Pt3 - 23

PARIS

I parked the silver bullet at Chiswick and rode another bullet to Paris. The Eurostar left Waterloo at 9:53am and pulled into the Gare du Nord precisely two hours later. The ride was a little ricketty brocketty racketty bucketty on the English rails but the minute we launched into France from the Chunnel at Calais the ride was so smooth you had to look out the window to confirm the train was actually moving.

In coach 3 an elderly gentleman sat between myself in seat 55 and the panorama window. He kept to himself until I spread my Printemps map of Paris on the fold down table. “Your first time?” he asked. I felt a bit like a schoolboy on his way to a brothel.

“Yes, it is.”

He peered at me through tinted bifocals. “You will enjoy it,” he said, a gentle smile on his kindly face. There was an American inflection to his accent, but he ordered from the refreshment trolley in fluent French.

“You are a native?” I asked.

“I’m American, but I’ve lived in Paris for more than fifty years.” He went on to explain he was assigned to the American Embassy there just after the war. After a few years in a position he didn’t elaborate on, he left the diplomatic service and worked for twenty years as an interpreter/guide with the national railways. He gazed out the window as we fired through the French countryside.

“I’m surprised they haven’t announced we’re now travelling at three hundred kilometres an hour.”

From this angle I could see the view through his bifocals, little distorted trees rolling by like a penny arcade reel. I commented on the difference between the English and French tracks, adding, “And the French have the best roads in Europe too,” and meaning it.

“They can afford it,” he said, “And they have the space.” Indeed, France has the same population as England, four times the area and the lowest population density of any European country. I thought he’d rounded off the argument, but he continued, “The low population began with the losses during the Napoleonic Wars, and they haven’t recovered from the slaughter of the First World War, let alone the second.”

I remarked on how so many of the rural villages seemed deserted. “Go there on market day,” he chuckled.

I asked if he’d ever been back to the States for a visit. He threw me an amused glance as though the idea were completely whimsical. And then the train slowed into the Gare du Nord, we said our goodbyes and he was gone.

I lingered on the platform getting myself organised. I’ve been in a bit of a daze lately, most unlike the seasoned traveller…or maybe exactly like the seasoned traveller. I caught myself thinking that if this were way back at the beginning of the adventure I’d have been ready for Paris three days in advance. Instead, my currency wasn’t accessible, my coat pockets bulged with rubbish and I’ve become so reliant on the trusty bullet I’m way out of practice arranging transport in a strange city where English isn’t the language of choice. The platform was empty before I finally got myself together, wandered out of the station and found the cab rank. At least I’d had the wit to book accommodation from Chiswick and the driver took me there now. He had as much English as I have French but he was honest and helpful and the trip was pleasant enough.

I installed myself in room 61 of the Hotel du Roi René and promptly crashed into an alpha wave power nap. It was late afternoon by the time I came around. I went to the window and discovered I have a distant view of the Eiffel Tower. I abluted luxurcously and went in search of the Metro at Brochant to get my bearings for tomorrow. I found it easily with the aid of the Printemps map. Satisfied with the day’s proceedings I went to a bar and drank beer and ate a croque monsieur. I stocked up with 1664s at the supermarket and retired to room 61 to gaze at the lights of the Eiffel, drink beer and listen to Radio Bulgaria in English on the short wave.

*

I opened my eyes at 9, raced down for breakfast, had a shower and left at 10. I rocked up to the Louvre to discover it’s closed on Tuesdays; serves me right for not doing my research, I really am losing it. Not to be denied, I wandered across the Seine to the imposing Musee D’Orsay.

The D’Orsay’s vast vaulted ceilings, sense of space and floods of bright natural light reflect its former life as a major  Beaux-Arts railway station. I narrowed my focus down to a handful of exhibits to avoid the ebb and flow of tour groups, school excursions and the many casual visitors. The Impressionists were the pick; definitive Degas and Manet, distinctive Monet and Renoir, some interesting Vincents and Toulouse-Lautrec (all of whose work looked unfinished, like he’d fallen asleep pissed halfway through the job).

Outside I had a hot dog on the steps and caught the RER to Notre Dame. It’s all very elaborate, overwrought actually, and you have to admire the engineering and aesthetics, but frankly I preferred the simplicity and humility if the Gallurus Oratory on Dingle. The Christian cathedral is nothing more than a fancy theatre; Bishop Boring Fart frocks up, wafts a bit of incense around, intones some medieval gibberish and collects your money for the show. So it’s official – I’m cathedralled out.

I poked around the Rues St Michel and St Germaine and lolled decoratively over an expensive coffee al fresco at Café Mabillon while I contemplated my next move. I settled on jumping the metro to D’Austerlitz, then to Republique and on to Pere Lachaise. It wasn’t until I climbed the steps to the most famous cemetery in Europe that I realised this isn’t a provincial graveyard. It’s literally a city of the dead, with suburbs of densely packed family vaults on a network of signposted cobblestone streets. I’d come mainly for Jim Morrison’s grave but I could be here for six months unless I had some kind of map. I’d discover later that I’d alighted at the wrong metro, come in the wrong entrance and now completed the triple whammy by heading off in exactly the wrong direction to find the office. Seriously, you’d never know I’ve been on the road for 243 days.

I followed the signs to the Chapel & Crematorium, passing through concrete estates in which nobodies I’d ever heard of were interred. I gave up reading the inscriptions and concentrated on tracking down some useful intelligence. I stumbled across a guy in a gatehouse instead. He deliberately ignored me while he rambled on self-importantly to an elegantly dressed woman, scribbling on a map he had before him to emphasise various points. My feet were sore and the sun was sinking. I was on the verge of giving up when he was called away to admit a vehicle; I seized the opportunity to step up and study the map. The woman spoke, “He will give you a map. I will ask him. Don’t take that one.” She indicated the jottings. When Buffo returned she was as good as her word and I was on my way with a “Merci Madame” and a silent “Fuck you” to Buffo.

Two names leapt out at me as I scanned the index; Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde, who’s been topical lately with the release of a new film starring Stephen Fry. Wilde’s grave was nearby so I ducked across there first. I was struck by the strange design, a sort of stylised Sphynx accompanied with a verse from The Ballad of Reading Gaol: “And alien tears will fall for him / Pity’s long broken urn / For his mourners will be outcast men / And outcasts always mourn”. Apparently you’re supposed to smear lipstick on and kiss the tomb, but I’d left my lippy back in Bridgetown.

I’d expected The Lizard King’s grave to be attended by a bunch of hippies smoking joints and playing his songs on battered guitars, but his last resting place is so humble compared to the grand monuments surrounding it I had trouble finding it even with the map. Eventually I spotted a well-dressed thirty-something guy standing quietly by a grave which turned out to be Morrison’s; a simple rectangular plot bordered with polished marble and a squat headstone, just a granite block really, with the inscription: Jim Morrison 1943-1971. A Japanese couple approached with the map. They were speaking English. He read chanteur (singer) from the map and she, trying to translate the headstone, says “James somebody”.

The low sun casts everything orange as I let myself out the nearest gate. I decide that tonight may be the last chance to visit the Eiffel Tower in decent weather, given how fickle it’s been lately, so I descend again into the subterranean labyrinth of the Metro.  After two changes I emerge into a grey dusk at the Jewish-sounding Bir Hakeim station. It’s been coolish all day but there’s a real nip in the air now. The tower lighting has just fired up but won’t achieve the full effect until night properly falls. I spend half an hour vainly looking for new angles to shoot the global cliché.

The queue is forty minutes long. Just as I finally approach the ticket window a young woman insinuates herself into the line behind me under the direction of her slimy looking companion. “That was a good idea,” I hear her say, though the people behind her obviously don’t agree because a moment later there’s a brief exchange and she’s out again.

It was close and funky inside the assembly area for the cable car. A portly Spaniard kept pushing me in the back, it was all I could do not to pivot round and hit him. He was body to body on me, crushing my pack into my shoulders. I glanced around to see if I was just being precious, but even in this scrum everyone else seemed to have a bit of breathing space. He continued to press so hard I could feel his flesh wobbling and smell his foetid breath. I shuffled forward and crooked my left elbow. Sure enough, he impaled himself on it. I pushed back slowly, embedding my elbow firmly into his gut until he stepped away. Just then the cable car arrived for boarding and the place erupted in borderline hysteria in the scramble to be first on. I don’t know about road rage, I wonder how long it’ll be before some bastard goes berko in the cable car.

All the aggravation was forgotten on the ride up though. Watching the halide-lit girders fall away as we climbed, and the spectacle of Paris by night from 320 meters aloft, it was all worth it. The stellar chaos of Cairo may be more vast, but the form and texture of The City of Light is unique. Way down there the Arc de Triomphe looked like a portal between two worlds, streams of red light on the Champs Elysees funnelling into streams of white light on the Avenue de la Grande Armée. The great avenues radiate from this hub like a fireworks display in reverse, seen from above rather than below. I gazed at length into every quadrant through my little binoculars, mesmerised. Eventually I tore myself away and descended to the surface of the planet.

Back in room 61 I drank beer and gazed from the window at the lacework lighting of the Eiffel.

*

I slept in. It was almost 10 before I left the Roi René for the Louvre. Less than an hour later I stood before the Mona Lisa marvelling at how big it wasn’t. Funny, but it never occurred to me to research the actual dimensions of the most famous painting in the known universe (77 x 53cm or 30 x 20in for the record); I just assumed it would be as large as its reputation. There’s also a security perimeter in front of the canvas, which is contained in a hi-tech display case, so that you can’t get up close and personal with it either. It was vaguely disappointing, but I was grateful I’d accidentally struck the premier gallery at a relatively quiet time and had the luxury of admiring it at my own sweet leisure and without the crowd press I’d anticipated after last night’s performance at the Eiffel.

Leonardo box ticked, I mapped out the rest of Operation Louvre. Like the Vatican, there’s no way you can ever do this place justice even in a week, let alone a few hours, so I had to be forensic in my assault. Unlike the Vatican, the Louvre is spacious, highly organised and well laid out so it’s far more negotiable, and more so today given the light numbers. Over the next four hours I navigated my way through the Roman Antiquities on the ground floor of the Sully Wing, the Middle Ages/Renaissance collection of the first floor of the Richelieu Wing and the Crown Jewels and the Italian Masters on the first floor of the Denon Wing.

Satisfied I’d made the most of my last visit to a European Gallery/Museum, at least for the time being, I found a seat on the square outside and took a load off. I checked the tread on the faithful Rossi boots as I pulled them on this morning and there’s about three-fifths of five-eighths of fuck all left. If they were tyres I’d be booked for baldies. They certainly don’t owe me anything after the kilometres they’ve covered since the 20^th of February and if they make it back to Bridgetown I’ll get them framed.

Eventually I meandered off in the direction of Les Halles, destination Pompidou. I paused to watch one of the many entertaining street performers outside the Opera. He was costumed up like a powdered bust and worked a combination of mime, spoken and visual gags using a magnet on a pole to retrieve coins from the concourse. Tres amusement. I took my time, thoroughly enjoying the feel of the streets and the sense of space particular to this city of human proportions. The Pompidou hove into view, the much-vaunted exoskeleton painted in bright primary colours – red, blue, green, yellow – giving the impression of an immense electrical circuit complete with sliders and switches in continuous motion. An urban artwork of trick fountains played out in a long pool at the southern end of the building. Everywhere I looked there was something happening.

I’ve found on my travels through France that the myth of Gallic arrogance is just that, complete bollocks to put it bluntly. I had to wait till the Arc de Triomphe to strike my first, and only, truly rude Frenchperson. Frankly, I doubt a French speaker would travel far in Australia without coming up against overt racism so I think we need to pull our hypocritical heads in personally. Anyway, the woman in the ticket office at the Arc took exception to me paying in coin. The Franc is one of those irritating currencies that breed coins in your pocket and before you know it your daks are falling down with the weight. I tried to get rid of a few here, but La Bitch flatly refused to accept them and pushed them back across the counter with a dismissive shrug. Lucky for her I didn’t have the language to challenge her because I wasn’t in the mood for rude. Instead, I meekly slid yet another note under the glass and climbed the marvellously tight spiral staircase to the viewing platform. It wasn’t much of an ascent, but I was so out of nick I was huffing and puffing and struggling to keep my eyeballs in their sockets by the time I emerged into the daylight.

Where you view Paris from is irrelevant, it’s how you view Paris that matters. It is a city designed for humans on a human scale with enjoyment at its heart. It is a city for strolling, for loitering on park benches, for watching street performers and admiring urban art, for infesting cafés and lurking in doorways. From the modest altitude of the Arc the wide shady sidewalks, the broad avenues and the low-rise Baroque skyline resonant with history are enticing, inviting you to explore and experience every nook and cranny. And I still had a few nooks and crannies I wanted to explore.

Like Le Thermometre. I’d read about this establishment in Bill Bryson’s Neither Here Nor There, and again in my little Thompson’s travel directory on Paris. I emerged that evening  from the metro onto Republique and found the brasserie at the eastern end of the square. It stood out from the many other blaringly colourful eateries around it with its understated white neon signage. I liked the lack of pretension. Undistinguished on the outside, the inside is all elegant wood panelling and smoky mirrors decorated with gold fleur-de-lis. Being a Wednesday night only the left side of the restaurant was set up for service, tables laid with gleaming cutlery on white linen cloths. I took a seat and a maroon-jacketed waiter materialised immediately. We exchanged pleasantries and briefly discussed the menu options. I went for oysters to start, followed by a steak and rounded out with a dessert of chocolate tart. I liked the waiter, let’s call him Gaston; his service was prompt and attentive without being overbearing, a far cry from the sniffy stereotype we’re trained to expect. For gargles I chose a Carlsberg and with the main course a half-bottle of palatable red.

The half-dozen oysters arrived on a bed of ice on a silver salver. Determined not to compare them to full-bodied Australian rock oysters I compared them to full bodied Australian rock oysters and silently kicked myself. It wasn’t the restaurant’s fault that European oysters are anorexic so I enjoyed them for what they were, which was fresh and chilled. I chased them down with a round of dense crusty bread smeared thickly with full cream butter. After a decent interval Gaston appeared with the steak and left me to it with the red. I grazed at leisure, gazing out the window upon the comings and goings across the pleasant square. I turned my utensils and Gaston spirited the empty plate away. I rolled a fag and applied the flame; in its glow Gaston was back with the tart. I only had to look up; “Too soon?” he said with a smile, “No problem.” And he took it away while I smoked in peace.

I signalled Gaston when I was ready for the tart. It appeared on the table and disappeared into my mouth almost in the same instant.

“Coffee?” he was so persuasive.

“Au lait,” I said in my fluent French.

I took my sweet time over the smooth coffee and planned my next move. I settled up with a small consideration for Gaston and launched myself onto the street. I descended again into the depths and surfaced at an intersection in Montparnasse. It was a balmy evening so I leaned on a traffic barrier and treated myself to one of the Henri Wintermans from the box I bought in Prague. From there I rode the tunnels to Pigalle. It ticked over 10:30 as I hauled myself up the steps onto Boulevarde Clichy and followed the neon lights. Within fifty metres I’d been accosted by a dozen touts trying to lure me into strip clubs down dark side streets. I strolled the block past sex shops, porno marts and video emporia punctuated with food joints until I reached the Moulin Rouge. It didn’t seem so exciting, I couldn’t even hear any music. This was my last night in Paris and I didn’t want to admit it, but it was time to be tucked up in beddy byes. I rode the metro back to Bouchant and drifted off to sleep with Radio Bulgaria in English.

*

The weather is bonkers. It was so frigid when I opened the window this morning my breath solidified into a brittle little cloud right before my eyes; I imagined it tinkling to the ground. I consoled myself with the thought I’d soon be back in a Western Australian spring. I’m not homesick, but I’m ready to stop travelling; ready for a consistent, predictable climate, ready for my own bed, my own dunny, home cooked meals...

I breakfasted leisurely on my Continental at the Roi René, showered extravagantly and packed deliberately for the trip back to London at 7 this evening. I left my pack at the desk and went once more unto the bosom of the metro. I swapped lines at Pigalle for the gothic sounding Abesses and took the broad spiral stairs to the surface past walls screaming with graffiti art. I kept climbing, up through narrow back streets linked by broad flights of steps, all the way up to Sacré Coeur on one of the highest points in Paris above Montmartre. It’s one of the better views of the city you can get with both feet on the ground. The forecourt gives out over cascading stairs, lawns and gardens which fall away steeply towards Anders metro. Today the city landmarks were enveloped in a light haze reflecting the watery sun.

I made my way gradually down into the streets again, dawdling through the gardens where families were out making the most of the day, past people browsing the storefronts or bustling somewhere on business. I found a café on a corner near the metro and settled in with a coffee to scribble a couple of quick postcards. I just had to open with “I’m currently installed in a café on Montmartre…” even though I’ll probably beat the bloody things home.

I went back to the hotel, grabbed my pack and rode my last metro to La Chapelle, the 28^th station in two and a half days. I can honestly say I’m a card carrying member of the Paris Underground.

In two and a bit hours I’ll be back in Chiswick and prepping for the very last leg of The Awfully Big Adventure.

Next week: The last leg...