A France unplanned
Une très longue journée
The plan is no plans.
On Sunday night, I booked a flight for Thursday. I had tentatively booked off work for two weeks and needed a change of scenery, preferably near water.
France, Italy, and Greece made the shortlist. Exciting sights are on every corner in those familiar countries, culinary delights are in abundance, and the seaside awaits.
Italy and Greece were crossed off the list once I saw an ad for a direct flight to Paris. That’s Europe in seven hours and an excellent place to start, the plans can follow. Allons-y.
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Charles de Gaulle is not an airport; it might as well be its own administrative territory that could one day declare its independance, like the Holy See. I forgot about the hot, mucky mess that is France’s largest airport. The journey between the gate and the train platform requires a Samwise Gamgee to come along.
Sometime later that morning, I crawled out of the Gare de Lyon station and wheeled my intentions for a relaxing getaway over the cobblestones towards a small hotel nearby. I forgot about the Parisian aroma that hits the nostrils extra hard, blending a mix of exhaust fumes, cigarettes, ammonia, and various colognes for a proper olfactory assault.
The hotel did not have a room available then and would require a few hours to prep one. I quickly hatched a plan: head toward Notre Dame with the eventual destination of Shakespeare and Co, a famous English bookstore and library that I’ve been meaning to visit. I congratulated myself on the brilliant idea of arriving ahead of opening time and savouring the place to myself. That notion immediately flew out the window once I saw the queue outside the door.
It took seconds to befriend some people in the line and the somewhat curt security man (I know…it’s a bookstore), which made the time pass by unnoticeably. And just after 9 a.m., we stepped out of the heat and commenced our pilgrimage.
The first floor is like any other bustling bookshop; nothing unusual there. The second floor, however, is the public library. First editions are on display and available for viewing and enjoying. The decor places you in the decades when literary giants and artists stopped by and shook the world with their work. In one of the rooms, a desk sits by the window, with a typewriter in the middle, and looks over the Seine. Down a couple of doorways is a bed tucked in the corner, where I’m told many an accomplished writer have snoozed. The entire building has no unoccupied spaces, whether filled with books on curved shelves or surrounded by wall galleries of writer portraits.
The heat outside amplifies the smell of the encircling wood and the weathered pages of used books, making everything feel sticky to the touch, including the piano displaying a “play quietly” sign. I hunched over for a moment, deciding if I was capable of playing a piece that could respect a library’s definition of “quiet.” I thought it best to spare the visitors and slink away to another dimension.
I sat at the park bench outside with my feet up and broke off pieces of the melting cookie I had purchased minutes ago. I was saving my appetite for a proper sit down at a Parisian restaurant, and so busied myself looking for a train ticket to head south in the morning. The tiredness was starting to creep in, and my linen dress was manufacturing sweat beads that travelled its length and pooled at the bottom.
I started in the direction of Les Jardins de Tuileries, hoping to finish my self-guided tour at the L’Orangerie Museum.
Les jardins and the Place de la Concorde were still empty, allowing me to take in the beautiful facades of French administration buildings. The Eiffel Tower sprung into view over the bridge in the near distance, demanding that I recognise and revel in its iconic presence. I’ve visited before, and have climbed up and down its stairs, even purchasing an overpriced statue. A distant nod in its direction will suffice this time around.
L’Orangerie had another sizeable queue outside. I was a visitor with no plans; in the absence of an advance ticket, I had no choice but to stand under the blazing heat for the second time that day. The tall Dutchman in front of me - another new friend - kept feeding me porky pies about the rapidity in which the groups moved. I pretended to agree as I secretly fantasized about the air-conditioned space.
Monet had a hand in the design of the rooms that displayed his large water lily murals. To enjoy the works, you should follow how he laid out the viewing experience: move following the circular layout so you may follow the curation of light across the pieces. The bright blues and lime greens give you clues about the time of day when the scene was captured. This was all somehow lost on the thicket of visitors who shot the murals on their phones in panoramic mode without once looking at the actual artwork. On several occasions, huffy iPhonographers tried to push me out of the way while recording their content. It’s been over 24 hours of me on the move, and I was in no mood to indulge that sort. I stood defiantly and took my time appreciating every stroke and brush curl. Feel free to tag me on Instagram if you see an apparition dressed in checkered pink in one of the Monet water lilies.
I still wanted to stroll down the Rivoli before completely running out of steam, so I skipped the contemporary collection and left the Dutchman sans adieu.
I sat wrapped in a towel on the bed, with a bottle of water to my right and a slice of pizza to my left. There would not be a Parisian dinner to conclude my first night in France. I intended to nurse my blister’s blister, and hoped to fall asleep early enough to get on the local time and minimise the effects of jet lag. It has been a sweltering 36-hour day.
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Books purchased: 4
Croissants consumed: 0
Kilometres walked: eleventy million
