Farewell France

One magical day back in Paris to pick up my rucksack and bid my friends "Adieu, a la prochain," and I was off on the night train to Munich where I was to change trains and continue on to Ljubljana. First glitch came during the Paris-Munich leg of the journey when we encountered a 3-hour delay in the night. Seems a freight train blocked the tracks. I woke up in the night and realized we were not moving. How long we'd been stopped I had no way of knowing, but as time dragged on it became obvious I would miss my connection. Not a troubling thought in train rich Europe, so I soon went back to sleep with a clear mind. Last year when I missed a connection in France due to a train delay I was bumped up to first class. Perhaps that would be the case again.

But the new ticketing came in Munich--Germany not France. Nothing so traveler friendly in the country that prides itself as a model of efficiency. I had to stand in line with everyone else and hope for the best. There's a train out in about an hour, and never mind that there are no seats still available. Requires another connection in Austria and there will be a seat on the second train. I only have to stand for the first 5 hours.

Needless to say I rejected that fine offer and opted to stay the night in Munich then take a direct train the following day where I would have a seat. I prefer to relax and enjoy all the beautiful scenery of the Austrian Alps the train would be traveling through.

Especially since there is a great budget hostel in Munich--The Tent. It's been there since 1972, but that's about four years since I was last in Munich. It's right on the tram line, near the Botanical Gardens in a lovely park setting. Three options are available--their large tent with bunk beds, a smaller tent with mats for the floor or set up your own tent. For under 10 euros a night it's your best bet in the area. A nightly barbeque, congenial company and a good cold beer, what's more to want.

Paris, Post Bastille

One day post-Bastille I met my brother, Jim, and my niece, Michelle, at their hotel and the idea was to show them around Paris, a city I know and love. At the outset we had a serious problem when Michelle greeted me with three stipulations--no museums, no cathedrals and no walking. I thought surely she must be joking, but no, she was serious.

It is her loss in Paris if she chooses to exclude museums and cathedrals, but under no circumstances would I agree to the edict of no walking. Paris is a city made for walking. As great as the Metro is for getting around, you don't see much from underground.

We started walking along the Seine from the Eiffel Tower hoping to enjoy the spectacular vistas of the Paris sky line. I'm always happy walking in Paris and it was a beautiful sunny day. Having slowed my pace to that of a snail, I was incredulous when Michelle managed to plod along remaining a full block or more behind with my brother as the liason somewhere in between. Her sour face sent a message to us both.

As we passed by Invalides, I attempted to spur her interest to no avail. We did manage to get as far as Place de la Concorde, but she simply refused to continue walking further. Hunger pangs were full blown at this point, and since that short little stretch had taken us over two hours it was now time to consider lunch, so we headed to the Metro which cheered her up a little.

In honor of our snail's pace, I ordered escargot. That touch of humor escaped her completely, but I chuckled to myself as I sopped up the tasty garlic butter with my scraps of bagette.

Michelle expressed a desire to shop for chic fashions and being the season of the ˝soldes˝ this seemed like a good option. Another Metro ride to Hotel de Ville where she got the sad news that shopping in Paris involved more walking. No American style mall with everything in one place. Her interest waned quite quickly at that news, so we headed to the cafe for one last pastis before calling it a day.

Bastille Day 2008

My first Bastille Day Celebration was in 1966 when I was living in Paris working au pair and filled with the enthusiasm of youth. I stood with the crowd on the Champs Elysee watching then President Charles de Gaulle ride in the parade, a towering figure above everyone around him. Later that night I danced with the party-goers at the Hotel de Ville.

This year was more subdued with the added perspective of age. My brother and his daughter arrived in the morning of the 14th to celebrate with me on the last leg of their trip to Egypt and Rome.

They were booked into a hotel near the Eiffel Tower, so I took the Metro in to meet them and we went back out to Montreuil to join my friends at their favorite cafe where there was a free buffet and a local all-girl band. A real Parisian celebration far from the tourist mobs. My brother and my niece went back in time for the fireworks at the Eiffel Tower, while I stayed on at the party.

Paris & Beyond

Finding a budget hotel in Paris at anytime can be a tad difficult, but on a Friday night before the Bastille Day celebration it has a great potential for failure. Many small hotels at double the price I wanted to pay were already full so it didn't look hopeful at the start. But my persistence paid off and I found a single room for under 35 euros in a classic old hotel that evoked the inner spirit of Paris.

Narrow corridors, up a winding staircase through a corner door and I entered a room with a shuttered window overlooking "les toits de Paris." I was tempted to stay up all night reliving my memories from the '60's, but my drooping eyelids soon overcame that temptation. Early the next morning I went out walking through the streets, watching busloads of arriving celebrants for the holiday, and greeted by the aroma of freshly baking bread that is so totally French. A morning espresso and an internet check got me in touch with my friends and I headed off to Montreuil to connect with them.

Emerging from Asia in the West

Following a short interlude in Warsaw, it was on to Berlin with the ultimate goal to arrive in Paris--just in time for the Bastille Day celebration. Vive la Françe!

Warsaw gave me the chance to rest up a tad in comfort as I have a friend to stay with, and as I was there just last year, there was no great urge to race around and set any new walking records. A few hours wandering around the "Old Town" the day many musicians and groups were practicing in various cathedrals. Strolled from concert to concert enjoying all the beautiful sights and sounds.

Trains are again back central in my life. Fast and efficient European ones, but not as much conviviality as Asian trains. I may forever begrudge missing out on Astana to Kiev at the mercy of the Russian blackmailer I sparred with in Almaty, or at least until I do it from the other direction. But for the moment, I'm still traveling east to west.

Berlin was another city I visited last year, so I raced quickly through staying only two days before pushing on to Paris. I did the full on walking tour last year and got my second "Checkpoint Charlie" stamp. My first one was in 1966 and was a rather different experience. It's SandStation season, and they are always fun to see, but I didn't need to do any full on HTT (Heavy Tourist Thing).

From Berlin it was direct to Paris, with a quick train change in Frankfurt midway. Aaaahhh, Paris. It was my first European city over forty years ago, and it will always have a special place in my heart. I arrived at Gare de l'Est, full of temporary tents demarcating construction areas, and not a public phone in sight. At information they directed me, "toute à droite, et après à droite et encore à droite." I did all the "rights right" (à droite, à droite, à droite) and still no phone. Malish, je suis à Paris. Time to put my charms to work and collect more anti-rude French stories.

I am a deep repository of personal experiences with polite, helpful, friendly Parisians and I'm always looking to increase my repertory. People on cell phones all around, I approached one young man who smilled sweetly and said, "Mais oui, bien sùre" and began punching numbers for me. No rudeness there. Merci monsieur. Merci beaucoup. But my friend wasn't answering and I had to leave a message that I would call again later.

I picked up my bags and crossed over the street to a corner cafe. I'll have a kir and relax while I wait. And the cafe had creme de framboise. Perhaps I'll have two. When I asked about "le petite monnaie" for the telephone public, the propriator slipped off to the cash register and returned with his personal cell phone for me to use. Not much rudeness there, but still no response from my friend.

By now, it was getting late and time for me to seek out alternative lodging. Armed with a list of cheap hotels in the area that I obtained from information at t-he station, I headed for the Metro, purchased a carnet (of tickets) and standing with my Metro map in hand checking my destination, up comes a woman to see if I needed assistance. Oui, laquelle direction pour aller à place de la Republique? Her response, Place d'Italie and do you need a Metro ticket, as she holds out one for me. Thank you so much, but I have one. Not much rudeness there. Au revoir.