Cherish (Paris)

Sorry this last post is late (Jen) I did say it would be Tuesday, but we left Paris at 8am Monday (Sydney time) and didn't get to Sydney until Monday at 8:00pm.  12 hours sounds neat eh? Except we were in the air nearly 24 hours.

Yes, 'cherish'.  One of the announcements on our China Southern Airlines flight said that the staff "cherish" the opportunity to serve us, as passengers, and to do everything to make our flight an enjoyable experience.   In the latter respect, as the young people used to say, dear reader, epic fail. Nothing cataclysmically shocking - except the food and the fact that when we needed to stay awake on the China-Sydney leg, but we got an older plane with no individual TV screens and therefore no movie marathons to occupy the nine hours of flight-time till we arrived in Sydney during the night. We really did not need to sleep all the way to Sydney to then go to bed when we got home but there was little else to do, courtesy of an older plane since they obviously put the newer versions on the European run as opposed to the Antipodes.  Also we were over the announcements in 3 languages (Chinese, English and then French) and  the appalling (even by airline standards) food options.  We will be going back to Qantas we think but the experiment was worthwhile just to see.

Paris - Ghangzhou - Sydney

The day commenced earlier than anyone would have liked.  I really must put more thought into flight times and the impact they can have, particularly when you need to be at the airport 3 hours prior to flight time.

Leaving a hotel is a much easier process (unless one of us is in a leg cast) - pack up, sign out, catch a cab.  We needed to meet the apartment owner, well, in our case, her mum who speaks no English, so that she can check the apartment and return our bond.  One of the curiosities of renting an apartment through Way-to-stay or Paris Attitude is that the rent (aside from deposit) and the bond, need to be paid in cash.  According to the contract we signed, we had to pay the remaining rent and the bond, which is equal to the total rent, upon arrival.  I'd been collecting € for a few days to hand over more than €3000.  The owner had decided this was too much and waived the bond to €500, which was wonderful, but left us with a lot of cash.  Anyway, we had to have an apartment inspection before the bond was returned.  This had to be tied in to the drive to Charles de Gaulle airport - and in our case, the removal of Steph and Stu who weren't part of the contract.  They had stayed with us the last few nights in Paris.

Flight at midday, we needed to be at CDG by 9am - a 30 minute drive that regularly takes 3 times that long, but we're flying out on a Sunday, so traffic shouldn't too bad - an hour should be OK.  So, we needed to leave at 8 am, which meant madame needed to inspect at 7:45 and Steph and Stuart needed to be gone by 7:15.  To ensure the final pack and showers, alarms were set for 6:30.  Oh dear, 6:30am on a Sunday morning in Paris.  Most Parisiennes wouldn't even know that time existed.

Everything was going beautifully.  The youngsters (such an old school word) were up and organised, well most of them (I'm looking at you Cait).  Bags mostly packed, people getting through the shower process and then the front door bell rings.  The world stopped.  Madame was here and Steph and Stuart were still, as they say, in the building.  Jayne intercepted her and explained that we weren't ready and that she had told Madame's daughter that in an earlier text message.  Madame then went for a coffee while we despatched Steph and Stuart and completed our packing.

Our booked car arrived 10 minutes before madame returned but all went well and we handed over the keys, received the cash deposit and settled into the limousine ride to CDG.  Paris, as expected, was still asleep until we neared the airport where the usual "bouchon" occurred and we crawled to terminal 2.  Luckily, we had allowed sufficient time and made it into the terminal in enough time to collect our tax refund, despite being sent to 2 different counters and then not being able to collect a refund in Australian dollars so we ended up with both Euro and US dollars to be sorted when we finally got back to Australia.  Also retrieved an unwell English matriarch from the toilets for an anxious son who couldn't go into the female toilets to see if she was ok (obviously, that was Jayne) and foiled the CDG check in procedure which couldn't/wouldn't electronically read our passports to check us in so all was done manually.

Six movies later, we arrived back in China to a cooler but no less polluted early morning in Ghangzhou to be greeted by a Chinese airport official with our 3 names plus 1 other on a chalk board as we disembarked for the 2 hour stop over.  Rather disconcerting to see your name on a chalkboard in a country known to consider human rights a minor irritation.  We were informed that there was insufficient passport information provided to enable them to process our transfer flights - assumption that this was a result of the CDG inability to scan our passports.  There ensued a military-style march through the Cantonese terminal at a frightening pace to get us "processed" before our imminent departure to Sydney.  Jayne had to run to keep up - well, given she says she never runs - jog.

Thankfully, we were not there for another 7 hours like the trip to Europe and as a result, they were obviously in a rush to get us processed and so we were pushed through and only had to spend a little more than an hour in the no internet, no photograph terminal.  Then we were back on a plane, not filled to capacity, homeward bound.  Cait got to sleep across 2 seats and Brad, although we had to endure the  frequent phlegm expectoration of a Chinese gentleman (gentleman do not spit, especially on planes - brad) and an ADHD Chinese 8 year old whose father was clearly more practised at sleeping through his antics than we were.  9 hours later, finally, we were back in Oz and plunged from 32 degree Paris to 6 degree Sydney.  The Odyssey was over with all participants in tact, customs negotiated and currency exchanged.  All that remains is the present distribution, the slideshow presentation, the unpacking and the jet lag adjustment..... and  the commencement of the planning for the next trip in 2014 - stay tuned, dear reader (we are open to suggestions if there are destinations you have always wanted to visit).  Or if anyone has any information on the Greek isles ...

Until January and the Mornington Peninsula, au revoir.

I'm on my oui (way) - Paris

That is Jayne's choice of title, for what will probably be, our penultimate post.  And it's brilliant, had me laughing until I cried.  I'll publish the last post (did you see what I did there?) from Sydney on Tuesday to cast the final verdict on China Southern.  And the title, I hear you ask?  Well, may you think it refers to travelling home, but it doesn't really.  Parisienne's are an interesting lot. We discovered last year that they are not exactly revered by the people in the provinces.  Nor is Paris life.  There are a multitude of reasons for this, the crowds, the traffic, the noise, the affections.  What affectations?  Well, since I was here last year the way one pronounces oui in Paris has morphed from 'we' to 'way'.  Who'd have thought that a dialect would evolve so rapidly? Not moi, but there you have it.  At first, Jayne thought it was the young and trendy, but no, it was just about everyone.  So, how do you fit in in Paris, just say 'way' to everything.

Paris: Marche du Puce and stuff
The kids were heading out early today to go to the Louvre and we were a bit rusty from our late night at Jules Verne.  Breakfast shopping was just for us.  We thought we'd head across to Richard Lenoir markets just in case they were open because we saw a bongo drum there that Cait wanted to buy.  No luck, they were not there today and the Bastille was a little too far to walk.  We are beginning to suffer from all the walking and being on the go all the time.

We went to the boulangerie I used to visit last year when we stayed in Oberkampf  a much preferable area).  Breakfast secured we stopped for coffee on the way home.

Stupid comment of the day: that girl has nails like hundreds and thousands.  How do you suppose she does that?  Painting dots?  How about false nails?  Thanks for laugh over coffee Jayne.

We visited the Marche du Puce markets last week because according to one of our guide books, they were open on Monday.  Technically, they were and you could enter each market area, but there were so few shops trading.  Anyway we made the trip back to day to finalise the purchase of some gifts for the people we've left behind in Australia.  In a beautiful piece of work we snared a bongo drum (get it? well they're both in the percussion family) before we reached the main markets.  Then straight inoto the Biron area, the shop we wanted was open, they had the vintage champagne glasses we were after, 19th century, lovely.  Purchases made and home again.

We have to be on way by 8am tomorrow, so with the kids out of the way, we thought we could make best use of the time by beginning to pack.  All the clothes in one bag and all our purchases and odds and ends in the other.  Totally organised for the morning departure.  So, what to do now?  I know, we can enjoy our last bottle of champagne and watch Le Tour.  Excellent idea, if I do say so myself.

From our favourite champagne house.

The young tourists arrived home earlier from the Louvre than we thought.  The packing and reorganisation continued.  The stories of the day were swapped.  Then our last dinner in Paris.  We are heading home tomorrow and Steph and Stuart are London bound.

There is an Italian restaurant on the Place that we have not eaten at yet because it doesn't open until 7pm and we usually eat earlier, as in lunch.  On our last night we thought we'd wait out the extra time and eat there.  Therefore the evening commenced at a cafe on the Place.  Much like last evening there was another protest.  No one really cares, except that they make a lot of noise.  I'm not entirely sure what this one was about, I counted at least 8 different flags and the speakers weren't happy with the French President Mr Hollande, but I guess if they were that unhappy they could return to whatever country's flag they were standing under. Or not.  Is that a bit redneck?  I've been getting a lot of sun lately in the neck region.

Drinks at the cafe, with the cacophony of the protest.  Unlike yesterday, there would have been no more than 50 people, but they were loud.  Despite this we settled in for drinks.  Stuart ordered a beer, although I believed it was a girlie option he went with it. A beer, tango, twist.  It didn't have the fruit, but it looked like a beer fruit punch and apparently tasted the same.  While we were wasting the afternoon a man came prancing down the street, replete with a massive set of white headphones, winking at unsuspecting cafe patrons and kissing the hands of women who were on their own.  What the?

The protest still in swing, we drifted down to the Italian restaurant and thought an inside table might be better.  Air conditioning and the protestors muffled, nice.  Dinner was OK, although my debit card wouldn't work, so we resorted to ... cash ... shocking, I know, they didn't take Amex.  See if I'll be back there in a hurry.

And so dear reader, we are all happily back at the apartment at 9 o'clock and this is where this post concludes.  Until I am back in the land of Oz ...

In the night, while you were sleeping, this humble little travel blog achieved 5,000 hits.  Thank you for your interest.

Starry, starry night (Paris)

Ah, Don MacLean.  Today we saw the real thing in the Musee D'Orsay.

Paris: Musee D'Orsay and Jules Verne Restaurant

With only a few days left in Paris we are beginning the wind down.  Today, for the oldies, is a visit to Musee D'Orsay and dinner at Jules Verne Restaurant on level 2 of the Eiffel Tower.  The youngsters, Cait, Steph and Stuart left for Euro Disney shortly after 9 this morning.  I'm writing this between engagements and I anticipate that we'll end up at home around the same time this evening.

Once again, Jayne and I shunned the metro in favour of a 45 minute morning walk.  The museum is on the left bank opposite the Tuileries.  The building itself is an old railway station.  Sadly, no photography is permitted inside the building, so I can't show you the sculptures, the paintings, the period furniture, the stone roses on the ceiling or anything of interest.  Mind you, had I been a security guard there, I would have ejected a number of people once I had deleted the photos they had taken.

Photos were permitted outside. Nice view of Sacre Coeur.

While I understand the 'no photos' rule in areas where they have light sensitive paintings and fabrics, there is no reason, other than commerce, to continue with this ridiculous rule elsewhere.  Jayne recognised a sculpture that we saw at the Pantheon yesterday.  Actually, it was a plaster cast of the original sculpture.  Sorry, no photos here - which was OK, because I photographed the original at the Pantheon, no worries at all.  No, we didn't go to the gift shop at the end of the tour and buy the book with photos of all the exhibits.

The temporary Impressionists Exhibition was great, although they actually allowed guided tour groups through which caused considerable bouchon from time to time.  Otherwise, a most impressive exhibition with Monet, Manet, Degas, Latour, Gaugin, Renoir and Cezanne, to name a few of those on the walls.  And one lonely little Picasso, before the cubist period.

The permanent exhibition downstairs was just as impressive with van Gogh, Toulose-Lautrec, Gaugin, Suaret on the walls and Rodin's sculptures featuring elsewhere.  We managed to complete two and half of the three halls.  Another one to finish next time.  We spent almost 4 hours there, but could easily fill a day, particularly if we used an audio-guide.

And then as we  were whiling away the afternoon, lamenting the state of Australian cricket and waiting for Cadel to cross the line in Stage 19 of Le Tour, the usual raucous sounds from the PLace de la Republique got louder and louder.  Focused as I was on the Le Tour, I thought the music was commencing early tonight.  Once Costa had crossed the line, the noise began to reach a crescendo.  It was then I commented to Jayne that it wasn't music, but sounded like a protest.  Out onto the balcony so I could watch a very slow (read snail's pace to the disgust of the traffic) moving protest march.  They were only small in number but certainly made up for it in enthusiasm: chanting, cheering, singing, blaring horns and enthusiastic flag waving.  Although we had surmised the nationality of the protestors given current world events and the nature of the music they were playing, I consulted Dr Google for a flag check.  Yep, they were Egyptian.

The tale end of the protest march.

On a hot Paris Friday evening we boarded the train to travel to Le Tour Eiffel.  It was much less crowded at 6:30pm and the sky was much clearer as the morning haze that was everywhere both times we'd been to the tower had burned off.  In fact, for photography, it was probably the best time to be there.  It was certainly easier to walk on the street, particularly after a gendarme had been through and frightened away the hawkers.

Jules Verne has its own private lift, as you would expect.  We were slightly early, as were several other patrons.  I thought they'd show us to the bar.  Wrong.  We open at 7, so we all stood around for ten minutes waiting for the magical time when the restaurant officially commenced trading.  The lift was cosy, although much larger than the one at the apartment, and slow.

The restaurant is divided into 4 quadrants.  By mid-evening every table is our area had been filled.  Some people brought their kids for dinner.  They must be very, very wealthy because I didn't notice a children's option with chicken nuggets.  We had a table in the corner and had a glass of champagne while we decided whether we would order a la carte, or go for the degustation menu with wine.  The champagne was delightful and we soaked up the view.

Towards Sacre Coeur

Notre Dame in the background

The degustation consisted of 2 entrees, 2 mains and 2 desserts.  I can't remember exactly what they were, but half the courses were served with froth.  Interesting.  The food was overpriced, but lovely and the wine matched it well, but it doesn't come close to Tetsuya's in Sydney.  I guess you pay for the view and we got our money's worth as far as that went.  We left around 11pm so we did see the lights of Paris come on.  The tower itself is something else at night.  There was a laser show at one point during dinner.

All pretty and golden

Different to daytime brown

From across the bridge

Gypsies, tramps and thieves (Paris)

Paris: the Pantheon and Sainte Chapelle

Not such a funny post today, so I'll begin with the funniest bits.

Stupid question of the day:  In the crypt beneath the Pantheon. "Oh, Marie Curie." Snap goes the camera.  "Who's that?" her friend asks.  "I don't know" came the response.  Seriously?  As Cait would say, add your own nationality of prejudice (but it is the same as yesterday, LOL).

Random fashion statement of the day: The nanna walking her blade scooter through the afternoon Paris pedestrian traffic.  Sorry, no photo.

Then there were these two:

Matching your hair with your handbag ... priceless.

Not just socks and sandals, PINK socks.

Another beautiful Paris summer day.  Cloudless blue skies and sunshine.  Cait's friends were arriving today, so Jayne and I set out on our own this morning.  Ignoring the metro, we decided to go on foot down toward the Ile de la Cite.  The Rue du Temple is the jewellery strip.  Every second store sells jewellery, some fine and radically expensive, while others were just massive bling outlets.

Our destination for the morning was Sainte Chapelle, a church not far from Notre Dame.  Disappointingly, when we arrived, there was a queue.  Still suffering trauma from the L'Arc queue, there was no way I was lining up again.  We continued on to the second destination, the Pantheon.  It wasn't much further to walk, but it gave Jayne ample time to pay out on me about refusing to line up.  "What are you going to do if there is a queue at the Pantheon?  Just keep doing laps of Paris tourist attractions until you find one without a queue?"  No need to worry, we arrived there before the crowds.

The Pantheon

A former basilica that is now a museum, the architecture is magnificent, soaring domed vaults with intricate patterns, massive corinthian columns, patterned tile floors and a crypt.  Inside there were paintings  on canvas that were commissioned to cover up former windows, a mixture of the stories of saints and kings.  There were also sculptures that reflected particular periods of French history.

I love the French propensity to destroy a view.
Let's put the ticket office in front of the painting!

The vaulted ceiling. Each square is a rose.

Another sculpture where the artist has said, "OK girls, tops off".

The crypt contained the remains of many famous French people, some of whom I thought we'd spotted places for at Pere Lachaise earlier in the week.

Victor Hugo and Alexander Dumas

Marie Curie

The Pantheon completed, we commenced our walk back towards Sainte Chapelle.  As usual, we decided to take a slightly different route and in doing so discovered the best shop ever.  There we were staring in the window at a range of wands from Harry Potter, above which were swords from The Lord of the Rings.  Star Wars, Superman, dolls of Astro Boy (Prince Planet was way cooler btw), this was nerd city.  Did we go in?  Did we what!  Inside there were T-shirts and caps with your favourite super hero emblem, there were CDs, comics, models, you name it they had it.  Yes, I said comics. I thought I was trapped in an episode of Big Bang Theory.  Money wasted, I mean, purchases made, we continued on our merry way, wand in backpack.  Don't mess with me now, I'm packing some serious heat.

Around another corner we stumbled into a series of little cobble-stoned lanes filled with shops and restaurants.  I'll be back here to explore more closely in 2014 or 2015.  All this excitement was too much, so we paused for a refreshment break.  I still haven't had a bad coffee.  Then onwards to Sainte Chapelle.

Yes, there was still a queue.  Decision time.  Line up with the plebs.  Not happy.  Interestingly, the length of the line never really varied.  As we turned the corner to go inside, it was about the same length as when we joined it.  Inside, not to purchase tickets, but to go through a metal detector.  All pockets to be emptied, it was like an airport.  Sainte Chapelle is now in the same complex as the Palais du Justice - the courts of Paris, so not all of those waiting inside were there for good reason.

The church itself has two levels, the ground floor is the poor people's church and upstairs was where the royalty and privileged hung about.  The windows!  The photos can't possibly do them justice.  They depict scenes from the bible and they grace every wall.  A pity some were closed for restoration, but it was absolutely amazing.  We had our audio-guides, so we scored a run down of what the windows were depicting, even if the specific section was too high off the ground for us to see clearly.

The apse of the church

The ceiling

Part of the rose window

Following Sainte Chapelle we visited the Conciergerie.  A nice name for the building that housed criminals and those awaiting execution, including Marie-Antoinette.  It was a tad challenging to find, although we purchased the tickets at the same time, you needed to return to the street and walk about 50 metres to the next entrance.

Part of the list of the executed.

Marie-Antoinette's last days.

You should have come with us Cait!

Back into the 21st century we commenced our walk to the Tourism Office to purchase some tickets for the kids to go to the Louvre on Saturday.  We didn't get to the corner before the gypsy kids were on us with their 'petitions' to raise funds for a school for the hearing impaired or visually impaired.  I don't read them anymore.  Hand up and non.  We were waiting to cross the road when the gypsy kids flew past us at pace, it was like being caught in flock of seagulls as they took off.  Scrambling across the road they went through the traffic.  I turned around and saw a gendarme walking across the street towards where they had been 'collecting for charity'.  And that episode spawned today's title.

Not much else to report.  We walked into the Tourism Office and straight to the counter - that has never happened before.  We caught the metro to an area beyond Republique in search of another cave that sells Larmandier-Bernier and then walked home.

We went out for dinner as Cait, Steph and Stuart arrived.  Our paths did not cross until after dinner as they were about to leave for the Moulin Rouge.  They had a great day too.  Tomorrow we are heading for the Musee D'Orsay and dinner at Jules Verne in the tower.

Until then dear reader, a bientot.

I've been waiting for so long (Paris)

to see where I'm going in the sunshine of your love ...  Oh, dear. Jayne didn't recognise the song.  Anyway, today's tale begins:

Paris: L'Arc de Triomphe

The day dawned in Paris, as it does, while I was still asleep.  Thankfully the light is without intensity in the morning and the buildings tall enough to shield our bedroom.  Nonetheless, we required an early start.  The intention was to be at L'Arc de Triomphe as close to its opening time of 9:30 as possible.  Today we intend to bag the most elusive of prey, Le Tour Eiffel bracelet charm.  So far, we had found only key rings in their thousands (5 for €1) or a singular charms at a jewellery store for €165.  Hopefully, today, we find at the Arc what the gift shops at the Tower couldn't produce.

We arrived at the Arc at 9:45am.  There was, of course, a queue.  It was, also of course, not open.  The guide books stated opening at 9:30am, the sign at the office disagreed, 10am, was its time.  None of that mattered anyway because the French 'workers' thought 10:15am was close enough.  Qu'est-ce que c'est?  This is NOT Spain people.  An opening time is an opening time.

The queue wasn't too bad considering, but it went in a different direction to what we had previously experienced.  Pas de problem, queue with the queue.  At 10:15 the queue began moving, much to the excitement of all concerned.  Cait had already identified the Australians nearby and had exchanged pleasantries.  

The next bit is technical, so the visual learners amongst you might want to draw a picture.  We joined the queue when it was about 30 metres in length.  It went down the middle of the tunnel.  The space to the right of us allowed access to the Arc at ground level (no ticket, no upstairs).  The space to the left allowed access back to the Champs Elysees.  Movement in any direction was not an issue.  The queue progresses.  We got to within 10 metres of where it left the tunnel and an officious little French administrator emerged from his office with a rope barricade and tried to cordon off the area and in doing so, insisted that everyone on our side of the queue had to move to other end of the tunnel and reform the queue.  There was still another 15 metres of line behind us.

His request was met with much disbelief.  However we tried  to comply.  The problem was that those from nations who refuse to queue (I'm looking at you China and Korea) saw what was happening and bolted for the other end of the tunnel so that they would be in the line and force all those on front of them to move further back.  So, as we tried to swing the queue around, they were already moving to our left which effectively blocked our ability to move and stopped anyone else from walking through from the other direction.   Patience and tolerance from the mostly Australian crowd disappeared.  The lovely Italian man next to me had a bit to say to the moronic official who thought this was a good idea.

The conversation was limited, but basically he got the idea that WE WOULD NOT BE MOVED and I suggested that if they had opened the bloody gates on time, perhaps the queue would not stretch to the Rhineland.  Any wonder the Germans walked into Paris without resistance, they probably got out of bed an hour before the Parisiennes.  His response was to provide a pole for me to rest my bottom on.  At least, I think that was what he meant.

About the same time, Cait was providing another Asian tourist with a lesson in etiquette and politely, but firmly, told him to stop using his wife as a battering ram and pushing her into Cait, to which he responded, that they had been in the line down to the right that was being relocated. Cait replied, that everyone around him was also in that line, but none of them were pushing. He thought better than to cross Cait and backed off. 

At the ticket booth the Australian lady (read girl if you're my vintage) gave a serve to another Asian tourist who decided waiting for the next ticket seller was a slow option.  Despite the trauma, we made it.  Tickets in hand we walked in the sunshine and into the spiral staircase.  195 stairs later we reached the antechamber, but not quite the top.  Jayne, still gasping for breath, saw the gift shop and drawing on strength I'd not seen her exhibit since child-birth, broke into a run.  No-one would stop her from finding the charms for the bracelets.  Women and children ran screaming, chickens scattered before her ... um, yeah, maybe that's from some movie I saw ... anyway, onto the gift shop.  Target located, purchased, bagged and onward to the top of the Arc to check out the view.

And so the view ... whatever, look at the photos.  Although I did spend some time taking a photograph down every road that leads to the Arc.  Last year, on foot, I took a photo of the Arc from every pedestrian crossing.  Synchronicity. 

The view down the Champs Elysees

OK, you guessed, looking at theEiffel  Tower

Another view.

The roof form downstairs 

Pictures taken, view admired, comments made about haze, walked in front of as if I'm invisible, pushed out of the way: yep, I think I ticked all the tourist boxes on the top of the Arc.  Down the 195 spiral stairs.  You make me dizzy miss lizzy and out for a ground floor snaps and for drinks.

No mnascaping here.

Manscaping? Or a child?

(Jayne was asked to continue the day from this point, however, she was unable so to do, and following is her response.  Please do not laugh at her puns.  My editorial comment is included between [ ]. Enjoy)

And now onto a more factual account of the rest of the day....

Brad somehow managed to pen a hyperbolic description of my passage to the gift shop, which I dispute unreservedly, (although I couldn't work out why the shop assistant already knew I was in the  market for charms before I told her what I wanted - she said she was "magic" but maybe I did exclaim in delight when I finally found what I had been looking for.  Anyone who knows me, however, will know that nothing causes me to run anywhere ever). [Pftt. Last call for champagne would do it, every time]

The other notable fact he left out was that the shop assistant informed me that I had not needed to climb the 195 spiralling steps to the shop - I could have taken the lift - a small thing that Brad overlooked but, considering my history with stairs, a clearly vicious act of subterfuge on his part. [The lift is for the disabled and the emphysemic, neither of which qualify Jayne for a ride.]

After the Arc triumph (did you see what I did there?) [kill me now], we decided we had time for a drink and some Champs Elysees shopping.  We dropped into one of the first hotels on the Champs for our refreshments to be handed a menu that priced a coke at €14!!! Brad seemed to think this was reasonable despite Cait and I pointing out that a beer was cheaper and so majority ruled and we moved onto another cafe to restore our flagging energies [where they paid almost €11 for the coke, in far less salubrious surroundings]. We didn't linger too long because we were due back at the Pont Neuf to meet up with Dianne Carr, a former St Mark's colleague, who was in town with her 2 boys for a holiday from where she now lives in Qatar.

[We also saw the new, convertible model of the Toyota 86 in the showroom.  Wasn't available in Australia when I ordered my 86.  Sigh.  Next time.]

We had a arranged a 1 pm rendez-vous and descended to the Metro to travel the 4 stops to the pont.  As we were buying the tickets I saw a sign alerting us to delays on our line due to an unwell passenger at Concorde station.  We discussed this but then the warning disappeared and we went onto the platform.  Can I say, at this point, that in our experience, the Metro is 1000% better than Cityrail in Sydney but on this one occasion, when we actually had to be somewhere at a particular time, the Metro let us down.  No train, flashing warning signs, no signs, police appearing to do crowd control, people pouring onto the platform, an unprecedented 10 minutes [Read it and weep Sydney, 10 minutes!!!!] with no train in sight and no timeline for when another would appear ... so we took the other option and went back up to street level and caught a taxi to the pont instead.

After checking out several cafes in the pont area to find somewhere to accommodate a table for 6 for-not-so-fine dining, we ended up near Chatelet station and whiled away the afternoon catching up on life in the Middle East which allows for frequent European holidays.  Cait and I agreed that the shorter flight times, however, would not compensate for the restrictive lifestyle of Islamic countries - neither of us intend to apply for any positions vacant in the international schools there [nor me].  It was lovely to see Dianne and the boys who are heading to England on Friday to continue their catch up with family and friends and the chase for some cooler weather.

Stupid question of the day: A group of tourists walked into the tunnel while we were waiting for L'Arc to open.  Man: Are all these people waiting?!  Cait: ... No. We all just like standing in lines.  Insert your own nationality of prejudice, or contact us for the real answer.  Hint: northern hemisphere.

Monet (money) makes the world go around or monet, monet,monet, must be funny in a rich man's world (France - Giverny)

Yes, yes, both very lame titles.  We considered many others believe me, at one stage I was looking at puns on Claude, pronounced cloud in France, but it's probably best not to go there.

Paris and Monet's garden: Giverny

Let's begin at the end.  After the bus trip to Giverny we went for dinner.  We didn't get back into Paris until almost 7pm and we hadn't eaten since breakfast (the ice cream at Giverny doesn't count because Jayne didn't have one). 

For seasoned readers of the blog you may remember last year when Jayne broke her leg and I was left alone for a week before she was allowed out of hospital.  During that time I lucked upon a tiny Italian restaurant that made the best pizza.  The bases were  light, the toppings tasty, mmmmm.  Sorry, I digress.  Tonight we thought we would eat there and either confirm or shatter a dream.

Last time I was there, there was  a queue for a table.  Tonight we walked straight in.  The waitress insisted on speaking Italian, which came close to frying Jayne's brain.  Orders taken, drinks arrived.  The meals arrived, Cait's lasagne in it's own bubbling dish, Jayne's risotto with prawns and clams and my humble pizza.  So, dream confirmed or shattered?  CONFIRMED!  Another beautiful meal.  I'll be back ... maybe not next year, but, I'll be back.

The restaurant is in Oberkampf, which is where we stayed last year.  It is obvious to me the change in the area in 12 months.  It was one of those fringe areas where a second hand store could be followed by a boutique shoe store where I couldn't afford to look in the window.  This has ben accentuated as the neighbourhood changes, there is now a bio fruit and vege shop, a sushi store, restaurants have changed hands and focus, there has been a general gentrifying of the suburb.  I suppose it's no different to Sydney, in the changes that have been seen in the inner city area.  I prefer Oberkampf to Le Marais (read Republique), something to remember for next year, I mean, next time.

Monet

In case you notice a change in writing style, I should let you know that from here on (for this post), it is Cait-the-Great writing, as Dad is pretty exhausted after a disturbed night's sleep. Gun shots. That is all I can say about the matter. There was no blood or dead bodies outside when we looked this morning though, so if a crime was committed, the perp was kind enough to clean up after themselves. 

As per usual our morning began at a leisurely pace, with Pain-au-Chocolat for Dad, a markedly better one than the others he had sampled, and just baguette and jam for Mum and me, as she and I have been feeling a little under the weather the past couple of days. I put it down to my lack of fruits and veg in the past two weeks. For all the amazing points there are to not having to cook for yourself while on holidays, the lack of variety is not among them. Don't get me wrong, the food in France is amazing, we haven't had a bad meal yet. But unless I am to strategically order myself dishes that have a host of protein, veg and fruit, I'm just not eating the amount I usually would. And so with my lack of nutrients in mind, we set off at about 10:00am for the markets at Richard-Lenoir.

Mum has been getting concerned that she still has a couple of presents she has yet to find. This makes markets a necessity whenever we know they are on in case we find anything that might be suitable. Me you ask? Dear Reader, I am an organised young lady and came prepared with a list of what I wished to purchase. My gift shopping is complete. Although I would never say no to wandering around the markets of Paris, you never know what you will find there. As Dad says, if you can't find it at the markets, it doesn't exist. 

We arrived at Richard-Lenoir after a short but enjoyable walk, only to find that the majority of the market stalls today were  produce, with the occasional clothing or jewellery stall thrown into the mix. Not a total loss though, after surveying our surrounds I settled on a lovely little fruit and veg stall to purchase the smallest watermelon we'd ever seen (think a large softball), some apricots and a bunch of carrots. Success. We then ventured back home, via a new and different route of course, to prepare for our journey to Monet's garden.

With my Skype call home to Luke out of the way, we gathered our things and made our way to the Metro. A successful trip, without any drama. With some time to spare we decided to stop, have a drink break and people watch until it was time to go to the render-vous point. Another great coffee. We love Paris. 

At about 1:20pm we sauntered down the street to where we had booked the tour. I had secretly hoped that there would not be many people on this tour, limiting my exposure to people that were rude, inconsiderate, and whom I wanted to push down the stairs. No such luck. Our tour bus was full as we departed for the gardens. Just before we were due to leave, a group of loud Americans made themselves known to our tour guides. They were booked on this tour too, however, they were not sure they would be attending as they had just travelled to Paris via train from London, had not eaten since they left, and were severely unhappy with their accommodation. This information was conveyed to us, and the rest of those on the bus, by the matriarch of the family. "Mom, that's not their problem. Not everyone needs to know. Do you want to go?" the daughter enquired, "No, I'm hungry, I don't want to go." replied the mother. "Okay, we won't go then." the daughter said. "Oh no, I'm going. I've always wanted to go." The matriarch had spoken. The group boarded the bus, and we had the pleasure of sharing our booth with one of the group. A nice enough man, from California, they were only in Paris for one day before they moved on. Not a bad bunch of people, however, so my bloodlust for pushing people down the stairs was not stirred. 

Mum being the chatty person that she is, struck up a conversation (unnecessarily -  Brad) with our new American friend. We continued our conversation well into the trip, until we were shushed by the tour guide. Our conversation was distracting her from what she was trying to tell people about Monet over the PA system on the tour bus. Whoops. We were silent and attentive to the biographical account given until the end, at which point, the conversation continued until our arrival at Giverny. 

Upon our arrival at Giverny, we were each marked with a fluoro orange sticker so that we could be identified as part of the tour group (much to our disgust, as you know our feelings about organised tours). We were then lead from the car park to the garden's entrance, where we were split into two groups. We were lead up the garden path (see what I did there?), briefly through the garden to the front of Monet's house, where he lived with his first wife and two children, and later, his two children, his second wife - and her SIX children. Brady Bunch much? 

The tour guides are not actually allowed to guide you through the house. For whatever reason, the people in charge of the estate have banned it. So we were given a brief rundown of the rooms, their uses and any significant events that occurred in them before we were left to our own devices to explore. Much more our style. 

I don't like tourists.  I suck their blood. (not really, I'm harmless, but, Shhh)

The house looks rather large from the outside, but as we were told, the rooms are very small inside. I don't think I would have liked to have lived there with eight children. The rooms we had access to were limited to Monet's library, lounge room, kitchen, dining room, his bedroom and dressing room, and his wife's bedroom and dressing room. The other half of the house was not open to the public. In relative terms compared to what we have been seeing in the various castles, it was plain. If it had not been for the many (fake) paintings by Monet placed around the house, and the quirky colours that the house was painted, it would have been fairly unimpressive. No photos allowed though, not even sneaky ones. They were very vigilant about that. That's okay though. The gardens were the main reason we were there. 

Upon exiting the house, we were greeted by a plethora of purple posies. The gardens filled with all manner of flowers appeared to be colour coordinated. One area was filled with pinks and purples, the next oranges and yellows and so on and so forth.  They were beautiful. I saw a great many flowers that I hadn't seen before in my travels. Downside? It took 40 years for Mum and I to make our way through to the main event (the Japanese bridge gardens), because Dad needed to stop every 30cm to take a photo of another flower or bee. 

Flower

Flower with bee

Over to the famous Japanese gardens. Let me tell you, they live up to the paintings. If it weren't for all the bustling tourists and clicks of camera shutters, it would be such a tranquil place. Regardless of the human presence, they are magnificent to behold. We did a lap around the outskirts of the garden first to gain our bearings, as there are a few different paths you can follow. Although they are not significantly large, it can take a large amount of time to aptly appreciate all the different sections. The flowers in this section of the garden maintained their vibrance, without being overpowering. There was fast flowing water leading to still ponds full of fish, and several little bridges on which to view these scenes. 

We rounded a bend to see the one and only, iconic Japanese bridge. That's not that impressive, I thought to myself as we approached from the side. The beautiful view to the other end of the garden across the still, mirror like water dotted with water lilies smacked that thought right out of my head. It was truly lovely to behold. We managed to get a few happy snaps while the bridge was more sparsely populated, but it took a couple more laps of the garden for the crowds to dwindle. 

After another half an hour of wandering through the gardens, we decided it was time to make our way to the gift shop, make some purchases and then rejoin our tour group on the bus. The old folks (nearly everyone in the lower deck of the bus) had a nap on the way home. We said goodbye to our new American friends, wished them well on their one night in Paris, and then made our way back to the Metro to come home and get ready for dinner. 

my hands are shaking and my knees are weak (Paris)

Paris: La Tour Eiffel

Since this is my blog and I have the editorial rights, I could say that title refers to Caitlin and her fear of heights.  That, however, would be sadly dishonest.  Heights.  Ughhh.  Like flying, they can be a necessary evil and to see the view from the top you have to be there in the first place.  Ok, then, not top, but level 2.  I would have gone all the way, but Cait didn't want to and I felt, as her father, I should support her cowardly fear of heights (with my own).

The day dawned, eventually, the sun doesn't really get strong till around lunch, but the day dawned sans music!  Oh yes, we slept because there was no concert in the Republique and the hip-hop morons didn't spin  a disc.  All we had to deal with was the heat, the creaky floors, echoed conversations from open windows and loud bangs form the street.  Even the workers next door didn't drop their first lot of equipment until 8am.  Yes, of course I was awake before then, but that's not the point, I could have slept in had I wanted.

Usual start to the day.  Out to purchase breakfast.  Home to enjoy pastries and bread the like of which bakers in Australia are unable to produce.  Clear email blah blah blah and off the the metro to catch a train to the Tower.

Starting later in the day meant less crowds, but the travelling buskers seem to be stalking us.  Today there was a violinist and a trumpet player.

After Caitlin, read Gen Y, negotiated a concern with our online ticket purchase, we safely avoided the massive queues and walked straight to the lift for level 2.  Up, up and away, with the usual pushing and shoving.  Paris is truly a city that recognises women's liberation.  It is very person for themselves, on the metro, in a lift, on the pavement, where ever.  Never was there a more apt adage for this city than: he who hesitates is lost.

First to the gift shops to secure the elusive Eiffel Tower charm bracelet.  No deal!  In any of the three shops.  So much for internet accuracy of information.  Then a couple of laps outside, a few happy snaps (see below) and then down the stairs to level 1, for much of the same.

Sacre Coeur in the distance

That next level is a little too far

More sunburn

Part of the queue

Once back on terra firma, Cait and I decided that it wasn't so bad after all.  This is a good thing, because Jayne and I are having dinner at Jules Verne Restaurant on Thursday night on level 2.

What to do?  Lunch? Excellent idea.  Back to the metro and over to Saint-Germain, the home of the restaurant Le Comptoir.  Dad found an article about it in the Daily Telegraph.  Despite this dodgy recommendation we decided to have lunch there.  As the article suggested, there was queue.  I do not queue.  While we were waiting and I was eyeing the half-empty restaurant across the road, I suggested to Jayne and Cait that they should check out the menu.  A wise call as it turned out.  All they served was crazy French food: pig's trotter, pork braised in milk, stake tartare (raw hamburger mince) mmmm. Yummy.

I queue for no man, or woman either.  Or lunch, in fact.

Anyway, lunch was delightful at Les Editeurs across the road.  We were eating before the queue had moved at all.  Cait had steak, I had lamb and Jayne had risotto.  And wine. And bread. And coffee. And Cait had dessert.  No waiting, although it was crowded when we left.

Notable sighting today - a woman with a sock bun that needed its own postcode it was soooo big, tottered up onto the station as we headed to lunch.  She strolled along the platform and then promptly went back down to level she had just left, presumably just so we on the platform could all admire her amazing hairdo.  

Home for a rest afternoon and to plan the next few days.  We are heading to Giverny tomorrow afternoon and to the nearest markets in the morning.  We haven't quite finished shopping for presents.

Fashion for Sydney 2014

Based on what is out and about in Paris, for men, coloured jeans are still the go, as are coloured shorts and v-neck Ts.  For the ladies, read and weep, fluoro is back, in shoes and shirts. Lace and open-backed dresses are also on the way.

the day the music died (Paris)

Never was there a happier sight for three bleary-eyed sleep deprived people than seeing the beginning of the stage being dismantled in the Place de la Republique this morning.  The nightly music would be no more.  

We knew we would be in for a difficult night because it was the last night of the free music in the Place.  Around midnight there seemed to be a surreptitious second beat.  Once the formal music ceased, this rose to be king of the night and the morning.  If it was a professional DJ he should be lynched because several times he allowed sufficient gap between his dull hip hop music to allow us to think the show was over.  And the music was loud.  Think really loud music from the house next door.  At 3:30ish the sounds of Abba's Dancing Queen were heard and as I reached for the knife it was swiftly removed form the turntable to be replaced by more hip hop.  At this point Jayne requested the window be closed which had marginal impact except to stop the airflow and increase the temperature in our room.  If I had known who to phone to get some action I would have dialled so fast ... but ... who knows.  We couldn't even be sure where the sound was actually coming from.  Sadly for everyone it stopped at daylight, 5:30am.  Sleep.  For a little while.

Paris:  Sacre Coeur

The lack of sleep almost threw our day's plans into disarray, but at 7:30 I was ready to get going for the day.  Plans needed to be adjusted, no time to go and buy breakfast, OJ and toasted left over baguette would have to suffice.

Once more into the metro.  We arrived at the correctly marked metro station 'Sacre Coeur' except once back into the daylight there were, of course, no directions.  Following the crowd seemed like a good idea and Sacre Coeur and its many steps - 225 or 300 depending on you source - was there before us (as usual the Catholics have to claim the highest spot in town and make you work to get there).  Having done our research, we were prepared for the 'string men' who approach, smile and wrap a string around your arm and then ask for money. No-one approached us, we must look formidable.

Up the steps we went, stopping for the occasional photo and to admire the view.  I didn't take many photos from the top because, although it was a beautiful cloudless day, the Paris skyline was a quite hazy.

I blame all the smokers

We were early for mass, so we scored a good seat, unlike Notre Dame where we were right down the back.

The Basilica is stunning in its beauty and grandeur.  So, it is a real shame that they do not allow photography inside, flash or no flash.  And while many an ignorant tourists ignored the request, I was not one of them.  The space itself is based on two domes.  The one above the altar contains a mosaic that has a 3D effect with the image of Jesus dominating it.  The dome above the people is brick and is lifted by stained glass windows around its top.  The stations of the cross are worked in tile mosaic as well and sit on the back wall on the altar area.

The dominant vista upon entering the Basilica is the altar and the monstrance.  The monstrance itself must be at least 3 metres off the ground.  I wasn't sure whether the blessed sacrament was on display or whether the monstrance played a significant part in the impact of the altar.  That was until just prior to mass commencing and one of the Dominican nuns picked up a remote and aimed it at the tabernacle and shutters came down around the monstrance.  OK then, no secret stairway at the back of the altar.

Although I could follow mass because I know the format, there was not a lot that I understood.  Thankfully, they had printed the readings for the day in a number of different languages on a sheet that was handed out as we came in.  Once outside, Cait and I compared understanding: and then I heard 'with' and the priest said 'Lord' a lot.

I love a good gargoyle

As with Notre Dame, the tourists continued the walk around the interior of the Basilica.  For whatever reason, smaller numbers, different floor types or something else, I didn't find them as distracting.  And their progress was halted completely to allow the priests to process in and out.

Sitting about 5 rows from the front, I thought we'd be among people who had come to worship.  Sadly not.  There was a passing parade of people who came to get a better look at the altar, and take a sneaky photo, during the service.  Oh, they were respectful, they pretended to look for a seat, sit down, cross themselves, take a snapshot, a quick prayer and then out again.  If God was vengeful like the Old Testament says then they would have been smote by a huge Monty Python God-like hand before they reached their bloody tourist bus.

After mass, we dawdled through the streets of Montmartre.  Yes, we shopped, need you ask dear reader.  Cait bought some things for people back home, we purchased our evening baguette from an award winning boulanger (and it was lovely, just finishing it off as I write this entry) and some wine.  Then to breakfast, well lunch really.  Yet another lovely meal.  The most interesting sight over lunch?  Hmm, it's a close call between the waiter who was clasping his cigarettes while he sucked on his ventolin puffer, or, the piano accordion player outside the restaurant who was moved on by police.  I mean, accordion playing is offensive, but to involve the police? Or was it the tour group member with dyed black hair, and bright purple roots? Hmm, her natural hair colour? We think not.

Back into the bowels of the earth, we caught the metro home.  On one leg we were accompanied by buskers playing a trumpet and saxophone - badly.  We were really pleased to change lines until ... what is that sound ... bugger, they had followed us.

Home to check the cricket score.  Sad face.  And watch the closing stage of an inspiring win by Chris Froome in Le Tour.  Cadel, champion that he is, can not win from where he is.  He doesn't have the team that Skye has put together.  Froome's domination made me wonder whether Wiggins really was injured, or did he spit the dummy because Froome was going to be the one the team was built around?

Then, back out for a spot of people watching and some afternoon tea (read wine, for the big people and ice cream - for Cait) at a cafe on place de la Republique.

There is not a lot to dislike about Paris.  I never feel unsafe.  The  beggars and hawkers always leave you when you ask.  BUT, the fact the people can't find a toilet is too much; visually and olfactorily.  Seriously, the smell in some areas is sooo strong.  I know we've copped it around where we are staying because of the crowds at the music festival each night, but I've seen boys and girls, relieving themselves just about anywhere.

Tonight, we hope for an uninterrupted sleep.

Until tomorrow.