Mailly-Champagne to Paris

We had breakfast with three Spaniards and an Ecuadorian who currently work in Belgium as consultants on all things EU, so they had interesting work stories to tell. The breakfast part of 'bed and breakfast' was a bit bare, consisting of only baguettes and jam, served with coffee of tea. Not quite an ironman's breakfast.

We drove the sort distance to Reims (pronounced "hor-ence") to drop the car off. I had made it. Five days driving cack-handed and not an incident! The station was beside the rental car office, so it was a simple matter of taking our bags twenty metres to the station. The train got us to Paris in 45 minutes and a taxi made the last leg much easier, putting us Charles de Gaulle airport seven hours before our flight.

Oh well, at least we wouldn't miss it!

We had thought of doing some final things in Paris during the day but in the end, catching the plane home seemed like the best choice.

We fly out of Paris at 21:50 local time. I won't begin to identify how important this last few months has been for us. That will come but despite all that, we are looking forward to home. You get sick of living from suit cases and climbing stairs (often with suitcases) and you miss those things which are distinctly home. I can't wait to hug my children and tell my Dad I love him.

Most particularly, I can't wait for that first Sam Kelly mocha on Wednesday afternoon. In two months, nothing has come close.

Day 18 - Paris, Sort Of

Had nice chats with the kids and Dad this morning.

Hurt my back moving Sue's bag. Some of her stuff will be posted back home at the end of the week to meet tour and airline requirements. The back twinges were probably caused by the hefting necessary on and off the train yesterday. Sue can't move anything because of her own injuries. Exercises etc have helped.

The split bag goes off to the boot maker tomorrow morning - early - and then we are off to get our four day Paris pass from the Hard Rock Cafe. From there its the Louvre and the associated gardens for most of the day. The following four days will be like a travelogue as we closely examine the glorious sites which Sue has spent a lifetime longing for.

We continue to be amazed by the cost of food and alcohol in France. Even in the dearest places - Monte Carlo for instance - both of these items have been cheaper than comparable prices in Australia.

It was a dull day made duller by the news that Neil Armstrong had died. His achievements are clear, being at the sharpest of sharp points in the delivery of scientific achievement. What it took to be the first man the walk on the moon placed him a the top end of the greatest adventurers of all time but the class of the man is indicated by his refusal to occupy the limelight since. He went quietly about the rest of his life, becoming a university professor and only rarely being drawn into comment about the space program and even less about Apollo XI. He always claimed he was just one man in a chain of men, any of which could have taken that step. Of course, he always neglected to enter into discussions about his brilliant landing on XI when the computer failed and he had to land manually.

That's the macro picture.

For this Australian lad and his younger brother, his work had much bigger ramifications. My brother became a scientist and like me, has had a life-long fascination with the space program.

There was a deeper ramification for me. Armstrong and Aldrin became my greatest heroes, at a time when I needed to believe in something beyond my own life ... to have imagination that the fear I was gripped with would pass. By laying hero worship in Armstrong it helped me establish hope.

Life is strange. We don't always have the chance to choose our circumstances. Survivors cling to whatever rescue rope that dangles in front of them. Armstrong was one of those for me.

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 3 Paris - A Shocker

Sue at lunch

Yep - a Barry Crocker. After having such a tiring but sensational start, the contrast with parts of today couldn't be more marked.

We slept in, finally catching up on those zombie hours spent flying and wandered down for a leisurely breakfast of touch, croissants, bacon, scrambled eggs, chipolettas, pastries, cereals, yoghurt, fresh fruit ... well that what we had but we didn't want to make pigs of ourselves.

The balance of the morning and the afternoon was to be a bateau ride down the Seine, at least as far as the Eiffel Tower. It wasn't because we couldn't access money from several ATM's in the Bercy district. Frustrated, we returned to the hotel to gather our wits, postulated another theory and ventured out again ... only for the same result.

Conventional wisdom meant ringing the bank back in Australia on their 24/7 number but we still hadn't been able to charge our mobiles with credit because we didn't have enough cash and now, couldn't trust our card. Our regroup caused us to throw caution to the wind and spend what we had on the recharge cards at a tobacconist shop but naturally, it was shut! We wandered, trying to think a solution, returned to the tobacconist when she was open ... but she couldn't speak a word of English! Eventually, with two berserk Australians making hand signals, the shop keeper sought out two students who translated for us on their way to the barricades. At least our phones were charged.

We wandered into Village Bercy and sat for lunch at Chez Nous Nicholas, which was offering entrée, plat and vin rouge for 16 Euro. We figured we could pay on the card because although it couldn't cut the electronic mustard in an ATM, it was dynamite working as a credit device. The food was delicious - tender chunks of steak in a red wine sauce being the highlight - but having confidently presented my card I then realised I hadn't signed it! By this stage Sue was two wines into the lunch and got an irretrievable fit of the giigles. The waiter ignored the signature and bid us farewell.

We returned again to the hotel where I was told to wait for a technician to come to the room to fix our switchboard phone so I could make international calls. I couldn't wait and struck on the idea of Skyping the bank ... and finally an idea struck gold! It worked like a charm and the password problems were resolved.

All of this took a toll on both of us but if it had to happen, it was best it was a on a free day when we could cope.

TODAY'S PHOTOS

The evening was spent in the company of our tour buddies for the next eleven days. They are mostly Americans but a few distinctly Australian voices could be heard and a lady with very troubling past who has done more had yards than almost anyone.

Tired ... must go to bed. Touring  Paris tomorrow.

Day 2 - Arriving in Paris

It was a mammoth day which started in Tamworth and ended in Paris about 27 hours later but I managed to take that bright eyed little girl from Roberts Creek all the way to her dreams.

If there were two things which marked that passage of time, they would be Sue's constant wonder - reinventing itself at every new experience - and my unexpected calm. To Kym, a person no one outside the family knows, my thanks for you confidence and sooth saying. Not one moment of anxiety.

Our flights in the monstrously large A-380 were both pleasant and surprising, given that each of the two legs held 20% more than the Capitol Theatre does for a full performance. The meals were higher quality airline food than I would have expected but I was surprised how many people at the chicken. Don't they know that if you eat the chicken you always die on planes? I didn't want to be turned into a dribbling, farting unconscious fool like Robert Stack so I chose the fish. Sydney to Dubai was long ... really long with nothing to look at as the entire flight is through darkness. Movies and TV shows help but sleep is what you need and we couldn't afford to let Sue drift of. I kept her walking and stretching and she survived with nothing more than sore shoulders but then, when you are carrying the weight of expectation she is, that's not surprising. Her planning and pre-reading meant than the special stocking and exercises stopped any swelling in our legs and feet. Sun glinted off the starboard wing as we were on approach to land.

Dubai

Dubai airport is beautifully designed. Sometimes lots of money can be well spent and there's not a hint of garishness. We had the worst cup of hot water, chocolate syrup we have ever had. They had passed it through coffee grounds from three weeks earlier and then topped the last two inches with pressure canned whipped cream ... but the staff were pleasant. Sue wanted an apple but they told me the stack of apples on the counter were "for display" and if I wanted an apple I would have to by the pre-made fruit salad. We did: it had lovely melons, pineapple, pomegranate seeds ... lots of fruit and really delicious ... but no apple. Another place had seafood on the menu, with large lobster swimming in the taking checking out their new homes. Whist waiting to board, we changed undies and freshened up, which, on reflection, might have been better done in the toilets.

The largest eye openers - as it were - was in the toilets. In the gents, apart from the standard urinals, the stalls offered the choice of a porcelain squat hole (with supporting rails) or an oversized sit down with the bowl half full of water. Both were meant to function that way. Must be hard for folks from these parts when they come to Australia? I was greeted by the toilet attendant, who although speaking no english, was one of the most pleasant people I have ever met, all be it briefly. He turned on the taps for me, pulled out the paper towels and placed them on my hands and muttered his only words, "Australia wonderful" - forgot I had my T-shirt with the list of Australia greetings shaped into the map of Oz!

Our second leg took us up the Gulf of Oman and straight over countries who have been subject to wars as a norm. Briefly over Kuwait, then Iraq and Turkey before we reached the Black Sea. They were odd hours spent travelling up the Tigris River, passing just to the north of Baghdad with Iran a constant neighbour to our right. We had finished our late breakfast, which was sumptuous even in economy, whilst 38 000 feet below a history of warring which goes back before recorded history lay across the landscape. Trapped by geography, culture and that ancient history of practised self destruction, mums and dads and their children with big brown eyes which never smile - other people's children as Eric Bogle calls them - wouldn't even notice as we sped paste at 900km an hour.

As we crossed the Black Sea toward Romania, a three year old began singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", as sweetly as any child could serenade their mother. Another, of similar age and a few rows away, joined in for the encore. The first was in Arabic, the second French.

On board GPS technology and cameras located on the tail (forward looking) and the nose showed us punters in economy what the captain was doing. The landing at Charles deGaule airport revealed a runway which looked unfinished and more dirt than asphalt. Customs were quick but bored and Ahmed, our driver, soon had us whisked away to our hotel ... right beside the Seine!

After orientation, bag opening and showers, I trotted down stairs to buy a few beers, attracting smiles and polite laughs because I was in bare feet.

The Pont de Tolbiac

We went out into the early evening, with no idea of where we were until we discovered the Seine across the Quai de Bercy which is a major road running beside the river. Over a crossing and there we were, standing on the Pont de Tolbiac looking at a river we have heard of in song, watched in movies and read about in books. It was "a moment". Another came twenty minutes later when we walked along the Port de la Gare, that section of the river front between two bridges. Restaurants on old boats were filling with Friday night Parisians, small cafes and bar served locals who sat on folding deck chairs or the ground, talking and laughing their day. No drinking restrictions here, as people lounged and talked ... and not a tourist to be seen. We stopped for fajitas and red wine and a seat at the water's edge as music started on the far side of the cafe. We were immersed in animated conversations, not understanding a word but drinking it in like a dying man does eternity.

Pont de Bercy

Should you think Paris escapes what we see at our own Circular Quay, forget it. Make do bedding under under the arches of the Pont de Bercy signified the homeless are abandoned in even the most romantic city in the world.

We crossed the Pont de Bercy bank to the right bank, passing Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy, an indoor arena which hosts sports and popular entertainment. In the next few months it will host the world climbing championships, Radiohead and Justin Beiber. We followed the Quai de Bercy, venturing into the edges of Parc de Bercy - a large suburban green space which has community gardens and performance spaces, as well as walking and running pathways. We turned left before the hotel, into the Rue Francois Truffaut - film buffs will note the name - and into the Bercy Village, a collection of small cafes, restaurants, grog shops, specialty clothing ... all fronting a cobblestone pedestrian street with dining en plein air. It was colourful and vibrant and everyone's dream of a Paris evening.

TODAY'S PHOTOS

Back at the hotel, we collapsed in spasms of cultural ecstasy and the effect of a 24 hour clock whose spring had been unsprung.

What a day!