on the road less travelled in Ireland and france

We start the day with a trip to one of Paris’ top boulangerie.

Monday, April 29, 2019

WEATHER: Bright sunny, cold morning. Forecast: 3-16 degrees

“Let’s go out for breakfast” says Fran. It is our first morning in Paris. We walk “just around the corner” to the Du Pain et Des Ides boulangerie. It is a crisp, bright morning, the grey clouds that welcomed us to Paris the day before are gone.

It is a Monday in Paris and people are going back to work – even the cycle lane is filled with people on scooters and bikes.

As we step out of the Airbnb apartment our attention is drawn by the sound of falling water. We climb up onto the canal bank to find the local council have drained the lock, worker seem to be inspecting the brickwork and removing the dumped scooters, rubbish and street detritus. 

We walk on. Fran is drinking in the streetscape, the buildings, the street art – this is new to her. Fran has never been to Europe and says excitedly: “Look at that street”.

We find the boulangerie, it is packed. Du Pain et Des Ides is one of THE best boulangerie in Paris and attracts a lot of attention, I suspect the locals avoid it for most of the year.

I order (in French) croissants, an escargot, coffee and a hot chocolate and we sit on benches outside in the cold morning air. Young Japanese tourist sit beside us, immaculately dressed (make-up perfect for selfies), their bored personal guides sit on the other side of us discussing the day’s itinerary.

We walk back to the apartment a different way; parents are taking young children (“enfants” I tell Fran) to school. It is the same scene the world over, some children are happy to go to school. Others are not so happy.

Fran falls in love with the French children – most are kindergarten kids and were dressed for the cold morning. So – like the rest of Paris, it seems – the children look stylish.

We wander up to one of Paris’s many wide roads, the tree-lined Boulevard de Magenta, then into the backstreets, passed houses wrapped in vines, each building seems unique, very different to Australia. It brings tears of joy to Fran.

Fran is loving Paris. She wants to come back next year, for a month – to live and explore the city more. She is getting used to the language, Fran is answering in French, she is immersing herself and loving it.

We go back to the apartment and get ourselves ready for our first full day in Paris. As usual, we have little planned.

The nearby flea market is open (and the largest antique market in Europe is also open). So off we set.

First stop is the community garden, just up the canal, to inspect the Community Garden, identify the species … and to listen to the birdsong.

 We walk through the park, with it rolling slopes, to the nearby metro station, Gard d’Est. It is a straight run to Porte de Clingencourt, and a handy sign saying “Puce” (meaning “flea” directs us). We are heading for a flea market.

We are soon walking through the bustling street market, Fran easily palming off street hustlers who want to see us the latest mobile phones.

Or something that looked like the latest model. We are keenly aware of pickpockets and secure our backpacks but we don’t feel threatened.

(The markets are huge on Saturday and Sunday, Monday seems to have been regarded as something of an afterthought).

There is bright sunshine, but at street level the day is not-so-warm, we are on our winter coats.

We stepped off the street, and away from the stalls, and into the antique section of the market.

For an hour we wander between small shops selling everything from furniture, to posters and Star Wars (and other sci-fi) collectibles. Vintage clothes sat side-by-side with brownie and polaroid cameras.

Buttons were displayed between bobbins, beads and broches. It was all there.

The atmosphere in the antique market somewhat removed from the nearby street stalls selling everything from designer sport gear to hukka pipes, fast food to souvenirs.

We browsed and walked away with an old photo of Notre Dame (before the fire) and a cup of coffee for Fran. 

With a long day of sunlight in front of us – sunset was a 9.30pm – we decided to go to the Chateau du Vincennces and used the cross-town light rail line to get there.

Riding the tram through the non-tourist parts of Paris allowed us to see the other side of Paris (and its residents) and were amazed by how the different styles of housing and even spotted a shanty town,  tucked beside the rail line.

The train pulled into a station and we saw what looked like a dead body lying crumpled on the pavement next to the tramline.

People seemed to be ignoring the crumpled mess of clothing which protruded arms and legs and a hat-covered head. We tried to look closer, but the tram pulled out of the station and the body (dead or otherwise) was left behind us.

The Château de Vincennes is a massive 14th and 17th century French royal fortress in the town of Vincennes, to the east of Paris. Abandoned in the 18th century, the château as a state prison, housed the marquis de Sade, Diderot, Mirabeau, as well as a community of nuns of the English Benedictine Congregation. From 1796, it served as an arsenal. More recently it was military base before being opened to the public.

The chateau doesn’t make a lot of the guide books, this is a shame. You get to see an old chapel and palace with metres of each other.

Approaching from the metro you see the high walls – the perimeter – first. It isn’t until you get closer that you see the moat. The banks around the chateau appears to have been built up just to emphasis the depth of this dry moat.

It is easy to imagine an advancing army stopping to wonder “What do we do now?” As moats go, it is impressive.

We walked across the drawbridge, yes it does lift up. Had our bags searched by security and wandered across the old parade ground to pay our nine Euros.

We saw the chapel first. It appeared to have been de-concentrated (though there is an altar), given this was once a military base this is not surprising. (You can see graffiti carved by soldiers dating back to 1916) in the parapet above the nave.

The chapel was empty of pews but an altar remained in place.

By this stage we were hungry and headed to a pop-up antique fair that was open at the back of the grounds. We hit a problem when we found they didn’t take bank cards.

It was a cash only venue, we had spent our last bit of cash getting into the palace.

The nearest cash point was 2kms away. We were hungry and tired … and searched our pockets and backpacks for money.

Then a passing man – who had been to see the antique show – passed through the checkpoint, saw us rummaging for funds and gave us his day pass. We got in for free.

We went to the pop up cafe for lunch where we were confronted by two French QWCA-style women who couldn’t understand my pathetic French.

They called over one of the waiters who could speak English. When he heard we had come from Down Under, his face lit up. “Viva Australia!” he said. 

The smiling waiter led us to a table, got us water, bread and two coq au Vin dishes from a farm in Normandy. And then he only charged us for one meal. (The food was superb and came with “potato Anglais” ie boiled spuds.)

Fortified we went across the bridge (over another moat) and up the battlement of the castle that dated back to the 14th Century. It was nice wandering along the timber-covered walkway, where kings and queens once walked.  

Occasionally we’d look out at Paris. From one window we saw a group of middle-aged men enjoying a picnic on an earthen bank beside the chateau. Well, in truth they were drinking.

Looking close we saw one of the men had wandered away to take a long piss against the wall of the castle. We were tempted to take photo for the caption “Pissing on history” – but we resisted.

 We toured what was once the royal apartments. It would be nice to describe the glorious decorations, the tapestries and gilt furniture – rooms that would be fit for a king – but there is little of that in this particular castle.

Any treasures would have been removed when the chateau was turned into a jail in the 18th Century. In fact, you can still see some of the graffiti the prisoners scratched into the wall centuries ago.

Yes, there are a few multi-media installations but a lot of the time we wandered through empty rooms and it was left to our imagination to wonder what the castle would have been like in its heyday.

 This is especially so, when we dropped in to see what was once the king’s bathroom. The bareness of the room left a lot to the imagination.

We wound our way along the tour, keenly aware we were the last visitors for the day and the staff were closing doors behind us. As we walked back across the drawbridge we passed knots of museum personnel eager to finish their shift and enjoy the longer evenings.

We walked around the chateau to see a stand of trees that had been trimmed to resemble squares, see another two men pissing in the walls of the historic monument, take photo of strange French dogs the size of a small horse. And to let our sore feet recover.

Where to next? With at least four hours of sunlight (sunset at about 9.30pm) left we boarded the metro for the Arc De Triomphe, on the other side of Paris.

We successfully battled rush hour traffic to emerge at the Etoile, the huge star-shaped traffic roundabout where the Arc is located.

It was if we had entered Selfie Central. Tourists armed with phone cameras and selfie stick scrambled for the best position. A bride, in a full flowing wedding gown, was on her way to a fashion shoot in front of the large white monument.

Newcomers to Paris will arrive at the Arc and rush cross the roundabout. (I did this myself in 1976, when I was much younger, stupider but faster on my feet). But to try and dodge run hour traffic at the Etoile at run hour is akin to suicide and don’t expect anybody to come to your rescue either.

Looking at the roundabout where 12 avenues of traffic converge is dizzying as motorist try to weave their way around each other to get to their destination.

You will notice the lack of words like “lanes” and ‘signage’ and “traffic lights” in that sentence that is because there is a lack of these things at the cobble stone covered Etoile.

I am told the best way to navigate French roundabout is without fear and with panache.

At Selfie Corner I took a photo of Fran in front of the 240 metre tall Arc. Fran returned the favour, waiting for just the right moment – so my selfie would be blocked by a passing tour bus.

We were sensible and took the underground tunnel that links the Arc to the rest of Paris.

On this particular Monday the Arc was crowded. The usual tourist throng bustled to get into the Arc (to admire the view from the top of the Arc) – it is a Paris Must Do – adding to the crowd was a military commemoration ceremony for fallen Australian and New Zealand soldiers. (A squad of machine-toting soldiers kept the crowd to the back and sides of the arch).

By pure happenstance we have stumbled on an Anzac ceremony. Fran was fascinated. We had a link to Australia, here on the other side of the globe.

This was our first encounter with crowds of tourists – and we didn’t like it. We listened to the ceremony, snapped a few photos and headed back down the subway (ignoring the souvenir sellers).

We stopped at the metro route planner, worked out the best metro back to Gare D’Est, produced our carnet (tickets) and dived into the rail system eager for home … but with full bladders.

We got back to the Airbnb, rode the coffin, managed to open the still clunky door lock (we had oiled the mechanism with olive oil before we left that morning) and just made the toilet.

That evening, on impulse, Fran and I decide to join the crowds of people enjoying drinks at sunset at the Quai Valmy, on the Canal St Martin.

Every evening in Paris it seems people grab a six-pack of beers, bottles of wine, nibbles and wander up to the canal (or the banks of the Seine) to drink, chat and smoke.

So, we decided to join the locals.

We bought beers at the local corner supermarket, called Franprix, but we didn’t have a bottle opener and went to buy one.

The man on the checkout asked (in French) if we wanted two bottles open. We said “Yes, please”. And then he used the lip of the counter to take the bottle tops off. (Fran remarked: “Got to love France’s refreshing disregard for occupational Health and safety when it comes to opening beer bottle that way”.)

As we walked out into the warm evening air, beers in hand, Fran said: “God I love this country” and went to drink Belgium beer (9%) on the banks of the canal as the sun set.

Dinner that night was Pain du Amis, Jambon, fromage, bacon flavoured chips and red wine. While listening to French singer Sascha Distel on Spotify. We had walked 20,000+ steps around Paris since stepping out for breakfast that morning .