In Paris, Invisible.

The weather is once again, in the interests of total accuracy, appalling.  

Sadly when there are places to go, things to do, people to see, one can't do hide in bed much beyond ten or so before the day starts to get away from one.    Even more sadly, if one has a job to go to, say in a telecommunications shop, or a consumer electronics store, one tends to really resent those who may have had the opportunity to do just that, apparently.

We timed our assault on the telephone shop until after lunch time, when staff should have been happy, and when perhaps we would be alone in daring to brave the by now torrential rain (and the appalled looks on the faces of Bill and Jane next door, who asked if there was anything they could do to help so that we didn't have to go out), so that perhaps we might receive some special attention.

And we did.  We were told in no uncertain terms by our telecommunications provider that we should deal with the store across the road, where we would be treated more kindly apparently.  So we braced ourselves and waded across the street to a large consumer electronics store.

What we could see of the ceiling was flat white with fluorescent lights, but in the eyes of some, the ceiling in this store must at least have equalled in splendour the dome above poor Napoleon's corpse. Whenever we came within "hello" distance of an assistant, he or she invariably lifted their eyes heavenward, completely avoiding our attention.    The game became so intense that as we walked around in growing desperation to attract the attention of one young man who had carefully positioned himself with his back to us between a column and a cabinet, he actually turned and walked in the opposite direction!

Eventually by using teamwork and spy strategies that would make John le Carre proud, we captured a startled "assistant" midway between blinking and gazing heavenward.   He seemed quite surprised, firstly that we had caught his attention, secondly that the people in the first store had told us such a whopper  apparently just so they could go on staring at their own ceilings unimpeded, and kindly suggested we try them again.

This we did, to no greater avail, although we now know that perhaps they do indeed sell the product when they have it in stock, but the item will not be coming in tomorrow or even Wednesday.  Perhaps we could find one at the Opera?

Actually it might not be coming in on Friday either, and no it's not possible to reserve one, perhaps we could phone sometime after they finish painting the ceiling.

Foiled again.

I think 'surprised' would be a reasonable description of our reactions when Dennis and Fredrika popped by to suggest we continue with our plan to visit the Opera today, mostly because we we weren't sure that we'd had quite enough sleep when they did, but also because the weather was a tad inclement.   So inclement is it that people are beginning to talk in loud grumbling murmurs about how this is not summer and indeed whether it will ever come. 

"Surprised" was also pretty much their reaction too, when we alighted from the omnibus to be told that we couldn't actually go in today because, well we just couldn't.    

"Can we come in tomorrow?" I enquired.

"I don't know, I just work here," replied the nice young man on the door who was barring the way.

So we ambled quietly away, across town popping in to places from time to time to marvel at the resilience of the cafe patrons sitting in what they hoped would soon be sunshine, at the suits of armour and the weapons from a time when war was right up with hunting as a pass time, and to check that Napoleon was still in his tomb.  For the record we didn't find any evidence to the contrary so concluded that on the balance of probability what's left of him probably is.   

Adopting the resilience of those cafe patrons somewhere in St Germain, we indulged in our second banana and Nutella crepe in as many Sundays, and couldn't help but ponder how quickly all of this has become so familiar, how quickly we have come to feel that we have been here for ever and how quickly the need to see "everything" has dissolved.

We are playing in our own back yard once again.

A Sign

Every now and then we come to a place in our travels when we stop for no particular reason, perhaps there are signs we don't understand, or perhaps we do but don't want to, whatever the reason we come to a complete halt.   We just sort of stop for a bit.

Today was one of those days.

Yes, yes, I know we were going to visit the old Opera House with Dennis and Fredrika but we sat around whiling away the morning over coffee and almond croissants which we decided clearly weren't going to sustain us on the journey we had planned, so we wandered across the harbour to the cafe for something more substantial and ended up whiling away what was left of the afternoon as well.   That involved quite a bit of whiling, far more than would allow a visit to the other side of town, and we had received an invitation to while away the evening elsewhere as well so we definitely had no time to explore.

Through good management we did manage to catch a small snooze between whiles though, which was quite fortuitous, as by the time the evening was over it was already tomorrow.

Time

Time flies when you're having fun apparently, and it has suddenly become clear to us that in a few days time we will have been here a week and it's probably about time we got on with the job of seeing some of the bits we haven't seen in a long time, and perhaps the bits we haven't seen at all.

As Julie observed in a comment a few days ago, one of the nice things about being "home" as opposed to being "tourists" is that we are free from the shackles of the tourist paths, but today we chose to follow them, joining Frank and Carol and perhaps two hundred million Americans, half the population of Italy, most of Spain and some of Germany along with a smattering of others in the early queue to enter the Museum d'Orsay.

There's not much point in describing the extraordinary former train station or arguably the greatest collection of the work of the great impressionist painters that it houses, as many have devoted their careers to doing, but it is suffice to note that by the time we were in a cafe not quite far enough away from the afore mentioned tourist path, we had already decided that in the event of a sudden mishap during lunch, today was already a "die happy" day.   Perhaps more correctly that should be "die happier" but who cares?

Exactly why we chose to walk to the Arc de Triomphe after lunch is a complete mystery, but we did. Perhaps it was simply to watch the traffic on that extraordinary roundabout for a while.  Just as  extraordinarily, everyone else who had been in the gallery that morning had thought similarly,  joining the remaining fifty million Americans for an assault on Avenue Champs-Elysees.  Who knows what we would have done if we'd had to ask directions of someone in French.

Tomorrow, perhaps we will climb the hill at Sacre-Coeur and wave back at the people peering out of the clock at Orsee, or we may just come to our senses overnight, and hang around for a while, drinking coffee and sampling some fine pastries.

Holiday

It was a public holiday in France today, so out of respect for our host nation, we thought we might have the day off, call it a weekend we thought.

More of a Saturday than a Sunday it was.  The washing wasn't going to go away, and while I must admit I may have been a little reluctant to co-operate, nothing provides greater incentive to yours truly to connect a washing machine hose than being told that if it didn't get connected NOW,  almost three Euros was going to go down the throat of the machine in the amenities block.

While the tools were out, it seemed reasonable to finish a few other odd jobs, the shelves beside the steering binnacle for instance, and it was a great time to get started on the great LED change over as well, an experiment in economy if ever there was one.

While I was having fun, the washing somehow magically appeared dry and ironed, (yes, IRONED!), all before the magic lunch o'clock.    By then it was time to start the ritual tidy up before the guests arrive, prepare everything that needed preparation, and nonchalantly wander over to the Latin Quarter to guide Frank and Carol back from their hotel for dinner.  

It would seem that at least half the population of Queensland is in Paris at the moment.

Dennis, the almost recluse as American's go, from three hulls down the dock, has become bemused observing the comings and goings from our little boat over the past four days.   This morning he flagged us down, suggesting that perhaps if we don't tell anyone next time we change our address, we may end up having the occasional night alone.

But if the sun is going to turn the Bastille Opera and the July Monument pink every night, right there in front of our dining table, why wouldn't we want to share our view with the world? 

Work Day - Paris

Without the prospect of visitors this morning, we really did expect to spend it knocking off a few items of housekeeping, perhaps a load of washing or two, a tidy here, a clean there, a bit of paint touch up, nothing special, just the jobs that needed doing.     

When it's cold in the morning though there is little incentive to leave the warmth of the spare-no-expense all seasons doona from Mr Ikea's top shelf, so that although we were awake at what some may think was a terribly indecently early hour, we certainly didn't waste an opportunity to have a long lie in while we waited for the temperature to become more civilised.   We may have waited a little too long in retrospect, because once we had risen it seemed more appropriate to set out on a small foraging mission than to get on with the jobs in hand, and by the time we returned to base with a few odds and ends it was ten past lunch time.

Then of course there was the need to catch forty winks after such an early non-start, and by the time that was done we both felt we needed a bit of a walk to get ourselves back in the mood to do some work.

For an hour or so we wandered aimlessly round the Marais, a district renowned for its colour, in contrast  the painter strangely dressed in a single monotone of grey oblivious to his celebrity.  For a time I wondered if he was trying to be one of those human statue things and I almost started fishing through my dictionary to find enough words to tell him he'd have to move just a bit less if he wanted any decent tips, but thought better of it in the end.

With a seemingly never ending variety of things to discover, we noted that we'd need a year just to get to know that little piece of the city alone, as we turned beside the Centre Pompidou, scooting through Les Halles and finally meandering along the length of the Avenue Champs Elysees.    

With the blood in our bodies by that time circulating nicely as blood is supposed to do after a seven or eight kilometre walk, we were well and truly ready to become productive, but alas as we'd run out of time to start any jobs.

Tomorrow is a public holiday, and it has "washing day" written all over it.

Cafe -Paris

The tables in the cafe in which we ended our day were topped with actual green laminex, not the modern reproduction kind, but the genuine 60's real McCoy with aluminium trim screwed on with screws that had a single slot across their faces. The rest of the decor, matching or not matching its surroundings with complete impartiality, looked exactly as a mad aunt's place would look at Christmas time.

Barely a city block from the Moulin Rouge, but just a few tens of metres too far from the theatre district to be fashionable or even able to be discovered by anyone who is not already lost, it's menu was as eclectic as its decor, as were its customers this evening, everything somehow matching perfectly the manner in which our day had unfolded before accidentally wandering through its doors.

Celine and Dume had been attending to some business in the outer suburbs, and surprising themselves as much as us, arrived on our transom steps at about the time we were trying to decide whether we should make ourselves known to the world, or simply have lunch.

Four relaxed and rather satisfying lunches later, followed by snoozes all round, we were still no closer to deciding what we should do with the rapidly depleting rest of the day.  It was Celine who declared that it was time we were shown where to find the best bread in Paris just a few kilometres in one direction, and the best pastry a few kilometres in the other, perhaps we should visit an avant-garde sculpture exhibition at the top end of town, (where we found ourselves standing with chins in hands, contemplating the inner meaning of a line of fresh fruit, invisibly suspended a few inches above the floor), before tearing off in the yet another direction one more time, to find the theatre where she and Dume were due to attend some sort of obscure and what turned out to be a not terribly satisfying theatrical performance.

We sort of happened on the little dishevelled cafe while leaning against its window in the act of contemplating how we would fill in the thirty minutes that were all that remained of time together.   Drinks inside seemed like a good idea, and the conviviality ensured that the two of us who weren't being driven by fate to waste the next ninety minutes of our lives being tortured by a plot that wasn't resolved, could well benefit from remaining to sample so of the fare on offer among the specialties from the northern regions.

And that's exactly what we did.