Paris: a short revue

My adventure to Paris began in what can only be described as a flurry of anxiety, as I discovered the night before I left that I had booked an airBnB (months previously) about two streets away from where a firefighter was killed in the recent riots. I won’t frame this one as budget travel advice because that level of anxiety is a high price to pay for being cheap. Anyhow, this anxiety was soon quashed by the appearance of a mad naked woman in the hallway of my apartment building (a story for another time). The actual journey began in a state of luxury as myself and my mam boarded a first class train to London where we would change to the Eurostar. We had no idea we had booked first class on our interrail passes, and annoyingly the seat I was sat in had no window, but I wasn’t complaining as I wolfed down a free full English breakfast and two cups of tea. Then the ticket inspector told us that we had booked first class tickets on our second class pass, and would have to move. He asked how much we had eaten and my mam informed him she had just had a cup of tea. I, and my stomach, stayed silent and wandered back to the main part of the train, where I found a nice seat with a window.

Upon arriving in London we had some time to kill, and I can recommend to anyone who has time to kill when waiting for a train at King’s cross/St. Pancras that you attend the nearby nicely developed Coal Drop’s yard, where you can walk along the canal to Campden market and enjoy a nice drink. The Eurostar itself was a new experience for me, and I can confirm it is better than flying. Not only because, as people who read my blog know, I really like trains (even when they’re largely within tunnels), and often get a that slight fear/discomfort when flying, but because it’s like an airport without all the annoying bits, in and out of security, in and out of passport control. Easy.

I arrived in Gare du Nord in need of the toilette (I speak broken French fluently), and was greeted by a Frenchman who doubled not only as a toilet guy but the proprietor of a toilet gift shop, like nothing I have ever seen before. A souvenir Gare du Nord toilet brush anyone? I would seriously love to meet someone who has purchased such a gift.

I was met above the ground by the blazing French sun, and determined that the best way to get around central Paris was on foot. This is not something I would recommend in the aforementioned heat and carrying all your luggage, however. Still, first stop was the Louvre. Which looks lovely from the outside, but the older architecture and the weird glass pyramid thing. I’m afraid I wasn’t interested in the inside because I don’t understand the hype with that painting. At least the Sistine chapel is a famous artwork that looks amazing, the Mona Lisa’s just a lass. A proper little lass as well, by all accounts. Anyhow, with nothing on the agenda for the evening but trying to capture as many sights as possible, we were pleased to notice the Paris eye was nearby. Not quite the same as the London eye, this is seemingly a portable Ferris wheel that just happens to be nearly the same size as the permanent London attractions. It presented a nice Bird’s eye view of the city, including the Eiffel tower and the Notre Dame, although the windows do give an photos a very 1920s-like appearance.

It was a beautiful evening though, and what better to do than walk down the Seine. Blimey, it’s a long river, though. Had to stop for a lovely pint and some authentic French food, in the form of a Galette, a nice savoury crepe. It was getting late, though, and I insisted on getting an Uber right to the door of the airBnB to avoid being utterly killed, so we’d thought we’d just wander back over the river and towards somewhere more central. I’d spent all evening trying to get my bearings right in relation to the arc de triomphe, and then suddenly I turned left and there it was, looking rather pretty with the champs elysees and the evening sunset, had it not been for my poor photography skills, rubbish camera, and a bit of orang security fence (blaming the rioters), it would’ve made a nice picture.

The airBnB was fine. We’re essentially staying in somebody’s spare room but they were lovely, and as I say, I speak broken French fluently. We were provided a lovely continental breakfast by our hosts the next morning, and braved the Paris metro to Montmartre, a hill at the top of which I was promised a lovely view of Paris, similar to the one provided of London at the top of Primrose hill. As well as the Sacre Coeur, one of Paris’s many beautiful Catholic churches (cheers Henry VIII for burning down all the British ones, you fat bastard), and a suitable alternative to visiting the Notre Dame as it remains closed after its own impromptu semi-dissolution a few years back.

To be honest, I think the Sacre Coeur is actually a more beautiful building, and the view was nice. The view from Primrose Hill is nice too, but I won’t lie when it comes to views on tops of hills I will always have a soft spot for the top of Bensham in Gateshead. Still, I thought climbing the steps to the top of the church might convince me otherwise. Out of respect, unlike all the other unholy tourists, with their constant photographs inside the church despite requests not to, and constant chattering despite requests for silence, I took off my favourite hat to go inside. The view was nice, but slightly marred by my vertigo that is perhaps now utterly instilled within me since I went up an old church in Oxford. Although it might just be old church rooves.

What was NOT nice, was that when I returned from the top, I found my hat had gone missing. My mam thinks it was stolen from the pew, the absolute cheek in a place of worship. That put me in something of a huff. No, I didn’t want a beret as a replacement. No, I don’t want a bracelet that you are trying to make me pay for despite clearly telling you prior to you putting it on my wrist that I had no Euros on me. I did cheer up with a pint and some more local cuisine (as well as my McDonald’s royale with cheese I had probably one of the nicest sarnies I’ve ever had from a local deli), and later I emailed the sacre-coeur (in French -which became a mistake when the email turned into quite along thread and I had to put everything through google translate because, well, I can’t actually speak French), just in case they had found the hat. I explained it was a flat cap, and Italian coppola to be precise, with a patchwork pattern. They said they had it! In fact they had two, just to let them know which one was mine. Over the moon, I asked them for a photo, and this is what they provided:

Never mind, eh. At least they tried. But on a more important note, yes, Paris is lovely, and I would definitely go again.