Tour de France, Petit Palais (again), Bizarre Reminiscences and Notre Dame's Crypte Archeologique

This was the final day of the Tour de France. Predictably, we could not visit the Petit Palais the next day, so we fought our way out of the metro station onto the Champs Elysées to join in with the festivities briefly.

That last picture is of me waiting a few minutes for them to change the receipt roll so I could buy souvenir water bottles.

With the streets cordoned off, it was not clear how one got to the Petit Palais without a Tour ticket. I asked a policeman who directed us round the back on what could easily have turned out to be a wild goose chase. The place was swarming with police and associated vehicles.

I found a ribbon that appeared to be the last frontier between us and the museum, and after asking again a policewoman lifted the tape and let us through.

The benefit of going to all this trouble was that the museum was quiet and a pleasant visit ensued, even if it was awfully hard work getting tickets to the permanent collection and not to the special exhibition also!

I’ve already blogged the museum in-depth here, so it will suffice to confirm that we actually went by means of this photo.

He likes glass.

Heading across the Pont Alexandre III for the bus, we nearly fell victim to the common shiny-find scam, but resisted admirably. Said scammer looked awfully disappointed, especially as he had approached someone who was, bizarrely, able to cheerfully confirm that said shiny-find was gold. Perhaps if one genuinely found such a shiny-find one would not be so keen to hand it over for a couple of euros.

Moving on.

We hopped on a bus to Saint Michel where we had agreed to meet Meg and all headed over to the Greek place she and I had discovered with Kenny our first week. Thankfully, I had marked it on my map then, as even with that assistance it took us a while and we were nearly kidnapped by a dancing man in a sombrero en route.

It was as good as we remembered and provided fuel for Meg who proceeded to soliloquise about my apparently freakish good memory, before testing it with the very odd question, “What was it you said about naked men?” This is, undoubtedly, the most alarming thing she has ever come out with.

As we painstakingly reconstructed, it turned out that the exact phrase was, “Yeah, where are the naked men?” in helpful conclusion to Meg’s neo-feminist rant in the Musée d’Orsay about equality in post-1800 art. Of course, she got away with it while my single contribution was overheard by a shocked group of American ladies in matching hats, none of whom would see ninety again. You can’t take her anywhere. In my defence, I had just escaped death by revolving door.

Before we moved on, we popped round the corner into St Severin again, which was still pretty.

After lunch we visited the Crypt Archeologique under Parvis Notre Dame, which contains the excavated remains of the Île de la Cité’s hunchback-era community. This includes the house of Nicholas Flamel and the Foundling’s Hospital, where I got very irritated with the nuns who refused to look after babies until St Vincent-de-Paul baptised them.

The museum, which began with a look at the development of Paris through the ages, was interesting – indeed, Meg wasn’t wrong when she said it would have made a good early visit – but incredibly hot. We were all dripping by the time we left, and I mean that literally.

Being pretty sapped by all that, we parted from Meg and walked a bit further across the river, where we passed the Paris Plage, the beach on the quai made from trucked-in sand.

Then we passed the Hotel de Ville.

Back on the metro, I decided to take us by a scenic route. Or rather, the scenic route, as there aren’t many. We came above ground at Bastille, to see where the canal feeds into the Seine, then joined line 2 which goes above ground for a few stations in north eastern Paris. I wanted to see the Egyptian-tiled cinema at Barbes-Rouchouart again, so of course a train was passing us at the time. I’m honing a feeling of cosmic persecution as I feel it may serve me well, artistically.

Catacombs and Coffee shops

By the time Meg-of-the-cursed-rail-travel turned up at Denfert-Rochereau (as I write this she is in the sixth hour of a journey from Durham, yet to reach Berwick, without her planned travelling companion), Jo Ann had enjoyed a Chinese lunch and we were ready to tackle the catacombs.

We located the queue, only to be informed, by a very forceful man with no other apparent function, that the last entry was an hour hence and there was little chance of us making it to the entrance in time. It was not entirely clear whether he was going to prevent our trying, so while Jo Ann distracted him with pouts and French tales of sadness (Mais c’est mon dernier jour à Paris!), the three of us sneaked in, followed by a group of Australian girls who had been walking all day. The next forty minutes were consumed with constant estimates of the number admitted per minute, and attempts to divide by this the equally indeterminate number of persons in front of us. We realised we were going to make it and spent the final five minutes making fun of the man who tried to dissuade us. I never said we were nice people.

Our catacomb visit began with ninety-three steps down a very disorientating and unevenly treaded spiral staircase (we all know how I love those, and naturally they all sent me down in front). It was a long way, but once down there we had the opportunity to read boards in English (you don’t take this for granted after a month in Paris) so we knew that the bones came from most of the old Parisian cemeteries in the central arrondissements and included many influential and notable, if not famous, Parisians. See, there’s no shame in being used as decor… though, later, when I told my companions that when I died I had no objection to my skeleton contributing to a chandelier, there was some choking and spitting out of drinks. Can’t think why. These people are so sensitive.

A long and slippery walk brought us to these carvings, made in near total darkness, from memory – the story was only slightly spoiled by the ending, where the unsung artist got killed in a cave-in. And may I say to the curators, when you have hundreds of tourists underground and would like to avoid panic, it is best to avoid phrases like “cave-in”.

We split into the sensitive and less-sensitive pairs; no one will be surprised to hear that Jo Ann and I were the ones who were third and fourth last out, having spent extra time bonding with the dead and exclaiming, “Cool!” when they made new patterns with femurs. Here’s an atypically well-lit corner.

There’s not a lot you can say about the catacombs, other than to note that for those with arthritis of any kind, it’s the kind of thing you want to do on a good day. There were eighty steps up, less than the down staircase, but as it was about a metre in radius, there were only two people behind us and one of them was jangling the keys and calling encouraging things like, “Don’t go too quickly!” while speeding up, it was a bit of a slog. However, the metro had done us good and we displayed a commendable recovery time, after which we decided that a coffee shop was better than taking on the rush hour.

Shortly staggering onto a boulevard, the task of choosing a coffee shop was hampered by Jo Ann’s unsuccessful attempt to buy churros from a stand where the proprietor was inexplicably but completely determined only to sell them in sixes. Her attempts to bargain he seemed to find hilarious, and suggested that maybe we all wanted to share. As Jo Ann turned to the rest of us hopefully, we noticed that the light was a convenient green and crossed the road in haste.

Jo Ann and Meg disappeared, briefly, in opposite directions seeking shoes and/or baby clothes, leaving the Burts in charge of the coffee shop choice. We had a traditional French café on one side and Starbucks on the other. Starbucks?, we thought. Pah - clearly we must select the French option. Five minutes later, put off by the price of an orange juice and the outdoor seating (outdoor, since the smoking ban, means squinting to discern your interlocutor through a nicotine haze), we marched collectively through the doors of Starbucks. As is my wont, I handled the transaction beautifully and fluently while ordering completely the wrong thing. But as “the wrong thing” was, in this case, a mango tea frappucino, it was a happy accident, as most of mine are (barring the car crash and the shoulder dislocation). Jo Ann ordered the same, but was very clear that she wanted it blended twice to rid the drink of nasty ice particles. Our inquiries were well-rewarded, as we were treated to an extremely entertaining and (after two hours with corpses) funny monologue about ice and Starbucks prices and the entitlement to good service. Here’s Jo Ann sipping critically to assess the quality of the blend.

The disadvantage of dragging parents round Paris with you is their availability to friends who relish such an opportunity for parental quizzing. Accordingly, the rest of our time at Starbucks was spent reliving my childhood activism to a decreasingly incredulous Meg, after she expressed doubt that I had always had such a defined sense of autonomy and political accountability.

The bus journey back to the 17^th included an unscheduled stop at the Seine, where we were all kicked off the bus so the driver could go home (it happens). We took the opportunity to wander over the river on the Pont Royal.

While we were taking pictures, we missed the next bus, and naively returned to await the next one. Let me tell you, this is a view we had for some time, as we peered at the number of every passing bus.

Some hours later, we stopped again to change buses on Avenue de l’Opéra, and this picture was taken, which is suitably representative of the street and made me realise that I hadn’t taken any pictures of the scene of my most frequent bus changes.

When we got back to Guy Môquet, we staggered into my local Chinese restaurant, having abandoned more ambitious plans in the sweaty 81 bus. It seemed sensible.

Commuter rage and Montmartre (again again)

What you have to understand is that I put a lot of thought into it. I wanted to buy my visiting parent a weekly carte orange, at €16.80, but after asking whether they had a start date my friendly local metro ticket dealer informed me that there was no point in buying him a weekly card as the only ones now on sale were for the next calendar week, beginning the day of his departure. Thinking that the daily card would not be worth it in the short term, as we would need two tickets on the evening of his arrival, I went ahead and bought a carnet – ten single tickets – thinking that we’d probably get a one-day pass for the Monday, which would bring the price to a reasonable total. The process wasn’t stressful, exactly, but it did involve the man in the window (in the metro station, not in my mind) switching to English as soon as he caught an accent. This would not have been a problem except that the metro staff can have this weary, eye-rolling way of doing that which grates, especially when you’re not asking them to suffer the indignity of the English language for you. I happen to speak decent French, thank you very much, I thought, and I know very well how to conduct this conversation in your language. Um, vive la France, bye.

In retrospect, it seems vainly principled, but we continued the conversation, him in English, me in French, until we had debated all the possible options and I had completed my purchase. We will return to this theme of my patience with other human beings shortly.

On Friday evening, I had set forth to Porte Maillot, to retrieve Dodo, and had to endure en route the events described here. This was bad enough. Then, as I approached Porte Maillot, my iPod ran out of battery power. Oh well, I thought, I won’t need it on the way back. Just at that moment I got the following text message.

“Forgot to collect bag. On bus back to airport. Go home.”

This didn’t do much for my mood, and nether did the three hundred steps at the Porte Maillot RER station on my way to the metro.

On Saturday morning, once reunited and well-slept, I had decided we would ride the Montmartrobus and do a wee tour of the Butte before meeting Meg and Jo Ann at the catacombs in Montparnasse. Small problem. Every time you get on a bus you need a new ticket. So I decided that Saturday, not Monday, would be an awfully good day to get the day ticket. Bigger problem. They don’t sell them in the automated machines and the window was unmanned. Ah.

Problem solver that I am, I decreed that we would use one ticket, go along to Jules Joffrin metro where the Montmartrobus begins, and try that station. In due course, we got a day ticket and boarded the Montmartrobus. That was easy. It was the getting off that was the problem, and led to my little temper problem. A man was standing in the narrowest part of the bus, right in front of the doors at the centre, with a buggy. This buggy was wedged in between the two pillars. When I said, “Excuse me,” I thought he might at least move. But no, he stood right there unflinching and waited for me to climb over. Which I did, but we missed the stop. That was bad enough, but what I wasn’t quite expecting was the cool wave of rage that washed over me as I stood, fuming, in front of the doors. When we got off at the next stop, I allowed myself a little tantrum with foot stamping before we continued sightseeing. Four weeks before I had rolled my eyes at those Parisian commuters whose expressions betrayed disgruntlement and disapproval at anyone who got in their way, and here I was – one of them. I allowed myself a moment of horrified introspection before deciding that paintings were really far more interesting.

I remembered that I hadn’t taken a picture of the water tower before, which, along with Sacre Coeur, is a major landmark in Paris.

We explored the upper part of Montmartre, hanging out around Sacre Coeur (where, once again, I encountered the busker in a cowboy hat who seemed to sing nothing but bouncified James Blunt covers), appreciating the portrait artists who actually take no for an answer when you reject them cruelly, and browsing the paintings in Place des Tertres. The best part, again, was St Pierre, with its fascinating stained glass, and this time I took some pictures.

There was a genuinely artistic modern crucifixion scene.

And this is my favourite – there are scenes from the life of Peter all round the sanctuary, and this is his walking on water.

Descending in the less-than-thrilling funicular, we passed some friendship bracelet sellers who seemed convinced that what I wanted was one of their creations (they were quite lucky, given my recent experiences, that they didn’t get my nails dug into them when they tried to grab my wrist) and inched forward, much distracted by shop windows, to Abbesses once more, where we revisited St Jean, my favourite church in Paris.

We also got lunch at the bakery with the meringues, and treated ourselves to a big strawberry one which actually lasted more than three days. We ate under a tree in Abbesses and watched as no less than four young couples stood around the metro station, DK guides open to the map pages, in a weird sort of frozen performance art. None of them realised the other three were doing exactly the same thing or looked exactly the same, which amused me no end.

Heading down via the dreaded Montparnasse station to Denfert-Rochereau, we rendezvous-ed avec Jo Ann in the big lion-adorned square (loved the lion).

Galeries Lafayette

With me both sore after Versailles and busier with class, I was glad of another easy day. Jo Ann had left word with Tina that I was expected at the Chanel counter of Galeries Lafayette, shopping for to do. Galeries Lafayette is the most iconic of the three (with Printemps and Samaritaine) famous department stores in Paris, and Jo Ann had been the sole interested party as I kept bringing it up on the list.

At 2, Tina and I arrived and quickly located Chanel. Thirty minutes later, we managed to meet up – naturally Chanel has two perfume counters in the Galeries. Why we didn’t think of that I don’t know. We proceeded to shop for clothes for Jo Ann, and if that doesn’t sound like fun to you then you don’t know shopping. Our conversation was dominated, yes, by complaints about the temperature in shops and how we would propose to fix the problem, but then that’s the kind of people we are. And there was some discussion of the lift, how to get in it, how to summon it (pressing the button helps, we found, after ten minutes) and how to survive a breakneck basement lift plunge. I had scientific data on hand.

The highlight was the beautiful Art Nouveau inspired interior. And yes, that, and not the shopping, was what put it firmly at the top of my list. At least I’m consistent.

Canal St-Martin

A relaxed Tuesday provided appropriate occasion for a canal visit. We all went our separate ways in the afternoon (in my case to meet with a French singer-songwriter who wanted an English lyricist – a gig I got and enjoyed) but agreed to meet by the Canal St-Martin in eastern Paris later. I even coaxed Kenny out and we met Jen and Val near a laid-back bar-cum-club at Jaurès. Meg and Jo Ann soon followed, and we happy few hung around on the terrace until we were done with watching Jo Ann toss her hair at the Pompiers going past – a worthwhile experiment that does not reassure about the attention on the job of the average Parisian fireman.

Having found some food, we all lounged on some benches by the canal and enjoyed the cool of the evening.

When we all split up, I was going home alone and made the decision to head east to the nearest metro station, Colonel Fabian. This soon transpired to be a silly idea. I had not realised that my route would take me through a residential area of pedestrianised walkways and tower blocks, which felt half deserted and kind of unsafe to begin with (always listen to your instincts, I say – to other people). When I came across a mixed group of people playing table tennis in a courtyard, including several old ladies, I decided it must be all right, and probably was under most circumstances, but I soon left the courtyard far behind and, in the late evening, the shadows of the tower blocks closed in. I found myself in fairly dark, narrow walkways further shaded by trees and peppered with scary-looking youths in hostile standoff. Colonel Fabian itself, a great big traffic-clogged roundabout, seemed fine, but paranoia had set in and I was happy to get moving on the metro.

I don't enjoy my own paranoia, but it really made me notice that, despite some of the hassles, it was the first time I had actually felt at all unsafe in Paris.

Montmartre (again), St Denis and hardened criminals (again)

Jo Ann arrived last night for a week-long visit, and we all met after class in the courtyard. Poor Jo Ann had a nerve-wracking start to her trip when she arrived after one to find the courtyard deserted – only after panicking and trying to phone Meg did she realise that she hadn’t reset her watch properly and we were all still in class…

Once she had recovered, Jo Ann, Meg and I determined to take the metro to Hector Guimard’s classic Art Nouveau metro station at Abbesses, in Montmartre. This we did, and emerged to see and take pictures of this Parisian icon.

Directly opposite Abbesses, on the square, is the remarkable church of St-Jean-Evangeliste.

The church was built in the late 19^th century, heavily influenced by both the Art Nouveau movement and Islamic art – yippee! Two of my favourite things!

The doors are permanently thrown open, which gives the church an unusual air of openness, but unfortunately means that one hundred years of soot and pollution have built up on the inner surfaces, which just need a good clean. Nevertheless, it became my favourite church in Paris, and I returned.

Being a church of St John, it had beasts of the apocalypse in the stained glass around the roof, and this unusual window that I saw after becoming very concerned by Meg’s sudden cry of, “Skeletor!”

There were also less typical Gospel scenes in bold colours.

As well as gorgeous tiled altar- and chapel-pieces.

After sitting in the church, enjoying the atmosphere, as Jo Ann explained in detail the link between squat toilets and urinary tract infections, we decided it was time for lunch.

Our plan was to wander down to the Moulin Rouge, via the very Amélie-related Rue Lepic.

On the way, I was disturbed by a rotisserie called, in English, the Chicken Family. This is on the same level as the cheerful, child-like painting of the cow on our local butcher’s shutter. Not at all reluctant to think about where their meat comes from, the Parisians. I’m a bit squeamish about the whole thing. Despite this, we were tempted into a bakery for a fougasse – a delightful doughy bread thingy with bacon or olive filling – and, in Jo Ann’s case, for the largest meringue known to man.

We may have been eating, but we had set out looking for crepes, and crepes we were determined to find. For three euros or less. Down at the Moulin Rouge we found an appropriately classless establishment which, for €2.50, provided us with nutella- and banana-stuffed crepes. We were on a sugar high, and sat chatting and giggling in front of the Moulin Rouge for a good half hour, despite Meg’s disappointment that it didn’t actually have an elephant.

From Blanche, we took the metro up to St Denis, one of the suburbs, mirroring underground the legendary journey of St Denis himself. He was martyred on Montmartre – hence the name – but was said to have picked up his severed head and walked with it to St Denis, a couple of miles north, where he supposedly wanted his basilica to be built. Why the story didn’t have him walk further for a more impressive feat, I don’t know, but that’s where the Basilique St-Denis is, anyway.

The basilica is reputedly the impetus for the entire Gothic movement in church architecture, as the first of its kind built anywhere. It has all the checklist items of the Gothic style, but is so wonderfully light in comparison to some other northern examples I’ve seen.

It has some colourful and surprising stained glass, and some that looks quite Celtic. I’d be interested to know more about the basilica and its development.

I now bore you with more photos of the basilica…

There was a pigeon trapped inside the church when we were there, whom Jo Ann named Virgil for reasons unknown, and she suggested I compose some sort of Virgil-related book. I’m thinking of a children’s book series where the statue of Jesus comes to life and talks to the pigeon, who is, naturally, rescued, as his eye is on the sparrow and a pigeon’s much harder to miss.

Or something.

From Meg’s blog, here:

On our way back home, we had an interesting experience. Jo Ann saw a Sephora store (a fancy make-up and perfume shop), and she wanted to go in because they let you sample everything inside. Well, Jo Ann decided that she was going to do a make-over on me using some of the samples, and she started with some very vibrant turquoise eye shadow. About halfway through, one of the sales clerks came over and checked on us. She said that what we were using wasn't one of the samples, that Jo Ann had opened new makeup. Jo Ann apologized in French, and I said that I'd buy it if we needed to do so. Luckily, we didn't, but after that the fun was gone from the experience. We all felt a little guilty and decided to sneak out of the store one by one before creating anymore mayhem. After we had all safely escaped, Kathleen looked at my very, very brightly shaded lids and said, "Meg, you're wearing contraband on your face." I don't know, but I think there's something about Kathleen that draws the security people and causes us to get in trouble wherever we go. Maybe it all goes back to that time that she was picked up for drug dealing (a mistake, of course).

I’m not going to comment on the last part. Harrumph. I only add that I had nothing to do with the make up thing, though I was carrying around a bottle of Clinique cleanser that I didn’t want as the staff were keen to try out their hard sell technique in different languages… I had no problem, morally, sneaking away first, and in fact suggested I sacrifice myself by testing the escape route. Once clear of the doors, I hid behind a pillar until Meg appeared. “Pssst…”

So Jo Ann found us both back there, and having escaped we didn’t feel too silly until we realised that it would all be on security camera. Ah.

Kenny and I picked Jo Ann up at the bus stop later that evening, and we three went off to the Hard Rock Café, where we had a very hungry, tasty and John-Mayer-involving evening, and I (at length) managed to talk them into selling me a shot glass. Long story. Not that interesting.

Versailles

The sad thing about my day is that I haven’t been as sore as I was today the whole time I’ve been in Paris, to the point that I couldn’t bend my left knee and put any weight on it, which made the cobbles and uneven surfaces a nightmare, and had me taking all the stairs one at a time – the worst day for arthritis. I’ve had plenty of days here where, even where stairs aren’t fun, I can walk normally, or where walking on the level isn’t a problem. I’m used to being mobile and I hated that feeling of being so slow and debilitated, but at least I can hope it will pass, and it’s not usually that bad. How typical that the one day I was to be on my feet so much and to such enjoyment, I was hobbling about.

Our day trip began at a ridiculously early hour, meeting for the RER to Versailles at 8. In the early morning, everything was funny, though I’m sure were I to repeat them here they would be less so. Much hinged on puns and staring at each other.

We didn’t have to queue for tickets as they were bought on Thursday, as I lay in bed. Here are the girls by the front gates:

Mostly this will be a series of photos. Versailles is Versailles: it’s a big palace with lots of pretty stuff and too many people. Despite the crowds, we enjoyed our day. The only places I was overwhelmed by crowds were the upper levels of the palace, and since the hall of mirrors and Marie Antoinette’s apartments were up there – my two big sightseeing desires – it was worth it. The grounds, on the other hand, were spacious enough for everyone, if never quite tranquil.

First, the chapel from the lower level. It’s an intriguingly designed section of the chateau, as it cuts down through three levels of the building.

Among the many rooms stuffed with interesting paintings, I like this detail with the globe – Western Europe accurately portrayed according to my synaesthesia. Seriously. Except for Switzerland, which in my synaesthesia is (as was still hilarious at 9.30am) neutral.

Most of the royal apartments could only be described as “sumptuous” – I don’t know an equivalent French term.

The famed hall of mirrors was, as promised and between the surging tour groups, fabulous.

And a last glimpse from upstairs, in the form of Marie Antoinette’s bed.

Downstairs, Meg and I (who had lost Alissa and Tina by then, assuming them to be ahead) explored the rooms marked as the Dauphin’s and Dauphine’s, though most seemed to be labelled as Madame du Pompadour’s or Madame du Barry’s, so unless they were all flatmates, I suppose the rooms must have been used for different purposes at different times. In any case, this bed belonged to Madame du Pompadour, who is now forever associated in my mind with the Doctor Who episode “The Girl in the Fireplace”, one of my favourites.

Outside, Meg and I quickly located the golf cart hire booth, and waited for Tina and Alissa, who soon sent me a text message saying, “We’re behind you!” Sure enough, they were inside the house in the Dauphin’s suite, and we had a complicated and ultimately unsuccessful conversation through gesture.

When we managed to reconvene, we set forth in our very own golf cart, waved off by Juan, as Tina and I tried to get used to facing backwards and trusting Meg to warn us when the bumps were coming (we nearly left the cart the speedy way). With Meg in the driving seat and Alissa with the map, the power quickly went to their head.

“Just so you know,” announced Meg, “We are not operating under a ‘no man left behind’ policy. If you fall out, we will be leaving you.”

“And we may back over you a few times before driving off,” added Alissa.

I was not reassured.

I was charged with photography, starting with this view of the rapidly shrinking chateau.

A couple of scenes from the expansive grounds.

The cart and its passengers, before I jumped on to make sure they wouldn’t go without me.

I took a brief video of the golf cart experience.

My favourite part of the day was visiting Marie Antoinette’s retreat, the Petit Trianon, a mansion with a sculpted English garden and even a faux-country hamlet.

At the hamlet, there was a fish-filled river, with some very scary fish that even chased the ducks away.

We also visited the Grand Trianon, a smaller version of the big chateau still used for entertaining foreign visitors, and I loved the view through the terrace.

Once the sun came out properly (and burned me, despite my factor 50 with reapplication), we waited till the fountains were turned on before heading home.