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.