Literary / Arts
The Impecunious Traveller – My Paris Adventure
Sheila FitzGerald McKenna, Victoria
Volume 30 Issue 4, 5 & 6 | Posted: July 7, 2016
My visit to England had dwindled down to the last weekend. A kind of vacuum between now and next week when I would fly back to Canada. Mooching down the high street with a friend, I passed by a travel agency. In the window was a notice:
WEEKEND IN PARIS
A few seats available.
“Let’s go!” I said. My friend checked his wallet. “Let’s go!” he said.
The small shop was full of people. By the time I got to the counter the seats were sold. However, the agent, with a knowing smile of having something up his sleeve (Don’t they all?) said, “You could go by boat.”
Now, I ask you, what better way to go! We bought tickets. There was no time to pick up extra clothes. We would go as we were!
My visit to England had dwindled down to the last weekend. A kind of vacuum between now and next week when I would fly back to Canada. Mooching down the high street with a friend, I passed by a travel agency. In the window was a notice:
WEEKEND IN PARIS
A few seats available.
“Let’s go!” I said. My friend checked his wallet. “Let’s go!” he said.
The small shop was full of people. By the time I got to the counter the seats were sold. However, the agent, with a knowing smile of having something up his sleeve (Don’t they all?) said, “You could go by boat.”
Now, I ask you, what better way to go! We bought tickets. There was no time to pick up extra clothes. We would go as we were!
We made it to the station just in time to catch the express train to the coast and boarded the boat bound for France. Standing on deck, we watched the white cliffs of Dover receding behind us. The last leg of the journey to Paris would be by train.
It was well past midnight when the train from Calais pulled into Gare du Nord. The station was dark and deserted except for three buses waiting to transport the last tour groups of the day to their destinations. The first two filled up rapidly and departed.
The third, with engine running, waited for stragglers. We did the only thing possible in the circumstance. We boarded the bus! No questions were asked, everyone seemed to know where they were going. Except us. We sank wearily into a couple of seats. It had been a six hour journey from the coast on a train laden with students patrolling corridors, and shouting slogans, on their way to attend a weekend national student protest rally in Paris, something for which we were totally unprepared.
The bus slowly toured around the city unloading passengers at various hotels. Finally we were the only couple left on the bus. “Where are you going?” queried the driver. “We don’t know” we replied. He looked rather nonplussed. Having two people, obviously tourists, without luggage, and no idea where they were going, certainly presented a problem. “You are now in Montmartre, the end of my route.” he said.
This information came as no surprise as the neighborhood we were passing through had become more bohemian by the minute. Finally, he said, “Don’t worry. I know a small ‘pension’ that will take you in.” He stopped the bus at Rue Amsterdam. “Down there, turn left, Hotel Blackstock, hammer on the door!” Thank God he was right, and a tiny wedge shaped room top floor back, containing bed, chair, bath, and bidet, was ours for the asking.
Next morning I was wakened by loud voices somewhere outside. Opening the casement window which overlooks a large back courtyard shared by numerous other small hotels, I saw staff arriving for work. “Bon jour! Bon jour!” they cheerfully greeted each other.
The backs of the hotels were more beautiful than the fronts. Flowers spilled from pots ranged along window sills. Small open casement windows, with lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. I soaked in a hot bath listening. This was Paris!
Later, over coffee and hot croissants served by the desk clerk in the miniscule front lobby, (“Only four guests at a time, s’il vous plait!”), we noticed how narrow the building was. A central elevator, encircled by a narrow winding staircase, explained the wedge shaped room. Obviously, of necessity, all the guest rooms were wedged shaped!
Starting the day we walked up Rue Amsterdam and discovered that it joined the main boulevard at Place Clichy, distinguished by a large white stone monument with rampant flag bearing figures atop, commemorating the French Revolution. At regular intervals all along the strip were other distinguished places. The Moulin Rouge, Pigalle’s, Place D’Abbesses.
That was as far as we got. Having stopped for an aperitif at each location, savouring delight of accidentally being in the very part of Paris we would have chosen, by the time we reached the Place D’Abbesses we were pretty ‘high’. We made a left turn and got lost!
Sheltering under a bakery awning from a sudden rain shower, we got into conversation with friendly locals. “Going up to Sacre Coeur?” “Where is it?” we asked. “Just around the corner. Take the funicular.” Thus later, we ascended the hill on the funicular and stood gazing down on the rooftops of Paris and the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Incidentally, that was as close as we got to the Eiffel Tower!
Meanwhile however, the dome of Sacre Coeur towered above us, and adjoining, was Place de Tertre, a treed square where artists display their paintings. All this excitement necessitated another aperitif! We sat at a table outside, La Boheme, a restaurant much featured in movies, and watched the artists at work. Then, of course, we had to browse awhile and eventually purchase a painting. Time ran out and we never did tour Sacre’ Coeur!
Supper that night was at a modest but promising establishment with two orange trees in tubs outside. Having placed an order, I noticed large horse collars decorating the walls. It was a horsemeat establishment! And we had ordered the cheapest item on the menu, sausages. As we later learned, roast horseflesh is good. Sausages are an unreliable choice. I suffered no ill effects. My companion was not so lucky!
The following morning therefore was quiet, but not wanting to waste a precious day, I managed with limited French, to book seats for the evening performance at the Moulin Rouge. We walked to the theatre, past long queues of tourists arriving by bus, and, because we had pre-booked, were escorted to a balcony table for two resplendent with red tablecloth and complimentary bottle of wine in a silver ice bucket!
Sunday; a propitious day to visit Notre Dame Cathedral and hopefully, the Palais Royale. Boarding a bus bound in the right direction, with a stop at the Opera House long enough to take a snapshot through the window, we arrived at Notre Dame. The church was crowded with worshipers and curious visitors. Finding a couple of seats at the back we observed the awesome interior. To walk around was impossible.
I was fascinated by the many wrought iron votive candle racks placed along the side aisles. Foot long wax candles were bending over like Candy Canes, in their own heat. A veritable inferno of prayer. Later we stood on the vast tiled forecourt fronting the Cathedral, once crowded with buildings facing each other across narrow cobbled streets.
Later, we walked by the Seine and eventually found the Palais Royal. The gardens were magnificent, leading down from the Palace and out onto Place Concorde at the far end.
Time, like our money, was rapidly running out so we decided to spend our last evening in Paris, across the river in the more upscale part of the city. We took the Metro, our only financial choice. Again we encountered crowds of students milling around the platforms shouting slogans, their voices echoing loudly against the tiled walls.
Thankfully we finally reached our destination and emerged above ground right beside the Arc de Triomphe. Joining the crowds strolling down the wide pavements of the Champs Elysses proved to be so uplifting that we decided to finish our holiday with a flourish. We dined at Fouquet’s, a random choice, finding out later that is famous as a well-known haunt of theatre folk and 'literati'. We ran the whole gamut, from ordering escargots, and sea food omelettes (to die for!) To decadent desserts and a bottle of wine. L’epoque moderne!
The end of our journey was by boat crossing the English Channel. The sailing, however, was delayed to take on passengers arriving on a late train from Rome. It was packed! So many people came aboard that they were forced to sit on the stairways. The boat was obviously overloaded. We stood on the deck and watched the white cliffs of Dover coming ever closer.
Au revoir, Paris!
Sheila FitzGerald McKenna, Victoria