Jzuh sweez on Paree

I love the sound of the whistle in a train station, and I love train travel. I’m writing this on my word processing program on the train, leaving Marseilles for Paris, happy that I had a pretty good night’s sleep — enough to give me enough energy to feel some excitement. But then the thought of Paris is enough to generate some excitement, even if one is tired. I mean, France is France, and France is wonderful. But Paris? Paris is something else.

An announcement is currently playing, none of which I understand except mesdames and messieurs, quarante, and, finally merci pour votre comprehension, which is a phrase I hear at the end of each announcement (and of which I never have any — comprehension, that is).

When I booked my ticket at the local SNCF station on Wednesday for today’s trip, I had the choice of either a) taking the bus to the TGV station in Aix and taking the TGV train directly to Paris, or b) buying a ticket to leave from the SNCF station (five minutes away from my B+B), and taking the regional TER train back down to Marseilles, then changing to the TGV for Paris. Standing there at the counter in Aix on Wednesday and needing to make a quick decision, I opted for the latter, even though it adds about an hour and a half to the trip. It seemed like a good decision at the time. After I left the station and thought about it I realised what had probably prompted this decision: I had not been to the bus station, nor to the TGV station in Aix; however, having had arrived in Aix at the SNCF station, via Marsailles (and knowing both stations) I think I just  wanted to go with the known, thereby eliminating the stress of dealing with stations that I didn't know. An extra hour and a half on the train was no great sacrifice. I love train travel and I wanted the chance to try and finish my novel along with way.

Yesterday, when I asked Marie, the proprietress of my B+B, if she would order me a taxi for 8 am today, she immediately got on the phone and arranged it, and the taxi was prompt and the driver put my suitcase in the trunk and began to drive a rather circuitous route to the train station. All of a sudden I realised that we were not going to the local station and, with an urgency in my voice I said "non, non, monsieur, ne pas le TGV! Je besoin d'aller a le SNCF dans la centre ville!" We had some quick exchanges in French, most of which I heard I could not understand, and I kept repeating SNCF. SNCF. He was rather perplexed, and I came to understand that, when Marie had ordered the taxi, she told him to take me directly to the TGV station (assuming that’s what I wanted, since that’s the most sensible and direct method to get to Paris). And, when he asked me porquoi??? I could’t find the words and I simply ended up saying je ne comprends pas….." ("I don't understand"), while THINKING I was saying "I don't know" ("je ne sais pas"), and wanting to say "I don't know how to tell you, en francais," while feeling like a complete boob. I suddenly had a few tears of frustration, not just because of the confusion of the moment, but also, in part, because my fare was going to be double than what it would have been, had he known directly where to take me. And, upon another quick impulse, I added a tip, since the confusion had not been his fault. IF ONLY, upon getting into the taxi I had said "le gare SNCF, dans le centre ville, s’il vous plait!" If only….

Entering the station I decided it was best to stop crying, and I noticed that an earlier train was preparing to leave for Marseilles. I asked if I could take it, they said yes, so I got to Marseilles a half hour earlier and went inside a little space and, upon learning there was no decaf, ordered a cafe au lait and waited for the platform number to be posted. Once on the platform, we had to walk about 10 minutes down a long, long, long train to its front cars. I am in voiture 5, bas, place assise 11, and now beautiful scenery is flying by, so closing for now and enjoying the ride.

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Arrived in Paris and waited in the queue for a taxi at Gare Lyon; and, although there were about 40-some people ahead of me, it only took about 15 minutes or so for my turn at a taxi. The driver spoke not one word of English, and so I told him (successfully!) in French that I needed to go to two destinations, and that I needed him to wait for me at the first destination, where I would get the key to my apartment.

After paying the balance of my security deposit and rent for my Paris apartment last week, I had received an email with instructions on how to obtain my key and how to get into my apartment. So, arriving at Boutique City Locker, a service where one can store suitcases, or, as in my case, pick up keys, the driver told me he would pull around the corner, so as not to hold up traffic. The place was always unattended and I had to enter a 6-digit code on the panel next to the door; however, after several tries of being very, very careful to enter the numbers correctly, I had no success. I had a number to call in case of emergency, and a nice young Frenchman, who fortunately spoke English, waited on the line as I tried and tried again.  "You have to push the numbers hard," he said. So, I pushed the numbers "hard," noticing that barely discernible beeps attended some numbers, but not others. So I pushed each number harder. "You also have to push them fast," said the voice on the phone. So I pushed them hard and fast. Meanwhile, the taxi was waiting and the meter was running. The young man on the phone said he had someone in the neighbourhood who he would call to come and assist me, so I walked to the taxi, paid the driver, retrieved my suitcase, and returned to the door. "I'll give it one more try," I thought. I once again entered the numbers exactly as I had before, and, voila! The door clicked. I went inside to the vault number I had been given and used the code to open the door of the small vault and retrieved the keys to my apartment. 

I called the young man back to tell him I had been successful and he was ever so sincerely appreciative of the fact that I had done so. After I hung up, I decided I would walk to the apartment. Before leaving the States I had studied a map of the area and knew that my apartment was not that far away, so, following my nose, I began to walk in the direction of where I thought my apartment to be. 

After a bit of back-tracking and circling around narrow, winding side streets and cul-de-sacs, I arrived at 8 rue grands degres, and now I had to enter the code to enter the first door (it was written on my key); then use one of the three keys to open an iron gate once inside, and then, climbing a set of stairs, a second iron gate, and then to use the elevator to get to the second floor where my apartment was located. Having had a similar key to Jacqueline's apartment, I knew that I had to turn the key twice, and, voila! Home at last!

After unpacking a few things and taking a look at the tome with all of the information concerning the apartment, I decided to go out and get some dinner. One of my concerns when I reserved this apartment was how safe I would feel when coming home in the dark at night. It's on a narrow side street; however, I am on main thoroughfares until just a few feet before my building's entrance, and I feel pretty comfortable with the thought of returning home at night. I certainly won't dally, and have already memorised the code to get in the first door: B1789 — my mnemonic device being B for "Bastille" and 1789, the year it was stormed before the revolution. Perfect, no? 

So, I came out onto my street and turned a corner and voila! Right before my very eyes were the buttresses of Notre Dame just across the river. I knew it was there because I had passed it on the way, but, still, it just kind of made me go "oh, wow!" upon seeing it like that. 

The Boulevard St. Germain is just one block to the south of my apartment and so I followed it along, going westward and feeling some happiness and excitement at being here. I turned down one side street and found a little restaurant, where I went in. Being cold (it's cold and rainy, and I only have a light sweater and a light jacket and raincoat, and, even wearing all three is not enough), I ordered a delicious bowl of onion soup and l'agneau roti, along with a glass of beer. 

The restaurant was so warm (I was sitting right under a portable heater on the wall); the beer was good, and I was excited to be in Paris. It was at that very moment that I really yearned to be sitting with a friend — any friend. (So if you happen to be reading this, catch a flight tomorrow or Sunday. I'll even share my hide-a-bed sofa with you.)

As I was about to begin my main course, two elderly women came in and I was so happy to hear them speaking "American" that I almost cried — did, in fact, just a little. I got up and went to their table. "Excuse me," I said. "American?" And when they nodded yes, I explained that I had been travelling alone in France for three weeks, hearing nothing but French. As I was telling them that I was so excited to see them, I reached down and hugged the first woman. She was a little surprised, but they both laughed and the second woman willingly accepted a hug from this quirky woman in a red hat.

We chatted for a few minutes and they told me how "brave" I was. (This is the most ridiculous thing to me. One does not have to be "brave" to travel in Europe. Now, Nepal? That was another thing — at least for me. I had a lot of fear about going to Nepal prior to my trip. To me, bravery implies that one has fear and, that, despite the fear, one moves forward anyway. I have never had fear about going to Europe alone. But I digress.) After I finished my meal and paid my bill, my two American friends and I wished each other "bon soir" as I left the restaurant.

Now to open up the hide-a-bed and test out the comfort level. Good night from Paris.