Do you remember I told you about the respect French drivers have for pedestrians? One ought not jump to conclusions based on country experience. Paris is an entirely different kettle of poisson.
Apart from the treatment of people on crosswalks, country vis-à-vis city, there is consistency in the driving habits. Tailgating appears compulsory. Horn blasts were common. My failure to sit on the bumper of the car in front apparently meant another car could sneak in between us, causing our lane to drop back a little (one car space!). Merde!
The car we hired ran on diesel. In country France diesel pumps were evident at every fuel station. Naturally, we were required to return the car with a full tank so we drove around Paris to find a convenient fuel station. We located one within reasonable proximity to the car hire office.
An attendant bounced up to the bowser and I asked if he sold diesel as it wasn’t self-evident.
“Dis is le diesel”, he said, patting the bowser.
“But it says ‘Gasoil’.”
“Don’t tell me my jurb,” the attendant barked, now banging the bowser. “I know what is le diesel.” He raised his voice, “You don’t want then go!” simultaneously waving me away. He then muttered something about putting the car where it is anatomically impossible.
I alighted from the car and took a closer look at the bowser and there, in the tiniest of letters below the bold word ‘GASOIL’ was the word ‘diesel’. The smallest possible font. After I apologised the attendant filled the tank whilst muttering and reminding me that he knows his ‘jurb’.
The return address for the car was at the central railway station. Ken – I call my GPS ‘Ken’ for two reasons, he is a man of few words and the voice I downloaded comes from a bloke named ‘Ken’ – but I digress, Ken took us to the railway station without a problem but from the street view there was no evidence of a car hire facility.
I drove around the block while Diane entered the railway station to find the hire desk. She was told to take the vehicle to a nearby multi-storey car park, buy a ticket, leave it in the vehicle and place the key in a safe drop box. Simple. We drove around several blocks and eventually found the car park, proceeded to the correct level and found the appropriate section.
After removing the luggage and dropping the key into the box I realised I had locked my bag with wallet, passports and airline tickets in the car. Un peu bête! (a bit silly), merde! (sh-one-t)!
As Diane had registered the car it was necessary for her to hightail it back to the railway station to have the car hire attendant return with the safe code. I found a coffee bar nearby. The attendant was in the process of closing the doors for the weekend when Diane arrived. One minute later and we would have been stuck. I am confident a few comments were exchanged between the two women at my expense. Yes, I know what you are thinking dear reader, deservedly so!
Country domestic cats eat grasshoppers and as a consequence are very skinny, so I am told. Clearly genuine Parisienne women eat grasshoppers. I am not talking about the Parisienne women who have adopted France as their country – most of them seem to be adequately fed – but the younger local women have very lucky legs. Lucky they don’t snap off! The dance women at Moulin Rouge in particular are on a grasshopper diet. The Moulin Rouge is well worth a visit.
We have stayed at a very good apartment just five minutes walk from Tour Eiffel. A fantastic location. Our apartment was on the second floor. Unfortunately the lift would only accommodate one unattended case at a time. No room for moi. One had to place the case in the lift and run up the nearby stairs to beat the elevator lest it returned downstairs.
The ultra-small elevator reminded me of the tightness of the loo in our Epernay hotel. Remember I wrote about that in my last letter? Our toilet in the Paris apartment was more spacious than the Champagne Region version but it too was clearly built for little people. If I stood in front of the bowl I had to bend my legs to a half squat position and tilt my head forward 90 degrees because the ceiling dropped away from the cistern at an angle. It was easier to sit.
A couple of times I have mixed my languages. That is the problem with being multilingual. Now then, don’t laugh. We enjoyed French cuisine at the Eiffel Bistrot and I told the waiter the food was ‘buona’ (Italian for ‘good’). He gave me a strange look. Realising my mistake and not wanting him to think us Aussies are stupid I quickly added “je suis Anglais” (I am English). Diane chimed in, “No you’re not” at which point I had to fess up.
The waiter had a sense of humour, speaking fluently to me in Italian as we left. I didn’t understand a word he said and I think he knew it. I have a strong suspicion he made a disparaging remark as I noticed the other staff members had a good chuckle.
We had a packed itinerary in Paris. Lunch at the Eiffel Tower; a degustation dinner with matching wine at Le Diane on the corner of the Champs Élysées and Avenue de George V (I needed to extend the house mortgage); a guided tour of the Louvre; a night at the Moulin Rouge; an afternoon at Montmartre where we watched artists at work; a visit to Notre Dame Cathedral where Napoleon First was crowned Emperor (I searched in vain for the hunchback); a bus tour (twice) of the city highlights; a Seine River cruise; a visit to Gallerie Lafayette; a stroll along the banks of the Seine; and we mastered the Metro rail system.
I love Paris. One of my favourite cities.
Ciao …. er, Au revoir!
Gordon d’Venables has been, inter alia, a teacher, soldier, farmhand, lawyer and businessman. As a lawyer he travelled extensively for international clients. His letters from various times and places around the globe (PNG, England, Ireland, France, USA, Saudi Arabia, Serbia, Iran and others) refer to some of his experiences. Gordon’s recently published book, The Medusa Image, can be obtained from Pegasus at www.pegasuspublishers.com, ISBN: 9781784658939 www.amazon.com.au or https://www.amazon.com/Medusa-Image-Gordon-DVenables/dp/1784658936
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letters.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from USA, pre-Soviet Union Breakup.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Belgrade.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Iran.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from India.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Saudi Arabia.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Vietnam.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Germany.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from London.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Second Letter From London.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Second Letter From Iran.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Moscow.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Second Letter from Moscow.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from St Petersburg.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Ireland.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Hua Hin, Thailand.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from France.
