It’s Monday. I’m on a non-stop TGV from Paris to Grenoble.
Yesterday was a farce. Let me explain.
After writing my last entry, at the Louvre end of the Jardin des Tuileries, I took a leisurely stroll to the opposite end of the gardens (by Place de la Concorde) to use the toilets. They weren’t particularly nice toilets and you had to pay to use them – I knew, because I’d been when I came with school in 2008 – but everyone needs a place to piss, the gardens are nice to walk though, so I didn’t grumble… until I got there.
They were shut.
I looked at the map and the nearest alternatives were just next to the Tuileries Métro station, which is almost exactly where I had started my toilet search! In my desperation I soon found the place ((I was listening to Richard Feynman’s book “The Pleasure of Finding Things Out”, the part where he talks about small computers/robots, and the possibility of them replicating, with copies smaller and smaller every time, as a way of immense miniaturisation. It was cool.)). The facilities were decent, and I left feel refreshed, with my wallet €0.30 lighter in change ((I’m a generous tipper.)). Damn coins were just weighing me down, anyway.
My plan was to get a Métro to La Défense for a bit of sight-seeing, so I headed to the Tuileries Métro station.
It was shut ((You may be seeing a pattern here.)).
Fuck it, I thought. I’ll just walk along to the next stop – there’s no way they can close the busiest ((I have no evidence for this claim, but it’s the Number 1 line so it’s clearly the most important… right?)) Métro line in Paris in the middle of the day. That would be madness. So I headed to the next-closest station on the line, Palais Royale.
It was shut.
There were tons of ‘Police Nationale’ swarming all over the place. Terrorist attack? Security alert? Training? Whatever it was, what else could I do? I continued along the line to the next station eastwards, Louvre – Rivoli.
And it was open.
Thank fuck.
I took the first west-bound train to La Défense. It is huge! The buildings are tall, the esplanade ((Called ‘le Parvis’ according to Wikipedia.)) is vast, but most impressive was La Grande Arche. What a structure.
I couldn’t go to the top – there was a sign that said it was broken or something. I later found out that access to top was closed less than a month before I was there, after an elevator accident. It has never reopened. I bet the views from up there were amazing.
I wandered aimlessly for a while, enjoying the immensity and relative quiet of the place. It felt like I was in the future.
Afterwards, I took the Métro to Austerlitz, then walked through the Jardin des Plantes again to get to the the region behind it which is supposedly lively in the evening and has great food. I found a cheap restaurant on (or near) Rue Mouffetard. It was quiet inside, with few (if any) other customers. For future reference: that’s a bad sign.
There was a prix fixe menu, and for €13.50 I got snails as my entrée, a chicken main course ((With béarnaise sauce, I think.)) and an apple tart for dessert. I ordered a glass of red wine to go with it all. None of it was very good and I should have seen that coming. I’m a fool. There was even English-language music playing in the restaurant as I ate. What the fuck. Next time I’m going to a better, busier restaurant, and spending much more.
I left a very modest tip when I left. At least I didn’t speak a word of English for the whole meal. I felt good about that.
Now for the climax of my day.
Last night, after dinner, I returned to the hostel by Métro and I went straight to the reception to collect the key ((I described the crazy messed-up key system in a previous entry.)).
The key was not there. OK, no big deal, it just means my roommate is already back and so I won’t have any privacy. That’s alright. But when I got to my room, it was locked and there was no answer when I knocked on the door.
I returned to the reception, four floors below, and explained my situation. The receptionist gave me his master key, with instructions to return it immediately. I ran up the stairs, unlocked the door, ran back down the stairs to return the key, and ran back up to the room. Hard work.
There was some stuff on the lower bunk, and I had a little nose around. I saw an InterRail ticket issued to someone in Brazil. I also saw their hostel bill – €46 for 1 night. Damn, I should have worked it out then ((I was paying €23 per night.)). I assumed (correctly) that the Brazilian had left the hostel to venture into Paris and had taken the key with him. It’s no big deal; I got into the room fairly easily.
I used the internet on my iPod, charged it and my phone, and I washed some clothes. Eventually, when I had got everything ready for morning and my journey to Grenoble, I showered and went to bed at 11:30pm.
At 12:30am, the Brazilian guy came in… with a girl. I wasn’t quite asleep yet, so I sat up to greet them, and I told the guy that he should have left the key at reception. They looked confused and left. A couple of minutes later, the guy who was obviously the owner came in. He told me I was in the wrong room. WTF? I protested. No, this is the room I was put in when I checked in on Friday, and I have my receipt to prove it. I gave it to him, he went away and returned 2 minutes later. He told me to move to Room 4! He also something else which I didn’t understand.
I put on some clothes, collected my belongings and moved my stuff to Room 4. Then I immediately went to the reception to see the owner/manager. I was not happy. Why was I being fucked around? I hadn’t done anything wrong.
He told me that I was actually supposed to be in Room 19! The mistake was clear now. I was supposed to have been in Room 19 all along, but the receptionist who checked me in had written Room 49 on my card and receipt by accident, rather than 19. It wasn’t just me mis-reading it, and the manager agreed. It was a mistake and it was their fault. Yet all I got was a sorry.
I found the situation traumatic. Honestly.
I gathered my belongings once again, and after knocking for ages on the door of Room 19 ((Understandable; it was very late.)) my room mate let me in. He was a huge old black African man with a massive belly. He had stuff everywhere, all over the room and on every surface. It was as if he was living there. I was starting to question the title of this place. ‘Youth Hostel’ – if you say so.
I put my valuables into the safe and quickly and carefully got into bed. Top bunk, again. All was now well, and I finally got to sleep… until about 2:15am when I was woken by snoring. Snoring like I’d never it before. Africa produces some great runners; it seems their snorers aren’t bad either.
He was so loud, but the snoring had a weird pattern to it. The amplitude progressed like a sine wave. Each repetition would start quietly, and each subsequent breath was deeper and louder until the snore was not a snore but a shout and a scream… and then it was so forceful and intense that the breath was too harsh to produce a sound. It sound like compressed air gushing out of a pipe.
It was unbearable until he stopped 30 minutes later and I was able to get a few hours of restful sleep.
—
My alarm woke me early in the morning today, the 10th. I got up, got dressed, and had the same boring breakfast. I was glad to be leaving. Unfortunately, I’ll be returning here at the end of my trip.
I was outside Lidl in time for its 8:30am opening, but I wasn’t alone. There were perhaps a dozen others there too. I suppose it was the first day the shop had been open since Saturday, but otherwise it was a normal day. Paris is strange. Inside, I bought water, orange juice, bread, chocolate, a couple of yoghurts and some chorizo. That will keep me going for a little while.
I lugged my bags to the Gare de Lyon, listening to Richard Feynman’s “The Pleasure of Finding Things Out”. I arrived at the station 2 hours early but I didn’t mind. I’d rather that than stay at the hostel longer. Shithole.
Whilst I was waiting I saw loads of people with SNCF tags attached to their luggage. I asked a nearby traveller what they were and whether I needed one too (“Est-que ces choses sont obligées pour le baggage?”). Oui, he said… then he lost me. I did some research on the matter using some open WiFi in the station. It turns out that on TGVs, one is required to label luggage with your first and last name.
They kept that one a secret.
I queued at ticket office to ask for some of the tags. The queueing took a while but it didn’t matter as I was there so early. I asked the lady at the counter if there was anything else I should know about travelling by train in France, as this was my first time. She told me that before boarding the train, I had to validate my reservation! There are yellow boxes at the entrances to the platforms, and you have to stick your ticket into one of them before you travel. It was lucky that I’d noticed the luggage tags, else I’d have ended up travelling without a valid ticket.
One weird thing about the station is that you’re not allowed onto the platform until the train is ready to board, usually about 10 or 15 minutes before departure. You have to wait on the station concourse instead. I know it’s like that in some stations in London – Euston and Kings Cross, for example – so maybe it’s just a Parisian thing. I hope so.
I’m now on the TGV; it’s more old-fashioned inside that I had expected, but it’s comfortable and very fast.
A note about some small changes which I’ve made to this website recently.
I’ve installed Flattr after Murray recommended it. I’ll go into more detail on my thoughts about Flattr – and I might even start actively using it – when I’m back home for the summer.
I’ve changed the page navigation bar which sits at the bottom of the header. For too long it had a bug which annoyed me every time I tried to use it. My CSS was at fault, but I’ve fixed it now and made some slightly changes to its appearance.
I’ve added a couple of extra pages whilst removing some others.
There is now just a single About page, which combines the previous “About/Who?”, “What?”, “Where?” and “Why?” pages.
I’ve reworded some of the titles of other pages.
I’ve totally redone my Favourite Posts page. I looked back through my archives and listed my favourites from each year. I’m really pleased with how some of my writing has turned out. I’m not embarrassed by all of it!
I’ve tried to optimise my WordPress installation a little.
I’ve added Gravatar support to comment threads. Finally, some humanity and personality down there. I’ve been meaning to do that for a while.
I’ve removed Adsense adverts from my RSS feeds and one permanent ad from my French page. I now only have one place with ads, down at the bottom-right of the sidebar. That will probably go soon, too.
I’ve changed some of the typefaces used in the theme. However, only Mac users will feel the full benefit.
The main body text and a few other things still are set in Helvetica, or Arial as the fall-back.
The blog title and individual post titles are now set in ‘Capitals‘.
Sub-headings and some other things are set in ‘Didot‘. I love this.
For you poor people without these typefaces, you can make do with the fall-backs, which include Times New Roman. Sorry guys, I bet it looks awful.
Here’s how the top of a post should look:
Further improvements?
I think I’ll also remove all French-language elements from the interface. They’re silly, I know.
I will probably change the header image, or even have a randomly rotating set of header images like Murray does.
I need to introduce consistency into my typeface usage – some areas of the blog still use the old scheme.
Please let me know if you have any suggestions of your own.
P.S. I’m considering getting an entirely new theme, but I probably can’t be bothered with the effort. This one’s good enough, right?
UPDATE: I’ve also changed the favicon of the site to be a picture of me.
I don’t have enough time to post my travel log in ‘real time’ any more. By that, I mean posting each entry exactly 1 year ((= 365 days.)) after I first wrote it. I thought I was going to be able to handle it but I was wrong. And for that, I am sorry.
Digitising the one or two thousand words which I wrote every day during my trip ((The days so far have been sporadic, but that’s because it took a while to get up to speed with the writing when I was away. Things became more consistent quite quickly.)) is not the difficulty. I could keep up that pace with little effort. But, as Murray found out too, these things always take longer than you expect.
I’m not complaining – this is something I want to do, but I’m going to do it properly rather than quickly.
The thing is, I don’t just want to tell you the raw story. Some of it is unreadable and needs serious editing to turn it into prose, some of it I don’t feel comfortable sharing, and some of it is truly boring. If it’s going to be worth our time, it has to be edited. What’s more, every memory that I type up helps me to recall others that I want to include. I’m having a great time re-living it all, and I want to get as much interesting stuff on the record as I can. I don’t want to lose those memories forever.
The are photos too, don’t you forget. I took about 4,000 whilst I was away. Selecting the suitable ones and going through the process of uploading them and inserting them into the post is a mammoth task. Mammoths had huge coats and 4 legs; I’m just a measly human. It all takes time.
Take yesterday’s post. The raw text is about 1,500 words, but by the time I was finished with it – at least 4 or 5 hours later, seriously – it was closer to 3,500. I could easily have included another 10,000 words and many more than the 50 photos I did, if only I’d had the time ((Perhaps I will add to it some, but I felt happy publishing it as it was.)).
Unfortunately, I don’t have the time ((Actually, I do! It’s 19:15!)) to spend several hours of my productive time writing this travel log at the moment. I’m at university, it’s exam time, and I need good grades to continue the course that I’m currently on. That’s totally achievable, but maths is difficult, and to do my best I need to focus my energy on university work for the next couple of weeks ((My last exam is two weeks today.)).
The good news: I’m not giving up, and I’m probably not even stopping. I’m not going to be studying all of the time, and who knows, I might even choose to spend my free time relaxing in front of my keyboard, working on the next entry. What’s more, I’m having a relatively quiet summer this year, which means I’ll have plenty of time to spend on fanciful projects like this when I move home at the end of the month.
I’m sitting around a pond in the Jardin des Tuileries ((Approx: 48.862710, 2.329073.)).
It’s Sunday, my last full day in Paris for this part of the trip. Today’s not been the best day but I want to talk about yesterday first. Actually, I need to go back to Friday before I get to that.
I arrived at my first hostel ((“Auberge Jules Ferry”)) at about 3pm on Friday, shortly after writing my previous entry. It was alright. It seemed clean and quiet, and the receptionist was helpful and pleasant – I told him that I’d never ‘hostelled’ before. I was put in a double room ((That is, one with a lone bunk bed set.)), and on the way there I passed my roommate of the first two nights. He’s Japanese, but speaks English quite well and is quiet and polite. Excellent.
He gave me the room key.
This is how the system works at this hostel: there is one key for each room, and the last person ((In theory.)) to leave the room drops it off ((In theory.)) at reception. When you return to the hostel, you either pick up the deposited key from reception, or if it’s not there, then it means that someone is already in ((In theory.)), so you just go up to your room to find it unlocked but occupied ((In theory.)). Ideally. And in theory no one steals your stuff.
I trudged up to my room, 49 ((4th floor! Fuck me.)). I found the room tidy but small and with a nice Parisian view. There’s a ‘balcony’ – basically just French windows with a 6-inch ledge on the outside that you can put your foot on. If you lean out you can see the Sacré-Cœur to the right. I liked the hustle-and-bustle.
I took photos of the vantage point.
Then I just sat down for ages. I’d left Perth at 9am on Thursday, and had not showered or cleaned or even changed since. I slowly checked myself over. From the aching in my feet, I was worried that I’d permanently damaged them, but I’d escaped quite lightly. I was blistered, but the blisters were largely painless. I’m going to be walking a lot this month, and any foot injury would be a disaster.
I showered. Man, it felt good, despite the feeble flow ((During one of my showers when I stayed at this hostel, the pressure literally dropped so far that no more than a drip came out of the shower head. Pathetic.)). Afterwards, I massaged Germolene ((Thanks Mum, that was a good idea.)) onto the painful and sore areas, and I dressed myself again ((Clean underwear aside, I think I dressed the same as before – although maybe I wore trainers instead of my boots. My clothes weren’t too bad and I want to conserve as many fresh articles as I can.)).
There was only one electrical outlet in the room. It didn’t cause any problems, and I managed to charge my phone and iPod, but it certainly had the potential to be a bastard. 1 is not enough.
The bathrooms were disgusting. Take a look at this picture of one of the toilets. Ugh. What’s worse are the signs on the doors to the rooms apologising and asking for patience whilst the staff work to improve the facilities. Judging by many reviews that I’ve seen since on the internet, those signs are a decoy. A distraction. A lie. Those signs have been up for year.
What’s even worse is that it’s all unisex. Poor girls.
If you’ve got the time, I encourage you to read a review on Trip Advisor, written by a Canadian woman who goes by the name kal_87. She stayed at the hostel in March 2011. Her review is shown as the first one shown on this page, but for posterity I’m going to quote it in its entirety here. I don’t think that she would mind; judging by her tone I’m guessing that she’d be keen for me to help spread the word. If you are kal_87 and would like me to remove it, please let me know:
I stayed in Paris with my Mother for three days at this hostel. Though the room looked like it had not been mopped in a year, we were happy to be able to be in a two person private room with a sink. It had two old chairs and a wobbling table. The room did have french doors that opened onto a small balcony, and with some minor upkeep and cleaning this could have been a nice room.
Unfortunately for most, the cleaning/breakfast lady is a absolute nightmare. While my mother and I were amused by her bluntness and crazy antics, she offended and angered most people. The staff is awaful, perhaps except for one woman.
The security in this hostel is non exisitant as the lockers were broken and you had only one key. There is nothing stopping people from walking off the street and going upstairs to any of the rooms. I felt it was only eminent that I get robbed but luckily did not. The computers are awful and internet expensive, breakfast dull, and the showers and toilets absolutely dreadful. They claim to be doing maintenance but looking at the other reviews shows this is a lie.
We had to move rooms our third night into a 4 bedroom dorm which we were told was female only. We came back to the hostel to find that there was a man in our room, which was quite disturbing as the morning before the was some commotion in another all female room where a man was found sleeping in their bed.
The best is still yet to come, however. As we try to come to terms with this man being in our room, at approximately 3 am a smelly, turbuculosis couch transient man comes into our room and stares in our faces while we were sleeping. We panic and alert the staff. He is a guest, they say! He has nowhere else to stay and has been hanging around the hostel for months bumming and drinking and now he is IN OUR ROOM! We struggled to go back to our room but what other choice did we have? The hostel was full and it was 3 am. He didn’t sleep that night and I feared that something horrible would happen to me the whole time. At 8 am, we gathered our things and basically fled. My mother went back to the room as she forgot something, only to find the transient man fondling himself in the bed I had been in. It was truly horrifiying. The staff were surprisingly non-chalant at all of this.
STAY AWAY!
As for security in the hostel, the Japanese guy ((Sorry, I’ve forget your name, mate.)) had left his bag in the room. He’s clearly a very trusting guy, so I decided that I would be trusting too. For Friday and Saturday, then, I left my big bag in the room. There was a small locker ((Or a mini safe, if you like)) in the room ((Above the wardrobe – fancy that!)) for each guest. I secured my most valuable possessions in it when in the shower, and my less valuable stuff in it when I was out and about in Paris ((Stuff like my phone charger, etc. Very valuable stuff like travel documents and money I keep with me at all times.)). After a long break, and finding some Wi-Fi out on the balcony ((Very briefly, but I found it again another time, which was long enough to write a few emails to my family.)), I wanted to go for a walk.
I was amazed to find a Lidl opposite the hostel! What are the chances?! I bought some grub: yoghurts, pain au chocolats, orange juice, water, strawberries; and then I got on the Métro to the Latin Quarter. I was looking for the comic book store ((Called Album.)) to maybe buy a French comic or two. I found it, but it was too close to closing time to go in, I thought. Another day. I ended up walking back to hostel which took much longer than I thought. The Métro must travel pretty quickly to cover the distance is does in such a short time.
It was a lovely evening.
When I got back, I went to my dorm and then pretty much went straight to sleep, though not until I’d found out about the election. For fuck’s sake.
Random thought: D. Gibbons is a bad man.
On Saturday morning I woke early. After a while of enjoying that time when you can relax in bed and not have to hurry out of bed, I got dressed and went for breakfast. It was bread, confit de pomme, tea and orange juice ((I didn’t think to take any pictures. I should’ve.)). The food wasn’t bad, it was just boring and not particularly fresh ((Though, really, what should I expect for €23.50 per night?)). I never have a real appetite at 8 in the morning anyway, which made the food even less enticing.
The main problem wasn’t the food but the staff. The breakfast lady – who made cups of tea for people and dished out the food – looked as if she hated being there and hated every one of the hostellers ((Though maybe she’s on the right lines there…)), as well as hating herself. She refused to speak to anyone in English (even though she clearly understood) and was as rude and unhelpful as I could imagine someone to be.
During breakfast I sat next to another Japanese guy, and this one was from Yokohama. The Japanese people that I’ve spoken to have always been older than I thought they looked – my room-mate is a 26 year-old train driver, but he looks about 12 ((In all seriousness, he does look younger than me.))! From what I gathered during our conversation, May is a big holiday time for people in Japan, which is why I’ve seen a lot in Paris so far. That’s interesting; I know very little about Japanese culture.
Whilst I was eating, I noticed that there some stairs leading down to a locker room. I later investigated, but found that it costs €2 each time to open it! I couldn’t even work out how to use them, in case I do decide to use one. A French man in the room tried to explain it to me, but to no avail. My Advanced Higher French does stretch to talking about security lockers.
I then went back to my room, and I decided which train reservations I would need to make so that I could do that trip that I’d planned. Although I’d bought my InterRail ticket online before setting off for France, many of my journeys will be on trains – such as the TGVs – which require you to have a reservation for the specific journey. You can’t just turn up and go. As far as I could tell, it was no possible to make such reservations from home, so I had to leave that until I was out here and could visit a booking office in person.
Planning my journeys was surprisingly difficult. I used this website to see which trains were available, what type and times they were and whether I would need a reservation. In preparation for making my reservations, I noted which train I would prefer to travel on, second and possibly third choices in case the first was booked up, and any options (usually considerable longer and with more changes) which didn’t require a reservation in case all else failed.
Just before 10 o’clock ((The hostel has a 10:00 – 14:00 lockout during which time all guests have to leave the hostel. It’s time for cleaning, that kind of thing, and probably also for the staff to go through our belongings.)) I left and walked to Gare de L’Est, the closest station to my hostel. I’d wanted to buy some stamps as well, but all of the post offices on my route seemed shut. Why? It’s a Saturday morning!
When I got to Gare de L’est, I was fucking worried. It looked like the booking office was shut too! Fuck! If I was shut on Saturday it would presumably be shut on Sunday too, and then Monday is the day that I leave, which would be too late to make a reservation! Thankfully there was another office which was still open. I queued and then bought my 6 reservations: Paris – Grenoble, Marseille – Nimes and back, Nice to Carcassonne, Carcassonne to Bordeaux and finally La Rochelle to Paris. Strange, my card didn’t seem to register the chip so I had to sign for my transaction – I’ve never had to do that before. In all it cost €18, not bad ((Although…. my InterRail ticket itself had cost something like €200.))! The service was cheerful and polite, and the guy’s English was fantastic ((I didn’t fancy risking using my French. A fuck-up could be a disaster.)). Thank you, SNCF.
Afterwards, seeing as I was in the area, I thought that I would check out Gare du Nord. It’s fucking huge. I’ll be leaving from there on the 1st June back to London, and I’ve decided that I’ll arrive 2 hours early when the day comes.
Then I walked to the Sacré-Cœur. I bought a €3 Nutella crêpe on the way there. Bitch reheated an old one for me, right after I saw her cooking a fresh one for a French customer! Fuck her.
I sat down on a bench after climbing the first section of steps up to the top of the hill. I applied suncream ((Because it was sunny!)) and then checked my reservations over.
As I’ll need to travel by train on 9 days, and my InterRail ticket only allows me to travel on separate 8 days in a month, I will need to buy an additional for one of my journeys. I decided that it would make most sense for that journey to be the Nimes – Marseille leg, due to the abundance of walk-on trains and the short distance which would keep costs down. The thing is, not thinking of this earlier, I had already reserved a seat for that journey, so I would no longer need it. The reservations that I’d bought were marked as only valid with “EURAIL”. Then I wondered if EURAIL was the same as InterRail – I didn’t want reservations that weren’t valid with my ticket! I could ask about it later on the way back to the hostel.
I walked up to the Basilica, took some photos, and then came back down. Some black people were arguing; I kept my distance. There were so many street sellers. Scum. A couple of them accosted me – one grabbed my arm when I ignored him (“I said good morning!”). It hurt, and I forcefully told him to let go. He did, the bastard.
I bought some postcards for €0.20 each. The man in the shop insisted I take a proper bag (which had a seal) for my coins after he saw my money bag, because he thought I was going to lose it. I thought he was trying to sell me it at first, but it seemed like he was just being a bad guy! Maybe it’s dodgy; I took it anyway.
Shortly after, I think ((Though this could have been a separate time; I’m writing this in 2011 and can’t remember exactly.)), I saw one of those street scammers. This guy was running something like a shell game or a Three-card Monte, a game where the punter, a member of the public, puts a wager on something that seems easy but there is absolutely no chance of them winning. The conmen often give the person a chance of a ‘double or nothing‘ when they lose a round, and as there’s still no chance of winning, they can bleed them dry even further. At the point I walked past, it was pretty clear that someone was clearly in deep to one of those fuckers, and was refusing to pay. Obviously the conman wasn’t taking this too well. Why anyone would expect people to play by the rules when they don’t play by the rules themselves? I don’t know, but then that’s not the point is it? They don’t care. It made me feel awful. It was slightly heartbreaking, and I hurried off.
I didn’t want to think about it.
I walked along the Boulevard de Rochechouart and the Boulevard de Clichy to Moulin Rouge. I love the shops there, and I remembered walking along the same road with Lucie back in 2008 and laughing at ‘Souvenirs Sexy’ and ‘Supermarché Erotique’. I also noticed, for the first time, lots of ‘free’ public toilet booths – how do they make money, then? There were lots of bikes, too.
After reaching the Moulin Rouge, I walked back to Gare de L’Est. I asked some questions that I’d been thinking of, and it wasn’t a problem to change reservations ((I did have to queue for a while though, the station had got a lot busier since the morning.)). I got the refund that I wanted and bought a reservation from Marseille to Nice for only €1.50. TGV!
I took the Métro to Austerlitz (I like the overground bit on that line!), then changed lines and took on to Sorbonne. I walked to the Panthéon and looked around the area for cheap lunch restaurants ((It was about 2pm.)) but I was not at all impressed with any of the offerings. So what should I do in such a situation? I went to McDonald’s.
Royale Deluxe avec des frites et un Fanta (I ordered in French ((I’d used English at Gare de L’Est, again.))).
I went to sit in the Jardin de Luxembourgh to eat my tasty burger. I listened to the first Kickstarter podcast ((Incidentally, I listened to Windows Weekly whilst around the Moulin Rouge area, the episode called Are You Glistening? I don’t know why I listened to it.)). I wrote a few postcards to some of my family members.
After spending a couple of hours there writing and relaxing, I headed to Jardin des Plantes, via a bookshop called Gibert where I bought 2 science fiction books which had been translated into French: Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury and an Isaac Asimov now. It came to €3.90 in total. Then I stopped by Album, the comic book store. What I hadn’t realised the previous time I was here was that basically all of the comics were American DC imports! I’d wanted to buy French language one, so I left empty handed.
FYI, my feet gave been very sweaty when I’ve worn these new Tesco thin socks – with both my boots and my trainers trainers. It’s happened on all 3 days so far. Whilst the Sun itself is warm when it manages to shine, the air is still cool ((16°C max, I say.)), so I’m not sure why they’re getting so sweaty. It’s crazy that last week the temperature here was 25°C. I was still in Perth back then.
Nearing Jardin de Plants, I thought it was shutting due to shut any time ((It was 6pm and my guide had listed that as a closing time.)) but actually it’s open till sunset. I walked around the gardens and listened to The Pleasure of Finding Things Out (by Richard P. Feynman), but it soon started raining. There was no reason for me to get wet.
I took the Métro from Austerlitz back to Republique, and I walked back to my hostel via Lidl ((Wherein I bough orange juice, water, yoghurts and beetroot.)). My Japanese roommate ((Tsi, is that his name? Maybe)) was using the internet in the reception area as I entered. I had to get the key off him. I went up to the room and spent a while using the internet on my iPod. I ate, had ended up having a later-than-desired post-shower bedtime.
Random thought:Fuck the Tories.
Today is Sunday. Tsi left this morning when I was at breakfast ((Same again.)). Shit. So what do I do now: leave my big bag in room all day and risk the new roommate being a thief? No way, I don’t trust this place. I decided to pay the €2 for a locker. I can afford €2, and I’m assuming that the lockers are secure. We’ll see when I get back…
Lidl was shut. Apparently the French take every opportunity they can to have a day off. I took a Métro to the Louvre. I was denied entry to the amazing Apple Store which is there as it was before 10am! Wow, I didn’t know they opened so late. Lazy people.
I walked past a Post Office down there too, and amazingly it’s open on a Sunday, starting at 10:30 ((“Quelle sorte de stampe est necessaires pour envoyer les postcartes à l’Angleterre?” I bought 15 x 70¢ stamps. I hope they’re the right ones.)). That is insane. Mind-blowing. I went and bought a €9.50 ticket for entrance to the museum, not noticing or not seeing that 18-25 year-olds go free if they’re European. I must have glanced at any relevant signs and assumed it was saying something about students, and as I’m not a student I thought I would be paying full price ((Again, that’s what I had gathered would be the case from my piece of shit AA Paris book.)). Anyway, I later realised my error and now I’m kicking myself. I hate when I waste money, but I hate myself more for getting so annoying about it.
What of the Louvre? You know what, as impressive and grand as it is, 3 hours was plennnnty for me. It seems like art is… not really my thing. Half of it was shiny cutlery, and the rest was painting and sculptures that I’d’ve been happy seeing pictures of. I don’t need to travel to France to see that, and I wouldn’t end up with the sore feet.
After seeing the Mona Lisa ((She really is quite small.)) and some Egyptian bits, I went out to the Jardin des Tuileries ages, which is where I sit to write this, right now.
Now. I really need a piss ((What a surprise.)), where should I go? I just drank loads of orange juice. I could try the Louvre toilets again I suppose ((As my ticket is still valid, but it would mean queueing for a long time for entrance to to get through security.)).
After urination, I’ll get Métro to La Defense because I want to see the Grande Arche ((= Grand Arch.)), then perhaps finally I’ll go to Austerlitz again to enjoy the Jardin de Plants. I like it there. Then I think I’ll see about a having a meal in an actual French restaurant.
I’m going to get an early night tonight, so that I’m ready and keen to go to Grenoble tomorrow morning. Before I go, I’ll need to stock up on grub at Lidl. I’ll get to Gare de Lyon 1 hour early.
All in all: Paris is nice, but I wish it would warm up.
I’m excited about travelling on a TGV Duplex tomorrow! My first real high speed rail experience!
Firstly, I have a really sore ass and my belly feels weird ((Maybe it’s bloated from sitting down so long on the bus, and having not eaten enough? Probably.)). Often a single ECML journey is enough to make me feel bloated if I forget to walk around a little, so I’m not surprised I don’t feel too sprightly. More urgently: I need a mega piss. Do the French not need to piss too? Where are their toilets? ((This, as you may see, turns out to be a recurring theme during my travels.))
I’m quite cold too – I’m amazed the weather’s so shit for May in France. Let’s hope it doesn’t stay like this.
After the bullshit on Wednesday, I booked train and coach tickets to Paris for departure on Thursday and arrival on Friday. I knew it was going to be hellish but I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t trust aviation ((I hate Iceland.)). My rescheduled flight was for Saturday, but I wanted to get to Paris as soon as possible ((I had spent money on hostel deposits, plus the later I went, the shorter my holiday would be – my return date was non-negotiable.)), and who knew if the planes would even be flying on Satuday? Eyjafjallajökull is one hell of a tricksy bitch.
I was impressed with the cost of my alternative route. I normally book train tickets months in advance, so I had braced myself for a horrific sum. Yet, despite being just over 12 hours before departure, I managed to find a ticket for just £33 ((That does include the railcard discount; a fully grown adult would have paid £49.50.)) all the way from Perth to London. The ticket from Victoria coach station to Gallieni in Paris was also £33, with an additional £3 booking fee. It’s a lot, but not as much as I was expecting to pay at such short notice, particularly considering the additional strain that would have been placed on the transport system by the volcano disruption ((Eurostar was out of the question for this reason.)). In contrast, my EasyJet EDI – CDG ticket had cost £56.99, and the return trip by Eurostar from Paris to London and by East Coast onwards to Perth had cost £39.50 and £16.75 respectively. Overall: not bad ((Travelling on a Thursday probably helped, too.)) ((NB: This whole paragraph was written in 2011.)).
I woke up on Thursday after one of my best night’s sleep in many months. I got ready, woke Alan up and said bye, then went to Tesco for some journey grub and finally walked to the station with Mum. I’ll miss her – on Monday or Tuesday when I said I couldn’t find my headphones, she offered me her only pair for me to take on my trip. That was kind. I eventually found mine (in a jacket pocket) although they did break when I was in London ((I spent £20 on replacements, though at least I now have my favourite type; I hated the now-broken ones.)). I just hope I can find a way to keep my iPod charged so I can make use of them – otherwise, I might get rather bored.
The journey to London on the Highland Chieftain ((Run by East Coast.)) was pleasant although unremarkable. I saw some cool trains and I watched the final 2 episodes of Mad Men Season 3 on my iPod. I love it. Although I think that season 1 > 2 > 3, I think 4 has the potential to be as good as 1. Excellent show.
London was cold, maybe 13°C, but bright and sunny ((That’s what is important to me.)). I wandered from Kings Cross to Tavistock Square Gardens, some other one, on to Trafalgar Square and then I stopped in St. James’s Park for a bit. There was a massive tramp woman, like crazy cat lady, but fatter and far more disgusting.
Some London Shitty planes flew overhead and I listened to The Pipeline ((Good show.)).
I walked on to Grosvenor Square Gardens ((Which is where my headphones finally died.)), and sat in there to wait for Will, but the garden closed ((At 6pm.)) before he’d met me. I wandered across to his work building and saw him nearby, drinking outside a bar with colleagues, but didn’t disturb him.
When we met a little later, we went to McDonald’s ((Something I do perhaps only 2 or 3 times a year. The guy serving almost forgot to charge me.)), then to Curry’s for some headphones. We walked around Belgravia, saw the sun set, went to Sainsburys to keep me fuelled on the coach trip, saw posh houses and we admired the cars ((My highlight: a DB9.)). We had a pint, then headed to the bus.
I was travelling with Eurolines, booked through National Express’ website. I expected it to be grim. It was.
Queueing at the coach station, an Aussie was ahead of us, checking in for the 21:30 bus at 21:28. Seriously: I’m not making that up. She thought it ridiculous (sorry, ‘fucking ridiculous’) that the bus was closed up and ready to leave even though it wasn’t quite half past; even though the ticket says you’re supposed to check in at least 60 minutes prior to arrival ((Worse: when I got off bus at Paris, she was there. Scum, she got a transfer! If I’d been behind that counter, I’d have sent her packing.)). Me and Will chatted some more, but I was tired, so good conversation was hard. We listened to a few songs on my iPod. I left my return train tickets (to Perth) and some other bits with Will for safe keeping. He put my bag in the hold for me, we hugged goodbye and I got on the bus.
I picked a stupid seat. I’m an idiot. The first seat I picked was alright, but I moved to one where I could control curtain. I thought that might be important for an overnight trip. But before I knew it, the bus was full and it was too late to move. It quickly became clear that I was stuck behind the biggest dick on the bus. He had stupid leaky headphones and an “MP4 player” which I could see reflected in the side window playing inane videos – my guess, French rap music videos – of scantily clad busty women doing ‘sexy’ dancing. Pathetic. He immediately fully reclined his seat, killing my legs ((I confess, I did the same over the next hour, though in small increments, to the guy behind me. Perhaps the guy behind didn’t notice; he didn’t complain, at least.)).
I couldn’t sleep. There too many phone calls and phones ringing and bangs and shakes. But we got to customs quicker than I’d expected. South-east England must be quite small. French police took our passports one bye one, they went off to their little office and returned with them about half an hour later ((We probably arrived at 00:15, that made it 00:45.)). All clear? I thought so as we pulled away, until we were stopped a few seconds later and directed into another parking bay, We were told (in French ((What’s the deal with that? You’re on British soil, and you’re speaking to us in French, expecting us to understand your bullshit? Nah mate. Not cool.))) that all of our baggage would be searched by the border police. It took me a while to understand that. Customs. What the fuck.
Beyond midnight and after a long day, it was clearly a struggle for a lot of people, myself included. I was just hoping that no drugs or bombs or obscene pornography had accidentally fallen into my bag whilst I wasn’t paying attention. The agents – about 6 of them – donned their gloves and called a passenger forward each in turn. It felt like standing in the self service queue at a crowded Tesco, except at the end of it they rummage through your bag ((BTW: the woman didn’t check all compartments of my bag when she searched it! Who knows what else I had in there!)), asking suspicious questions and ruining all of your careful packing. That bit’s kind of the opposite.
They have their job to do, I understand that. Everyone was fine, except of course… the dick in the seat in front of me. Who else would it have been? Whilst the rest of the passengers were let back onto the coach, he was taken into a separate room for some talking to. He returned to the bus about an hour later, talking (in French) of fines. What a twat.
We proceeded to the Eurotunnel Shuttle entrance at about 2:00. I had been expecting to cross the channel on a ferry ((With hindsight, I would have preferred it, to be able to get out and stand in the cool nighttime air.)). Our train, the first of the day I think, was due to leave at 3:30. I again failed to sleep. This long wait makes me think that the customs search was not at all random: whether or not we’d been stopped, we’d still have been waiting for the same 3:30 train. Surely we were an ideal candidate for extra scrutiny: one with time to spare.
After waiting for ages, and more cars joining the queue behind us, the smokers re-entered the bus and we started to move onto the train. This bit was badass. The best photo I could find ((With about 5 seconds of effort.)) was this aerial photo. You drive up the ramp and on a bridge over the trains until you’re at the correct road, and then you drive down the ramp until you’re alongside your train. Then: you drive onto the motherfucking train. In a coach. Yes.
Wow. There were no windows on the shuttle, just a small walkway by the sides of the vehicles so that you can get out and go for a walk and a piss if need by. I didn’t need to ((Though at some point I did need to use the coach’s toilet to piss. I made a mess of it, I’m ashamed to say.)). The Englishman announcer, telling us about the service and safety information, had awful French. It was cringe-worthy. And then we set off. There was no way to know we were moving except the slight swaying of the train as it crossed points and turned. So soothing. I must have slept on train: the only memory I have of the rest of the journey was waking to the announcements of our arrival.
I was in France. And only 2 days late.
I think I slept a fair bit from then on – maybe half of the time – as we sped down the motorway towards Paris. I had my hoodie on back-to-front with the hood up over my face as a blackout. Everyone else was asleep. At one point I thought that I was going to be sick due to my lack of food and water ((I had no appetite during the trip.)), but I held it ((I coughed a load of water onto my hoodie a bit later though. Oops.)). That had potential for being the worst thing ever.
As I left the coach I checked that I still had all of my important possessions, then headed to the metro station and bought a single ticket (€1.60). I thought I’d lost my money bag of coins so I broke into a tenner – but just now I’ve found the bag in the front middle pocket of my Karrimor bag.
I took the metro to le Jardin des Tuileries near the Louvre. Very cold. My phone was acting weirdly but I tried to text Mum anyway, let her know I’m safe (if cold). I ate some food. I put some TWiL on my iPod (Episode 58: ACTA Rectracta) and meandered to Trocadero which is where I am now. And the Sun is almost out! Sun is warm in May.
One final complaint for now: I hate street sellers. They’re fucking scum. One man pretended he’d just found a ring and wanted to give it to me. I tried and tried to see the scam (beyond pickpocketing, something that I’ve managed to avoid so far) but of course I still refused to accept or agree to anything. He was weird. He made us shake hands, but I still didn’t want to take the ring. He put it on my leg and left, but I made a point of not touching it. After about 2 seconds, he took it back angrily and asked me for food money. Fuck off.
A woman tried it on me 30 minutes later, but as soon as she picked the ring up, I forcefully said “No”. It worked.
Now, I need to get to my hostel, Jules Ferry ((It’s on Boulevard Jules Ferry, near the metro station called “République“.)). I’m worried about hostelling alone. Will I and all my stuff be safe? And the practicalities: how do I get in the room? How do I claim a bed? How do I safely store my luggage whilst I’m exploring Paris? I suppose I’ll find out.
I'm a mathematician, but apart from that, I'm a fairly normal guy. I used to write a blog - this blog. I write (wrote) about whatever is on my mind. It can get quite personal sometimes.
