Friday, September 19, 2014

I get up to pee and am wide awake at 5 a.m.; I know it.

The urge is in me to get-up-and-go, to start the day, but I'd rather catch up on my sleep. Today I have three city tasks (1) Change money (2) RTL and (3) Shopping. Also (4) Recharge my Navigo for next week.

I headed downstairs and was second at breakfast; coffee, toast, croissants and read my Rambouillet paper. Up to my room and decide to travel light (after yesterday), and leap on the subway. Either they have moved Bercy station overnight, or I have boarded the wrong train. Ockam's Razor says I goofed, so turn-about and head to Nation where I must switch to line 9, but there is no sign for line 9 on the platform, I swear it's so!

While I switch through Republique I spot a young couple part-blocking the corridor so I offer to help. "Stand back here" I say, backing them away from the crowds, and while I'm fumbling with my map the guy (German) bursts out laughing for on the wall, directly above my head, is the sign for his line 8. Goodbye!

I traipse around until I find line 9 and ride to Sentier and soon find the RBC but sadly they are not a client banking facility, but there's sure to be a Bureau de Change nearby, and there it is, "Ria" or something.

I get, I think, €770 for $1,000, which is more than I had anticipated; lots of €20, €10 and €5 too, which I prefer. The ladies treat it as normal that I must half-undress to get at the money in my sub-trouser bag; they re-assure me that I'm doing the right thing.

Back on the subway I realize why some trains are so hot – the doors do not open unless a passenger requests it, so we do not necessarily get a blast of fresh cool air at each stop. The older doors have latches, while the newer ones have buttons, but result is the same – if no one is getting on or off, the doors remain closed.

RTL was no fun at all; no one there wanted to take my letter. On top of that on my way back to the Metro I lost my little notebook, so jumped out of the station, back up the steps, back along the street – no sign of my notebook. Sigh! Trudge back to the Metro and spot my notebook right by the entrance. How did I miss it on the way out? I resolve NOT to put it in my jacket pocket when I carry my jacket over my arm! I'm glad I found it.

Back into the Metro and head back towards Haussman. I reach for my notebook and it is lost again. What's going on? I make notes on the back of my RTL letter anyway, and an hour later discover that I'd pushed my notebook into my trouser pocket. Aaaargh!

I chat up sales staff in Printemps; they send me off to Galeries Layfayette, and the staff there suggest Nature et Découvertes Haussmann Caumartin and Casa. So I spent an hour or so chatting up store clerks and wandering around a small part of Paris.

Enough!

I drop into the Metro at Haussman and find that my card doesn't work at any one of the four lanes; I get a red cross and a buzz. I stand back and watch two different people use two different lanes and then I try again in those lanes. No good. Strangely the card works again when I board a Gare du Nord 43 bus.

Once in Gare du Nord I enquire at The Club and the lady says tough luck – if the card won't work I've done my dough. My concern is that I'll find myself out of luck at the end of the line or late at night.

The card decides to let me catch the 11:56 train to Persan-Beaumont, and by chance it's the many-stations branch through Taverny. Sixty minutes later after a trip through eighteen towns we arrive in Persan. I make my way across the river to a salad/crepes/grill place and have an excellent shrimp-salad and then a steak frites, followed by a coffee. It's a "Formula" which used to be, I think, Prix Fixe.

After lunch I stroll back to the station and find that I CAN use my card on the bus, so I take a circular tour of part of the town of Persan. I have little idea of where we went, I just enjoyed the view and the overheard conversations.

Halfway across town we stop and the driver cuts the engine for fifteen minutes or so; I take this opportunity to learn more about Navigo (he already knows I'm a tourist). I have to re-pass the card at this time, otherwise an inspector can detect that I have not "paid".

When I board a vehicle, I swipe the card and the machine goes "bing!" and flashes a green light; if the card is out of date, the machine goes "BONG" (or "buzz") and flashes red, so the driver can see or hear that I am valid or not.

Of course, if the driver is on a pee-break, how would he know? Well, the inspector (see "gendarmes" below) has a hand-held device and can swipe my card; if the card has NOT recorded that at this-time I boarded this-bus, I pay a penalty! Clever!

I tell them that I am from Stupid-town, where to travel from Mississauga to Pickering one must purchase three distinct tickets and board three different vehicles. The driver commiserates, but I suspect he can have no idea of how miserable the situation really is.

We kick into gear and complete the journey; I disembark at the station and catch the driver in the mirror; he is making sure that I know we are at the station; I wave thank-you and see him smile; we call out "Merci Monsieur" across the length of the bus and I feel at home.

The train leaves at 13:56 so I have seven minutes to find a forward-facing seat near a large window with a good view of the video screen that announces each stop as we approach it. Not a problem, since the train is empty; it is at the terminus, running into town, on a Friday afternoon.

The train pulls out and while we are en route to Nointel-Mours and armed gendarme walks past me towards the front of the train. Less than a minute later he is followed by three more armed gendarmes. They are followed by two SNCF security guards, who look like gendarmes but without the large pistols. Then two more SNCF security guards. I ask the 3rd gendarme, a woman, what they are looking for, and she says "Oh, we're just looking, that's all" and goes on her smiling way.

I think I understand: The first, lone gendarme is a decoy; and un-papered migrant worker will panic like a startled rabbit once the decoy has walked past, and the trailing gendarmes will catch him! The leading SNCF security guards are there for the paperwork and the trailing pair are probably trainees. Eight guards, and not a startled migrant in sight!

Partway home, a middle-aged woman and her ten-year old daughter board the train; the girl is talking and smiles at me as they pass. It takes me a while to realize why I turned towards them – the little girl is speaking English, coaching her mother. English is strange to my ears, mainly because I am listening to everything I hear, and that's been mostly French these past four days, especially since I am spending so much time in the suburbs.

By chance I have arrived at the train that returns on the shorter line via Presles-Courcelles, so the trip takes only half-an-hour and I see a distinctly rural part of the country.

At Gare du Nord I find the place to re-charge my Navigo for next week (€35, a bargain at roughly $50) and make my way to the 46 bus which ought to take me to Daumesnil. I miss the bus by, literally, less than a minute, so I have ten minutes to ponder that I've read somewhere that even if you buy your Navigo-weekly on a Friday it won't work until Monday morning. Today is Friday. Have I just shot myself in the foot? No. Surely! Paris is smarter than that!

The 46 bus grinds its way through the precincts of Gare du Nord and Gare de l'Est and heads in a south-easterly direction. Another little-old-lady sits next to me and we "merci" each other. Next a young mother joins us, LOL offers her seat, but the baby is in a sling across the mother's bosom and she'd rather not sit. Her toddler, a curly blond-haired boy is offered up, however, and sits on my lap.

For twenty minutes I am blessed to have a toddler on my lap. I slide my knees forward so that they touch the metal panel, and grip the railing by placing an arm in front and an arm behind my charge, and the three of us chat as we head home. I love the simple events that take place in Paris.

I recognize our district and jump off just before Daumesnil; I now realize one source of my confusion: I am living on Rue de Reuilly, and the bus is running down Boulevard de Reuilly. How silly of me not to recognize ...

Home again; shower, fresh clothes, and downstairs to pay the balance of my stay in Paris. That done I head off to the supermarket and buy a disgusting supper of crackers and cheese and chocolate wafers, and a lemon tart from a patisserie. Let the weekend begin! Hah!!

15,000 steps today

Why I took my shirts to the Teinturie and had the nice men there do it for me: -

I'd seen the scale on the hotel sheet €7.80 for a shirt (folded, not pressed!), €4.00 for a pair of boxers (“Les Boxers” the teinturie tell me) and €3.50 for a pair of socks. Now multiply that by four and what have you got? Sixty Euros less than what you started with. At the teinturie I was charged €5 for the first load and €10 when I threw in a pair of Dockers with the second load. I celebrated out with dinner on the savings both nights.

I'm on my way to visit RTL and when I sit down to wait for the Metro, what do I see but …?

We flash through Champagne-Sur-Oise, one of my two objectives for today. Lovely weather. Champagne weather, you might say.

I set off to walk to the town centre of Beaumont. Note the red-lined sign shyly peeking in at the left; it tells me that I'm leaving Persan.

By the way, there is no such town as Persan-Beaumont; Persan is on the right bank, Beaumont is on the left bank. The railway station in Persan serves the two towns, so the railway station is Persan-Beaumont, but not Beaumont-Persan.

See also “Massy-Palaiseau” and hundreds of others. I was very fond of the poetic sign on the platform at West Midland (Junction) in Perth W.A. That read “Alight here; for Hazlemere”.

The Seine looking downstream from the Persan-Beaumont bridge.

A great put-in spot for a canoeist.

A look back towards the station; I've just walked along that little street.

Wild birds of the Seine.

The same wild birds of the Seine.

Another put-in spot, upstream, left bank of the same bridge.

With a pretty freight barge tied up to help the composition of the shot.

If you look closely at the iron-work in the doorway you'll find “BF”, presumably for Basket of Flowers, whatever that is in French (joke!).

I start walking up the hill to the town centre.

Why is there always a steep hill when I go to inspect a piece of river?!!

Lunch damn near killed me with delight. I ordered this myself. In French!

Outside the cafe, things are winding down.

The basket of bread on the cup of coffee puzzled me; I asked the waiter what culinary delight was in preparation, and he explained patiently that he was interrupted in the middle of clearing that table.

If my French were any better I'd know that drinking this mineral water was going to do squat for my spam problem. But there again, sometimes I'll read anything!

After lunch I head back out into the world; that's my little street-cafe of Beaumont ...

As I head towards the bridge, a barge comes, well, barging through at a great rate of knots.

I took a zoom shot; won't see something like that again in a hurry!

Off he goes, hogging the centre of the creek.

Veer to the right, point left and, presumably, get ready to dos-y-dos the sharp bend to the right.

About this great put-in spot that I've found ...

These buggers don't stop in a hurry.

The second half of the load is fines from the first half of the load, I think.

All goes to help Paris's building boom take on a graceful yellow hue, blends in with the past … (but see also the little episode of Wednesday Sep 24th in the late afternoon)

There they go – two barges and a tug.

Our friend of three minutes ago is almost out of sight at the far bend.

I hop on a bus for a little tour of Persan.

Note that in Ile de France seats are perched atop the wheel cases; the space is not wasted. On each side of the drum, a person perches on a throne.

At the end of the line, before returning to La Gare, we kill time to stay on schedule.

I have learned that I must re-swipe my Navigo for the return trip, even out here in the boondocks. In other towns the drivers shrugged and said not to worry.

I love the small-footprint houses. The modern ones are washed with a coat of yellow paint or plaster, very much the “little boxes, little boxes, all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same” style.

Then you have what we would call town-houses.

A slightly older domicile.

Here we are back at the multi-platform many-lines end-of-the-line.

There is something perky about the many-coloured seats in this carriage.

Many stations have platform rehabilitation on the go.

I am, by luck, on the alternate route back to Gare du Nord; we pass through farmland with fields of corn.

A map of my trip out and back.

My walk around Beaumont.

Roughly, my bus ride around Persan.