NYC to Paris by Train
Jul 10th, 2008, 05:40 AM
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NYC to Paris by Train
I took the subway from NY to Paris with an inconvenient flight in between. In NY the E train connects to the Airtrain and at CDG, I rode the RER to number 5 metro. I am getting to old to lug luggage up and down subway stairs but I saved about 100 bucks. By the way the RER is a commuter line with very narrow aisles not designed for transporting luggage. People leaped over the bags of others and asses to sit at odd angles because it was hard to sit squarely.
This is my fourth trip to Paris, 1972, 1982, 1999 and this morning. The others were with my wife, this one by myself. She has 65 miles remaining from her 500 mile Camino and I will join her next week in Santiago de Compostela.
Still bleary eyed after a short nap, I headed out. It is better to see Paris out of focus than not al all. Often I have trouble finding the ocean at the beach, let alone navigate in crooked and barely connected streets the Baron Haussman forgot to destroy. But I wanted to see the Marais.
I entered many storefront art galleries where most of the work looked familiar even though it was the first time I saw it.. But one artist however used browns and white to create unusual portraits including the taller robot from Star Wars (I never remember which thing is which thing) and Shakespreare. For the need of a screw the bot was lost.
I headed in the general direction, in the right city at least, but it was time for lunch. Actually body time suggested breakfast, so I had my usual breakfast steak tartare. It was just a café near the Boulevard Beaumarchais. As far I as can tell I was only one reading the International Herald Tribune (IHT) so I refrained from looking at the comics, so as not to embarrass all of us. The fries, bread, and the smallest salad in culinary history were fine but the steak tartare was wonderful. It was a lean day glo red we do not see in the States (I am assuming food coloring was not the culprit.) which was perfectly fresh and refreshing with capers and flavored with what tasted more like tomato than mustard. All for 12 Euros. The cafe was filled with Parisians have lunch with the owner clearing tables and directing traffic.
The IHT sports section had a short article with the following incomprehensible sentence:
England’s Twenty20 Cup tournament was in turmoil Tuesday after a match
was cancelled when it was discovered that a Yorkshire spin bowler Azeem Rafiq, had been illegally selected in the competition.
Spin bowler? Is that like a twirling badminton battler?
And I am also sure Azeem Rafiq has been added to the no fly list by now.
I still had not found the center of the Marais, so I decided to follow the falafel. People with pitas were getting thicker and thicker, onions and sauce dripping everywhere
The culprit was L’As du Falafel with a line down the rue de Rosiers. It is supposedly the best on the planet but I had just eaten and I have never had a Jones that bad for falafel. I went into two Kosher bakeries to bring something back to the room for later. In one I purchased the moistest onion roll and an almond stick, the other a poppy seed strudel. You really have to like poppy seeds to eat this. One bit and you will fail every drug test for the rest of your working career.
I wanted to speak about the people who worked there about the neighborhood and anti-semitism but one guy was busy, one young woman only spoke French, and one old man looked like the Dustin Hoffman character from Papillion after he lost his mind. Maybe I will go back another day.
The neighborhood is filled with museums and decaying buildings but I was looking for Place des Vosges. The relatively small square is perfect and conveys a serenity even though it is filled with children trying to kick pigeons and hoards of tourists marching purposeful to their next assignment. It is protected on all four sides by brick and stone pavilions with a 400 year history. I wanted to visit the Victor Hugo Museum but jetlag was winning. I have always thought it was amusing that Les Miserables, a work about oppression and injustice was made into a musical. “Da, da, da ta, da, we’re going to chop off your head, if you aren’t already dead.” Hugo always needed money so he may have approved. But I am guessing he would not have liked the nickname Les Miz, which is like calling the people who sleep on gratings The Home.
This is my fourth trip to Paris, 1972, 1982, 1999 and this morning. The others were with my wife, this one by myself. She has 65 miles remaining from her 500 mile Camino and I will join her next week in Santiago de Compostela.
Still bleary eyed after a short nap, I headed out. It is better to see Paris out of focus than not al all. Often I have trouble finding the ocean at the beach, let alone navigate in crooked and barely connected streets the Baron Haussman forgot to destroy. But I wanted to see the Marais.
I entered many storefront art galleries where most of the work looked familiar even though it was the first time I saw it.. But one artist however used browns and white to create unusual portraits including the taller robot from Star Wars (I never remember which thing is which thing) and Shakespreare. For the need of a screw the bot was lost.
I headed in the general direction, in the right city at least, but it was time for lunch. Actually body time suggested breakfast, so I had my usual breakfast steak tartare. It was just a café near the Boulevard Beaumarchais. As far I as can tell I was only one reading the International Herald Tribune (IHT) so I refrained from looking at the comics, so as not to embarrass all of us. The fries, bread, and the smallest salad in culinary history were fine but the steak tartare was wonderful. It was a lean day glo red we do not see in the States (I am assuming food coloring was not the culprit.) which was perfectly fresh and refreshing with capers and flavored with what tasted more like tomato than mustard. All for 12 Euros. The cafe was filled with Parisians have lunch with the owner clearing tables and directing traffic.
The IHT sports section had a short article with the following incomprehensible sentence:
England’s Twenty20 Cup tournament was in turmoil Tuesday after a match
was cancelled when it was discovered that a Yorkshire spin bowler Azeem Rafiq, had been illegally selected in the competition.
Spin bowler? Is that like a twirling badminton battler?
And I am also sure Azeem Rafiq has been added to the no fly list by now.
I still had not found the center of the Marais, so I decided to follow the falafel. People with pitas were getting thicker and thicker, onions and sauce dripping everywhere
The culprit was L’As du Falafel with a line down the rue de Rosiers. It is supposedly the best on the planet but I had just eaten and I have never had a Jones that bad for falafel. I went into two Kosher bakeries to bring something back to the room for later. In one I purchased the moistest onion roll and an almond stick, the other a poppy seed strudel. You really have to like poppy seeds to eat this. One bit and you will fail every drug test for the rest of your working career.
I wanted to speak about the people who worked there about the neighborhood and anti-semitism but one guy was busy, one young woman only spoke French, and one old man looked like the Dustin Hoffman character from Papillion after he lost his mind. Maybe I will go back another day.
The neighborhood is filled with museums and decaying buildings but I was looking for Place des Vosges. The relatively small square is perfect and conveys a serenity even though it is filled with children trying to kick pigeons and hoards of tourists marching purposeful to their next assignment. It is protected on all four sides by brick and stone pavilions with a 400 year history. I wanted to visit the Victor Hugo Museum but jetlag was winning. I have always thought it was amusing that Les Miserables, a work about oppression and injustice was made into a musical. “Da, da, da ta, da, we’re going to chop off your head, if you aren’t already dead.” Hugo always needed money so he may have approved. But I am guessing he would not have liked the nickname Les Miz, which is like calling the people who sleep on gratings The Home.
Jul 10th, 2008, 06:38 AM
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This will connect with the 1 & 9 trains at the Battery, and SNCF <i>Grand Ligne</i> at Lorient.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transatlantic_tunnel
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transatlantic_tunnel
Jul 10th, 2008, 03:09 PM
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500 miles of the camino!!! now that is a feat.
i am loving your comments:
"... conveys a serenity even though it is filled with children trying to kick pigeons and hoards of tourists marching purposeful to their next assignment."
i am loving your comments:
"... conveys a serenity even though it is filled with children trying to kick pigeons and hoards of tourists marching purposeful to their next assignment."
Jul 10th, 2008, 11:44 PM
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Day Two
One thing about the Centre Pompidou (Beaubourg) is there are no mansards roofs, thus making it easy to spot from blocks away. It is an odd amalgam of ship parts, escalators in tubes that inch ahead like segmented slugs, open interior spaces, a large sloping entrance inviting mimes and other buskers, as if they needed invitations, and the traditional interior of white walls for the galleries that all co-exist peacefully.
Is there anything sadder than a happy busker who has perfected a useless skill and is now seeking universal attention and money for it? In front of the entrance was a woman blowing and thwacking her didgeridoo for money, and quite smartly too I might add.
One painting I remember from a previous visit was just of a man’s forehead and hair. The part was clearly Cary Grant’s.
The current special exhibit was Sacred Traces, modern expressions of all forms of spirituality. Some depicted specific religions, others not, others infinity, some represented unidentifiable subjects and conditions including an amorphous painting accompanied by the Chambers Brothers’ Time. There was one that could be considered profane, a film of a naked woman engaging in self-flagellation. As far as I can no special effects were employed,
Books were also on display such as Ginsburg’s Kaddish and William Burroughs. One glass enclosed exhibit containing post cards, small photos, and scraps of paper had a warning inscribed on the side of the case, “Dangerous works for epileptics.” I did not know they were a religious sect. The entire exhibit reflects most religions-easy to enter, confusing to negotiate, and difficult to find your way out.
The Musee National d’Art Moderne (The National Museum of Modern Art), of course, exhibits some of the defining exemplars of genres and artists. (I refuse to use the word iconic as it has become the new “gourmet”, misapplied in the most bizarre circumstances.) There were extraordinary Matisses, George Braques who will be inexorably linked to Picasso, de Koonings and Jasper Johns. Near my desk is a Jasper Johns quote, “First you do something, Then you do something to that. And then you do something to that.”
The pieces I liked the best I had never seen before were sculptures by Niki De Saint Phalle and Joseph Beuys. Saint Phalle’s was of a bride with a lace dress stiffened by paint, arms created of toys and objects and her face was that of a contorted scare crow. All in white. It demanded your attention. Bueys’s was a piano with elephant feet covered in a kackhi colored cloth with a red cross. I have no idea what he was trying to convey but it was engaging,
And there were many works of two of my favorites Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray. A quote of Man Ray greeted you as you entered a gallery dedicated to him, “To annoy, to disorient, to fascinate, to provoke thought but not to inspire admiration for technical perfection….”
What a worthwhile pursuit. The immediate objects of the quote were silver gelatin photos of ordinary objects photographed at unusual angles. In another gallery they displayed a number of Duchamp’s ready mades. One is entitled Fountain and it is but a common urinal with the signature R. Mutt and the other is a bottle rack. (See Man Ray quote.) I am always amused to see them whether in person or in photos.
There was also sex in the museum as well. It was easy to identify by the awkward body language young couples the young men who probably never had a girl friend before but I did see the body language of males who have had too many girl friends. I guess Beaubourg is not the right first date spot for them.
I am not a disciple of Chauvin nor do I want to get into a shouting match of which museum has a bigger Picabia but the collection at MOMA in NYC is still the standard for modern art museums.
I walked back to the hotel and stopped for lunch at a bistro that was filled with Parisians. I had a staple, roasted chicken which was accompanied by a huge wedge of potatoes au gratin. The chicken was acceptable while the potatoes had a peppery zing.
Later in the early evening I took a walk toward rue Paul Bert, where eventually I will eat upon the recommendation of knowledgeable friend. Winding my through the neighborhood, I first came upon rue de Lappe which as Ed Sullivan used to say, “Now for you youngsters out there.” A street crowded with inexpensive bars and restaurants including one with the unusual English name “Juice Do It.” Then I stumbled onto Faubourg Ste.Antoine teeming with workers carrying multiple baguettes home. The avenue was dotted with bakeries in which I purchased brioche and beignets for my evening repast. On the way back I accidentally found streets, I am sure that I am only tourist ever to pad along.
My French accent is pure Brooklyn and vocabulary is that of a moron. Next week when I am Spain, I will use my favorite sentence “I am much smarter in English.” I can’t even say that in French. While leafing through a guidebook’s French glossary for divine guidance, I found the phrase, “Je voudrais acheter des preservatifs,” Which means “I would like to buy condoms.” And I thought the French did not use preservatives.
One thing about the Centre Pompidou (Beaubourg) is there are no mansards roofs, thus making it easy to spot from blocks away. It is an odd amalgam of ship parts, escalators in tubes that inch ahead like segmented slugs, open interior spaces, a large sloping entrance inviting mimes and other buskers, as if they needed invitations, and the traditional interior of white walls for the galleries that all co-exist peacefully.
Is there anything sadder than a happy busker who has perfected a useless skill and is now seeking universal attention and money for it? In front of the entrance was a woman blowing and thwacking her didgeridoo for money, and quite smartly too I might add.
One painting I remember from a previous visit was just of a man’s forehead and hair. The part was clearly Cary Grant’s.
The current special exhibit was Sacred Traces, modern expressions of all forms of spirituality. Some depicted specific religions, others not, others infinity, some represented unidentifiable subjects and conditions including an amorphous painting accompanied by the Chambers Brothers’ Time. There was one that could be considered profane, a film of a naked woman engaging in self-flagellation. As far as I can no special effects were employed,
Books were also on display such as Ginsburg’s Kaddish and William Burroughs. One glass enclosed exhibit containing post cards, small photos, and scraps of paper had a warning inscribed on the side of the case, “Dangerous works for epileptics.” I did not know they were a religious sect. The entire exhibit reflects most religions-easy to enter, confusing to negotiate, and difficult to find your way out.
The Musee National d’Art Moderne (The National Museum of Modern Art), of course, exhibits some of the defining exemplars of genres and artists. (I refuse to use the word iconic as it has become the new “gourmet”, misapplied in the most bizarre circumstances.) There were extraordinary Matisses, George Braques who will be inexorably linked to Picasso, de Koonings and Jasper Johns. Near my desk is a Jasper Johns quote, “First you do something, Then you do something to that. And then you do something to that.”
The pieces I liked the best I had never seen before were sculptures by Niki De Saint Phalle and Joseph Beuys. Saint Phalle’s was of a bride with a lace dress stiffened by paint, arms created of toys and objects and her face was that of a contorted scare crow. All in white. It demanded your attention. Bueys’s was a piano with elephant feet covered in a kackhi colored cloth with a red cross. I have no idea what he was trying to convey but it was engaging,
And there were many works of two of my favorites Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray. A quote of Man Ray greeted you as you entered a gallery dedicated to him, “To annoy, to disorient, to fascinate, to provoke thought but not to inspire admiration for technical perfection….”
What a worthwhile pursuit. The immediate objects of the quote were silver gelatin photos of ordinary objects photographed at unusual angles. In another gallery they displayed a number of Duchamp’s ready mades. One is entitled Fountain and it is but a common urinal with the signature R. Mutt and the other is a bottle rack. (See Man Ray quote.) I am always amused to see them whether in person or in photos.
There was also sex in the museum as well. It was easy to identify by the awkward body language young couples the young men who probably never had a girl friend before but I did see the body language of males who have had too many girl friends. I guess Beaubourg is not the right first date spot for them.
I am not a disciple of Chauvin nor do I want to get into a shouting match of which museum has a bigger Picabia but the collection at MOMA in NYC is still the standard for modern art museums.
I walked back to the hotel and stopped for lunch at a bistro that was filled with Parisians. I had a staple, roasted chicken which was accompanied by a huge wedge of potatoes au gratin. The chicken was acceptable while the potatoes had a peppery zing.
Later in the early evening I took a walk toward rue Paul Bert, where eventually I will eat upon the recommendation of knowledgeable friend. Winding my through the neighborhood, I first came upon rue de Lappe which as Ed Sullivan used to say, “Now for you youngsters out there.” A street crowded with inexpensive bars and restaurants including one with the unusual English name “Juice Do It.” Then I stumbled onto Faubourg Ste.Antoine teeming with workers carrying multiple baguettes home. The avenue was dotted with bakeries in which I purchased brioche and beignets for my evening repast. On the way back I accidentally found streets, I am sure that I am only tourist ever to pad along.
My French accent is pure Brooklyn and vocabulary is that of a moron. Next week when I am Spain, I will use my favorite sentence “I am much smarter in English.” I can’t even say that in French. While leafing through a guidebook’s French glossary for divine guidance, I found the phrase, “Je voudrais acheter des preservatifs,” Which means “I would like to buy condoms.” And I thought the French did not use preservatives.
Jul 11th, 2008, 04:32 AM
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First prize for most original title of a trip report.
Hit that enter button, Adu, or we're all going to self-hypnotize reading your paragraphs. (At least we'll be laughing before we zone out....)
Hit that enter button, Adu, or we're all going to self-hypnotize reading your paragraphs. (At least we'll be laughing before we zone out....)
