My return to Paris was predicated on three things: (1) most importantly, as cliche as it sounds, I wanted to spend a few days in Montmartre at a cafe just writing as I was inexcusably behind on both Wanderlust and my notes; (2) perhaps even more cliche I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower at night as my last opportunity was cancelled due to inclement weather; and (3) I needed to ultimately get to London and Mom had been pestering me to take the Eurostar.
This time in Paris I stayed in the cheekily named "Plug Inn Hostel" in Montmartre. It was fairly cheap, clean, cozy, right in the center of Montmartre, and aptly had an abundance of plugs. I wasted little time in the hostel my first day as I made my way immediately out in search of a cafe in from which to write. I should note that in Luxembourg I took advantage of the prices at the Alima and bought myself a liter of Bailey's. Pro tip: since each coffee is going to run you about 3-4 euro in Paris, order it black, sneak in some Bailey's, and top it up for a makeshift Irish coffee. Just don't let them see you do it. This was how I spent my first afternoon back in Paris.
If you've got good eyes you might notice I was working on the Amsterdam entry when I took this. I was almost three weeks behind at this point. Anyway, that afternoon I got a message from Mella (from Brussels) who was back in Paris and desirous of a drink. Who am I, especially after a couple jackleg Irish coffees, to deny a friend a libation?
We went to a bar near Montmartre and ordered what must have been two of the worst glasses of wine I've ever had. Especially since they were 6 euro a pop. Thankfully I came equipped for just such a situation, and brandishing my cheapo wine bottle opener I bought way back in Scotland I proffered that we acquire bottles from the nearest bodega and proceed to the Sacre Coeur high atop Montmarte and drink with Paris at our feet.
It was a brilliant move and with the light fog that had settled in, Paris gave off a steady luminous glow like swarm of fireflies emerging from fading dusk light. Unfortunately for you dear reader I didn't take any pictures of the view of the city that night. I kept that one for myself. Plus, I need to give you some reason to actually visit these places and see for yourself right? Mella and I found an unoccupied (or temporarily unoccupied which we then claimed) bench and settled in to down our wine.
The conversation was light and the mood jovial. It wasn't long before we were nearly finished with our wine; the cool misty evening was beginning to penetrate to the marrow and it was high time to find some facilities or an unoccupied corner for relief. We made our way back down the hill, taking turns as lookouts, until finally we arrived at a seven-way intersection. I'd never seen a seven way intersection before but that wasn't even the most remarkable part.
Someone was urban camping! But THAT wasn't even the most remarkable part. As we stood on the median finishing our wine and contemplating our next move, three Parisian youths came barreling down the hill in various states of attachment to an out of control office chair. After the inevitable crash, they collected the chair, trudged a ways back up the hill and repeated the process. It was incredible. It went on for 15 minutes or so until I suppose someone called the gendarme and the boys beat a hasty retreat.
I couldn't believe it- the same thing we once did in high school with desk chairs, wheel chair, shopping carts, anything with a surface and wheels we used to race around in at breakneck speeds. Here I was at a random intersection halfway around the world and the same thing was happening right before my very eyes. I would be a liar if I said I wasn't tempted to join in.
With the show over and in need of wine, we ducked into the nearest shop for a refill and I began marching us in the direction of what I believe to be the cemetery. Generally I have a pretty keen sense of direction, however, as another pro tip for all fellow wandering enthusiasts, the outer arrondissements of Paris are not the place to be parading around late at night drinking wine from plastic bathroom cups on a hunch. Well, certainly not if you're trying to get anywhere. If you were like us and you're content to just go, then it's a hell of a gas.
The remainder of the night was spent roaming the street in a state of jubilant confusion until we finally hailed a cab and met up with one of Mella's friends who was so kind as to offer to buy me a Guiness. In Paris, I know right? With a long day of writing on the horizon I bid my adieu and made my way back to the hostel. I was a bit disoriented from all the adventure but the lights of the red windmill were, as always, my guide.
The next day was more or less the same except that I brought my baguette, wine and cheese program back into full force. Apparently it's a crime to sell a baguette for more than one euro and a nice round of cheese will cost you about 3. Add in a bottle of Bordeaux for another 3 and you're looking at a full day's sustenance and enjoyment for around 7 euros. I ate half of my baguette and cheese for lunch during my writing and saved the remainder for my mission that night: taking the Eiffel Tower by storm.
I decided to walk from Montmartre to the tower to get my day's exercise. It proved exhilarating weaving my way through the streets of Paris at night. It took me about an hour and 20 minutes to make it all the way there. Along the way I crossed over the Champs Élysées where I took that picture of the ferris wheel and the stolen obelisk in the middle of the gigantor-roundabout.
I had heard tale of the Eiffel Tower at night, illuminating the Parisian skyline like a beacon, but I must admit I wasn't quite ready for it when I actually saw it. It is vastly superior lit up than in it's daytime form- even if you happen to be as lucky as me and scale it looking every bit the part of a vagrant. And I chose my words purposefully here as it's also quite literally a beacon in the night sky.
I sat on a bench looking out at the tower all lit up and I ate my baguette and cheese and drank my bottle of Bordeaux as I waited. What was I waiting for? The truly best thing about seeing the tower at night is not it's luminous form. The good folks in Paris decided to do you one better: every hour on the hour and lasting for five minutes there is a seizure-inducing light spectacular.
If you happened to have the sound on when you watched that clip you might have noticed me getting off a stifled laugh midway through. Truthfully I was a bit overwhelmed in the moment. Seeing the tower like that at night in Paris, it was something I had always wanted to do and here I was actually doing it. But it wasn't just that moment, the entire gravity of the past 7+ months on the road and all that I had set out to do and had actually accomplished- it all kind of hit me at once. It was the first time I took a breath and thought, "wow, I actually did it."
After the light show ended I was left standing there staring up at the tower and a new feeling struck me. I realized I was alone. I looked around and there was no one nearby. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally alone. It occurred to me that there was absolutely no one with whom to share my feelings of elation at the spectacle I had just beheld, or at my feeling of great accomplishment. And I realized Paris is a great city, a truly great city; it's full of marvels and wonders both obvious and subtle. But if there is no one there to share those perfect moments with you... all of the city's charm and magic dissipates and drifts away as though it were dandelion fluff caught in an unexpected breeze.
I made my way somewhat somberly back to the hostel on foot, contemplating my new-found realizations and beginning the slow mental processing of everything that's happened in my months on the road. I was so preoccupied in my thoughts that it took a sudden shock to jolt me back to my senses. What was that shock? Out of the corner of my eye I spotted this:
A Chipotle. In Paris. With all the other ruminations swirling around in my head, this was almost too much to bear. First I couldn't believe what I was actually seeing. I walked past it four times. I even went in, looked at the menu, and watched people eating their food (much to their anxiety and consternation I'm sure). I couldn't decide whether to embrace that feeling of comfort when something you love close to home manifests itself in a foreign place, or whether to feel appalled that such a place would defile my beloved idea of Paris. I didn't sleep much that night.
The next, and final, day of my return to Paris I decided to get up to speed on my notes in a very familiar place which I had never visited, namely the Café des 2 Moulins, or 2 Windmills Cafe. If you've seen the movie Amélie, which I have about 10 times, you'll no doubt recognize it as the cafe in which the young protagonist works. It's a real cafe and as it turns out was only a few hundred feet from my hostel. I would have loved to get more pictures but after I spent several hours writing there I felt a bit odd snapping more than just this one.
The main differences from its appearance in the movie are that: (1) there is no tobacco shop; (2) the glass partition behind a booth in the middle of the restaurant that she writes the menu on does not exist; and (3) the door leading to the bathroom in the film actually leads to the kitchen. I'm sure there are more but those are the ones that jumped out at me.
The next day it was time to take the big Eurostar trip up to London. Since my train wasn't until around 3, I had time to indulge in a last baguette and knock presumably the final remaining item off my Paris to-do list: eat a freakin eclair. Let me just note that I don't even like eclairs but for you dear readers, down to the boulangerie I went. How was it? Well... eclair-y?
After that I made my way up to the Gare du Nord to catch the infamous Eurostar. Interestingly enough, and no one had told me this (or I had forgotten), to board the Eurostar you have to go through a customs process the same as if you were landing in an international airport- complete with passport stamps and security and declarations and all the other bells and whistles.
I suppose because I had been traveling with ease on my rail pass for so long it didn't even occur to me that the rules would be different when going out of the EU and into the UK. Luckily I was bored at the hostel and left plenty early so I had no time getting through the check-in process. I found it quite humorous that unlike the last time I entered the UK and proclaimed that I would be staying "around a month" and was subsequently interrogated, this time when I replied that my stay duration was 2 days I was met with a curt "thank you, have a nice trip."
So that's about all for my return to Paris. Short and sweet. Or bittersweet at least. Not too much to write about when you spend your whole time writing. Anyway, umm... here's a photo of the Eurostar train (which was probably one of the least comfortable trains I rode on in western Europe) at the Gare du Nord. In case you're interested.
I had heard tale of the Eiffel Tower at night, illuminating the Parisian skyline like a beacon, but I must admit I wasn't quite ready for it when I actually saw it. It is vastly superior lit up than in it's daytime form- even if you happen to be as lucky as me and scale it looking every bit the part of a vagrant. And I chose my words purposefully here as it's also quite literally a beacon in the night sky.
I sat on a bench looking out at the tower all lit up and I ate my baguette and cheese and drank my bottle of Bordeaux as I waited. What was I waiting for? The truly best thing about seeing the tower at night is not it's luminous form. The good folks in Paris decided to do you one better: every hour on the hour and lasting for five minutes there is a seizure-inducing light spectacular.
If you happened to have the sound on when you watched that clip you might have noticed me getting off a stifled laugh midway through. Truthfully I was a bit overwhelmed in the moment. Seeing the tower like that at night in Paris, it was something I had always wanted to do and here I was actually doing it. But it wasn't just that moment, the entire gravity of the past 7+ months on the road and all that I had set out to do and had actually accomplished- it all kind of hit me at once. It was the first time I took a breath and thought, "wow, I actually did it."
After the light show ended I was left standing there staring up at the tower and a new feeling struck me. I realized I was alone. I looked around and there was no one nearby. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally alone. It occurred to me that there was absolutely no one with whom to share my feelings of elation at the spectacle I had just beheld, or at my feeling of great accomplishment. And I realized Paris is a great city, a truly great city; it's full of marvels and wonders both obvious and subtle. But if there is no one there to share those perfect moments with you... all of the city's charm and magic dissipates and drifts away as though it were dandelion fluff caught in an unexpected breeze.
I made my way somewhat somberly back to the hostel on foot, contemplating my new-found realizations and beginning the slow mental processing of everything that's happened in my months on the road. I was so preoccupied in my thoughts that it took a sudden shock to jolt me back to my senses. What was that shock? Out of the corner of my eye I spotted this:
A Chipotle. In Paris. With all the other ruminations swirling around in my head, this was almost too much to bear. First I couldn't believe what I was actually seeing. I walked past it four times. I even went in, looked at the menu, and watched people eating their food (much to their anxiety and consternation I'm sure). I couldn't decide whether to embrace that feeling of comfort when something you love close to home manifests itself in a foreign place, or whether to feel appalled that such a place would defile my beloved idea of Paris. I didn't sleep much that night.
The next, and final, day of my return to Paris I decided to get up to speed on my notes in a very familiar place which I had never visited, namely the Café des 2 Moulins, or 2 Windmills Cafe. If you've seen the movie Amélie, which I have about 10 times, you'll no doubt recognize it as the cafe in which the young protagonist works. It's a real cafe and as it turns out was only a few hundred feet from my hostel. I would have loved to get more pictures but after I spent several hours writing there I felt a bit odd snapping more than just this one.
The main differences from its appearance in the movie are that: (1) there is no tobacco shop; (2) the glass partition behind a booth in the middle of the restaurant that she writes the menu on does not exist; and (3) the door leading to the bathroom in the film actually leads to the kitchen. I'm sure there are more but those are the ones that jumped out at me.
The next day it was time to take the big Eurostar trip up to London. Since my train wasn't until around 3, I had time to indulge in a last baguette and knock presumably the final remaining item off my Paris to-do list: eat a freakin eclair. Let me just note that I don't even like eclairs but for you dear readers, down to the boulangerie I went. How was it? Well... eclair-y?
After that I made my way up to the Gare du Nord to catch the infamous Eurostar. Interestingly enough, and no one had told me this (or I had forgotten), to board the Eurostar you have to go through a customs process the same as if you were landing in an international airport- complete with passport stamps and security and declarations and all the other bells and whistles.
I suppose because I had been traveling with ease on my rail pass for so long it didn't even occur to me that the rules would be different when going out of the EU and into the UK. Luckily I was bored at the hostel and left plenty early so I had no time getting through the check-in process. I found it quite humorous that unlike the last time I entered the UK and proclaimed that I would be staying "around a month" and was subsequently interrogated, this time when I replied that my stay duration was 2 days I was met with a curt "thank you, have a nice trip."
So that's about all for my return to Paris. Short and sweet. Or bittersweet at least. Not too much to write about when you spend your whole time writing. Anyway, umm... here's a photo of the Eurostar train (which was probably one of the least comfortable trains I rode on in western Europe) at the Gare du Nord. In case you're interested.
No comments:
Post a Comment