Day 17 - Back to Paris

There's a few things you have to accept about France.

Firstly, every person who serves you in a hotel or a restaurant isn't representative of what the general public thinks about visitors to France. Two weeks into our trip and exposed only to hotel staff and those in tourist areas, we have been spoiled. That's not to say that the average French person is as arrogant or as difficult as has been painted but just not quite as accommodating. Of course, like Australia, taxi drivers are never representative of the rest of the population either.

We left Nice genuinely disappointed to be leaving and that's a major claim when your next destination is Paris! I had ordered a taxi for our transfer to the station but we were met by a Mercedes limousine, which seemed odd. When a hotel orders a "taxi" for you, they apparently choose a privateer. This threw us a tad, especially when I questioned his credentials and he accused me of calling him a criminal. "I can be," he said, "anything you need ... driver, criminal, mafia, bad boy, good boy ... what do you need today?" Okay, so we were a little freaked out by this but he talked us into the car. Mind you, when he locked the doors after we took off, the freaking out accelerated. We were both relieved to see the train station come into view and paid him what ever he asked.

The stations in France have well organised boards letting you know what is happening and we were further helped by terrific information staff who seemed to be looking for lost souls such as us. It was when we left the lounge for the train that the fun started. Out of sight of the departure lounge, the rest of the train system is based on steps. Like two Daleks hoping to take over the universe, our confrontation with steps at every turn was exasperating. For me, I was exhausted by 50kg of weight to be lugged up or down and for Sue, it was the exhaustion that came from apologising that she couldn't help.

The odd thing about the TGV stations at least, is the use of the first bars of the X-Files theme as a precursor to every announcement. It was a little unsettling.

Tags at Marseilles

We eventually found our seats, me with a return of some back twinges that have been a problem in the past. Our empty car gradually filled with stops at Antibes, Cannes and Toulon and later, Avignon. One thing in common with each of the train stations and their associated approaches and those of Australia, are the application of tags to buildings and fences adjacent to the train lines. For once, I have to say the artwork in Australia is superior. Marseilles was littered with graffiti done by two year olds .

After Avignon, our part of the train was full for the mad rush to Paris which takes little over two and a half hours to complete 580kms ... that's an average speed of 230km/hr but at times the train sped near silently along on its rubber wheels at 320km/hr.

Travelling is taking it's toll

I had listened to "Chimes of Freedom", the compilation of Bob Dylan songs released by various artists last year to support Amnesty but as the afternoon wore on, I became seriously homesick and just aching for something of home. I have 12000 songs on my iPod, many of which are Aussie artists but nothing can content me in such serious moments so far from home as the eight songs of Chris' "The Fool You Are" CD. Accuse me all you like of promoting my own because in Aussie parlance, I don't give a rat's arse. He's good at what he does and this afternoon he was a slice if Australian real that I needed.

It was a good trip in other respects, as I drafted three poems which had been rattling around in my head for a week or so.

If we thought we had a taxi story to share in getting to the station in Nice, things got even more interesting after leaving the train in Paris. Almost everyone I have spoken with about France - Paris in particular - has a taxi driver story.

Ariving in Paris at Gare Lyon - gare meaning railway station and Lyon being a city 320kms form Paris ... yeah, I know ... its a French thing - anyone requiring a taxi must line up. I've done the line up thing at Sydney Airport so this was no biggy. A few zig zag barriers and plenty of taxis so there was no expectation it would take forever. It wouldn't have if others hadn't bypassed the line up: its amazing how often people with crying babies and blind guys get away with a lot of liberties but such is life. We were eventually rostered to an old guy who sat in the drivers seat and waved us off to the next taxi until the official guy in the red shirt drafting us like sheep up a race, insisted. The driver popped the boot and gradually made his way to the back of the taxi, trying to lift Sue's bag and grabbing at his back. I lifted both ports in.

Not quite Hemmingway

The address we gave him may as well have been on Mars. He apparently was offended by my attempts at French and more offended that I asked him if he could accommodate us in English or any language that taxi drivers use to communicate with the 27 million non-French speaking tourists who visit Paris each year. Its a rough guess, but some must come through his taxi and he's leaving himself open to being offended by picking up from the railway station. Eventually, one of the main arterial roads of his city became known to him and he took us there. I assisted by identifying the hotel as he drove past, apparently in direction stupor. Stopping on the opposite side of the road, he wouldn't let us leave paying just the fare. He added 2 euro for "baggage handling" even though I had sub-contracted the first leg of the journey! I paid and then stood at the back and watched him unload. I wouldn't have wanted him to experience guilt later at earning money under false pretenses. It was grand performance. He huffed and puffed, grabbed at his back and shook his head but I just stood back and enjoyed how I'd spent my money. The best he got from me was in a broad Aussie accent ... I wasn't wasting any French on the little bastard.

This first night at Citadines Republique is in a studio apartment and then we have seven nights in a larger apartment downstairs. The bed is a pull down from the wall - the first the bush bride and I have ever used. On the fourth floor, we face an old apartment building across the road and every window tells a story. I feel like James Stewart in Rear Window. Grace Kelly reclines, reading as I write.

TODAY'S PHOTOS

Being a Paris suburb, Parmentier, we fetched up food for tonight's meal from the supermarket and the patisserie. The grog here is dirt cheap. A nice red from Bordeaux cost $5.40 AUD and a standard bottle of Chivas Regal $31AUD. We don't convert anymore but I do so for the benefit of readers.

Ah Paris ...

Day 7 - Avignon

We woke to another delicious day, warming the morning air which surrounded our breakfast and the prospect of another thirty plus day, soaked in sunshine and with clear blue skies as the backdrop to make even the most amateur photos shine.

The dining area for the hotel is half inside, half out and as it was last night, dining outside was a popular option. Once fruits and cereals and yoghurts had been ingested, you waited while the chef personally prepared an omelette to your specifications.

I either digress or digest.

We were back to the walled city of Avignon in the morning, built beside the Rhone when a skinny kid from the mountains arrived with delusions of grandeur and hurled a stone across the river to prove he was not only strong of arm, but cunning enough to attempt the feat at the narrowest point of the Rhone. They made him a saint because unlike Flip Wilson, God made him do it.

The construction of the draw bridge started in 1177 and took about eight years to complete and was a convenient way for collecting taxes from those wanting passage across the river. It is the subject of the most famous French children’s nursery rhymes.

“Under the bridge at Avignon, all the ladies are dancing, dancing” but the reality is that it refers to the prostitutes and gamblers of the area, who found a place to party under the bridge at Avignon.

Palais-des-Papes (The Palace of the Popes) was constructed over time during the 14^th century when the papacy moved from Rome to Avignon. It is an enormous castle which provided a safe home for a succession of Popes and a lasting reminder of the wealth and power the popes had at that time. We walked through great dining halls, cathedrals, enormous rooms where papal audiences were given, studies, bedrooms and other hutches in the ascending rabbit warren. Eventually, up on the parapets, we were dazzled by the view and then surprised to find a small café. The French are very civilised!

With its city walls, castle at its centre and narrow cobbled streets, Avignon is like a medieval movie set, except that its 1000 years of history are all real.

Sue and I ate in a lovely little café by the wall, where we once again managed to bridge the language gap. Where are these arrogant French we have been warned of?

Bought together as a group again, we moved across the valley to the site of the summer residence of Pope John XXII, high on a hill overlooking a small village. His chateau is in ruins now, with little more than one main wall standing but the view was staggering: to the west were the French Alps, tops covered in snow despite the summer temperatures and to the east was the beautiful Rhone River valley.

At the bottom of the hill, our group received a lesson in wine tasting at Caves - St Charles Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Appreciating wine is a very technical art and I soon learned that understanding the virtues of a good red is more involved than trying to put a good head on your claret. Three different applications of nose and as many of taste finally give you sufficient evidence to determine how good a wine is … apparently. Sculling s no longer a recognised method.

The evening was spent at the home of Benoit Maurin-Ducolibri, a Spanish and French speaking artist and restaurateur who only invites specific groups to his house. Sue and others donned their costumes and swam in the early evening heat, before we all sat about in his courtyard for a meal he personally cooked. We were amazed at his artwork, soon to be exhibited in Australia and we entertained each other with lively conversation until forced to return to our hotel.

TODAY'S PHOTOS

In the late evening, rain fell for the first time in the tour – fat drops slapping on the round tiles and rushing to form rivers which fell in so many water falls from the variety of roofs to the white pebbled courtyard below.

Paris to Nimes

The Pont de Gard

After four days of jetlag which induced head spins and lethargy for most of my waking moments, it was a pleasure to wake this morning with a clearer head. Even my sense of humour had returned!

After three days in Paris, we were heading south with our Insight Tour.

Leaving the hotel at 8:30, we made the short journey to Gare de Lyon and a longish wait with limited seating among a crowd where everyone looked like a pick pocket to my inexperienced traveler's eyes. Sue found a chair and I perched on the pavement beside her as we talked to a couple from London about their travels. After an hour or so, we were advised of the platform for our high speed train south and managed to walk almost the entire length of the train before discovering ours was the first carriage we passed.

The trip to Avignon is a fast one – 580kms in two hours and forty minutes – so taking pictures from the windows is fraught with potential failure, especially when a TVG passes you in the opposite direction and you fall back into your seat swearing.

Our only stop was at our destination. Avignon, is a two minute stop for the TVG, which speeds on to Marseilles once those two minutes have elapsed. As a result, we were all on our feet for the final minutes, readying ourselves for the leap from the train and the following commando roll. As we crossed the Rhone on the railway bridge, Sue and I took no chances and were ready to spring past the elderly in front of us.

Aboard a coach again, it didn’t take long to reach the Pont de Gard, a remnant of a Roman aqueduct which stretched for 50kms from the source of the water at Uzes to Marseilles. Construction began on the three tiered bridge over the Gardon River in 20 BC and yet, more than two thousand years later, it still stands as impressively as the day the ribbon was cut. The large blocks and glorious arches make for an appealing sight and the area is extremely popular among Parisians during August, which is their summer holiday break, akin to our January.

It was a hot 35C and a rude shock after the air conditioned pampering of the train and coach but the walk was short and rewarding. Roman architecture never ceases to amaze.

On to Nimes, our base of operations for the next three nights, despite our desire for showers and cool drink, we left the coach short of the destination and went for a half hour orientation tour. If the cathedral near the centre of town had impressed us from the coach, it was nothing in comparison to what was still to come.

Standing on a wide footpath, we gathered for orientation and a word of advice for those of us who habitually get lost or left behind as to how we might find the hotel. There are some in our group who might be justified in pointing that particular bone at us.

Maison Carree

As the coach pulled away, there stood a Roman colosseum! Better preserved than its larger brother in Rome, Arenes-Nimes still hosts bull fights and music concerts. Large stone blocks and arches … so you know its Roman. Standing almost beside it is the Maison Carree, a temple built by Marcus Agrippa in 16BC and dedicated to the memory of his two sons Lucius and Gaius, who both died young. Corinthian columns and more huge blocks of stone. The combination of the two huge buildings in the centre of Nimes and the Pont de Gard on the way from Avignon, were an unexpected influence we had been ignorant of. Standing beside a 2000 year old building when you come from a country which has only been a nation for little more than 100 years is staggering.

TODAY'S PHOTOS

We all dined together at the hotel. The three couples at our table – American, Kiwi and Aussies – exercised détente. Perhaps more red wine and stories of how you met and fell in love should be compulsory at diplomatic talks. It served us well.