A Night in Heathrow

OK, I'm cheap. Or frugal. Or rational, or something like that. Often it comes out to my detriment. Since the Sunday-Monday night stay was to be on my dime, I figured I would hang out in Heathrow for the evening. The Eurostar was to come in from Paris at 22:35 or something like that, and I needed to be at Heathrow around 06:00 for my 08:00 flight. Why spend 85 GBP ($130) for a rushed 4-hour hotel stay, by the time I got in and out and all that? Right. Now, I'm used to US Airports, most of the major hubs have stuff going on (restaurants, bars, etc) until about 2 or 3 for those late-arrivers. Some of our airports in the States (Chicago, Houston, Atlanta) run all night! And Heathrow is THE hub for most of Europe entry. Unbeknownst to me, Heathrow is in a 'residential' area, as far as its approaches and departures. Nothing in or out from 22:30 til 06:00. So it shuts down.

So I took the last tube to Heathrow (this should have been a clue!) at about 23:15. Heathrow Terminal 3, that is. My flight (Continental) was to depart from Terminal 4. Well, I arrived at Terminal 1/2/3 stop (Terminal 2, actually), and quickly found that all the doors were shut for the intraHeathrow connections, and Terminal 2 was dark. Oh, crap! I secured a cart for my bags and thought fast... The bus station would have people in it! I was fresh from hobo-rich France, remember. So I walked across the street to the bus depot. The law of buggies and carts is indeed universal. I had mongoloid wheels on mine that would cause the thing to gyrate horrendously unless I constantly corrected it. Not quite as many joules burned as carrying everything, but close. Thank goodness it was about 10 degrees out (50 or so F), so the walk to the bus depot was bearable and any prospects of sitting on a bench were survivable. Rats! Nothing doing, no transportation to Terminal 4, where I could have hunkered down and huddled up til morning, close to my departure point. I saw signs for the walkway to Terminal 3. I dimly recollected something (cafe?) in Terminal 3 being 24-hour.

Sure enough, when I went 'round the bend in the road, there was a pile of young football fanatics (more in another post on football in Europe) kicking a soccerball around in front of the terminal. Despite looking like it was completely being remodeled, Terminal 3 had working entrances and lifts. I poked around the pre-security area and chatted with a nice Indian lady at the cafe who informed me that, yes, this cafe was indeed 24-hour, and she used it as a resting spot every three months or so during her mandatory overnight at Heathrow due to her connections to India and the US. Now, despite all of my ranting and raving against chain restaurants and the like, they have a major advantage: they can afford to operate outlets at a loss in order to increase customer perception. Some bright light at the Costa cafe franchise decided that it would be worth his or her time to have an employee or two staff the cafe in Heathrow 24/7, on the odd chance that a grateful (cheapskate) business traveler (like me) would want some companionship for those wee hours. Thank you Costa!

So Alena (phoenetic) and I chatted for about a half hour, then I went outside to stretch my legs, and the footballers were winding down, they were whining about being thirsty or something like that. I 'oi'd one of them over to inform him that the cafe was open and don't you know they had cold water and sports drinks? Grateful gratefuller young men you have never seen. They went up to the cafe for a good hour, and gave Ravi, the staffer, more business at 2 am in 15 minutes than he'd probably gotten cumulative up to that point for the last 5 hours.

I toyed with the idea of using the internet, then decided against it. Why bother? It was 2, I was almost halfway through this thing... yawn! I found an empty seat, a surprising feat - there must have been 60 people sprawled across the floors and seats of the second floor of Terminal 3, trying to sleep or chatting or glowering. I listened through my entire music collection and 2 German lessons. I think I may have dozed off, because it was suddenly 05:30 and the lights were coming on! Staff was arriving! Security was open for business! I went back to Costa to get 'one for the road' from Ravi, but unfortunately I missed the changing of the shift at 5. Alena was also vanished, off to Boston. Ah well, to borrow from Fight Club, 'single-serving' friends. I drank the coffee and waited a little bit more, to watch the wakening of Terminal 3. Taking my cart, and cursing the new bruises on my shins from it, I coasted and cantered to the Heathrow express for Terminal 4. I entered the terminal, and the ticket and security queue processes well known to all of us 21st century people.

Ah, progress.

[GJF: Written 22 January 2009]

Paris - Arrivé, Marché, Fatigué

Ugh... my train (Eurostar) was to leave London at 06:45 on Friday 19 December. Luckily, a bunch of late revelers at the King's X Holiday Inn were ready willing and able to help me out. They rolled in at 3:30 into the room next to mine (742) and started singing (with HORRIBLE English accents) 'New York, New York'. What a party. The two girls were tremendously awful, and the one fella (who had a bit of a brogue) was LOUD. They kicked him out around 4:00, and I heard him clambering down the hall and banging through his door. The girls screeched at each other for another 10 minutes or so, and then ostensibly passed out (or strangled each other, it doesn't matter which, for their part in this story ends here). I soaked myself in 40 (104 F) degree water, brushed my hair, weakly scrubbed my teeth, and took off on foot for St. Pancras, hitting the streets right at the projected 05:00. Now, maps lie. Badly. I thought it was a 1 km walk to St. Pancras from the hotel. I thought I had measured it out the previous day. Well, I measured from the Kings X - Thameslink portal. St. Pancras was about another 3/4 km overground. Luckily, it had warmed up quite a bit, and I arrived around 05:35 or so, luggage en-lugg.

There were two trains departing right around the same time, a Belgium at 05:45, and a France at 06:00 (or the other way 'round). I allowed myself to be herded into line, and allowed cutsies for the people on the earlier trains. What the hell, why not? I was done with London for the time being. I could afford to be magnanimous. Once I was about 2/3 of the way to the booth, however, I realized that everyone else had their boarding passes and I did not. Sh*t! Sh*tsh*t! A quick glance around showed me that the e-booking machines were close to the queue lobby, just on the other side from the actual entrance. (Yeah, why be *efficient*?). I left the line and procured my boarding passes. No more cutsies, it was getting close to time. I passed the rapid line wait chatting with a likely Alsacian girl, with a lovely knit red winter beret (I want to remember Giselle, but that may be mismemory). She was flushed and rosy, blonde, petite, and pleasant. We spoke French and English and had a few laughs at the families' and kids' travails at the gate. I followed her through the turnstile and security, we split at passport control (English and then French, EU people have an easier time), and off she went to Brussels lobby area, and off I went to the Paris lobby area.

As of 12/19/2008, there is free (yes, something GRATIS!) wifi in St. Pancras in the international lobby. Awesome! I thought about calling people with my Skype number, but it was somewhere between 21:15 and 01:15 in the US, depending on time zone. I settled for messenger. Wahoo! A few contacts on line! "Hey, guess where I am? Oh, ... you guessed. Yeah, I didn't realize I had hammered EVERYONE I knew... Sorry, I'll let you get to sleep. Yeah, good night." Rats! I studied the usual suspects in the 'premium' cafe/bar, swilling pints and liquor. A little too early for me, thanks. The coffee smelled good, so I went to the Costa (eyeroll) and had a coffee and bought a coke-zero for later. Generally, later comes pretty quickly.

I had polished off the soda well before boarding. Boarding the Eurostar is easy, quick, and actually kind of fun. There's a high-speed angled escalator that WHOOSHed us up to the platform. I had chosen a window seat toward the rear (or front) of coach 4, because I had already figured out how these things work: the luggage racks are in the ends of the coach, so if you have stuff and want to be near it, that's where to sit! And window seats are the way to do it. I also got lucky choosing a seat in coaches 1-6. NB to potential Eurostarers: There are two boarding escalators, a "Coaches 1 to 6" and a "Coaches 7 to 100,212". You get the point. I took my seat, after loading my luggage into the racks. A pleasant, highly perfumed, and somewhat odoriforous (under the perfume - sorry, but it's true) French girl, probably 25 or so, sat next to me. After greeting me and determining my threat level, making it plain that she had a boyfriend, and telling me just what she thought about the US, she started messaging and jabbering on her phone in French/English and something that sounded like Swahili! Awesome! This was the first French person I had the opportunity to observe and listen to, ever (at least beyond a 'hi' in a bar or on the phone or in a formulaic environment like a classroom). Relaxed, funny, animated, passionate - well, on the phone with her friends - anyway, 'pointed' with me. Cool!

Once the train zoomed through the Chunnel, we proceeded to whiz on through the French countryside. The embankments on either side of the tracks prevented a lot of the view, and it was almost winter, so what I did see looked like... well... countryside. Oh well, we were moving so fast, everything was blurry, and that was definitely different. I went to the diner car and got a coffee and some biscuits, sitting, slurping, and munching my way along at 185 mph. In no time (actually about 2 and a half hrs from London), we arrived in Paris, at Gare du Nord. The North Station was vaguely reminiscent of Paddington in London. It had that whole Victorian airplane hangar look to it. I exited the train with my stuff, didn't have to worry about border control (taken care of in London, I have the "Londres" stamp on my passport to prove it!), and walked off into Paris. People munching on baguettes, yelling in French (yes, and English and German), milling about, smacking their children, and browsing through cafe and souvenir stands. I left the station and walked across a convenient road, remembering to look LEFT, then RIGHT in this city. I embanked on the other side of the street in front of a Brasserie (Brasserie du Terminus Nord, actually). I heard some guy asking in Frenglish about Gare de l'Est of a passerby. Naturally, I eavesdropped. That was my destination too! I winced as he said "Gaire duh luh-est" to the diminutive beatnik Frenchman. The small dude smiled and told him "Yais, dee Gare de l'Est ees jus dowun pass dee Hotel Albair, see? Eef yu goh dairr yu see dee signs." I stepped up and introduced myself to the American and the Frenchman. As the big guy and I walked south toward L'Hotel Albert, I informed him that he was kind of lucky that there is no "West Station" in Paris ('l'Ouest' means west, 'l'Est' means east).

I split from my walk buddy at the East Station, and saw my hotel across the street - Holiday Inn Gare de l'Est. Dashing across the street, (LEFT, THEN RIGHT) I noticed that there were a couple of Brasserie/Bar/Restaurants here. Pleasant surprises! The desk clerk in the hotel was sunny and smiley, he greeted me in French, then switched immediately to a bright and happy English (like a light laughing accent, very rolly and bouncy). I confirmed my 2:00 reservation and, since it was 11:00, I asked if there were storage facilities for my bags (Pardon, monsieur, mais est-ce qu'il y a du stockage pour mes valises?) until I returned later to check in. He looked at me, blinked twice, and said, "But Monsieur, of course you may check in now! Maintenant! If I have the room, I give it, and I have!" And he smiled when he spoke. Wow! I thanked the man (I wish I had gotten his name, that was the only day I saw him) and checked in, went up to the room, got the computer unpacked, bags set down, Internet paid, potty, change. Whew!

I had decided that my first stop would be Sacre-Coeur in the nearby Montmarte district. Montmarte is a hill to the North of Paris which gives a commanding view of the city. It also has good shopping and food, by all accounts. Just in from England, I winced at the idea of 'shopping', as I warmed at the idea of 'food', but since shopping seems such a touristy thing to do, and since I am a tourist, I resigned myself to it. I whipped out (ok, opened on the computer) my trusty Metro map. I was NOT going to make the same mistake I did in London (pt 1) and walk all over the place today. The plan was to Metro as much as possible, and walk down the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. I was going to circle through La Place de la Concorde, over the Le Palais Royal and the Louvre, then Metro it back to the hotel, rest, and continue with the evening plans. The Metro map showed that the trains running from Gare de l'Est did not go directly to Montmarte - I would have to change at Gare du Nord, a short 15 minute walk away. And the one I had just completed in reverse. The unwritten rule in Paris, which I'd read, is that if something is 1 Metro stop away, you walk. 2 stops is a maybe-walk. Similar to the London rule, I suppose, or the New York one. All right, I was walking back to the North Station. I'd try to take a slightly different route, down the Boulevard de Magenta. While I was at it, I looked up BNP Paribas ATMs close to Gare de l'Est. I knew that Paribas cooperated with my bank and I would not pay the ridiculous surcharges ($5 + 3%) using their ATM. Armed with these locations, I checked the Chucks, descenseur'd the elevator, and exited the hotel while au-revoir'ing my Chevalieresque clerk.

Now, while I was walking, I felt a rumbly in my tumbly, to quote a real author and another like me, Thing of Very Little Brain. I had resolved NOT to eat any meals that came from a chain restaurant. I had told myself I would allow myself Starbucks coffee (not food), primarily because I can't kick the habit of having what-is-to-Europeans-a gargantuan cup of coffee. Hey! It was like 2-5 degrees outside (34-41 F), and a cup of coffee keeps the hands warm too! But, for this, my first meal in Paris, I was going to find a boulangerie/cafe and have un cafe et une baguette avec du beurre et du jambon (or seulement beurre) 'alfresco'. However, first things first, to the ATM! I found the Paribas machine right where the map had indicated, on a corner directly on my route to Gare du Nord. I selected 'English' as my language - I didn't want to miss anything for this one! Very straightforward, same PIN as at home, and ploop! Out came 100 euros. The bills (5's, 10's and 20's) are all different sizes and have a weird plastic stripe woven into the paper. I didn't want to be *that* touristy, so I resolved to look at the money a little later, if I had any left. So... great! Food time. I looked for candidate places on my way. I finally came across the street from Gare du Nord (yes, at Brasserie Terminus Nord again), having not found the 'perfect' place. Wait a minute! "Boulangerie Artisan"! I bet their bread is TREMENDOUS! So I walked past... They had sandwiches in the window, jambon, fromage, beurre, boeuf,... on this marvelous crusty pitted, crunchy-looking bread, and the inside looked chewy but fluffy and light, like it would turn to yeasty foamy goodness in your mouth after just the right amount of resistance to your teeth. Holy crap! I wanted a baguette!

I pushed the door open and was confronted with the scents of yeast and cornmeal and stone ovens and roasting flour. I also could detect undertones of olives and peppers. I was confronted with basket after basket of fluted loaves of breads. Demis, baguettes, rounds, flats, fats, braided, twisted, rolls, ... It was impossible! OK, stick to the plan. Pick a baguette. I saw a tall basket over by the register of whole-grain-looking baguettes (2.50 euro). They had tomatoes embedded, or olive, or raisin (currant maybe), and on and on! I thought Panera at home had too many choices! This was crazy! 8 different type of baguette, and that was just one row, and one type of loaf! I swallowed back the saliva which had filled my mouth and was threatening to spill over. I walked up to the counter and vaguely pointed at the basket and asked the boulangeuse for 's'il vous plait, cette baguette ca'. She grabbed a knobbly loaf from the pile, one with knobs of pruny olives and pimienta seeds visible. 'Oui! Bien sur, monsieur!' She made to ring it up! I stopped her with a chopping motion of my hands... Oh no! 'Attendez, wait, please, s'il vous plait!' She waited expectantly. I went on - I would like ham and butter and cheese on it! A baguette-sandwich, please! She sadly put the loaf down and motioned me to the far window, the one I'd passed. 'Seulement celles sont ...' (something I didn't make out, but I knew what she meant). Only the ones premade were for sale as sandwiches? Was there some kind of crazy French sandwich union out there, one guy cutting, another buttering, a third hamming, and a fourth cheesing? Was there a mayonnaise cartel too? Oi veh! I said 'Alors, merci, madame, au revoir.' I left rather quickly, a little embarrassed at my unexpected faux-pas. I had expected to be misunderstood or misheard or to mishear others, but getting bread at a boulangerie and having a sandwich?

I told myself this had to be a function of the 'Artisan'ness of the shop. I had seen far too many Parisians already walking around with baguette sandwiches that anyone could *possibly* have premade them. So I walked around the corner. I saw a patisserie across the way and decided to go in to check out the sweets. Maybe I could get a danish or something for lunch instead! I mean, I try to watch what I eat, but - this was Paris! I slid in the door, gasped, and walked-almost-ran out. Yeah, 12 euros for a napoleon? Maybe it was the whole tray, but I don't think so. 3 euros apiece for some marzipan candies? I'll stick with the bakeries. I like bread better than pastry as a rule, anyway. I crossed back, walking in front of alfresco seating for the brasseries serving the train station - they were starting to fill up - and turned another corner. A sky-blue sign seemed to rise up out of the sidewalk, adverising 'Petit-Dejeuner Croissant Expresso 1.99' Voila! Another boulangerie!

A pleasant three-ding bell greeted me when I pushed the blue door open. A rather scruffy-looking guy in a baker's apron sat slouched in a small table to my left, idly twirling a pack of Galoises in his left hand, and tapping an intermittent stacatto on the 50s-diner chrome tabletop lining with his right. The boulangerie had 4 of these old-style tables, and two sky-blue painted aluminum tube chairs flanked each of the seatings. The floor was a sort of terrazzo and tile mishmash, crusted between the grout with years of foot traffic's crud. The bakery case was to my right, on either side of the register setup. Honest-looking white breads filled the case, the odd sweet poking its head out here or there. Whatever system or organization there was, I couldn't tell. Rolls shared space with what looked like empty cream-puff shells, and demis were lined up with epis and twist breads, all in a jumble. The wall behind the case held long baguettes in a few wicker baskets, the strands heavily discolored with resin (probably from decades of cigarette smoke) standing in stark contrast to the robins-egg wall surface. Several small framed pictures hung here and there - I noticed a picture of Maurice, and what looked like Bill Clinton, and an Eiffel Tower shot. All amateurish but artsy. "Boh-joo[ch]r" he said, after giving me a good period of time to look around. I beamed and replied in my mediocre french, hello, I would like a baguette with butter and a coffee, the breakfast special. The ostensible baker rose up and shuffled behind the counter, all while maintaining his slouch and continuing to play with his cigarette pack. He managed a smile and asked me if I were French, knowing the answer, of course. I played along and hemmed and hawed, finally admitting to my americanness. After he'd finished the coffee and sandwich assembly (did he put the cigarettes down to do it?), I got another broader grin in return, a good comment on Obama, a bad comment on Bush. After wholeheartedly agreeing, bolting my espresso shot, commiserating about the smoking rules recently adopted in France, and getting a hot tip on how much to expect to pay for smokes, I was released back to the street with a wave, a Galois, and an 'au-revoir'. I was pleased with my procurement. The baguette was crunchy and almost-creamy inside and slightly warm, and the butter, which I'd expected to be cheesy, was more rich than tangy. Almost like a white-chocolate without the sweet. Yum.

10 feet later, my food was gone. What can I say?

Back to la Gare. I followed the signs to the Metro hub. I stepped up to the automated dispenser, selected 'French', slid some money in the slot when it lit up, and the machine happily gurgled for a few seconds, then spit out a 24-hour Metro pass (5.60 euros or so - get CASH for these, they don't take magnetic cards!), along with my change. I passed through the turnstiles and descended to the Metro platform areas, following the signs to the proper (purple "4, toward Cligancourt") line. Busy, busy. The white-tile walls were vaguely reminiscent of the Underground I had just left in London, except that the undercurrent of soap had been replaced with urine and human musk. A note on the Metro, and the Underground for that matter, and the subway in New York, and most bus systems,... you need 3 key pieces of information for each Metro segment, the line number, the direction, and the last train/bus time. That's it - that's your shorthand navigation system. So when you see that octopus of a map or the gargantuan time table, don't sweat it. Find your stop, figure out which lines and which directions (indicated by the last stop of the line), and go. Oh, and remember the last-train-times for the way home. Ha. You don't really have to memorize the reverse directions, though. For instance, if I were going to take the 4 line back to Gare du Nord, I'd just have to remember NOT "Cligancourt" direction. Easy, you get the hang of it after about 2 multistop trips. So I hopped off at Barbes-Rochecouart, and transferred to the 2 line, in the "Dauphine" direction. I do realize that both of these were one-stops, and this violates the rule I mentioned above - but, that's a deceptively LONG run (a kilometer on the surface), and I had already walked my first hop from East to North. And, nyah, I'm a tourist.

Anvers sits perched at the heart of the Montmarte district. I should have expected classy when I came out, but, I am easily surprised. I ascended to the street level, and delighted that the entryway was made up in Gothic and Victorian styles, almost parklike, formal but still humorous and relaxed. Across the main drag (to the North), I saw a couple of waffle/crepe stands, a cafe, and the beginning of a narrow street which seemed to be lined with tourist shops and climbed a hill. That's my direction! The crowd and I jaywalked the street ("Lights? Pedestrian walk signals? We don't need those!") and I made the quick right, then left to my target alley. Sure enough, shops spilled out into the street, proferring silks, berets, waffles, and other gear. Rising above me to the north, I saw the basilica of Sacre-Coeur. It was majestic from here, peeping through the buildings, but I could also tell that this street would open to a plaza. I dodged my way through the stands and up the hill. Sure enough, one more jaywalk and I was in the park at the foot of the hill. A charmingly tarnished antique carousel decorated the small park, but it was made a distraction by the pristine white jewel of a chapel hovering over it, with its skirt of green grasses and gleaming paths. I was somewhat disoriented, with it being full daylight, and clear, and the with the barrage of new sights, sounds, and scents, so I barely noticed when some African guy came up to me and started pattering in French, heavily accented. I carried along a passable conversation, something about being a tourist and a free friendship thing, blah, blah. Like I said, I allowed myself to get distracted. He GRABBED MY WRIST and twined a floss bracelet on it, yeah, the kind my kids made thousands of in two hours in Y camp. I hung my head and passed over a euro. He won, after all. Dammit, got to keep my guard up. I think he was sympathetic, but ... it's a living. The worst part of that 'scam' was that it took my mind off the track for Sacre-Coeur. Crap! I climbed up the hill to the chapel and gazed down at the neighborhood. Awesome, fantastique! I noticed the gang of 'students' working the crowd below too. Growing a little philosophical, I started shrugging off the experience, and resolved to remember "Ne me touchez pas!" Or "Je vais appeler les gendarmes!" who were indeed en force just a few yards further down the road, vigilant, but not intrusive on the tourists. The chapel entry was closed, so I figured I would get a chance later during the weekend to go to the top, or not, depending on how things worked out. For now, I wanted to get to my next stop, the Champs-Elysees and Arc. I strolled back down the walkway, watching the Parisians who were watching me walk while they ate their lunches on the hillside. What a relaxing, brilliant way to dine, even in December! Crisp (10 C/ 49 F) clear day, unbeatable views... Sigh. Back down tourist alley, picked up a couple of things for the kids, through the Anvers arch to the bowels of the Anvers station, and... on the '2' toward Dauphine again. Next stop: Place Charles de Gaulle.

The Place Charles de Gaule (Etoile) is the busiest Metro station I experienced in Paris. All tourist and business traffic seems to come through it. This may be in part because it is very compact. It sits under 2 of the corners of the Place itself. I randomly chose an exit tunnel, and when I ascended the stairs on the northeast side, there was no question of being lost. Something extraordinarily recognizable was staring me in the face: the Arc de Triomphe. I don't know why seeing that hit me so hard, like a quick rabbit-punch to the diaphragm. I leaned against the pedestrian railing/blockade on the street corner for support. Could it be the 10 years of French in school, where the stupid thing was featured in a photo for every 'culture shot' section? Could it be my overactive romantic tendencies and expectations of Paris itself? Could it be the sense of accomplishment at finally being in a truly 'foreign' place? With only my meager wits and experiences to draw on, completely alone? I don't know. Stonehenge was awesome, but it didn't bring me to my knees. Big Ben and Westminster were as familiar, but... not as inspiring. The Arc is set back in the center of the Plaza. There is *nothing* to compete with it when you look from any angle. There is enough room to march an army (ha!) through it. Regardless, I circled it, walked through (sort of - fences and all) and around it, marveled at its grandeur and scope, and all the while the butterflies in my stomach were singing 'Paris!'. Somehow, despite my daze, I stopped my circuit at the proper corner, where the Avenue des Champs-Elysees meets the Place (the corner I had emerged from). I walked backwards for about a half-block down the Avenue, still lost in wonder, surely drawing muttered comments from the Parisians trying to get somewhere and the other tourists trying to get a 'good view'. A perfect day, a perfect sight. Incroyable. I was there.

I eventually turned to face forward and focused on the task at hand, navigating the Champs-Elysees. The most exciting part of the walk was listening to the French being tossed around between passers-by. The stores themselves? Gap, Benetton, McDonalds (wow, classy, though), the usual suspects. Tourists filed along the street, pausing at the gesture of their guide, obediently snapping pictures where she pointed, down the street, up the street, across the street. I craned my neck to follow their cameras. I didn't see anything! Maybe they were getting a history lesson about the commercial history of Paris, or how the French army marches through here every year. Or maybe how the Germans tore up the road with their tanks in the 40s and demolished some of the old edifices to set up barracks. It all looked like a quaint mall to me, with plain department stores, interesting brasseries, and lots and lots of shoppers. But the liquid-yet-staccatto French tones pervaded. It was mesmerizing, to feel a New Yorky rhythm with a French sway. Nice walk, invigorating. I considered stopping into one of the landmark brasseries or even the McDo to get something, just to say I had, on the Champs-Elysees, but I wasn't hungry, nor thirsty, and I was ready ready to move. Lots to see this afternoon, and I had a date with a museum, The Museum, tonight.

Towards the end of the strip of buildings, straddling the Avenue, west of the Place de la Concorde, and east of Place de Roosevelt (yes, Frankie D.), a little park sits, les Jardins des Champs-Elysees. The gardens house the American Embassy, Petit and Grand-Palais museums, and a statue of Clemenceau. All of which are pretty and noteworthy, but not really 'highlights' of Paris, except perhaps for history buffs. As I left the huge mega-commercial district and entered this small green space, I was treated to an International Christmas Fair of sorts. Small kiosks had been set up, lining the north and south sides of the Avenue. The flags of all nations flew from the kiosks, but I couldn't correlate the flags with the goods or foods provided. A small shack with a Scot flag was selling dolls and paris scarves. Another with the Austrian flag draped was selling crepes. I shrugged. Hey, here was some festive spirit, at least! I selected the nutella crepe and a small bag of pralined pecans (!) to munch on while I investigated the rest of this small tourist strip. The north and south sides seemed pretty similar, popcorn, waffles, crepes, souvenir goods, crafted goods, silks, scarves. Mostly mediocre stuff, but a very charming setup, with the Park in the background, and next to the Place de la Concorde, with the everpresent Arc looming in the West. I had heard about nutella crepes, mainly from friends who had been to Europe and were gaga over it. I wasn't super-impressed. It was ok, a blob of semiwarm hazelnut chocolate inside a hot, thin, quadfolded pancake. Not overpriced (2 euro), and edible, european enough to galvanize my stride further eastward, toward the next icon. So, after walking the north side, back the south side, and eastward again on the North, smiling and nodding at the various tourists milling around, and checking and rechecking my camera and money and wallet and passport - a good practice in congested touristy areas, I had read - I came to the end of the fair.

The Avenue des Champs-Elysees terminates at an obelisk (from Luxor temple in Egypt) in the center of an enormous roundabout called the Place de la Concorde. Concorde is ringed with phenomenal landmarks and references, but its central monument is fascinating in and of itself! It's got text about how it was moved from Egypt in 1836 to its current home in Concorde, and as well a set of Egyptian hieroglyphs (highlighted in goldish leaf) about its construction. Really well planned, the monument occupies the site of the guillotine which got Louis 16 and Marie during the Revolution. Definitely an attention-getter, and simple to understand and appreciate. This plaza had been the commercial and ministerial center of Paris (and therefore France) since at least the 1700s, and it showed. A relatively new (I'm guessing) addition to Concorde is a giant Ferris wheel situated on the East side, which should have given a really nice view of most of the city. Not quite as ludicrously huge as the London Eye, but big enough. The atmosphere of Concorde is pretty businesslike, wide thoroughfare, clean and neat, lots of traffic, serious government and trade buildings. But... what did I see peeking out to the southwest? The cap of the true icon of Paris, the Eiffel Tower. I had wanted to be patient and save the Tower for day 2, day 1 was the walk and the Louvre, but I couldn't help my excitement, even at this provocative partial unveiling. I did a circuit of the plaza and looked at the buildings and architecture, waved wistfully goodbye at the Arc at the opposite end of the Avenue, still dominant to the west, and was suitably impressed. I was ready to move on, to the Jardin des Tulieres.

Even in the winter, the Jardin had its share of people milling about the statutary, and promenading back and forth up the charming walks and paths. People eating, feeding each other cheese, fruit, and bread, laughing, in some cases playing guitars, holding hands, whispering, chatting. Not too many kids, but the ones that were there seemed happy but not manic, giggly but not hyperstimulated. After I crossed a bare brown lined pavilion (if there are flowers there in spring it will be breathtaking!), a lady in a headscarf approached me. She was carrying a 5x8 index card wrapped in plastic-wrap, with written [in English]: "Bosnian Refugee, Please HELP." I guess her gypsylike costume was supposed to look authentic. I put a sneer on and attempted to pass. She was undeterred and started talking to me in French, then English, then Italian, asking for money for food and help for her children. I'm sure my eyes flashed in sympathy, but I kept moving, around her, and up to the raised walkway alongside the south end of the Gardens. She remained in the Plaza, probably to harass the next single guy or young couple which came through. Along the street (Pompidou), across the Seine... I could view crowds of Parisians filing into the Metro tunnel or hurrying east and west between the various offices and ... Le Musee d'Orsay! Hee hee. Snuck up on me! This month, apparently, there were to be exhibits featuring Picasso and Manet! Cool! Well, if I had time this weekend, after my walking tours, and the Louvre of course,... maybe. As the Gardens came to an end, the buildings to the east became more pronounced, a small palace-like structure, and, after I went around it, expecting the Louvre, I was treated to another Arc! I had all but forgotten about Carousel plaza! The mini-Arc was cute and interesting and very accessible, unlike its enormous cousin which was surrounded by a 4-lane superhighway. Horses coursed from the crown, heading off toward the Louvre, which had suddenly risen up.

My plan, such as it was, in Paris, was to be completely fresh. I didn't look up photos for any of the buildings I wanted to see, nor print out a map, nor even (except Louvre) check out admission times or prices. I had 6 or 7 pushpins on a google map and figured I'd figure things out as I went along. Now, there were many many downsides to this approach. It was inefficient, left a lot of room to get lost, and engendered anxiety at all fronts and on all levels. However, there was a great positive aspect, a feeling of "WOW!" as each landmark presented itself. Like the Louvre. Completely unexpected, situated *behind* its glass pyramid, sprawled out all around a massive courtyard, it wasn't plain where the museum began and where it ended, which buildings were part of the vast collection, and which served other functions. I could not have picked a more dramatic approach. The thoroughfare that split the Arc from the Louvre was busy but not nightmarish, so I crossed east to the Louvre side and approached the pyramid. I became pleasantly bemused and disoriented as I turned around in the courtyard, and fixed the relative geography of the Louvre on my internal map of Paris. I knew I'd be returning in the evening, so I wanted to determine the entrances and potential queue-spots now so I wasn't fumbling and flitting in the dark. A sense of impending doom began to set in - if the museum were *this* enormous, how could I hope to even get a good sample of it in a mere three hours or so? I wasn't so much dejected (like at the Tower of London) by the prospect, but excited. I'd have to get a floor plan and prioritize. Maybe see which exhibits were in residence via the Internet from the hotel. After pre-orienting, and chatting with a couple of the artsy students on their benches about what a wonderful day it was and oh my gosh isn't it unseasonable weather and the museum is much bigger than I thought, I turned northward and walked under the welcome pedestrian arch along Rue Richelieu, toward the Royal Palace.

I didn't know what to expect here, either, but anything would have been more exciting. After a lovely pre-walk into the palace grounds through charming alleys and shops, with 1800's storefronts and plastered facades, the entire courtyard was suddenly walled off with plywood and "Mise en garde" signs, warning pedestrians that construction on the Palais Royal would continue through March of 2009. I wasn't sure if there was an entrance or not, I was guessing not, due to the complete absence of tourists, except a few shoppers in the lovely tea and textile venues along the west side of the grounds. The long northern jardin which my Paris online recollections indicated turned out to be a brown mess, with withered trees dotting cobbled path outlines. Ah well. It was groomed nicely, and would certainly be pretty in bloom and without construction plywood mucking it up. Maybe I'd return in the spring. Back down to Rivoli and the front of the Royal Palace, across from the massive Louvre entry chambers... it was about 2:45. I know! That one set of Metro hops saved me so much time! From here, I could take a Metro back to the hotel or see a few more landmarks before going back to refresh and prepare for the evening jaunt. The Eiffel Tower was calling me, you see. I had seen it at Concorde, and it had winked in and out of sight along the Seine during my journey to the Louvre. I resolutely reminded myself that I would do the 'proper' stuff before the tourist stuff. So, to Notre-Dame it was. I remembered that Ile de la Cite started a couple of bridges east of the Louvre, and it was not a far walk. Since the day was turning out so beautiful, I decided to get down to one of the Quais (Quai du Louvre as it turned out), find a likely bridge and cross over to Ile. From that point, it was 'go east' until I found Notre-Dame. Ile isn't that big, and based on what I had seen, there would certainly be signs to help me out.

So I marched and marveled along the Seine, at the old and the new, gloriously juxtaposed. The river washed along under the bridges, banks channeling it in its path. The parallel wash of pedestrians along the Quai wasn't quite so orderly. People were dodging across, fighting the current (most of us were traveling eastward), and stopping to take pictures of the waterfront. Shortly, the western point of Ile de la Cite appeared in front of me, and I turned onto the first bridge I saw connecting to it. Surprise, surprise, surprise! I had just crossed the threshold to Pont Neuf! I laughed out loud, startling a couple of pigeons and forcing some tourists to divert their path away from the Crazy Yank. "New" Bridge? Yeah - 1578. I disembarked from the bridge at Ile and made my left, noting the expected view of Sainte-Chapelle to the south, and orienting toward the grand Cathedral I knew was off to the east, at the heart of this island. Ile de la Cite has been populated since at least (J) Caesar's time by a tribe called the Parisii. When the Gauls and/or Romans conquered the area and founded Paris, they used that name. It's the oldest constantly-habitated area of the city. I know that I must be running out of superlatives at this point, but walking through Ile de la Cite's streets gave me little rushes at each corner. I saw the government buildings, Sainte-Chapelle's disappointingly unassuming front-side, the trendy gothic 'Cite' metro stop, wrapped in its cloak of vines and ivy. Suddenly, traffic was snarled up with tour buses. I guessed I had arrived. Notre-Dame sat off to my left, hulking in its plaza, flanked by its patinaed Charlemagne statue and formal, clean park. It was much smaller than I'd expected, but also much, much more ornate. The entries were layered in carving - no - sculpture, the gargoyles hissed and screamed down at me. Minimal Christmas decorations ringed the square, trying in vain to get attention from the delicate latticework of the upper stories and the deep-reliefed door recesses. I ducked into a cafe across from the cathedral for an americano and ducked back out to sit on the long wall in front, just to take it in for a while. After finishing my coffee, I walked into the rightmost entrance, the one for 'Easter', which was open for the day. How exciting! I felt like a character in a novel, like some sinister Cardinal was going to call me rumblingly from the gloomy depths. I could hear the Chucks scuffling on the floor, even over the sounds of the other tourists wandering around. Perfect acoustics. Medieval columns and draperies and darkness all combined in this cathedral to create the perfect atmosphere of Gothic moodiness. The ceilings arched up, fairly plainly, but impressively from the columns to make somber and perfect crosses overhead. Notre-Dame doesn't give the majestic aura of St. Paul's, but it's just as ponderous. It may not be as inspiring, but it is certainly more thematic and complete in its mood. Creepy. I loved it.

After making the circuit of the Cathedral inside, then outside again, I decided it was time to go see La Tour. It had teased me long enough. I meandered over to the Cite Metro station, got a little chill as I passed under the gaudily forbidding entry, and boarded 4 (Orleans) to Montparnasse, and then 6 (Charles de Gaulle) to Trocadero. I wanted to get to Trocadero because I had assumed that the cross-river view to the Tower would be the most panoramic and dramatic. The Metro transfers were easy, my daily pass green-lit me through the turnstile no-problem. I remembered that the light green (6) line went to Trocadero, but I had forgotten the switch-point from the purple (4) line, so I consulted the convenient schematic in the tunnel. I wasn't the only one. Apparently, Parisians still consult the schematic from time to time, I'm guessing when they are doing unusual transfers. Cite is pretty much a tourist stop though. Anyway, when I disembarked at Trocadero, I read a sign (in French and English) saying that the Trocadero 6 connection would be closed from January to March of 2009 for improvements. Well, at least they give good advance warning! It didn't really concern me, of course, but it was considerate. So at 4 or so, I got my first good view of La Tour Eiffel. Unobstructed by anything.

So I again found myself dumbstruck amongst the French. A girl stopped me and asked me for a cigarette and I dazedly handed her a pack and I told her to keep it. "Are you american?" "Oui..." "Oh, you are so lucky! And thank you so much!" I barely remember the exchange. I was captured, enthralled again. The sense of drama in this city is incredible. The landmarks push everything else to the background, the neighborhoods are drawn with some master-painter's brush for maximum heightening of effect. Eiffel was the grand architect of the Tower, sure, but the city planners who have constructed up and down the Seine, indeed, all over the city, surely take this into account. It's monumental, the impact of the visual approach. And Trocadero turned out to be a wise choice. All right! Grab some food, and sit and eat and absorb. I found a vendor in the Trocadero plaza, really a metro stop and a gap between a couple of museums on Avenue Woodrow Wilson. He sold me a Croque-Monsieur and a Coke-Zero for 7 euro, 50 centieme. The coke was 1.50. Oh boy! My first meal. Yeah. Wow. A grilled cheese sandwich with enough ham on it so you could almost taste it. It was warm and crispy and gooey, though. I munched, sipped, sat, and watched the people milling around, old folks holding hands, oblivious children tugging on their parents' cuffs, young hostelers listening to their guide. A great choreography and caricature of life, in this little moment in time, across from arguably the most recognizeable landmark in the world. The Tower had been built for the World's Fair to commemorate the French Revolution in the 1880s and was only meant to last 15 or 20 years, I think. But the French knew they had a good thing. It's been used for communications, science, study of structures and wind, political statements, advertising, and most recently, to commemorate the French term of the rotating presidency of the EU. (So the Hostel guide said when a backpacker asked why the stars were on it). Since 1950 or so, maintenance of the Eiffel Tower has been probably THE top priority in Paris City Government. It gets unquestioned allocation of funds, staff, police, and surveilance technology. They're pretty worried about terrorism on such a visible target, of course.

After a sufficient period of awe and contemplation, it was time to get back to the hotel and rest. It had already been a pretty long day, and I wanted to unload the camera and charge its batteries, check in with work email (still Friday), clean up, and maybe lie down for about a half hour or so. So.. 6 to Charles, 2 toward Nation, 4 toward Orleans, and disembark at Gare de l'Est. Voila! I reentered the hotel and began what was to become my 'normal' greeting in Paris: "Bonjour, hallo!" I figured this was respectful without being snooty or demanding. The desk clerk, a pretty black lady, greeted me primly but friendlily enough, and I went up to the room. Pictures downloaded, email checked, battery plugged, shower, relaaaaaax... My phone booped incessantly... it was 5:45! Time to get a-going, off to the Louvre. Camera assembly, Out, Down ("Au revoir! Goodbye!"), across the street, Metro de l'Est, 7 toward Villejeuf Louis Aragon. Disembarked at Louvre-Palais, right across the street from where I needed to be. I tell you, it was like Star Trek, almost. Whooshing along, and ending up where you needed to go. How amazed people must have been when these systems first started coming into operation. As I emerged from the depths, I realized (or internalized) that it had gotten dim, to a dark twilight, while I was resting in the hotel. I arrived at the Louvre courtyard right around 6:10, and made my way through to the great glass Pyramid, spectacularly dazzling, lit from underneath, the crisses and crosses on the glass creating playful patterns in the courtyard fountains' water. I walked along a fountain lip, delighting a French couple pushing a stroller who clapped their hands and cheered at me. I sketched a bow, then hopped from one shelf to the next, jumped back down, and arrived at the entrance.

All of us modern folks should be familiar with Louvre Security. It's the same nightmare that greets us every time we go to the airport - no bags, no liquids, guards, queues, the works. My arrival was perfect in its timing, the long line before 6 had dissipated and the wait was short. I passed over my jacket to the x-ray tech, along with my camera, and proceeded without event through the metal detector. At least I wasn't required to take off my shoes. I had anticipated this turn of events and left my pack in the hotel room. So, after passing through the checkpoint, I came to the top landing of the entry stairs, under the apex of the great glass pyramid. I made the gentle spiraled descent, taking in the main lobby, noting the information desk and ticket machines, the cafe and book store, and the three grand promenades to the Richelieu, Denon, and Sully wings. Each pavilion was highlighted by a modern minimalist glass plaque suspended from the ceiling, with the wing name etched in large roman type in white on the glass. Nonobtrusive, but obvious. After making my way across the main lobby, purchasing my ticket (cash, again) and finding an 'English' guide at the information desk, I sauntered to the cafe, got a quick coffee, and then wove through families and clans of museum-goers to find a good seat, where I might observe the crowd and have my coffee and study the guide to prioritize. 1500s Italian? Duh. Yeah! Greek sculpture? Again... duh. Egypt? Medieval Louvre? The French Crown Jewels? Oi veh! O! And there was a Picasso exhibit? Jeez! This museum is easily a day, maybe with a followup of two additional 3-hour sessions. It's not fair! :-) I just thanked whatever lucky stars I had that I was there. I would see Mona and Venus and some Picassos. It would be awesome.

And it was. The first stop, of course, was the Mona Lisa. But dodging through the Etruscan sculptures and pre-Roman works was daunting. First, the crowds were phenomenal on this side (Denon). So when I wanted to stop and look and learn and read, I felt jostled and pressured to move toward Mona, already! I fought it as best I could and studied at the devolution in sculpture the Louvre was trying to present between the Greeks, Romans, and Dark Ages (early Christian period). We really *were* waiting for a Renaissance. I would have loved a guide for this part. I could almost see the commonalities and influences from piece to piece (the names escape me, it was SO rich!), but I would have liked to hear the prevailing theories. I vowed: In the future, I will get a week in Paris, and dedicate a day and a half to this museum. And another day to Orsay. But for an orientation, my one dedicated evening of the weekend, this worked out well. Since I was already tired, this tasting-tour made my brain buzz and my heart sing sufficiently, and got me ready to see paintings. I find painted art mysterious. It seems so open to interpretation! I know when I like something, and when I find a work interesting (two very different categories) and when I think a painting is garbage. So, I will say, every single Italian painting in the Louvre after 1200 or so is interesting. I do not find dark-ages flat madonnae that inspiring. [GJF: I am learning, 2/2009]. So the crescendo of art built, and I was treated to more and more glorious representation of reality, perspectives and vistas opening, caricatures and exaggerations becoming more refined, until I was treated to Da Vinci's masterpiece. She was mobbed by people. I snapped a quick picture, then fought my way through the crowd to see. And I mean *fought*. I had to push and jostle just to get to the third row of this sardine-fest. Eventually situated, some of the muttered curses coming from my lips, I looked up and beheld. Brilliant, breathtaking, beautiful, ... but how much of that was anticipation? Being told that this was IT? I rolled that around in my head for a little bit, and came up with "Doesn't matter. I'm enjoying it." I put on my own small smile, my navigation through the Renaissance complete for now. The crowd easily parted to release me back to the wilderness of expression enshrined on the walls.

On my way back down out of Denon, I had two movie moments which made me grin and chuckle: First, of course, a running theme between Ihling and me all month, 'European Vacation'. It had mostly been the Big Ben scene while we were driving around, but now, duh, I felt like the Louvre scene. Second, surprisingly, but then not, Mel Brooks's 'History of the World, Part 1' where King Louis is suggesting 'getting in the mood' by viewing some naked paintings. Ha. Just at that point, my foot kicked a small piece of paper on the floor. I bent to retrieve it: Paris en Poche, a tiny credit-card size (when folded) map! With Metro and RER on one side, and buses and street map on the other! Wow! How lucky was that? There was noone stationary in my current gallery, and it would have been absolutely fruitless, not to mention creepy, to start asking anonymous strangers in broken French if they had lost something. So I did as it suggested. En-Poche it went. Venus had been relocated from Sully into Richelieu temporarily, so I traipsed through galleries of sculpture, their tracks and traces whirling in my brain, until I reached her new place. For a 2200 year old lady, she looked pretty good! I was again struck at how much had been lost after Rome fell. The later Renaissance works I had seen and this were separated by almost 1600 years! I circled the statue a few times and was amazed, of course, but I had buzzing through my head the consequence of the death of Empire. Venus has a few lessons to teach there. I continued via the 'secret' passage at the bottom of Richelieu through medieval-Louvre, a fascinating exhibit about the museum itself and the pains taken to preserve this house of riches. This led me to Egypt, where I saw Ramses's sarcophagus. I wish I could be more descriptive, but alas, time is finite. Suffice to say that between Mona and my arrival at the Picasso gallery (last stop for the evening) was about 2 hours and 15 minutes of reading, looking, examining, checking different angles and perspectives, meditating on the meaning and artists' intent, debating on the point of taking pictures, and just giddily smiling at the immersion. It's too vast for my meager talents, time constraints, and the space in this blog. $150 coffee table books don't even begin to capture the majesty I saw in some of these works, their relative placements, their orientations in the galleries, the chronology presented. Louvre is amazing. So, after over two hours of head-spinning delight, I made it to the temporary Picasso exhibit. It was a study in Picasso's women, and his successive attempts at Women of Algers. There were about 20 variations on the theme, showing how he added and then subtracted, abstracted and realized. It was hugely instructive on the technical aspects of the man. Certainly way more than splotching paint on canvas. What torture, to meditate over each shape, each angle, each curve, each color! Playing with abstraction, how, which parts, what? Do I understand this? Does this represent what I need it to? What am I trying to say with this shape? Incredible thought processes. And to have it come out so coherent and vivid and timeless! I had seen a few Picasso displays in my time, but each I had seen was a snapshot, amidst other snapshots and other artists. I had never seen the *same* theme over and over. It made me happy and reflective. It's tough, being an artist! Unfortunately, there were no pictures allowed in this gallery. I did manage to let the guard allow me to take a picture of the 'no pictures' sign and the 'Picasso' header. He smiled when I asked.

OK, after that assimilation, enough was enough. I was full. Too much, too fast. Bloated with new sensations, needing time to process, I headed out of the Louvre. This was an adventure in itself, as each of the side passages and galleries I passed beckoned my battered spirit to enter. But I remained firm. I had seen the top, and I wanted to hold that dear. On exiting, back up the escalator and out the pyramid, I was surprised to see blue sparklies off to the southwest. Something was happening! The Eiffel Tower was lit up! Oooooo! It suddenly cut off, and the night returned. All right... what's going on? I dragged my body toward the street, and (with the aid of my new map!) prepared to cross the Pont du Carrousel, just south of Louvre. Along the way, I was treated to dimly-lit streets... and, somewhere near Saint-Michel, what seemed to be an impromptu Christmas fair! While I was standing, gazing at the lights strung across the alleys, a girl came up to me and asked me for 'feu'. It took me a little too long to respond, apparently, because, as I was moving my eyes from her to my pocket to retrieve my lighter, she stomped her foot (petulantly, I may add), and said 'Fire?' rather obnoxiously. I grinned and put on my stupid-simple-tourist face, and handed it over. She returned it (without a thank-you), and stomped off. At some point, I also found an open supermarket. Thank goodness! I ducked in and bought some bread, cheese, and soda, after minimal confusion over the word 'centieme' (for cent). I thought the lady wanted another euro or something. Anyway, that done, and loaded up for my late supper-to-be at the Tower, I marched my way down Monttessuy and, again, beheld the great icon, more intimately this time.

Blue. Absolutely gorgeous, symmetric, shadowed, perfect. I fended off the souvenir 'salesmen' three or four times before spitting out a growl in French to 'go eff yourself!' (thanks again, European Vacation!). Then they all left me alone - they must have some kind of psychic link. I went around the plaza and under the tower, checking out the guards in their black riot gear with semiautomatic submachine guns (!). I decided against taking a picture of the military. I bet they get cranky about that. But they were present, and intimidating. i eventually came across a couple setting up a tripod in the great plaza, evidently waiting for something to happen, and through my nosiness (eavesdropping), I could pick out a few words of German. So, fresh from my German audiocourse, I naturally asked them how they were and what they were about. Of course, the problem here is, as usual, I can make myself understood, but I have no idea what they say in return! I got the jist, though, especially after apologizing and asking for English clarification. They smiled. The Tower was lighting up every hour for the same reason the stars on the north face were in place and the blue-light on in the evenings - the French hold on the EU presidency. It would be doing this for a few months or maybe the entire term, but the couple wasn't sure. They had been going to the EU seat and taking a picture of each country's 'memorial'. Kind of a neat little quest, I told them, and they beamed in return. I then asked them what time it was, and they said I had only about another 5 minutes to go! Cool! So, all told, it must have taken just under an hour for me to walk, eat, stroll, and marvel, and therefore, just as I was ready to leave, the Tower did her sparkly trick again. It capped the evening off perfectly. Time to go.

I debated taking the Metro from the Tower stop, and decided to walk back through that charming neighborhood near the University. So I went back off east, a slightly different route, and stopped and pre-reminisced on some of the sights. I happened across a pubby-looking wine bar, and went in. Why not? After being ignored for a few minutes, there were only about six people in the place, and the keeper was occupied down the line a ways, I decided this might be English-style service and I (loudly) said 'Pardon?' 'Hm?' No offense at all, so I ordered a vin ordinaire and was pleased to get a nice small glass for 2 euro. I bumped a 50-c tip too. The keeper nodded a Merci at me and I sat and considered the day and my remaining walk. Wine is good for reflection. Good for the growing soul, in moderation, of course. After leaving, quietly, with a wave, I strode past an unexpectedly magnificent peace monument near l'Ecole Militaire (ha!), and then back to the University district. I revisited the remainder of the Christmas decorations, still charmed, crossed the bridge, and made my way to the Palais-Louvre stop. The district had died down significantly since the museum closed, but the metro entry was still lit and easy to navigate. Direct line (7, away from Villejeuf) back to Gare de L'Est. Out, across the street, "Bon soir..." et "Bonne nuit!" To the room. In. I don't even recall if I checked email or did anything else. I do recall about 11:15 on my clock. I was out like a light, and I'm sure my mind worked like hell to catch up with the day, through the night. Tomorrow, Versailles and the Sun King.

Map: Google "Paris I"

Album: Facebook "Paris - Partie Premiere"

[GJF: Started 1/26/2009, completed 2/28 and 3/1/2009]

London II - The Tube, the Tower, and the Cathedral

Every so often one of those days comes along when I have to thank Whatever that there are other people in the world. A day when I am so scatterbrained that if not for the grace of others, I would collapse into a pile of trembling goo.

That Thursday, my last full day in England for the year, started innocently enough. Ihling had returned the car to Enterprise the previous evening, so we met up in the Holiday Inn lobby around 8:30, called the taxi company, and settled down for our normal breakfasts. Coffee, juice, cereal. The cabbie turned up, then hustled us and our bags into his Ford Escort, and we sped off into the morning Cheltenham rush. According to the timetable I had retained from my last London excursion, a few days prior, the eastbound trains came around the X:40 times. After a transfer at Swindon, and traveling through Stroud and Reading, the total travel time to Paddington should be between 2 hours and 2 and a quarter hours. So, arrival at that hub around 12 should give me time to go see the Tower, and would give Chris time to get to Heathrow for his extended travel home. I had pulled a Tube map and schedule (really unnecessary, just the routes and first/last times of the day for the Tube make the schedule) from the Internet, so I had a pretty good idea of the strands of the web which would take me to King's Cross hub (Kings X), the KingsX Holiday Inn being my stopover for the evening. KingsX and the hotel were in turn adjacent to the St. Pancras terminus for the Eurostar to Paris I had booked the next day. We arrived at the station, return tickets ready-to-go, bags beside us on the platform, waiting for the 9:41 to Swindon.

Was I sentimental about leaving Cheltenham? Not particularly. There wasn't a whole lot of pretty in this town to be gushy about. The people seemed for the most part silent and unfriendly. Most of the time, I felt like a ghost wandering around in the grand arcade of the High Street, watching the pale forms of other spirits trying not to touch each other. It's an emotionally distant place. Even with the holiday coming, and shopping season, and crowds, I never caught a hum of excitement or anticipation or joy while exploring up and down the streets. The most vibrant people I had met (other than Chris) turned out to be expats, another American Chris who tended bar at the Revolution chain outlet, our UK lead at work (another Chris, :-) ) from South Africa, very animated and technically savvy guy, Ken and Gaz, brothers (also from South Africa) we'd met in a pub during an American Football game, and assorted goer-outers: an Argentine lady, several Indian student types, two Canadian-Francophone girls, a supernice Canadian dude (another Football follower), a Polish co-guest at the hotel, ... Most of the staff at the restaurants we did frequent seemed very nice as well, but I would estimate that 75% were nonnatives, many from Poland or Slovakia or the Czech Republic, for instance. The exceptions to the implied rule, and there were [GJF: are, 2/2009] many, included the bartender, Gregg, at the Copa, very dynamic and outgoing, our counter staff at the hotel, Peter and Ayla and Jessica and Zoe came to mind [GJF: more have arrived now, 2/2009], and Aliina at work, our shepherdess. So, anything to miss? Nah, nothing specific. But it's a working suburban town. It would be like going to Newark or Amityville and expecting people to entertain you and be outgoing. Not going to happen. Not everywhere can be like Florida, I suppose. Or parts of Alaska.

It had warmed quite a bit, making my days in Paris look to be pretty good - we chatted about the weather to be expected on the continent and in London and whiled away the time with discussions about work-planning and activities left to be done. When the 9:41 arrived, we boarded, loaded our bags, and plopped into the seats, continuing to explore the future development of work details. The ride to Swindon was pretty short, and we caught our transfer to the Paddington train with barely enough time to hit the loo first. The doors closed, and Chris and I loaded our luggage into the racks, except... I had no backpack! Oh crap! Oh sh*t! God damn moron! Where could I have left it? I certainly had it on the train to Swindon, I remembered putting it in the rack there, and Chris, caught up in my excited self-flagellation, confirmed at least that much. But had I left it on the Swindon train? Was it sitting on Platform 2 in Swindon? Had I left it in the bathroom? Damndamndamn. There was not a whole lot I could do, trapped in this metal tube for at least another 20 minutes. Where? Who? I took some small comfort in the fact that I keep my hard drive fully encrypted so at least there was no professional liability (aside from the $1800 computer!). I sought out a conductor. The lady I found was distantly sympathetic, the stock response, "Well, sir, I think you can get off at the next station and talk to the staff." Crap! All right, calm down. This isn't Paris or Italy. All of the people I'd met so far seemed honest and upright to a fault. Not to mention there was surveillance at every corner in the stations and on the trains. I dropped into a vivid Bournesque fantasy of chasing down the movements of some shady character by time-lapse camera and undergoing some covert mission to recover the 'package'. Good god! Stupid stupid stupid! A disembodied voice announced the train's imminent arrival at Didcot Parkway. Having passed through here three times already, the nuclear towers adjacent (!) to the north side of the tracks also gave me a good clue.

I said goodbye and good luck to Ihling, he said the same, our farewell truncated and punctuated by the train's abruptness. Gah! Clutching my two (not three!) bags, I followed the 'Information Desk' signs into the Didcot station. I cornered a flagman who had innocently come in for a sip of his coffee. "Hey, uh, I may have left my bag on the train or platform..." He jumped into action. I mean, JUMPED! up from his seat and grabbed the radio. "Which platform, sir, where - platform 2? 3?" I went on, "...in Swindon. I came from Cheltenham and transferred off to catch the one that just left..." He calmed visibly. I guess it was a personal point of pride to have nothing lost in *his* station. It almost made me smile. "Right!" He brought out a pen. I was dreading what would come next... forms in triplicate, no doubt, passport information, description of contents, serial numbers, ... oi veh. I was wrong. Too much Monty Python. "So what's your name, then? And what did it look like?" "Gerhard Feichtinger. Eff-as-in-frank-ee-eye-see-aich-er, haitch-tee-... and it's a red bag with black straps. A victorinox, with the swiss flag blazoned on?" He nodded, noting way too much to be explained by my short commentary. I imagined him writing: "Bloody stupid git Yank. German name. Left goner bag at Swindon. Red. Run him round a bit and watch video later." Wrong again. One phone call. "OK, mate, we'll have a call down to the station master in Swindon in a bit. You come back and check with us, here, soon, all right? Going home for Christmas, eh?" I stuttered and stammered out that yeah, I was looking forward to at least the next couple of weeks home to visit with the kids and some friends in Florida, and maybe was coming back next year. He nodded emphatically, "Yeah-r, I got my kids coming from Yorkshire next week too. Gonna be a great holiday! You all right now then, young man?" I thanked this guy (Albert), probably embarrassingly too many times, and went down through the Didcot lobby to the cafe. I set my bags down and had a coffee and a chocolate-chocolate-chip cookie. They complemented each other really well, I remember. Then I wandered back to the help desk. "Yeah-r, they found it for you. You got to get over to plaform 4, hop the next train going back, and then cross to the help desk at platform 1 in Swindon, and go to the desk there, all right? All sorted?" Wow. Yeah, I was sorted. I mean, this guy might have thought I was soft in the head or something, or maybe he was just really thorough and genuinely nice. Gen-u-ine-ly. Thanks, Albert and the First Great Western crew running that line. I jumped the train, a little concerned about the lack of a valid ticket despite reassurances to the contrary, and slumped in the seat next to my bags. I started a little paradigm shift there. Disembarked at Swindon and switched to the other platform. Help desk again. Easy-peasy, got the bag, after showing my passport and describing it, of course. The gentleman at Swindon gave me a comment card to fill out. Which I did, front and back. Profusely thanking the folks at Didcot and Swindon for helping me. I dropped it back on the now-vacant help desk, the flagman/conductor off to see another load of people on their way. I crossed back to platform two via the Swindon subtrack walkway, made sure I had everything, and 5 or 6 minutes later, was back on track to Paddington, after an humbling hour-and-a-half.

People are people. It's easy for me to pick on the English in this blog for being uptight and cold and unfriendly, and they'll generally agree with me (at least the ones I have met in Gloucestershire), I have found. There's nothing in here that I haven't said to the staff in the Holiday Inn or (a couple of) the folks at work. Believe me, I am so fed up with so much of the ignorance and hypocrisy and laziness I see in the US, I would puke if I didn't laugh at it. So, don't take me the wrong way. The English are industrious and observant and conscientious. Their society has taken these traits, wrapped it all in a Machine and Bureaucracy and Tradition and "Just-So"ness and WEIGHT that we Americans can't even conceive of, and made them live in the result. I also find the exaggerations humorous. So I will continue. But this day made me careful of taking myself too seriously when stereotyping. People are. Simply put, people are. But I still say that day-to-day English food sucks.

So I arrived in Paddington with all my stuff, receipts, gifts, bags, computer, everything. And only about 1 1/2 hours late, at about 1:20 in the afternoon. That kind of threw a wrench into the works, but solved a different problem. I had originally planned on storing my bags at St. Pancras, but now I would be able to make the reservation at the Holiday Inn. I had originally called the Kings X HI a few days prior, right after I made my reservation, and asked if I could have an early check-in. The not-so-with-it clerk who answered the phone, and who "couldn't understand my accent" after about 20 minutes ended up forwarding me to some anonymous management weenie who in turn enforced the 2:00 "reservation-as-listed" rule, but he would happily watch my bags for 5 GBP apiece. Wow, what a great guy you are, you nameless jerk. Paddington, Heathrow, or St. Pancras's left-luggage counters would have stored the bags for (average of) 7 pounds per day for both, in a 'big' locker. That had the questionable advantage that I would be able to leave them or one or the other for the whole of the Paris trip. I was still on-the-fence about that plan, partially because the hours were sketchy - Kings X operated from 7 am (too late) to 11 pm, and St. Pancras operated from 6 am to 10 pm (too early). Heathrow was just plain out-of-the-way, especially with me running late. Luckily, that decision was made for me. I couldn't sacrifice the Tube-orienting trip it would have taken to do all that traveling and still make the Tower. Heck, I probably wouldn't make the Tower as it was! 4:00 comes along quickly. I had to get the Tube to Kings X, jump out, run down to the hotel, check in, run the bags up, run back down, back to the station, and south to the Tower Hill stop. It sounded like a lot of Tubing, and I am well aware of my tendency for absorption in detail (sounds much nicer than distraction from reality). So I bought a Tube day-pass for 5 or 6 GBP. It was about the cost of 3 single-journeys within Zone 1. I was a little trepidacious about it, but got over that quickly. Luckily the Circle (yellow) line - which I got on in the *correct* direction! - had not packed up at that point. I minded the Gap, and managed to get my bags aboard and situated in front of me with a minimum of nasty glares from the Londonites. The Underground train clicked and rattled along merrily, no flickering lights, no conversations in the carriage to distract from the trainy noises coming from under our feet. I bobbled my head and bounced along merrily enough, watching the signs for the platforms go by, and checking the schematic over the door in anticipation.

So I came into the King's Cross station, disembarked, once again Minding the Gap, and promptly followed the signs through a quarter-mile of subway (walkway below the street) the wrong street exit. The one that had been blocked up. Under construction. Impassable. Ugh. Back that quarter-mile, along another quarter-mile to another exit! Not horrific, but a long walk, and I welcomed the English half-light's relief from the nagging underground fluorescent flicker when I exited at the Thameslink building. After emerging into the daylight, I checked my trusty map, and oriented on a convenient corner. South it was! Luggage in tow, I crossed and re-crossed King's Cross Road - undeterred by the alternate-corner road works blocking my path. My bag bumped merrily on its wheels down and up the curbs and across the storm drains. I passed several sketchy-looking places, a tattoo parlor or two, some fryer joints, a couple of very dark pubs, and two brand-new hotels with guard goon squads lurking around the front (mine would be the third). Once I left the environment of the stations, it didn't look like there would be a whole lot of light or traffic along this road. I wasn't too worried, it looked more seedy-charming than dodgy-dangerous. About 3/4 mile down the road, I came to the freshly-asphalted driveway of the Holiday Inn King's Cross. I climbed up the sharp-cornered concrete steps, strode between the two doorguards, and brushed my hand along the freshly-shined brass railing to the glass doors which whooshed accomodatingly open. Wow! Swank, for a Holiday Inn! And only two pounds more per night than the Express HI in Cheltenham! I made my way across the derby green carpet (clean brass-border leading to a polished marbly floor), to the desk, and rang the bell. Less than 15 seconds later a staff of two younger folks came out, one with a manager tag, and the other with a tag bearing the HI logo, next to the word 'TRAINEE'. Well, well. I considered giving them a hard time about my luggage woes, but I was here, and thankful to have my stuff. The manager asked me politely for my name and reservation, to which I replied with my passport and credit card. Transaction complete, the TRAINEE handed me my room key and wished me (sir) good night in a very thick Slavic accent. I guess I was going to bed! I shook my head a little bit, and said 'See ya later!'. The 'lift' occupied a small hallway off the right of the grand mahogany desk, and it was waiting to carry me to Floor 7. Once the mirrored doors parted, revealing some more of the short-cropped rich green carpeting, I made use of the convenient room-arrows to find 742. Bags dropped, Internet set, and Chris's (anticipated) email responded-to. Check-check-check! A quick freshen-up and then I was off - back to the Tube!

I strolled back through the charming neighborhood around the station, after nodding at the impassive hotel guards, and found my way back to the Thameslink entrance. A couple-stop ride later, after rolling through some of the easterly platforms on the Center line, I arrived at the Tower Hill Underground station. Signs pointed me to the surface, and I warily followed them, not knowing which of the four exits to take, but hoping there would be convenient surface directions. The Tower is a big tourist attraction, after all. Climbing back to the daylight, having randomly chosen an exit from the Tower Hill Underground, I oriented and followed the brown (helpful) English Heritage signs to the Tower plaza. The sky was starting to dim on me, and I checked my watch... 3:45! How the heck could it have gotten so late so soon? I knew I would never make the jewels last-call at 4:00, so I reluctantly gave up hope on that part of the tour. However, the tower/castle and the riverwalk along the Thames would still be open! The pictures I had seen promised me a street-fair, laughing children, cheerily garbed English folks, hordes of tourists with cameras, food stalls galore pumping out fried anything and beer by the gallon, and other such wonderful things!

A funny thing about England is its climate. A day that looks gorgeous and feels good can end up chilling you to the bone after being out in it for a half hour. This was one of those afternoons. Anyway, there certainly were a handful of tourists milling about the plaza near the tower, snapping photos of the Tower, Tower Bridge, and the (New) London Bridge. Two of the hot-chocolate vendors were open for business, briskly selling funnel cakes and hot beverages and hot chocolate with Bailey's. I ignored all that, excuse-me'd my way past a group of Asian ladies trying to make heads and tails of the sign at the ticket office and walked up to the counter. I looked over some of the merchandise on display and asked for "one adult, please." The primly-dressed lady looked at me a little quizzically. "Sir, it's almost 4..." I thanked her for the time check, as Big Ben wasn't quite in view from the Tower Plaza, but reassured her that I knew what time it was. "Ah, sir, just you?" Yes. "That'll be sixteen pounds fifty, and there are no more tours for the day." Whoa! WHOA! I saw 4.70 on the Internet, a fact which I mentioned to her quite restrainedly and politely. She nodded vigorously in response, "Yes, sir, those are promotional combinations with certain hotels and other sights, it's an 'adder'." Wow! $25 for 45 minutes, maybe an hour? I had to pass. She was right, I'd be cheating the Tower and its heritage trying to cram that in. It would be like trying to 'do' the Louvre in an hour and a half. And the Louvre was only 6 euros after 6 pm (til 9:45, I had checked that already :-), three-plus hours would be a good taste). I thanked her for her foresight, and made to walk away. I must have frowned or pouted a little bit. "Sir, if I may?" Yes, of course... "The walk along the river is wonderful in the evenings, and it will bring you down the Embankment. It would be an evening well-spent." Thank you, ticket lady. All right, new plan. Walk down the Thames. Something everyone should do when in London. I proceeded back out to Tower Plaza and looked, really looked at the Tower Bridge and London Bridge. Not to mention the Castle itself. Incredible medievalness. The tower bridge and tower castle seemed to hint at hidden secrets, ages of pain and triumph and war and intrigue. I could make out the crests on the bridge as well from the plaza, especially when I walked out the pier a little. The tower castle itself looked like it had been built in at least four stages - two areas were absolutely haphazard and threatened to crumble as I watched (scaffolding was in place), and two seemed made with ready-cut stone and better mortar. I was looking at the preservation of Pride, the endurance of a wonderful Culture that had conquered the world. Wow. I grabbed a coffee from a vendor, a few steps away and sat quietly staring at these two monuments for a while, letting my thoughts and sympathies run forward with their histories and traditions. It was a good feeling. It connected me to the predecessor of my native culture, consumer-masked as it is, we are still English-derived in the US. The meditation went on until the thoughts wound themselves out. I turned right and faced the London Bridge, a little to the West of the Tower Bridge.

Chris had told me an interesting fact about the London Bridge. It's in Arizona! I was incredulous, so I ran to Wikipedia, that less-than-authoritative guru. It turns out there have been many 'London Bridges'... there had been a bridge on that site since, literally, time immemorial. The 1800's version, "Rennie's Bridge," had been sold by the city to an American (Robert McCulloch) for about US$2,500,000 in 1968. It has been reconstructed at Lake Havasu, Arizona. The bridge in place now dates from 1970 or so. But the history of Romans, fires, Saxons, Vikings, and the struggle with the growth of London traffic is an interesting read in and of itself, and parallels the growth of London as the center of this part of the world. The new bridge isn't really pretty, but its lighting at night is surreal, and fits the understated Thames neighborhood well. After reflecting on my reading, and chuckling at similarities between humans and ants, I scanned the riverbanks. There is an interesting globe-shaped (dome-shaped?) building visible from the Tower plaza, and it's sort of spooky - its modern design really makes it stand out, and its night lighting certainly gives the riverfront some character, modern character maybe, but still character. I looked up later that evening what the heck the thing was, and it turns out it is a completely (!) green building, City Hall, the center of London City Government. Great aesthetic for a municipal building, for sure! Interesting area. I immediately decided that upon a return trip to London, if it ever happened, the Tower would be the morning, and the City Hall would be the afternoon. Line that up...

After the Tower Plaza began to clear out around 5, I decided to follow the Thames and see where my feet might take me for dinner. I walked on and a few blocks off the main roads, heading westward toward St. Paul's Cathedral, which the Internet mentioned would be a good sight at night. Walking and tummy-grumbling, I weaved on and off the narrow riverside paths and streets, seeking a good-looking and likely place to eat. I passed the "Hung, Drawn, and Quartered Pub" which had me laughing so hard I'm surprised some English folks didn't offer me money. But I had pretty much had it with pubs. I wanted to sit somewhere and eat. I was in the wrong neighborhood. Apparently, Thursday night is sandwich night in London. Pret-a-manger and other stand-up self-serve automat clones ruled this neighborhood. Sad-looking pre-wrapped club sandwiches and bags of crisps peered out from the windows and shelves mournfully toward the street. I couldn't do it. I don't do premade sandwiches. Uck. So I decided to head for the nearest 'shopping' district, once I saw a sign directing me to shop MORE, "Queen's Walk" or something like that, just north of the main street. I didn't think I had passed St. Paul's yet, although it was difficult to find street names to match with my map in this alley-riddled area of town. So I decided a couple of blocks north, through the arcade, and then west if nothing tickled my fancy. Pubs. Subway. Bleh. Nothing special, more US-led stores begging me to buy clothes or video games, everything on 'SALE'! I caught a glimpse of a 'Cheapside' sign. Ha. Turning west, I turned the corner around a construction site and stopped. For about 3 minutes, probably, but it felt like a half-hour. St. Paul's was there.

I get a tingly feeling typing about it even now. I had just wound my way through close-packed victorian-(re)modeled arcades and pubs with micro-courtyards, wandering through close dockside alleys and the dregs of modernist shopping malls and ready-to-eat sandwich shops. And, suddenly, everything opened to this ENORMOUS Romanesque dome, with two blocks of lovely green clipped and tendered grass in front, set back from all other buildings in the area. This was my first glimpse of a building of this stature and solidity. The dome dominated one-quarter of my field of view. The squat body of the building covered most of the rest, with the field of green pleasantly trailing off the sides. It was light in a cunning fashion, the highlights giving the Basilica more visual weight (if that were possible), and tempting me to draw in closer. What a fabulous surprise, what an enormous culture shock! I was in my second realignment of the day. And Paul, of course, was a fitting catalyst for that. I strolled softly around the cathedral, noting the construction works, just in awe at every new angle presented of this magnificent edifice. Wow! It bore down on me, hugely just... present. Heavy. There was no refuge from it. Everything receded to the background. I saw the steps from "Mary Poppins" and had a flashback to my childhood, that minor-keyed song that Julie Andrews sang oh so sweetly about the bag lady. I came across an old guy, sitting on a bench, and my heart suddenly raced. It was a weird deja-vu. I said "Good, evening." And then my mouth must have hung open. "Impressive, isn't it?" he asked. I replied that impressive wasn't the word. It was staged to be dominating. Dominating is the word for St. Paul's from that side, or probably any. The man suggested I take a look inside and then bid me good evening, producing a very small dog from somewhere and strolling off. He may have said more, but the third great presence in the conversation occupied well over half my attention, as I'm sure was evident to him. Inside? Dare I? At night? All that stone over my head? I found my way to the front entrance, which was open (no fee or booth), and pushed the human-sized revolving door to the vestibule, trying my best to ignore the impact of the behemothan cathedral portals on my left. St. Pauls looks old on the inside. Not in a dusty sense, but in a 400,000,000-people-have-been-here sense. The altar was radiant, the markers on the sides of Saint regalia inspiring. The columnwork was exquisite but solid. I had read that a piece of Paul's cross is under the altar. That seed has surely sprouted gravitas in spades. Sobered, I went as close to the Basilica (dome interior) as I could. Angels chased each other on the ceiling, clouds and doves played along. It was all surrounded by (I would guess) mosaics of Paul and Jesus and other Saints. Incredible work, light and somber at the same time. Inspiring and intimidating and playful and incredible. I happily put my last 3 pounds cash in the collection box for this experience on my way out. Despite the no-photographs, which usually irritates me. Wow.

After another walk around the cathedral, I decided that was enough for the evening. I would grab some kind of food closer to the hotel. Or at the hotel. Or something. Luckily, my London map had an Underground schematic on it, and Blackfriars (on the Circle Line) seemed pretty close to St. Pauls. Since I had seen Underground signposts all along the main roads for the various stations I passed, I assumed that once I got out to the main street, it would be easy to find the terminal. You see, the street portion of my Pocket-London map didn't reach to the Blackfriars area. Nor to the Tower. Just about from Queensway to Parliament. But I knew, or thought I remembered, from my web surfing, that the Blackfriars was along the river, so the main street should have some indication. Sure enough, after minor turnarounds, I made it to the drag and saw a 'Blackfriars' arrow. And there was a grocery store one street adjacent to the station! Hot damn! Soda and candy! Mmmmmm. I blazed into the Tesco Metro, almost shoving aside the junkies filling the anteway, scootched up a couple of liters of coke and 2 big Cadbury candy bars. Yay o yay! I went to pay, and whipped out my trusty Visa. The guy looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, rolled his eyes, and muttered 'Oi.' I put my best quizzical expression on. He said something about chip-and-pin and not using swipe cards and other stuff. Me, having been informed to the contrary on the Internet (!) said to the guy - "Look, man, you're required to take these if you take those. What you have to do is swipe it and wait 20 seconds. Please? I'm starving and need to get some rest. This is my last stop for the night." He grumbled and turned his monitor toward me, and together we worked out how I could use my card. It worked! Armed with my new treasures I made my way to the Blackfriars gate. Closed! Construction? Dammit! I tried desperately to remember my London geography, a way to get back to the mapped area.

There is a main road, Farringdon, that goes north from the Thames area right back to Kings Cross Road. I packed my stuff in the backpack and began hiking up Farringdon. I passed a bunch of shuttered shops, a few "Pret"s, and some dodgy-looking back streets. Farringdon wound me straight north, more or less, except when it came to a triangle-T intersection. None of the roads were marked, of course. I would later figure out and come to accept that it is a European habit to NOT mark roads. Especially main ones. I guess the assumption is, if you are on it, you know where you are. Or you are in a cab or bus. Not too many tourists walking around confused half the time. Ha. I made my way into a small cluster of shops (Exmouth), containing a Starbucks, a Costa, a few pubs, and... a Turkish Restaurant (Sofra)! Seats and all! Wi-fi? Gratis! Holey moley! They looked like they were just getting started for their dinner rush, about 8 or 10 diners inside, munching happily away on feta and pita or various terrines. All right!

I ducked in, and looked at the prix-fixe. All 8 appetisers and lamb with prune terrine, please. 14 pounds? Sold! And a diet-coke, please! The lamb was soft and cinnamony and combined with the stewed prunes made a concoction on my palate that was alien and soothing at the same time. Easily better than pub fare, and cheaper here in London. Big Score! The appetiser special was not much to write home about, unfortunately. The hummus was underspiced and over-oily. The tabbouleh was ok, but I think they missed a wash on the parsley, there was a little bit of grit. But definitely something hot and a place to sit! I grabbed my phone out of my pack and switched on the Wi-fi... Wahoo! Texted a few friends on the IM application, finished up, paid with my swipey card and no hassles, and dashed out the door - it was getting late!

After I took off, I had to run back because I forgot my backpack inside (d'oh!), then I got turned around at the T a few times, of course, but eventually made it heading north back to King's Cross. I wound my way through the emerging crowds filling the low-rent area, punks, tattooers, and junkies, mostly. Or just kids. Take your pick. Again, no menace, noone even came close to bugging me. A few smiles and nods in fact! If I had been of a mind, and if I had not needed to get up at 4 am, I would have considered checking out a couple of the pubs there - it looked like it was beginning to wind up for a big night! But alas, that was not to be. I slid into the HI-KX and said "Good Night" to the TRAINEE, who responded 'Cheers!' Elevator. Hall. Door. Checked email again, and texted with some friends, ate my candy, drank my soda, and passed out about 9:30, visions of 'Gay Paris' distracting my sleep.

Map: London II

Album: Facebook - "London - Ye Olde Parte Foure"


[GJF: Written 27 February 2009]

London - Jolly Old?

What to say about London? It's big. And old. And weird in a lot of ways. I am by no means an expert, as I was only there a couple of days. First impressions... It's a city, dirty, with no characteristic skyline. Since it was winter, the trees and parks were brown and dead, the people were hurrying, cold, brusque. The rooflines were a strange amalgam of old victorian peaks, project-shingled apartment buildings, and occasionally a romanesque church arch poking up.

It wasn't as busy as San Francisco or New York, but it wasn't quiet. I opted to walk from Paddington Station down to the Houses of Parliament (Big Ben) and then around Piccadilly Circus and back to Paddington. That was stupid. It was 0 (32 F) degrees out that day. I also bizarrely bought the girls' souvenirs on Queensway, on the way OUT of Paddington toward Buckingham (my first stop). So there was another 5-10 pounds on my back.

First thing out of the train station, I got lost. I mean, I went the wrong way for at least 20 minutes, adding 2 miles to the journey, but, more importantly, subtracting about an hour from my day! I went into a newsstand and bought Pocket London map. Then I turned around (yes, exactly 180 degrees) and walked toward Hyde Park, along the Queensway. As I mentioned, I picked up a few pounds of crap.

On the north side of Hyde Park, along the West end of Bayswater, there are artists (painters and sketchers) who line their works along the fence to the park. Nice stuff, lots of London/Thames scenes, Big Ben impressions, other famous sights from the city. It's worth a look if you have an hour or two (I did, it took me 45 minutes to walk along it).

I cut through Hyde Park, watching the English run around (the ONLY place I've seen English people run!) the jogging trails until I came to the statue in the center of the West side of the park, a horseman. I failed to note the gold off to the south until I followed the rider's gaze. Plodding and freezing my way southward, the vision of the golden man became larger and larger. Angels raised their faces from above his head. Lions and lambs, frozen in stone, lay about his feet! Who was this golden demigod, preserved forever in the heart of Kensington? Prince Albert. Big freaking whoop. I expected, I dunno, King Henry VIII or something, Victoria, Elizabeth.... Anyhoo, make a left and go along Kensington road.

Eventually, Hyde Park ends and there is this enormous Arch with Angels and guns and a park full of soldier statues and names on monoliths. "Duke of Wellington Plaza". Wow, Dukey must have been really really good at killing people. So I walked through the arch (there was a dude selling ice cream inside, hiding from the SUBZERO TEMPERATURES!). On the other side, the path picked up in a straight line toward Buckingham Palace. I almost tripped over a inlaid stone saying that this is part of Diana's memorial path. Yeah, Constitution Hill (the path) is also pocked with little statuettes in memoriam of the efficacy (or not-so-much) of the English War Machine. Green Park is a war park! It runs from the Duke of Windsor's bloody Arch to Buckingham Palace! Why place Diana's path through a war park? Sigh. Maybe it's just me. I'd have put her memorial path along the embankment I went by later. Maybe it does run there too, I may not have seen the foot stones.

So I got to the Palace. Palace. Not Castle. This day, I learned the difference. Um, a box. Like the White House. Oh well, at least the gates were entertaining: Canada (the one I came in at), S. Africa, Malay States, the jewels in the crown so to speak. And the main palace gates were grand. As were the Lion and Unicorn statues. But the center of the roundabout in front of Buckingham was all Victoria. Wow! What a great likeness and work that centerpiece is! She isn't quite beatific and she isn't quite stern. Amazing. I absolutely saw her regality and pain and sacrifice in that likeness. I actually liked the English a little bit. ( ;-) ).

After taking a few photos, I exited Buckingham by the Mall (S. Africa). Looking at the map, if I had time, I should have taken a detour down Buckingham Palace Road (Malay States)! But... I pressed myself, and my legs were warmed up from the first 3.5 or 4 miles.

So going east from Buckingham, you can go via the Mall, the road, or along the water. I kind of popped up and down the embankment, trying to get some photos from the obverse on the palace and trying to get some good across-the-water shots of Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. I then saw the 'London Eye' in the distance, this enormous ferris wheel thing built on the Thames, each of the carriages clear, that is supposed to give an unrivaled view of the city. Guess what? It wasn't on the list. But it was impressive, and it peeps out of the skyline in unexpected places. So I walked past the Churchill museum (no Winston statue), and the new government offices, and finally arrived at Westminster Abbey (about a mile from Buckingham, I went a bit the long way). Incredible cathedral, detail, silhouette, just amazing! I lingered there for a while and bought a coffee and just stared at it. Say what you want about religions, they do inspire some awesome architecture and beautiful silhouettes. Moving on, reluctantly, I went to the Big Ben face. I learned that the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben date from 1858 or so and was strangely surprised and disappointed. Not as impressive as I would have liked. Not as magnificent as 'Peter Pan' led me to believe.

OK! Freezing and thawing my way north past the mounted 'beefeaters' (I know the mounties aren't, but I don't know how else to describe them) who made me laugh, and about 30 or 40 war plaques and death monuments, which made me somber, I came to Trafalgar. People were picknicking at the fountain, kids were playing peek a boo, old people sitting on the steps to the monument. It was nice. Kind of like a small Rockefeller Center to my eye. Another coffee, more hiking. Up to Chinatown and Leicester. Think San Francisco Chinatown. Now remove 90% of the stuff and 99.75 % of the people. That's London's Chinatown and Leicester district. It looked interesting and there were some good and bad smells coming from different restaurants (both are usually worth investigating), but I was holding out for a 'good' meal. Ha! If only I could go back in time... Oh yeah, speaking of food, there was a micro-Italy next to this district too! Italian restaurants, trattorie, and cafes for about 2 blocks. Except (and I have a picture of this) every fourth one was a 'Bella Italia' chain franchisee. Um? I saw literally TEN Bella Italia's in this small district. As I said, I got 2 in a single photo shot. The other outlets were Prezzo (another chain, a little better than Bella), Cafe Nerro, and Costa. I guess the point is, if you're going to have chains, then why have a district at all?

In the square itself, there was a mini amusement park set up, kids were hooting, and parents were fussing and scolding for Johnny to put his hat back on, or Sarah to keep her mittens tied to her sleeves. Very fun and family area.

Next to Leicester and Chinatown is the theater district. I'm not an expert on theater. I saw four big ones in London. One had Les Meez, one had something I hadn't heard of, one was the Prince Charles Theatre which was hilarious, and the fourth one also had something I hadn't heard of.

Now I began to circle back westward a bit, toward Piccadilly Circus. Not too far from Leicester. All the pictures I'd seen of Piccadilly featured a) a double-decker bus, b) an odd statue, or c) a neon sign. Yup, that's about all there is in Piccadilly. Traffic, a single statue, and a single neon sign that says TDK and Coca-Cola on it, reminiscent of Times Square, but, um, just the one sign. Kind of stands out gauchely, no? Oh, there was a bunch of 'shopping' in Piccadilly too, but you can read about that in previous blogs.

One extremely cool thing I did notice is that Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar, and Piccadilly all line up in a perfect straight line along which I took a picture at Piccadilly (the highest point). Walking back along Piccadilly Boulevard (or Avenue or whatever) west, I passed more shopping and the Ritz (which was kind of different). Um, getting kind of hungry! Don't rich shoppers eat?

Apparently, rich shoppers do not eat. So I tried to go to the Hard Rock Cafe back in Knightsbridge after I got there. I was sniffed at by a snooty maitre d' who obviously did not approve of someone wanting to sit alone, and he asked if I wanted to eat in the bar. The Hard Rock is similar to our Hard Rocks and Applebees and all those things in that the bar seating tables are 'open'. Well, they were all full, and I was pretty hungry, and I don't like snooty English people. So I left and continued west, through the dark, back to Hyde Park, North, through Hyde Park, to the Speaker's Corner.

The topic of the moment was how Prime Minister Brown and the Parliament have caused jobs to be lost and also how the economy failing is all the fault of fascist agendas wanting the government and industry to become one, and... I hung out for about 15 minutes and then, um, left. West, North, West, back to Paddington. I ate across the street from the train station, at the 'Pride of Paddington' pub, after about 15 miles of walking or so. A very interesting South African (Peter) and I discussed the state of employment in the UK and the US. His H1B had expired in the US, and he had been seeking employment in the UK for the past few months, to no avail. I listened to his story of hardship, employment search, and surprisingly, his suffering from Piracy in the Carribean! The story went that he saved a bundle of cash working in the US and wanted to retire or lay low in Nassau for a few months. He was robbed by Caribbean Pirates! (I asked about cutlasses and dead men's chests, and the like. Nope, none of those involved). So he did have someplace to go - he was going to chill out island-style until the employment situation picked up a bit, maybe try Canada as well, or Scotland. I wished him good luck, and providentially my food arrived.

I ended up with fish, chips, and a Guinness. Maybe two. It was a long long day.

Album: Facebook "London - Ye Olde Parte One"

Album: Facebook "London - Ye Olde Parte Twoe"

Album: Facebook "London - Ye Olde Parte Three"

Map: Google "London 1"

[GJF: Written 22 January 2009]