Lift Up Your Hearts!

Transition!  We took the tram to the train station, where we bought drinks to go with the food we had bought yesterday to eat on our trip to Paris.  Janet knew exactly what to do and guided us to the train—it helped, too, that the signs were clear and the station logically organized.  "Did you notice the border control?" she asked, as we neared the train.  Well, no, we hadn't, unless you counted the big sign labelled "FRANCE," and that was her point.  Apparently we were technically in French territory at that point, but no one had asked for our passports, nor did they when we reached Paris.  Eventually the conductor did take our tickets, but that was all.

[Update:  Here is a Gmaps Pedometer view of our train trip. ]

We left shortly after 8 a.m., and the five hour trip flew by, probably because I spent much of it either pouring over our Paris and France guidebooks trying to make some decisions, or else doing last-minute cramming of useful French phrases.  The announcements were all in French, and I caught enough to conclude we didn't really need to know what they were saying until we arrived at Paris (at Gare de l'Est), and then all we did was follow the crowd.

Into mass confusion.  The French could learn a bit from the Swiss about transportation systems.  (I'm not particularly knocking France; I expect most everyone could learn a great deal from the Swiss about transportation systems.)  We had planned to pick up some euros at the train station, but even though one was clearly marked on the directory, it was equally clearly not there.  We finally gave up and went to find a taxi, but as soon as we exited the station, Janet noticed something across the street:  a bank building with an ATM.

(Note to anyone planning to visit Europe:  a debit card from your bank is a very good thing.  There were several places where our ATM cards did not work.  Our credit union had suggested we get a debit card, as they work in more ATM machines than the regular cards do.  In Paris we were very glad we had followed that advice.  We didn't use credit cards nearly as much as we have done before when traveling, as they now charge a significant foreign transaction fee, which the credit union does not.)

Flush with euros, we stood in line at the taxi stand, and it wasn't too long before it was our turn, and I gave the address in my well-rehearsed and best French.  I also had it written out, because my best French is none too good.  It was probably just as well, because I'm fairly certain French wasn't the cab driver's native language, either.

It was an exciting (okay, harrowing in places) ride through the streets of Paris, and we couldn't stop looking back and forth from window to window.  Janet followed our progress on our little pop-out map of Paris.

Soon we were there, on the narrow street,

 

walking through the flower shop (are you sure this is right?),

keying in the secret entrance code (it worked—we must be in the right place),

 climbing the winding stairs,

 

 passing through the next set of doors,

tentatively ringing the doorbell of what we guessed might be the right apartment.

It was!  Our host was on his lunch break from work, but took time to introduce us to the necessities of the apartment and the neighborhood.  Then we were on our own—we didn't see him again till he picked us up at the train station in Laval.  (There I am, getting ahead again.)  Did I mention that these gracious friends not only welcomed us into their home in the French countryside, but gave us free rein in their Parisian flat?

At some point I suddenly realized that we were in an artist's apartment in Paris!  What a romantic notion!  This was far from a garret, however, but a beautifully designed, comfortable, and highly functional use of a very small space.  The Maggie P. with a French accent.  (Our friend is an artist, and I'll publish a link to her works if I get her permission.  She's rather well-known, but alas doesn't yet command the kind of prices that will allow Janet and Heather sell the sketches she made of them years ago and never have to worry about money again.  Someday, maybe!)

So there we were, on our own in Paris!  What to do first?  Well, how about a walk to the Louvre, only a few blocks away?  What a huge building!  Time enough to see it tomorrow, let's cross over to Ile de la Cité.  Here are Janet and Porter on Pont Neuf.

Hmm, very nice walk.  Oh, there's a nice place—Sainte-Chapelle.  A long line to wait in, but not as long as the Louvre will be tomorrow, let's buy our Paris Museum Passes here.  Oops, unlike Basel, where the pass is good for 48 hours, this one is only good for two days, so if we activate it tonight we don't get much out of it.  Better save it for tomorrow and Saturday, and pay separately to get into Sainte-Chapelle.  Very good to have the passes, though, and avoid the lines tomorrow.

Sainte-Chapelle was built by Louis IX (okay, he ordered and funded it; a lot of other folks built it) in the middle of the 11th century.  The lower section, built for ordinary folks, is beautiful enough, but the upper, royal floor has the spectacular stained glass windows Sainte-Chapelle is famous for.  The altar area was shrouded in plastic, undergoing some restoration work, but there was enough to see in the rest of the room!  Many of the windows are original, but extensive repair was also necessary because of vandalism during the French Revolution.  We recently watched an excellent Teaching Company course on Western civilization that portrayed the French Revolution in what I thought was quite a positive light, but there was a very dark side as well.  It would be interesting to do a comparative study of the French and the American revolutions, because I get the impression that—granted there were knaves and heroes on both sides—ours was less destructive, less angry and hate-filled, more about constructive change than random, violent destruction.  But that may be ignorance and prejudice on my part.

Next stop, Notre Dame!  It must be very difficult to maintain a working church and a tourist attraction at the same time, especially during Holy Week.  Notre Dame was beautiful, of course, and interesting, but I was beginning to suffer from Tourist Fatigue.  That is, I was tired myself, as a tourist, and I was very tired of being surrounded by so many other tourists.

So we took a much-needed break and walked to the Pompidou Centre.  We didn't go inside, having had our fill of ultra-modern art yesterday.  But we did marvel a bit at its exoskeleton (like a lobster, its bones—plumbing, electrical, HVAC fixtures—are on the outside) while enjoying crêpes (note to Janet—you're not crazy; it turns out savory crêpes are traditionally made with buckwheat flour!) at a nearby café.

And what was beside the café?  The Stravinsky Fountain, another creation of You-Know-Who!

Thus refreshed, we enjoyed the sights from the #69 bus, which we took to the Eiffel Tower.  And I thought there were too many tourists at Notre Dame!  The Eiffel Tower is romantic, and taking the could-be-scary elevator to the top is a must-do, IF you are a romantic person and can get there when there's no line.  It's like Disney World—only worth doing when other people aren't.  We had hoped to see the sunset from the top, but we passed from daylight to dark in the long, snaky line.  It didn't help that there was some event going on that caused certain people to be cut into the front of the line, people who were probably famous rock stars or something, given the number of photographers and autograph-seekers hounding them.  At least we enjoyed talking with our neighbors in line.

At last we bought our tickets and were inside.  Gotcha!  Again, like Disney, more lines, more waiting.  Then you take the elevator up part way, and get out—to wait in another line for another elevator to the top.  The view from the top was very nice, with the city lights and all, and we were determined to enjoy it after all that waiting.  I maintain I got more for my money than the others, because in certain circumstances I find mere height to be scarier than the best roller coaster I've ever ridden—so I got the tourist sights and a thrill ride, too.

Despite the lines, it was an enjoyable visit, until it came time to go down.  The first elevator ride was fine, but we then found ourselves trapped on the second level.  You see, those same bigwigs that cut in front of us at the entrance, were all leaving their private party and had taken over the elevators.  Every elevator that came opened its doors on their side first, and then only had room for a couple—more usually, none—from our side.  This went on, and on, and people finally started to get angry.  I began to wonder what the French Revolution had accomplished.  Didn't they want to get rid of aristocratic privilege?  Was it time for another one?  Porter, along with many others, finally decided to reduce the number of those waiting for the elevator by taking the stairs, but Janet's knee was bothering her and she didn't want to pull up lame at the very beginning of our stay in France.  So we waited.  The chief problem was the same as it was in the Superdome during Hurricane Katrina:  lack of information from those in charge.  No signs, no announcements, no explanations, no advice, nothing.  All the other elevators, and most of the stairs, were closed down.  We really had no idea what to do.  Finally, two of the angry folks (an Italian lady and a British man) made enough of a nuisance of themselves that some workers took pity on us and took us out through the "employee only" elevator, thus ending our three and a half hour ordeal visit to the Eiffel Tower.  My advice:  if you're not the romantic type mentioned above, skip La Tour Eiffel altogether and go to the top of Tour Montparnasse.  It's much quicker, less expensive, and has a great view.

We were down, but we weren't home yet.  The buses had long ago stopped running for the night.  There were no taxis to be seen.  We decided to hoof it.  About halfway home, near Les Invalides, we saw some taxis, and I pleaded for relief.  We found taxis to be surprisingly inexpensive in Paris.       The only thing wrong with this ride was that we had our one and only encounter with a rude person.  I'm tired of hearing how rude the French—especially Parisians—are.  In all of our other experiences they were friendly and helpful.  And even the taxi driver got us home.