6 May Paris to Manchester to Dublin

I had to get my money’s worth out of my two day Metro pass, so I visited the Eiffel tower before breakfast on our last day while Deb kept up with her dreaming. I took a photo of its bottom, which I thought was very attractive (the tower, not Deb’s dream).
I was very worried about my Ryan Air flight to Dublin, so was on edge all morning wondering if the check-in to Dublin would go badly, with uniformed men looking threatening and stern and telling me my bag was too black, too large, too heavy etc, and I was too naive, too uninformed, too poorly dressed etc to travel with Ryan Air. The ticket cost €10 but the extras mounted up to about €35, and I had received emails threatening fines of up to €25 if I didn’t have my boarding pass, if my bag was too heavy, or if I just hadn’t read something in the fine print that they were going to get me for. I was suitably frightened. The flight from Paris was very amusing – even Mista badger thought it was funny, and he is usually quite demure. We were immediately offered the opportunity to save 49 pence if we bought a certain sandwich on the flight, and were bombarded with messages of safety in flight etc. Deb pointed out how lovely it had been in our linguistic incognito cocoon, with no linguistic noise interfering with our important thought patterns. She’s right, though the French are much less in your ear so to speak with announcements.

Deb and Mista Badger were quite entertaining to travel with. At the airport I was barely at coping level, having a funny nagging feeling that something was wrong (stick with the blog and you’ll find out what it was), whereas they were definitely in it for the ride. So, while I meekly handed over my water bottle to the French security people (who seem to have followed America in deciding that water bottles are dangerous), Deb stood a while and drained hers, chatting with the staff, introducing them to Mista badger, and generally being affable. She attempted to get through the security process with a small piece of cheese, some salmon mousse, a bottle of cider and a baguette, and somehow there were four or five women around her holding up the food and chatting with her in French (because that’s what they were), but sadly, her cider was confiscated. She took it very well. I tried to photograph the event for the blog, but the French weren’t having a bar of it, in case I managed to capture an important piece of French security on film. Don’t start me on the Rainbow Warrior – I had forgotten about it until now.

The strangest thing on the flight was the announcement that we absolutely should not go ahead with cosmetic surgery because they had an Elizabeth Arden product that was as good, maybe better, and much cheaper. I felt it was unfair to announce something like this on a flight when I wasn’t allowed to use my mobile phone, as of course I absolutely had to cancel my cosmetic surgery and buy the Elizabeth Arden product instead, but because they were mean about phones, I wasn’t able to do this. We were pleased to be offered opportunities to save 49 pence if we bought a cup of tea, so quickly went ahead and bought one each, smugly joyous over our little savings. After all, if we put our savings together, we would nearly have a pound. We took pictures of the in-flight card showing people who had been unable to save 49 pence. Understandably, they were most upset.

Here’s what we thought of France. Not enough dunnies (we had to rush Deb back home on the last night as we couldn’t find a place for her to pee, and I wasn’t allowed to say anything funny for an hour), very friendly and relaxed, quite French (oh la la, chic alors etc), good for coffee, clothes, pastries etc. So to sum up, go to France unless you want to go to the toilet.

Actually the Ryan Air people were really nice and not at all mean – I was so relieved I nearly kissed the check-in lady, and the flight itself was fine. I had quite a wait in Manchester, as the time zone was different. Fortunately it was in my favour, with extra time – had it been the other way around I might have missed my flight. Such are the perils of travel in foreign climes and times.

The spare time in Manchester gave me an opportunity to get out my dongle (I can't beleive it really is called that) and catch up on my emails. I found, much to my surprise, a letter to Deb saved as a draft, marking the spot where we would meet in Paris. I also found a letter to her, also saved as a draft, asking her to reply. No wonder she didn't have the map of where to meet.

5 May - Deb, Jill and Mista Badger in Paris

If you like this page, you may also like this one from my travelling companions, Miss Gillanders and Mista Badger.
http://sablegerbil.blogspot.com/

I got up early and went to the pharmacy around the corner and explained that I had fallen yesterday and hurt my ankle, and needed a bandage, and the homeopathic remedy beginning in ‘a’ that I couldn’t remember the name of. I was very pleased with my French coping skills and was able to strap up my ankle for some support, and put arnica on what was turning out to be a rather black and swollen ankle. I told Deb we might have to use buses from time to time, and she was very patient with me and regularly asked how my uncle was. I had forgotten that she is English and kept thinking she was asking about Uncle Jack, who (if you had read this blog from the start you would know) had just turned 90, and wondered how she knew to ask about him.
Deb brought her own tea bags, being English, and though I quite liked the breakfast, she found it had too much sugar in it. I said she should try America if she wants sugar. They even put it in the conversations over there.

I ate so much I needed very little for the rest of the day. We visited a textile exhibition in Gobelin that I was happy to go to in case we saw some goblins, but we didn’t, except on the tapestries. I saw a lovely set of red embroidered chairs but I wasn’t allowed to take them away. We sat and drank coffee for a while and felt quite French until the waiter spoke to us in English, and we visited the Louvre outside places and took photos of the tourists. Deb gave some money to a boy and I chastised her for encouraging him to beg. As it was too late in the day to admire the art works within the Louvre walls, and we felt a glass of wine coming on, we ensconced ourselves in a suitable Louvre environment under the cloisters, and with Mista Badger, enjoyed a quiet reflective drink. I was pleased to have seen the cleaners attending to the dirt left by the tourists at the Louvre, as I like things to be clean. That in itself was a work of art.

I need to introduce you to Mista badger, who to the uninitiated might be a badger puppet, is actually a close friend of Deb’s (sorry Mary, Celia et al) and enjoys travel to foreign climes, whatever they are. Perhaps they are places where the climate is foreign, but you can get that by going to Wellington for an hour. Anyway (where was I?), Mista Badger had never drunk alcohol before, so I was a little on edge (I have a nervous disposition) in case he overdid things and fell off his perch so to speak (do badgers have perches?) but he didn’t, as the pictures show. He loved Deb’s vin chaud, and I loved the glass as well as the vin, so took several pictures. I went to the toilets to look for the famous louvre windows (sort of glass venetian blinds), but couldn’t find them anywhere. I assume the Louvre is named after these windows, so I thought they might have done the decent thing and put some in the dunnies. The hand basin was interesting, so I photographed that instead. I think they copied the design from Middle Earth Tiles in Newmarket, as they sell them there. I was becoming suspicious about the authenticity of the art works inside the building, and thinking it was just as well we hadn’t paid to go in.

We also went to the Moulin Rouge so I could photograph the windmill and say I had been there. I think we ate feral strawberries for lunch (Deb was very taken with the food shops and had to photograph everything in them) and more cheese for dinner. We‘re not big spenders, and I doubt if our visit registered even a minor blip on the French tourism expenditure statistics, but it’s likely that Deb’s presence in France was noted, as she photographed absolutely everything (she always takes her camera when she goes to Paris), talked to absolutely everyone, and absolutely had a good time. Me, I’m the quiet one.

4 May - Frankfurt to Paris

I had about an hour in Frankfurt on the way through to Paris, so decided to celebrate my arrival in Europe with a decent cup of coffee. Sadly, it was €4.50, which translates into a lot more than I want to talk about, although it was a good cup of coffee. I am proud to announce that I ordered it in German and even answered questions about the size of the container etc. I noticed the sign in the cafe had ‘potatoe soup’ advertised, perhaps in deference to Americans or some other speakers of a language similar to English, to help them feel comfortable in Germany. I explained the spelling mistake to them but I don’t think they really believed me. I sent Deb a text to tell her I was on my way to our rendezvous, but the text didn’t go – I thought perhaps my roaming choice for Germany wasn’t working, but it turns out this was a major issue....more on that later....

The last flight was very short, Europe not being as big as Asia and the Pacific Ocean, and I was surprised to see how brown the sky was. I am beginning to wonder if it is indeed true that New Zealand is one of the last bastions of the blue sky. As we went down into the pollution I did have that sinking feeling that we are not treating our planet well, and wondered if I should walk to my next conference instead of flying.

I was truly amazed and delighted to see my bag appear at the baggage collection point, as it all seems extremely unlikely somehow that I can give my bag to someone in Wellington and they can manage to send it to exactly the same place as me, and at the same time. It doesn’t always work like that.

Mr de Gaulle’s airport is full of transparent pipes that people walk through – it is very weird and quite fascinating. I got instructions at the desk for tourists, and took the SNCF (overground) to Gare du Nord, which is an enormous station, and thence to Mairie Clichy, to the auberge de jeunesse (yellow egg plants?). We had a room for three, which delighted me no end, as it meant I would not have to take my bags to the shower with me and sleep on my lap top in case someone stole all my worldy goods. Not that I’m suspicious of strangers or anything. Then (after a quick shower and change of clothes of course as I was a tad smelly after such a long ride) I went to town to meet my friend Deb. I had heaps of time, as she wasn’t arriving until after lunch, and the French sparrows were still farting. I took a train to Champs-Elysees and walked around the Champy place and then along the Seine. There is beaucoup de traffic in Paris. I saw a woman walking towards me bend down and seem to pick up something, which she showed me – it was a heavy gold ring, with an engraving inside the band. She tried to give it to me, pressing it into my hands and telling me it would bring me good luck (bon chance) and a happy day (bon journee). I told her I would have to take it to the police (the ring, not the happy day), but she insisted, so I took it, thinking I would rather that she had taken it. As I walked away, she came back to me, and explained that she had three children and little money, and perhaps I could spare her a little cash for some food. I am pretty gullible, but sometimes my little antennae come out and I spot when I’m being had. So I pressed the ring back into her hand and told her it would bring her luck and a good day, and she should take it.

I wandered around all kinds of places – not sure now where they were really, and didn’t take photos – I love to just walk around looking at people and shops and traffic and stuff. I noticed that the French were quite nice – they seemed more inclined to engage with a stranger than the British do, and I got quite a few smiles. Perhaps they thought I was one of them. I had disguised myself in a colourful cardigan and jeans, and sported a red handbag. Sometimes I used a camera, but it was disguised as a cellphone, and occasionally I looked at a map, but I didn’t wear dark glasses or a safari suit. That would be just too obvious.
An hour before the appointed time I sent Deb another text to tell her I would text her with my exact position once I had decided on it, but the text wouldn’t go. In fact I had no connection at all, despite three conversations with so-called experts in NZ working for Vodafone, my BlackBerry would not roam. There will be trouble at mill over that when I return. I calmly walked to the agreed place and stood there for five minutes, and having half an hour to spare, thought I would check my map to be sure I was absolutement correct. I wasn’t. In fact, the place with the little arrow on that I printed off Google, and which I assumed Deb would also be clutching, was a bit difficult to find. For the next hour I more or less ran around in wide circles until I finally arrived at a place I decided was the same as the one marked on the map, which was quite close to where I had started from oddly enough. En route I sprained my ankle, which was bad news, as I would be needing it for the coming week for my journey further west to Dublin, then on back through Bristol to the south coast. So I sat down opposite the station (just behind the bike in the picture) and engaged with the locals while I waited for Deb. One girl gave me her phone and asked me to talk to the person on the other end, but I pointed out to her very politely, that I spoke English. I have no idea why the French want other people to have the telephone conversations for them. Perhaps they can't speak French.

After an hour or so I decided Deb had also got lost, so I went to Notre Dame to look for Quasi Modo. He wasn’t there, but everyone else was, so I pottered about happily looking at the outside and the inside of this glorious piece of architecture. Very high gothic, which doesn’t mean that it is tall, but more of a sort of haute cuisine of Gothic architecture. Gothic windows are pointed at the top, whereas Norman windows are more square. My mother was my UE art teacher so I more or less had to pay attention in class, which is why I know that. Outside, in front of the cathedral is a spot marked as the centre of Paris. If I had known that it would have been a good place to meet. I must remember that for next time I rendezvous with someone in Paris. The odd thing is, that people throw their coins on it for god luck, so there is a pile of money in the middle of town, but no-one is picking it up. And outside the cathedral there is a woman begging for alms. Perhaps she will pick up the coins from the middle of Paris later. I returned to my lodgings, and in due course, Deb showed up there. After jumping up and down a bit to show pleasure with each other, we bought outselves some nuts and cheese and sat on a park bench and swapped stories from each other’s lives, which is what women do when they meet. It was all very satisfying, though we didn’t have any wine.

I include a photo of Deb waving at me while simultaneously recording the image of a large motorcycle.