The sun is struggling to make its way out from the heavy cloud cover. The chill is exacerbated by a strong breeze and the jacket I am wearing is inadequate for this autumn day in Paris. I wished I had held onto the vintage camel coat I hurriedly sent back to Australia while on a layover in Singapore. Typical of me I’d overpacked and then worried that it would be a continual problem as I circumnavigated the globe to get to my ultimate destination in Houston, Texas.
Why-oh-why am I so plagued by indecision about such irrelevant things? In my “day job,” I’m highly regarded as being able to make quick and sound business decisions, but in my personal life, the opposite is frequently true. Today is a perfect example.
I’d arrived in London just 48 hours before expecting that this morning my sister and I would be here in Paris together. I was relying on her knowledge of French, and confidence in navigating Paris when she announced that she had to attend business meetings and would not be joining me. Her announcement hit me for six as I weighed up the pro’s and con’s of simply staying in Kent. Embarrassed at my hesitation I simply went along with her plans to get me to Ashford Station where I would catch the Eurostar to Paris.
Once onboard the train, I was again plagued by indecision. Would it be safe to leave my bag and go to the loo? What if I got thirsty? How would I find my hotel? In desperation, I pulled out the well worn “Lonely Planet Guide To Paris” that Helen had pressed into my hand as she rushed off to her meetings. I skimmed the pages trying to settle my nerves. Finally finding some sort of calm I sat back and tried to enjoy the landscape flying past the train’s window.
Arriving at Grande Norde I joined the long line to purchase a local Metro Ticket. The line crept forward at a snail pace until I was next to be served. Listening in on the conversation of the travellers in front of me I realised that my schoolgirl French would be of no use. Even if I could make myself understood I had absolutely no chance of understanding the rapid-fire French that the ticket seller was using.
My turn. I hesitated before stepping forward.
“Excusez-moi s'il vous plaît parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked.
My fumbling apology worked like magic and I was soon on my way with a ticket to the Metro. Having already memorised the route I needed to take I sought out the correct line and followed the crowd to the platform. The train trip was remarkably fast, just three or so stations before I alighted my carriage. I needed a taxi to take me the rest of the way - the novice travellers get out of jail free card when faced with no idea which way to go. But where would I find one? The appeared to be three exits and I had no idea of my direction Too Hard Basket Michelle Aitken given that my journey thus far had been underground. I took a chance on the exit to my right and reached street level. Changing my mind I referenced the map on display on the street and quickly found my way. Growing in confidence with every step.
Above ground, I was curious at the random nature of French driving etiquette. Here, cars moved at an alarming speed as cyclists and pedestrians jostled for space on the too narrow streets. Quintessential French architecture with glorious attic floors capping off the buildings looked down on the cobbled footpaths, tree’s softened the landscape, their colourful autumn leaves scattered on the path. Patrons sat at cafe’s with their chairs facing the street they appeared to be spectators watching the day’s parade play out before them. The confusing puzzle of streets, so different from the ordered boulevards of Melbourne, while charming presented as another cause for confusion. Determined to enjoy the moment I took in my surroundings and decided that I was glad I had fought my hesitation and come to Paris. It took no time to work out that I’m only a few blocks from my hotel which is a charming old bank converted into a pleasant hotel.
Aware that I was arriving too early to check-in I negotiated to leave my bags with the hotel porter and, armed with my research set off in search of the antique fabric markets. This is my mission here in Paris, to attend a renowned flea market which is only open on Monday (today) and Sunday. It is here that I have read that astute buyers can snap up century’s old fabrics and laces. This is the treasure I seek. Noting that it is already almost noon, I feel a sense of urgency to get to my destination. Another Metro train took me to the chilly Paris quarter.
I’d left behind the Paris of postcards and ventured into a part of town that seemed seedier - edgier. The buildings, no longer quaint, were rather utilitarian insults to architecture. Graffiti disfigured their walls and the functional footpath found no room for trees or cafes. Following my own handwritten directions, I quickly found the flea market, trying to muster an air of confidence as I wandered among the trash and treasure.
It was not at all what I expected...
Why-oh-why am I so plagued by indecision about such irrelevant things? In my “day job,” I’m highly regarded as being able to make quick and sound business decisions, but in my personal life, the opposite is frequently true. Today is a perfect example.
I’d arrived in London just 48 hours before expecting that this morning my sister and I would be here in Paris together. I was relying on her knowledge of French, and confidence in navigating Paris when she announced that she had to attend business meetings and would not be joining me. Her announcement hit me for six as I weighed up the pro’s and con’s of simply staying in Kent. Embarrassed at my hesitation I simply went along with her plans to get me to Ashford Station where I would catch the Eurostar to Paris.
Once onboard the train, I was again plagued by indecision. Would it be safe to leave my bag and go to the loo? What if I got thirsty? How would I find my hotel? In desperation, I pulled out the well worn “Lonely Planet Guide To Paris” that Helen had pressed into my hand as she rushed off to her meetings. I skimmed the pages trying to settle my nerves. Finally finding some sort of calm I sat back and tried to enjoy the landscape flying past the train’s window.
Arriving at Grande Norde I joined the long line to purchase a local Metro Ticket. The line crept forward at a snail pace until I was next to be served. Listening in on the conversation of the travellers in front of me I realised that my schoolgirl French would be of no use. Even if I could make myself understood I had absolutely no chance of understanding the rapid-fire French that the ticket seller was using.
My turn. I hesitated before stepping forward.
“Excusez-moi s'il vous plaît parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked.
My fumbling apology worked like magic and I was soon on my way with a ticket to the Metro. Having already memorised the route I needed to take I sought out the correct line and followed the crowd to the platform. The train trip was remarkably fast, just three or so stations before I alighted my carriage. I needed a taxi to take me the rest of the way - the novice travellers get out of jail free card when faced with no idea which way to go. But where would I find one? The appeared to be three exits and I had no idea of my direction Too Hard Basket Michelle Aitken given that my journey thus far had been underground. I took a chance on the exit to my right and reached street level. Changing my mind I referenced the map on display on the street and quickly found my way. Growing in confidence with every step.
Above ground, I was curious at the random nature of French driving etiquette. Here, cars moved at an alarming speed as cyclists and pedestrians jostled for space on the too narrow streets. Quintessential French architecture with glorious attic floors capping off the buildings looked down on the cobbled footpaths, tree’s softened the landscape, their colourful autumn leaves scattered on the path. Patrons sat at cafe’s with their chairs facing the street they appeared to be spectators watching the day’s parade play out before them. The confusing puzzle of streets, so different from the ordered boulevards of Melbourne, while charming presented as another cause for confusion. Determined to enjoy the moment I took in my surroundings and decided that I was glad I had fought my hesitation and come to Paris. It took no time to work out that I’m only a few blocks from my hotel which is a charming old bank converted into a pleasant hotel.
Aware that I was arriving too early to check-in I negotiated to leave my bags with the hotel porter and, armed with my research set off in search of the antique fabric markets. This is my mission here in Paris, to attend a renowned flea market which is only open on Monday (today) and Sunday. It is here that I have read that astute buyers can snap up century’s old fabrics and laces. This is the treasure I seek. Noting that it is already almost noon, I feel a sense of urgency to get to my destination. Another Metro train took me to the chilly Paris quarter.
I’d left behind the Paris of postcards and ventured into a part of town that seemed seedier - edgier. The buildings, no longer quaint, were rather utilitarian insults to architecture. Graffiti disfigured their walls and the functional footpath found no room for trees or cafes. Following my own handwritten directions, I quickly found the flea market, trying to muster an air of confidence as I wandered among the trash and treasure.
It was not at all what I expected...
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