught the train to London, about a 1-hour ride. 

 

At the Marlyebone station in London, we easily caught a taxi to the St. Pancras station.  It would have been possible to take the Tube (subway), but we each had a heavy suitcase and we would have had to change lines at the Bakerloo station, so forget that.  Plus it was a beautiful day in London; why waste our precious minutes in this great city by spending them underground?

 

Those big, squarish black taxis in London are such a treat.  There is so much leg room, and plenty of space for your luggage right where you can see it.

 

Arriving by taxi, we were also able to see the spiffed up entrance to the Kings Cross/St. Pancras stations.  Inside, St. Pancras was bright and clean, with all the latest formula retail and restaurants.  Carol says there is a champagne bar.  We did see a wine bar, and it was very nice looking, but it was, alas, too early in the day for wine.

 

We soaked in the ambiance of the main hall of St. Pancras for a while, then went to check in for the Eurostar at the earliest suggested time.  The waiting area for the Eurostar is very nice, but still too crowded.  I found a long counter with stools and electrical outlets for laptops.  Both English and French outlets were provided, so I whipped out my French power cable, opened the laptop, and typed some notes about the time in England before I could forget them.

 

We had a sandwich and coffee from the coffee place, and before long it was time to proceed up the escalator to board the train. 

 

We’ve taken the Eurostar several times before, and found the second class seats to be just fine.  But this time, it was less than ideal.  There was not enough room for the luggage for folks in our car, and our seats failed my leg-room test.

 

I have two longer-than-usual thigh bones.  When my kneecaps come right up to and press the back of the seat in front of me, as they almost always do on Delta flights, the vehicle I’m in fails the leg-room test, in my book.  This was the case on the Eurostar, I’m sorry to say.  We might try going first class next time.

 

We stood in the que (line) for the taxis at the Gare du Nord station in Paris.  Once again, we could have taken the Metro (subway), but we know better than to try to do this with two large, heavy suitcases.  The line moved right along, but when we were almost at the head of it, a taxi driver told a young woman that he would not take her where she wanted to go because traffic was totally blocked/jammed there.  This is where understanding the language and the city comes in handy.  The driver indicated that the worst of the jams were around Montmartre and Place d’Italie, neither of which were where we were going.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

 

When our driver pulled up, he didn’t ask first where we were going.  He was more adventurous, I guess.  When I told him the arrondissement and the address, he didn’t seem concerned but of course he’d not heard of our tiny street.  I described where it was, and what was nearby, and he seemed to be fine with that.

 

But sure enough, as soon as we crossed the Ile de la Cité (what better way to enter this historic city?) and could see ahead to the intersection with Boulevard Saint Germain along the Boulevard Saint Michel, we could see that there was a demonstration blocking the street completely.  “Solidays” is what the demonstrators’ banner said -- demonstrating solidarity with those most affected by the poor economy.  “The government should be doing more,” the demonstrators seemed to be saying.

 

The driver turned quickly to the right, a very good move, continuing along the quai beside the Seine until he turned left on the rue des Saints Peres.  The traffic was thick and slow, even though it was a Saturday.  The demonstrations were snarling the city’s traffic pretty well.  That’s the whole idea.

 

The driver adeptly continued along, turning on the rue Vieux Colombier then rue Bonaparte.  Hooray.  “He knows what he’s doing,” I thought to myself.

 

Well, I think he should have turned on the rue de Mézieres, but he was probably concerned about being caught up in the Foire (Fair) Saint Germain, which was in its second-to-last day.  I still think that was possible to go that way, but okay, I can see why he didn’t want to chance it.

 

He turned up the rue Vaugirard.  I think he planned to go up the rue Garancière to the rue Saint Sulpice, so he could deposit us on the Place Saint Sulpice.  But we asked him to turn left earlier than that, up the rue de Ferou, past the best place Hemingway ever lived in Paris and past Man Ray’s former studio.  There, just before reaching the Place Saint Sulpice, we told him to stop, “this is perfect, here is the rue du Canivet.”  I bet he will remember where that tiny street is from now on.

 

All three of us were feeling smart about having skirted the demonstration.  We said our happy goodbyes.  Tom and I rolled our bags the short distance to the ancient courtyard door of our building.  Up one short flight of old, worn stone steps (circa 1640) and we were home.

 

Dinner was at the familiar local Bistrot de la Grille Saint Germain on rue Mabillon, and it was fine.  On Sunday, we went to Champion to buy groceries before they closed at 1PM. 

 

Then since the road along the Seine is closed to traffic on Sundays, we walked with other pedestrians, cyclists, and roller bladers along the river until we reached the Musée Branly.  We decided to finally try their popular café.  We were darned hot and footsore by then.  Nevertheless, we waited in line, and were eventually rewarded with a nice table under cover from the sun. 

 

It was tea time, so Tom ordered chocolate cake and espresso, and I had the best gazpacho I’ve ever consumed in my life.  I think it was Lorna who said, on the cruise, that the French don’t do much with vegetables.  I silently disagreed with her at the time, but this soup was the clearest evidence that she is very wrong to say such a thing about the French.  The soup was fresh vegetable heaven.  It arrived cold, topped with a lovely herbed crême fraiche, with two warm wedges of tasty focaccia bread on the side. 

 

I also ordered a large carafe of water, since we were hot and dry, and some rosé wine, which was nicely chilled for France.

 

Feeling totally restored, we walked all the way back home along the rue de l’Université.  We skipped dinner, just nibbling instead on goat cheese, a baguette, tapenade, and Paris ham from Champion.

 

Today, we got up and walked all the way over to that part of town again to meet up with Roy and Barbara, and to get the key to the other apartment, in the 15th arrondissement. 

 

Now we’re totally unpacked, set up, and going – computers, high-speed wireless internet connection and all.  More about adventures along the Seine tomorrow!

 

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Monday, June 29, 2009

 

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Leopards at the menagerie in the Jardin des Plantes.

 

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Taking the rue Sabot toward the rue du Dragon, we encountered this typical Parisian scene – narrow old street, cobblestones, typical yellow La Poste mailbox, red door, and the hint of an arched passageway to another space.

 

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Houseboats along the Seine.

 

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Loving pigs in a chocolate shop window on the rue de l’Université.

 

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Strange view from the café at the Musée  Branly.

 

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