Mystic Squirrel

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.