# Back in Paris

16/1

Back in Paris. Yesterday, I took a train from Amsterdam to Brussels,
arriving in Paris at 6:00 last night. There was a wait of a few hours in
Brussels; I wanted to go into town but the station wasn’t in a
particularly helpful location. Also, I had no Belgian money. So I sat in
this fast food place and read the Times. I mostly buy the Times to do
the crossword–I know this lass who’s much better at crosswords than me.
I can’t allow this! She can be better, but not that much better. So I’m
practising. On a good day I can get maybe 80% of the words, on a bad day
a little more than half. (This is the “quick” crossword.)

On the train from Amsterdam to Brussels I read Harry Potter and the
Philosopher’s Stone. It’s not a bad little book. And you can read it
fast too–I did the 220-odd pages in a bit under two hours, although when
I got to the hostel in Paris I discovered that big-brained roommate
Philippe was reading Tropic of Cancer…

About Amsterdam: Amsterdam is famous for three, maybe four things–sex,
drugs, tulips and windmills. Two of these are “exportable” but it’s not
tulip season; I didn’t export any of the other. In my new spirit of
recklessness I considered taking a small package of magical dried weed
back on the train to Paris, and then to London, but the two people I
spoke to about this thought it was perhaps not such a good idea. So far
though (I’m on the Eurostar, going from Paris to London) I’ve seen no
drug-sniffing dogs, no law enforcement officials, no x-ray machines. So,
I hope to hell I’m damn well strip-searched at Waterloo Station,
otherwise I shall be sore. [I wasn’t, but they were more, well, vigilant
in London, so I’m not sore.]

Anyway, last night. Last night I went to the Pompidou Center. I got
there at 8:20, just as it was closing. (There weren’t even selling
tickets, although everything was open until 9:00.) So on to this
Japanese place and some sushi, I’m getting to really like sushi. Walked
back to the hostel. Stopped at this bar (English, it turned out) and
ordered a Ricard, recommended by this guy I met in Barcelona. It’s a
greeny, yellowy colour, but tastes (strongly!) of aniseed–it tastes
awful. Stay away. “Shakespeare in Love” was on the TVs for some reason
and I spent quite a while trying to remember the damn actress’s name. I
still can’t remember. Brad Pitt’s ex-girlfriend. Didn’t she get an Oscar
for it? I can’t recall.

Today, before 16:07 (when the train left) I wanted to see Notre-Dame,
the Mona Lisa (at the Louvre), and the catacombs. Notre-Dame is about a
10 minute walk from my hostel. At 10 o’clock on a Tuesday morning
there’s hardly anyone there–there was no queue for the Tower, or the
cathedral proper. (A few weeks ago, it took about 30 minutes to get into
the cathedral, and–I’m guessing, because I didn’t wait–several hours to
go up the tower. Incidentally, the last time I come it was a Sunday and
though a service was being held, tourists were still allowed in. Is this
disrespectful? On that Sunday I stood in line next to a graphic designer
from Sydney who’d done the Tim-Tam packet. She wore very purple gloves,
and a matching purple scarf.)

The tower’s worth climbing, at least if you don’t have to wait hours in
line to do it. Folk of the 12th Century, even if they thought that the
earth was flat, that heavy things fell faster than light things and that
you could turn dirt into gold, could still stack rocks pretty good. I
went into the cathedral again too, and “purchased” two more votive
candles. You’re supposed light them, then say prayers over them (or
something) and then leave them in the cathedral (“The candles will bear
witness to your prayer when you are gone.”) but I don’t believe in God
and I figured they’d make a nice memento. (Catholics have assured me
that doing this was not blasphemous; this question bothered me
slightly–I am not religious but I do try to be respectful of it.)

After Notre-Dame, the Louvre. Of course, being Tuesday, it was firmly
shut. So I sat, and smoked, and watched some tricked-out guys clean the
glass pyramid. I’ve spent a lot of time watching people work this trip.
There’s a nice line in “Three Men in a Boat” (Jerome K. Jerome), that
goes something like, “I like work, it fascinates me. I can sit and
watched it for hours.” That’s me.

Leaving the Louvre, I walked through Paris for a bit, then took the
Metro to a station near the catacombs where I ate a decent, honest, ham
and cheese omelette. Good omelettes are hard to do; I am still learning.

The catacombs are worthwhile. You first go down a spiral staircase
(maybe 150 steps), then walk for five minutes along dimly-lit, 6’ high
corridors. (My theory is that this walk is not geographically
necessary–it’s just to build tension.) Then, you get to the
bones!–thousands of them, neatly stacked from floor to ceiling, layers
of femurs, then skulls, then femurs, then skulls. (I’m not sure what
happened to the other bones, perhaps they decay faster.) So many bones,
so many people. There are so many that you forget that each of the
skulls once belonged to a person who worked and lived and loved.

Coming out of the catacombs, I walked in the wrong direction for a
little while (you don’t end up where you start), which was a little
annoying–I had less than an hour to collect my bag from the hostel and
get to the train station. But, I did make it.