It is so common for Japanese tourists who long to come to Paris to suffer disappointment when they get here that there is a syndrome for it and psychologists specialize in its treatment, but there is no danger of either Robin or I succumbing to it. We already know some of the grim realities that our friends who were green with envy that we would be spending a month here might have forgotten: specifically, that Paris is big, it is modern, and it is full of non-Parisian-looking people who do all the hard jobs and live in the northern suburbs. Paris is a primate city, meaning that not only is the country’s government centered here, but also its industry, culture, banking, you name it: all the HQs are here. And so culture isn't the only thing happening around here, and much of it is neither beautiful nor romantic!
It is a huge employer, for one thing. Yesterday afternoon, we flew over the winding Mississippi, and this morning at dawn we were over the Seine twisting through the darkened countryside, and already, the narrow, double-laned roads clogged with car headlights were snaking towards Paris from miles out in the 'burbs, freeways were already over-filled with traffic: it was nearly 8:30 AM. Dawn comes very late here, and sunset comes very early: we are as far north as Newfoundland! On the RER train into the center from the airport, there were places – the Stade de France station comes to mind – where we could indeed have been in suburban Japan, so many businesses were overlapping with highway bridges and apartment buildings and then with trains and stadiums. And a Japanese tourist could reasonably complain that most of the buildings are painted that pearly off-white of all the self-respecting apartments of Paris: so much more staid than the paint-box colors of Rome! A few whimsical houses from the '20s in multicolored stone and brick pop up here and there, heavily decorated with graffiti.
And Paris is sofar north that all day the angle of light looks like late afternoon, and it is indeed cold! Teens and twenties fahrenheit overnight, and about freezing during the day, so that every stitch of wool that we brought will be worn, and gladly. Snow is expected towards the end of the week, so this weekend will be a good one to lay in supplies for, and just venture out on foot for explores down to the river, not try to take a train anywhere. A good day to raid Shakespeare and Co. for English translations of Georges Sand, things like that.
We are at Robin's office at the University of Paris Sud, Number 11 (Science) in Orsay, 45 minutes south of our apartment in Montmartre, fighting off sleep: I, for one, really slept not at all on the plane, sitting upright in my seat all the short night. It is sad how scattered I sound, but I'm about to flop over on the desk! After our three-day drive back to Texas last week from California, Robin reflected that Paris would be just an eight-day drive from College Station, if the Atlantic were filled in, since Paris is only about twice as far from Texas as California is... (Oh, a tiny cup of strong coffee has appeared on the scene, and a piece of chocolate: I'm saved!)
Speaking of food, between the Denfert-Rochereau RER station whence we go out to Orsay, and our place on the second floor of 124 avenue du Maine (check Google Maps!) is one of Paris' famous pedestrian streets devoted to food, the Rue Daguerre, but shops were mostly closed this morning because in Europe groceries are generally closed from Saturday afternoon to Monday afternoon…but oh, we did see some bakeries open, with brioches and breads and gallettes galore – it being that time of year when one eats gallettes in honor of the Three Kings, washed down with hard cider from Brittany. What is a gallette des rois, exactly? A disc of flaky golden pastry, scored on the top into diamonds, filled usually with almond paste and holding a small figure: in a King’s Cake in Texas or Louisiana you might find a plastic baby Jesus, but here, a tiny porcelain donkey, or angel, or king, or bambino or other character from a creche scene appears somewhere in the filling. Last year at the Marche des Puces (literally the Flea Market of Paris), we found a whole basket of such figures from years past for sale, and if we can’t eat enough gallettes to collect ‘em all, we will have to go back there and invest!
Getting around town and out to Orsay will not be a problem, since -- after snooping online for just such a thing -- at the airport train station, we successfully negotiated getting our Navigo Decouverte monthly travel cards, running out to Walgreens the night before we left to get two photos, trimming them to the correct size and slapping down Robin’s European credit card (courtesy of the folks here at U. of Paris): now we can travel in any and all of Paris’ five concentric zones by subway or train for a whole month just by paying a cool 100 Euro each and by swiping our equally-cool Navigo card across the entry sensors.
But don’t ask about the airport itself: Charles de Gaulle Airport is a scandal and a place to be avoided but, alas, never can be! Over the years I have been insulted there when I was ill and had lost my ticket, yelled at for not speaking French, led astray by supposedly-sympathetic agents, I left books on planes never to be returned, looked in vain for seating or bathrooms at gate waiting areas designed (like everything else at CDG) for looks rather than for human utility … and today there was an hour-plus wait for bags, for no apparent reason. But there was the considerable comfort of watching – as we waited patiently – the pink-and-red light show on the interior of the doughnut-shaped building and the occasional drifts of bubbles up from the bubble machine at the ground level. Wonderfully pointless!
We have also successfully met the representative of ParisAddress (found online) at the door of our apartment building on rue du Maine, learned from her how to turn on the heat, how to work the various appliances: can you believe a washer-drier combination in one machine? You put the laundry in to wash and don’t have to take it out until it is utterly dry! And the ingenious dishwasher-oven? These two are one right above the other; not connected, this time. We have left the tiny radiators heating like mad: perhaps by bed it will be somewhat toasty in there?
Ah, but the entry to the building was classic: something very much like our first night in Sendai, at the university guest house, which has no elevator and upon whose third floor we stayed, and had to remove our shoes at the front door, put on slippers and slither up the carpeted stairs, hauling our several heavy bags behind us. Here in Paris we did not have to put on slippers, but the twisting wooden stairs are slippery in a different way and… oops, not to complain! One simply needs to be robust, to a certain extent. Certainly the walk from the train station to the apartment with those two suitcases was something for the robust; long may we still be so!
So, once we admit that we can do no more here in our state of somnolescence, we will potter to the nearest FranPrix grocery store or similar for basics for the next week or so, cook up our finds, eat them, and fall into bed… here’s hoping it is not too lumpy! But we will be waking up in Paris…
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