~~Proceed With Confidence~~
A good traveler has no fixed plans,
and is not intent on arriving.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Wednesday, October 27th ~ Thursday, October 28th
Filled with gregarious enthusiasm after last year’s trip to Europe, I immediately began planning this year’s return visit to Paris. I dreamed about it, I told lots of people about it, I read travel books and watched French movies with English subtitles.
I felt much more prepared this year, and was very proud of myself for refusing to make the same naïve mistakes twice. The leg and foot swelling debacle of last year’s trip was of paramount importance in my mind since it made walking and sight-seeing so dreadfully uncomfortable.
After conducting some cursory online research and quizzing friends who travel frequently, it became clear that compression socks were a “must”, as was better hydration and thus, more frequent forays to the lavatory.
I paid a visit to our local pharmacy which deals with medical supplies and learned that I could be specially fitted for high-performance compression stockings that would either end at the knee or go all the way up to the waist. These stockings were designed to be worn post-surgery and were costly: $80 to $200 for the top-of-the-line Kung Fu Grip compression. First of all, I balked at the notion of being “fitted” for these things back in the private room, and secondly, the cost was an unhappy surprise. The lady who was explaining my options and watching my expression turn sour finally said,
“Why don’t you just get some Travel Socks, dear?”
Well, okay! Where are those? Up to the front of the pharmacy we go to an actual “travel” display, complete with Dramamine, Imodium, ear plugs and the glorious Travel Socks. These were knee-high white socks, priced at $25 which seemed like a bargain after seeing what was available back in the private compression stocking fitting room.
What a great purchase these were! Yes, they were tight (as I was nearly breaking a sweat while pulling these on before our flight, I was put in mind of those little devices that help you squeeze the last of the toothpaste up and out of the tube)
and yes they worked far better than I imagined.
When we landed in Paris after our 9.5 hour flight, my legs and feet were energized and I felt great!
Here is a link to a well-written article about making long flights more comfortable:
Speaking of our flight, allow me to now extol the virtues of Air France.
Last year we flew on British Air and were treated to surly, disdainful service, cramped seating with malfunctioning air conditioning and questionable, tasteless food. By comparison, Air France was something of a flying palace.
The flight was not full, so my sister and I were each able to have short rows of seats to ourselves where we could stretch out and practically lounge our way to France. The crew was calm and gracious, the passengers were quiet and pleasant and I marveled at the difference in food quality. We were served two meals of exceptional taste, low sodium and obviously fresh ingredients (it occurred to me that perhaps the AMA and the FDA are in fiendish cahoots to keep Americans hypertensive and overweight).
Fresh rolls and real butter were offered by a smiling flight attendant. When we landed, we found the Paris airport to be spotlessly clean, quiet and orderly. Our checked baggage arrived promptly and without drama. We walked a short distance and were greeted by a smiling cab driver who acted as though he had been waiting for us all along, helped us with our bags and drove us pleasantly into the city.
A perfect beginning to our journey!
We stayed at the same place as last year, the Grand Hotel Leveque which is a little gem on Rue Cler near the Eiffel Tower.
Interestingly, we are booked into the same room as last year, and it all feels pleasantly familiar and like a home-away-from-home…..almost as though no time has passed since our last visit.
Very few issues with jet lag. I slipped right into Paris time quite naturally, pleased with how easily our journey has begun!
Friday, October 29th
A fabulous breakfast at Café du Marche with croissant and omelet apparently made in Heaven. How can something so simple taste so wonderful?!
Today we have decided to visit Chartres, which is a train ride about an hour outside of Paris. Managing the Metro is quite a bit easier this time around and we navigate the underground subway system as though we have been doing it for years.
We arrive at the train station and find that it is jammed full of people with rolling luggage. This is confusing for a moment until we realize that it’s Friday and lots of folks are heading out of town for the weekend. Interestingly, for such a hub of transportation in a large city, the communication system seems oddly behind the technological times. There are small, awkwardly-positioned screens with scant information about the train numbers and times of arrival and departure, and there seems to be no orderly way to get from the ticket purchasing area to the train platforms.
We wander in the general direction that everyone else seems to be going and finally spot a large board which lists the train numbers and tracks, complete with an analog clock and a strict refusal to share track information until 15 minutes before departure.
Huge groups of people and rolling luggage gather on either side of this board, gazing up silently, awaiting information. As soon as a track number appears on the board, a chunk of the group breaks off and bolts for the train, leaving the rest of us to stare and wait for further information.
Eventually, our track is announced and we proceed to track 20. We hold second class tickets and of course, I am curious about the first class accommodations on a commuter train. It turns out that the curtains and seats are red in first class and green in second.
The seats are perhaps a little larger in first class. Other than that, no discernable difference, but who knows? Since I was not sitting there, I have no way of knowing what fabulous services might have been provided to the first class folks.
Our tickets were not asked for or stamped in either direction, and it becomes clear that we could have had our train ride for free. There are very few passengers going to Chartres and no interaction with anyone who could have been a conductor other than hearing someone blow a whistle to announce the all-clear for the train to depart.
It is a beautiful ride through the country….grazing sheep, farmland, trees in abundance changing magnificent colors and I am once again put in mind of the Midwestern landscape.
We arrive in Chartres and walk the short distance uphill to the Cathedral.
We've done some research and have learned that this is a place of interesting, very old energy….a mix of Catholic tradition and pagan rituals such as a labyrinth in the floor and a large astrology wheel on one of the massive stone walls. The Cathedral is dimly-lit and cold with none of the welcoming essence found in Sacre Coeur or even Notre Dame. The chairs have been moved off of the labyrinth and many rambunctious children are running amok, so we decide to peruse the gift shop until the crowd clears.
An Asian tour group is packed tightly into the small gift shop, chattering loudly and handling as much of the merchandise as they can get their hands on. The ladies behind the counter are trying to maintain order, but the pushing, shoving and shouting are beyond chaotic.
We do manage to purchase a few items when the mob clears a bit.
Our visit to this Cathedral is less than satisfying. Someone is attempting to tune the organ and persistently hits jarring, discordant notes. Children are apparently unsupervised, running around and shrieking. More tense Asians trying to photograph the labyrinth in the floor, making it impossible to walk it in peace.
We leave the Cathedral feeling as though the energy is old and played-out, neither one of us feeling the need to return.
Next, we are to experience our first truly rude person in France—an insolently sullen young waitress at a restaurant near the Cathedral who administered a heavy dose of passive aggression as well as a terrible tuna sandwich which was little more than watery tuna straight from the can, dumped onto a stale baguette and plunked, unsliced on the table in front of us without a word.
The pipes in the walls were groaning and banging loudly every time someone flushed the toilets. One small sandwich, two bowls of soup and hot tea came to 27 Euros…..merde!
We stroll through the town for a bit and finally decide to catch an earlier train back to Paris.
A clown trash can near the Cathedral.....relevance unknown.
Food is not allowed in our hotel room, but we figure out how to smuggle hot tea, cookies and sandwiches up, anyway.
Saturday, October 30th
Rain all night!
Lovely wet cobblestones on Rue Cler, dripping, colorful trees, people with umbrellas, walking and eating warm croissant.
After another delicious breakfast, we depart for the flea market at Vanves (described as smaller, friendlier and more organized than the massive market at St. Ouen) with excited expectations. Last year, we missed the flea markets altogether due to a misunderstanding about the days and times of operation, so this time, we head out with determination and pockets full of Euros.
There are many vendors under colorful tents offering a wide assortment of wares.
As described, most of the vendors speak at least a little English and I stumble through some remedial negotiations with happy outcomes.
I have been to many flea markets and swap meets in the past 30 years, and I can honestly say that this was one of the best experiences I've had. Items were really, truly vintage and antique....not piles of schlocky junk from someone’s mold-infested basement.
I am still skittish about really jumping in with both feet due to the hassle of figuring out how to ship larger items back to the states (the prevailing rumor is that the French post offices are notorious for theft). With this in mind, of course, I immediately spot many things I believe I cannot possibly live without: an antique dress form, vintage beveled mirrors, small tables, a chandelier from the 1920s and bolts of vintage fabrics, all begging me to take them home.
I pull myself together and make do with smaller items that will fit into the extra duffle bag I will use as a carry-on. The rain holds off as we peruse the stalls, then suddenly, the vendors decide en masse that they are bored with the whole thing and begin packing up at 2:00 (rather than at the advertised 5:00 p.m. closing time). We hurry to make sure we have seen it all, but of course, we would have needed an entire day to do so.
We enjoy a baguette chicken sandwich and an amazing apple croissant before heading back on the Metro. Once again, I am struck by the low sugar/salt content in the food, and yet it is more delicious than anything I can think of in America!
Since it is still early, we stroll down to the Eiffel Tower on wet streets, enjoying the walk.
We make note of the fact that the dogs and children all seem very well-behaved and polite.
We have had fun shopping the local grocery stores for items we don’t see at home and settle on Pim’s pear cookies and hot tea for a light snack/supper. Delightful day!
Sunday, October 31st
Overheard in the breakfast room at the Leveque (woman in her mid-50s with big hair and a heavy Texas drawl speaking to group of traveling companions):
“My 80-year-old parents, who are, might I add, more Internet savvy than I am, have not checked in with us once! I mean, they are out there, traveling around, doing God-knows-what and not taking two minutes to post an update on Facebook or Twitter. They could be lying in a ditch dead somewhere and I would not know about it” (and after a brief pause) “not that there would be anything wrong with that at this point….”
I get a good chuckle from that last comment and when she sees me snickering, says, “Oh, you have those parents, too?” More chuckling and eye-rolling as we all tacitly agree that parents can quite effectively and with very little effort, ruin your life. I briefly toyed with the notion of interjecting that I was raised by drunken gypsies, but decide to keep that bit of information to myself.
We decide to return to Vanves to check out the flea market vendors we missed yesterday. Encouraged after the previous days’ learning curve of negotiating in French, I become bold and sassy with the vendors, pretending like I only have these few Euros (holding out the coins in my hand) and walking away if they won’t make a deal. ALL of them were willing to deal when I pulled that “C'est la vie” stunt, and I was giddy with acquisition excitement.
Later, since it is such a mild evening, we take a stroll by the Seine, listening to street musicians and snapping photos. It’s Halloween back in the states, but there is no sign of it here except for one couple in costume who appear to be heading for a party and one little novelty shop with masks and hats in the window. Quite a different focus than the traditional Halloween festivities back home where people seem ravenous for any excuse to dress up like hookers and pimps and indulge in massive quantities of alcohol and/or sugar.
I notice that there are posters all over town advertising the Jackass 3D movie premier. Apparently, it’s the only American film being promoted here which makes me wonder if this is why we (as a nation) are regarded as the large, immature, bully children on the playground.
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