Cars, Trains, and Taxis

Monday, September 7, 2009









Joan and Bill are up early, though I know they've not had much rest. Joan's already fed the cats by the time I get to the kitchen.

We update them on messages, the cats' wellbeing, our adventures. They tell us England had horrible weather the whole time, and that the last week was as cold as winter there.

When we tell them we are leaving this morning, they understand and say that's fine. I think they will be relieved not to have anyone underfoot as they try to get settled back in, and they will be able to rest without having to tend to us.

Bernie, The Magnificent One, drives straight to Le Mans and pulls up in front of the rental place without a hitch. That's my man. After inspecting the car, they tell us it has a scratch, heretofore unrecorded, on a wheel cover. It will take several days to know if we're going to be charged for it so there's nothing we can do now. The good news? We still had four kilometers of our 3000 km allowance to go!

The train station is almost next door to the car rental agency. We're excited because we're taking the bullet train into Paris.

Once we've purchased our tickets, I start looking for food. There's a nice place with fresh sandwiches down the concourse. We're fortunate to have found seats, and we have time to finish lunch before our train is ready to depart.

The ride is so smooth I am not aware of how fast we are traveling for a long time. When Bernie says something about moving at 100 miles an hour, I say, "We are not!" Then I begin watching the utility poles and trees whip by. Yeah, Glenna, we are.

In Paris, we leave the train and move to the taxi queue. No rushing out and shouting "Taxi!" here. We follow the signs and take our place at the back of the line. Taxis are lined up in front of us, and as one is filled, another pulls up to gather the next passenger or group.

Our driver is Cambodian. Inside the taxi, we're once again treated to Frank Sinatra. This always happens when we get in a taxi in Paris. We wonder-is it just for Americans or do Parisian taxi drivers have a thing for Old Blue Eyes?

We're going to our hotel to check in and leave our bags. Our driver easily gets to within a block of Orly Field, but the Hilton is nowhere to be found. After several misguided attempts, our driver stops to ask a fellow taxi driver how to get there. Off we go again, now wondering what our fare is going to be. The hotel is still not easy to find, but with all three of us looking for it, we finally spot it and make our way there.

The driver apologizes profusely, and takes off part of the fare. Despite all we have heard about taxi drivers in Paris, we have found them to be completely honest and very helpful. And they drive where angels fear to tread.

The Hilton is clean, and wonder of wonders, has a hard-surface floor. No more wondering what's lurking in the carpet. I'm hoping this is the wave of the future in hotels.

We grab the shuttle over to Orly to get the train back into Paris. We buy two more two-day passes to get us around without hassle, and head for L'Opera stop. That's the shopping district, where the big department stores like Galleries Lafayette and Printemps main stores are located as well as many boutiques.

Too late, though. The extra time we spent in the taxi looking for our hotel has cost us. The stores are closing.

We stroll down the street checking out all the cafes and decide on one with a great people-watching view.

Oh, we are feeling adventurous tonight-Bernie orders Beef Tartare. Not-so-adventurous me chooses the homemade French onion soup, grilled duck, and vegetables in a balsamic sauce.

My choices are the evening's winners. The grilled duck tastes like steak. The vegetables are fantastic.

We share chocolate mousse for dessert.

Walking back to the Metro, we feel a little like real Parisians this evening. A leisurely dinner at a sidewalk cafe, strolling the avenues and looking into shop windows - Paris is all that it promises to be.