Bonjour from Rambouillet
MAY 9, 2006
I miss London already. France has been swell so far, though it was cold and rainy today. The French keyboards have proven slightly challenging and are driving me mad!
My friend Tara met me at the train station on Sunday afternoon and we checked into the hotel. The elevator was barely enough to fit me and my luggqge (Tara took the stairs), but mercifully, it was in full working order. Good thing, because I’m eight stories up. Stairs??? Fugggedaboutit.
My room is at the top floor and has a wonderful view of the Sacre Coeur basilica. Finally I get to see it! Been wanting to, ever since I did a report on it in high school French class. Remember that scene in Sex and the City where Carrie moves to France, looks out her hotel room and screams with glee upon sighting the Eiffel Tower? Well, replace Carrie with me and instead of the Eiffel Tower, insert the Sacre Coeur.
My hotel is on the far side of Montmartre, the hilly part of Paris on which the basilica sits and which has long been the artsy center of Paris. Around the turn of the century (the 20th, not this one) artists flocked here for the cheap rents, cheap booze and cheap women.
After dumping my stuff off at the hotel, Tara and I made our way up the hill (it was a very nice day for a “stroll”), attacking the Sacre Coeur from behind (oh hush with the funny jokes, you). I started counting the steps in French to practice, and I think we made it to 60 before the simultaneous talking and stair-climbing proved too taxing on my lungs.
Must. Stop. Smoking.
(By the way, many of you will be glad to know that England is going the way of California, Boston and New York. No, I don’t mean down the toilet. Yes, London pubs will be smoke-free as of next year. Rejoice, hallelujah.)
We walked around Montmartre until meeting up with a couple of Tara’s French friends. We cafe-hopped for a while (we weren’t drinking coffees, really) and the last stop was a cafe prominently featured in the movie “Amelie”.) We tried convincing Tara’s friend Olivier to cook for us, promising to bring loads of wine. At 9 pm, he finally caved. (By the way, they eat so late here.)
We had a terrific meal of roasted chicken, penne, sauteed calamari, salad, a potato-carrot conconction and spicy shrimp. (He just threw it all together.) As an “aperitif” I had five shots of Absolut Citron and dearly paid for it in the morning.
I’m so not used to this. I’ve consumed less alcohol in the last five months than I did in my first eight hours here in Paris. Oy. Can I go home now?
The Metro was closed by the time we were ready to go home, so we took a cab. Now … cabs here are grossly overpriced. It cost about 8 or 9 Euros to get to the hotel (which only took seven minutes; four for the actual ride and three to explain to the driver how to get there). When you factor in the exchange rate (that day it was 1.63), it’s downright scandalous.
Speaking of the exchange rate, it’s a glaring statement against the dollar when 1.98 USD = 1 GBP! In France, it was 1.63 on Sunday, yesterday a bit better at 1.40.
Oh yes, back to gay Paree.
So… spent my first two days here exploring Montmartre, which I just lovelovelove (oh, hold your horses, I ain’t ever moving here, much to Tara’s dismay). Though the Moulin Rouge is the really famous moulin here (moulin = windmill), there’s another well-known one (Moulin de la Galette) which is a real old-fashioned windmill on the grounds of a vineyard near the top of the hill. The vineyard is closed to the public except during the harvest festival. Which is fine with me. I’ve had enough alcohol, thank you beaucoup.
Today, we explored the Marais district (marais means marsh). We started at the Place de Bastille… now don’t make the mistake that tourists do, presuming they would find the Bastille here. It doesn’t actually exist anymore, burned in effigy and ransacked over the years following the Revolution, so a plaza exists where one of its walls used to be. We went to Victor Hugo’s house in the Place des Vosges and took a tour of the Carnavalet Museum. The Carnavalet is more of a historical museum, tells the story of Paris really, and offers plenty of things to see – sculptures, artwork, furniture – in a vast labyrinth of rooms covering baroque, rococo and neoclassical periods. And it’s free!
The Marais is where you’ll find the Jewish Quarter and the Gay Quarter, and the only adventure we found here was a nasty ATM that ate Tara’s card. Then she found herself explaining to the mean French bankwoman (who by the way repeatedly asked Tara if she had simply forgotten that she put the card in her pocket) that the machine ne marche pas! Try arguing that in French! While your increasingly hungry friend waits outside in the rain. WITHOUT GLOVES. (Damn, forgot them again!)
See, that is why I insist on taking traveler’s cheques. (The machine eventually spit the card out.)
At the end of the walk is the garish Pompidou Centre. Which, I never liked in pictures, and outrightly despise in person. (And they actually charge you to go inside. The nerve!) From there, we caught the train from Montparnasse to Rambouillet, the sleepy charming town where Tara lives and works as an English teacher at a language institute.
I’ll spend the night here, then head back to the city via Versailles tomorrow. Hopefully, it’s nice out and I’ll be able to walk in the gardens.
So far, this French sojourn has been wonderful. The French have been friendly and the rudest person I’ve come across was a snotty young American girl who just graduated from school and is living here. Could’ve been me ten years ago, except I can’t imagine being that snotty. You know the type, intellectual young lass about the world, living in Paris because she can and thinks she’s so cool (even the way she talked bugged). Yeah, give her a few years when she’s been slapped around a little and perhaps she’ll eventually get over herself. (Even the Frenchies thought she was rude.)
My French, though rusty, has proven passable, and I have been able to buy train tickets, order at the cafes and cash TCs. This morning, I managed to ask the front desk for a new towel because I dropped mine into the toilet. Heck, *I* was impressed with myself. For the French, not for dropping the towel in the toilet.
Half the time, I let Tara do the talking since she’s the resident. I can understand French okay, as long as they speak slowly.
I’ll say this for France though… the food is tres bon, and it’s much easier to get good food for cheap than in England. Many people say the food sucks in England; it doesn’t, you just have to PAY a lot for it. But it’s there. At least France is good for the budget traveler, even though a cup of coffee consists of about three sips.
And I haven’t had to use any of the toilet seat covers I brought from home because I’ve gotten quite excellent at squatting. Sure, the sinks have warm water, but finding soap in public toilets is rare. I’m convinced, though we are overly hygienic in America, that that is not an entirely bad thing. Soap is really underrated.
I may not have time to send another travelogue when I get back to Paris, so I hope you are all well when I see you back in the USA. I’d love to chat more, except I really hate this keyboard. There’s a Q where an A should be, W in place of Z, M where you’d normally find the semi-colon, and most annoying of all, three characters share the number keys. You even have to shift to use the numbers.
Grrr.
Au revoir, a bientot!
Epilogue: I never did send another travelogue, but the rest of the trip went like this: stopped off in Versailles on the way back to Paris, more churches and museums (the Musee d’Orsay was a highlight), chocolate at Angelina’s (another highlight), wine and cheese shopping on the Rue Cler (a lowlight, in terms of maxing my credit card), and cheap but good Laotian food in Paris’ Chinatown (yes, there seems to be one in every town!)
More French was practiced, more chevre and baguettes consumed, and perhaps a decent mugging had been avoided. (A sketchy-looking dude was eyeing my camera bag on the Metro but we kept our eyes on him until we were able to shake him off.)
While I had a better experience with Paris this visit, I still find myself underwhelmed by the hype. Some of it, I’m sure, is just me being jaded. But when I first visited years and years ago, when I was a total francophile, I found that it wasn’t the bag of chips the movies and novels had promised. Years later, with much lowered expectations, the experience was better, but I still can’t say it’s in my top five destinations of all time.
But will I visit again? Mais, oui!
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