remote cards

As if to prove that Paris is a time eating monster we arrive back in
the city at 10am, an early departure from Lyon and falling asleep on
the train. By the time we get from Garre de Lyon to Garre de Nor and
get our bags stowed in left luggage, its gone noon. What did we do?
One station, to another, though getting tickets was time consuming,
and the lack of signs to luggage, or at least correct signs hinder.

What do you want to do with our day in Paris, I asked her. I want to
do stuff, to shop, to go to Muji, she tells me. I want to go to
Mariage Freres, so I suggest we hit the Marais, knowing that we will
find both there. The old routine, out with the pocket map, and tracing
lines. We pick a station, get out there, straight away I spot my first
space invader of the day, though there are more to come. Its across
the road and I want a picture from here, but a lorry gets in the way,
we wait, but the lorry makes a real meal of the manoeuvre. Did you get
an address for Muji, she asks, concerned that we’ll get lost. My
memory is that its hard to miss, but I’ve texted someone in the know,
though my assurance is that we will find it by zen navigation and not
to worry. We turn a corner, and I point, what, she asks, there, on the
corner, the red sign? Muji! And as expected, we find it without
guidance. We go in, and she struggles to side how much to buy, I’m not
devout myself – my bag is from here, from that New Year trip when I
had luggage issues, a good bag I use still and every day.

After that we have lunch, we pick a café across the road from Muji,
discussing how depending on time maybe we’ll check out the falafel
place we’d been to on New Year’s Day. We ask for a menu, he points at
the chalk board on the wall, a handful of things, we look at each
other and shrug, both ordering the chicken salad. The food looked good
from what we were seeing other people eat, but the place leaves a
little to be desired – the plank of wood put up on the wall behind
her, the holes cut for cables, gaping holes, wires dangling
worryingly. Mounted above that are three mirrored frames, with light
fittings, only one of which looks anything like functional. The food
arrives, and it is good, decent portion, pretty edible. Outside there
is one parking space, well a space big enough for a car even if it’s
not a legal space. These big Mercedes jeep things take turns parking
there, and they each must have parking sensors, given the metal
bollards along the pavement edge, that they get within a hair’s width
of, but never hit. The first guy is an older guy, looks like the
clichéd used car sales man, slumped shoulders, camel coat, I think
they call it. He is here and gone. Next one is a couple of Jewish
guys, one of the things the Marais is known for – having been hit on
by a Greek guy in the street the last time I was in the area, I can
tell you what the other thing is. They sit there in the car, with the
skull caps, and the curled hair, chatting to each other. One of them
has a camcorder, which he uses to film the street. They climb out, and
film up and down, there is nothing touristy about this, much more
intent and deliberate, which is what I find odd about the whole thing.
She points out, it’s a British vehicle, I hadn’t noticed, the steering
wheel is on the other side, she says, and of course to me it’s exactly
where I’d expect it.

After lunch, our next mission is to find the tea shop. This is
trickier, the picture in my head of the street, it matches too many of
the winding side streets. It’s a maze in some small way. The last time
I tried to find it using my map, I ended up in the other branch, the
one across the river, that’s the one that’s listed. But we check the
map, perhaps this one is still shown, it is, so we are tracing
streets, and wandering – back this way, along this one, down that one,
that sign there, no the next. Along the way, another couple of space
invaders, and a stencil of someone holding a pink balloon, I take
pictures of about a half dozen of those along the pavement, along the
road. I take a look at all the teas, and as usual I can’t decide where
to start. So I suggest we sit in, have tea, after all we are both
tired and the real aim of the day is to take it easy before she goes
back to Greece and I to Scotland.

Its an old colonial type of place, like a time warp. Waiters in white
suits, open spaces, palm leaves. A menu full of teas, laid out by
country for your exploratory needs. We decide to go with the cake
deal, a couple of bits of cake to go with our tea. We get big pots,
she gets red tea, I get blue, clad in mirrored shells round the pot to
keep them hot. We eat cake, chat, and watch the people, but soon
enough we are full, too soon after lunch, full of cake, and full of
tea, and shifting leads to discomfort. Perhaps we’ll give the falafel
a miss. By now its getting towards three, my flight is a bit earlier
than hers, but we’ve decided to head out to CDG together, and to allow
plenty of time for the monster city to consume and not be delayed. Of
course, when we get back to the station, grab our bags, and head for
the train, we get an express, and are there in no time.

We both manage to get checked in, but are kind of under whelmed by
this part of the airport – where are the shops, the cafés? Do we take
the minimum option or go through security and hope that we can hang
out in sprawling luxurious departure lounge till we need to go in
opposite directions for completely different gates. We go with the
departure area, but there is nothing there, its just a lead way to
your next part, with no return. So that’s how it ends, forced to say
our goodbyes, head through our gates and wait alone till take off.
Though I think we are both ok with that, both tired, both with books
to read, and happy to take a seat, put our feet up, and wait for our
flights to be called.

Labels: paris, travel