Sunday, September 25, 2016

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

My last day here. Tomorrow morning I will rise by alarm clock and leave around 6:30, inordinately early for an 11 a.m. flight, so that I can have a wander at leisure around the airport. The forecast for today offers 100% chance of rain, but of course that does not mean we are going to have rain all day, just that we are 100% sure that there will be rain at some time in the next 24 hours. This morning is clear and sunny, although the wind has picked up. I will probably wear my wind-cheating plastic macintosh to the paper shop and cafe for my "farewell tour".

Then I might retrace my steps of last Sunday as far as the small market on the way to saint Exupéry (I never did get to the other one!). I want to lay in a stockpile of carrots and apples for my trip home tomorrow.

After my paper and coffee but before my stroll I ought to lay out everything on the bed, sort through it, make sure I have my airplane ticket in hand, and basically pack stuff ready to be dropped into my shoulder-bag tomorrow morning. My exit should be as rapid and as silent as that of Friday morning.

In the cafe I make my last harvest of phrases. Qu'est ce que on vous sert? I order a crème and a croissant. Do we still have any croissants? No, but we have pain chocolat. OK then, I'll have one of them. When I leave I thank the patron and he says he will pass on my wishes to Sylvie. He says this without a prompt from me. I am entwined.

Back at La Presse I thank them both and buy a postcard.

The wine shop is open at 10:00 and from a stand outside I grab some free recipes, each of which seems to need something with "cave" or "pouilly" in the name.

I have made up my mind to treat myself to Indian tonight, which suggests that I should buy another sandwich for lunch, but first - off to the market before the rain comes. It is on its way. I can see it.

On my way home I negotiate a small intersection with two cars. I have been struggling to put into words what goes on. Here's another try: We are NOT trying to negotiate who goes first, or who has priority. We are working together on a co-operative plan that will get all of us moving without having to call in the police and do paperwork. It really does feel that it's not about me, and it is not about you. It is about US and WE win when we find a solution that works for BOTH of us, or in this morning's case, all three of us.

After tidying up I set off with my bag to the market on Boulevard Robespierre but when I arrive - no market! That's right, it was last Saturday I walked around Poissy, Sunday was Jour du Patrimoine. I duck into the Monoprix instead and spend a half an hour staring at the food stuffs. I see no meat pies, I suspect they are just not eaten in France, so I buy some carrots, grapes, apples, and a slab of Gruyere.

There are three security guards examining bags at the door. France is scared. There are only a dozen people in the store, and I am unsure why a terrorist would choose to bomb a mid-sized supermarket (think "Brunos" or "Rabba") on a Sunday morning when the store is practically empty. And at that, a supermarket on a side-street in Poissy. It's not even in the main shopping area of the downtown core. Still, we have to have our security guards out in force, but with no guns, as far as I could tell.

The rain starts up as I walk home. This is evil anti-tourist rain, heavy drizzle actually. The sky drizzles for ten minutes, stops for twenty, starts again for ten, on and off. If it were a serious downpour I would be obliged to stay indoors and watch reruns of Absolutely Fabulous on YouTube via the hotel's WiFi, or I could find myself stuck in an ice-cream parlor for hours on end. This on-again off-again drizzle is just annoyingly awkward.

I shall spend an hour sorting through my mountain of papers and wishing I had brought an eight cubic-foot trunk with me to France.

More thoughts: I haven't used the FM radio since I have been here. Around Toronto I walk most of the time with at least one ear plugged in to a podcast. I had imagined I'd walk around the district here listening to RTL, but there is no advantage to being shut off from the world, and every advantage to eaves-dropping on passing conversations.

Being on holiday here is delightful, except for not being able to prepare my own meals, but being on holiday is not the same as living here. When I worked in Paris I felt different from the tourists who blew in for a week and blew out again. I shopped for groceries and cooked. I didn't make much of an attempt to integrate, but living is different from holidaying. I wonder what I would feel like if I worked here, or at any rate, was retired here.

Balconies on the old buildings are small, on the newer blocks somewhat larger, but I can't recall seeing anyone sitting or working out on their balconies.

I thought some more about next year. I could return to Poissy, no doubt about that, but what if I went to a teeny-tiny village such as Lanzy or a town like Chalons-sur-Saone. In a teeny-tiny village there'd be nothing to do but sip coffee, read the paper, and talk to the locals.

I eat in an Indian restaurant I've had my eye on. I decided that for my last meal I would dine out with a little style. I order the Prix Fixé, and very good it was, too, but after five minutes the waiter closed the door. They opened at 18:30 and I sat down at 18:40, and at 18:50 they are closing for the night? The waiter explains that he has closed the doors to keep out the noise. "But I like the street noise and want to soak up memories". The waiter opens the doors. he had kindly closed them for my sake. I point out that closed doors suggests that they are not open for business. Yes, but he closed them to make me happy ...

How can you beat people who think along these lines? Such gentleness.

How easy would it be to integrate, really? Making friends (as distinct from being known by the regulars in the cafe) takes time.

After supper I sit on a bench at the foot of Avenue du General de Gaulle and watch the people. A young lad goes by on one of these scooters, hands-free. he stands so far forward that he controls the handlebars with his little tummy. Show-off!

Today's weather forecast.

The day dawns clear.

Just a few minutes after sunrise here, and the sun peeps through the lowest branches of the tree in the roundabout outside my window.

Playing games, the sun announces itself by bouncing of the windows of the Citroen building.

At a few minutes before nine I set off for my last morning coffee. This has been my steady view each morning for almost three weeks.

The station forecourt is deserted. This time tomorrow it will be flooded, in the main with people heading off to work. I, however, shall be nursing a bunch of grapes (but not gripes!) out at the airport.

As I thought, the last train to Poissy was just before ten o'clock Friday night. Even if my Thalys train had been half an hour ahead of time, I'd still have missed the train to Poissy. I would also have missed the last #24 or #5 bus from Saint German-En-Laye to Poissy, for those services terminate around nine at night on weekdays.

There you go. We are cut off at the root.

I can't say I wasn't warned. There are general closures all around (including through Châtelet-les-Halles). Had I been on the ball, I would have asked at the Transilien Information Booth about how to get home after getting off the Thalys train.

The left-hand screen tells me that trains are still running to Mantes-La-Jolie, but the right hand screen says that in the direction of Paris there is no train service.

Right through the day, a shuttle bus service runs once each hour; the trip to Châtelet takes two hours instead of thirty minutes.

On my way back from the cafe I take another shot along Jean-Claude Mary. On the right, a stall is selling fresh oysters. Just what I want at 10 a m Sunday morning.

The bus station has no buses, and less than a dozen passengers. There is the information booth where I gained so much knowledge about the buses and bus routes. A lonely SNCF-RER train appears to have been stranded by the rail closures.

I set off to the market and turn to take a shot of my hotel and room window.

In the morning, and the late afternoon, I must draw my curtain across the back of the laptop, for otherwise there is too much sunlight coming in for me to be able to read the screen.

BY now the sky is completely clouded over.

And look! The market square has no stalls. Silly me! It was a Saturday when I came here to the market. Oh well! Just off to the left of this photo is a Monoprix.

One piece of fruit, free, to each child accompanied by an adult. I hastily look around for another adult to take my hand ...

If I were doing this trip on the real-cheap I'd be buying small cans of tuna and making myself sandwiches for each day.

In the fifteen minutes I spent wandering the store, the rain has started. Well, I can start off too. I zip up my coat and set off back to a warm and dry hotel room.

An SNCF shuttle bus glides past me. The route number above the back window reads "SNCF"

The ground-floor entrance (well, OK, the only entrance) to the hotel is the doorway with the red canopy, to the left of the photo. To the right of the photo is the exit bay from Gare Sud. Pedestrians can enter here. Have you ever known a hotel as convenient for public transit?

Note that this isn't a "bus-stop right outside the door", but "a bus-station right outside the door", and then a train station (that's the SNCF-RER train in view through the right-most portal), and another bus-station just behind that!

And so back to sorting stuff out. Partway through the job I think to set off for lunch and leave the bed in triage.

To the left is a clear plastic bag of newspapers, all of which have difficult words circled in pencil. I shall take them home and then throw them out after staring at the pile for a month.

In the centre you see thick piles of brochures, postcards and maps and timetables. I shall take them home and then throw them out after staring at the pile for a month.

On the right are two excellent plastic tubs which will hold useful small articles like three memory keys, two sets ear buds, milk bag of coins for my friend, and so on. These tubs have turned out to be very handy, and they are easy to clean out - I just rinse them under the cold tap after most of the ice-cream has been spooned out.

I have a suspicion that two empty tubs may not be enough to pack all my "small effects".

I am heading off for a short stroll while waiting for the Indian restaurant to open. I am walking onto the new bridge when I see the town's symbol.

Two fire/police vans had just raced past me, and here the pompiers are at work. This is the floating-dock I had photographed on Wednesday(?), and that is a yellow tarpaulin covering something in the back of a boat.

I take a shot down-stream as the sun prepares to set. The old (bombed) bridge is in the left background.

At the apex of the bridge I start to think of my street in Toronto, for some reason.

Here is a view of the Citroën plant on the bank of the river.

"B". My guess is that this is Batiment 5.

On my side we have railings to prevent us stepping into the traffic. On their side - no railings. Go figure!

Down below bunches of people gather.

I experiment with the exposure setting.

A barge approaches from Paris, or perhaps from Pontoise.

The barge draws closer ...

... and closer (without the zoom shot!)

I watch the barge change its course slightly and begin walking to intercept it. Now. Where did I put my Pooh-Sticks?

While I wait I take a shot of this sign. You know about the flowers, right?

The barge has quite a bow-wave right at the bow, but very little in the way of waves arrowing out at the sides.

Painted a beautiful blue. Blue is very much in fashion!

The barge is empty.

Swept clean!

The police launch pulls away and heads up-river.

The barge continues down-stream ...

... and disappears on its way to Le Havre.

Here is a better shot of the Old Bridge. I have plans to walk onto the spur in a few minutes.

The fire-van is still in place.

The secret of the easels - they are metal, fixed into the earth, and the "paintings” are enameled prints.

The remaining pylons in disk-like calm.

More shades of blue at the south end of the old bridge.

Here are some better shots of the river level markings.

The roman numerals on the left, the level of January 1901 at the top.

I measured the distance between the lines with my hand-span, I would say about ten inches, so probably a quarter of a metre for each level.

The concrete paving seems to have overlaid the pylon markings here.

I turn and look behind me as I walk onto the old bridge. That is an SNCF-RER train trundling into Poissy. Of course! The rail lines between Poissy and Mantes La Jolie are operating normally. I knew that! I could have spent the afternoon in Mantes instead of taking a nap.

Strange to think that in the morning of 18th August 1944 farm carts were making their way across this cobbled roadway, and in the evening of that day they were not.

Meanwhile back at the ranch ... The police launch returns.

I approach the end of the bridge; I daren't stay long. A couple occupy the other bench and I think that she is crying.

A local sport consists of tossing cans and bottles onto the old pier. I imagine 90% of the projectiles miss their mark and go straight into the river.

The drama continues to develop slowly.

I turn to walk back along the cobble stones into town.

Here are the beds of Cannes from yesterday.

A jet plane flies overhead.

No wait! There's more!!

Here are those trees in three rows that gave me their shade.

The RER bed will be widened by fifteen feet, and houses will be demolished. My position on the matter? It is indicated by the little yellow shape.

So, about a hundred yards and fifteen feet wide? Sounds like an extra two tracks being laid.

This looked funnier in real life. Trees strive to be top-of-the-crowd, to maximize their photon capture. It looked as if the photon-emitter was joining in the game.

And what would a stroll be without a new flower bed; well, new to me.

And a strangely lovely mixture of styles alongside.

This is what I call a sit-and-eat-your-picnic flower bed.

Meanwhile, the Normandy trains are running into Paris. Presumably they aren't running too close to the RER track work.

This is how tower cranes are stabilized here.

I took this shot for a friend.

The view of the streets from my table in the Himalaya restaurant.

A view of part of the restaurant interior.

I sat on a bench and took in the scene. Something odd about this picture.

I can't recall ever seeing a man running a Boulangerie; always women at the front of the premises.

An RER train sits at the platform waiting for the morning rush-hour. The bus-station is empty. I retire for the night to write up today's tours and to dwell quietly on my thoughts.