Travelling Hopefully
If my French was better (which I suppose it could be - it's not as if it's frozen at its current level and I couldn't learn a few more of the words I don't already know, such as "monkey-wrench" or "rewritable DVD", if I needed to), I could see myself living there quite happily. In these days of the internet (or le internet, as they say in France - see how easy it is?), I could still access Radio 4, and most other things I couldn't live without. And I think it might suit me. They simply don't care about stuff.
My most recent visit was to attend a wedding near Toulouse, and it gave me ample time to reflect on the nature of France. For a start, as we were boarding the train, we quite literally heard whispers about a national strike from other passengers; to start with, I felt pleased at dragging up the correct French word from my memory (I am old enough to remember that the phrase "grève totale" featured in the opening titles of World In Action, in the 70s at least - the French going on strike is hardly a modern phenomemon). Our bonhomie continued, unsurprisingly, while we were bombarded with complimentary champagne and other treats; however, once we'd moved into the relaxed post-prandial mode, we thought it worth asking the train staff about our chances of catching an onward connection from Paris to Toulouse. It was probably fortunate that we asked the question after a good dinner and two bottles of wine each, because the answer was that Paris welcomed the English milords, so much so that they wouldn't be seeing Toulouse, or, for that matter, any other city but Paris that night, as there were no inter-city trains running because of la grève.
We were philosophical. And this is where I think the choice of train over plane, and the upgrade to first class, was justified; I suspect that if I'd had to queue for hours to get through airline security, having had to get to Stansted or Luton first, eaten a ham sandwich for dinner, fought for my baggage, and realised I was still thirty miles from the city after which my airport was named (memo to the owners, I know you're Spanish and not from Bedfordshire, but you can't just call an airport London-Luton - it's in Luton, and therefore not in London - the name itself is a giveaway) the news that half of France was on strike would have upset me. As it was, I had taken a direct route into the centre of London, I had been given food and drink (possibly even to excess), my Luggage was safely behind my seat, and I was now in the centre of Paris. What did I have to complain about?
Over our starter, we had agreed how admirable it was that the French were not stultified by modern representative democracy - if they thought they were being shafted, they needed no second invitation to take to the streets and let their government know about it. It would have been churlish to complain about that independence of spirit two hours later, even though it meant we were standing at the enquiries office at Gare du Nord looking for answers to important questions.
We had three, more or less:
1) Can we get replacement tickets to travel to Toulouse tomorrow morning?
Yes. (Fair play to SNCF, we were given first class tickets on the 0810 TGV without any argument).
2) As we'll be leaving from Gare Montparnasse, can you recommend a suitable hotel?
No. All Parisian hotels are of a high standard and comparisons would be invidious, you so-called Arthur King. Find one yourself.
3) Will you be paying for this hotel, having cancelled our overnight train?
No! Now go away, or I shall taunt you a second time. (Actually, he gave me a piece of paper on which to submit my comments to SNCF, though as we walked away, I think I heard the words "I told him we already got one").
The sensible thing seemed to be to find an hotel as close as possible to Montparnasse station; worryingly, the first two we tried were full, though I suppose it shouldn't have been a surprise, as presumably everyone else who had been planning to be on our train was also in need of a bed until the morning. There was, however, one room left in the appropriate Timhotel, while a nearby bar provided a pleasant enough way to spend an evening definitely not going south.
The bar was mostly populated by men, puting the world to rights; and a dog, which recognised my accent and bit my leg. We loitered at the counter while the patron added up our bill in leisurely fashion, and conversed about politics: they told us how awful Sarko was; we responded by throwing up our hands in Gallic style to indicate the utter futility of Gordon Brown. In this way the entente cordiale was satisfied by mutual grumbling about political leaders, and we slept soundly.
My most recent visit was to attend a wedding near Toulouse, and it gave me ample time to reflect on the nature of France. For a start, as we were boarding the train, we quite literally heard whispers about a national strike from other passengers; to start with, I felt pleased at dragging up the correct French word from my memory (I am old enough to remember that the phrase "grève totale" featured in the opening titles of World In Action, in the 70s at least - the French going on strike is hardly a modern phenomemon). Our bonhomie continued, unsurprisingly, while we were bombarded with complimentary champagne and other treats; however, once we'd moved into the relaxed post-prandial mode, we thought it worth asking the train staff about our chances of catching an onward connection from Paris to Toulouse. It was probably fortunate that we asked the question after a good dinner and two bottles of wine each, because the answer was that Paris welcomed the English milords, so much so that they wouldn't be seeing Toulouse, or, for that matter, any other city but Paris that night, as there were no inter-city trains running because of la grève.
We were philosophical. And this is where I think the choice of train over plane, and the upgrade to first class, was justified; I suspect that if I'd had to queue for hours to get through airline security, having had to get to Stansted or Luton first, eaten a ham sandwich for dinner, fought for my baggage, and realised I was still thirty miles from the city after which my airport was named (memo to the owners, I know you're Spanish and not from Bedfordshire, but you can't just call an airport London-Luton - it's in Luton, and therefore not in London - the name itself is a giveaway) the news that half of France was on strike would have upset me. As it was, I had taken a direct route into the centre of London, I had been given food and drink (possibly even to excess), my Luggage was safely behind my seat, and I was now in the centre of Paris. What did I have to complain about?
Over our starter, we had agreed how admirable it was that the French were not stultified by modern representative democracy - if they thought they were being shafted, they needed no second invitation to take to the streets and let their government know about it. It would have been churlish to complain about that independence of spirit two hours later, even though it meant we were standing at the enquiries office at Gare du Nord looking for answers to important questions.
We had three, more or less:
1) Can we get replacement tickets to travel to Toulouse tomorrow morning?
Yes. (Fair play to SNCF, we were given first class tickets on the 0810 TGV without any argument).
2) As we'll be leaving from Gare Montparnasse, can you recommend a suitable hotel?
No. All Parisian hotels are of a high standard and comparisons would be invidious, you so-called Arthur King. Find one yourself.
3) Will you be paying for this hotel, having cancelled our overnight train?
No! Now go away, or I shall taunt you a second time. (Actually, he gave me a piece of paper on which to submit my comments to SNCF, though as we walked away, I think I heard the words "I told him we already got one").
The sensible thing seemed to be to find an hotel as close as possible to Montparnasse station; worryingly, the first two we tried were full, though I suppose it shouldn't have been a surprise, as presumably everyone else who had been planning to be on our train was also in need of a bed until the morning. There was, however, one room left in the appropriate Timhotel, while a nearby bar provided a pleasant enough way to spend an evening definitely not going south.
The bar was mostly populated by men, puting the world to rights; and a dog, which recognised my accent and bit my leg. We loitered at the counter while the patron added up our bill in leisurely fashion, and conversed about politics: they told us how awful Sarko was; we responded by throwing up our hands in Gallic style to indicate the utter futility of Gordon Brown. In this way the entente cordiale was satisfied by mutual grumbling about political leaders, and we slept soundly.