Thursday, September 25, 2014
Coulomierres or Etampes? Whichever leaves first.
I check my budget; it goes well, I have €40 per day left in hand, and that's after tips, laundry, and my ticket to CDG on Monday.
The breakfast verandah is full (I see from my window), so I complete another web page and upload it, take breakfast, ask to have the lamp in my room fixed, and head off via Daumesnil to Bastille and then Gare de l'Est. I love the unique smell of rubber that greets me as I descend into the Metro; it is fine powder drifting off the rubber tyres of the rains.
Another word for my anti-beggar spiel “Lingo”.
As we pull through each station I reflect on the signage in the metro and on the streets: white enamel on blue enamel, quite distinctive, and once your brain is used to it, it stands out just when you want it to.
I love too the chorus of “Click” at the top and the bottom of each set of stairs, the sound of extensible handles being snapped into place at the start and end of carrying a rolling suitcase.
An Arabic woman makes her way slowly down the train from carriage to carriage; we can hear her from three carriages away. She carries a baby in her arms and chants “I'm sorry to bother you”, “Good passengers”, “Help me please”, “I have no money”, “Give me money, please”. The sound is quite medieval and reminds me of the Taize chants we learned back in 1979 at Taize itself.
She reaches the end of the train and starts her way back. No one looks at her as she arrives, but we all steal a glance once she has passed us.
My theory is that she is Grandma, and is supposed to be baby-sitting her grand-daughter at home, but once mum and dad have headed off to the office, grandma dons the costume from the Old Country and heads out to make a bit of cash on the Metro. I wonder if mum and dad know that their baby is a money-making prop?
And so to the beautiful facade of Gare de l'Est. As I cross the street – against the light but then there's no one coming – a motorcyclist speeds towards me signaling that he would turn right. Strictly speaking he has right of way, but also strictly speaking he isn't allowed to run me down (“Think of the paper-work!”) so I do what I've learned seems safest. I stop dead still, and the only muscles I twitch are those to wave him through. He acknowledges with a wave of his hand (which, strictly speaking, I'd rather didn't leave the handlebar) and we are both happy.
I have a definite feeling that motorist of all ages and both sexes are NOT out to get me; they are just like me, they want to get to where they want to go, and stopping dead still carries the message that I am not going to move, so YOU can base good decisions on that. It works every time. So far. Parisian drivers are not rude; they are practical. It seems necessary in such a crowded city.
Oh yes: Coulomierres or Etampes? Whichever leaves first, right? Turns out that the train for Provins leaves in 2 minutes from quay 20; that's a great deal, so I make my way down the platform, just past the half-way point and hence into the second 5-car unit, when a buzzer sounds which I assume means departure is imminent. I quickly open a door and hop aboard and spread my things out in opulence.
The train is non-stop to ..., I thought the announcement said “Tournan”, and we quickly pick up speed. By the time we reach the Peripherique – about 4 minutes – we are going so fast that I can't make out the station names, so I spread out my 1Km map and work out where we are from over- and under-bridges. The Marne confirms my location.
After four minutes, too, I start to wonder if I have leaped aboard 1st class in my haste; not until I reach Provins and ask a cleaning lady do I learn that there is no 1st/2nd class on these trains any more. (I got caught by surprise the day of Mountbatten's death, I was so engrossed in reading the newspaper!).
We FLY through Gretz and make our first landfall at Verneuil. Nangis looks big enough for a walk-around, too.
I spot two workers; you never see a single worker; there is always a lookout, standing staring down the tracks. This one has a sack over his shoulder, and poking out of it a brass cornet, I kid you not. He really can toot on his horn to warn his buddy whose ears, I guess, are attuned to his buddy's cornet.
We sigh into Longueville and sit there for about twenty minutes, perhaps waiting for another train to clear the line. Franglais Joke: We wait for a long while in Longueville. Hah hah.
A guy about my age walks through the train inspecting the seats, including the seats in the glassed-off area behind me. Trawling for belongings that have been left behind?
After he is gone I get up to stretch my legs. Now I can explain the sound that seemed like a dunny-door banging in a gale. There is a dunny in the carriage. In the hand basin is a cigarette stub. There is worse but I need not tell it here.
After 20 minutes the horn sounds and we start moving again – backwards! Are we heading back to Paris? No, the train reverses up a spur to reach Provins. When we leave Provins I must remember to sit facing backwards in the rear car if I want to sit forwards to Paris and get there in the first car!
I leave the train at Provins, check out the bus timetables, but fall back on my original plan to walk each town. Next time I'll tackle these country buses.
Close by the station I am delighted to spot the signpost for the Bureau de Tourisme. I follow the signs which take me through the old quarter, and just for the heck of it I ask a young woman along the way. I should have clued in when she asked if I had a car. It's up the hill to high-town (well-named IMHO) and then past the biggest church up there, and out the far side of the square.
Well that is easy; the big church can be seen for miles. I head up the hill, through the square, check out the big church (built in the 1170s or thereabouts) and wander a bit more. The place is full of tourists so I decide to escape.
Down a side street a lady runs a store that sells honey and pollen; I am tempted to buy some pollen to give myself breathing room on the TTC, but she gives me directions, which are later confirmed that the tourist office is so far on the other side of town that it is OUT of town, about as far away from the railway station as you can get and not be back in Paris.
What are they smoking out here? You need a cross-town bus just to get a map, but by now I have pretty well figured out the town, so the heck with a map.
The hill down is just as steep; no wonder all the creeks run through the bottom of town.
I compose a lovely little poem in French: “Dieu merci! C'est tout en bas d'ici”. Not bad for a 68-year old foreigner.
I stroll through the old lower town, buying a demi-baguette and a bunch of sweet grapes (I'm so unoriginal!) until I realize I haven't seen a sign for La Gare, so I ask a young guy crossing the street. He's German, speaks no French, but English is OK, so he sets me straight on La Gare. He also sets me straight that I say Danke Schön and HE says Bitte Schön. We Auf Wiedersein each other, I cross the street and there is the sign for the station.
I missed my train by quite literally less than a minute, so I've typed this up while waiting an hour for the next train. Four charming high-school girls chatted me up in the station, so we spoke French. I asked them the word for lazy and one of them responded with a word that started in “F” and a cheeky grin, so I hauled out my dictionary and looked it up. It doesn't start with “F”, it starts with “P”. Yet another woman trying to lead me astray …
We leave Verneuil at 15:33 and arrive at Gare de l'Est at 16:12
But once we picked up speed I began to think that I'd not swiped my ticket at Provins, and have a tremor of panic.
I exit the station and walk five minutes until a #38 goes by me; two minutes later upstream I am at the stop for the #38 which has to go to Porte d'Orleans, right? Because its second digit is “8”.
The bus arrives, I jump on board and about a half an a hour later we have almost cleared Chatelet les Halles. We make slow progress up the hill of Boul Mich and break out into the dense traffic at Denfert Rocherau.
The #38 was delightfully slow; I amused myself by reading the street names for each cross-street and seeing how many brought back memories.
I showed my Parisienness by tapping a guy's hand to let him know that his shoulder-bag had fallen open. Strangely, it is people out in the country, where it is very safe, who have taken the trouble to let me know that my bag is open; I tell them there's really nothing in there – a bottle of water, a bag of grapes, an old newspaper; truth is the real valuables are in a bag inside my trousers, strapped to my waist, but I'd sure miss my beige coat, cap, camera and cell phones.
Good too to arrive at Port Royal from a different angle from yesterday.
We reach Porte d'Orleans at last. The bus makes a quick tour of the back streets behind a street janitor truck and I make my way on foot through Montrouge to the Cafe L'Orleans something or other, 79 Avenue Pierre Brosolette, corner of Boulevard Gabriele Peri, where I take a €2 coffee when all's said and done, watch the buses, and sit still for twenty minutes.
I start to think that if I did this trip again, the proper way to do it would be to suss out the towns like Persan-Beaumont, Rambouilett and so on, find the cheap hotels, and book three or four nights in a row, then check out, zoom into Paris in the morning, zoom right out again to the next town, spend three nights there, then in-and-out of Paris, rinse and repeat.
I jump aboard the proper bus, the 194 back to Fontenay aux Roses and as we climb the hill, slowly, it doesn't look at all as I remember it. A new LRT track is being prepared, so one-third the street on the eastern side is given over to parking and deliveries, one-third is the new track, but with no vehicles operational, and the remaining third, one lane each way, is for moving vehicles. This must make every day a snail's pace, but once the LRT is operational there'll be fewer buses in the roadway.
I walk around Fontenay, making my way down hill; I remember the uphill climb from the RER last week, so downhill should work! Once I'm in the station I open my money bag to extract a €20 which I know I'll need for dinner, and discover to my great surprise that I still haven't broken this morning's €20, so there's a good dinner tonight!
The RER takes me to Denfert-Rocherau, and I transfer to line 6 to Daumesnil and find a new place to eat. The sign includes the word restaurant, but here are two clues (1) a board outside advertises “Happy Hours” and (2) only one table is occupied. Still, how bad can it be, eh?
Answer: it was pretty good; prompt service by both waiters, and a lovely meal of veal and rice with vegetables (carrot and onion). Substitute chicken for veal and make the rice brown, and it is exactly what I would make for dinner at home. €15 was overpayment, but I felt good about it all. I walked home.
I'm not sure why I feel apprehensive about choosing a place to eat. In every place I go (and there are literally thousands in Paris alone), they want me to choose THEIR place, and I have no trouble understanding what's on the menu tonight, or ordering a la carte, or paying, or asking for water. Once I get inside everything is wonderful, but I can pass twenty places and not go in.
I'm drinking at least a 26-ounce bottle of water (“carafe d'eau”) at dinner each night, a result of spending the day racking up 15,000 steps in the open air, no doubt.
“Fair crack o'the whip” to add to my beggars chorus.
Just another day in Paradise. Paris-dise?
It really is hard to get lost in the Paris Metro; every sign conforms to the standard. If you have been looking for line 8 you'll find two signs, together (or at least, side-by-side). Each sign is titled with the terminus of the line. This sign is for line 8 if you are heading in the direction of the Balard terminus.
You are at Bastille. The next station will be Chemin Vert. And so on. If you are heading to Republique, it's only another four stops, so don't tunnel into the middle of the car, stay closer to the doorway and start moving after three stops, sort of thing.
And alongside the name “Republique” is a list of numbered and color-coded lines that intersect at Republique.
I love this!
My early-morning (for me) panoramic shot of Gare de l'Est.
Here I am on the platform at Gare de l'Est, a.k.a. Paris-Est. I've followed the overhead signs that tell me what Quai, and when I reach the train ON that quai, these newer carriages confirm that the terminus of this line is – Provins!
Fold-out tables. Great!
Lots of space.
I'm going to love this particular trip!
To the left of the no-smoking symbol is the “cell phone asleep, please” symbol. By the door (look immediately above the leftmost hand-rest) is the yellow “cell phone awake and active” symbol.
Here's a better view of the yellow “cell phone awake and active” symbol.
We swan across the Marne.
Not a good shot. The SNCF has been through here like a tornado; all the scrub is down and cleared away, but the three-inch diameter trunks are shredded, not cut. They must have some giant weed-hog mounted on a rail-wagon.
We flash past farmland.
And into heavy fog. Only two pylons show in this photo; I could pick out a third with my eyes.
The fog is lighter on the SW side of the track.
The outskirts of the oil refinery.
What is an oil refinery doing out here, miles from any sort of deepwater port?
It really is a refinery.
It is marked so on my 1Km map!
Heavy trucks and vans barrel along the D619 road out of Nangis.
And Nangis boasts a sugar-beet factory. This big brown heap is beets!
In Nangis station, when you stand behind the yellow line to let the high-speed trains through, you don't have much space.
On many trips out of town, in all directions, we passed fields of maize. I didn't realize it was such a popular crop.
Acres of it. A-maize-ing!
This ploughed field caught my eye. After the regular ploughing the farmer has made strips about 20 metres apart across the regular furrows. Why?
I forget what town this is, but we were well elevated when we came to it.
“... nestled against the side of a wooded hill ...”
Our line is at the bottom; it doesn't show the reversal out of Longueville, but we can see that we don't pass through Tournan.
A view of the toilet compartment.
Ugh!
We wait about ten minutes in Longueville.
This is the door to what I thought was a first-class compartment. I'm still not sure why this end of the carriage has a glass door.
I finally work out the coins. The €2 and €1 are brass with a silver centre. The brass-only coins are all fragments of a euro.
The return train from Provins slides in and past us while we wait.
Then we are off along a section of single track.
A big church is always a good sign. If nothing else it makes a handy landmark for orientation.
Off the train, back on firm ground. Now to start exploring.
The train leaves every hour throughout the week. I like the regularity. I know that if it is, say 50 minutes past the hour as I walk back to the station, I have time for a coffee. No matter what hour of the day it is.
Hooray! There is a tourist office.
I follow the signs along the narrow streets, looking for the tourist office to claim a map for my navigation of the town.
Passageways lead off to the left and right.
This is a medieval town, and some of the buildings appears to have retained their medieval structure.
Here's another one!
Several creeks run through this part of town; I think this is the Voulzie.
Keep your eye on that wooden door off to the left, but enjoy the flowers.
The other side of the bridge is just as lovely.
Now! About that door. What a pleasant spot to sit at, at the start or end of the day.
Up the hill I go, still looking for the tourist office.
Over 800 years old.
Looking back as I continue to climb.
The young lady chatting on the phone was hopelessly out of breath.
We can't talk and run or walk-uphill at the same time. Talking is interrupted breathing!
Looking across the valley to the old abbey.
A zoom shot of the abbey.
And a bit of information about it.
Another view across the valley; I took this photo as gag shot. Away in the distance is a tower. I was going to pretend it was dear old Eiffel again.
You do see what I mean?
Keep on up the hill; the tourist office can't be far now.
The couple passed me on the way down and have realized that they've left the car keys in the restaurant; now they have to climb the hill a second time.
People don't use the footpath unless a car is coming; the roadway is smoother and easier to walk.
Think “Romeo and Juliet”!
Keep on up the hill; the tourist office can't be far now.
Or did I say that a few hundred metres ago. Remember that landmark church we saw on our way into town? We are almost at it, that's how far we've come; and remember, we crossed streams, and they are always at the bottom of the hills, right?
I think that this is Orphans Street.
Some sort of bush, looking parasitic on the wall.
I'm STILL not at the top of the hill; I STILL haven't found the tourist office.
But I have found a map, so I'll take a photo for use as a reference.
Now you know why I don't buy ice-cream. It's $3 a single scoop.
Some more half-timbered structures.
I walk around several squares, most of them are lined with high-priced bucolic cafes. I steer clear of them.
I am heading back down hill. Have you noticed that I haven't reached the tourist office yet?
This grassy knoll struck me as a lovely place to eat a lunch of shrimps, cheese and grapes, if only I'd bought some as I walked through the lower town.
As I stop to take a photo a fire-services van comes bleep-bleeping up the hill. I wonder if yet another old fart has had a heart attack after climbing the hill in search of the tourist office.
A view off to the left-hand side. I think I walked up the hill past those houses some fifty feet below me now.
This is just me trying to keep track of where I've walked around town.
The west end of the “college”.
Inside the college; this is the huge church we saw from the train.
Clean lines, and quite an impressive structure for its age.
The stained-glass windows were blown out by a fire.
See it? “Joan of Arc was here”!
One of the “newer” stained glass windows.
The text describes each panel of this window. Now I know how to say “Kneeling, with a shovel in his hand”.
I descend by a different route. Through the alley you can just spot a red bollard that I walked past on my way up the hill.
Two more churches.
My mistake! THREE more churches.
Another shortcut down the hill.
These towns are great towns for adventure when you don't know them; always another narrow lane leading to a local resident with either a dog, or a basket.
So it's back to “low town” and part of the shopping arena.
Flower baskets line the sidewalk.
The town hall, naturally.
There you go: you get a fresher-than-fresh baguette for €0.80 - about a dollar - keep you going all day.
More shops, and the valley wall as a lovely backdrop.
Sure! I'm still keeping track of where I am, but look at those lovely beams.
Another group of half-timbered houses.
Or did I already photograph these? I've been led in circles in this town.
At last – someone I'd not heard of before.
Right after I asked the German guy for directions, I nearly walked into this signpost.
Now a PINK half-timbered house is different, you must admit.
Check the date-stamp on the photo and watch the train depart. I now have an hour to myself.
Bye-bye train!
Oh well, we can study the switching arrangements at the other end of the platform.
My train awaits. No longer do we use hooks and chains and buffers. These devices are closely-coupled.
Even though I didn't get as far as the tourist bureau on the outskirts of the far side of town, I found a map in the bloody station just as I was leaving. Aaaaargh!
Here's the station, my walk (approximate) and the tourist bureau, out of reach of every visitor!
A more detailed view of my walk up, and down, the mountain.
(Movie) Trucks on the D619 while we speed back to Gare de l’Est
Remember the challenge of standing behind the yellow line? Well here's a handicap.
Many of the stations deserve prizes.
Look at this well-trimmed hedge at Verneuil-l'Etang.
One of the advantages of carrying my net book with me is that I can check up on the 9MB Transilien map.
Another advantage is that since I have the carriage to myself, I can play classical music on the way home.
Check out the conversational nooks on the newer trains.
And here we are heading down Rue Beauborg.
It's hard to see, but we have crawled up right behind another #38, the streets are so crowded. You can see his bus number just below and to the right of the red blob on the panel behind our driver. The first bus is essentially creating a path for the second bus.
The Parisian bus drivers cope with far worse conditions than Toronto drivers; it really is a bit of a free-for-all here at first sight, but after a little while you realize that the locals do follow rules, even when the rules are to break the rules that are legal. In the end, it works.
We past Pompidou centre on the way home. The net is in place to catch pigeon poop.
Who would have thought that pigeons would find the Pompidou structure a great place for hanging out; and hanging out droppings?
I mean, that’s about as strange as the Scarborough LRT being caught in snow in wintertime, right?
The suspended sheets are extensive and, no doubt, expensive.
Of course, when it rains, everything gets wet, and poo liquor can fall on you if you walk under the nets.
Back at Porte d'Orleans, I take another shot of where my office building used to was.
Then it is a short stroll into and through Montrouge again.
Almost all these bikes are out on loan. I have a vague idea that my Navigo card helps me to use a bike, but I'm not sure enough to try it.
Over the peripherique; it's no different from walking over the DVP, really.
But the sound barriers have much more class ...
... and stretch away, golden, into the golden sunset.
I recognize the three cranes from last week.
The buildings are clean, looking healthy.
The sky remains blue right up until dusk.
More beautiful buildings, more beautiful sky.
And so to Avenue Pierre Brosolette and the new streetcar tracks running down the centre of the road.
One last look at Chez Philips.
Then it is down the hill into the Fontenay Aux Roses RER station.
(A year or so later ...) Note the mural painted on the northern end of the building that acts as a divider between the upper street to the left and the descending street to the right.
Note in the mural the dividing fence.
Now look at the dividing fence in my photo.
The building painted in the mural to the left of the solitary vehicle is the same building that is now adorned with the Green Cross!
If this wasn't Trevor's building, it could have been.
Thankfully, I'm going down these hills, not up them.
I love the complimentary colours on this building.
Here's the doorway in better detail.
I'm getting close to the RER station and everyone is out getting healthy.
And here we are at the RER.
The station at Fontenay aux Roses really does have a fountain, sort-of, of roses.
And after peak hour, trains run into town only every twelve minutes!