Tuesday, September 16, 2014

I am late rising; put it down to jet-lag and lack of sleep. I skip breakfast and elect to hop on the subway and scoot over to Porte d'Orleans. This might have been a mistake, for I am heading towards town at 10 a.m. and the Metro is packed, not like Toronto-packed. This is Paris-packed – lots of "Pardon!" which in the Metro does not mean a polite "excusez-moi", its rough translation is "I have already begun to move and if YOU do not get out of the way we will make contact". It is not impolite; it is extremely practical.

I stand for half the trip, and check out the other passengers. About half of them are 35 or younger; that means that half the passengers with me today weren't born when I arrived here in '78.

I change at Denfert-Rocherau and hop off at Porte d’Orleans. I walk past the cafe Rotunda where Arthur Lee so impressed me with his command of the French language; he ordered "Un Croque Monsieur et Demi" so suavely. I soon became as good as him at that. I also learned to order other things. A year later Arthur and I were sitting in a cafe and he ordered "Un Croque Monsieur et une Demie". We had been talking in English, and I overheard the waiter say to the barman (in French) "What's with this guy? That's the third Croque Monsieur he's ordered in thirty minutes!". A year later, Arthur had not moved beyond ordering a Croque Monsieur.

Oh well!

I walk across the Peripherique and confirm what Google Maps told me a year ago – the old building that housed Cap Sogeti Logiciel is gone, and in its place is a row of shiny office buildings and modern hotels. The cafe is there, so I pop in and order a coffee; the patron and his wife are long gone, as are the pin-ball tables, but it felt good to walk the seventy yards or so from the "office" to the "other office".

I set off to walk through Montrouge to find the cafe where I left my coat, camera and power-block, but in a repeat of what happened thirty-five years ago, I cannot find the cafe!

Along the way I trail a young Dad who is being trailed by his three-year-old daughter. I'm in no hurry, so I walk in train. As they approach the corner, she slows down and sensing me coming up on her left-hand side, lifts her hand to mine and we walk the last few steps hand in hand. It just doesn't get any better than this. Dad turns, sees us – a total stranger holding his little girl's hand, and a big grin breaks out on his face. Why is he thanking me? This moment was worth the airfare!

I FLOAT half-way to Chatillon-Montrouge, then head North again and locate Place des Etats-Unis. There is Hotel Regina. I enter and ask the price of a room for eight nights. Which nights? Dimanche prochaine and seven more nights (as in "work it out"). None available. So I ask a second time, how much is a room? And this time she hears my question and tells me "One hundred Euros". I would have booked it on the spot.

I wander some more and find my cafe; yes they have my veste. I order another cafe and after ten minutes or so someone arrives, breathless, with my jacket. They must have taken it home for safe-keeping. I thank them, pay for my coffee, and stroll back towards the Metro, checking my jacket pockets as I go.

I wonder what they made of the quarter of a piece of raw carrot. I finish it off anyway.

Now I want to buy an adapter for the power-block, so I take the Metro to Montparnasse and exit above ground. There is the Montparnasse tower! I head into the commercial centre and am astounded by the opulence. I have seen a few large department stores and malls in the USA, but this blows them away, IMHO.

I wait until the big, black, burly security guard deals with the little-old-lady who set off the alarms, then ask him where I might buy an adapter. At FNAC it seems, "Exit this centre, cross Boulevard Montparnasse, ..." I thank him and set off. I must have misunderstood, so I trot into a post office and ask again. Oh! It's just two minutes further along. I had understood the security guard, and the post office clerks. I set off again and can't resist asking two parking wardens.

There it is! I have a lovely conversation with reception, who assures me that yes, it can be described as a prise adapteur and I head off across the store. To a man who understands me and finds me a 9.99 model on the rack. He makes some comment in Spanish so I tell him – in Spanish – that I don't speak Spanish; he says – in Spanish – that I do, so I escape with "Pocito, pocito" and he laughs.

It is only later that I realize that he probably heard an accent in my French and thought it Spanish; perhaps I used a “tion” word and pronounced it as “cion”?

To the checkout and pay for my 9.99 adapter with a 20.00 note; the lady gives my 10.01 change. Why am I so used to expecting a hefty price hike in taxes with every purchase?

I must eat; I find a small cafe on Rue Vaugirard and have a lovely steak frites, I know it was steak frites, I could read that. Most of the menu chalked up on the board was indecipherable, bad handwriting, I call it.

After all that, it's a walk along Rue Vaugirard, past The Senate and on to Boulevard St Michel, packed with tourists. I know it was The Senate because I came across a policeman just standing on the sidewalk and I was curious enough to ask him what he was doing there. He smiled and said he was guarding The Senate. Oh! This is The Senate is it? He gave me another smile; it was be-nice-to-idiot-tourist-day today in Paris!

26,000 steps

As I set out early to reclaim my jacket from Montrouge, the market outside my door is coming alive.

Here I am at Porte d’Orleans already. The Tram has replaced the Petit Ceinture buses that used to run clockwise and anti-clockwise around the city. As far as I can make out there are four Tram segments for the belt around Paris where there used to be a single bus (well, lots of them, actually) that you could just ride around and around.

The Trams are seven-car units whose sizes could be described in sequence as large-medium-small-medium-small-medium-large.

That’s right! There's no need to have concrete in a Tramway. Grass looks so much better, and every little bit of photosynthesis counts in a crowded city, right?

Sigh! My old office building has been torn down, replaced by a sleek yet ugly concrete-opolis.

The other side of the intersection is just as ugly, if you ask me. I much prefer the seven-story yellow-facade stuff. You'll see some real soon now.

This shot is for me; a look back at where I used to be.

These signs are common around Montrouge and Malakoff, either as street signs or as white-lettered blue-enamel plaques on the building walls – the name of a man or woman and “fusilee par les Allemands”.

These are the city buildings I love, especially so in the bright morning or late afternoon sunlight.

The town hall in Montrouge. I walked past here several times a day for eight months in 1978.

The church “Eglise Saint Jacques” in Montrouge, being renovated. I attended mass here for four Sundays until I realized that I still didn't know enough French to build on my knowledge; about all I could recognize was that today's Gospel reading came from Saint John! At that point I started attending St George's Anglican near Etoile.

A view along Avenue Jean Jaures, heading towards Place des Etats Unis and my hotel for my first eight months in Paris.

Looking along Avenue de la Republique in Montrouge; early in the day.

The “Clair Pressing” was a laundry shop where I took in my clothes once a week and tried to chat with the helpful lady and her blonde-haired daughter.

Looking south along Avenue de la Republique in Montrouge; the distant tower is part of the Mairie de Montrouge – the town hall.

Now we are really in Montrouge; this is not Paris!

Montrouge shows me the biggest cluster of cranes I've seen so far. Unlike Toronto there are many places here where you can stand and NOT see four cranes.

Here I am at Place des Etats Unis. A lovely spot of greenery for mothers and small children, but not, alas, for me.

Here's my old hotel, with a renovated facade. My room was, I think, third floor above the entrance, so just peeping in at the top of the photo and, of course, overlooking the park.

Yes! There we are. Or rather, there I was.

Sigh!

Now I am wandering all around town looking for that cafe, and my jacket! (And camera, and power-block, and …)

Look at all the different shades of yellow and pink this building offers.

The roundabout in Montrouge; again, a regular sight of passage for me.

OK. Found the cafe, got the jacket; into the Metro at the new (to me!) Mairie de Montrouge station. I am fascinated by the see-through casings for the spoked wheels that drive the handrails on the escalators. Are the wheels for real, or just decorative? It is artistic for such a functional piece of the city.

We have these in Toronto, too; strips of brush-like material along the sides of the escalators (left hand side of photo between the illuminated wall and the slotted treads). I use them to polish up my shoes.

Yes, the metro trains are (mostly?) rubber-wheeled. The track takes both rubber and metal wheels. In the arrangement shown here (you may have to tilt your screen to see clearly) the main wheels take the load and the side-wheels guide the trains around the curves, of which there are many.

The wheel set up reminds me of Adelaide's BusWay with its guided buses.

Tour Montparnasse, criticized by Parisians when it was built – so out-of-character for this city, but loved by me, then and now, because with this tower and the Eiffel tower, I can triangulate and navigate myself anywhere I want to be.

I stitched these three photos together (later), but each photo shows a set of restaurants. For my first eight months in Paris I ate at a different restaurant each night, up one side of Boulevard Montparnasse and then down the other side.

Here we go – a panoramic view across from Tour Montparnasse. The six-wheeler is my fault.

And here I am on Rue de Vaugirard. I know my spatial memory is good, but still and all I am amazed that I see this name and just KNOW that I will be soon in the centre of the city; or on the Left Bank, at any rate. After 35 years my memory of the layout of Paris is still good.

A photo of a photo in my luncheon restaurant. Look up “Train Crash Montparnasse” on the web.

I didn't dare take this photo until the man had gone, but he was about 50 years old and had red hair. He sat at the table with his head facing me, between Van Gogh and Chaplin. He looked like part of the mural. It was uncanny.

I don't know how this happened, but my compass seems to have up-ended itself. Probably be OK if I were back in Australia (grin!), but for now I'll have to trust that North is North and just leave it at that.

I take in The Eiffel Tower, again, without zooming but with a zooming scooter going by

I take in The Eiffel Tower, again, with zooming and without a zooming scooter going by.

You can't hardly see it, as we sometimes say In Toronto, but if you look carefully through the truck window, there's the tip of Tour St Jacques which is, I believe, on Rue St Jacques which is, I believe, the footpath to Spain and that whole Santiago de Compostela trek.

Yep! Here it is again. It’s the small yellowish bit peeking in from the left-hand side, to the left of the big black monster which is pushing it’s way in from the right-hand side.

I know that Tour St Jacques is in the neighbourhood of Chatelet Les Halles, so this view confirms my stance on Rue Vaugirard.

... and anyway I always have Tour Montparnasse to guide me. The tower is getting further away from me, so that's a good sign too.

How can one NOT love streets like this, in this bright sunny weather?

I'm still heading in the right direction, Montparnasse is smaller, Tour St Jacques is larger.

Here we have some tarpaulin taped, with strong masking tape, to the footpath. So that it won't blow away or be tripped over and moved by folks like me.

And here we have the reason for the taped tarpaulin; a few paces along, another painter busy keeping Paris beautiful.

And free of paint-spatter.

The lowest sign says “Eglise St Sulpice”, and I know that Metro stop is a tad to the SW of where I want to be, so the sign pointing over there means I'm skirting the area, which is good.

Remember, this is my first real day back, so I'm boosting my memories of the city while on foot.

More confirmation!

This tour group crossed the street ahead of me. I stood back and gave them a wide berth.

Not for me the guided tour with Mr. Bean!

I scurried past here; could be a disaster if I went indoors ...

These streets are dangerous! Hazards for the careless vacationer.

I'm now not sure why I took this photo; the cafe spills out almost to the roadway, so we all walk around the crowd. The girl's face reminds me of Marise Rey from Aix en Provence..

(Later) Now I remember! I'd reached Boulevard St Michael, an old hangout some afternoons; the memories flood back.

And here I am strolling down the east side of Boulevard St Michael.

No matter where you are in Paris, you are always in sight of the Eiffel Tower!

More confirmation from the sign, as well I can see the public buildings on the right bank, the northern side of the Seine.

Here's that sign in more detail; I have adopted the habit of taking contingency shots, sometimes.

Christie was here!

You saw this coming in the preceding two photos, didn't you? I did.

Notre Dame; or rather Votre Dame. I think I once looked at the steps from close-up; too many tourists for me to go inside ...

Tour St Jacques is at hand.

This shot and the next shot show one of the many intelligent facets of traffic and pedestrian management in Paris.

You can see that I am at a pedestrian crosswalk for an intersection. You can see too that vehicles are not turning a corner near the pedestrian crosswalk!

That's because they all turned the corner twenty yards back! All these vehicles were running South and are now heading East. Once they have negotiated the turn, the drivers' attention is focused straight ahead, where we pedestrians cross. We have the driver’s full visual attention.

Compare it to, say, the north side of your main road, running west, with vehicles turning north; most of the time the drivers are looking SOUTH, looking for a gap in the traffic from their left, not watching at all for the poor pedestrians who are crossing the northbound street from east to west.

More booksellers, all along this section of the right bank.

The Town Hall, in a manner of speaking. Hotel de Ville.

Walking around the Marais and Les Halles; this makes me feel right at home.

The downtown core is torn up for re-construction; crowds of police are not directing traffic; crowds of tourists are pretending to be enjoying themselves; crowds of orange-shirted workers are sitting around drinking Orangina by the gallon.

Pompidou Centre; been there, done that, not doing it again.

Rue Quincampoix, now this name rings a bell. I'm getting closer ...

Boulevard de Sebastopol, getting warmer! As is the weather. Hot, I think, for the second half of September. I'm not complaining. Yet.

And at last here we are at the infamous Rue St Denis.

I think this used to be The Front Page; I don't care enough to go in and ask.

Enfin! Tour St Jacques.

Fully-framed this time.

Another thing I like about the Paris Metro, RER, RATP trains in general – there are lots more seats. On a Toronto subway platform you're lucky if you find seating for six, and there is a much longer wait between trains. Here's you'll find up to 50 seats on a platform. Some seats you sit on, some (like the turquoise affair in the foreground) you just rest your bum on, take some weight off your feet.

I have just helped replace a wheel on a stroller of the lady wearing black; she is now about half-way up the escalator at Place des Fetes in the 19th arrondisement. This escalator may qualify for the deepest in Paris; or France.

For a year and a half this was one of my two local stations. The other was the metro Pre St Gervais.

Now *I* am partway up the same escalator and about to chat with a young man who was amused at me taking a shot of this.

While I enjoy escalators, and take the stairs slowly with my wonky knee, I quote a web article in part: “...Paris doesn't exactly have a stellar record where accessibility is concerned. Wheelchair-intolerant cobblestone streets; out-of-order or nonexistent metro elevators; cafe bathrooms in basements accessible only by narrow spiral staircases-- you name it. For visitors with disabilities or limited mobility, Paris can seem like an obstacle course.”

Here I am, again, at last, at Place des Fetes. I don't know it yet, but I am about to take a wrong turn!

I remember this little park.

In Paris, even the brickwork for the chimneys is a work of (abstract?) art!

The morning street market is over; the city workers who were out yesterday afternoon setting up the stalls have returned this afternoon to take down the stalls (done!), and flush away everything except the smell of fresh fish.

Now we are using high-pressure water hoses to soak and then blast off the posters pasted on the walls. Off to the left of this photo, past the end of the wall, you can see the spray from the jets. The nozzle is held by the man standing to the right of the truck.

We are talking HIGH pressure here, effective, fast.

Seventy-two down, twenty-three to go ...

We will meet this guy with his water truck in this arrondisement on Saturday September 27, 2014!

I went in the wrong direction, ending up to the south west, at Jourdain, so I made my way back to Place des Fetes and chatted up yet another couple of little old ladies, who told me “Past the Monoprix, hang a left, down the hill, hang a right, ...”

So here I am, Rue des Lilas, ...

... and after all these years, Rue du Mouzaia

That's my apartment window, ground floor looking out onto a courtyard, but with a view of street traffic.

In this shot we see the door to the building on the right, the facade, the courtyard and my apartment.

The butchers and the greengrocers are gone away and changed hands. Both gentlemen were so kind to me, helping me with my French and giving me courage, as we say in France.

There’s a story about this butcher and my kidneys.

There's a story about cherries, comes from this shop.

I am on my way home, at Jaures, having arrived from Pre St Gervais.

This is a typical sign in the Metro; reading like a narrative from left to right: by following the arrow I can leave by two different exits to the street (which will be marked on the detailed map of the area upstairs), I can ask questions and get maps, buy tickets, get line 2 to Nation (which is my objective), and am warned, it's stairs, not escalators.

I shall miss Paris when next I ride the TTC.

I have remembered to take a photo of the door to my room, it's the door on the right.

And here is the verandah; I have passed out of the hotel facade and am about to cross the courtyard and mount the stairs to my room.

Here is where I take breakfast in the morning. The end table in the corner with my copy of Le Monde.

My stroll from Porte d'Orleans and around Montrouge/

Stroll from Montparnasse to the left bank.

From the left bank, getting lost in the Marais and ending up at Chatelet Les Halles, but briefly.

Getting lost towards Jourdain (to the left), retracing my steps, and ending up at Pre St Gervais.

I found a charming put-in spot for canoeing on a local river!