Sunday, September 11, 2016
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I walk the streets to collect the morning paper and my morning coffee(s!) and am reminded of Montrouge where I lived for a while, and of Fontenay Aux Roses, where I worked for a while. I ought not be surprised that the architecture and street structure and furniture are the same, but it saddens me a little to think of the opportunities I wasted thirty-five years ago.
Right outside the hotel a small car pulls up with “Vigipirate” on the side. Four rather large men tumble out – it is close to being the clown car in the circus – and the men look like weekend warriors out for a game of paintball, but these are no weekend warriors. Vigipirate is France's national security alert system. Created in 1978 by President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing.
I drop into La Presse and pick up the "weekend" Figaro which comes with four magazines and a copy of the paper I paid for yesterday. I have paid €5.20 for a stale newspaper, a TV magazine, a copy of the Printemps catalogue (for women's clothing), a fashion catalogue, and a news summary with some opinions. I have an opinion of my own, now.
I greet and am greeted in the cafe, and nonchalantly order a coffee as I go to sit down. To sit I must first pull the table a little way away from the bench, and before that the chairs, but before I can reach the chairs the young waiter arrives and moves the chairs for me. There is an air of service in French cafes that isn't shown in the same manner elsewhere, and I find it quite appealing.
The crowd comes and goes, ebbs like the tides. One minute the place is crowded with noise and joking and greeting, fifteen minutes later there is just me and a little old lady. Fifteen minutes after that the next “shift” arrives, and on and on it goes.
There are several types of drinkers: The short drinker comes in alone, orders then drinks a coffee and leaves, all within three minutes. The couple (of men) arrive, one orders two coffees, they stand at the bar and drink, then talk for ten minutes, then leave. The solo arrives and parks his or herself at the end of the bar, facing down the bar. The group arrive heralded by raucous laughter; the laughter continues throughout their stay, but dies away as they leave to go their separate ways.
Then there's me, the loner, with a newspaper and all day to kill.
I read my fortune. Today I am to meet three women. I already knew that, because I plan to ride at least three buses. I read the rest of the paper and keep an ear on the chatter at the bar. It's strange to think that my level of French is where, say, Claire and Anne were when I was with them. I was so impressed that they could ask for something and have it done. I know now that their French wasn't perfect, but it got the job done.
Today I am going to check out the TGVs and meeting places at two stations in Paris. A little light rain has fallen, and as I wipe a seat on the platform at Poissy I exclaim in French that it always does THIS when I go on vacation. A lady my age laughs, and tells me a joke. The gist of it is that whenever the President (Hollande) goes anywhere, it rains. I suspect that the punch line was not about his being a Rainmaker, as much as bringing gloomy stormy miserable weather.
My train arrives and I pass the time by mapping out buses to take from Gare Sud on Monday (8, 9, 16e, 20, 26, 4e and 5) and from Gare Nord time permitting (3, 4, 11, 14,98 and 11 will take me to 16).
In thirty seven minutes I am at Châtelet or Gare du Nord; I wasn't really paying attention. A little old lady approached me (so that's two down, one to go) and asked where she might find a pharmacy, I suggested she ask at the “i”information kiosk, but then she said what was really needed was les pompiers, so I pointed out a policeman about fifty feet away; she thanked me and headed off. You're Welcome, ma'am.
I made a mistake in trying to get from Gare du Nord to Gare d’Austerlitz by RER; it is line B to St Michael and then line C to Gare d’Austerlitz, with about ten minutes walking (it seems) between lines. I should have just hopped on the Metro line 5.
I got to thinking about my weight and cholesterol for the first time in a week. Pretty smart of me to get the blood work for my annual medical done before I came to Poissy. I bet the results look lovely sitting in a folder in the doctor's office waiting for my return. The cafe has a menu for mid-day, but I am never here at that time. They have all the usuals, Croque Monsieur and so on.
How sick I was when I worked here thirty-five years ago; too frightened to explore outside Paris. I look now at what I missed then; what a wasted opportunity.
Dawns a grey and rainy day. This would be a good day to stay in the hotel and catch up on my typing. Instead I head off for a paper and a coffee. I refuse to pretend I am at the seaside in England.
There's the tourist bureau across the street from the hotel.
And here is a better view of a lovely building.
And this is my view as I head off down Jean-Claude Mary
It's worse than it looks: There is a Printemps catalogue in the plastic bag with “Madame”
Things my doctor will never hear about.
That's my local cafe, hidden behind the trees.
I have just left a flower shop. I think that I will buy myself “un petit rosiere” for my room and leave it for the chamber maid when I go.
Avenue Charles de Gaulle is blocked off to vehicular traffic on Sunday mornings.
RER trains run in both directions every fifteen minutes on a Sunday. Suburban SNCF trains every twenty-five minutes in both directions. How I love the Transilien rapid transit systems
The RER train carriages are slung so low that the lower deck is well below the platform.
I noticed a phenomenon. The reflection of the arrivals screen shows a rainbow in the image.
When I look directly at the screen, as opposed to its reflection, there is no rainbow, just a beige border and a blue notice area. It must be a refractive or reflective trick of the carriage windows.
As we pull into Poissy I take my time to shoot a photo of the hotel. Gare Sud (buses) lies between here and the hotel.
There's a better view.
The fake-Tudor look was very popular in Poissy back in the 1600s.
This is the wall I figured was part of a farm. It is the remaining chunk of the original wall of the city.
I think that the fish-shaped thing represents Avenue Victor Hugo (making the top of the snout) and Charles de Gaulle (as the base)
I have marked where I think my hotel now stands, with a purple star.
There's another view of the old wall. The plaque is visible on the left.
Dear old Monoprix. I used to do most of my shopping there, (in Place des Fêtes in Paris) because I didn't have to speak French with anybody to shop there.
I have been thinking: I can not stay Tuesday night, no room is free, so I plan to rise and leave early and head for another town, check in early and spend all day Tuesday and Wednesday exploring that town and return here Wednesday night.
Back in the hotel in the evening I check my bank and card balances. I have learned that a room has become available Tuesday night after all, so I can stay here. Tomorrow I will make the payment for the rest of my stay until the 25th. Tonight I want to book a ticket on the TGV to Amsterdam to meet a friend.
My first effort at booking a ticket online is a disaster. The total gets as far as €270 when I realize that something is wrong. It was a mere €78 when I looked a few weeks ago. I quit and take myself off to supper.
On my return I try again to book a ticket. This time I quit at €570. I will try again tomorrow.