Le Metro

We had a really busy day on Monday which ended at the Arc De Triomphe, Napoleons famous neo-classical folly.  It was the Melbourne version of Paris with rain, sun, cloud and wind alternating throughout the day.  Highlights were the Nympheas at the Orangerie, greenhouse turned gallery of impressionists.  The Nympheas are a collection of Monet's room sized works all depicting his beloved lily ponds at Giverny (the subject of Wednesday's day tour).  They are breathtaking, and backed up by a great collection of his contemporaries, particularly Renoir, Gaugin, Durain and Cezanne.  Coming out of the  Orangerie we were hit by the first of a series of rain showers that punctuated our afternoon and evening.  We took refuge in a small cafe in the Tuileries gardens where the highlight for Joanne was her Desperados beer, which is flavoured with Tecquila and (she says) tasted sweet like a shandy.

Le Louvre from the Tuileries

We started the day with a visit to Montmartre.  This was our first taste of the underground - Le Metro - and it was a revelation!  Whilst it is showing its age and is not bright and sparkly, i.e. a little tired looking, in regard to its central function, delivering people to destinations all over Paris, it shines.  The tickets are a little small and easy to lose, but you only have to use then to get on, not to get off.  The trains are reasonably modern and clean, although there is a variety of vintages, but most importantly they are plentiful.   If your train pulls out just as you arrive on the platform you know that another will be there in 3 minutes or so.  Whilst they do get crowded at times, we haven't not been able to get on one yet, and if it is too crowded you can always just wait for another.  In short, Le Metro is what we Melbournians deserve as a train system.  

Sacre Coeur 

After visiting Sacre Coeur and a wander around Montmartre pursued by portrait artists, we hopped onto the Metro to head off to the Louvre,  and after a quick entrance by-passing the long queue waiting to purchase tickets thanks to our Paris Pass, The Louvre is truly a daunting prospect so we decided to not even attempt to see too much but select only a few areas we were interested in.    So we forsook the well worn path to the smiling lady to visit the restored apartments of Napoleon III on the fist floor of the Richelieu wing, and the re-discovered foundations of the original Chateau, deep underneath the current palace, dating back to the 12th century.  Fine art was limited to a stroll through the new sculpture exhibition in the recently roofed courtyards in the same wing, and some of the medieval iconographic paintings.  

After a brief respite we headed off to the Arc about 7:00 pm, hoping to catch the sunset from the top.  Again the Metro showed its worth.  No matter where you want to go there is always a station nearby and a route to get to your destination 'sur le Metro'. 

Coffee

Ok, call me  a coffee snob but there is no place on earth like Melbourne for coffee.  Let me add some  qualifications.  I am not an espresso drinker, so automatically disqualify myself as an officianado.  In Italy, I am told, the espresso is great, but if you want a milk coffee i.e. cappuccino, latte etc. you are stuck with a fairly ordinary cappuccino with an indeterminate froth and the latte does not exist!  Also, I like to savour my coffee but the Italians skol their espresso and go,  They don't even sit down!

Of course I agree some Melbournians take it too far.  I work in the Melbourne CBD, and there must be about ten cafes within 200 metres of our building which serve passable coffee, including one located in the foyer of the building, and at least two who serve very good coffee.   Yet some of my work mates walk a block and a half (i.e. half a kilometre) to go to a cafe that serves THE BEST coffee!  Needless to say the place is full of hipsters and bankers (sorry, my typing skills are pretty poor, so you have to forgive the occasional typo), and you have to wait ten minutes for your coffee, which makes the morning coffee run about half an hour!  And you still have to drink it when you get back to your desk.

Making Crepes in the Trocadero

We are of course in Paris, and well, it ain't Melbourne, at least where coffee is concerned.  The cappuccino comes with whipped cream (although it also has chocky sprinkles, so they are trying), the latte is really a flat white and there is no such thing as latte art.  There is a profusion of Starbucks, which are a bit more like home but, of course, this is American coffee.  It comes in a bucket (the smallest size is a 'tall' and the large is like a milk shake) with a range of flavours, none of which are actually coffee!  OK, I exaggerate, but my tall latte only tasted marginally like coffee as it was drowned in milk.  Next time I will see if they do a double shot, which  should  make it normal strength.  Seriously, I can make better coffee in my own kitchen on my $200 Sunbeam!  

Of course our luxurious accommodation does come with coffee making facilities, in the form of a dripolator.  Your know, one of those things that you useed to have back in the 80's that you fill with water and put coffee in the dispenser in a filter and the water boils and drips through the coffee into the natty glass jug.  Well, in the absence of anything else it does make decent coffee so we have been using it  every morning.  It is amazing what compromises you make to feed your adictions!  So at the  risk of sounding like a whinging Pom on holiday on the Costa del Sol "OOh Gerald, it isn't like it is at home, is it?", I am really missing Melbourne coffee.

Arrived Paris

Being a seasoned immigration officer and Francophone, as we line up in the non-European passports queue (ie: the Americans and all the other scum queue) I am practicing my best French phrases for the formidable French entry officials, only to find myself 'stamped-in' before I even mumble out my first bonjour.

As we drive from the airport to central Paris (why am I the only one to wonder if the driver is legal ? Why can't immigration officers ever relax ?) we are all playing it cool. We have that world, weary traveller discussion about how freeways and majors roads look the same the whole world over - you know the one, the bored 'I could be anywhere in the world' . But then, peeping into view, between outer suburban Parisian tenements, comes Sacre Couer, atop Montmarte. What a contrast, here one minute I am educating (some would say preaching to) Tom's niece Gemma about urban poverty and disenfranchisement in 21c Paris, and then this iconic symbol of bohemian, sophisticated France steals my thunder.  Soon that, as we skirt the central Parisian arrondissements on the ring road route the Effiel Tower pops into view.  The excitement builds as we gaze over glorious lead roofed apartment buildings and then, as the Arc de Triumph comes into view and we realise that our route is going to take us around the famous roundabout we are almost squealing with delight.  By the time we hit the famous cobblestones of the Champs Élysées we are frenetic and any sembalence of the sophisticated traveler is entirely gone. We are smitten. 

L'apartement

We are then dumped in central Paris, to await our landlady. This has always been the dubious part of the arrangement, meeting the landlady in a corner cafe and handing over squillions of Euros in cash!  No, we did not use an agent for this booking, but everything on TripAdvisor is the gospel truth (isn't it?).  

Success, she finds us.  Hard to miss I guess, six Australians standing on a street corner with luggage.  I am 'bonjouring' every passerby in what I hope is a chic Parisian manner, but I am most disappointed to find that most are Aussie tourists.  Our story now takes a bizarre turn when we discover our landlady  is not French Marie, but is in fact Balinese Ari - well, the phone connections are not great.  Ari has been living in Paris for three years (again the immigration officer in me is curious), and prior to that was selling sarongs on a Balinese beach to none other than my sister-in-law, Lesley.  Well,  turns out that Ari and Lesley are old mates and they reminisce old times as we settle in.  I muse that Ari probably uses that line on all Australians and one-in-three it probably turns out to work, but she does actually seems genuine.  The world is getting such a small place.

Luckily Tom and I have been warning everyone the apartment is quirky - it turns out to be an apt description.  Well, it is hard to find something in central Paris for six people, comprising two couples and two singles.  All I wanted was an apartment with casement windows and wrought iron balustrading and the apartment offers that is spades.  The tatty furniture, well that just adds to the charm. 

So time to break out the Cointreau (thanks to DXB duty free), le fromage and the canard pâté and toast our arrival. We follow this up with dinner and for our first evening in Paris my companions choose a local bistro and they order pizza, pasta and kebabs. You just can't take the Melbourne out of some people.

Our companions finished the day with a night trip to the Eiffel Tower, but as an avowed sufferer of vertigo I forgo the tower and head home to bed; so exhausted that the pounding bass rhythms from the nightclub downstairs are no impediment to a sound night's sleep.