Friday, September 09, 2016

Please take a moment to download and read my file Fully Funded Public Transit .

Slept poorly. I woke around two and was restless until about five, then dozed off until Nine. I hope my internal clock settles down soon. A somewhat sleepless night Wednesday and a sleepless night Tuesday didn't help. I tidy up, pop the netbook and maps into my shoulder-bag, and head off downstairs to extend my booking to Sunday 25 September. While I am waiting, I step aside for a young executive who checks out and exits to the car park. A much better kind of hotel if the young executives are here.

Friday morning I make my bed (I know that the maid will do that, but I like to leave my room looking inviting for my return) and wander down to the lobby to book the rest of my stay – except for Tuesday when the hotel is fully-booked. I enjoy laboring in French with the desk clerk.

My essential errands today are to find a Laundry and negotiate a price for getting my clothes laundered, to find a newspaper stand or shop, and to sit with a coffee and read the papers.

A quick check of the internet reveals three laundries nearby, two of which are still in business and on the same street at 13 and 20 Rue du Cep. I ask directions – always lots of fun in a foreign language because the locals understand so much and point with their hands – and am quoted €32 for four shirts, four briefs, four pairs socks, and one pair dress pants. I swear it was about €11 in Paris two years ago. Merci Beaucoup and Bonne Journeé M’sieur, and I walk out of there with a fake smile.

I find an art gallery and what the heck, walk inside and chat with the lady before exploring both floors. I spot a pastoral scene with a herd of Guernseys eating on the trot, with one cow staring at the painter. Were I given to impulse purchases of paintings to be packed and shipped home I'd drop money like hailstones, but I'm not, so I don’t.

Three doors up is a Librairie/Papeterie and I wait until the old man (not me!) finishes his business and then ask about newspapers suitable to my reading age, which age is about that of a ten-year old.

The managers recommend what I knew they would – Le Figaro for the seriously good French writing of the news, and Le Parisien which is a tabloid devoted to the rantings of writers like me on the impact the world has had on Paris.

The French people are so damned polite and generous. It is enough to drop the phrase “I am learning French” and extra magazines are forced on me, free, a gift, from us two French people who are so delighted that a tourist is taking the time and trouble to learn French. I thank them but decline. There is no way I will find the time to slog through these two papers in time to start again tomorrow, and two glossy magazines is just that much more weight to lug around all day.

I wander into a cafe, self-conscious with a muttered “B'jour M'sieurs/Dames. It's what you do, see, anonymously greet everyone in any establishment you enter, be it a dry-cleaners, a boulangerie, a newspaper shop or a cafe. You may or may not get a response, but you acknowledge the presence of all present. Somehow it breaks the ice and lets you insinuate yourself into the assembly, and without it you are an unrecognized stranger. With it you are still a stranger, and perhaps a temporary one, but an accepted stranger; one of us.

I order an coffee, it arrives, and for forty minutes I struggle though four pages of each paper, circling words and phrases I do not understand. There is a method in this, and I'll explain it later today.

I head off to the next Laundry and am quoted a slightly lower price. There seems to be something special involving the establishment two doors down, and I can't understand what the lady is saying Merci Beaucoup and Bonne Journeé Madame, and I walk out of there with a fake smile.

IT IS MARKET-DAY!

I happily stroll around and through the market. The main square is taken up with clothing and apparel The hat-lady does not have a floppy-hat with air-holes in the crown, so I am stuck with my $3 Goodwill offering for now. Still, it was a pleasant conversation.

The outside of the covered market is fruit and vegetables, while inside the covered market is meat and fish and poultry and cheeses and other delectables. It being near as dammit to lunchtime I assemble six cooked crevettes, a small but tasty 100g slab of Swiss, a punnet of sweet Muscats, and two large apples for water-and-fibre on the run. Before I dare eat I try to finish my errands by locating the third laundry, but it seems to be out of business and no-one has yet told Google.

So I stroll back to the bus station and hop on a bus. I don't know what bus it is until I ask the driver, and this is always good for a laugh. What kind of clown hops on a bus without knowing or caring what bus it is? A tourist who wants a free ride around town, is who.

This route (#5) is the one I used to get back from Saint-Germaine-En-Laye on Thursday, so I am riding the other part of it, and we are headed to Conflans or Cergy-Pontoise, I don't know which. Pontoise is where I spent my last full day two years ago. I pull out my Poissy town map and my Michelin map (large scale) and start tracking our route with my violet marker.

At Achères a young man boards, and I make space on the seat for him. By way of conversation I apologize for the clutter, I am a tourist. He smiles and says it is no big deal. Here's the thing. When he rises to get off at his stop he issues me with an “Au Revoir M’sieur”. We will never meet again. He is perhaps 20 or 30 years old. I am 70. His upbringing says that you issue a greeting on entering and a parting on leaving. I suspect that my apology acts as a greeting to him, an acknowledgment when he boards; he issues a farewell when he leaves. I am touched by this. We will never meet again, but I am worthy of an “Au Revoir”!

We, the bus and I, wander the streets of Conflans St Honorine until we slide to a halt in the bus bays at the SNCF station of Conflans St Honorine.

I decide to find a shady park bench to eat my lunch, but after a twenty minute anti-clockwise walk of the nearby streets, I give in and head back towards the station. Had I started clockwise I would have found the flower beds with concrete walls that act as seats. I take my time over four crevettes, a couple of large mouthfuls of cheese, and a handful of grapes, then walk back into the station to find out exactly where I am. Then out to the bus bays to discover that all the buses have left without me. I observe that the #17 has two forms 17A and 17B each of which would give me a Grand Tour of Conflans St Honorine , and for either of which I would have to wait 45 minutes, so I cut my losses and head back to Poissy on the next #5.

There is a mild danger in daisy-chaining here. The bus networks work so well that I could find myself in Persan-Beaumont or even Coulommiers in a rather long blink of an eye, because every bus station connects with a zillion other stations, rather like brain cells, and before you know it you are wandering streets in a town twenty miles from home base.

During the trip back I note how many stores are closed. In the smaller towns, business shuts down early in the lunch hour. It is a little bit like the Spanish Siesta, but I suspect it is brought about by the civilized idea that when it is time for lunch, it is time for lunch, so the shop is closed while we eat our midday meal. This does not apply to cafes and restaurants, but many restaurants will be closed for serious food - drinks only with a snack - after the lunch time and may not open again until eight or nine o'clock at night.

On market-days the local butchers and greengrocers will sometimes close. I don't know whether this is because the local operators run a stall of their own at the market, or whether it is all about too much or unfair competition, but closed they are, and you must make your way to the market.

Back at the hotel my card no longer works. Of course! I booked in for just one night, and although I have extended my stay, we have not yet extended my card. I get that done and take a shower, then bundle my dirty clothes into my bag and head back up the street.

The Laverie bears a sign “No surprises. Pay in advance”, and the man takes €32 and promises to have them all done by Saturday 7 p.m.. I write on my little yellow docket “Sam. 7 p.m.” and he corrects me, Non M’sieur, dix-neuf heures. Sharp fellow! Improving my French little by little, as does everyone. The French People deliver copious amounts of social lubricant whenever I make a serious but stumbling effort to speak (or write) French.

The work bench of the busy traveler. I like the view of the roundabout right outside my window. The steady stream of buses reminds me to get out and do and see things rather than sit here typing away. Which is why my diary is always a day or two behind the times.

Here is a bus parked right outside my window. The windows are exceptional. I strain to hear traffic noise, but can not hear a peep, only the music issuing very softly from my netbook. This small computer is my jukebox at home, so I have come here for three weeks holiday with six weeks of non-stop music aboard.

This is part of the lobby of the Hotel Ibis. This area is where I would take the breakfast were I to take it here, but I have learned that, good though the breakfast is, it's not as good for me as negotiating in the boulangerie or in the cafe in the street.

This is the equivalent of the City of Toronto vehicles parked in the most unlikely places. I am still in the lobby, directly under my room with a ground-floor view of the roundabout.

Another lovely building that graces my morning stroll. I am on my way to check out laundries and newspapers and cafes.

This bus has just turned into Avenue Maurice Bertaux from Boulevard Victor Hugo. The driver is just practicing his occupancy of the wrong lane in a two-way narrow street.

My Café Istanbul (from last night’s dinner) is just behind my right shoulder.

I continue to be struck by the flowers that adorn every town and village. I suspect that in most towns the cost is borne by the municipality.

I am about to turn left and begin my review of Avenue du Cep. A 52 bus is returning to roost from the Hospital or Champs Gallard. In the background the church in Place Saint-Louis.

And as I round the corner, more flowers!

It never ends! Just as I am always in sight of at least four tower cranes in downtown Toronto, I am always in sight of flowers in the Île de France.

Another corner, another view of the little landmark that refuses to be swallowed up.

The silver heron (stork) caught my eye and lured me into the art gallery. The shop is a collection point for works by artists who sell on commission.

This is, or will become, my morning stop for a newspaper. The staff were friendly and helpful. Here it was that they tried to force on me a gift of two magazines.

My Café Cep is where you see the green-white striped canopy and a gentleman sitting outside enjoying the world.

Market day! The stalls extend all the way down to Rue du General de Gaulle.

Here is the view in the other direction. The covered market is to my right, the square is to my left. The Town Hall and Theater Poissy can be seen in the background on the far side of the square.

The square is filled with stalls of clothing and accessories, but sadly, no floppy hats with holes in the crown.

OK. So the square is not filled, but still it is an overwhelming display of clothing.

I have walked to the Avenue de Cep end of the stalls and turn to take in the square. Just off to the left is the southernmost fruit stall.

Inside the covered market, a bustle of noise and smells.

I rarely shop in the St Lawrence Market; I think the food is over-priced, but I am lured here. Perhaps if I lived in Poissy I'd resort to the lower-priced supermarkets. Right now I envy folks who live here and can debate the different cuts of fish and meat.

My second attempt at finding out the costs of laundry. This place sounded a little cheaper, but seemed complicated. Maybe next time.

I am in an enclosed space surrounded by apartments. The business are all on the ground floor.

This plaque adorns the southern wall of the covered market. You can read some of the history here and here .

A last view (almost) of the clothing market. (“A clothing view”, he lithped)

OK. This is NOT a shot of the market. This photo shows the start of a mutually-shared use lane on one side of the square. “Rencontrer” is to meet, so this is where people meet, not to chat, but to share the space.

I find that both sides respect the idea. Pedestrians take care when crossing the lane marked out with bollards, and motorists traveling down the lane make way for pedestrians who are crossing the lane-way

Here I am crossing the top end of Rue de General de Gaulle on my way to Boulevard Victor Hugo. Note the bollards that say (to me) “This part of the street is for cars, try to stay out of the lane area”, and to cars “This area is for you, stay away from pedestrians”

Another lovely building. Boulevard Victor Hugo is a mixture of residential housing and offices of Accountants and Dentists.

The Rose brothers contributed mightily to the manufacture of booze in Poissy, many years ago. I can find no record of them making Rosé wine, although the “Cep” in Avenue de Cep might be related to vineyard stock.

I had planned to eat my lunch in this park, but it is closed for renovations, so I ended up riding a bus out of town.

More boxed trees!

These plaques were a common sight when I wandered Montrouge and Malakoff many years ago. “Shot by the Germans ...”

To my eye even the modern buildings look good. I hope that you are noticing the blue skies, warm sunshine, crispness of the air. Such a change from Grenville Street with its six construction jobs.

On my walk back to the hotel and bus station I noticed this sign. It seems that I have been taking the historic tour without really knowing it.

My view as I walk into Gare Sud. Most of the bus bays are empty which means that I have time to study my sheaf of timetables. The information office is to the left, painted cream, with a large “I” symbol on top.

Here I am on the #5 bus on my way to Conflans St Honorine. We run alongside a piece of forest that is, I think, the northern fringe of the forest of Saint-Germaine-En-Laye.

The roadside becomes dried grass as we scoot through an industrial area. Probably part of the Techno Park.

This is the Seine that the tourists never see. We are downstream from Paris. No Bateaux Mouches, just working barges not working today.

I love the bus shelters. The map on the right is the #5 route; I am on the #5 bus. The map on the left is another route, I forget which, but whenever I find myself walking past a bus stop I can bone up on alternate routes that intersect and promise to carry me away to strange places.

Here we are approaching the station at Conflans St Honorine.

And I am off the bus, and starting my ineffective search for a park bench. That's the little station building.

An SNCF suburban train rolls through the station. I've said this before, but it's neat to find that bus routes generally start and end at a Transilien station. I feel I can always return home quickly should I need or want to do so.

No, you're not meant to read the map. Just be amazed at the number of different stations served on this part of the Transilien network. This sort of map is repeated across the Ile de France.

Another view with the glare of the glass in another position.

I have circled St Lazare (on the left), Maisons Laffitte, and Poissy (on the right). This map is a map of the Transilean system served by trains out of Gare St Lazare in Paris

You Are Here! Or rather I Was There. The station is the grey-shaded circle. That is where I am/we are.

Also a little map of the streets around the station. I was too busy getting to a park bench to look at the map and find where the parks weren't.

Twenty-eight degrees at 13:23. A near-perfect day. A bit hot for me when I'm walking, but better than cold wet rain.

A roundabout and a building that used to be modern. Most buildings seem to be cream or yellow. Pink is a rarity.

This building was built from what appear to be rose-colored concrete blocks, not your garden-variety grey concrete blocks. I have a feeling that the bricks are made of pink-tinted concrete, not just painted on the surface.

Some of the individual styles of housing.

Some of the individual styles of housing.

Some of the individual styles of housing.

And now I am heading back towards the station.

Et Voila! I ended up eating lunch while sitting on the edge of the garden bed in a lovely piece of shade. That's the station building on the left-hand side of the photo. All that walking and I ended up here.

OK. Here is lunch, with just one mouthful of cheese missing. I had eaten four crevettes while walking the streets.

Here is the fiche-horaires booklet given to me by the driver. One page of it shows a schematic map with each bus stop labeled and marked with a dot. I can follow the bouncing ball as we zoom along, and co-ordinate my view with my Michelin maps.

Poissy is the hook of the coat-hanger, and we are at the unraveled end on the right.

Not a good shot. These red-striped signs warn that “You are now entering a non-fraud zone”. That is, you should have paid your fare by now.

The Seine. Rhymes with “again”.

As we return through Achères I manage to get a bad shot of the station building.

This was a strange situation. Westbound traffic (us) has a traffic-light that happens to be green right now.

Eastbound traffic has no lights, as far as I could tell. Eastbound vehicles wishing to turn across our path had to depend on the thoughtfulness of drivers in our lane who saw the light turn red and kindly left a gap.

It works though. It really does.

And here we are, almost home. This is the Citroen building right across the street from my hotel. The bus swings under my window and into the station.

I walk to the old town to drop off my dry-cleaning and note that this morning's market place is not only empty, but has been swept and hosed clean.

The municipalities are meticulous in the clean-up after market day is ended.

This has been a repetition of the sad library history of two years ago.

Then, of all the towns I visited, on only one day was I able to visit the library.

I was either in town on the wrong day, or I was there for the morning and the library opened only in the afternoons, or vice-versa.

There is an alternate library, and I have enough time to track it down.

So it's Ho! For the open road, this time I hop on a Saint-Germaine-En-Laye bus that has wandered into my yard, this #14 is quite different from the Poissy #14. This bus will take me to Maule . I spent a few hours there two years ago.

The scrubby trees at the side of the road give way to farm land.

In Oregval, this is the equivalent of Dundas Street East Mississauga.

Yep! Big Box Stores along the roadway.

I didn't take this shot of the girl with the car. I pressed the shutter to take a picture of the far side of the valley of the Seine.

I am given a lovely tour of Bazemont.

The bus lets me off at the Gare Maule, where I began my walk last time. As I head towards the downtown core I practice taking photos with my finger over the lens. It makes a whorl of difference.

I remember well the little bridge over the little brook with the big flower baskets.

I remember the magnificent houses set apart in yards.

And the old houses whose walls mark the street.

This is the little brook that almost flows beneath the little bridge.

And the other side of the bridge, sporting many more baskets of many more flowers. How can a place be so lovely?

As I continue my walk downtown, I see that work continues on the church tower. Nothing much is changed!

I suspect that “sauf aux riverains” translates into “Local traffic only”, the locals in this case being those who live along the brook (or perhaps, river)

This skip was here two years ago, filled with stone debris.

But a different size of debris, I think.

Here is the town hall, looking out of one eye to the market square.

A better view. How clean these buildings are. Note again the crispness of the flags.

Do you wonder why I'd like to live here?

A view from The Town Hall towards the square. Is that a boulangerie I spy on the far side of the square?

Yes it was.

To distract you I have taken these shots ...

… of the different sides of the market square.

I haven't worked out the parking system. The blue card has a dial that you can set to indicate what time you arrived. Presumably if you set it too far ahead the inspector can determine that you haven't arrived yet, and fine you for, well, for being here when you haven't really arrived. Yet.

I stopped by here two years ago.

I have a ritual : stopping at each war memorial and reading each name to myself. I'll never know the families, nor their lives, but I like to think of them as farm boys, youths, whose lives were snuffed out for a cause they believed in.

I have enlarged their names so that you can, if you wish, read the names out aloud.

Names of people you can never meet. For me they grew up here and were prepared to make Maule a better place to live.

God Bless the bus drivers. This guy saw me take a photo of his bus, and assumed I was lost. There followed a discussion above the din of his motor about where I was, that I knew what I was doing, and that my #14 driver had told me explicitly to wait at the railway station even though everyone knows that the buses don't start from there ...

That reminds me.

I must buy a protective wallet for my new smart phone.

Here is the model railway station building at Maule.

The idiot car driver has just forced its car right in front of our bus. Those of us that weren't holding on to a steering wheel have found something in front of us to grab hold of.

My driver thinks I am taking a photo of the miscreant. Only you know that I am pointing out the crack in the windshield of the bus.

Look in the centre of the photo, immediately to the left of the ticket machine. It looks like a crack in the back window of the car, but it is our bus that is not cracked up to what it ought to be.

We fall into Poissy along Avenue des Ursulines. It has been along day (groan!)

Next Day