Somewhere along the line (Paris, part 3)

Once again, dear reader, this post will be short on words and populated with pictures. Well, that is the concept at the top of the page. Let's see how we go. I am writing this from the Qatar Business Lounge at Charles de Gaulle airport. As usual, my posts are a few days behind reality. I am hoping to complete this on the plane and then post at our layover in Doha. I've flown Qatar previously, but in economy. Business is very smooth and will definitely feature in my last blog for this trip.

The Parisian weather has settled into a pattern and is forecast to be unchanged for the next two weeks or so. It is around 5° below the average temperature for this time of year. Jayne is back in the snow coat and I’ve resurrected a thermal top, mainly to keep the wind at bay. 

And we're off, heading towards the Tower.

Today began on the Seine with Vedettes, a company that advertises live commentary in French and English as you cruise the Seine to take in the sights of Paris. This turned out to be a recorded commentary in French only. Not that I believe we missed much as far as the commentary was concerned. While it provided some background to the sights, it was mostly ‘on your left is Notre Dame’, ‘on your right is the Eiffel Tower’.

Pont Neuf and its tree of literature.

We were there because, before our first visit to Paris in 2003, we were stranded in London as a result of a wildcat strike by British Airways employees. All because they didn’t want to swipe in and out of work. You can’t have your employer know where you are or what you’re doing during work hours. Anyway, we missed a couple of days in Paris which included our pre-booked cruise on the Seine. So, here we were, 21 years later, sitting at the quay at Pont Neuf on Île de la Cité. The numbers began to swell in the waiting area so we moved down ready to board and distance ourselves from the strollers and numerous children.

Musée D'Orsay.

It was cold on the water, as expected, and the breeze was quite chilly which was exacerbated by the movement of the boat. We had assumed seats upstairs in the wintery sunshine in the belief that the children would mostly stay downstairs. Happily, this proved correct.

Someone dropped a keyring.

The Seine was still flowing quickly and the surface of the water was chopped up further by the breeze. The boat with its not-live, single language commentary did the predictable circuit down towards the Eiffel Tower, then back to just beyond the shrouded hulk of Notre Dame and back to port.

Yeah, I don't know. It was on a boat.

The whole trip occupied 45 minutes and checked off the Paris landmarks of Pont des Arts, or the love lock bridge, Musée D’Orsay, the 1910 Exhibition centre, Alexander III bridge, Eiffel Tower, the Liberty Flame and Notre Dame. 

More civil disobedience.

As early as it was, there was constant traffic on the water. The cruise was just long enough, given the cool temperature. I was beginning to feel the cold as we returned to the pier. Our next stop was the Palais Garnier, the Paris Opera House. The 30 minute walk would allow me to warm up again.

The phoenix.

The Palais may be approached from several streets, but the best view is obtained from Boulevard L’Opèra. Usually. Not at the moment. I have often remarked on our previous trips about the French ability to take a beautiful scene for granted by sullying the view. They are masters at this and the vista might be destroyed by a poorly placed car park, signage, garbage bins; it really doesn’t matter, they will find a way.

A most picturesque advertising hoarding.

The front of the Palais Garnier is covered in scaffolding, as is much of Paris pre the Olympic event. Or as it has been described, the moment where all nations come together to sweat (paraphrased from Charles Emerson Winchester III, Mash 4077). Today that scaffolding was supporting a massive advertisement. I suppose they have to make as much money as they can to help defray the ridiculous cost of the international sporting event.

The grand staircase.

We negotiated the many pedestrian crossings required to get to the access point of our pre-booked, self-guided tour. There were two lines. One for those who had already purchased tickets, the other for those fools who like to take the risk and purchase as they are about to walk in. Or else get turned away. In another typically French move, the very serious, I-have-the-power, man-in-charge of the lines allowed the non-ticket-holding-buffoons first access. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. We know where the emphasis lies, exercise power when you can.

Looking towards the entrance to the auditorium.

The self-guided tour using the supplied iPad-guide was a little confusing because the listed items on the screen were not in logical order of discovery across the 3 levels of the Palais. After recognising this and stopping to check where exactly each point of interest was, we reorganised our path.

The ceiling of the Grand Foyer.

You may recall our visit to the Vienna Opera House, dear reader. Yes, the Viennese take their classical music and opera very seriously and boast about their opera house. In reality, it is a suburban theatre compared to the Palais Garnier. This has been a recurring theme across much of Europe. The buildings that were inspired or provoked by Versailles or Palais Garnier. The students have yet to exceed the triumphs of the master. France will always reign supreme in this regard. Style and beauty. And champagne. A winning trifecta, no matter how hard the others try.

Grand Foyer ceiling and chandeliers.

From the Marc Chagall ceiling to the box of the phantom of the opera, to the breathtakingly magic Grand Foyer. Anything else pales into insignificance, as well intentioned as it may have been.

Chagall.

We decided to dine at a random bistrot on the walk home. This proved a more difficult task than first thought. Menus seem to have been homogenised since we last visited. Every café seemed to have the same range of offerings; it’s almost the Australian version of pub food. Tartare has become a major focus everywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I love a bit of raw food, but it doesn’t hurt to offer a few cooked alternatives as well. 

A side gallery. Not even the main event.

The closer we came to our apartment, the higher the level of desperation. Descartes Café was the winner although there was little philosophy or sophistry behind the menu. Fish and chips and a burger consumed, we continued on our way home.

The box of the Phantom.

We declared the next day, Sunday, a day of rest. You know it makes sense. Our only engagement was lunch at Bonnie, a nifty restaurant on the 15th floor of a hotel near Pont Sully. It is one of those American Express restaurants where I get a substantial amount refunded from the bill. Nice. The money back covered our champagne and wine. Euros hurt if you convert them to Australian dollars. Best not to.

Our waiter was a delightful young man from Kenya who was very well versed in how to manage his guests and engage them in conversation. Maybe I’m getting more cynical and he was genuine, or at least intent on doing his job well.

A rare photo of us.

It was reasonably quiet when we arrived but the table next to us was soon occupied. It was a group of four of varying nationalities. The American man amidst them leaned over and asked if we would recommend our red wine. As if a restaurant like this would serve a bad wine. Upon my recommendation, he ordered the same wine for his table. Oh, the pressure. It was a damn fine wine though from Bordeaux. He enjoyed it as much as we did. I know this because he told us so several times.

The restaurant is the top floor,

Lunch was delicious and expensive. The view was built into the cost. It is difficult to overestimate how warm and comfortable we felt as we watched a rain storm sweep across Paris. As has been the pattern, it passed quickly and the sun returned. It was quite fresh out on the balcony but we couldn’t resist the view or the photo opportunity. Sadly, I only had the phone for photographs. In close up, they look more like paintings.

Sacre Coeur in the distance.

Fortunately there was no rain on our walk home. On the inside door, we were greeted by a sticky-taped message. One of the residents had lost his fob. Unfortunate. He could get into the building via a pushbutton code and could access his apartment with his keys, but the door in between required a fob/swipe to open. Awkward. Apparently, he worked in the ‘monde de la mode’, would be home very late and requested the fob activated door be left open for him. The nice residents had acquiesced and a door mat was appropriately placed to allow him to get safely to bed.

The Tower and Notre Dame.

Before my final comments today's title is Somewhere along the line by Billy Joel from his 1973 groundbreaker, Piano Man. It contains the line, "It was a rainy night in Paris and I was sitting by the Seine. It's a pleasure to be soaking in the European rain". Not sure I agree; enough with the rain.

Interesting architecture.

As we relaxed into the evening and contemplated sleep, the clown upstairs, the soccer afficionado, ramped up his TV and his vocal support for whatever team he supports. Ole, ole, ole until after 11pm. I’ve never been much of a soccer fan. Tonight did not change that.

I hope they got thrashed.

Quite obviously I didn't post in Doha. Insufficient bandwidth to load photos.

À demain.

Where do you go my lovely? (Paris, part 2)

Hello dear reader. This is a brief post. I know, who'd have thought it?

Friday arrived and so did the marché across the road. I love a farmers' market, especially a French one. In a surprise to no-one, we methodically walked the rows of stalls scrutinising the produce on display and noting where all the local madames were spending their hard earned Euros. Stalls selected, we purchased comté cheese which the cheese maker made us try beforehand. Apparently we may not have liked it. We did. Very much. Next jambon, on the bone, three slices that provided two meals for us. Finally, one single heirloom tomato. So large, so red, so juicy, so delicious.

Random statue #1

The potatoes and carrots were still covered in the dirt of the ground from which they had been recently pulled. They looked nothing like the vege we see at home. Why? What do we do to our fresh produce before it reaches the shop?

Random statue #2

Supplies purchased, we made a beeline for the nearest boulangerie. We had a choice of four within 50 metres of each other. A baguette to complement our fresh produce for dinner and French pastries for breakfast. Across the road to our apartment. Too easy. It's one of the reasons I love Paris.

Random statue #3

Unfortunately the weather still believes it is late winter, or at best, early spring. Another day of cold winds, cloud and intermittent drizzle. It is what it is. We discovered today that we are in Paris during their school holidays. Yay. That in part explains the crowds. The school groups are obviously from other regions.

We booked a self-guided tour of the Palais Garnier (Opera House) for tomorrow and inadvertently a cruise on the Seine for the same day. My fault. I was cutting from page to page and rushed to secure the booking. When the confirmation arrived, it showed I'd selected the wrong date. Fortunately we will be able to accommodate both activities.

Breakfast over, domestic chores completed and tomorrow sorted, it was time to go in search of where Dave and Teneille will be staying later in the year. It's not a great distance from where we are. Also there are tourist attractions nearby.

A bird. Tried for identification. Failed.

Down toward Boulevard Saint-Germain we walked. Obviously we can't see any further than the door to the residence, but that exists. A good start. There were a number of homeless people, but they'll be gone soon. Like all governments, the homeless will be removed prior to the Olympics. Their existence makes tourists feel uncomfortable or the host nation embarrassed. Or both.

Anyway, it seems like a reasonable area. There is a brasserie next door. Across the road is a supermarket complex that houses a boulangerie as well as the usual grocery supplies, including wine. Across from that there is a chocolate shop. They are a five minutes' walk from the Seine and the Île de la Cité.

And if they are interested, St Sulpice is also within a couple of minutes' walk. This is the area tourist attraction. A massive church. So I really needed the 10mm lens to fit it in the frame. We arrived as the drizzle decided to move up a gear so photo opportunities were limited.

The fountain outside St Sulpice.

Inside we went, past the mandatory beggar at the door. This church had more side altars than I've ever seen. Ok, more than I can remember in one church. There must have been over 12. Each was adorned with significant works of art, some under restoration.

Dancing practice?

Of course it had one of those incredibly ornate, lifted up from the ground, pulpits from which to dispense god's words to the unwashed masses below. One of the altars even had a replica shroud of Turin.

So, what is more important? The word or the place from which it is delivered?

The front courtyard housed a massive fountain. The front of the church itself had spires either side of the stone steps. While the same height and basic concept, they were not identical, ensuring a lack of symmetry. Clearly I would never be able to worship there. Symmetry is beauty.

Leaving the church we walked to Jardin du Luxembourg. Last time we visited, it was summer and blue skies. Not so today although there were still a few children playing with the boats in the pond. There were plenty of flowers to photograph and the flowers were more numerous than the people.

A lone boat.

We turned down the Boulevard Saint Michel toward the Pantheon and home. Which brings us to today's title. An excellent song from 1969 by Peter Sarstedt, Where do you go to my lovely? 

Pretty in defiance of the weather.

So, some observations. There seem to be less dogs and no cats whatsoever. I don't know if this is because we are on the left bank. We have stayed on the right bank on previous visits. There appears to be a greater acceptance of English and willingness to speak it. Certainly in comparison to our last visit in 2013. 

Arty shot. Pantheon in the background.

There has been a shift in the homeless as well. There are certainly more beggars, not just on street corners but also soliciting at restaurants and cafés. This time around they are mostly men with backpacks. 

I walked on the grass for this photo. Against the rules.

One constant remains, the ubiquitous blare of police sirens as as they scream along the streets in the daytime. It is never a night time feature so you have to wonder if they just put the lights and sirens on so they can get around the traffic without having to wait their turn ... we have never seen them actually arrive at some critical incident but they always drive in emergency mode.

We have a big tomorrow. There could be a lot of words. Or a lot of pictures.

À demain.

I Love Paris (Paris, part 1)

Ah, Paris, the city of lights. It is one of my favourite cities, dear reader, but you know that already. Today's song title is of no surprise, I Love Paris by Lady Ella. Enjoy a classic from 1956. It is good to be back and to have some time to wind down after the occasionally frenetic pace we carved from the tip of Norway to the capital of France.

It may be spring and there are flowers, but the weather is under the influence of intermittent sunshine with a northerly wind so the maximum temperature is not expected to exceed 13°. The thermals have yet to be broken out, but it's probably not far away. For Jayne at least.

Without breakfast provisions, we made our way to Rue Mouffetard, a well known restaurant strip, to discover breakfast wasn't really their thing. Early mornings really aren't a thing in Paris, unless you are on your way home. Eventually we came across a café and went inside. Only smokers eat outdoors at this time of the year. We were welcomed in but the proprietor was quick to point out there was only 1 croissant left. Breakfast was shared, a croissant and baguette with jam and coffee.

A spring daffodil.

Body and soul restored, we headed towards the river via the Jardin des Plantes. I spent time here in 2012, by myself. No need to go over old ground, but previous posts cover that time in France, if you're interested in history.

A classic Japanese Maple.

We emerged on the left bank of the Seine and walked towards Notre Dame, a phoenix, rising from the ashes of the 2019 fire and now with the scaffolding that surrounds the reconstruction/restoration.

On we went past the famous 'lock bridge' or Pont des Arts and crossed the Seine on the Pont du Carrousel. You might think we were just wandering like random tourists ticking boxes for the famous sights of Paris. However, you would be wrong. We were remembering Paris. And also moving ever closer towards the Pandora store. 

The map located Pandora at the Arc de Triomphe Carrousel. We arrived to find the area swathed in scaffold and protective fencing. Disappointed, we sat and rested and watched the huge crowd in the square lining up for entrance to the Louvre. I estimate I have spent close to two full days in the Louvre and have still not seen everything. Today it was definitely a 'no go zone'.

"The crowds upon the pavement were like fields of harvest wheat."

While we were enjoying fleeting moments of sun, an American couple came to join us on our marble slab, mistakenly thinking we were waiting for the same Louvre guided tour as them. We chatted about Paris and things to see.

After they were called away to head into the maelstrom of bodies that was the Louvre, we departed through the archway that wasn't river side. There was police van after van, lined up on the street for no apparent reason. Dodging the continual incoming tide of people and school groups (no, they are not people) we stumbled across the entrance to the Carrousel du Louvre shopping precinct. Underground.

Police operation or lunch?

That is why my map showed us sitting on top of the Pandora store. Tricky. Down the escalator into more crowds of school groups. Seriously. Is there even one child in Europe in a classroom? Are teachers paid to be tour guides? After bravely shouldering through several groups, we found eldorado. Well, Pandora.

Shopping in tourist areas in Paris is like unarmed combat. Once the marauding tribes of paired school children had left the store - after the girls had shown the boys what they should purchase, we had to battle the entitled generation. They moved in pairs and crowded either side of us as we looked at the charms. When we didn't move, they started a conversation across us by leaning over the cabinet and obscuring our view.

La Tour Eiffel across the love lock bridge.

Enough. We moved. And in doing so were served. Win. And Jayne found a charm for her bracelet. This was a watershed. It was bigger than November 11, 1975, bigger than March 5, 1983, bigger than ... you get the picture. In a never seen before event, Jayne selected a charm that would dangle from her bracelet!

On our way back to reality, we passed a tourist information booth and acquired a map of Paris, albeit a Japanese one. As an old bushwalker, I still prefer a paper map.

Pont des Arts.

The Pont des Arts is probably better known as the Lock Bridge. It was the bridge where people demonstrated their undying love to each other by putting their names on a padlock, locking it onto the bridge and throwing the key into the Seine. We did it 2013 and we're still together so clearly it works. As the weight of the locks was thought to be compromising the integrity of the bridge, the locks have since been removed, more than once by the authorities.

The panels where a lock could be placed have since gone and sheets of perspex now exist. Some decorated. Not to be deterred, the lovers in Paris now attach locks to whatever they can. On any bridge or structure. On the Pont des Arts, they have placed bicycle locks around lamp posts and placed their love locks there. Others now adorn the metal garden fences in the courtyard out the front of Notre Dame. Paris is civil disobedience. Love it.

Love will triumph.

We paused to rest on one of the marble blocks on Pont Neuf as we began our walk home. We'd not been there long when some grumpy old man muttered things in French to Jayne I couldn't understand and gesticulated for us to move. And so we did, a few marble blocks away and we watched as he set up his 'art works' and easel. He was one of those 'artists' whose talents were yet to be recognised and so painted garishly coloured pictures of the surrounds. A latter day Monet. Bahahahaha. Angry old man.

While we watched, he berated several passers-by for stepping too close to his 'artworks'. Given he doesn't pay the government to occupy this spot, I thought his behaviour beyond the pale. The best bit was when he was so involved in one of his fading watercolours that he failed to notice a passerby stepping on one of his precious paintings. It left an excellent 'watermark' of a size 9 shoe right across the bottom corner of Notre Dame. A precious moment to be savoured for a while yet. My only regret was not being there when he discovered the footprint. And no, it was not me, dear reader, I am a size 7.

The Tree of a Thousand Voices on the Carousel Bridge.

Our return walk took us again through the gardens and then home for a well-earned champagne to celebrate being back in Paris. After that it was time to seek out a dinner venue from among the multiple options close by.  While at first glance, we were spoilt for choice, it was not as simple as we thought. Most restaurants had extremely similar menus and, if you liked tartare or burgers, you were in foodie heaven. Neither is really high on our list of dining-out must-haves. So, the quest morphed into finding a place that offered appealing alternatives.

I expected better.

Eventually, we selected a small and well-patronised place that had both steak and lamb (cooked) on a fixed price menu that offered a main with either an entrée or a dessert. Our meals were ok but not great - nowhere to hide with a steak and a lamb chop. The steak was a cheaper cut and the lamb was not very succulent. We have high expectations of food in France and this was not in keeping with our standards, based on previous experiences.

As we were enjoying the last of our wine, a school group emerged from the other end of the restaurant. Reminiscent of the a scene from Mary Poppins as she continually extracted items from her carpet bag, the students kept coming through the restaurant, to gather on the street outside our window view. Our fellow diners all stopped to watch the passing parade. Finally, all present, two teachers formed what I would refer to as a wedding arch and the students went through the arch and continued down the street. Hopefully never to be seen again. Just like in the Pied Piper fairy tale.

The evening's entertainment over, we returned to our dessert. The crowd in the restaurant thinned and the street quietened. Cultured people like to dine early and we'll be home before the rabble rousers emerge. At least tonight.

À demain.

Paris (Vienna to Paris, France)

Look out, dear reader, it's a transit day, so photos are there to provide you with relief. It's the day where something will go wrong, in abject defiance of my meticulous planning. Today was no different. Sigh. Thankfully there is only one more transit day after this one. It's huge though, all the way back to Sydney. I'm getting ahead of myself.

We set an alarm although it wasn't required. We lounged in bed reading the news online from Australia and checking email until it was time for breakfast. Our wonderful host, Gerhard, had checked out the various modes of travel to the airport. The train was the cheapest but for an extra €10 we could pre-order a taxi. Door to door - no bag drag. Of course we chose the latter. I'll save the wheelie bag versus cobblestone event for the Olympic city.

Somewhere in Hofburg.

The taxi was scheduled for 10am and arrived a few minutes early. The company app alerted me to his approach. We wrangled the bags into the lift and down the few stairs out onto the street. Our driver was there within the minute. The suitcases were placed into the boot of a black Mercedes that I probably couldn't afford to drive at home and we settled into the leather interior and chatted with our driver. He was originally from Turkey but had been in Austria for 27 years.

The conversation soon dried up and we relaxed into the drive. The traffic was light so we would make the airport in plenty of time to enjoy the Air Austria lounge. And then, you knew there would be an "and then", dear reader, didn't you? We entered the freeway and all was fine for a few minutes, and then the traffic increased significantly and gradually we slowed to a crawl.

The Mozart statue in Burggarten.

Our driver was somewhat perturbed by this occurrence. There was no way of telling what the problem was and he assured us he had chosen the route because his app indicated light traffic. As annoying at it was, we were never going to be inconvenienced by arriving later than anticipated. I was concerned for our driver who was on a fixed fee fare and was losing work.

The Sydney style traffic crawled on and more traffic joined us from the on ramps, slowing things further. As you would expect in a situation like this, we were tantalisingly close to the airport exit. Less than 4 km in fact.

While there were roadworks, they were not the problem. As we exited the freeway, we could see they had chosen that particular spot to commence narrowing lane access from three lanes to one. Another km or even 500m would have made the world of difference to those heading to the airport. Once again, organisational issues.

Burggarten again.

The approach to the terminal was smooth. The doyens of Sydney airport could learn a thing or two. Taxi parked, he helped with our bags. I over tipped because he had lost at least one fare in the traffic chaos. And he seemed like a nice person.

Inside an unfamiliar terminal, we found the Air Austria desk to be told Business check in (I won an upgrade bid) was elsewhere and we were waved away with vague directions. We stumbled across their service desk where one of the attendants finally acknowledged our presence and pointed us down the adjacent corridor. 

The Opera House stage and our guide.

Business check in. Deserted. Luxury. Bags checked, tickets in hand, it was time for security. Fortunately there was also a Business line here. In no time at all, we were on the other side, breathing normally and thinking of the lounge.

We set off toward our gate. My belief, (mistaken as it turned out), was that the lounge is usually in proximity to the departure gate. As it was in just about every other international airport I had visited. Off we wandered towards to the F gates, pausing to purchase a T-shirt on the way. Several times, Jayne questioned where we going. I held firm to my belief that the lounge would be nearby. Wrong. We turned and retraced our steps.

A marble relief on the wall in the Opera House.

Of course Jayne, being female, had to ask for directions. She approached someone at the Air Austria service desk who directed her, allegedly - I didn't hear what he said, back down the corridor towards the security area and up the escalator on the right.

Still smarting from my directional failure, who was I to question? Out we go and Jayne points to the first escalator. There. Um, it doesn't say 'Lounge', it just says 'Gates'. You can adlib the next interchange, dear reader, but be nice. As we are about to enter the escalator, a woman is running down towards us ... teenager style at the shopping centre. Except she keeps saying, "Pardon, pardon, pardon."

The front of the Opera House from across the road above the trams.

When we reach the top, I understand why. No man's land. To go forward takes us into the exit gates for flights. There is no going back unless we too run down the escalator. I'm up for it. One look at Jayne says that is not the way forward.

Anyway, we commenced roaming around on the wrong side of the barrier, hoping to find someone who can help. That didn't happen. After several minutes of mild, sweat inducing panic, we were spat back out at security. Fun times.

Yeah, nah. It was just there. I have no idea.

We lined up and arrived at the point of choice. I chose to stand behind the woman who looked like she was ready to go. But no. She was a decoy and proceeded to remove items from her bag, one by one, and place them in the tray. Assiduously blocking access to those behind her. As her partner moved down the line, Jayne walked to the space where he had been and procured a tray for our belongings as well as a dirty look from the woman who was still fluffing around.

Our gear was in the trays and we sailed through having just completed this process minutes earlier. Through the metal detector, we stood waiting for our trays to pass through x-ray. The guy in front had his bag detoured. No drama because his partner was still dicking around putting things into the tray.

The Belvedere pond. Sorry on a good day it's a fountain.

It was with much dismay and disbelief that we watched Jayne's backpack get detoured into the 'naughty bag' lane. Our other belongings gathered, we waited at the end of the desk. Nothing happens quickly here and the bag checkers worked in pairs. I grew a beard waiting for our turn.

The guy in front was having his bag searched as his partner finally made it through the metal detector. At least she's not a robot. He seemed pissed that he couldn't take his 'savings size' bottles of shampoo and conditioner in his carry on luggage. The very large, sharp looking scissors that came out of his bag next surprised me. Maybe he was intending to cut hair on his next flight. Who would have thought those things would raise an alarm?

A 3D ceiling.

While he was still remonstrating with the security people, someone finally attended to Jayne's backpack. The same backpack that had successfully passed through an x-ray machine further down the line minutes ago. He looks in the pack. Returns to the x-ray machine. Looks in the pack again and removes a cylindrical silver object. "What is this?" he asks. Hmmm, what to say? How stupid are you? Have you never seen one of these before?

"It's a solar powered torch," Jayne deadpans. What did you expect, dear reader? "I will show my colleague." he replies. Seconds later he returns with the torch and we are on our way to the lounge. Again. The lounge for F gates was at G. Of course. Makes perfect sense. This is Austria.

Inside the Museumquartier.

The lounge was not quite what we are used to but at least we were on the right side of the barrier with about a 15 minute walk to our departure gate. At the appointed time, we headed down to find the priority boarding for Business Class was non-existent and passing through the boarding gate was a free for all. Once we made it into the corridor, dejá vu... we came to a screaming halt where we soon realised we were not walking directly onto the plane; we were waiting for a bus to take us to the plane somewhere out on the tarmac. No one could go any further till the transport arrived. Really? How third world.

Eventually a bus arrived and we all piled on to then queue up again to get onto the plane. While there were both a fore and aft entry available, everyone, for whatever reason, decided to go up the front stairs. So once again we waited in a queue, not going anywhere. Once we did get on board, of course there was no locker room near our seats so our bags had to be stowed at the back of the section while we were seated right at the front. Not feeling the love for Austrian Airlines at this point ... or Austrian organisation in general. I haven't read about the collapse of the Hapsburg Empire but I can speculate, based on recent experience.

The entrance to Hofburg.

Once the flight commenced, however, things improved immeasurably with good cabin service, decent food (yes really), and an uneventful journey to Charles De Gaulle, where our bags appeared promptly on the carousel and we then worked out the shuttle service between terminals to go to where we needed to be to catch the RER train into Paris.

And here we are at the title song. There are so many, many songs about Paris. Today though we have chosen Paris by Tay Tay. I'm no Swiftee, I'm not even sure how to write Tay-Tay, but is this 2022 song a nod to her current partner? Some people might care, I'm  not one of them. Enjoy the music, her lyrics are good.

Carved pews.

The service at this point was very good as well, with staff designated to assist passengers with correct ticket purchases. So much friendlier than our previous arrivals in France where we were barely acknowledged.

The lady who assisted us, inquired where we wanted to go. "Luxembourg s'il vous plaît," was the reply.  "Just checking, do you mean Luxembourg the station, or Luxembourg, the country? I have had someone think they were going to the country to find out they had just bought a ticket to do a circuit around the Paris Metro."

Ukrainian artwork from the Lower Belvedere.

Our destination confirmed, we headed down to the platform and only had to wait a couple of minutes before the Line B train arrived and off we went. While all this was pleasantly smooth, we refused to be lulled into a false sense of security, as the last time we caught the train into Paris, we inadvertently found ourselves caught up in train strike which resulted in us and our baggage being jammed like sardines into a shockingly overcrowded train. The trip had been extremely stressful since we were not certain if we would be able to push our way off at the desired stop. While that unpleasant experience ended successfully, we were not keen to repeat it over a decade later.

Happily, no strike was on the cards today and, while the train was crowded, we knew we would be able to get off at Luxembourg for the 20 minute bag drag to our final home away from home in the Latin Quarter.

I shan't bore you with the devious routes planned by our GPS or the usual stories of bags on cobblestones. Both occurred. Down narrow streets when we could have traversed a boulevard, past a film shoot and finally to our door. The codes worked, keys secured we then lugged the bags up to the second floor to battle with the old French locks. They seriously love security in this country.

The door to the street has a push button code. The internal door has an electronic swipe. The door to the apartment has two separate locks, both have two levels of locking mechanism. If there's a fire, I will die.

Once I was comfortable with the locks, we went exploring our neighbourhood, our first stay on the Left Bank. We are surrounded by boulangeries and patisseries. Rue Mouffetard, a well known restaurant strip is within 5 minute's walk. There are also numerous supermarkets and a marché that appears across the road on Friday and Sunday. 

Supplies purchased, we settled in for the night. Almost. We were sitting and discussing what we would do with our time in Paris when I became aware of voices. It was not possible for them to be from next door because that was a solid stone outer wall. Upstairs? Yes, as it eventuated. Stupid boys. Probably gaming. It lasted until midnight. One of them in particular was extremely enthusiastic and his yelling and jumping around ensured we knew when he'd scored a win. I wanted to push him down our narrow spiral staircase and break his inconsiderate neck.

Jayne sent me to bed.

À demain.