#Wattpadwednesday

Barefoot in Paris

Planes, trains and automobiles

A flying visit to Paris started with me staring out of the window at the rusty wreck of what appeared to be a burnt out aircraft. Not a great thing to see as you're taxiing down the runway, but this is what happens in rural airports in southwest England: at least the local sheep weren't grazing the airfield. But, I was heading to Paris, the sun was shining and I was looking forward to meeting friends for a working breakfast the following morning. So, this gave me an afternoon and an evening wandering Paris on my own, not something I'd done before despite being to Paris twice in the past.

The short trip to the airport earlier that morning had revolved around my family taking the mickey out of me and suggesting various ways in which the plane could crash or land me on a desert island (Wilson!). Hardly re-assuring, but gallows humour seems to be the normal way to avoid getting overly emotional at a parting of ways, even if that parting was only for a day. After waving goodbye the family, I shouldered my trustry man bag (my daughter's expression) with its spare set of clothes, a few presents and various gadgetry, presented my passport and spent five minutes confirming Exeter airport's duty free consisted of three toblerones and a bottle of gin.

I've always adored flying, particularly in small planes, and motion sickness has never been something that's bothered me even on the bumpiest of trips. This time, I was lucky enough to have a window seat and a silent companion to my left, so I spent most of the trip listening to Pink Floyd and staring out of the window, my only companion a small spider who'd decided to stowaway outside (the spider later got off somewhere around Warwick).

We buzzed through clear skies, floating past Portland Bill (where the Romans imprisoned all the nutters, ne'erdowells and political prisoners, which explains a great deal about the local population), over the spider tracks of humanity and wandering traces of rural roads, and then on past Southampton and Portsmouth (hello old University, you look a lot better from up here). And then finally over the tip of the Isle of Wight which seems ever determined to try and slide piece by piece into the sea, and was the location of untold miserable field trips to hack at cliffs during my geology degree. 

At Brighton we turned right, and the sea took over. 

Bonjour, c'est La France. 

My Franglais was a little rusty so I'd downloaded a French app on my tablet, much to the amusement of my wife, and I spent the next few minutes realising I couldn't re-learn all my schoolboy French in the time I had left on the flight. So I went back to staring out of the window. 

I love France. I have French cousins and friends, and love Normandy in particular. But we were heading to gay Paris (you need to say this as pah-ree), where the Parisians have the repuatation as a bunch of miserable buggers. Ah well, as long as there was a good glass of wine somewhere...

I'd never flown to Paris before. Previous visits had involved long sweaty trips in coaches, listening to the burble of soft Normandy accents, but with a flight you truly appreciate how empty France is compared to dear crowded old England. After an hour, there was the normal thud, skid and sideways drift that presaged a happy landing in a foreign country and we were there. Thank god for hand luggage. 

A short while later I was regretting not concentrating more on my French at school instead of staring longingly at Elise McCutcheon for two years. She was worth staring at at the time, but the memory of deep green eyes wasn't helping me as I stared at a myriad of signs in French. My spoken French isn't bad, I can usually manage to order a beer and confuse someone enough that they're more inclined to help than hit me, but reading can be a little problematic even in English. So, after a few minutes confusion, I gave up and asked a nice looking French lady which was the correct train to get to Paris. The very nice Australian lady (as she turned out to be) explained that she didn't speak French - sorry luv - but her husband spoke a bit. Buoyed up that I'd at least fooled the poor woman with my accent that she thought I was French, I resorted to English hoping that she'd not say her husband understood that foreign language too. 

The trains from the airport to Paris play the accordian! As the doors close, instead of a boring old "mind the doors please" or "bing bong" or similar, you get a short blast of what sounds like accordian music but remixed by Jean Michel Jarre. Rather pleasing the first time, irritating as hell by the time you get to Paris. Sandwiched as I was between a traditionally built older lady and a malodourous numpty on his phone, the sign saying Paris was a welcome sight an hour or so later.

It hadn't changed much in twenty years. There were still crows in the litterbins (few pigeons oddly, perhaps they'd been eaten by the crows), still people driving like Ayston Senna on speed who wear their horns out before their brakes, and still loads of guys selling cheap tat to unwary tourists - a multicoloured miniature eiffel tower stuff up the arse of a small teddy with a French flag sewn to its guts? Ooh, yes please. "But you are from England, you are rich!" was the repost from one chap who I refused to buy anything from. Clearly he hadn't worked in construction. 

But it was still beautiful. Paris, particularly in the evenings, is a magical place. The afternoon however was hot as hell. I spent a happy four hours wandering around visting all the normal touristy spots and trying to avoid being run over. After about an hour I ended up with blisters, so I took off my shoes and spent the next three being look at oddly by everyone who walked past me. A barefoot bald guy obviously isn't that common a sight in Paris, but sadly no-one stopped me and offered me a cold beer.

A few hours later and I found myself near the Champs Elysees with the sun going down and the tourists going to their hotels. This is when the Parisians come out. They made their way to the parks with food and wine and sat in small groups talking about life the universe and everything, and enjoying good company with good food and wine. There was no drunken behaviour, no shouting, just an appreciation of the evening and it was lovely to see. Until the smells of food drove me to find sustenance. Another attempt and Franglais resulted in directions to a nice little restaurant, a good glass of red wine and a platter of cold meats and various nice little tidbits of French cuisine. I'm lucky, I've never really worried too much about eating on my own as I people watch. Sure, it's always nice to have company, but with four kids, a large family and working in a busy office or construction site, sometimes it's just cool to have some time to sit and say nothing. Besides it's rude to speak with your mouth full of food and when in France, my mouth is usually chewing on something. 

I never sleep for long in a new place, and dawn over the Louvre was worth an early morning walk. An hour or so later I had a lovely breakfast with my friends and their two lovely girls, a few hours of discussion and then it was off again. 

This time jogging through the streets of Paris to catch another accordian train, via a quick chat with a couple from Iowa who were trying to cross the road without being killed by French taxi drivers.The train on Sunday was markedly different and seemed to be populated predominantly by old guys in socks who stank of stale urine and wandered up and down leaving soggy sockprints on the floor of the train. 

And so back up into the sky and Pink Floyd inspired dreams...

It was drizzling when I got home and the family were in Cornwall. So there was a frantic dash to the train station. Paris to Penzance in one day, another new experience, but at least there was a pasty waiting for me when I got there. Vive la difference...

I've always fancied doing a quick travel monologue, and while on holiday in Brittany a month or so ago I started re-reading some of my old notes in a tattered old notebook that I carry around when I travel and came across some rough jottings that inspired this. #wattpadwednesdaytastic - I challenged myself to try and do a travel piece. And here it is. Hope you enjoyed it.