leaving Paris

There are always two ways for me to leave Paris: either catch the early morning flight out, or the late afternoon one. There are benefits and drawbacks to each: leaving early means that you have to be up and out before breakfast. The benefit -- you arrive earlier and not what is, in effect, the middle of the night for you. The afternoon departure of course gives you a full morning in Paris. A leisurely breakfast. One last walk. The price? That late arrival. Usually the decision is easy: I base it on price. One connection is always cheaper. I take that one.

Today I got the late departure flights. And I'm glad! This trip has been all about an easy pace and the removal of constraints to my day. Not rushing this morning gives me that extra moment to let go, to feel the joy of being here.

Breakfast is relaxed. It takes me a whole hour to work through it:

I come toward the end of the breakfast time and I watch the lingerers, the late comers, and the incredibly efficient staff that is here to bring them the foods they want. If you ever read hotel reviews, complaints abound about the poky service in the morning. Many people are anxious to head out. To them, breakfast is just a meal to check off before they really get going. The Hotel Baume has worked hard over the years to perfect the breakfast experience. They've expanded tables to avoid any waiting. They've upped the staff. The whole operation is run so smoothly, though for me, their pace is irrelevant. I am among the lingerers, slowly easing into the day. The servers smile each time they pass my table. They know.

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I go for a walk. I really wanted to visit the chocolate shop called  Les Trois Chocolats. It's about a half hour walk and they are open only on certain days and today happens to be one of them. (For some reason I seem to be following them on Instagram and their photos are astonishingly good!) I've been meaning to stop there for the past three Parisian visits. And again I give myself a firm no, I show too little restraint when faced with excellent chocolate. My bags are full, my wallet is empty. Besides, I'd have to do a brisk walk. Nothing within me is calling for brisk. 

So I walk, at a leisurely pace really, and I almost get killed but for the Americans that I encounter along the way. Here's what happened: 

I'm in no hurry. I have no particular goal. I am meandering through the 5th district, in the direction of Notre Dame. It makes for a pleasant walk, one that I haven't done this time around.  The funny thing is I think about this very issue: how I should be careful, because I sure wouldn't like to wind up in a hospital today. 

Occasionally I pause to take a photo. I've done dangerous things before to frame a good picture. Remember running on the train station and ramming into a metal post? A hospital visit was required after that one. And once, in Paris, I stepped off the curb to get a better shot, right in the path of a careening bus. He saw me and stopped. And honked his horn very loudly. I deserved that!

Today, though, I wasn't in the mood for danger. I waited patiently while a trash van came down the single lane one-way road. I want him out of the picture. He passes behind me, I then step out and try to get a good angle. And then a group of Americans, standing nearby shouts very loudly, screams really: be careful, be careful!  I look around me. The van hadn't made a good turn so he was backing up to try again. He didn't see me right behind him and it was really only inches that separated his reear from me by the time I jumped out of the way. 

 The Americans then screamed at the driver -- you almost killed her! 

The lawyer in me wonders if it was really the driver's fault. Obviously he was going the wrong way. Obviously he should have looked carefully. But you can't really see what's in back unless you have a new car with all the new bells and whistles and screens. And from my perspective? Well, I couldn't possibly expect a car driving backwards. 

I thanked them profusely for saving my life -- in French so they'd think they had saved a French person, perhaps making them feel better about the way America is treating Europeans right now. 

In thinking about it, I dont know that I necessarily would have been killed. He was going slowly and presumably he would not have kept going once he hit me. But broken bones and a hospital visit were definitely in the cards.

The picture that almost broke the camel's back, with that narrow street clearly visible at the bottom: 

I walk back to the hotel. It's a misty day and the air quality isn't the best so I'm glad I didn't venture out far.

Note the audacity of some cyclists here. Headphones on, coat flying, no head protection, but oh that leg sure looks seductive!

 

From here, I'm just a hop skip to my hotel. 

 

I didn't eat a crepe this time. Maybe on my next visit...

And once more, the Baume, with its cheerful and helpful staff, ready to help, ready to say "see you soon."

 

(one more ride in the elevator...)

I have to cab it to the airport. There is now an elevator at the train station, but I can't count on it being functional. In Paris, if you can't carry something up or down  stairs, you should think twice about taking the metro. I am too old to lift and tote heavy stuff many flight of stairs. So I get a taxi. This is the one unfortunate thing about travel to Paris: the taxi ride is too long, too congested, too unpleasant. Ah well, it gives me the one thing to complain about. And yes, I realize it's my own fault. If I had traveled really lightly and purchased nothing, I could have taken the train.

 

*     *     * 

The flight from Paris is on time, which is good because my layover in Detroit is unusually short. Or at least was supposed to be short. As in the trip out, it's that last leg that turns out to be the troublemaker. Something about missing crew, overbooked flight... all unimportant details now because we did take off eventually and we did land in Madison and not in Marseille, though it was nearing midnight, or were I to think in French -- 7 in the morning.

Ed is waiting at the airport. We drive to the farmette, drop him off and I go home. My temporary home -- for the next 12 days. I try not to think about all that needs to be done in preparation for my move. I need to do it without giving any sign to my dog that anything is out of the ordinary. A challenge indeed! 

Good night, from one who is at the moment living at the Edge.

with so much love...