It's always hard to sleep when you know you have to get up early. I am sad to check out of this lovely hotel - it's been my little haven for the last five days and it is so clean, calm and peaceful. I have to leave before dawn but at least this time my taxi driver is kind and polite. It's a long drive back to the airport. I have mentally moved on from speaking French and I am too tired to think of the words anyway; I decide on a muffin and a smoothie for breakfast and I order in English. 

At departures I meet a nice lady called Lisa from Boston. She is also travelling by herself and she is on the same flight to Dublin as I will be on. I am surprised to find it's difficult to speak English normally and my voice sounds strange because I've become used to speaking and thinking in French.

The flight to Dublin only takes an hour and twenty minutes. We fly over England; it's a clear day and just as I'd imagined, the ground is like a colorful patchwork quilt. Coming into Dublin Airport reminds me of home. It's so green and there is a very cold wind blowing. Could be Hamilton, but the hills in the distance are very low and flat-topped. Coming through the city on the Aircoach also feels familiar - it could be Auckland except for the red brick buildings close together lining the sides of the streets.

At the hotel, I am greeted by a very nice lady called Mary. My room is on the third floor, up six flights of creaky wooden stars. When i get to my room I realise I am wearing an orange cardigan and an orange scarf - this may be culturally inappropriate in Dublin. In the old days I could be making myself a target for the Sinn Fein! I think it's best to change just in case. 

My room overlooks a busy street but it's not too bad and has a nice bathroom, and I am happy to have a bit of solitude again. I'd really rather be heading home as I'm really missing Chris and the family, but it's important that I'm here to do some networking with the people from UCD. And while I'm here I might as well have an adventure.

St Stephen's Green is very close by and it really is lovely. The grass is so soft and very, very green, and the flower beds are beautifully maintained. But beyond that, I discover Dublin is like any other city, and I am over cities right now. There is nothing really unique or interesting to commend it like Paris has, or at least not that I have seen today. In fact it is just like being in the middle of Wellington, and everywhere, everywhere cigarette smoke. I miss out on seeing the Book of Kells in Trinity College by forty minutes. To top it all off I manage to get lost again, despite having a decent map. I don't know how I manage it, honestly. I walk around the periphery of what I think is St Stephen's Green for about an hour, looking for the right road leading off it, before I eventually realise I am actually walking around Merrion Square and not St Stephen's Green. 

I've heard the Cobblestone is the place to go to hear a really good trad session, but it's a fair way and the taxi costs me fifteen euros. True, the music is great but there is a very talkative man next to me and he is telling me all about the economic situation in Ireland and his nephew who went to New Zealand, and his problems with the city council and the government, breathing Guinness all over me whenever he says something. Also it's down a side street and I don't feel too safe, so after listening to a few more sets I decide to take a taxi back to my accommodation. I think Mr Guinness can make himself useful so I ask him to come outside to make sure I can get in a taxi safely, which he obligingly does, and I'm happy to get back to the guesthouse. I'm so much happier when the music is at festivals rather than pubs, but in Ireland there's not a lot of choice because even the festivals are held in pubs! The country is economically depressed but everyone still seems to have money for beer.

Tomorrow is my last full day before I head home and I can't wait to be surrounded by familiar things and people who love me.

A grand palace on my last day

I wake up to my last day in Paris. There are still so many places I haven't been able to see yet, but there will have to be another time. Today I would like to see the Palace de Versailles. It's a little way out of town and you have to catch the RER, the overland train, to get there. Florian meets me in front of the hotel. I never could find my way there without his knowledge. First we walk to the end of the street. Then we catch a tram and I'm impressed by how fast and clean it is. Then a short walk to the train station to catch the RER. Parisians really don't have to walk anywhere. In the past few days I've probably walked more than anyone else in Paris, partly because I was worried about getting lost on the metro, and partly because I actually did get lost on the streets a few times!

When we get on the train, there is a friendly big man in his 60s playing some fast French music on a piano accordion. I can appreciate this and I give him 2 euros. What a very French thing to experience - an accordion player on a train.

It only takes about 20 minutes on the RER and we arrive at the station at Versailles. There are crowds of people everywhere and we are told that the queue will take about an hour to get through. It's already very hot in the sun, so we don't want to wait, but the gardens have free entry and there are some shady parts. At least here there are not so many people! The gardens are famous for their clipped conifers, white courtyards, fountains and flower borders. It's very beautiful and goes for miles, blending in with the countryside around. As a New Zealander I enjoy seeing some forest for a change and it really is nice to get out of the city.

Florian and I buy an icecream and we go to sit by the lake where people are rowing around in little boats. There are enormous grey carp in the lake - some of them would be 80 centimeters long, and they have gold scales along their backs, wide mouths and goggly eyes. They are the ugliest fish I've ever seen, and they are taking bread from people's hands like the ducks and swans.

Florian has to go to work at Orly airport, so I wave goodbye to him. I will miss him - he has been so kind to show me around this amazing city for the last couple of days. The queues are much smaller now so I decide to go and have a walk around the palace. It's exactly as I imagined inside - wide marble halls with statues and chandeliers, frescoed domed ceilings and everywhere ornate gilt edged paintings, mirrors and architraves. These kings certainly lived in opulent luxury, probably while most of their people suffered under grinding poverty. On the other hand, being a king would certainly have had its challenges. The poor guy would never have had a moment to himself, from the time when the servants drew the heavy gold brocade curtains on his elaborately carved four-poster bed at night to when he woke up in the morning. Apparently each morning there was a waking up ceremony. I wonder what that involved? I would like to catch a glimpse into how they lived.

I think it's a very unfortunate thing, but the halls of the palace are being used at the moment for some sort of avant garde modern sculpture exhibition. It is so out of sorts with the opulent grandeur of the palace. I suppose that this was the only place big enough to house these works, if you could call them that. One is a giant pair of high heeled shoes, standing about four or five metres tall and made completely out of stainless steel pots and pans and lids. I suppose if you half closed your eyes, they would look like giant sequins. Another is a pair of very large prawns covered in white lace facing each other as if talking over an oval table. The title is "Le dauphin et dauphine". I suppose it means the male and female prawn, but later when I see Marie Antoinette's quarters, that is called the chambre de dauphine, so I guess I was wrong - it must mean king and queen!

The worst sculpture by far is a full sized one seater helicopter, all painted gold and decorated with, guess what, large diamantes and pink ostrich feathers. Ever the rotor is covered in pink ostrich feathers. I have never seen anything in quite so bad taste.

Ambling along the halls with the crowds of people, I come across an elderly lady pushing her husband in a wheelchair. It looks like hard work for her, especially in the heat, and I offer to push for a while. She quips, "no, it's OK thank you, I'm just about to push him down the stairs." They are from Canada. She asks me where I am from and I tell her New Zealand. Are you travelling alone? Yes, I tell her. "Oh look, Emmett!" she tells her husband. "Another woman from New Zealand traveling alone!" They also met a solo NZ traveller in Italy. You must be very careful in Paris, she tells me. The other Kiwi was chased down the road by a group of black guys. She herself had her purse snatched twice, once in a laundromat, but each time the thief was apprehended and she got her purse back. She also saw a Japanese tourist's laptop stolen from right beside her. I tell her I have been in Paris for five days, and I have felt completely safe. Nothing bad has happened to me. Well nothing but that first experience with the taxi driver, but I would prefer to forget about that. All the people I've met have been very kind and helpful, and I have walked all around the city and taken the metro and have been safe and well cared for. She cautions me again to be careful, and she and Emmett get into a lift and they are gone.

I know I have been looked after and it has been the result of prayer, but I'm also glad that I took the time to read up on how to look like a local in Paris. And here, for a very small fee, is my advice on the subject. If you look like a tourist you are a target, but look and act like a local and you will be safe. There is a particular way of dressing, casual but dressy and not overdone. I have been careful to wear the right clothes, and carry the right bag. I have a lovely striped black and white handbag that I bought just for Paris. It fits my iPad, phone, books and maps. You must not wear a belt bag - they hate them here and it marks you out as a tourist. Backpacks are best avoided but mine was ok at a pinch because it is small and nearly all black. Most of the time I avoided using it.

I have also discovered that in order to blend in, you must not ever look lost. Consult your map surreptitiously if you must, but don't carry it in your hand. Looking at the street metro maps is much better. If you don't know where to go, just choose your best option and walk with confidence. If you're lost, be confidently lost! You are a Parisienne woman on her way to work and you know exactly where you are. If you don't open your mouth, no-one will know that you are not a local. And if you do need to open your mouth, smile and use your best schoolgirl French and most of the time you will get by just fine.

In the late afternoon I want to visit one more museum. Now that I know how to get around on the metro, it's easy. The last museum is the Musee d'Orangerie. It houses the very biggest of Monet's works, as well as paintings from Renoir, Gaugin, Cezanne, Degas and others. I only have about twenty minutes here and it's really not long enough to appreciate Monet's work. I have read how he gradually lost his eyesight, so the progression of Impressionism in his paintings shows how the world actually looked to him.

I must spend one last lovely summer evening in the Parc Georges Brassens just up the road. I realise how much I have learnt here in a very short time and how much I have learnt to love Paris. But it's nearly time to go home; just one more place to visit and then the long haul home. I am missing the family and I am excited to plant my new spring garden and put up some art works on our walls. This trip has challenged, inspired and changed me in ways I didn't think possible.

Un bon jour avec un bon ami

I'm sitting on the grass in the Parc George Brassens, just up the road a little way from where I'm staying. The sun is just going down and families are playing and walking in the park. There are fountains, playgrounds and courtyards and a scented garden, and under the trees, there is a man with three little ponies. Overhead are jet streams and high cirrus clouds. Everywhere I can hear a relaxed and happy buzz of people. I have just had my own little picnic with food that i bought from the little organic supermarket over the road. I feel contented to the core.

This morning, another bad attack of homesickness but then it all starts to improve. First there was a message from Florian saying yes, he could meet me today. Then I got a surprise phone call from my very good friend. How strange to hear a NZ accent and to be speaking English! And then another phone call from Chris. So good to hear all is going well at home.

I get ready and head down the street to meet Florian. We have arranged to meet at the laundromat where I first met him on Saturday. And before I know it, I am getting on a Paris bus, and then on the metro! Florian explains how to navigate around using the public transport, and it seems so easy. I could have saved myself so much walking for the last two days, but then again I have been able to see Paris close up, parts that most tourists would never see.

We are heading for Sacre-Coeur because Florian wants to show me the cathedral and the little streets of Montmartre. It is a little way outside the city but I am amazed how quickly we arrive at the metro station. The beautiful spired and domed cathedral is up on a hill and there is a "funiculaire", a little cable car, that takes people up and down. The building is breathtaking from every angle. It is much prettier than Notre Dame; I suppose because it was built in a much later period. We go up the steps; Florian takes photos of me - finally I will have some photos of myself in these places; up till now it's just been photos of the scenery and I wondered if perhaps people will think I was never there at all.

 

Inside Sacre-Coeur it is very peaceful and majestic. Photos are not permitted in here and there are signs up saying "Silence". I don't have a problem with that because I am lost for words anyway. The architecture, stonework and art are unbelievable. I buy a guidebook for five euros - I will enjoy reading it later.

Underneath the cathedral, you can buy a ticket to gain access to the basement vault and the dome. I buy tickets for Florian and myself, despite his protests - although he has lived in Paris all his life he has never been up to the dome, and it's the least I can do to show my gratitude for his hospitality.

The vault is interesting with a sort of museum containing things like the ornate cardinal's vestments, a large choir book and some heart shaped lockets dating back to the First World War, in which we figured out, you were to put an offering for the church and a written prayer for your soldier.

 

Then through another gate and we begin a very steep climb up spiral stone steps. The space is very small and dark, and the climb is not for the faint hearted! Halfway up I am puffing hard and I say to Florian, "Tu es plus jeune que moi!" You are younger than me. We laugh and our voices echo around in the stone stairwell. But then we are at the top and it was worth every step - the view is beyond description. You can see every part of Paris from here. It's just amazing.

 

Back down the stone stairs and I keep having to "unwind" by turning clockwise every couple of rounds. Florian is laughing. Here is your word for the day, I tell him. "Dizzy". How do you say it in French? "Tournee", he tells me. Turned. It makes perfect sense. French is so much more logical than English.

We decide to go down on the "funiculaire" and then we are in a little town square. People are everywhere, selling all sorts of things, mostly tacky, but some good things. There are also beggars, and some of them plead with tears in their eyes, but I am smarter now, and I even see a girl with the same "deaf and dumb association of Paris" clipboard, so at least I know what that is all about. Being with Florian seems to offer some kind of protection too, though at the bottom of the steps to Sacre-Coeur there are some men who think he is Italian and are trying to tie something around our wrists, some sort of string bracelet. They only want money but you can see how tourists would be sucked in. They are extremely pushy. As Florian says, if I want something I will go and buy it; I don't want to be forced into buying something I haven't planned on. but further along there are two smiling black guys busking with a guitar. They are seriously good, so we stop and listen for a while. This is something that I can support, I tell Florian, and we both give them some money.

Further down a street it is quieter, and this is the space that Renoir did his paintings. I can imagine it; it's very pretty here. I'm surprised to see a sign saying "Attention, abeilles" - there are beekeepers working on hives in a little park above the street. I tell Florian that in New Zealand we only have bees in the country, never in the city. Apparently a lot of city parks here have hives.

Back on the metro and Florian is taking me to see the canals and parks by the Seine. We are walking along the canal and I want to take a photo, but he won't let me yet; he says it is not pretty enough. And he is right; just around the corner there is a canal lock under willow trees and a passenger boat is waiting in the lock. We watch as the gates open and water pours into the lock; the boat rises and then the next part opens and the boat can pass through.

We walk for a while up the canal and then it's time to go back on the metro - Florian has to go to work. I have had such a lovely time - I tell him he is the best tour guide ever. He is just a beautiful young man, so friendly and gentle and easy to talk to. What a wonderful thing that I met him in the laundromat. He is also free tomorrow morning, so we decide to meet up again, as it's my last day in Paris.

On my own now, I take the metro to the Musee d'Orsay. The building used to be a railway station and there are some enormous glass clocks in the arches of the roof. It reminds me a lot of the movie "Hugo". I must see that movie again when I get home, only this time I will watch it in French.

I like this much better than the Louvre. The paintings are gentler, softer, more full of light, than what I saw there. Of course this museum houses the paintings of the most famous impressionists - Monet, Renoir, Gaugin, Manet, van Gogh. I find myself getting quite lost in each piece. It's actually a very happy thing that I'm on my own, because I can pause as long as I like in front of each painting and the only dialogue is internal. Somehow, conversation spoils this process. Especially when I hear an American or Australian accent it seems to grate on the nerves and is out of character in this beautiful place of culture. I am glad I don't have to hear my own voice.

I am hungry so I queue up for some lunch at a cafe inside the Musee. In front of me there is an Australian family. They order "two iced teas..." and something else and then with my new found confidence in French I order "une baguette au fromage et jambon, un jus d'orange et un petit gateau chocolat, s'il vous plait". I am so glad that I can do that. I would hate to be ordering in English. It would just be wrong somehow.

In all I spend about four wonderful hours at the Musee, but then I decide it's time to go. I am so glad that Florian showed me how to use the metro, because in a very short time and two train rides later, I am at the end of Rue Brancion and I only have a very short walk. What a contrast from last night when I finally found my way back, tired and footsore and so homesick. Tonight after stopping off to buy myself some groceries at the lovely organic supermarket over the road, I arrive back at my room full of energy and bursting with happiness at what has been the most perfect day. I am still missing home, but I am loving Paris and feel so grateful to be alive and to see all of these wonderful places.

More exploring in Paris

I wake up in the early hours of the morning and the homesickness kicks in. I would give anything to be with my family right now. But I am here and that's not an option so I have to be philosophical. While I am here there's still so much to see, and I'll be home in less than a week.

I set off in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. This time I am determined not to get lost, so I work out my route carefully. It's only five or six kilometers. I pass a patisserie and I need some breakfast, so I go in. I think I will order a croissant, but wait, is it "un croissant" or "une croissant"? Maybe I should order "deux croissants" to get around that problem. But there are lots of other things in the cabinet as well, and finally I order "un pain aux raisins"; at least I know "le pain" is masculine. There is a round and jovial man in the shop talking to the lady behind the counter, and he says something to me, so I just smile and hope whatever he said didn't require a reply. I am inordinately pleased with myself as I head down the street eating my pain aux raisins.

Further down the street there is a fruit shop and I stop to buy a peach for 60 cents. The peach is so big and delicious. As I'm eating it I pass another homeless man begging on the street. I have an idea; I go back to the fruit stall and buy four more peaches and as I pass the man again, I quietly put a peach in the tray in front of him. He has his head down on his arms so he doesn't see me, but I hope when he looks up he will get a nice surprise. My solution to the homeless problem in Paris? "Let them eat peaches".

I pass a small park and there is another homeless man asleep on a park bench, and a little boy, about eight or nine, in a hooded sweatshirt and cap, sitting on the other bench. I seriously hope he is not the man's son. Living on the street would be hard enough for an adult, let alone this little boy, and who will look after him? I take another one of my peaches and hand it to the boy. "Pour toi". He looks at me, not quite sure what to think, but he takes the peach and says "merci", and watches me, holding the peach with both hands, as I carry on down the street. The warm fuzzies were worth a lot more than the 60 cents I spent on that peach.

Another few blocks and suddenly I can see the Eiffel Tower. The crowds are a lot smaller than yesterday. At the tower I buy a Tshirt for Hannah. I'm finally beginning to enjoy myself in Paris. Yesterday I was so tired and it was all so new and baffling, but here I am in one of the world's most iconic and historic cities, and I am going to explore.

I am planning to get back on the red bus, but I'm not sure where it stops, so I ask a bus driver. "Excusez-moi, ou arretent les cars rouges?" He points to the stop and I'm so proud of myself.

I 'm back on the same bus as yesterday, and now I have a good idea of the stops and the layout of the city. I decide to get off at the Louvre, as it's the main thing I want to see in Paris. The size of this building is beyond belief. It's 700 meters long and I have heard that if you spend twenty seconds in front of each piece, it would take you something like six weeks to see them all. In the courtyard, i see the iconic glass pyramid. Underneath the ground is the inverted glass pyramid, almost meeting a small marble pyramid. I read about this in the Da Vinci Code. According to the book, the bones of Mary Magdalene are entombed here.

The first area I go to is the sculptures, and seriously, I am stunned. Each is so lifelike, and the  sculptors have achieved exactly the look of skin, rough fabric, silk and even lace. I am reminded of that scene in the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe where the children find a giant courtyard filled with people and animals who have been petrified by the Witch.

The ancient cultures section is fascinating but what I really want is to see the paintings. You can't go to the Louvre without seeing the Mona Lisa. The paintings section is beyond description. I'm absolutely floored by the size and grandeur of some of these paintings. They are up to ten or twelve meters across and some must have taken many years to complete. I suppose they are painted on linen ir vellum, but how on earth did they make a piece that big? And how did they transport it? I get a different feeling looking at each painting. Some are serene and beautiful, but others are gruesome and full of tension. I wonder about the story behind each painting and wish I knew more about art. Josh is going to love this when he gets here next year.

Here are some paintings I recognise. John the Baptist pointing to heaven. The Virgin of the Rocks. John the Baptist portrayed as Bacchus. Leonardo certainly knew how to stir. But I'm looking for La Joconde, the Mona Lisa, and eventually I find her - the most photographed woman in the world. She has a whole wall all to herself and is guarded by security and a cordon. There are about two hundred people thronging around her with their cameras, but she is unmoved by all the attention, still smiling serenely but in that slightly disturbing way, so you wonder what she is up to.

On the opposite wall is the biggest painting I've seen- the wedding at Cana. It takes up the whole wall. I could spend hours here but I have other things I want to do, so after a quick look at the Africa and Oceania section I exit the Louvre and get back on the red bus.

Next stop, the Musee d'Orsay, where a lot of Monet paintings are kept. Oh what a disappointment - it is closed on Mondays. Oh well, there's plenty more to see. Back on the red bus, and off to the Arc de Triomphe, the world's most famous war memorial. A tunnel under the road leads to the central area. The Paris pass I bought is worth its weight in gold because I don't have to queue for tickets. It's a big climb; I count 262 steps going up in a spiral, but I must be getting fitter from all that walking because I get to the top without stopping, and what a stunning view, 360 degrees over the whole of Paris.

It 's getting towards mid afternoon though, and I still want to do the boat trip, so back on the red bus and back to the Tour Eiffel. I really enjoy the boat trip; we go under 22 bridges and there is a commentary. I listen to it in French and English. You get a different perspective on the city from the river.

If I hadn't gotten hopelessly lost in the backblocks of Paris on the way back, it would have been a perfect day. I get back right on sunset, much to my relief, and with very sore feet. Nobody was ever more grateful to get back to their hotel room!

I get acquainted with Paris, and a few beggars too!

I wake up after a great sleep in this lovely quiet hotel. Grateful that I didn't try to save money by booking into another youth hostel- it's so much better having a room and bathroom to myself. Today I plan to go to church and then see what happens after that. I don't yet feel brave enough or well informed enough to try taking the metro or bus, but I've google-mapped the way to the English speaking meeting I've been told about, and it's only about 7km, so I decide that is walking distance, and it's a chance to explore Paris up close.

But first I have a shower and get dressed and go downstairs. The breakfast is 8 euro which is more than I would normally spend, but it's convenient and very nice, with fresh fruit salad, juice, rolls and the biggest, most delicious croissant I have ever had. Lucky I don't eat like this every day! I take the roll and cheese to save for lunch later.

After breakfast I begin to make my way down the streets, heading for the Rive Gauche, on the other side of the city. The streets are incredibly quiet and deserted; apparently nobody gets up and about before 8am here. I am quite enchanted to find I'm walking past the Louis Pasteur Institute. I find I'm able to read almost everything I see. Mr Curnow, my 5th form French teacher, would be proud of me. I haven't forgotten much after 27 years.

The cars are parked so close together on the sides of the road that I wonder how any of them can get out. Some cars have only 10 to 20 cm of space in front and behind.

People are beginning to come out and shops are starting to open as I get closer in to the city. I take a few wrong turnings. In a square there is a man in a wheelchair who has a big clock and a bicycle bell. He is begging. I have never seen that before, and I pretend not to see him. Probably the wheelchair is just a ploy anyway. I get about 30 meters down the road and then I look back at him. He has a nice face and I suddenly think of the parable of the good Samaritan. Here I am rushing to church and ignoring a poor man on the roadside in a wheelchair. Shame on me. Who am I to judge whether he is really disabled or not? I know all the arguments about not giving homeless people money because they may just spend it on alcohol, but my conscience won't let me carry on, so I reach into my bag and pull out four euros and one of my little packets of Emmental cheese and I go back to the man. Bonjour, and I put them in his hand. He looks grateful.

Finally I find the Seine. It's a huge river with two islands in the middle of it, Ile de la Cite and Ile Saint-Louis. Every inch of the islands is covered in huge buildings, all made out of the same yellowish-tan coloured stone. The church is on the other side and due to my bad sense of direction I am going to be late; I've been told the meeting starts at 9.30 am. A few more wrong turns but finally I find Rue Saint-Merri and then I'm very excited to see the church sign on the building. I stop across the road to straighten myself up before going in, but then to my utter disappointment I realise that the building is all closed up. They must meet elsewhere during the summer holidays.

I feel a bit dejected after my long walk and I'm not sure what to do, so I wander a little bit further along the street. There is another homeless man sitting on a corner, with the saddest looking little dog I have ever seen curled up next to him. I know the dog is probably just a ploy, but my heart goes out to the poor little thing and I take my other packet of cheese and walk over to the man. Pour le chien? I say and he nods and I crouch down and offer the little dog a piece of cheese. I have never seen such a dejected looking little dog, and he doesn't seem to know what cheese is, because he sniffs it and licks it a little bit, but leaves it alone. I put the cheese down in front of the dog. The trouble with speaking French to people here is that then they assume I know what they are saying back to me, and half the time they are speaking too fast and I can't make head or tail of it. But the man seems to be saying, you can pat him, he won't bite. I know they have rabies in Europe and I keep thinking about what my mother would say, but I just have to reach over and let him sniff my hand and ever so gently stroke the side of his face. I would like to take this dog and love him and show him green grass and ball games, but I have to turn around and leave. I won't forget this for a long time.

I find my way to a square with quite a few people milling around. In the centre of the square is a fountain with a lot of weird colorful sculptures spouting water. I sit down on the steps to get my bearings. There are some little boys playing soccer and the ball accidentally hits me in the head. Just what I need. Then a young woman comes over to me with a clipboard. I wonder what she wants. She points to the paper. Deaf and dumb association of Paris. She signs that she is deaf and dumb and she is asking for money. The paper says 20 euro for the deaf and dumb. I pull one euro out of my bag, gee I am so gullible. The girl's manner changes. Her meaning is clear. Only one euro? Je n'ai pas vingt euro, I say. She looks very cross and writes on the back of the paper, 5 euros. Non, je n'ai pas cinq euro. I do have more money in my bag, but I figure out what is going on, and I can play this game too. Non, je n'ai plus. C'est tout. She signs, deux euro. Non, I am saying, c'est tout! C'est tout! I show her my Mastercard to make a point, and she turns on her heel in a huff, and flounces off to look for her next victim. A fool and his money are soon parted, and it only cost me one euro to learn that.

What to do next? I have begun to feel slightly unsafe, so I manage to find where the "cars rouges", the buses which do a two day hop on, hop off tour, stop. It's good to be on a bus... It gets me away from all the people and it should be a good way to orient myself to the landmarks. The buildings and the stonework are certainly amazing, and at first I take lots of photos, but after a while they all start to look the same. Each ornately carved stone building seems to be competing with all its neighbors to be fancier than the next, and most of these were commissioned by Napolean in a chest-beating brag about his latest conquest. The guy certainly had a big opinion of himself. I bet he was a horror in the sandpit at kindergarten. I mainly want to know, how was all this stonework done without cranes or power tools? What sort of engineering and craftsmanship went into it? I don't know if there is anywhere in Paris that you can find out.

The Tour Eiffel is certainly a spectacle, but I'm unimpressed by all the crowds and I don't have any desire to queue for hours to go up it. 

I decide to get off at Notre Dame, resplendent in all its Gothic ugliness. Again, there is an overwhelmingly big crowd outside but I join the queue and we slowly file towards the entry. I can't imagine what possessed someone to design such a monstrosity. Inside, there are signs saying " Silence" and there is a mass going on. It feels a bit weird to say the least, to be walking around the outside of the cathedral taking photos, while the green-robed priests are reciting the mass with their golden candelabra, in front of the masses of the faithful. I am quite impressed though, by the main priest who suddenly bursts into the Gregorian chanting thing, and he is exactly on key, because the organ comes in right after him. The guy must have perfect pitch. There are confessional boxes and one offers confessionals in five languages. I suppose you have to pay, but how convenient! I wonder how much it costs per sin.

I've seen enough stained glass and Gothic arches to last me for quite a while, so I exit the cathedral. I'm feeling desperate to go back to my hotel room, but I'm soooooo far away, and with my map reading skills I could well end up somewhere entirely different from what I intended. I start the long walk, and several about turns later I finally have found the right street. Thank goodness, and this time I don't encounter any beggars. It's ok for Mother Teresa, but I am not so streetwise, and I have a family to get home to.

What a relief to find my lovely little hotel, and to get back to some familiarity. I have been walking for over five hours. It's been an adventure, but I've had enough for one day.