PARIS CHRONICLES: PART 1

It was the summer of 15. There was a flurry of activity in one of the apartments in a silent neighborhood of den Haag. A medley of noises was coming from our living space. Dishes cluttering back into their shelves, the annoying sound of zips being opened and closed, heavy footsteps running back and forth, last minute reminders for chargers, phones and wallets over a shrill item song. With a final rattling of suitcase wheels, we tried to slink away from our perennially silent apartment block before the neighbors give us the stink eye.

In about an hour’s time, we were sitting on the plump red seats of Thalys Express, trying to force the recliners to work. I spent a good part of my first ten minutes, wrestling with the seat, which kept pushing me back like a Sumo fighter, after which I gave up to take in the feeling of travelling in a train that cuts across Netherlands, Belgium and France.

Perhaps it was the effect of keeping my nose buried in mystery novels through an entire childhood that I was reminded of ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ and of course the unforgettable Poirot. It was a pity because in contrast to the racy novel, my journey was largely uneventful, except when a suitcase fell on a particularly large, bald head. There are very few instances when I don’t miss India, and this was certainly not one of them. Be it the constantly changing landscape, balancing acts in jerking, rattling coaches, avoiding attention from over-interested neighbors, the eternal pleasure of eavesdropping on conversations and devouring a constant stream of snacks; train journeys are one of the most enriching and entertaining experiences, back home. Conversations in Thalys constituted of “excuse mois” and throat clearings, apart from an occasional snore. When the train finally pulled into Gare du Nord station after about four hours, I had several reasons to be glad.

“Careful, now,” said my husband of half year, in a cautious voice. My eyes snapped to attention as I hitched my handbag up into my armpit and tightened the hold on my luggage. We had heard several stories that serve as shining accolades to Parisian thieves notorious for picking pockets without even the pockets getting to know of the theft. Clutching our possessions, we trooped down a flight of stairs (no escalators) that seemed to lead right into the bowls of earth, to buy travel passes for the next three days.

We looked at a giant map of Paris for a solid 15 minutes, trying to decipher the hieroglyphs, before deciding to ask for help. On looking around, I noticed that the long line leading to the ticket machine was actually leading to an officer whose job was to help lost tourists like us. I have read about the French way of moving arms and gesticulating while speaking, now I understand that it comes from an attempt to make tourists understand the rapid French they speak while replying. After several windmill-like movements of arms and repeated references to Google maps, we finally purchased travel passes and went to the hotel to rest.

I love the Metro in Paris. Every part of the city is connected by a maze of metro lines, all colour coded. In the days we spent in researching the best place to stay in, the oft-repeated advice was to find a hotel within the first concentric circle connected by red and yellow tram lines, so that all attractions could be covered without much walking. However, in our hurry to beat prices, we ended up taking a hotel that was connected by one of the outer rings of the metro. In hindsight, that was one of our best decisions, because we discovered over the next three days that there is nothing like exploring a city by foot. After a refreshing nap, we got dressed to go to the most famous landmark of Paris – Eiffel.

I am not going to list out the various attractions of Paris here. There are too many of them and too much information given out. But what I would like to share are the so called mundane things, things that are overlooked or lost in the grandeur of much bigger things. For instance, the Metropolitan and the passages that lead up to a stop.

Our experience in using the Metro more than made up for the uneventful journey in Thalys Express. Paris metro stations are stark contrasts to the teeming and overpopulated city.  The rail line is somewhat of a lifeline to the city, however whether it is life-saving or life-taking depends on your co-passengers. They are long and empty, giving an air of spaciousness and suspicion combined with dread. But the passages smell very familiar – of stale urea and alcohol. Footsteps echo off the concrete floors as the dim lighting flickers and often gives out, upping the spooky experience by several notches. Add to it the metallic rumbling and groaning of century old coaches as trams pull up tiredly with screechy wheels protesting any kind of motion. Hugging our belongings, we dashed across these criss-crossing tunnels, hopping over puddles and trying to ignore the brown things nestled in dark corners. The information counter just before the ticket checking machine was many-a-time vacant and in a few instances its occupants lounged about, eating burgers and ignoring ticketless passengers who jumped over the metal girders without a care. We wasted twenty five bucks, buying the pass for three days when all you need is an ability to jump. The journey itself is a series of fun rides punctuated with sharp turns, shaking and rattling. And if you are lucky, you might be sitting right next to models that studiously re-apply makeup and dazzle you with a rare smile.

Coming back to the Eiffel tower experience, two tram rides and a short walk later, we got our first glimpse. I need to confess that I had never been impressed by the once-tallest tower. An assemblage of seven and half million tonne weighing solid steel girders never really caught my fancy, especially when you stand it next to the Taj or Colosseum. If there are any others like me out there, take it from me, it is really a different thing to see a metal monster live.

The scene beneath the tower sent thrills of excitement through my body. It was like a fair, with people selling interesting things - toys that shot up 12 feet through air, lights that changed colours and shapes, cheap champagne and even dead roses, all by ‘Indians’ who apparently thought exchanging some desi bonhomie might make us loyal customers. But what really caught my attention was an extremely crowded crepe and ice cream stall. Outside it was a queue competing with the one at an elevator taking people up the Eiffel. With a knowing look, the husband steered me straight to Eiffel, trying to distract me with small talk. One look at the queue told us that we might have to wait three hours for a ten minute view from atop the tower.

Deciding to climb up the Eiffel was the first and best of impulsive decisions Paris persuaded us to take. The first 100 steps were a breeze, next 50 were okay, following 25 were manageable and every step onwards seemed like punishment. Huffing and puffing, I reached the first tier and flopped down on the wooden seat like a puppet with no puppeteer. The place was dotted by cafes with ambiance worth a third of the prices, they forced out of us.  I was already bored of fries and cokes and yearned for warm Nutella filled crepes and a gelato. After a short break, we trudged up the stairs again to the second tier. Climbing made me appreciate the Eiffel like nothing else did. Think of the poor workers who had climb up and down these treacherous stairs every single day!   

Elevators took us up the final few floors and to the top of famous Eiffel tower. It was jam packed and I moved through the crowds at a snail’s pace, fighting the furious gales of wind. It wasn’t until I looked at Paris stretched out below, did I realize that I have an acute fear of heights. A light headedness took over and I shrank back to feel the comforting concrete wall behind me. The man who solemnly promised to look after me, looked gleefully through the binoculars oblivious to the fact that my face had turned green and legs into jelly. I held on to my position, refusing to let go of my sanctuary, while shooting dirty looks at him. After an eternity, he ambled back with absolutely no concern about my stance against the wall – almost like a lizard and asked if we could begin our descent. I was angry enough to push him right down the romantic Eiffel. However, I kept my cool and stepped down the stairs. A few eons later, we reached Earth and hi-fived each other to have accomplished a feat many don’t opt to. It was time for celebration and I rushed to the crepe shop without much ado.

It was twilight. We sat by river Seine, away from the milling crowds, listening to the gentle lapping of water against the centuries old embankment. It was peaceful. Suddenly, Eiffel came to life. A golden light streamed over the body, making the dull grey of steel look like solid gold. The top was truly spectacular. Twinkling lights adorned the golden body like shimmering diamonds. Then I understood why Eiffel is one of the wonders of the world. It is beautiful. And it is home to the best crepes in the world.