Au Revoir Paris and France

Out the door, into the little Peugeot, down the lane after a wave au revoir to Canto Cigalo. This is a travel day. The rain is back and the day is dark, the sun on its own vacation somewhere. We have given ourselves some time to get to destinations without having to rush. This is a good thing because when we arrive at le gare TGV (TGV train station) we cannot figure out where to return our rental car. We don't know what the phrase is or the international symbol associated with it.

Up one dead end, around a roundabout out of the station grounds, back again, reverse, pause, crane necks, search info on rental car packet. No luck. Then, one sign with 10 different signs and symbols on it has a tiny one in English. Delight! We zoom over and then have to figure out where to put the car. "Park it here? in the Hertz area? Don't they need to clean it?"

The rental car office, the one we used seven days ago, is a dream to use. Up the stairs to the long futuristic station to find our train departure time. These buggers are on time, so we have to be in place and ready. A delicatessan has prepared sandwiches and snacks; we purchase water and two baguette sandwiches. Then we join the clump of waiting passengers who need info from the departure schedule. The train number and time is known; we don't know which gate.

Once we know what platform to use, we ascend the escalator and wait in what we believe is the right area. We watch the French travelers give each other bises on the cheeks when they greet. Left, right left, with little kiss sounds. A customary ritual that ensures you are definitely fond of this person.

The time arrives for the train to come. There it is! We go the car that the train diagram tells us is ours. Wrong. The conductor is blowing her whistle and rain is falling. How do you say shit in French? merde. One way or another we trot like mad to get to the right car and make it just in time. They don't wait for you if you're late. The train is on time, the sleek, smooth bastard. It's admirable but intimidating.

I crash into my seat and heave a sigh. Then, the train is moving like I'm only imagining it - hardly any change in my sensation of it - and we are bound for Paris. While munching our baguettes and water, Provence is out there beyond the windows. As we travel due north, we see the rolling terrain, distant mountains and old medieval villages on cliff tops and promontories. Most if not all villages are not sprawling urban areas. Instead they are clumps of stone buildings gathered together, surrounded by agriculture. Only Avignon and Paris have looked familiarly sprawling compared to American towns and habitations.

We are in Paris again at the Gare du Lyon. The train does not rush us this time and we trundle out to the taxi stand where a hustler directs people to this waiting taxi or that, loudly demanding, "Coins, give me coins! Obama! Hollywood, America! Give me coins! Come here, I put your bag inside and you give me coins."

We hand the tall young black taxi driver our address and he has to look it up. We have to cross town and find the Montmartre area. He is silent but calm and a good driver. That is, he makes his own lanes and turns when he wants to, nosing his little car in front of other vehicles to create space for us. I watch the city's thousands of varied people out on their Saturday business. The part of Paris we traverse including the Bastille is more homogenized, more like New York, less elegant and used hard. I wish I could record the city sounds including the music from other cars when we are stopped next to them. The ride is a series of vignettes of city life, and I am as anonymous as they are, those people I will never see again that I know of.

We ascend into the Montmartre area, the hill of martyrs so named because during the French Revolution a few people died for the cause, leaders with great spirit and a cause they had decided to fight for. This is where the moulins are, the picturesque windmills as you might have seen in Moulin Rouge, because this used to be the hilly countryside outside the city.

After we check in, rest and relax for a little while - it's about 5 PM - we walk up to Sacre Coeur cathedral and encounter masses of tourists, a county fair atmosphere and join it. This is the place we became engaged four years ago, so we are returning for old time's sake, sort of.

Inside the cathedral, Mass is in progress even as throngs of tourists are pouring in and skirting the central area so they can see the interior. We sit and listen to the priest and a nun who sings part of the Mass. Then, back out to the moving, shifting crowd, which we watch for a little while. We shop for gifts at a few of the junk shops that line the main cobbled street in the village area. Probably all from China by the looks of it. Then, we decide to eat at the same cafe where we were engaged. The food is mediocre just like it was four years ago, but we watch the crowd and talk. I hear lots of Italian and American English, some other languages. This is not an elegant crowd at all but more of what you'd see at any large event, kind of disheveled, uncertain, strolling in zig-zag directions.

We walk after dinner down to the north side of the hill into the cool, jazzy Montmartre neighborhood where no tourists think to go unless they've read their guide books and want a less touristed experience. It's hilly but shaded with large chestnut trees and the evening sun is getting exciting for photography.

We go back up the hill and over to the steps of Sacre Coeur and see Paris in a broad panorama, an encrustation of stone buildings with clay chimney tubes sticking up like spines all across the city. The setting sun has brought the buildings into sharp relief and it is immense. There is Notre Dame and over there the Pantheon. The Eiffel Tower is hidden behind a group of trees to the right.

It's a long wait before the lights begin to glow in the city, well after 10 PM, but it is a transition unique in the world. To see the City of Lights like this is fun. The crowd continues to shift and move, party and enjoy the balmy evening. This is the world as Europe knows it now, multicultural and changing fast with the influx of African nations' emigres. Languages of all types and people who are obviously tourists like us gazing at the scene, all mixing in a peaceful mob.

That's enough. We are tired. It's nearly 11 PM. Paris is not going to quiet down for several hours, but we must. Good-bye old city. Tomorrow we travel home to California and begin to dream of new travels in the year to come.  It has been a rich experience and valuable to us both in quiet, inner ways. This will take time to process and return from, like all journeys. We have been fortunate, truly so. In truth, the journey is continuous and has certain demarcation points, one day after another. What will today bring?