France: Canal Boat Trip Ends, Chatillon-sur-Loire to Gien, Gien to Paris

12 May

From the journal:

“A quick pack, a final clean, a perfectly satisfactory handover back to the Crown Blue rep, and it was time to say goodbye to our lovely Cirrus. We enjoyed her so much, irrespective of how ill we were.



Goodbye Cirrus, et merci beaucoup!

The manager at the Connoisseur office called a taxi for us to take us to Gien, where we would get a train back to Paris. The taxi arrived really quickly and so the canal was soon left behind. The drive to Gien took about half an hour, and was a drive through beautiful countryside, so another enjoyable episode. The lady taxi driver suggested that she take us first to a shop or supermarket before going to the railway station as she said the station was really small and we wouldn’t be able to get anything to eat there. We – stupid us – declined the offer and got her to take us straight to the station.

We had about 90 minutes to wait for the train, and the taxi driver was so right – there was no café or such at the station, only a dispensing machine where you could buy crisps and soft drinks.


I have to say, I did really well buying our tickets. I had been mentally rehearsing exactly what to say, and the transaction was speedy and uneventful, and we had our tickets in our hand in a couple of minutes. It was amazing, though, to watch French people coming in to buy tickets. It was never speedy and uneventful; it was a case of lots and lots of conversation, sometimes consternation, sometimes argumentation, sometimes bordering on confrontation. We were stunned: how could I, a foreigner, find buying a ticket so quick and easy, while for the locals it was almost high drama. So fascinating!

Wandering outside, I spotted a little bar/bistro down the road and suggested we go there to have a drink and a bite to eat. HUGE MISTAKE! We lugged our luggage (like that!), walked inside, and – oooh. It was like some ghastly truckies place, and I’m talking tough truckies. The place smelled sooo bad. All conversation stopped. Everybody in there – all those leather or donkey jacketed men with shaved heads and their friends – turned and just starred at us. No welcoming “Bonjour” here. We sort of smiled, very difficult to do when you’re feeling so conspicuous and uncomfortable.  There was a sort of enclosed verandah where we could see quite a few Asian people sitting, and so we went out there, thinking that perhaps they were fellow tourists and so it may be a more comfortable option. Hm, these were not fellow tourists, these were just more of the sort of people who were inside, except maybe worse because they made me think of the North Vietnamese guys in “The Deer Hunter”, and I was waiting for them to pull out a gun for a game of Russian RouletAnd to make things even worse, if the air inside was bad, the air out here was even worse. God only knows what they were smoking out there, but it just about made my eyes water.  We tried to act really cool, pretended that nothing on the menu appealed, and exited stage left, attempting to do so in a really casual manner and not run, which is what we wanted to do. Phew, when travelling there will definitely be times that take you way outside your comfort zone, times when you really don’t feel at all at ease – I’ve felt it in a couple of country towns here in Australia – and so it had to happen at some time in beautiful France.

So, we walked back down the street to the station, and those dispenser machines looked sooo good to us now. Coke and crisps for lunch, what could be better.

The train was, of course, lovely, and the carriages super comfortable. There was only one other person in our carriage for the whole trip to Paris, so we were free to ooh and aah over the stunning scenery as much as we liked.

The train pulled into Gare de Lyon, and we felt that we had been away for far more than a week. We walked straight out of the station and got a taxi straight away to take us back to the Emeraude Louvre Montana.

Ah, during the cab ride we got to be part of a little play in itself, as at one point we were pulled up at traffic lights and the people in the car next to us wound down their window and asked our driver for directions to somwhere. Like a taxi driver in “The Amazing Race” he gave very long, very involved directions, but then ended up telling them to follow him. And so we swept through the streets of Paris – no, not with the warm wind in our hair – with our taxi driver waving his arm in the air to the vehicle behind us, beeping to say goodbye when it was their time to turn off. It was charming and another example of people going out of their way to help others.



Ah, here she is to greet us.

When we got back to the hotel, it was wonderful to find that we had been allocated the same room we had stayed in before the canal boat trip, and beautiful to have the staff say hello and welcome us back. It really felt like coming home. The Louvre Montana’s management really know how to pick great employees.




What a wave.

 

We dropped our bags in the room and then headed around the corner to rue Saint-Honoré for some lunch at one of our favourite little cafés before heading back to the hotel for a long, long, long bath. Ah, heaven!

Must find out who this guy was, because we walked past
this statue almost every day and I fell in love with it.

In the evening we walked around the corner to Cityrama and booked ourselves onto a trip to Versailles for the 13^th, and then wandered along rue de Rivoli picking up a few more souvenirs to take home.

For dinner we – of course – went back to Le Carrousel, and the meal was really fantastic. We had a wonderful, flirty waiter. I couldn’t decide what to have for dessert and so he brought me a whole plate of tiny tasters – no, not café gourmand, there were at least half a dozen delicious delights. Fabulous.
 

She is even more lovely at night.

A final walk over to gaze at the Louvre to our left and the Eiffel to our right in the moonlight, and then back to our room and into that huge, huge super comfortable bed for the best sleep we’d had for days.”

What a great outlook for a restaurant.

See you at Versailles tomorrow.

France, Day 1: Perth to Paris

 28 April


Perth, Western Australia, to Paris, France, all the way with Air Mauritius, with an eight hour stopover in Mauritius thrown in for good measure. Distance:  8,865 miles, or 14,267 kilometres for those of us who prefer bigger numbers.  Flying time: 17 hours and 44 minutes, give or take 15 minutes, so just call it 18 hours to neaten things up.  Let’s add in getting to Perth International Airport a couple of hours before flight departure time, and you start to get the idea: it was a lllooonnngg trip. 

Comfortable lounge at Mauritius Airport

 
But do you know what? As that aircraft approached Charles de Gaulle Airport and I looked out the window and got my first glimpse of Mr Eiffel’s superb tower, those 28-odd hours were as nothing. Okay, I admit, from Mauritius to Paris we were in first class and so we had enjoyed French champagne, foie gras, and a long, lovely sleep. But even so, any effects of being picked up on one side of the globe, confined for hour after hour after hour in a pressurised cabin, and then deposited on the opposite side of the globe, were immediately dispelled by that view. I had lived for years in Europe when I was younger, but this was to be my first visit to that lovely City of Light. Goosebumps, people, honestly. 

Different section of the lounge.

As I write this, I can tell you that we have been to France five times, and never once have we had the same experience on arrival. For this trip, we walked off the plane, straight through to the luggage collection area, picked up our suitcases and walked out – no customs, no immigration. Was that perhaps because our suitcases came rolling drunkenly through about 30 minutes after every other traveller had collected their luggage and gone, while we stood there, too unsure of our halting French to go and seek assistance. And so we waited, and waited, and waited, and as we waited the immigration and customs people, it would seem, simply decided that we looked harmless. Either that, or it was time for steak frittes and a pichet of Bordeaux. Whatever the reason, they had gone, and so did we. 

We had booked a shuttle transfer from the airport to our hotel. I can assure you that the driver was not exactly thrilled with the delay caused by having to wait so long for our luggage. His other passengers were already waiting in the minibus, tapping their fingers and toes impatiently, wanting, understandably, to just go. As it was, we weren’t able to sit together in the bus, and so I scrambled over legs and into the back row of seats while my man sat up front with the driver. Actually, I think I got the better bargain as our driver was one of those who seem to be in a constant state of warfare with all other road users and to be in that front seat next to him, all the while waiting for the screech of brakes and the crunching, grating sound of metal on metal, is not for the faint-hearted.  

Beautiful even through the window of
a speeding taxi in the rain.

Now, here’s one of life’s amazing coincidences. A few years ago I worked on a project related to the investigation into a fire on board a Royal Australian Navy vessel, the “Westralia”, in which four young sailors lost their lives. As I’m sure you know, there are, sailing the seas of the world, hundreds and hundreds of vessels which have had their names changed many times. The “Westralia” was one such vessel. In a previous life she had belonged to the Royal Navy and had been called the RFA “Apple Leaf”. So, here I am, just arrived in Paris, sitting in the back of a minibus being driven by a homicidal frustrated formula one driver, and I am sharing the seat with an English couple, the Doyles from Manchester. How the conversation came around to the “Westralia”, I have no idea, but suffice to say it did. Well, can you believe it, Mr Doyle said he knew the vessel well as he had served on her when she was the “Apple Leaf”. Forget “of all the gin joints in all the world”, this was a coincidences extraordinaire!  

Anybody who has been to Paris knows exactly what I mean about the crazy traffic. Death defying motorcyclists flashed past our windows, weaving between the lanes of traffic, sometimes even darting at right angles between motor vehicles, always on the lookout for the advantage to save a couple of seconds.  But nothing I had ever read prepared me for the insanity that is the Grande Point, the huge roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe. Just in case you aren’t aware: there are no lanes, it is a case of just take a big breath and go for it; vehicles entering the roundabout have right of way – yes, that’s right, they have right of way when entering the roundabout – but that should be no cause for you to actually slow down as they shoot out in front of you; should you actually hit another vehicle, your insurance company will not cover you as there is no insurance cover for vehicles on this bit of vehicular lunacy. It is so crazy there is only one thing you can do and that is just to simply laugh. Let’s face it, everybody is moving and nobody seems to actually collide with anybody else, so enjoy this trip to the other side and just be glad you’re not driving. 

Before we knew it, our minibus was pulling to the kerb in front of our hotel, the Emeraude Louvre Montana, on rue Saint Roch (more about that particular street later), our driver was dumping our suitcases outside the entrance, wishing us a “Bon nuit” and departing at high speed for his next drop-off. 

We looked to the right and there, just a few short steps away, we saw the Tuileries Gardens. All around us were beautiful Haussmann buildings. Tiny Smart-for-2 cars were parked with bumpers nuzzling each other in the night air all along the street. From a florist shop a couple of doors away wafted the sweet smell of spring flowers. I wanted to cry. Honestly, I really did. I wanted to stop my watch, stop the world, stop everything, because I felt at that moment that life just could not get much better. How often do dreams come true, really? 

View from our window - no,
not taken at night; the following morning.

Summoning our courage, and mentally going over the French phrases we had practised, we opened the glass door and entered the small lobby of the hotel. A charming young woman was seated behind the reception desk. She smiled warmly and welcomingly. I opened my mouth and heard myself somehow manage a passable. “Bonne nuit. Nous sommes une reservation. Je m’appelle …” I think I did alright, actually. Phew, first hurdle over.  

Within a very short time we had done the necessary re passport numbers etc, and were given our room key and shown the elevator. Hm. Did you say you had been to Paris? Do you know what I mean when I talk about really, really, really small elevators? This beautiful little elevator, so perfect for a British television period drama, offered us a choice: both go up to our room in it, and leave our luggage behind, or make a couple of trips with one person and one suitcase at a time. I entered the elevator, pressing myself against the side wall to accommodate one suitcase and a carry-on bag. The ornate wrought iron gate was pulled shut, and up we went, the lovely old, carpeted spiral staircase winding around us like a sleepy serpent.  I waited by the lift until my man and the rest of our baggage arrived. 





We opened the door to our room and entered what was to be our home for nine days.  Everything was just as it should be, just as it had been on the hotel website. The bed was huge, there was a little refrigerator, there were tea and coffee making facilities, there was a bathtub – always heaven when on holidays – there were places to sit and read, or chat, or sip wine while planning the next day’s adventure. There were also two large windows – French windows, you could say – which, when opened allowed us to lean out over the window boxes of geraniums and, looking to the left, gaze at the lovely gardens or, looking to the right, spy, just a couple of hundred feet away, the fantastic Eglise Saint Roch, the church where Yves St Laurent’s funeral service was conducted. 

After a total of 30 hours, we had arrived in Paris. We had left Perth just after midnight one day, and we had arrived in Paris in the evening of the same day. Was I a day younger? No, I was years younger, and ready to revel in it. 

See you tomorrow.