040908 – Rouen to Paris

Rising at 0615, Isabelle and Oliver walked me through breakfast. Still groggy, I sat in my place at the table as they asked what I would like to drink. Indicating Coffee, Oliver proceeded to put several spoonfuls of instant into what I had assumed was my cereal bowl. Filling it with hot water and then milk, I tried not to look confused while watching the other two begin their morning ration.
Crazy nation...
Breakfast in this part of France appears to be a small bowl of hot beverage, into which you dip pieces of bread that have been covered with spread.. kind of like a giant morning tea with biscuits. I performed monkey-see, monkey-do. After noting my confusion, conversation shifted onto breakfast here versus their time in Ireland..

After doing my best to help them clean-up, Oliver appeared carrying a sleepy-eyed Clementine. Grumpy from being disturbed and shy again, she simply stared at me up until it was time to go.
Toddler-sized goodbye kisses and hands shaken, Oliver and Clementine took off in one direction while Isabelle and I drove off to the station. Talking about travel and children, the car ride and then the train ride was partitioned by her distaste at the lack of manners amongst the locals.

Arriving at our parting of ways, Isabelle pointed out where and how I needed to catch my next train while I walked her to the bus-stop. Kisses and goodbyes done, we promised to email soon and I promised to send her the photos I'd taken.
This had been a most pleasant leg of my trip, it is always the people that stay in your memories and I have definitely become a great fan of France. More the north than other areas, I think I might travel here again soon.

Boarding my train to Paris, I stared out the window and updated my journal for a couple of hours before arriving at the terminus. I had asked Isabelle for directions to a famous ice-creamery that had been featured in a series of spy novels that I enjoy. While at first confused, she found the island on the map that it was supposedly located on, suggesting I ask for directions once I get to the area.

Wandering through the train-station, my new goal clearly set in my mind, I tried to calibrate my internal compass to the local north. Taking two wrong exits, I found the train-line that was needed and set off. Exiting in the inner suburbs, Paris looks like any other big city. Mentally locking in a local cafe as a landmark, I asked a local for directions and set out for Notre-Dame.

Wandering through Paris with a main-pack on your back and a day-pack on your front is challenging and tiring, no matter where you are. Paris is no exception. With all of the lockers and baggage storage decommissioned for “security reasons”, it was something that simply had to be suffered. Gazing at the palaces and waterways helped, but I could not enter any of them with my luggage in tow.

Asking for directions from a friendly Police/Security Officer, I made my way onto the island that is home to Notre-Dame. In awe of the size and majesty of the building, I had some photos taken for me by another tourist. The last time I was here, I had not had the impact of the place like this time. Walking past the queues to get in, I was a little sad that my pack prevented me from joining them.

Following the directions of a passing priest, I crossed a bridge onto an adjacent island. His instructions had not been entirely specific, which had confused me. Arriving on the new Island, a local guiding some tourists pointed out the little restaurant that I was looking for. She elaborated that there were “two houses, same owner”, with the second restaurant nearby. Now understanding the earlier vague instructions, my little mission was at an end. I sat near a window looking on Notre-Dame after dumping my pack rather unceremoniously on the floor. Not entirely fitting the description from the novel, I assumed that it was the other store that had been the birth-place of a famous, fictional, international crime-ring.
Fictional or not, the strawberry sobet in Maisson de Berthilon is like a work of art. In homage to the 12 executives of international assassination, my order literally had me wide-eyed and almost gasping with every little spoonful. If this delicacy was served in any country other than France, it would probably be classed as a narcotic.

My desert very slowly devoured (hey, this stuff is REALLY rich and incredibly sweet... you can only have a tiny taste at a time), I savoured the rest and the cold water before the inevitable trek back to the train-station. Additionally, paying 9 Euros for two scoops of ice-cream (about $18-20), I wanted to enjoy as much of the exclusive ice-creamery as possible before the gentle prodding of the staff to “settle my cheque”.

Back on the street, I started to think about lunch. Being this central, everything was quite expensive. I wandered through the side-streets of the little island, browsing the posted menus for inspiration. Settling my pack on a wall overlooking the river, I had a little rest while swiping some free WiFi to update the maps on my phone. Chatting to some other aussies nearby, I got some suggestions for eateries and took off back towards Notre-Dame.

Chicken and cheese Crepes under the shadows of Notre-Dame are a great suggestion for Paris, even when badly over-cast.

Taking my time on the way back to the correct Metro station, I stopped for photos and admired the statues that were part of the city. There were artists and stalls on many of the corners, I wish I'd had the extra euro and the means to transport some of the canvas oil-paintings that I saw.

My exercise done for the day, I settled into a cafe-restaurant-bar (they always seem to be at least two of the three, regardless of where you are in France) and used the excuse of a very powerful Citron-Presse to make use of their WiFi for as long as I was welcome. The little rest adjacent to the Metro station where I had stepped into this metropolis was a great way to spend a few hours in Paris. Music in the back-ground, the bustle of the other patrons, the delicate glare of the serving staff. Updating my blog, skyping to Jenny and attempting to call home filled the time. I got a fair idea of where to meet Emma and Josh, gathering my resolve for the journey ahead.

After the WiFi had cut-out, once it had become obvious that I would not be buying much more here, I made motions to leave. Settling my bill under the distasteful gaze of the waiters, I left this little thorny haven and braved the even more toxic attitude of the small crepe-stall out front for a nutella and banana crepe. Descending once again to the metro, funds were acquired for the train to Charles De-Gaulle airport after a first failed attempt for a ticket. Boarding the correct train at this point was not particularly clearly marked out or a simple effort in itself. Guarding my gear the whole way to the airport, I stared out the window. An odd busker wandered into our carriage shortly after leaving the station at Chattelle, playing something that sounded jarringly French on an odd little violin. Having been stripped of its main body, a trumpet horn had been fixed into the backbone just under the bridge. Striking a stark contrast to the industrial and residential scenery flying past the window, I took a short video of the little display and tipped the strange little man.

Arriving hours early, I navigated my way through the small city that is this hub of the sky. Still being several hours too early for check-in, I retreated to a nearby British pub. In this odd little refuge, amongst a crowd of French dialogue, an auburn-haired angel served me a Blonde beer with a smile and a sweet little French accent. The most pretty girl since I had left Australia made my day with little more effort than a smile, and I was sad that more of Paris could not be like this. I like France, but as Isabelle, Oliver and Justine had said “Paris is not France. They are Parisians, not French..”

The karma earned by the early check-in was short lived after the beer. As it ends out, boarding in CDG airport is almost immediate. Advertised at 1550, I presented myself at the gate 5-10 minutes after boarding began. Despite being a very large and painfully full plane, 5 minutes is all that was considered necessary and they had been about to call security to find me. The strange words on either side of “Valencia”, called over the PA, had been considered the French pronunciation of my name.

Apologies expressed and bustled past the door and onto the sky-bridge, I ran as best I could to the air-craft. With a disinterested look the steward let me past and I joined the long queue for seating... I can see that they were in such a rush and panic to get me here...
The snails pace to my seat in the emergency isle (benefit of early check-in :) ) was followed by a painful delay before the plane disengaged from the terminal and eventually made it into the air. The pilot was kind enough to dip the wings in attempt to afford us a better view of the Eiffel Tower through the increasing clouds.

Once small note is that Air Europa is NOT Air France and shares few, if any, similarities.
An utterly forgettable meal later, we bounced to a landing in Valencia. The sub-average touch-down was followed by some extremely panicked reverse-engine braking that seemed to go on for at least a minute.. Looking worriedly out the window, I started to wonder if he would just hit the power and try again.. Finally slowing to a speed that announced we had indeed landed, applause from the entire plane had me thinking I might be more choosy with Air Carriers in the future. When the pilot's option NOT to not have a firery death is received with thanks and praise, rather being assumed, it makes one concerned.

Battling through the very pushy crowds of Spanish travellers, I eventually got my gear and made it out to the metro station. Stopping for the address of a hostel that had a pretty good reputation, I was off into the city.

Emerging from the station, under the shadow of the bull-fighting ring, Valencia was actually quite pretty at night. I really should have savoured this moment, it was one of the few peaceful moments until I was on the next train...

Humping it down a major road and several of its minor siblings, my iPhone eventually figured out where it was and I was able to get a better idea of the area. I was looking for a back-packers called “Home” which had an excellent reputation and had come highly recommended.

After about 30 minutes of wandering around, I found the area and then the building. It it located quite centrally and there seemed a pretty good vibe about the place. Unfortunately, a lot of other people felt the same way and it was full.. in fact, a lot of people seem to think that Valencia as a whole is pretty cool, as everywhere was full... The manager at Home was absolutely excellent, phoning around and trying to find a place for myself and a polish student who was in a similar situation...
No luck...

So, for the next 3 hours, Konrad (Polish student) and I wandered around from place to place looking for somewhere to sleep for less than 20 Euro. There were a number of hotels with vacancies, but no hostels or pensions.

Eventually we found a little pension where the lady said she might have two beds at 1230 (midnight) but wouldn't know till then. Kind enough to let us leave our bags, we continued on in the hunt for shelter... We eventually found a dingy place while looking for another hostel that had been recommended by some fellow travellers. Offering the right price for a third story twin-room, we rejoiced briefly before heading back to get our packs. Easier said than done...

By the time we found the little pension again, it was 1245 and there were rooms free for us... Talk about a famine or a flood... Having had to pay at the other place to secure the rooms, we apologised, purchased some water, collected our bags and set off..

Having thought ahead, I'd logged the location of the hostel on my phone.. so getting back and collapsing (after short showers) was a fairly simple task...