I will be the first to admit I do Paris totally wrong. This trip would be my fourth time through, and so far the closest I had come to the Eiffel Tower was speeding past it in a taxi. I was determined that this time it would be different. When I had booked travel to my next destination, a small town in the breadbasket of France, I had built in a night in a small town near the airport. The plan was to fly in, stash everything in my room, hop the Metro, and give myself a proper tour of Paris (or at least a few elements of it), returning in time to catch the train in the morning. Fate, or perhaps my subconscious self, had other plans.
I had started to nod off during the approach to Charles de Gaulle airport, the excitement and cognitive workload of the past few days taking their toll once again. Once on the ground, it took longer than expected to collect my luggage and maneuver to the platform where I would meet the courtesy shuttle (navette). It was hot, with no shade for waiting passengers, and after a short time I, and all the passengers around me, were sticky. Once on the bus we careened through the airport and down the highway (past a Concorde static display, swoon) to our lodgings. By the time I made it to the front of the check-in line I had the mother of all headaches. It was at this moment, when I just wanted to collapse into the lap of luxury, I was advised the king room I had reserved was not available, and they would be providing me a twin. All I could picture was the small, hard single bed I had slept in while at monastery, and it was all I could do to hold back the tears. Respite came in the form of the language barrier. When I opened my door, it was to find a sunny, coolish, and thankfully quiet room with two (count them two!) double beds for my enjoyment. Once cleaned up, I accepted I was in no shape to explore a strange city on my own at night,
The idea of downtown Paris abandoned, I decided to seek out a nice meal. Google maps had indicated nearby cafés and even a quik-e-mart (or the French version of), so after refreshing myself with coffee (Nescafé avec little cups of cream) I set out to find some sustenance. I crossed the street and entered a green space that turned out to be the town’s municipal park. A path of neatly placed pavers took me past a playground (swings, slide, monkey bars, roundabout) full of enthusiastic youngsters, and an open-air amphitheater on the back of the mairie (municipal building), surrounded by rose bushes, where a self-organized group of kinder-age girls were acting out an impromptu play. Much to my dismay, the cafés on the other side had anglicized menus and were filled with British tourists. Seeking local flavors, I continued in to the town.
I passed a patisserie, a librarie (bookstore), and a pizza shop (take out or by the slice) but nothing sit-down that appealed to me. (Okay, the patisserie appealed to me but I did not think it was a good recovery strategy.) In the end I popped in to the quik-e-mart (a CarreFour*), where I was pleasantly surprised to find fresh fruit and veg and cheese section in the cooler. After careful consideration, I purchased some carrots, plums, a red pepper, triangles of cotswold and brie, and a box of crackers and headed back to my room. Every one ahead of me in line had been air crew, most with a selection from the surprisingly complete wine, beer and spirit section of the store.
Once back in my room and sated from my grazing, I curled into bed with a book. Little did I know, the best part of the day was still to come.
More soon!
* This is the name of the brand, like Stop and Shop or Publix. Another big chain in France is Casino.