Paris is a movable Feast

I went for a ramble through Paris

I pipped myself up for adventure with a coffee and croissant at Notre Dame. I was tempted to buy a beret, but I was saving that cliche for a saloon and a copy of Sartre for later.

The river is the heart Paris and while many great cities are built on rivers, see the Thames and the Tiber, for Paris the pulse of the city is the Seine. I had started the day in Gare De Lyon,  so I could book my ticket to Bologna. My French can't be what I think it is because Mademoiselle de Gaulle behind the Billet counter answered my every questions with "Non". She had the slightest whispers of a De Gaulle mustache too.

I knew my history though and these Frenchies you see are all Bluster no Back bone. I repeated "Jay Vou Drey un reservation poor Paris-Nice poor Lundey"

"Non"

It all changed though, an American Francophile behind me heard my struggles and came to my aid. We began making progress, it could have been the Summer of 1942 the way we were tearing through this daughter of Vichy France.

It turned out, unsurprisingly, inevitably, the trains were on strike, like a fly in my croc-mousiuer, my plans had been scuppered by La Resistance. The best laid plans, or c'est la vie as they don't say in France. I was going to be in Paris for a few more days.

After the fiasco at the station I needed to regroup, I pushed on down the left bank of the Seine. Like a burlesque show at the Mulan Rouge the grandiose and sensuality of Paris revealed herself. The Palais de Jutsice, Instituit de france, on the opposite bank the louve. Further along the Assemblee nationale and opposite the Grand Palais. Past the tremendous Invalides and finishing under the Tour Eiffel.

What can I cry but "Ohh La laa Mangnifique!"
This incredible piece of engineering would have made our own I.Brunnel green eyed with envy.

I stopped for a light bite. I had brought some brie, cold meats, tuna and a large baguette and a small bottle of French's cheapest. It was far to much for one man, but I'm far more greedy than one man. Beside I could get away with it in Paris, here I would just be a Garmound.

I crossed the river, both banks of the Seine have second hand book boxes, staffed by men from the cast of "Allo, Allo". They all sell the same selection of Jazz age reproduction posters, or re done oils of Sezanne, Mathis and Van Gough. None of the previous caught my attention.  I liked the 1920 copies of French erotica. All buxom ladies in fish net tights. The French do Saucy so well.

I had crossed the river so I could walk up Champs Elysees. It was pretty dull to be honest. Much like Oxford Street but broader. Im sure both are a real hoot if you have a fistful of Europes or Pounds, but as ever I had neither. I had headed this way though because 1999 Michelin Travel Guide to Paris was telling me their was an Arch to celebrate French military victories. Ha Ha. I know, this I had to see.

The Arc de Triompe had been commissioned by Napolean after the battle of Austerlizt and a few years before us Brits had took the cane out the cupboard and gave him a damn good thrashing. If anything it shows all empires have feet of clay. Beneath the Arc is the tomb of the unknown warrior, like in Britian an eternal memorial, and also like Britain, France despite the eighty years is still trying to come to terms with the insanity of the WWI.

While not meaning to remain macabre, I visited the Catacombs, the Michelen man had told me that I could gain access for two Europes. This had to be too good to be true. It was I paid four. It was worth around five so I still got a deal, and it acts as a caveat for all those who like me think they can get away with a nine year old guide book made by a tyre company. The catacombs are interesting but hardly fascinating. (Another correction for the Michelin man). The stacks of bones and skulls are terrifying. Its twenty meters beneath the busy streets of Paris and both the exit and the entrance are completely anonymous. Water drips from the low ceiling, the tunnels seem endless and off course I have mentioned the millions of bones. To be honest the hole place gave me the crepes.

Paris has museams, galleries, bars and cafes, it is wonderful as anyone who has ever been must know. For some reason though all Parisians don't seem to be schooled in GCSE French. My requests for Billest, prix et Reservatzions fell on mute ears and gallic smirks, sometimes I would just get a hunched shouldered shrug and a scowl from one of Paris's Quasimodos.

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I almost didn't make it back to Versailles. I had asked the ticket inspector at the metro "Ou et Versailles?" And with greasy Brie covered fingers pressed my ticket to his window. "Jee" he replied

"Gee?" I said
"Qui Jee"

I ran to the platform and boarded the train just as it was leaving.
"Zut Alors" I cried as I realized I was on the wrong train. Gs and Js. Somethings in Paris are very different.