Climbed aboard the TGV with our 5 bags and settled into comfy seats amongst the hoards of students and business people also headed to Paris, most of them finishing up math homework or reports of some kind. Like the children who walk to school through the Grand Bazaar, these people have an enviable commute.
Slipped along at sub-sonic speeds with two stops for the first third of the journey, but then hit high gear so smoothly that I didn't even notice until I looked up and wondered why the world outside the window was so blurry. I am here to report that zipping along terra firma at 325 km per hour is awesome. However, it is not advisable to stare out the window while the train is flying past objects close to the tracks. Having never suffered motion sickness before, it took a couple of minutes for my tummy to get the message through to my brain that if I persisted there would be unfortunate consequences. I stopped and my tummy returned to normal. Other than this brief discomfort, the trip was wonderful.
Paris or Pago Pago. Who can say?
Arrived at the Gare de Lyon, a classic European, glass-roofed station decorated with towering potted palms installed, one can only assume, to create the illusion that this is not a rail station, but rather a Caribbean isle. Plan was to take a taxi to the hotel, but first had to find some Euros, doubting that picky Parisian cab drivers would be willing to take payment made up of our leftover British pounds, Turkish lira and Swiss francs.
I, being a more guard-like presence, was left to protect the bags while V set off to find a cash machine. Sat on the worn marble steps and watched the world--literally--go by. We are always struck, when in Europe, by the incredible diversity. We Canadians like to celebrate our multiculturalism, but by comparison we don't even come close to the racial and cultural pastiche of a London bus or a French rail station.
Was in a trance induced by a family of Canadians, all wearing clothing with Canada writ large and acting like...gasp...Americans. Had come to the conclusion that they were, in truth, from one of the 50 states, and was just warming to the idea of being able to wade into their midst and cry "J'accuse!" so it would echo off the glass ceiling of the Gare Lyon, when V returned. My excitement at being able to create an Oscar Wilde-worthy moment might have motivated me to ignore her had it not been for the look on her face.
V had, I learned, narrowly escaped after an encounter with a self described criminal. The man, apparently not versed in normal beggar/beggee patter, had revealed himself to be a recently released jailbird who needed 10 Euro. When V said she had no cash the man offered to escort her to an ATM so she could get some to give him. She declined and came back to fetch me, and I went for the cash. The ex-con, if he was still about, did not approach me for the 10. In my distraction at Vs story, I had unfortunately neglected to instruct her to keep an eye on the "Canadians", and by the time I returned they had disappeared.
Euros in hand we and our 5 bags went to find a taxi. The driver, a woman (??), helped load the car, and efficiently delivered us to the Hotel St. Paul, our favorite stopping spot in Paris. Now, while I can attest without qualification to this person's taxi skills, the same cannot be said about her gender. V, an ever generous soul, was inclined to take the driver at face value...which was attractive, blemish free, and framed by a blond do. I, on the other hand, had doubts based on the breadth of shoulders and logger-like hands. Not that it matters, of course.
'Ya gotta love a town where the libraries have happy hour
Checked into the hotel, then went for a leisurely walk down along the Seine and through the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter. Would have stopped for bite to eat, but too tired. Ended up watching TV and dining on Indian take away.
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