Walk On By

Aren’t hotel breakfasts a funny thing. For a start, the hotel often puts the breakfast room in the cellar because they are making too much money from the decent areas of the hotel with their higher end bedrooms. Thus it was, that we found ourselves in ‘la cave’ as aften before. Don’t get me wrong, they had done a very nice job. They had vaulted the ceiling up into the reception area so that there was height and light whilst they managed to find the space for plenty of breakfast tables.

We approached customs which barred the way to our morning treats, at which stood a very pleasant black guy who rattled off a French greeting to which I replied, hopefully, with our room number as this is all they really need so that they can stop those pesky breakfast crashers from chancing it as they walk past the building. In response to my room number, delivered in French, he repeated it in English, as if relishing the challenge of translating such appalling French into something intelligible. Having established that we were bona fide guests, he bowed rather in the same way that the Japanese do when offering thanks and ushered us to our table – which turned out to be wherever we liked.

Then begins the dance. First you suss whether or not the people in your proximity are the sort who will greet you or not. It seemed not on this occasion. This established, you enter the sort of ‘library-like’ trance. Everybody is hushed, eyed lowered and doing their best not to exist. The trouble is, you either load up everything you intend to eat and drink in one trip or have to make repeated trips to the food and beverages. It makes being invisible very tricky. And then there are the packed lunch makers. Kate always reasons that if a bowl of cornflakes and piece of toast is costing you £20 a head, then taking something with you isn’t a problem. My old fashioned sense of right and wrong combined with a lavish propensity to feelings of guilt causes me to balk. Some people are super discreet at smuggling out half the contents of the breakfast bar. Others make no attempt to hide the fact that they intend this meal to last them well into the evening. And so the price of hotel breakfasts goes up. And so people feel vindicated to take half of it with them…

Suffice it to say that we breakfasted well and that we left with Kate’s handbag bulging a little more after breakfast than it did before.

We decided to spend the day walking past everything in Paris. This is our favourite method of seeing a city. Some people book and pay for various sites so that they can queue to go in. We walk past them. We took the metro to the Eiffel tower, the start of our comprehensive route. We have been up the Eiffel tower before so were happy to note that we didn’t have to join the already huge queues of people waiting for that pleasure. The temperature stayed around 29 degrees for the day and the thought of standing for hours in an airport style queue for much of the day did not appeal.

The Eiffel tower is an impressive structure. There’s no doubt about it. Paris must be so relieved that it didn’t pull the tower down after the exhibition, like they were supposed to. It has without doubt, become the icon of Paris. It has also kept countless, usually black African people, in some sort of job. Dotted all around were sheets spread out on the pavement with hundreds of mini Eiffel towers on each one, as they have been for decades. It intrigues me that they all seem to be able to display identical wares. Tiny Eiffel towers, slightly bigger Eiffel towers and key fob Eiffel towers and, if you really want to push the boat out, Eiffel towers with LED lights flashing away inside them.

We joined the river bank and the crowds and Eiffel tower vendors thinned as we eventually crossed the river in pursuit of the next thing to walk past; the Arc de Triomphe. Now things started to feel more Parisien and less touristy as we walked up wide and elegant streets and saw people getting on with their lives. At this time in the morning, life was still based around the pursuit of coffee and pastries. On a pleasantly warm and sunny Parisien street, I can think of no better pursuit.

The Arc de Triomphe loomed large as we approached the roundabout. The thing about it is, it can only loom so large as it is in the middle of what must be one of the most famous traffic roundabouts in the world. True, you can go under the roundabout and experience it ‘in the flesh’ but we, like a great many people, were happy to stop in the middle of a very busy road and take selfies with it as a backdrop whilst trying not to step under a passing vehicle. The road turned out to be the top of the Champs Elysees, which was our route down to the Louvre. The top of the road was full of the sort of shops that all but the richest few are barred from entering. Handbags and perfume that carry price tickets which only the super-rich or insane would consider. But, right in the middle was a MacDonald’s. As you move down the street, the shops become increasingly ‘of the people’. About half way down, the desire for coffee became overwhelming so we struck off down a side street in the hope that coffee would not come at a silly price. We found an unassuming looking place with tables on the pavement in typical fashion. The menu stated that coffee was 4 euros. Eventually, a woman came over for our order. She was not a woman of high Paris fashion and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a filterless Gitane hanging from her lips. The coffee was ok. I went in to pay fully expecting a bill of 8 euros. “C’est combien?” “Twelve.” It was like she took one look at me and thought of a figure. I know from past experience that arguing would have been utterly fruitless, so paid up and left.

As we made our progress down the Champs Elysees, we both started to need the loo. The thoughts that surely either the Tuileries or the Louvre would provide for our needs caused us both amusement. We are easily amused. Relief to the bladders did arrive eventually but at neither location. Kate duly queued for her loo whilst, being a chap, I went round to the other side of the kiosk where you open a door to be immediately confronted by another door about a foot inside. However, this was not a door to open. This was the door you relieved yourself against. If you are wearing a rucksack, as I was, there is no chance of the outer door shutting so you basically stand in the street, French style.

Our route took us past the 'Grand Palais'. Opposite this was a house which was also definately beyond the 'affordable housing' bracket and it housed some impressive sculptures. And it was free. And it was cool inside. After circumnavigating it, we found our way in. (Via the main entrance...)

Whilst inside, Kate 'made use of the facilities', whilst I loitered in one of the sculpture halls. As I loitered, I noticed a young lady taking a photo of her friend on a phone. When I say photo, she probably took thirty, for all I know. She was there for agaes, with her friend slightly adjusting her pose from time to time. Eventually, the subject of the photos went to the photographer and inspected her handiwork. It obviously fell short of the mark because she then returned to her spot and the whole procedure started again. This wasn't some model posing for vogue. Where will that 'perfect' photo go? On to some social media platform to see if the bar can be raised slightly higher still for all women to attain to as we invest increasingly in the 'Me' culture.

It was now getting seriously hot. Well, for Brits, anyway. We had enjoyed the shade from trees or buildings up to now but had reached Le Place de la Concorde. A big open space offering no shade from the sun. We took a deep breath, put our heads down and put a spring in our step which didn't let up until we reached cover again near the Pont Neuf. I always thought the 'neuf' bit had something to do with nine, but actually it means new bridge. And as such, it's one of the oldest bridges in Paris. To get to this point, we past the approach to the Louvre. It was heaving with people desperate to see the Mona Lisa IRL. No surprise that we weren't similarly inclined. We had no inclination to queue, no matter how odd the Mona Lisa's mood was when Leonardo Da Vinci sat down to paint her.

Having now covered quite a few miles in increasing heat, our attention turned to refreshment. We headed into the Le Marias area just off the river and found a pleasant restaurant. Not difficult to do in Paris.

We then completed our walk by crossing over Pont Neuf on to one of the islands in the Sienne. This was the island which boasted another impressive queue. It was for Notre Dame. Admittedly, it would have been interesting to see the renovations inside but not at that price. And I've no idea how much it would have cost either.

So we hopped over to the other island and so back to the mainland taking a metro ftom Le Marais back to Montparnasse and our hotel.

When it came to negotiating the Montparnasse station, we took a wrong turn and popped up at the entrance to a shopping centre. The side was a huge wall of glass with a glass ceiling above. This proved the perfect situation for a short but impressive storm. Lightening, peals of thunder and hail on steroids. The occupants of the shopping centre gathered as one to the glass side to witness the spectacle. Phones inevitably came out, as well as my own. My video includes me thanking someone for handing me my sunglasses which had slipped off the back of my head. We, like those around us, watched with fascination as the odd person who had evidently been caught out was to be seen running across the square to the safety of the shops. I wonder if everybody was thinking, 'thank goodness that's not me?'

The good thing about being in a hotel in the Montparnasse area was that we could happily stay in the area, finding a lovely spot for a drink. Which is what we did. In fact, we agreed that we could happily have spent the whole trip hanging around in the Montparnasse and, wonderfully named, Edgar Quintet area. It is full of cafés, theatres, restaurants and markets which the French still take seriously. They are a joy to wander through. The French love their food. And quite right!