I arrived in Paris late on Thursday afternoon without a moment to lose. I only had four days in the city of love, not that the theme mattered, but I had shopping to do, Rugby to watch, sites to visit and food and wine to overindulge in. These are not issues to be trifled with.
Having consulted the Paris metro site I was advised to get a bus to my hotel. Yes, that’s right, a bus. With my luggage now just on 30kg I sceptically considered this option, remembered the stairs on the metro and contemplated trying to get a taxi through Paris and went off to find the bus stop. I love Paris buses! Not only did I find the bus easily and have no issue with the luggage, the lovely driver got out of his seat to look at a route plan with me to make sure that I knew where to stop. As I went to pay for my ticket, he suggested I get the bus next to him instead (same route) as it would leave earlier and made sure that I was ok. Not that I needed it – the buses announce the next stop (which is more than our trams do) and I was dropped me off right near the hotel.
After a quick check in I headed out via the metro to the Pompidou to make the most of the evening. I was a bit disappointed to learn that the Contemporary gallery was shut, but a temporary exhibit by a mathematician (Ross Lovegrove) who combines art and design made up for it. As soon as you walked into the display space you were hit with shapes and machines and techno sounds and fluid lines – all things that appeal to me. I moved from the temporary exhibits to see paintings from last century including famous names like Matisse and Picasso, alongside so many that I did not know, but could certainly appreciate. After a brief break for dinner in a nearby cafe (tourist area – I got the meal that I deserved ) I went back to see a display of photographs from an American (Walker Evans) who focussed on everyday people and social issues from mid last century. There were really powerful shots from the Depression and from work sites like coal docks and garages that were beautifully simple and of very ordinary people just getting on with what life had handed them.
The following day I visited the Palais Garnier, the Opera House built at the end of Napolean’s reign. It took 15 years to complete during which time France’s politics changed dramatically, but at the end of the day, everyone loves to open an incredibly ornate building so it went ahead regardless. Of all the buildings that I have seen, this probably impressed me the most in terms of the incredible detail in the design and finishes and how every room seemed to introduce you to the different theme that would greet you in the next one. One of the boxes that overlooks the stage was open and towards the end of my visit you could watch and listen to a rehearsal for one of the scenes being performed that night. There are rehearsals and teaching sessions going on constantly away from the public areas so this was an unexpected treat and I was really touched by the power and intensity of the voices.
For a complete change of pace, from Palais Garnier I walked next door to Galleries Lafayette and made up for all of the shopping that I didn’t do in Oxford Street. French shop assistants sell by not trying to. When something doesn’t look just right, they tell you “No” with a look that lets you know that no matter how much you wanted that outfit, it’s not going home with you. I bought a suit, a great little halter top, a suitcase to replace the one that Iberia Air (never fly with them) broke and a pair of orange slip on shoes to replace those that I bought in Kalgoorlie several years ago and have refused to part with until I found another pair. Even the shoe shopping was French. I loved these shoes and they had them in several colours, all of which I wanted. Ok, they weren’t cheap, but I could justify two pairs if I picked carefully. I tried every colour on in multiple sized, but none fitted like the orange ones. Instead of suggesting that the others would be ok, the lovely guy serving me gave me the simple “No” when looking at the others then, pointing at the orange ones added “Those ones are yours.” How could I argue?
Loaded up with my purchases I headed back to the hotel, out to dinner and took a walk past the Eiffel Tower, just because I was in Paris and I could. It was very hot on the first couple of days, it is light late and the French eat late so the streets are full of people and very safe to walk around until well after midnight. For someone trying to soak up as much as possible in a few days this makes for very satisfying travel.
On Saturday, my weeks of eating and drinking and I jumped onto the metro and headed for a park out near Roland Garros to do ParkRun – the same 5km run that I do every Saturday in Melbourne. I didn’t have my watch to keep pace and there was only a small group of us doing it (about 30 compared to 300 in Melbourne) so I was pleased to discover afterwards that I still ran it in 30 minutes. A few of us went for coffee afterwards – a guy from Dubbo, a woman from South Africa and her daughter and one of our French hosts. It was a lovely way to start the day and a different way to visit a foreign city. I followed this up by more shopping in the boutiques nearby the hotel, taking advantage of sales and the ever honest advice of the assistants “No, you ‘ave no chest”. Bless them.
Sunday morning I did a quick excursion to the Sainte Chapelle, a beautiful church built for the private use of the early Kings of France that predominantly comprises stained glass windows rather than walls and is less overbearing than most cathedrals. Next door was the Conciergerie where Marie Antoinette spent her last days while on trial and from where she was taken to the executioner. It was a surprisingly sympathetic view of her that was presented and no mention of cake to be seen.
Later that day Rose arrived, having been to Spain on a tour with a friend and coming to Paris to go to the French Open that week. We only had the afternoon to catch up so we went for a walk back to the Eiffel Tower then settled in at a favourite cafe from previous trips (Cafe Constant) to eat, chat and have a glass of wine over a few hours. Having dropped Rose back at the hotel, I then headed out the Stade de France for the Top 14s Final – another key sporting event on my itinerary.
I quickly realised that I didn’t need to worry about working out the metro route, I could just follow the singing crowds of people with their faces painted and carrying flags. The atmosphere built up as more people got on at every stop and by the time we arrived at the last one it was this steady stream of exuberant, colourful people cheering for one team or the other and good naturedly goading the opposition supporters. It was like that all the way to the stadium, past bars and plazas with people spilling out towards the stadium and noise everywhere.
Arriving in the stadium at my seat, it just go better. The Final was between Toulon – red and black, with a number of foreign marquee players including four ex-Wallabies (one of whom, James O’Connor, we do not approve of, but must acknowledge his inclusion in the team) and Clermont – yellow and blue, mostly French players and with a less prestigious reputation than their opponents. Toulon come from the rather ritzy Provence, Cote d’Azur region and have won the competition on 4 previous occasions. Clermont come from the Alps region next to Provence, where Michelin tyres were originally made and for whose workers the club was originally formed. They have made the finals on 12 previous occasions, but have won only once.
I was seated in the fringes of the Clermont heartland with their supporters occupying the left half of the stadium as I looked at. There was a sea of yellow – jerseys, flags and an enormous banner that was unravelled before the start. They were signing and chanting and burst into enthusiastic roars of support when their team approached that part of the field during the warm up. This was great. At the opposite end of the stadium the Toulon supporters were clearly visible in their red jumpers and similarly waving flags, but not in the numbers or with the sheer unadulterated enthusiasm that came from Clermont.
I wasn’t phased about who won, I had just come to see what I thought would be a great game, but also to see the last match of one of my favourite Wallabies – Drew Mitchell. Needless to say that he was playing for Toulon and I realised just before the start that I had brought a reddish colour jumper to wear if I got cold, but given my seating arrangements I decided that it was probably easier to maintain my neutrality and if necessary, get a little chilly.
The match was great. Drew Mitchell didn’t have his best night. It was a close run thing all the way, but at the end, the underdogs came out on top and Clermont knocked off their more fancied rivals. The Clermont supporters, who had shown unbridled, but very coordinated enthusiasm every time their team did something good were beside themselves. It was a joyous, loud, highly emotional ending to a great night of Rugby and well fought match. I slipped out before the presentations, safely donned my jumper amidst a sea of dejected Toulon supporters and zipped home on the metro (shout out to the French who know how to get 80,000 supporters home in a hurry).
The added bonus for this part of the trip was Eideann making the journey to Paris by car, bus and train to share my last 20 hours in the country. She was swaggering down the street towards the hotel when I returned from the Rugby in that way that girls of that age do to break hearts and inspire hope. I want my 20s back.
It was very late by this stage so we decided to go straight to bed and enjoy our time together next day. Just as we were about to fall asleep Eideann finished telling me about the cheese festival that she had been to that day and informed me that she had a prop to help her tell the story. To my delight it was a massive wedge of Comte cheese for which I roused myself from my sleepy state and proceeded to encourage Eideann’s story telling by consuming considerable slices of it. Now, where are those jeans I need to try on?
Eideann had caught up with Rose while I was gone so logistic arrangements had been made for breakfast accommodating my departure later that day, Eideann’s brief time in Paris and Rose’s schedule for the tennis. Luckily I was already packed so my time could be devoted to doing stuff. After the obligatory detour past the Eiffel Tower (like I said before, just because you can) we said our goodbyes to Rose, dropped her at the metro and set off on our day. Instead of going to a mainstream tourist or shopping spot we headed out of town to a set of flea markets that Eideann found on Google. It turned out to be a mix of grungy shops selling cheap clothes, rows of antique maps and furniture and little shops selling retro toys and vinyl records. While the store holders are really forward (one gave us both a kiss because Eideann bought a badge asking for one), none of them were pushy and they were delightful to interact with. It was such a great way for us to spend the day together – strolling through shops, trying on clothes and buying little quirky things like Thunderbirds postcards and 1960s buttons. I also found winter trousers that had eluded me elsewhere so Eideann baled me out when they didn’t take credit card which further cemented our blossoming relationship (well, at least for me it did).
After a quick lunch we unfortunately relied on Google to get us back instead of the French public transport planner so a) headed off in the wrong direction and b) walked forever looking for the train station. While this consumed a bit of time, we still had plenty in hand to get Eideann to the train station near the hotel for her return to Cussay.
That was at least until we arrived back at the hotel to find the blocks adjacent to it cordoned off because of a gas leak in one of the buildings. Tricky, but not a disaster, we picked up her things and took a detour to get to the bus stop – the fastest way to get to the station. After waiting for a little while, consuming all schedule contingency, we realised that there was a protest blocking off the end of the street and that with this being one of the four long weekends in May (yes, really) the buses may not be running as usual. Time for Plan B. We raced to the nearest metro, waved a quick goodbye (Eideann, I do realise that this is your way of avoiding kissing me goodbye and I am working on a counter plan) and hoped that no other disruptions would eventuate.
By now, all schedule contingency for my journey to the airport had also been exhausted - “Quel surprise” I hear you say - and the streets were still closed for the gas leak so it wasn’t clear that my lift to the aiport could actually get through. Luckily, just as I crammed the block of Comte into my backpack, the police drove past signalling the end of the explosive risk which noone seemed particularly concerned about anyway and the driver arrived at the hotel reception.
You will be pleased to know that I reached the airport in time to:a) repack my luggage at check-in when they advised me that my higher luggage limit didn’t apply because I was breaking my flight at Dubai (idea how for my IT friends – invent an app that you can plug your flight bookings into and which will apply every twisted quirk that airlines connive between each other and actually tell the passenger what their luggage limit is instead of the airline telling you at the airport what it isn’t and how much they will charge you for the privilege of loading your suitcase). If I sound annoyed, it’s because I was. My ticket advised that I had an extra allowance because I am a Qantas Club member and I was well under it. I was however, over the measly standard British Airways allowance that they applied “because you should have booked to go straight to Australia”. Yes love, I will rearrange my holiday to allow myself another 5kg of luggage. Graciously they told me that it was an empty flight anyway so I could take the extra 5kg as hand luggage. Now, explain to me why it is better for me to cart around the extra instead of loading into the apparently empty cargo bay......b) Anyway, on the brighter side I submitted my claims for the generous amount of tax that France will give me back for my economy boosting shopping in Paris; andc) I stuffed myself with the remainder of the block of Comte cheese that Eideann had given me because I couldn’t bear to throw it out and I didn’t want to finish up on a Customs reality tv show crying about my Comte.
So, my 8-10 kg of hand luggage and I boarded the flight for a quick change at Heathrow then on to Dubai. Nothing like a couple of days in 40 degree heat before you head back to Melbourne winter.