The train arrived almost exactly on time. It was a French train, + modern almost to the point of science fiction. It was also, almost empty, so we were able to find a compartment all to ourselves, pull the curtains, push up all thee arm-rests, _ have virtually a private double couchette – as good as any first-class I’ve seen. One French girl did stick her nose in, but we weren’t exactly welcoming, + made it clear that we wanted to sleep. Since she wanted to read, she looked elsewhere. We were both exhausted, + I for one was asleep almost before my head hit my rolled-up coat. I stayed that way too, for even tho’ we were disturbed a couple of times, I seemed to manage to hand over my passport or whatever without actually waking up. When I did wake up, or more properly when I was awoken, it was 7.30, + we were sitting in the Gare de l’Est in Paris. Felt both refreshed after a night’s rest, + excited to be in Paris, city of romance, a place we knew relatively well, + the merest hop, skip, + jump away from home. We celebrated in true Parisian style with coffee + croissant (singular – we still couldn’t afford to go mad.) And then set out to discover how to get home. As I’ve no doubt mentioned before, it has been a long-term aim to arrive back in England via the Roscoff-Plymouth ferry, as a different + more sentimental method of hitting home territory. I have, especially when times have not been good, or I’ve found myself with time to kill, written out the whole scenario for a homecoming along those lines, many times in my head. But today we found ourselves thwarted + frustrated at every turn, the virtually insurmountable objection being that today was a Sunday. We’d almost forgotten about Sundays (+how I hate them), certainly since leaving Australia, but now the full deadening effect of a European Sunday smashed into our plans. The first problem was that we weren’t able to find out when the ferries were running – all the offices were closed, + the places which were open, rail-booking offices + the like, didn’t know. Equally problematic was finding out how to get to Roscoff. The train was wickedly expensive. Since we weren’t able to discover how much the ferry cost either, we didn’t like to risk all, by a headlong + heedless dash west. For that could leave us in the ludicrous situation of being stranded at Roscoff. We spent most of the morning in the fruitless search for information, both in the station + out – we wandered along to a local bus stn., but it only handled international routes. So, with reluctance, we had to re-direct our hopes + aspirations to the idea of travelling not to Plymouth, + thence Launceston, but London, thence Hatfield. It took a little while, + caused bitter disappointment + depression for about half an hour or so, but once we allowed ourselves to become used to the idea, it really seemed just as good. We were even able to spot the occasional advantages of the new plan. So, happy again, we went out for a walk around the area. Enjoyed it too – it didn’t take very long to get used to the feel of a big Western city again. Tho’ the changes we saw, notably the fast food restaurants along the main drags every 3 or 4 shops, weren’t improvements. But that’s a cliché by now I suppose. We walked to no particular “sight” , but simply ambled, returning via the smaller higgledy-piggledy roads, + buying bread, wine + cheese – some to take home to England, some to eat tonight, for our dinner. We also visited the Gare du Nord, where we finally committed ourselves to buying tickets for tonight’s night train to London. And then walked out again, to visit the cathedral of Sacre-Coeur.
It has become a sort of personal pilgrimage place. It hadn’t changed, if anything was even nicer than I’ve seen it before. It was a beautiful clear cold day, a bright sun in a blue sky, and on the steps of the cathedral itself were a couple of street entertainers. And not just Dylan clones. Ate our simple evening meal in the waiting-room at Gare de l’Est – that was where we had left our bags, and besides the Est is so much better than the Nord. We enjoyed our meal, even tho’ the company was not stimulating – a strange, neurotic, middle-aged woman who giggled at almost anything (tho’ one thing was funny, when our Chinese corkscrew unwound in the cork), a couple of drunks, + ordinary French travellers keeping themselves to themselves. We got slightly pickled, what with the bottle of wine, plus the assorted glasses from the wine-tasting in the Alsace exhibition in the foyer. But a coffee in the brasserie between the 2 stns pepped us up, + we found the train sitting in the stn waiting to go. So we sat aboard, listening to a puerile conversation between 2 Englishmen making fatuous conversation. I borrowed an old – 2 day – copy of the Times, to rediscover the fact that nothing at all had changed. Eventually, some time after we left, Val managed to fall asleep. I stayed wide awake.
And so we have reached Paris… almost home. Our quest to return home via Roscoff, way out to the west, was a long-held and somewhat romantic dream. It meant getting to Val’s mum before mine – no particular preference there, but rather an attempt to avoid the Dover ferry, which we know all too well. But we recognised that there was no point in risking not getting back at all, so gave up on that idea readily enough.
And so a day wandering round Paris. Like I said, Sacre-Coeur has long been a favourite, especially since it sits right next to Montmartre, and tends to miss the crowds who throng Notre Dame. Otherwise, just another day killing time – we had been doing a lot of that recently – while waiting for the night train home.
