As we flew toward Paris, our thoughts remained in Colorado. We were concerned
about our dogs.
Our friend and ballroom dance coach, Beate Murray, had agreed to house sit during
our absence. In itself this was great news. Not only do we trust her judgment
implicitly, but she is a fluent speaker of French, which would be useful if it
were necessary to contact us. There was one significant caveat, however. About
the time that we were leaving the house for the airport, Beate was in Las Vegas
preparing for an eleven-hour solo drive back to Denver.
The list of minor catastrophes that can occur during an eleven-hour drive through
the Utah desert (car problems) and the Colorado Rockies (snowstorms) rattled
through our heads as we negotiated our way toward Paris. The situtation was
alleviated slightly thanks to our friends Kevin and Pat Whiteley from Let's Dance
Denver. They have a large securely fenced yard and offered to keep Buddy, our
Shiba Inu-Border Collie mix, who weighs more than all three of the Bostons
combined. Also, Pat made a trip to Broomfield to let the Bostons spend some time
in the yard in the early afternoon, thereby avoiding an almost certain mess by
the time Beate was scheduled to arrive 16 hours after we left the house.
As we boarded our connecting flight in Detroit, we knew that all was well.
During the five-hour layover, we had contacted Beate, somewhere in Utah, by cell
phone and Pat reached us on our cell phone. So far, so good. As we settled in for
our "over the water" flight, we knew that we would learn nothing more until we
arrived at our hotel in Paris nearly ten hours later. Even though we would be
flying toward the sun, and it would only be dark for about four hours, it was
going to be a long night.
Charles de Gaulle Airport
I rarely sleep on planes, but this flight would prove to be an exception. I slept
lightly for about two hours of the 7 ½ hour crossing. Judging by appearance, some
of the other passengers slept much more soundly.
When daylight arrived, only clouds were visible below the plane. We didn't know if we
were over land or water, but my main concern was the weather on the ground. A rainy
afternoon in Paris would be a disappointing start to our trip. It might even be a bad
omen. I could already picture myself telling everyone "It was raining when we got off
the plane, and it was still raining when we got back on two and a half weeks later."
Every fifteen minutes or so, I raised the plastic window shade and anxiously scanned
the clouds for a break that might offer a clue as to the weather on the ground. Only
once was the uniform whiteness disrupted— punctured by a solitary church steeple.
A few more minutes and we were on the ground. No rain, just an overcast sky. We would
gladly settle for that.
Charles de Gaulle airport is an ugly gateway to a beautiful country. The dirty and
crowded concourse wears the shabbiness of neglect. The architecture is a combination
of Soviet-style concrete exterior and a colorless bunker-like interior. The decor
seems to be from one of the more tasteless third world countries, and missing tiles
are the closest substitute for airport art. One has a sense that they have arrived
in Cuba or Uganda, rather than a pre-eminent nation of western Europe. Moreover,
confusion reigns supreme at Charles de Gaulle. No one inquired about items in our
possession. No one even stamped our passports.
The 25 minute ride into Paris, is only a marginal improvement on the grubbiness of
the airport. The train passes through a succession of dingy graffiti-encrusted
suburbs. To make matters worse, according to the US State Department, the
RER-B rail link between the airport and downtown Paris is also notorious
for pickpockets and luggage thieves that prey on jetlagged tourists.
Despite the graffiti and the petty crime, we were happy to be on the train. After
traveling for hours, we finally made it to France. Plus, we love trains. They stir
fond memories of traveling through Europe and across Japan. Walk into any train
station in Europe, even if it is only to buy a sandwich, and a passing glance at
the huge electronic board indicating departures and arrivals will make you feel
that the entire continent is at your feet. Berlin, Rome, Madrid, Copenhagen, Prague,
etc. So many places. So little time and money.
I peered down every break in the buildings hoping for a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower,
but instead was unexpectedly rewarded with a spectacular view of
Sacre-Cœur, the great Montmartre landmark.
Paris
We exited the train at Châtelet-Les Halles, the busiest commuter station
in one of the largest public transportation systems in the world. The Paris
Métro accommodates approximately six million commuters per day. The huge hub at
Châtelet-Les Halles is one of 368 subway stations, and one-third of the
Métro lines, plus three train lines, intersect at this stop.
After lugging our baggage for twenty minutes through the maze of crowded shop-lined
tunnels, we discovered that the exit nearest to our hotel was inaccessible due to a
malfunctioning elevator. This was to be our first of many minor frustrations on this
trip. At times it seemed that France was full of broken things that could be easily
fixed except for the fact that no one seems to bother. Three weeks later, when we
returned to Paris near the end of our visit, we would notice that this elevator was
still unavailable. The French have a remarkable capacity to tolerate the frustrating
inconveniences of life. The degree of this tolerance is simultaneously admirable and
incomprehensible.
Rather than navigating several extra blocks of crowded Parisian streets, we remained
underground and took a connecting Métro line to the Hôtel de Ville
station, a small stop even closer to our hotel than Châtelet-Les Halles.
We arrived at the Hotel Sansonnet just
before 2 pm, approximately 22 hours after leaving our house in Colorado. We were
exhausted, but the hard part was over.
Unfortunately, the "hard part" was not over. Not quite anyway. We were informed
that a room would not be available for at least an hour, so we would have to leave
our luggage and wander around Paris for awhile. Contrary to the mythology of rude
and indifferent French waiters and hotel receptionists, the man at the desk was very
apologetic and promised that a room would be ready within an hour. There was one bit
of good news, however. An e-mail from our housesitter Beate was waiting for us. She
arrived back in Denver without any problems or delays. We knew the Bostons were in
good hands.
Normally, spending an hour or two wandering about in a city with as much history as
Paris would be a privilege. At this point, however, we would have gladly sacrificed
the experience for a shower and a few hours of sleep. The Hôtel de Ville,
the town hall of Paris, was only a short block from our hotel, so we began there. In
Paris, as in many French cities, the town hall is called the Hôtel de
Ville. Occasionally, city employees must deal with tourists, unfamiliar with
French culture, that insist on making a reservation at what appears to them to be
the most spectacular looking "hotel" in town.
From the Hôtel de Ville we crossed the Pont d'Arcole onto
Île de la Cité, the Seine island upon which Paris was born in the
3rd century B.C. This island is home to two great Parisian landmarks—
the great Cathedral of Notre-Dame and the medieval palace-turned-prison known as the
Conciergerie. The former is the home of mythical hunchbacks and gargoyles,
whereas the latter was the home of the very real Marie-Antoinette in the period
immediately prior to her execution.
The streets near the Notre-Dame Cathedral are laden with tourist-oriented
establishments, especially souvenir shops and restaurants. The Place Parvis,
the great square directly in front of the cathedral, is traditionally the point from
which distances to Paris are measured from anywhere in France. Although the square
offers unimpeded views of the western portal of the cathedral, it was not always so
uncluttered. Descriptions of this portion of the Île de la Cité
provided by Victor Hugo in the Hunchback of Notre-Dame do not coincide with modern
appearances. Hugo described the the western approach to the cathedral as a collection
of narrow winding alleys and dilapidated centuries-old houses. These structures,
along with the medieval character of the neighborhood, were demolished in the
mid-19th century. In places, the previous street plan can be discerned
by discontinuities in the style and color of pavement bricks.
Sharing a pattern with most European cathedrals, the western portal of Notre-Dame is
intentionally asymmetrical, albeit subtly, to symbolize the absence of perfect order
on earth. One of our goals on this visit to France was to climb the 387 steps to the
top of the south tower of the cathedral, retracing our steps on a dreary and rainy
day nearly five years earlier. A picture of one of the stone gargoyles, which
represent souls in transition between earth and heaven, gazing at the Eiffel Tower or
Sacre-Cœur from the heights of the cathedral is a "mandatory" shot for any
photographer in Paris. The ascent, however, would have to wait until the end of the
trip when we returned to Paris for our final days in France. For now, it was time to
return to our hotel and, hopefully, check into our room.
When we approached the reception desk the manager was speaking on the phone in
French, which normally would not be an odd thing in France, except that he then
handed me the phone and said "it's for you." It was Beate, our house sitter, who
wanted to be sure that we got her message and knew that everything was all right
with the house and dogs.
The room was tiny, but we did not expect anything spacious. In Europe, we have
learned, the general rule is - the bigger the city, the smaller the room. The tiny
room had a shower and bed, and that was all that mattered. After sleeping for about
1 ½ hours, we forced ourselves to get up to avoid a seriously disrupted sleep
cycle that might last as long as a week. We had a simple goal to get us out and
about - the top of the Eiffel Tower. We had been there before, but it had been a
few years and it was a straightforward objective that would get us out before dark.
I bought a carnet of subway tickets at the Hôtel de Ville Métro
station and, after one line change, we arrived at the Trocadéro station
near the Eiffel Tower. We walked through the grounds of the Palais de
Chaillot, which offers one of the classic views of the world's most famous tower.
The Eiffel Tower with the palace terrace and fountains in the foreground has been the
subject of many a postcard. We bought two tickets, at € 10.20 apiece, for the
Ascenseur, the elevator to the top.
A visit to the top of the Eiffel Tower requires the use of two separate elevator
system, each with its own waiting line. Access to the first and second stages, at
190 ft and 380 ft, respectively, is via one of the elevators located in each of the
legs or piliers. The highest viewing platform, at 900 ft, is accessible only
by the single pair of elevators that ascend directly up the center of the tower.
These elevators are not a pleasant experience for anyone with a fear of heights.
On the ascent, we skipped the lower platforms with plans to explore those stages on
the descent. As we joined the rear of the long line to the "summit" elevator, a young
couple from Texas introduced themselves. The man was spending a year in France
studying the language before attending law school. As we were talking, a teenager
jumped the line and cut in front of us. Without even glancing at him, and without
interrupting our conversation with the Texans, I grabbed the kid by the coat and
nonchalantly extracted him from the line. He didn't say a word. I then noticed
something that I have rarely witnessed in France— people were smiling at me.
The Texans complimented my punk-handling technique. Ten minutes later, we spotted
the kid a safe distance ahead of us in the line. The thought of approaching him and
repeating the extraction procedure crossed my mind, but I didn't want to begin our
trip with an "incident" on the Eiffel Tower.
We reached the "summit" just as the last bit of daylight was fading. We spent nearly
an hour at the top spotting recognizable Parisian landmarks and studying historic
neighborhoods. We also browsed the extremely small souvenir shop and talked to our
fellow travelers.
One the return to the ground, we briefly investigated Altitude 95, a
restaurant at which we had reservations during our return to Paris at the end of the
trip. Just as we were about to get in line for the final elevator to the bottom, the
entire tower began to flicker. This was our first experience of the hourly light show
that the Eiffel Tower has been presenting to Paris since January 1, 2000.
Back on the ground, we retraced our path through the grounds of the Palais de
Chaillot and I got some great night shots of the tower with the fountains in
the foreground.
Exhausted and in a jetlag-induced stupor, we somehow found our way back to the hotel.
A lot had been accomplished this day. We were in France. We made it to Paris and the
Eiffel Tower. Everything was fine in Colorado. The trip was off to a great start.
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