Not only did Mary think that the buses were a great idea, she thought that they were my great idea. Everyone's a winner on this trip.
Mary's photos of the first day are far more exhaustive, partly because I myself was exhausted and partly because I had seen a lot of things last year and was selective, for me. However, you will see none of them until I can make blogger and my browser cooperate.
(update: browser not cooperating, however alternate browser now being used for blogging. Vague memories emerge of same last summer. Aaah! Mosquito! 'Scuse me while I close these parentheses.)
We stopped at the St Michel area, a favourite of mine, for lunch and a change of buses. After some browsing, we settled on spaghetti bolognese at an Italian restaurant. We were served by a German-speaking Greek waiter, who asked us, "If you're British, how come you can speak French?" We explained that you had to study it in school and we were students in Paris, but he was clearly still mystified as to why we would even bother. The other waiter walked up and placed sparkly hats on our heads, which we wore while we finished eating, though no explanation was ever offered.
Back on the (other) bus, we drove into eastern Paris. Very interesting route. I saw several new places to me even though we passed familiar sites like Bastille, where there was a boogying octogenarian wearing a bejeweled t-shirt that read, "Papa Danser".
The first major site we came to south of the river was this library - the Bibliotheque Nationale (named after Mitterand, the great builder of contemporary France, but I don't know where his name fits in, really). There's something megalithic about the four huge corner towers, even though they are meant to evoke open books. Meg compared them to the library in the library episodes of the most recent series of Dr Who, which didn't encourage me to visit - count the shadows...
We drove past the road to Bercy village, a revolutionised development of the old warehouse district.
Things were already starting to get a bit odd, with the commentary broken up by a rotating playlist of approximately ten songs that blasted randomly between anecdotes. Taking a leaf out of my tour-guide book, the guide turned to the helipad on the central taxation department.
We stopped at the St Michel area, a favourite of mine, for lunch and a change of buses. After some browsing, we settled on spaghetti bolognese at an Italian restaurant. We were served by a German-speaking Greek waiter, who asked us, "If you're British, how come you can speak French?" We explained that you had to study it in school and we were students in Paris, but he was clearly still mystified as to why we would even bother. The other waiter walked up and placed sparkly hats on our heads, which we wore while we finished eating, though no explanation was ever offered.
Back on the (other) bus, we drove into eastern Paris. Very interesting route. I saw several new places to me even though we passed familiar sites like Bastille, where there was a boogying octogenarian wearing a bejeweled t-shirt that read, "Papa Danser".
The first major site we came to south of the river was this library - the Bibliotheque Nationale (named after Mitterand, the great builder of contemporary France, but I don't know where his name fits in, really). There's something megalithic about the four huge corner towers, even though they are meant to evoke open books. Meg compared them to the library in the library episodes of the most recent series of Dr Who, which didn't encourage me to visit - count the shadows...
We drove past the road to Bercy village, a revolutionised development of the old warehouse district.
Things were already starting to get a bit odd, with the commentary broken up by a rotating playlist of approximately ten songs that blasted randomly between anecdotes. Taking a leaf out of my tour-guide book, the guide turned to the helipad on the central taxation department.
"It is closed now, for security reasons." [pause to think of terrorist threat, then..] "Imagine a secretary gets out of his helicopter, you are driving below, and then there is a gust of wind and he is sitting in the seat next to you."
On the "grand tour" we were driven up the Champs Elysees to see the flaneur culture in action (when people go out strolling to see and be seen),
before swinging the double-decker bus around the Arc de Triomphe which, for what I can honestly say is the only time in my life, made me feel like Cliff Richard. The commentary told us the familiar history of Victor Hugo lying in state, the unknown soldier and allied troops marching into Paris under the arch, then terrified everybody by telling us about daredevil pilots flying under the archway.
After I gave Mary my potted history of the Palais Chaillot while a chanteur de jazz yelled, "JE T'AIME!" in my ear rather alarmingly, we viewed the Eiffel Tower from every conceivable angle, and I must admit it was a lot of fun to have a contained group of people suddenly realising how mind-bogglingly huge it seems from below.
We got off at the Opera Garnier to ogle my favourite building and to recharge before taking the 68 bus (my old friend) down to Denfert Rochereau. Look what we found in a shop there:
Yep, that says Jura.
Pausing for a drink and an excuse to use the loo, we ended up at the same cafe at which Tina and I enjoyed a pre-ballet meal last summer. Conjuring up a vague memory of prices having deterred me from Coke Lite, I ordered jus d'ananas, pineapple juice, with which I also remember having impressed the waiter last summer. He seemed to react, again, as if I were a great sommelier who had ordered an obscure yet excellent vintage from his own grandmother's vineyard. Unless his grandmother has a terrace in the Phillipines, the label of the juice bottle says this is not so. Even more strangely, when Mary asked me what I had ordered and both he and I replied, "Pineapple juice," something in his look congratulated me for my grasp of English. The waiters on rue Auber must have really low expectations.
After our €5 pineapple juice (seriously, you should see what they charge for a coffee), we explored the loo. I was excited that it was a proper Parisian cafe toilet with the phone cubicle, a la Charade. The light system in the loo was interesting - the bit that was glowing, almost inviting you to press it, turned out to be the flush. A few litres of water later, I found the switch lurking in darkness behind the door.
When we actually got on it, our bus terminated three stops down - another quintissential experience. There was, however, another just behind, so it was less of a frustrating experience than it might have been. I plonked Mary down in an appropriate seat and introduced her to my former commute - view of the opera, pyramid at the Louvre and Ile de la Cite included.
Denfert Rochereau is totally disorientating. This is my conclusion from first day. The key problem is that one swings around it for an ill-defined period of time, after which one screeches to a halt and is dumped along on side or another with an almost identical view of the misshapen islands within. Once we knew which way was north, we walked down rue Daguerre with the plan of picking up something to eat in the 8 a huit, but didn't even get that far before succumbing to the temptations of a traiteur asiatique and (in Mary's case) the supermarket full of wine across the street. We also stocked up on some delicious looking fruit.
Sore. Very sore, after the buses and their stairs. It was also much later than we thought.
Sleepy!
After our €5 pineapple juice (seriously, you should see what they charge for a coffee), we explored the loo. I was excited that it was a proper Parisian cafe toilet with the phone cubicle, a la Charade. The light system in the loo was interesting - the bit that was glowing, almost inviting you to press it, turned out to be the flush. A few litres of water later, I found the switch lurking in darkness behind the door.
When we actually got on it, our bus terminated three stops down - another quintissential experience. There was, however, another just behind, so it was less of a frustrating experience than it might have been. I plonked Mary down in an appropriate seat and introduced her to my former commute - view of the opera, pyramid at the Louvre and Ile de la Cite included.
Denfert Rochereau is totally disorientating. This is my conclusion from first day. The key problem is that one swings around it for an ill-defined period of time, after which one screeches to a halt and is dumped along on side or another with an almost identical view of the misshapen islands within. Once we knew which way was north, we walked down rue Daguerre with the plan of picking up something to eat in the 8 a huit, but didn't even get that far before succumbing to the temptations of a traiteur asiatique and (in Mary's case) the supermarket full of wine across the street. We also stocked up on some delicious looking fruit.
Sore. Very sore, after the buses and their stairs. It was also much later than we thought.
Sleepy!
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