R.F. Burton’s third stop in a 60 country journey around the world.
Paris: It’s been called the city of lights, love, and romance by countless travelers who have experienced its magnificence, and while I can’t argue that it’s a magical place, at the end of the day, it’s still a city—crowded, inconvenient, and offline at the most inopportune times.
Due to events in Paris the week I arrived, the hotels downtown were either full or ridiculously expensive. Surprisingly, the most acceptable rate I could find within commuting distance was at the Trianon Palace Hotel in Versailles (a paltry 384 euros per night), although staying there meant a trek from Charles de Gaulle airport at the most northeastern point of the rail line to the most southwestern point.
A taxi cost 175 euros, so that was not an option. Thankfully, Paris has a pretty robust public transportation system, so for a meager 6 euros, I could buy a rail pass and take the RER B line to St. Michel Notre Dame, then take the RER C to Versailles. Simple and inexpensive, right? If only.
I thought I had misunderstood the route map when the train stopped short of my intended destination, but as it turned out, I was a victim of one of Paris’ regular labor strikes, and the line was closed. It was time for Plan B—the metro line. I could feel my claustrophobic anxiety building; it seemed that the metro line had become “Plan B” for everyone. People were waiting four train loads deep and nobody could get on because nobody was getting off.
By now I was desperate and decided to fork-over the cash for a cab (Plan C). Again, my plans were foiled by a taxi-line that wasn’t budging either. It was 9pm and the last train left for Versailles at 10pm. I set out to find a better way.
My intent with “Plan D” was to walk the distance to St. Michel station, and catch the 10pm train. I could only hope that the scene at that station would be different. After an hour of wandering the labyrinthine streets, I finally managed to signal a taxi to stop. The driver assured me that I would not be able to get a train to Versailles tonight even if I made it to the station on time due to the strike. I hopped in and asked him to take me to my hotel. So much for the robust Parisian public transportation system.
Just as things were looking better, and I was satisfied that I’d be in bed soon, the driver pulled over in the right traffic lane, snapped on his hazard lights, and jumped out of the car and over the barrier separating the road from a high wall. Cars behind us slammed on their brakes to avoid the stopped taxi where I was now sitting alone. When I emerged from the car (as to avoid severe injury or death), the driver informed me that the car’s transmission had given out. We waited for about an hour for another taxi to come pick us up. The new driver connected a tow line, and we all set off for Versailles.
Trianon Palace Hotel
Finally, I arrived at my hotel, exhausted, but somewhat relieved. My 384 euros had landed me a conference center room in an annex that looked like it was built by an architect who specialized in building 1950’s high schools, and had housed every smoker who visited Versailles since. I decided to overlook the lack of strawberries, champagne, and terry cloth robes and get some sleep.
Waking up next door to the Palace of Versailles left me optimistic and ready to take on my appointments in Paris proper. Then it started raining. By the time I arrived in our offices near the Opera, I was soaked through, but still pretty optimistic. I met all of my colleagues who did their best to hold back their laughter at the large, wet American who was supposed to be an executive, but looked more like something that had crawled out of a drain. However, I think they changed their minds when I offered to take them all out for lunch. Funny how that works.
Things really took a turn for the better when I was invited to dinner by some very good friends who live outside of Paris. It was refreshing to be greeted by the smiling face of my friend as I stepped off the train. He showed me around the grounds of Chateau St. Germaine, including the house, now a hotel, where Louis XIV was born. Our time there was wonderful but brief, as he was illegally parked.
Chateau St. Germaine En Lay
My friends live in a small village on the cusp of rural France. The houses are old stone, farmhouse-style, and the streets snake and wind in a manner that can only be rationalized by centuries of slow, unplanned expansion.
The house where Louis XIV was born (in St. Germain en Lay)
Walking after dinner in rural France during the last hour of sun light is a once-in-a- lifetime experience. The quiet is deafening, every turn reveals another quaint cliché you hope to discover in a French provincial village, and the rolling hills look like the subjects of an impressionistic painting. We came to small pool where village women used to bring their laundry. We walked a trail through field of wheat and barley and past a World War I era aerodrome. When we turned near the top of the hill, in the final moments of sunlight, the village was visible on the next hillside. There were no street lights, no neon, and no satellite dishes to spoil the view. A few headlights combined with the warm glow from the windows, and the lit spire of a chapel enabling us to see outlines of the village in the dusk. We looked on for a while breathing in the fragrance of the fields, sipping wine, and taking about how lucky we were to be alive on such an evening. I thought that there could not be a more satisfying moment on my trip to Paris. The next morning, I would be proven wrong, again.
The Village of St. Germaine En Lay
Next Stop: Paris Part Deux
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