Sunday, September 28, 2014

Two weeks ago today I was excited.

I'm still excited, but in a different manner.

I'm excited that I had a goal for the trip (visit lots of out-of-town places and speak only French) and Objectives (a list of places to see). I haven't been diverted much by new discoveries (instead of traveling by rail I could have done the whole thing by bus). I had enough money to eat both well and judiciously (and will be bringing home some change and small notes for my next trip) and have made a small name for myself in the district in which I've lived.

So, today: Visit the junction of the Marne and Seine, and sit on the banks of the Oise at Pontoise. Then back to the hotel to sort through things and pack. Tomorrow's flight is at 1300, but 4 hours ahead of that is 0900, and an hour from the time I pull THIS door to and my arrival at CDG. Peak-hour travel, too.

If tonight my bags are packed, all I need out are my clothes, and my pocket-items. It'll be my shoulder-bag, as I arrived, plus the lovely laundry bag full of newspapers, and my sac-poche. Then it’s out of bed, breakfast, grab bags, drop key and au metro.

But first today!

Off to Daumesnil and as I reach my platform I find a lady about my age, bewildered; she wants the catacombs at Def, Den, Denef, ...” Denfert-Rocherau? I have an idea that she is English, but she doesn’t know who I am. I say to her with my flawless accent “Pourrais je vous aider?”. She pauses. She is suddenly face-to-face with a FRENCHMAN who is addressing her in FRENCH and she knows no French. What to do? The answer is always Yes, so she says “Yes”, pauses, and bravely adds “Thanks!” I corroborate in English “Denfert-Rochearau; see? You are going in the right direction” and show her the tiled map, right beside her. “Oh! You speak English” she says, excitedly. I cannot resist, shit-stirrer that I am. I puff out my non-Gallic chest and proclaim “I have been speaking the English since that I had three years old”, and she says “You speak it very well!”, but I didn't fool her for long. She said she was from Australia, from the Blue Mountains, so I said in English “That that's not really Australia – it's the Eastern States” to which she unthinkingly replies “Oh! You’re from Perth”.

She has one of those micro-maps, and I can't read them either, so I pass out of the barrier and ask Information for a better map, but can't pass back through the barrier because my card is “Deja Pasée”, so the clerk fixes THAT for me and my friend and I set off on our separate ways.

I chuckled because I figured that in about two minutes, when she had replayed the conversation, she’d not know whether I really was a Frenchy, or a Sandgroper.

Of course being with my Aussie friend I fairly sprinted back up the stairs and as I set off down again I realize that my left knee is killing me.

I had noticed that although I am climbing ten times as many stairs (mainly in the metro, RER and SNCF, but also to get to my room), I've had no trouble from my knee; now after a very short sprint it is killing me. Can it be that the stair-climbing, taken gently, has actually been good for my knee?

As I walk through the corridors of the Metro and the streets of the towns I realize too that I am a lot like Fencepost in Kinsella's books, the chapter where Fencepost learns to read and dances down the street calling out loud every word from every shop sign or advertisement.

I get off at Ecole Veterinaire and walk along the street noting the buses; two bus routes go from here to the RER-A which would take me back to town, but first I want to stand at the spot where the Yonne (a.k.a. The Seine!) and the Marne join. To do so I have to walk under the bridge that carries the lines from Gare de Lyons, and how many times in the late 1970s did I stare at the river right here on my way to and from Le Bras de Fer?

I walk along the river bank for a while and then pop back up to street level because I'm not sure if the quay continues to the point.

Soon I am at the merge-point; I stand there for a few minutes watching the streams of bubbles from each river join to form a single stream.

Neat!

Then I walk back through Maisons Alfort and as I reach the #107 he rumbles his engine into life. I sprint for the bus, last one on, and am met by a stream of passengers getting off! I end up being one half the passenger load on the bus.

It turns out that there is a deviation on the route, road works.

Now in Toronto we stay on the bus to get as close as possible to where we want to be, and then walk to our destination. But in Paris, there is always at least one other way of getting there if the optimum route is not available; so almost everyone gets off the bus to go, perhaps to another Metro station and get a different bus.

We negotiate the Deviation by several narrow streets that cause quite a few anxious car drivers to jerk over the kerb onto the footpath; they were not expecting an RATP bus to come thundering towards them like the wrath of God as they make their way to Sunday Mass.

We reach the RER station at Saint-Maur Creteil and I hop onto the RER-A city-bound.

I'd like to take RER-C out to Pontoise, but there really is no correspondence between RER-A and RER-C, so it's either connect by bus, metro, or RER.

I opt for RER and transfer to RER-B northbound which stops at Gare du Nord, where I get off and help two pommies make their way to RER-B for CDG; that will be me tomorrow!

And here I am at quay number 34 (!) on board the SNCF for Pontoise; be there in time for lunch.

The train driver had walked along the platform from the other end of the train (the train pulled in while I waited) and now he hops aboard, unlocks the cab door and enters the cab. He looks to be about 23 years old.

And why not? I was harvesting and trucking wheat before I was 23, and this guy is probably in better control of his life than I was at that age.

This is my last day using an all-purpose Navigo pass; I have paid €34 per week, and tomorrow I will purchase a single-shot one-way ticket for €10. Rats!

Up the carriage comes a little boy, followed by a begging woman with an empty paper cup. I dismiss her with my hand gesture and as she drags the little boy back with her, his balloon goes “Pop!” and I nearly die of fright.

What with the killing of the French hostage, the stations occasionally swarms with young men holding machine guns with their fingers on the triggers.

There's not much new and exciting to see on the way out to Pontoise, and I think that I'll be glad to get back to my little place in Toronto. I have had a wonderful time here. I achieved my goal of throwing myself into the country and speaking French-only. My objectives were to visit a half-dozen towns and explore my old haunts in Paris. I have visited over a dozen towns and re-visited my old haunts twice in some cases.

I think that Toronto, with my walks and chatting up strangers, was training for this trip, and that on this trip I have learned how to relax. Of course it helps that there is a train every 15 minutes, mostly, and the Navigo pass is freedom, but I can sit on a park bench in Toronto as easily as I can in Paris, and while we don't have street markets, there's no reason why I can't buy a finger-lunch from any supermarket.

I walk around Pontoise for about an hour, and settle on Pizza for lunch.

At least, I go into a Pizza restaurant, but the menu is too appealing and I settle on a salmon salad, which is huge, varied, and delicious. I finish off with a coffee and still the bill is only €11, say $15.

Today is hot, again. No one is eating outside. I watch the planes as they climb out of CDG or turn in towards CDG (or possibly Orly) and reflect that at this time tomorrow I will be in the air myself.

A great sadness creeps over me. I shall miss this place, this time.

Another phrase for the beggars “No probs”.

I ask myself: Suppose I were here for a third week, what would I do? The answer is that I would do what I thought of earlier this week – book into a hotel in a small town, spend 3 nights there, then switch through Paris to another small town. And I'd ride every bus route in that town exhaustively. [later: A hint of things to come in 2016]

I return to Paris by RER-C which takes me though Gennevilliers to Austerlitz. My word there are an awful lot of stations as we crawl along the left bank from Saint Ouen! Thirteen at last count.

I am hooked on the numbered exits from metro (and RER) stations. It makes directions so much easier, as do the numbered lines. “Take Line 6 direction Nation; get off at Dugommier; take exit 2 and just walk fifty metres”.

How sad am I that this might be my last trip on the Metro? I decide to skip Dugommier and get off at Daumesnil and walk down the hill; I can't bear to get off at Dugommier as I did that first day, two weeks ago.

I take my last dinner in Paris in a swanky looking brasserie in Place Daumesnil. There is a thirty-inch diameter tree growing in the enclosed area, through the café canopy! How come I hadn’t noticed that from the street while walking past it for the past two weeks?

I sit over a last small coffee and watch the buses go by; Sunday night there is a #46 every ten minutes or less, each direction. What fun it is to sit and watch the street grow dark, to watch the little street dramas of folks studying the menu and “What do you think? Should we eat here?”

I go home to pack and discard. Within half an hour my dirty clothes are packed at the bottom of my orange bag, clean clothes atop, one set of clothes laid out in the bathroom for tomorrow morning.

I have collected all my paper souvenirs – maps, newspapers, tickets and so on and tied them up in a plastic bag; that sits in my canvas bag from the Laundry. With it sit milk bags containing hardware such as razors and cables.

I begin thinking again of my life in Toronto, a sure sign that I am mentally no longer in Paris. My bank balance; my savings plans, my new rate of rent, my phone, and so many things I’ve postponed until I came through the dollar cost of this trip.

Well, this trip is over; I have spent a lot of money (for me), but worth it, no doubt whatsoever. I return to Toronto with a handful of small notes and a pocketful of change, enough to prime my next trip to Europe.

The fountains at Daumesnil in the morning sunlight.

Yes, the weather is still fine. Only that one day, Sunday last week, did we have rain, and then only for an hour or so.

The lions remind me of the Place Denfert-Rochereau.

I take a shot of where I’ll be in a few minutes once I get off the Metro.

As usual, a locality map lets me see what streets I should take.

Also where I will find each bus, or where to wait for a bus to arrive.

Note the arrows on the stairs indicating stairs-down and stairs-up from the Metro.

My quick route to the bank of the Marne, just before it flows into the Seine..

A quiet back alley, off the main street, before the Marne is reached.

And here are the steps leading down to the quay.

Down we go. I am thrilled to be here.

This looks to be semi-permanent. There is a deck-garden doing rather well.

A panoramic shot of the Marne as it approaches the Seine.

Approaching the bridge for the Metro. That train was “me” just ten minutes ago.

The Chinese building sits at the junction of the two rivers.

Another barge pushes up stream.

Up he comes while a train streams out of Gare de Lyons.

The swan makes for the side of the river; he’s seen barges before.

But the bow-wave from the barge makes hardly a ripple.

Hard to make out, but there again are my two “smoke stack” landmarks.

(Movie) Landmark plumes viewed from the Marne

The only clouds in the sky are vapour trails left by the big jets.

At ten o’clock this Sunday morning.

Here I am in the precincts of the Chinese building.

And here is the point. The Marne is on my right, the Seine is on my left and ahead of me.

In this photo I am looking upstream the Seine; it flows from left to right to join the Marne which is flowing in behind me.

Swiveling a bit to the right, I take another shot of The Seine, now we are looking downstream. The Marne is coming in to my right, but you can’t see it yet.

The Marne. It is flowing in from the right to join the Seine, and together they flow downstream under the bridge.

The Seine again (it rhymes!)

Hard to see, but the bubbles lower-right are from the Marne. The bubbles mid-left are from the Seine (a.k.a. Yonne)

One of these days I must find out what happened on the 19th March 1962.

On my walk back through Maison-Alfort I meet the 325 bus which would take me, I think, to the Paris-Express line 14 and Gare St Lazare.

The street is quiet; Sunday morning in the near-suburbs.

I have learned to avoid “fresh” produce from General Stores. These stores are similar to our corner or variety stores.

A look southwards along Avenue du General de Gaulle.

We set off in Bus #107.

Must be a nightmare to drive in or out of here in icy weather.

The buses and Trams display anticipated arrival times for the terminus and for intermediate destinations.

The 107 travels along an isolated bus way for part of the trip.

Here I can see the side for westbound buses.

And here we are outside the RER station at Saint-Maur Creteil.

I forgot to mention the construction of stair wells. Note the narrow gutter between the stairs and the wall. The stairs can be hosed down and water will drain right off the stairs into a drainage channel. Clever!

We still have people tossing drinks containers onto the tracks. Or perhaps they leave containers on the platform seats and the containers get blown onto the tracks. Same Effect really.

We breeze through villages on our way to Pontoise by SNCF.

Paper tickets get stamped in the machine on the left. I swipe my Navigo pass across the concentric circles at the machine on the right.

Here’s the Oise, looking upstream.

And those delightful multi-hued seat covers.

The Oise looking downstream.

The Oise looking downstream.

Part of the yard at Pontoise.

What a kaleidoscope of colour.

The carriages have extendable platforms to assist passengers.

Otherwise there would be a significant gap!

Pontoise boasts a large church on a hill. Keep your eye on that emerald-green van, left-hand side of Rue Thiers.

And these two green vans took me back to my childhood Dinky Toys set for some reason.

I begin the walk up yet-another-hill.

Along beautiful little streets.

I remember these orange berries from, now where was I?

Side streets won’t tempt me, I continue to climb uphill.

A look back from the cathedral steps to the railway station.

A zoomed shot.

A detail of the church.

A square just past the church; this reminded me of the tourist-trap squares in Provins – once you’ve “done” the church you grab a bite to eat.

Not me. I keep climbing.

Surely every hill has a top, no?

There’s a park off to the side.

But I continue uphill.

How come a town named for its river has such a hill?

That grey blur, just above and to the right of the time-stamp, is a plane taking off from CDG. I am reminded that that will be me, about this time tomorrow.

Sniff!

The houses up here are lovely.

Look! There goes another one! Caught in the branches of the tree.

OK. I’m prepared to call this the top of the hill. It’s time for my lunch.

So down the hill we go.

And down ...

Looking back at a quaint house ...

Flags are at half-mast for the French hostage who was killed yesterday.

And down ...

Look! There goes another one! In full flight.

This looks like an office of some sort; surely it is too big to be a residence.

And here we are, on the banks of the Oise.

Four youths are up to some mischief, I have no doubt.

Across the river, folks are feeding the ducks and the swans.

But I want my lunch!

Will I end up ordering lunch after this troupe of guided tourists?

No. I will wait a while and watch a barge. It’s hours since I’ve seen one ...

Another, newer, half-timbered house.

Now this barge throws up a serious bow-wave.

A serious bow-wave.

A serious bow-wave.

For a canoeist.

And off he goes.

Under the Pont d’Oise

Lunch! A smoked-salmon salad.

The toilet cistern was a familiar pull-cord device.

Which left me wondering how small children manage to flush the toilet.

Hey! There’s a tourist office next to the station.

(Movie) Street garden at Pontoise

Stout walls defend something near the river.

Here’s another view. You didn’t scale these walls with ease.

Why is there a broad arrow painted on the footpath?

Answer: It points to “paid parking”

I liked this, whimsically “Pont Pontoise”

And so back to the station.

Bus routes abound, as usual.

I took this as an aide-memoire for looking up bus routes once I returned home.

I took this as an aide-memoire for looking up bus routes once I returned home.

Another plane. But my gaze is focused on the garret with the airing window.

I sit in the shade for a while; there’s a train every ten minutes or so. What’s the rush?

Oh well, head “home” for the last time.

I never did work out what this third non-rail is.

It has a sloping cap at each end, which wouldn’t serve to deflect anything at the other end!

I think that is the SNCF line angling off; we are on the RER line.

We pass through farmland on the way back.

So it’s back to the hotel. Time to sort-and-pack.

Sigh!

My early-morning stroll around the junction of the Marne and Seine at Maisons-Alfort.

My noon-time hike around Pontoise.

Oddly enough my hike sketched the outlines of a non-existent but excedingly large fort!