Who knew getting to Paris from London could take all day without driving!
After a hellish three hour, steering-wheel gripping journey to the airport this morning, I managed to miss my flight (along with all the rest of the people stuck on the M25 this morning). Lovely, gracious Air France booked me on a later flight which arrived late afternoon at Charles de Gaul. As our plane was pulling into the gate, the pilot announced to his surprise that there was a strike action taking place and no one was around to guide the plane to the gate. Some time later, someone was scrambled to help. But then, before disembarking, he also announced any checked luggage was not able to be unloaded yet either.
Having retrieved the one bag Air France insisted I check, I waited another forty-five minutes for the Air France coach (bus) to take me into Paris. An hour and a half later, I have at last arrived in the city, just as it was getting dark. As we drove nearer to Charles de Gaul Etoile, I could see the top half of the iconic Eiffel Tower, brilliantly illuminated, framed by a dark periwinkle or lavender blue sky. I have to say so far that spectacle was definitely the highlight of the day.
When I jumped off the coach and crossed the street to the taxi rank, I spied the hotel I almost stayed at, the one I love - Hotel Splendide Etoile. It is a tiny little hotel with very few rooms, centrally located, and quite conveniently situated near the Arc de Triomphe, boasting a permanent view of the Eiffel Tower (the top of it anyway) - hmmmpph.
Jumping in a taxi, I found my way to the little bare essential hotel I am now occupying. Even though my little room is a far cry from Mr. and Mrs Smith's standards, it is clean, bright and offers all that I need in Paris – a secure place to leave my things when I’m at work or exploring; and, a giant bed with crisp white, starched linen - heaven.
After taking a few minutes to decompress and stretch my toes out, I studied the various handouts and maps that were provided as joining instructions for the meetings I am attending this week. Forty-five minutes later I have worked out that I am miles from the office, which is north of the city, outside of Paris. Tomorrow will be an early start - meeting begins at 8:30 am and I am a metro, then a train ride, then a walk away from where I need to be! It will take me about 45 minutes to an hour to get to the office. I might need more time than two hours to get to the airport when I leave. I will contemplate this new conundrum when I am out in a cafe sipping a glass of bubbly.
It has been more than 10 years since I've been to Paris. It seems enormous, even more enormous than I ever remembered. Wish I knew more about the cool places here. Paris is not a city I've spent any time in, despite its luxury, culture, style, quirkiness.
At first glance, Paris is a city with two temperments - one is sexy and classic, a timeless piece, something like Chanel. I love the buildings in the posh bits but loathe the ugly, grubbiness of the run-down bits. And that is the other side of Paris’ personality – the seedy, broken-down, crumbling carcass of the city, something like a dead animal that's been left on the side of the road. Was that the kind of squalor that all the artists for centuries have come to live in to paint their masterpieces?
Mental note: must learn to speak French in spite of the six years of lessons. Also, must purchase, use and annotate a very good map of Paris, completely blacking out all the yucky, ugly and broken bits.
I do like it though, even if I think I'd like it more being a stone lighter - and of course much more graceful walking around in high-heeled boots with a really smart bag. I can tell I can’t afford to live here, ever.
No matter. It is still sad that I'm only here for work and will be leaving before even getting a chance to roam about on my own and visit the museums. I am sensing the need to have a short holiday break in May or early June.
I am now going to venture out and sharpen my non-existent French skills in a quintessentially Parisian café – something quirky, with Lebanese food I hope! Tonight, after the events leading up to this moment, I just need some time to immerse myself in the buzz and click of this double-act city.
Oh, it is eight degrees Celsius, and not a raindrop in sight. I have at last left behind the sheets of rain which so impeded my early morning start. Tonight it is absolutely walking around town weather.
Au revoir!
P.S. So far everyone here is extremely tolerant and polite to me considering I am speaking French oh so very badly.
xx
Monday, 17 January 2011
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Pencil sharpeners
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Looking back at 2010, based on the lack of entries, you might have guessed I've experienced some not so radical, but perhaps life-changing events. I'm still processing, so 2011 so far is a bit like a crap shoot. That said, I have set a plan in motion, ticked off a list of goals, you know, the usual suspects.
Amongst the action items, keeping a blog up-to-date, at least with more than one entry a year, is a good start. That is the explanation for yesterday's self-involved post - it was designed as a profile for a professor for a couple of course I've just started. I've been sharpening my pencil, practicing for these new courses in Theology and Creative Non-Fiction.
Imagine what could happen when you combine Theology and Creative Non-Fiction? The possibilities seem endless.
Don’t you love the phrase 'creative non-fiction?'
Looking back at 2010, based on the lack of entries, you might have guessed I've experienced some not so radical, but perhaps life-changing events. I'm still processing, so 2011 so far is a bit like a crap shoot. That said, I have set a plan in motion, ticked off a list of goals, you know, the usual suspects.
Amongst the action items, keeping a blog up-to-date, at least with more than one entry a year, is a good start. That is the explanation for yesterday's self-involved post - it was designed as a profile for a professor for a couple of course I've just started. I've been sharpening my pencil, practicing for these new courses in Theology and Creative Non-Fiction.
Imagine what could happen when you combine Theology and Creative Non-Fiction? The possibilities seem endless.
Don’t you love the phrase 'creative non-fiction?'
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Please return to your seat. The lavatory is presently occupied.
...............................................................................
I used to think I was a natural romantic, star-gazing, sort of person. Colleagues described me as passionate, youthful and energetic, oh, and maybe a wee bit competitive too (cards, Scrabble, extreme croquet...). I still adore walking in the woods and swimming in the sea. I love films but always cry during soppy scenes. And no, I am not averse to laughing out loud in public places, though I often get reproaching looks from boot-clad, skinny-jean thin mothers pushing SUV-like prams through jam-packed cafes.
Basically, I’m just a smart-arsed country-girl who loves Florence, Venice and London. I cannot imagine a life without Maria Callas, Elgar, Neil Young, The Weepies or, the crunch of leaves beneath large-limbed trees. I’m just as comfortable hanging out in galleries and historic houses as I am lobbing snowballs at ancient elm or oak trees. I am, however, still searching for the perfect wardrobe that can adequately house the last 15 years of jeans, Wellington boots, smart Chanel suits, maxi sundresses, flip-flops, as well the infinite number of vintage evening dresses and strappy shoes. So please do message me if you have a recommendation.
For creative inspiration I look to nature, reading famous speeches, exploring old places in new ways, the occasional shot of rum or tequila, but mainly a proper glass of Crozes Hermitage. I’ve lived and worked in many countries and so come dangerously equipped with an array of experiences and perspective. I value open-mindedness and diversity and remain hopeful that one day my feverish email and letter writing will render me immortal in a positive way.
Sadly, I devote too much time to earning a living and therefore have to rein things in on a regular basis in order to ensure work fits around life, rather than allowing work to define life. Hectic and eclectic habits are staples, and so guilty am I of reading too many books at once.
For all these reasons art and music are must haves for stimulation and respite, indeed, they are the warm springs that feed my soul. The radio is a constant companion; Radio 4, the BBC World Service and Classic FM are good friends, taking a back seat only to the wonderful collection of loyal and loving comrades (friends, relations and dogs) who over the years have endured my ever-curious and nomadic way of trespassing through life’s peaks and valleys.
Whether in spirit or in person, my lifelong companions have remained true blue as I’ve transformed myself into the person I am while roaming around the earth, tracking elephants in rain forests, having the blood sucked from my limbs by leeches (real and metaphorical). Hand in hand, we have walked together through cloud-engulfed villages, plunged courageously into the odd dark hole of despair or disgust. Volition aside, there were even several strong swimmers who joined me on a quest to traverse the cold and grey waters of the English Channel, though I’m sure at least some of them would have preferred sipping espressos or Pernod in busy city cafes, or onboard smoother sailing boats. In spite of our successful crossing, I could not ask for a finer set of friends to have tossing around the caverns of my heart, patiently enduring the bruising.
With four continents under my belt, I’ve found great pleasure in sleeping in spectacular 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th and 18th century houses and apartments. I still love sleeping under the stars, in the odd tree house, car and tent too. There was also that time when the wicked twin named Skipper might have spent a night sleeping beneath the course wool blanket. Although the details are fuzzy, it was definitely a wrong place, wrong time incident with no further consequences. For now and the foreseeable future, I’ve traded stumbling into pubs, clubs and parties for conference rooms and indiscrete and uncomfortably embarrassing moments.
All in all, I feel I’ve had a good crack at the scrapes and lucky escapes wheel. It is true: I have nearly wrecked a Lear jet; I was threatened by a wild-eyed, knife-wielding drug-addict while campaigning for "I can’t remember what" causes. There was that incident when I counted my blessings while smoothly "out-walking" (very, very quickly) a pair of rather menacing, automatic weapon-toting, cigarette-smoking undesirables. Please note, said events were no fault of my own.
Despite all of these memorable, riveting experiences, I’m always happiest when returning home to my Ithaca, the place where I will always be greeted by a pot of hot tea brewing and someone who has a side-splitting or hackle-raising tale to tell.
Post script: Lately, besides work and writing courses, I’ve been exploring my interest in stained glass, so truthfully, if today I won the lottery, I’d retire (after making several generous donations to a set list of charities that sits on my desk at the ready) to some artistic compound tucked into a wooded glen, where I’d ensconce myself contentedly creating or restoring stained glass, writing cryptic poetry and unabashedly embellished personal essays or possibly the odd memoir, occasionally escaping to both Italy for inspiration and the Jurassic coast for a cold swim. Indeed, spontaneous journeys will always be a mainstay because as green as I think I am, there is no denying how much I love the smell of jet-fuel.
I used to think I was a natural romantic, star-gazing, sort of person. Colleagues described me as passionate, youthful and energetic, oh, and maybe a wee bit competitive too (cards, Scrabble, extreme croquet...). I still adore walking in the woods and swimming in the sea. I love films but always cry during soppy scenes. And no, I am not averse to laughing out loud in public places, though I often get reproaching looks from boot-clad, skinny-jean thin mothers pushing SUV-like prams through jam-packed cafes.
Basically, I’m just a smart-arsed country-girl who loves Florence, Venice and London. I cannot imagine a life without Maria Callas, Elgar, Neil Young, The Weepies or, the crunch of leaves beneath large-limbed trees. I’m just as comfortable hanging out in galleries and historic houses as I am lobbing snowballs at ancient elm or oak trees. I am, however, still searching for the perfect wardrobe that can adequately house the last 15 years of jeans, Wellington boots, smart Chanel suits, maxi sundresses, flip-flops, as well the infinite number of vintage evening dresses and strappy shoes. So please do message me if you have a recommendation.
For creative inspiration I look to nature, reading famous speeches, exploring old places in new ways, the occasional shot of rum or tequila, but mainly a proper glass of Crozes Hermitage. I’ve lived and worked in many countries and so come dangerously equipped with an array of experiences and perspective. I value open-mindedness and diversity and remain hopeful that one day my feverish email and letter writing will render me immortal in a positive way.
Sadly, I devote too much time to earning a living and therefore have to rein things in on a regular basis in order to ensure work fits around life, rather than allowing work to define life. Hectic and eclectic habits are staples, and so guilty am I of reading too many books at once.
For all these reasons art and music are must haves for stimulation and respite, indeed, they are the warm springs that feed my soul. The radio is a constant companion; Radio 4, the BBC World Service and Classic FM are good friends, taking a back seat only to the wonderful collection of loyal and loving comrades (friends, relations and dogs) who over the years have endured my ever-curious and nomadic way of trespassing through life’s peaks and valleys.
Whether in spirit or in person, my lifelong companions have remained true blue as I’ve transformed myself into the person I am while roaming around the earth, tracking elephants in rain forests, having the blood sucked from my limbs by leeches (real and metaphorical). Hand in hand, we have walked together through cloud-engulfed villages, plunged courageously into the odd dark hole of despair or disgust. Volition aside, there were even several strong swimmers who joined me on a quest to traverse the cold and grey waters of the English Channel, though I’m sure at least some of them would have preferred sipping espressos or Pernod in busy city cafes, or onboard smoother sailing boats. In spite of our successful crossing, I could not ask for a finer set of friends to have tossing around the caverns of my heart, patiently enduring the bruising.
With four continents under my belt, I’ve found great pleasure in sleeping in spectacular 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th and 18th century houses and apartments. I still love sleeping under the stars, in the odd tree house, car and tent too. There was also that time when the wicked twin named Skipper might have spent a night sleeping beneath the course wool blanket. Although the details are fuzzy, it was definitely a wrong place, wrong time incident with no further consequences. For now and the foreseeable future, I’ve traded stumbling into pubs, clubs and parties for conference rooms and indiscrete and uncomfortably embarrassing moments.
All in all, I feel I’ve had a good crack at the scrapes and lucky escapes wheel. It is true: I have nearly wrecked a Lear jet; I was threatened by a wild-eyed, knife-wielding drug-addict while campaigning for "I can’t remember what" causes. There was that incident when I counted my blessings while smoothly "out-walking" (very, very quickly) a pair of rather menacing, automatic weapon-toting, cigarette-smoking undesirables. Please note, said events were no fault of my own.
Despite all of these memorable, riveting experiences, I’m always happiest when returning home to my Ithaca, the place where I will always be greeted by a pot of hot tea brewing and someone who has a side-splitting or hackle-raising tale to tell.
Post script: Lately, besides work and writing courses, I’ve been exploring my interest in stained glass, so truthfully, if today I won the lottery, I’d retire (after making several generous donations to a set list of charities that sits on my desk at the ready) to some artistic compound tucked into a wooded glen, where I’d ensconce myself contentedly creating or restoring stained glass, writing cryptic poetry and unabashedly embellished personal essays or possibly the odd memoir, occasionally escaping to both Italy for inspiration and the Jurassic coast for a cold swim. Indeed, spontaneous journeys will always be a mainstay because as green as I think I am, there is no denying how much I love the smell of jet-fuel.
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