A Day in Paris!
What an adventure! I tackled the bicycle rental with
characteristic enthusiasm. These
commuter bicycles are immensely popular.
At this station there were two racks of 25 bicycles each and all were gone
except one and that was out of service.
Fortunately, a while struggling at the kiosk a bike was returned. I quickly laid claim fighting off two
poachers. The task was formidable for
one so technically challenge. The tutoring
the evening before led to a modicum of success.
The learning curve was as steep as Mt. Everest but next time leveled to
a bunny slope. I remain clueless about
the cost, an arm and a leg or just an arm.
My odyssey included five tasks;
visit two Jesuit high schools, a war memorial, a Benedictine church, and Roland
Garros tennis stadium. I accomplished
exactly half, precisely 2.5. Let the
story unfold.
I carefully wrote out the
directions from the Internet. Over a
distance of 4.8 miles there were 24 changes just from the hotel to the first
Jesuit school, Louis la Grand. Looking
at a map of Paris you see a spider web of streets rambling to every point on
the compass, not different from every other large city in France. Two additional factors further complicate the
situation. First, streets change names
unexpectedly and second, the one-way traffic.
Many of the one-way streets allow bicyclists to travel in both
directions but the extremely narrow streets do not.
Under blue skies sprinkled with
white clouds I set out on my first orienteering experience with the hope of
Magellan. I was soon enmeshed in a
puzzle worthy of Mensa. Flung far afield,
finding Notre Dame became the rune stone.
Helpful pedestrians tied themselves into knots pointing this way and
that way.
I finally rolled up to
Louis-la-Grand. The school was close to
the camping stores where I bought sleeping bags and maps five years ago. Several
groups of students lazed about on the sidewalk outside, making light
conversation and enjoying a smoke. Two
girls promised to watch my bike as I went inside. The interior was mindful of the colleges seen
on British television. Sadly, but not
totally unexpected, I was told that I needed to make a reservation and given a
telephone number.
I moved off searching for the
Benedictine Church. The Church served a
huge community until the French Revolution in 1789. I commissioned a young French couple to watch
my bike while I explored inside. The
church was undergoing a renovation and scaffolding hid large sections.
As I bicycled toward the War Memorial
the thought occurred that the young couple might be willing to call the school
to make a reservation. I hurried back
but they were gone. I asked a young
French lady and an older Russian couple and was rebuffed both times. Then I hit the mother lode. Nicolas, a gendarme, was a charming people
person of the highest order. Not only did
he call, he also nearly arranged for a visit in the afternoon. That was not to be. However, he obtained the email address of the
headmaster and she suggested that I arrange a visit when I return at the end of
June. Nicolas was an absolute gem. I cannot believe my luck in finding him like discovering
the mother nugget of glimmering gold in the Sierra foothills. The school is coed and was founded in 1563,
nearly 300 years before my school opened its doors in 1851. The Jesuits were barely two decades in the
making!
From the Church I headed to the War
Memorial having crossed off the second Jesuit school. The school would present the same problem as
the first. I would need a
reservation. I cycled along the Seine,
dodging motorcycles, cars, taxis, trucks, and busses. Not being high season the traffic is
tolerable but one can feel the urgency of drivers wanting to get there, the
abundant traffic fills all the lanes and races from stoplight to stoplight. Interestingly, I found other cyclists to be
the biggest threat to life and limb as they darted passed in both directions or
ran red lights! They were the quiet
assassins!
The War Memorial is sobering. Near the Eiffel Tower it offers a glimpse
into an episode nearly forgotten in post war Paris. You would have to be a real history buff to
appreciate the immensity of that particular moment. The Germans overran France in 1940. They split the country into two parts,
occupied and unoccupied. The unoccupied
area chose Vichy, a popular tourist destination, as its new capital and General
Petain, the hero of Verdun, as its leader.
Representative government was abolished.
In 1941 the Nazis began the roundup
and deportation of undesirables, Jews, gypsies, and Communists in occupied
France. Lacking the manpower they
enlisted the French police to do the odious roundup. The initial roundup in Paris netted mostly
foreign Jews and they were housed in the Winter Velodome. The conditions were deplorable, lacking
adequate water, food, and sanitation facilities. After several months they were deported to
the death camps in Poland. This War
Memorial is located at the former site of the Winter Velodome. Small and out of the way this tiny gesture of
remembrance will soon be forgotten,
A sandwich shop was a short jaunt from
the Memorial. The tasty ham, cheese,
egg, tomato, and lettuce sandwich was enjoyed in the shade of the Eiffel
Tower. I stayed in this area a couple of
times and was reasonably acquainted with the landmarks. The crowds were thin. The double-decked tour buses were less than
half full as were the tour boats plying their trade on the Seine. Colorful houseboats were moored along both
banks.
Growing weary I decided to forego
Roland Garros Tennis Stadium and instead charted a less troublesome course back
to the hotel, only five changes. Along
the Seine, passed Notre Dame, the tree-lined boulevards were busy and one time
I struggled against the traffic on the narrowest of streets. The midday sun was more intense. The trees and the occasional cloud were a
welcome relief. With great determination
I made the hotel where I collapsed onto the bed for a four-hour nap.
Dinner was bought in a grocery
store, a delicious Turkish salad, a small loaf of bread, a Bosc pear, and wine
in box like a juice box. Then I found a
bench in Anvers Square in view of Sacra-de-Coeur. The ladies dress so chic, even the homeless
woman across the way looks like she could appear on the cover of Elle.
Tomorrow the saga of the box
continues. I have to make one connection.
