When Paris Looked Like Paris

I experienced my favourite moment in Paris when we weren’t supposed to be there.

Our plans derailed by a French rail workers’ strike, we were meant to be 300km away in Dijon, at the start of our rural Burgundian idyll.

Instead, we found ourselves tired, frustrated and uncertain, tumbling out of a TGV from Barcelona onto the forecourt of Paris Gare de Lyon at midnight.

That’s when Richard halted, a look of wonder on his face, to declare, “Holy shit, Paris really looks like Paris.”

And there it was. The Belle Époque facade of the station behind us, a cafe with its sidewalk chairs, tables and aproned waiters in front, all lit by the neon signs of the bars and hotels.

Gare de Lyon train station. Image credit: Metro Centric

Paris carried a burden of expectation possibly heavier than Barcelona. The Catalan city was new to both of us. But the City of Light not only carried its traditional reputation, but my desire to share the magic I had experienced on earlier visits.

When we returned to Paris as planned three weeks later, the city responded with true Gallic indifference to delivering what I wanted.

It rained part or most of every day, with unrelenting steely skies. The peak season holiday crowds meant at best queues, at worst bodily crushes and obscured views of any given sight. The combination of the upcoming Bastille Day celebrations and a terrorist threat meant a disconcertingly high police and military presence.

But there were glimpses. The rain refracting the lights of nighttime Paris; the winding, cobbled streets of Montmartre; the voices of a youth choir in the stillness of La Madeleine. The sheer pleasure of seeing Richard’s face when he saw the glass of Sainte Chapelle, Chagall’s ceiling in the Opera Garnier or Van Gogh’s brushstrokes at the Musée d’Orsay. Sitting together at sidewalk tables, watching the Parisians go by.

The Chagall ceiling of the Opera Garnier. Image credit: Wiki Commons

And I’ll always have that first moment of delight, when Paris really looked like Paris.
MELANYA

STRAY OBSERVATIONS

• Parisian parking. Wow
• After weeks of threatening to do so, Richard finally bought his yellow Lamborghini Euro scarf in Montmartre, home of Amélie and, briefly, Van Gogh
• Trying frogs’ legs for the first time, at a bistro in Île Saint-Louis. Tastes like chicken

In Which Richard Triggers an Alarm at the Louvre

In France, are you still guilty until proven innocent? I ask because I have just set off an alarm in the Louvre.

It’s our second day in Paris and I am suffering culture shock. In contrast to the emptiness of rural Burgundy, Paris is heaving with life. I’m not really coping. The city’s museums, to which we have retreated as a way of escaping what turns out to be 10 solid days of rain, are not the answer.

This should have been obvious. It’s the European summer holiday season in one of the continent’s most populous and popular cities, a city that houses many of the world’s great artistic treasures – of course it’s busy.

I’m unprepared for what it’s like to experience these treasures in the flesh. They are so familiar but somehow they look different, more alive. Wandering through the Musée d’Orsay, you turn round and suddenly there’s Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles or a piece of Lalique jewellery. I know them from books but in person they are breathtaking, more moving than you can possibly imagine, even those objects that are so commonplace they have become the wallpaper of our lives. I once had Monet’s Poppy Field on a set of coasters. It looks better hanging in a museum.

Monet’s Poppy Field. Image source: Wikipedia

The Musée d’Orsay is, for me, the most engrossing of the major Parisian museums we visit. The Louvre contains wonderful things but it’s too big to take in. Although we follow a carefully planned route, restricting ourselves to only a fraction of the items on display, I suffer object overload.

And, of course, it’s the Louvre, so what seems to be the whole world is here to see The Picture. Except us. We can’t get near the thing. There are hundreds of people literally elbowing each other out of the way in an attempt to stand in front of the world’s most famous artwork and, once there, take a photo. It’s hard to appreciate a picture through someone else’s iPad screen. The Mona Lisa just looks bemused by all the attention.

Crowd struggling to see the Mona Lisa. Image source: Wikimedia Commons

The crowds finally prove too much, which is why we’re in the furniture section when I lean over to get a closer look at a typically exquisite Danish chair, thus breaking the hitherto unnoticed beam of light and setting off a thunderous alarm. Presumably this alerts a whole station-full of police officers, whom I expect to be armed to the teeth and who will soon skid, Keystone Cops style, in to the room, handcuffs drawn. I whisper a glum farewell to Melanya, mentally compose a letter to my parents and brace myself for the inevitable. Nothing happens. It’s slightly disappointing. We make a sheepish escape past two museum staffers. They say nothing but give us withering looks, just to let us know that they know.

Before heading for the exit we take a detour through the antiquities. Tucked away in a dimly lit corridor is a small, unobtrusive sculpture. It is a marble carving of a man’s head, produced in piercing detail. He looks like a young Laurence Olivier but his identity remains a mystery, a nameless Roman silently watching the four million tourists who dash past him every year on their way to the nearby Venus de Milo. For me he’s the highlight of the museum. While we are there, few people stop even for a moment to appreciate this beautiful, ancient man, but there’s something inexpressibly poignant about him. Someone knew him once, he probably had friends and family too, but now he’s anonymous. And yet 2000 years after those friends and family have turned to dust, here he is, sitting on a plinth in a Parisian museum, waiting for someone to see him. Out of place, out of time, immortal.
RICHARD

STRAY OBSERVATIONS

• If you want a photo of every painting and object in the Louvre (apparently a popular aim), please just buy the book
• Photography is banned in the Musée d’Orsay
• There are numerous smaller, perfectly formed museums in Paris. Musée Galliera (formerly the Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris) is a favourite of Melanya’s and didn’t disappoint on this visit
• If you think the Louvre is busy, wait till you get to Versailles

Inaction Stations

I was adamant that we would not write a travel blog. Who needs more mediocre travel writing? Travel writing requires drama to make it interesting. Our holiday was planned with precision; there was no room for drama, let alone interest.

I underestimated two things: first, the need to document for the sake of my own failing memory; second, the French capacity for industrial action.

And so it is that we arrive at Barcelona’s Sants train station for our connection to Dijon, only to discover French rail workers are on strike and that our train is cancelled. At last, the drama our blog has been craving.

A train, not moving

There is one train to France; it’s going to Paris and it leaves in eight hours. Oh, and the only available tickets are in first class.

We really need to be in France. We have precisely planned bookings. We take a deep breath, and the tickets. Once we’re in Paris, we’ll go to the place that has rented us a car, explain the situation, and pick up a rental, which we will then drive to Burgundy. They must deal with this sort of thing all the time. And hey, a first-class, cross-border train trip – it’ll be a luxurious adventure.

Our first class carriage turns out to be no flasher than the other carriages, just a whole lot more expensive. We’re not fussed, we made it to France. Just not the part of France we’re supposed to be. Still, we’re in Paris – Paris! – and we’ll sort it out in the morning.

In the morning we get more French disdain than is strictly necessary. Our car rental agency in Dijon has cancelled our booking and given our car away, because they didn’t hear from us. It wasn’t for lack of effort. We tried calling the previous day, but it turns out the number we were given – in fact the number on the website – works only from within France. We were ringing from Barcelona. We also tried emailing, except that the website doesn’t give the email addresses of individual branches. The chap at the rental agency in the Barcelona branch gave us Dijon’s email address (and with it a shake of the head and a regretful sigh of, “I’m sorry, your problem is with the French”) but no one received a thing. Allegedly. So they didn’t hear from us and gave our booking away.

To compound the problem, the car rental person on the end of the line doesn’t speak English. This is fair enough. She’s French, she’s in France, we should speak her language. Melanya does, very well, but explaining our situation is complex. Even so, “I understand what you’re saying,” the person from the rental company says, encouragingly. Then, less encouragingly, “So?”

So we are now in Paris, in an eye-wateringly expensive hotel. We’re supposed to be in Dijon, several hundred kilometres away. Even if we can get to Dijon, no car is awaiting us. That’s moot, because the train strike means that almost every rental car in Paris is accounted for anyway. Tears are shed.

We start going through all the rental agencies. We’re not having much luck.

Eventually, we meet Antoine. Antoine is a trainee at Avis/Budget in Paris Gare du Lyon railway station, and he is a marvel. He is friendly. He speaks English. And, crucially, he has a car, even though it’s a 4WD and we (we being Melanya) have to drive it out of Paris (if you think that’s no big deal, you’ve never been in a car in Paris).

Antoine, if you ever come to New Zealand, I will buy you a beer. You can stay in our spare room. You can stay in our room. If I had a daughter or son, I would promise them to you. I will adopt a daughter or son, and promise them to you.

Lacking the requisite offspring, on our return to Gare du Lyon some three weeks later, we instead leave Antoine a bottle of good Burgundy. We hope he enjoyed it. He saved our holiday.
RICHARD

STRAY OBSERVATIONS

• Everyone – everyone – in Barcelona speaks perfect English. Everyone, that is, except for the people working at Barcelona train station
• Spanish SIM cards stop working exactly at the border
• Even when you’re under stress, it’s amazing how much Paris looks like Paris

This blog entry is dedicated to my cousin Tracey, who died while the events outlined above were unfolding, and whose passing puts everything into perspective.