Full contact French

The Manche Iles Express ferry from St Helier to Granville is a passenger ferry. A large catamaran ferry. It was full of French tourists and a French high school excursion so the ferry was almost full. Teachers walked up and down the aisles counting heads. We departed at about 18:30 Jersey time and arrived at Granville in France at 21:00 French time. There was a big orange full moon over the harbour as the ferry slid into the dock.

There was one immigration/customs officer checking identity cards and passports, and another officer watching the queue. Since we were travelling with 6 months of luggage we were at the rear of about a hundred people, but the queue moved quickly. When we handed over our passports the officer who was watching stuck his head into the passport control booth to see where our passport was from. Most people who pass through are day trippers, so I don't think they have a lot of middle aged Australian couples enter France at this port. The passport officer leafed through our passports to find the Heathrow entry stamp into the EU and then we got an entry to France stamp.

More evidence that only day trippers use this port is that there were no taxis at the ferry terminal. After looking around for a telephone number for taxis and finding none we began walking to town. Fifty metres along the road there was an Ibis hotel so Cath went in and asked the woman at reception to ring for a taxi. Cath did this in French. I don't think there is a lot of English spoken in Granville. (I was quite impressed with my self managing to do such a simple task).

The taxi took us to the Au Bout du Quai hotel opposite the Gare du Granville. The owner met us at the door. She was surprised at the number of bags and Cath said we were travelling for 6 months, which was met with astonishment. I think it was the first of many such reactions on our travels. The hotel is lovely. We slept well and had a delicious French breakfast of good coffee, orange juice, croissants, baguette, and cold ham. Yummo!

It was full contact French for Cath from go. No easing into the language here in Granville late on a Tuesday night. Cath did well and conducted all the business at the hotel including a chat with the proprietress about our travels.

It took us 30 seconds to get to the station. At 8:45am the train pulled into the station. We found our seats, stowed our luggage, and at 9:00am the SCNF intercity train departed for Paris Montparnasse.

It was a fresh sunny autumn morning as we rolled through the green Normandie countryside. I remembered that my uncle John pushed through Normandie with Patton's Third Army in 1944. The train passed the remnant of a WW2 German gun emplacement along the railway. A vivid reminder of what cultural xenophobia and arrogance wrought in the world less than a hundred years ago.

The deepest metro station in Paris

At Paris Montparnasse we trundled our luggage for about 850 metres through ramps and tunnels to the Metro 12 line. Fortunately not too many steps and ramps had been installed in some of the shorter flights. The metro train was packed and we pushed into the end of a carriage which has more standing room, usually. Not this time. Standing cheek to jowl with our luggage in front of us. Their were some young girls standing near Cath who were gypsies and eventually tried to pull Cath's wallet out of her handbag, which she had left unzipped. The girl had just lifted the wallet out of the bag when Cath looked down and noticed and the girl recovered by indicating that Cath had dropped her wallet and the girl had picked it up for her. Cath knew better and snatched it away, stowed it in her bag and zipped it up. The girls left the train at the next station as they had been blown. Score: Cath 0, Gypsy Girls 0. Not a bad result although it gave us quite a scare.

We alighted at Abbesses station at 36 metres (118 feet) underground, the deepest metro station in Paris, in Montmartre. The exit indicated that there are 181 steps to the surface. Fortunately there are two large lifts as well. At the top of the lift there were two flights of stairs to the surface, which was a lovely tree shaded square. Our hotel was just around the corner but all uphill so we pushed our luggage in front of us holding on tightly because if they got away from us they would probably end up at the Moulin Rouge at the foot of Montmartre, or in the Seine.

We got to our hotel on another tree shaded square and then went to a cafe, sat outside in the autumn sun, and had beer and lunch. We had come to Paris to meet our friends Catherine and Gordon from Sydney who were at the end of their month long holiday in France. Catherine had found a Michelin rated restaurant in Montmartre for dinner that night, La Table d'Eugène. We met them at their lodgings near the Place du Tertre in the shadow of Sacre Coeur. Catherine led the way to a suitably dark Jazz bar for pre-dinner drinks, pichès of red and white, olives, bread and cheese. Very French. Jazz was on later in the evening but after our drinks we proceeded to the restaurant. All of this walking was downhill and I was not looking forward to climb back up Montmartre after a fancy dinner.

The restaurant was lovely and subdued. Classy but not too flash as to take away from the food. The waiter was attentive, spoke good English and announced each course as it was served. The sommelier was an older woman, perhaps the chef's grandmother, who had probably served wine to Louis XIV. Between her not so good English and our not so good French we were able to order some wine. I'm not sure we got what either we or the sommelier thought we got but it was good, drinkable wine that went well with the food.

The food was about layered flavour and textures. Almost every course had multiple flavours and types of textures; salty, sweet, tangy, meaty, eggy, sour, saucy, crispy, smooth, soft, hard, crunchy. The food was unique and delicious. However, the multiplicity of tastes and feel often seemed overdone and thus lost on the diner; a straining for affect. Some of the distinctions were very subtle and could be overwhelmed by a stronger flavour or heavier texture.

There is no doubt the chef was a master but perhaps I was not the right type of diner to fully appreciate his work.

The vegetable course proved to be the most amusing point of the evening. Cath doesn't like celery, so lo and behold, the waiter announces the vegetable course as, you guessed it, celery. Catherine was sitting next to Cath and when the dish was announced she had the biggest grin in the world. Cath was just chagrined.

Thus, around midnight we emerged into the Paris night sated by our culinary experience and looking for a taxi. The four of us took a cab to the Place du Tertre and said farewell to our friends. It had been a glorious evening with good friends in a glorious city.

[Editor: One of the things that is more prevalent than last time we were here - although it a was common then - is the presence of heavily armed, military uniformed, special police roaming the tourist areas in groups now of 4.

These young men look alert, well trained and prepared. While we were waiting for Catherine and Gordon (whose Atelier was behind a green door between two souvenir shops, indistinguishable as a residence) I watched such a group scanning the crowd as they walked around. They walk 2 in front and 2 behind in a tight formation.

A man approached one of the front men and without missing a beat and no obvious change to their demeanour the remaining three spread out around their colleague with one behind taking a few steps back to be within a firing line on the fellow talking. The policeman was polite and helpful to him, but as I was watching the other three watch the transaction, it was pretty clear they have a well drilled response. It was professional, calm and potentially extremely deadly if they guy had done the wrong thing….

I think the tourists find it reassuring and it is certainly part of the norm. I'm impressed with the training and the drill!!]