La Vie Parisienne

I'm sitting here in the dead of summer in a house that is now roughly the same temperature as the surface of the sun, and thinking about all the myriad things I need to be doing.  Things like cleaning my ridiculously messy bedroom, planning for my new apartment, or, you know, working on that novel I wrote.  So naturally I made a peach cobbler and am now eating it.  I think that I deserve credit for turning off the television for the first time this summer.

Well, I also need to be writing a blog, so I guess I am being somewhat productive.

We left off as I was departing for Paris.  The bus left Victoria Coach at eleven o'clock pm, and I won't pretend that I didn't push people out of my way to be sure I got a window seat, but for an eight hour ride, it was for everyone's benefit.  Here's a little photo blog:

Walking from the hostel to Victoria Coach

Here's a fun little story.  I decided to take the overnight bus because I would kill two birds with one stone: the trip would double as hostel for the night and transportation.  My bus left London at 11:10pm and arrived Paris at 9:30ish.  I'd spoken to a few people and everyone agreed that this was a fairly good idea.  What no one (Okay, my roommate thought about it and I chose to ignore it because it was too late at that point) thought about was that I'd have to get off the bus at least once for the ferry.  It turned out we needed to get off when we arrived in Dover for passport control.  Then we got back on the bus and the driver told us half an hour.  A few people got off and went to the mall for something to eat and to use the bathroom (pictured below).  I turned on an episode of Downton Abbey figuring it wasn't worth it to go back to sleep if I'd be awoken in half an hour to get on the ferry.

Halfway through my second episode I realized we weren't boarding anytime soon and I was wasting valuable sleeping time.  So I closed my computer and put my head down.  Thirty seconds later the driver turned on the bus and we drove onto the ferry.  Such is life.

Port of Dover

I'd been texting Maureen for a bit but my phone was dying, so finding a plug was sort of a big deal, especially since I'd only be able to use it for a few more minutes and it was reading at about 1%.  Worse, it only had six pounds top up on it, so I'd barely be able to use it in Paris, but I knew I'd need it to get to my hostel.

Omg I got an outlet for my phone of the ferry and it was British!

Once I was plugged in I (tried) to cuddle up and get some sleep.

My corner on the ferry

Last view of Britain- the Port of Dover

It actually worked.  I slept the whole way and woke up when the intercom announced we were entering the Port of Calais (Le Port de Calais).

First view of France- Calais

So I got my things and slumped downstairs after everyone else to get back on the bus.  I didn't waste any time and put my head down before we'd even exited the ferry.  Then I blinked and we were being ushered through customs, which really seemed like it was just passport control again, maybe to make sure we hadn't snuck on during the journey or something.  Then back onto the bus, and I really did sleep.  I blinked again, and we were arriving in Paris.

We all hauled our bags off the bus and I found a place to sit and reorganize, at which point I noticed the small pocket on my bag was open and empty.  I knew my book light had been in there, as well as... something... possibly important... 

I checked the cargo hold on the bus but there was nothing to be seen.  It was officially my first theft of the journey: a book light.  I checked everything else, but it was all in good order, nothing missing at all.  Just a book light.  What the actual hell?

First theft of the journey- A book light and a us/uk power converter worth $0.60 

I later had a panic attack that it had been my hogwarts wax seal, but upon returning to Wales found it safely on my bedside table where I'd forgotten to pack it.  So I'm fairly certain it was just a power converter.  Either way, at the time I was annoyed and confused as to why someone would steal it.  But again, such is life, and I knew even then that it wasn't worth crying over.  So I put on my bag and tried to figure out where to go.  I wasn't even positive I was in the right place until after I'd dug through my bag for a few euros and used the bathroom (30 cents) and found the metro station.  

Now, Metro stations are the same as any other underground station.  You buy a ticket, scan it or swipe it or feed it or whatever the particular station wants, board, deboard, go on with life.  The problem was, even the English machine made NO sense.  I wanted to buy a ticket, so I clicked the ticket button, but nothing happened.  So I decided to go for region, and entered a big station near my destination- Gare du Nord.  Nothing.  According to the machine, Gare du Nord didn't exist.  It was early, and also late, for the station to be particularly busy, so I had to wait a bit for someone to come through.  I finally had to ask a man to help me, and I figured he'd show me the button to push to get a ticket, but instead he walked me through purchasing a ticket, picked out the correct change from my ziplock bag for me, and fed the machine (no, he didn't steal any money), then he showed me which train to take and which direction, and rode with me.  He spoke very little English, but more English than I spoke French, so we swapped languages around as much as we needed to in order to understand each other (a little).  It turned out he was going to Gare de L'est, which is quite close to Gare du Nord, so he rode the few extra stops with me and showed me where to get out.  He also taught me the most important word I was to learn- Sortie- which means "exit."  I snapped this photo of us before he went back to catch the train that would take him to where ever he was going.    His name was Abdel.  Nice guy, actually.  

First friend!

I knew that Gare du Nord was probably one stop too soon, but nice as Abdel was, I wasn't keen on walking him to the door of my hostel.  I figured if he followed me I could go into the train station and lose him.  But of course, he didn't follow me.  So I was free to wander and find my hostel.  I was able to log onto the internet long enough to get a few maps which I saved as photos on my phone and find my way to my hostel.  I did get lost a few times, but it wasn't bad and I found an ATM on the way to pull out around two hundred Euros.

I stayed at a place called Perfect Hostel in the Montmartre district, which ended up being about six blocks away from Sacre Coeur.  Once I'd found it I was able to check the majority of my bags and head out into the city.  The woman behind the counter, who was helpful enough if a little curt, directed me to a patisserie around the corner to could get some breakfast.  Naturally, I got a croissant.

First French food!

And here we have disappointment number one.  I had somehow, foolishly perhaps, expected this to taste ten times better than any croissant I had ever had before.  I expected angels to sing and the heavens to part.  I expected, at least, that it would taste difference.  

Don't get me wrong, it was good.  It wasn't a cafeteria croissant.  It wasn't packaged or from a tube.  But it was just a croissant. It was no better than anything I'd had from any real proper bakery at all, although perhaps a little crispier, and by extension messier to eat.  Good, but ultimately it was a croissant.

My first stop of the day after this was a coffee, where I seriously embarrassed myself with my appalling French.  After that, I had plans for a particular iconic fixture.  

Any guesses?

That's right:

The Eiffel Tower.  

I arrived, exhausted, thinking I'd just look.  But then somehow I ended up in line buying a ticket.  Of course, it wasn't instantaneous.  I waited for some two hours before I was at the booth.  But eventually I was going up, up, up, up the elevator.

I made friends here, too.  They were British, from the North, I can't remember exactly where, and living in Cambridge.  We'll call them Lucy and Rick, (mostly because I still can't remember his name...).  They were great.  We met in line after buying tickets and ended up going all the way up and back down together.  He had been before, but she hadn't (if I remember correctly).  We had fun pointing out Sacre Coeur in the distance and finding different landmarks.  This is them: 

After the Eiffel tower I made my way back to my hostel where I unpacked, met my dorm mate, and started thinking about dinner.  Of course, my guide book ended up being utterly useless, so I had no idea how to eat at a cafe.  That might sound strange, but it is completely true.  I walked into several and stood awkwardly waiting for assistance, before running away in fear of insulting someone.  No one warned me that you just sit and they'll help you.  I wandered first only a few blocks from the hostel, then a few more, and then suddenly I was on the steps of Sacre Coeur, and directly in front of it was a cafe where one of the server spoke nearly perfect English.  He explained how to behave at a cafe, that you should sit and they'd come serve you, and then that I could stay as long as I wanted.  He flirted with me quite a bit and called me enchantingly beautiful, which was all well and good until he turned around and was horrifically racist to a Japanese-American couple to the point where I paid and left immediately.  No thanks.  But still, this was my view:

I had French onion soup and a nutella crepe I couldn't finish.  

The next day it seemed only natural that my first stop should be Sacre Coeur itself.  I have about two hundred photos of the place itself, but none of the inside, which was, I won't lie, spectacularly beautiful.  I can't explain it, really, but it felt so deeply sacred.  Unlike London, where old churches are just giant tourist attractions, Sacre Coeur has roped off the middle portion of the church for those who come to pray and enforce strict, near-silence.  

It was, however, my first real brush with pickpocketers.  They lurked in hordes on each of the landings on the massive steps holding some weird string things which they used to do tricks or make bracelets.  Then while they were entertaining unsuspecting tourists, their friends would come up from behind and walk away with watches, wallets, and passports.  I have to wonder how they got away with it, though, because at least these ones were incredibly obvious.  I'd have ignored them a bit more if it weren't for the fact that when I tried to get past them, one guy reached out and grabbed my wrist to encourage me to stay and I had to jerk away from him.

Anyway, I knew my next stop already.  It seemed obvious after Sacre Coeur, so I caught a train to Île de la Cité and Notre Dame. 

While wandering, the first thing I found was a bridge covered in these locks.  

It's a Paris thing, or at least it started in Paris, this fad of putting a lock on bridge with the person you love and tossing the keys in.  Cute.  I'm mostly only posting this because I like the picture.  This isn't even the actual Love Bridge.  I'll get to that in my next post.

Anyway, just behind the bridge was this beauty:

Again, I am faced with the problem of describing it.  All that I will say is that where Westminster fell short, Notre Dame went above and beyond.  It felt massive and cavernous and sacred.  It was beautiful and still and moving.  That's all I'll say for now.

On my way home I stopped at Pont Neuf for a photo op.

I think I had a sandwich for dinner before I wandered the souvenir shops on the street leading to Sacre Coeur and bought my second round of French macarons and chocolate from a shop called "La Petite Musee du Chocolate" (no idea if that's spelled right).  Pretty sure raspberry was my favorite.  Or rose.  

Tomorrow: my walking tour of Paris, the Arc de Triomphe, a Paris Photo Shoot, Versailles, The Louvre, and the runnaway paper doll.  (And by tomorrow I mean whenever I post the next blog).  Until then, my fearless followers, au revoir!