The French railway system and I seem to have a troubled relationship. Just when I think I've got it sussed, it throws another curve ball at me. My first train-related mishap was entirely my fault. (I was late). My second, I'm not quite sure about. How was I to know that "coach 8" means "carriage 8"? There are way too many words and numbers on those tickets.
On my first trip, nobody seemed to really bother with seat numbers or ticket checking. I was traveling first class so I didn't really care what the rif raf were up to (in reality I was just stoked to be on the bloody thing after the Parisian traffic).
Next time round my focus was largely around being ON TIME. Given that I was staying next door to the station, this wasn't difficult. I was way early, and rather pleased with myself. My seat number seemed like a minor detail at this point.
I managed to haul all my luggage on board and got myself settled. Too easy. Then I thought... hang on, this looks exactly like first class. And I have a second class ticket. Oh ok, well I'll just need to move up a few carriages.
Just a few? Try EIGHT. Try THE LENGTH OF THE ENTIRE TRAIN. OMG. I should not be allowed out of Australia on my own! Mon dieu! My seat in this packed train was as far away as possible. Literally.
Unperturbed however, I set off with alacrity. I'd like to add here that I have no less than four pieces of luggage. A big suitcase, a little suitcase, a duffel bag of shopping and a giant "handbag". Oh and my little le Sportsac.
As it turns out, the aisle of a second class carriage on the TGV is only JUST wide enough to accommodate a large Samsonite. Good to know. I carried / dragged one piece at a time, stashing everything in the luggage compartments at the end of each "coach" as I went.
To my disgust, only one person offered any form of help on my journey. This dude in first class opened the door for me as I did the walk of second class shame. In fact, I got so many dirty looks I started to crack it slightly.
Oh, I'm sorry Mr Narky Frenchman. I'm SO very sorry you have to move your foot all of two inches so I can haul a bag that is bigger than me from one end of the train to the other. Vraimant! Gah! People annoy me!
By carriage six, I was sweating profusely but had found my stride. Instead of apologising for my inconvenient existence, I was strutting down those aisles like I was in a walk-off with Derek Zoolander himself. Deal with it kids, pardonez moi, but do suck it up. I can't tell you how satisfying it was to reach the end, and I did make it eventually. Plus, the whole scenario still makes me giggle.
Can I note (in my defense) that generally, announcements in stations and on trains here are in French only? My French is still improving; usually I can understand enough to know that the announcement is about my train. Just not enough to know what the announcement actually is. Hmph.
Also, the whole carriage thing is a bit unclear at first, but very easy once you know what you're doing. I have it sorted now.
Today I'm about to catch a train to Aix-en-Provence and I've already jumped the first hurdle (random / nonsensical destinations on ticket). I think dealing with this stuff is good though. There is a solution to most problems, it's just a question of finding it. Being on your own, and trying to learn a foreign language at the same time ups the ante. It's kind of fun, and it does increase your confidence.
The train carriage mix-up is a great metaphor really; life is full of surprises, you just keep going until you find your place. If people frown at you along the way, screw 'em! You're leaving them behind anyway.
All this time to myself in the Old World has got me thinking about the things we leave behind. Seeing gold earrings in the Roman museum in Lyon made me wonder what will remain of me in 2000 years time. I have gold earrings too... but they don't really encapsulate me. If I am very lucky, perhaps a photo I took, or some of my writing?
I've seen a lot of Impressionist paintings here... it's important to remember that while we consider them masterpieces today, at the time of painting they were not. In fact, they were even mocked at times. My point is, you don't really know what you'll leave behind, if anything, or how it will be perceived.
Sitting on top of the ancient Palace des Papes in Avignon, clutching a bag of goodies from H&M, I decided that life is rather ephemeral. My new dress and stockings certainly weren't going to be around in two millenniums' time. (Unless purple stockings make a massive comeback in 4011.)
It's just the whole "life is a series of moments" theory that I keep on coming back to. We try so desperately to hold onto these moments, taking photos, writing about them, daydreaming. Conversely, in trying to capture the moment, we actually slip out of it a little. We start to observe it.
I've actually found I remember things better when I've been deeply invested in a moment. Rather than thinking about the context of that moment. It's really hard to do, but amazing when it happens.
I really loved Avignon. I think it epitomises the dichotomy between old and new quite perfectly. It is a charming, compact little town, surrounded by a Medieval wall. But within all of this ancient splendor, you have every chain store you like, wifi and uni students playing dance music.
Overall, I think France does the whole thing rather well. There is a lot of contrast here, which I love. And I think the French never hesitate to be French. They really do eat croissants for breakfast! But while you're getting your dose of the Old World, you're never disconnected from the New x
Friday, 6 May 2011
Sunday, 1 May 2011
French Twisties actually taste like cheese (and other observations)
Confession: I very nearly missed the train I'm on, which is currently speeding out of Paris. But who wants to sit around in train stations anyway? Three minutes is more than enough time to overpay a cabbie, grab your 47kg worth of luggage and haul arse to platform 21. Meh. Piece of cake.
Speaking of cake, I've been eating a lot of it lately. Well, more precisely: tarts, macarons, choc-chip brioche, pain au chocolat, croissants and pretty much anything that has a raspberry on it or in it. Or even near it is good.
All this has made me wonder how the French manage to stay so thin. My friend Bec and I discussed this online and agreed it's partly due to portion size. Which brings me to my point: as per previous blogs, it's all about savouring the moment. Although rich, there is also a delicacy to French food. It isn't actually so much about scoffing as about tasting. Every last bit.
Paris itself has a way of being utterly awesome in the most casual manner possible. An example of this was during a picnic I decided to throw for myself underneath the Eiffel Tower. There I was in front of the world's most-visited monument, delicious food spread out before me. Birds were singing, the sky was blue, the breeze was breezy and it was 25 degrees.
Just when I thought things couldnt be any more idyllic, a freaking LADYBIRD FLEW PAST ME. Seriously. She landed on the grass and I had her crawl onto my finger. If I wasn't sitting down I would have fallen over. Paris, you're killing me! And I just love you for it.
It's this casual elegance that really sums Paris up. It's not a city that wants anything out of you (unless you listen to beggars). It doesn't really care whether you like it or not, it's Paris. It can turn it on just as easily as it can shut you down.
One minute you're gagging at the stench of male urine in a Metro tunnel. The next you're standing in front of a view so beautiful it takes your breath away. It's a great place to just "be" in because you can never predict what will happen next. It was exactly what I needed.
And now for a word on the men of Paris. It's rather amusing how they operate. They don't crack onto you so much as they observe you. It is sort of like an appraisal. You strut past and they tell you what they think. I've had words thrown at me like "charmante", "mignon" and something about a chicken. Or sometimes it's just an extra-hearty "bonne soir" or "ça va" from a stranger on the street. Again, they don't want anything from you, they don't care how you respond to them. It's just their two cents.
Parisiens have a bit of a bad reputation. But so do Sydneysiders so we won't hold that against them. I like them. I think they're actually quite reserved and genteel. Away from the crowds, they're helpful, friendly, merry, charming, delightful.
Most of the grumpy ones are those who work at tourist sites. I'd be grumpy too if I had to put up with that. What is it about being in a tour group that turns people into vacuous zombies with no sense of direction, style, decency or humanity in general? The frenzied photo-taking in galleries alone is more than enough to make me wish I had a gun. Oh, that's a bit harsh. Maybe just a taser.
I will say some of the things you overhear when travelling are hilarious. The other day (the Eiffel Tower picnic day actually), I overheard a British teenager whining at her father. She was moaning, "Quick Dad, give me the keys to the car, so I can put the AC on!". Dad wasn't overly moved by her request; he was willing to tough it out. Panicking, the girl cried, "But it's SO HOT!".
For heaven's sake girl, it's 25 degrees! Get a grip! I mean, I still had leggings on; it was cool enough in the shade. Crazy poms.
Speaking of whom (like my segue?) I did catch a bit of the royal wedding today at the pub. The French aren't overly interested but the English pubs were full. I thought Kate looked beautiful and I hope it all goes well for them. Seeing her face as she looked out over Westminster Abbey made me feel for her though. For me, to live life under such scrutiny would be unbearable.
Once I'd had enough of it all, I left. Walking away, I definitely relished my anonymity, and most of all, my freedom. Being overseas alone is both thrilling and liberating. And I intend to keep making the most of it.
Oh - I nearly forgot about the Twisties. Yep. They actually taste like cheese. It's sort of... weird actually. They were home-brand ones from Carrefour, but still, someone had made the effort to put real cheese in 'em. Bless the French!
I'm in the Loire Valley for three nights; this post will be a few days old by the time it goes live I think. But better late than never. Au revoir mes petite puces x
Speaking of cake, I've been eating a lot of it lately. Well, more precisely: tarts, macarons, choc-chip brioche, pain au chocolat, croissants and pretty much anything that has a raspberry on it or in it. Or even near it is good.
All this has made me wonder how the French manage to stay so thin. My friend Bec and I discussed this online and agreed it's partly due to portion size. Which brings me to my point: as per previous blogs, it's all about savouring the moment. Although rich, there is also a delicacy to French food. It isn't actually so much about scoffing as about tasting. Every last bit.
Paris itself has a way of being utterly awesome in the most casual manner possible. An example of this was during a picnic I decided to throw for myself underneath the Eiffel Tower. There I was in front of the world's most-visited monument, delicious food spread out before me. Birds were singing, the sky was blue, the breeze was breezy and it was 25 degrees.
Just when I thought things couldnt be any more idyllic, a freaking LADYBIRD FLEW PAST ME. Seriously. She landed on the grass and I had her crawl onto my finger. If I wasn't sitting down I would have fallen over. Paris, you're killing me! And I just love you for it.
It's this casual elegance that really sums Paris up. It's not a city that wants anything out of you (unless you listen to beggars). It doesn't really care whether you like it or not, it's Paris. It can turn it on just as easily as it can shut you down.
One minute you're gagging at the stench of male urine in a Metro tunnel. The next you're standing in front of a view so beautiful it takes your breath away. It's a great place to just "be" in because you can never predict what will happen next. It was exactly what I needed.
And now for a word on the men of Paris. It's rather amusing how they operate. They don't crack onto you so much as they observe you. It is sort of like an appraisal. You strut past and they tell you what they think. I've had words thrown at me like "charmante", "mignon" and something about a chicken. Or sometimes it's just an extra-hearty "bonne soir" or "ça va" from a stranger on the street. Again, they don't want anything from you, they don't care how you respond to them. It's just their two cents.
Parisiens have a bit of a bad reputation. But so do Sydneysiders so we won't hold that against them. I like them. I think they're actually quite reserved and genteel. Away from the crowds, they're helpful, friendly, merry, charming, delightful.
Most of the grumpy ones are those who work at tourist sites. I'd be grumpy too if I had to put up with that. What is it about being in a tour group that turns people into vacuous zombies with no sense of direction, style, decency or humanity in general? The frenzied photo-taking in galleries alone is more than enough to make me wish I had a gun. Oh, that's a bit harsh. Maybe just a taser.
I will say some of the things you overhear when travelling are hilarious. The other day (the Eiffel Tower picnic day actually), I overheard a British teenager whining at her father. She was moaning, "Quick Dad, give me the keys to the car, so I can put the AC on!". Dad wasn't overly moved by her request; he was willing to tough it out. Panicking, the girl cried, "But it's SO HOT!".
For heaven's sake girl, it's 25 degrees! Get a grip! I mean, I still had leggings on; it was cool enough in the shade. Crazy poms.
Speaking of whom (like my segue?) I did catch a bit of the royal wedding today at the pub. The French aren't overly interested but the English pubs were full. I thought Kate looked beautiful and I hope it all goes well for them. Seeing her face as she looked out over Westminster Abbey made me feel for her though. For me, to live life under such scrutiny would be unbearable.
Once I'd had enough of it all, I left. Walking away, I definitely relished my anonymity, and most of all, my freedom. Being overseas alone is both thrilling and liberating. And I intend to keep making the most of it.
Oh - I nearly forgot about the Twisties. Yep. They actually taste like cheese. It's sort of... weird actually. They were home-brand ones from Carrefour, but still, someone had made the effort to put real cheese in 'em. Bless the French!
I'm in the Loire Valley for three nights; this post will be a few days old by the time it goes live I think. But better late than never. Au revoir mes petite puces x
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