Paris

Based on how much there is to see in Paris, it would seem that the city itself must necessarily be too immense to be traversed on foot. And if I had tried to experience every niche of the city during my four-day stay, that would indeed have been true. But the city is compact enough that the metro service is only a convenience, not a necessity — the trick is to explore the tangle of streets thoroughly, walking from A to B is straightforward. Of course, this all relies on being in the city to begin with. I was extremely fortunate to stay with Randy, Sylvie and their cats Fellini and O’Malley, a short metro ride south from the city proper in the commune of Villejuif.

While my grasp of the French language was (and remains) very poor, my ability to pronounce French words is non-existent, and this point was never made more clearly than when I arrived in Paris from Brussels. I did not understand the ticket system of the Paris metro, so I ignored the many ticket machines and made my way to the service desk. At this point I was aware that of all the countries I have visited, with the exception of Russia, France probably contains the fewest English-speaking people. I was also aware that to purchase the correct ticket, I would have to pronounce “Villejuif”.

My system of slurring letters together and ignoring entirely the final few letters was unsuccessful, and by the time I attempted my fourth interpretation of this mysterious word I could see a frenzied look of despair in the eyes of the lady behind the desk. Luckily for the both of us, and the queue of impatient (but polite) fellow travellers behind me, she seized the initiative and pronounced a word that I could imagine being spelt by a similar arrangement of letters. A vigorous nod resulted in a relieved smile and the precious ticket. In countries around the world, older generations may complain that the youth of the day are killing their language, but they can have nothing on my few brief minutes at Gare du Nord.

My first day in Paris was not spent seeing the major sights, nor was it spent discovering less famous sights unknown to the casual tourist. It was spent with Randy at a research lab in Evry where, for the first time since the start of September, the research part of my brain was required to kick into gear. I gave an informal, impromptu and high-level presentation of my PhD work — fortunately most of the small audience were able to understand my English — and had very interesting conversations with several people (Jean-Paul, Jerome and Javier know who they are). I was surprised to find that this day was a refreshing change, and since this visit my thoughts have occasionally strayed to my research. You may be relieved to hear that I spent my subsequent days in holiday mode (or obnoxious tourist mode, depending on your perspective).

Without further ado, I shall talk (write, type, take your pick) about Paris itself. A city of gothic churches, elegant square buildings (every window shielded by a balcony too small to be of any use), restaurants and cafes that spill over the streets, and bakeries, patisseries and chocolatiers. Also a city of art galleries, monuments and museums. A city that is remarkably clean (the infamous problem of canine feces has been mostly dealt with) despite being so large and busy. And a city that — to this untrained eye — runs on wine, bread and cheese.

Paris trivia #1: In 1931 the English author Arnold Bennett drank a glass of Parisian tap water to demonstrate that it was safe. He contracted typhoid and died.

Of course, I visited the usual suspects. The Eiffel Tower, elegant and imposing from afar, is quite something to behold at close range. I suffer from an irrational fear of heights, in the traditional manner of not enjoying precarious locations and also in the less common oh-no-the-roof-above-me-is-so-high fashion. The first fear prevented me from ascending the tower by elevator or stairs, and the second fear should have prevented me from walking under the tower. It didn’t. As I walked, I noticed that the wet asphalt gave a clear reflection of the towering construction above me. There may have been other times in my life that I have been as terrified as I was when I walked under the Eiffel Tower, but I feel quite confident in saying that I have never been more scared or closer to panic in my life. Fortunately, the rest of Paris was much more tranquil in comparison.

The Arc d’Triumph dominates a gigantic and chaotic roundabout — I don’t think that anyone knows for sure exactly how many lanes of traffic ring the Arc, nor what the rules are for giving way. From here, you can see straight down the Champs Elysees (the most expensive strip of real estate in Europe) to Place d’Concorde, home to a basilisk that is 300 years old and a gift from Egypt. A short stroll through the adjacent gardens brings you to the three glass pyramids that announce the entrance to the Louvre — if not the world’s most famous gallery, then at least home to the world’s most famous painting. The Louvre is ridiculously large and would have taken too much of my time away from the rest of the city, so I did not enter the gallery itself. Across the Seine river is the Musee d’Orsay, a comprehensive collection of impressionist art housed in a beautifully renovated train station, which I did enjoy from the inside.

Paris is also home to Notre Dame, a giant gothic cathedral that took several centuries to complete and is famous for being the hideout of Victor Hugo’s famous hunchback. From the outside it appears somewhat forbidding and frighteningly spiky; the dark and mysterious interior is thrown into stark contrast by the beautiful stained-glass windows. Sacre Couer is an entirely different church, bright and elegant and situated on top of the highest hill in Paris, affording it lovely sunset views across the city to the Eiffel Tower. The same hill is also home to a delightful neighbourhood of quaint houses, tiny cafes and extraordinarily steep roads and stairways.

At the bottom of the same hill is the infamous Moulin Rouge, looking less glitzy and glamorous than it did in the movie of the same name, and situated in the laid-back sleaziness of the strip club and sex store neighbourhood. On the other side of the hill is Montemarte, a predominantly African neighbourhood. Here, the streets are home to a range of food stalls selling both standard fare and more exotic produce. Having taken a photo of some pig feet in a butcher’s window, I also discovered that some of the locals have a (dubious) command of the English language — I was told to “f@#k off”.

Paris is also home to several charming neighbourhoods where nobody swore at me (well, not in English at least). The St Martin canal runs through a small and very pleasant region of town. Near Place d’Italie are the Parisian catacombs. When disease became rife among the population, bodies were exhumed and interred into a vast network of tunnels below the city streets. In fact, the arrangement of the tunnels often mirrored the layout of the streets above. A somewhat creepy anecdote is that one portion of the catacombs was used as a place of worship. Back above ground the Latin Quarter, in all likelihood, consists of nothing more than a chaotic nest of streets and an exorbitant array of cafes and restaurants. A nearby street (ie, just outside of this quarter) was lined solely with kebab stores, and having declined several invitations to buy lunch I was amused to find that, according to the Lonely Planet, the locals refer to this street as Bacteria Alley.

Based on my experience, you’d be hard pressed to find another street in Paris where the cuisine has such a bad reputation — the food was consistently excellent. The wine was probably excellent too, but I’m not qualified to pass such a judgement. The French wine I had tasted nice and was definitely very drinkable, but don’t start asking me for any recommendations or tasting notes — the reds tasted like reds, and the whites tasted like whites. The cheeses were exceptional on their own, in baguettes, and in fondue (thanks to Javier for introducing me to this).

In response to Randy’s glowing recommendation, I bought some Berthillon glace (glace as in French for ice cream, not as in glace cherries), which proved to be absolutely delicious. The lime was sour and tangy; the cherry was slightly sweet but also quite tart; both the fruit flavours were great, but the chocolate was the bees’ knees — so good that chocolate mousse pales in comparison. Speaking of chocolate and all things sweet, the chocolatiers and patisseries in Paris (and, in my experience, across France in general) do an excellent job of catering to the insatiable sweet-tooth.

Paris trivia #2: In 2008 the Australian doctor Robert Moss (ha!) drank many glasses of Parisian tap water to quench his thirst. So far, he remains in good health.

In the evenings I enjoyed the company of Randy and Sylvie, who were fantastic hosts. Strangely enough, I also got on well with their two cats. In my previous (and very limited) experiences, cats have not been the most friendly or non-violent creatures, but to my relief Fellini and O’Malley showed themselves to be nothing more than curious and friendly critters. I had a very nice time in Villejuif (and I even learned how to pronounce Villejuif!) and after four wonderful days I left Paris and headed to Nancy.

I hope you have had a fantastic and joyous Christmas, and best wishes for the New Year!