First day in Paris

I wake up at 4 am as usual but lie there for some time before I decide that it wouldn't be too disruptive to my room mates' sleep if I was to get up and have a shower. The only one of my original room mates left is Carole from Toulouse and she and I have planned to go on a short bike ride this morning, as we are both leaving today. Breakfast is not until 8 am on a Saturday and all three of us - Carole, David Pitt from Queensland and me, take extra rolls, cheese and fruit so that we don't have to buy lunch. My Scottish ancestry is showing through.

With my things all packed and in the lockup storage, Carole and I set off on our bikes. Carole is a very lovely and confident girl, and very kind; the sort you know would help you out if you had a problem. She speaks very good English but she patiently allows me to practice my French and she gently corrects me if I get something wrong, like saying "dix-cinq" instead of "quinze". I knew that! We don't have long before I have to be back for the taxi, and I was hoping we could get back out to the chateau as it's so close to town, but we get about two thirds of the way there and I take a few photos and then we have to turn around or we'll run out of time. Carole says she will ride back there with her camera and take some photos and email them to me.

Saying goodbye to her is a little awkward because I go to give her a hug as we do in New Zealand and she thinks I am doing the "faire le bise", kissing the cheeks one, two, three, four times. A cultural faux pas? I explain this is what we do when saying goodbye to friends in New Zealand.

I worry that the taxi won't come in time to get me to the station, but truly I worry too much, and the taxi driver is very nice and points me in the right direction. I go to the ticket machine to buy a ticket but the machine doesn't accept credit cards, even though mine works like a debit card, but suddenly I hear a familiar voice and there is Mark Bosson. So good to see him, and he walks me to the ticket booth. They don't take credit cards there either and I don't quite have enough cash so Mark offers to buy my ticket... what a blessing. I am really being looked after.

In the weekends they maintain the railway tracks so the first leg of the journey will be by bus. I'm a bit worried, again, that I might get on the wrong bus, or there might not be room, or the bus won't get me to Sittard on time, but I should really learn from experience not to worry, since everything has worked out exactly right so far, and sure enough I get a seat, the bus makes it, and I end up at Sittard station.

Obviously my journey around the western side of Holland was through the nicer parts, because this time I am going up through the central city of Utrecht, and I realise Holland is not all pretty green canals and windmills and picturesque farms. There is an ugly side too and you probably see the worst of it from the railway.

Arriving at Schiphol airport feels very familiar now and I have no trouble finding my way to where I'm supposed to be. I have a couple of hours to wait.

The flight to Charles de Gaulle is only about 50 minutes and almost before the poor air hostesses have had time to serve out crackers and drinks and collect up all the rubbish, we start the descent. France is flatter than I expected and the rivers I can see have a bluish green tinge. There is a patchwork effect from all the green crops and ploughed fields, and dark patches of trees. Coming closer to the ground I can see villages with little spired churches.

Once again I am worried that by some chance my luggage won't have ended up on the right plane. Oh Kara, stop worrying! Shouldn't you have learned by now? With my bags in hand I nervously find a phone and dial the 0800 number I was given by the shuttle company. "Bonjour, j'ai reserve un taxi." The guy on the other end speaks rapidly in French and I catch the word "huit". Momentary panic but eventually I say "Pardon, en anglais s'il vous plait?" so he tells me in perfect English that my driver will be waiting outside gate 8.I have to wait for about ten minutes but then a Paris Shuttle van arrives and the driver jumps out. He is a short man of Indian or Pakistani descent and he has a goatee and is wearing Miami Vice sunglasses. I speak a bit of French to him but he also speaks good English. He asks me if I am traveling alone. Yes. Do I know anyone on Paris? No, I don't know anyone at all. He says "Well now you know me! Would you like to sit in the front?" so he stops and I get into the front seat. He tells me his name is Raj. Now I start getting worried. I have heard there are bogus taxi drivers in Paris who will pick you up and leave you somewhere and take off with your bags. He asks me if I would like to sit in the middle seat, right next to him. I say, "no thanks, I'm ok". Now I'm really frightened. He makes some kind of joke, and horror of horrors, pats my knee! He asks me if I'm married and I tell him yes, with three children. He seems to get the idea after that, as I've clammed up and I'm probably as white as a sheet. Luckily by this time we have picked up more passengers so at least I am not alone with him in the van. 

At first the motorway is just like being in Auckland, only the road surface is not so well maintained. Raj is reading my destination and programming his GPS while driving at about 140 km per hour through a motorway tunnel. My life flashes in front of my eyes and I remember Princess Diana died in a tunnel just like this, probably with a driver just like this. But it must not be my day to die today, because then we are off the motorway and suddenly I see that we are heading up the Champs Élysées, and I can see the Arc de Triomphe straight ahead. I have heard about the traffic around the Arc de Triomphe and it is every bit as bad as they say. From what I can see, it's an absolute free-for-all, with about 100 cars on the roundabout at any one time, and no marked lanes. You decide you want to go somewhere and you just start driving there, and don't catch the eye of another driver or they will think you are giving way to them. This is all happening at about 80 km per hour. There don't seem to be any road rules here, and Raj is thundering up narrow streets at a rate of knots. Note to self: it would be a good idea to run across pedestrian crossings while I am here just to stay alive!

Finally my hair-raising trip comes to an end, and Raj lets me off in front of the hotel, with my bags. He is not a villain after all. But I certainly hope I never see him again.

I immediately fall in love with the hotel and its lovely setting on a quiet suburban street. Going into the lobby, everything feels so clean and modern. The man at the counter is very nice and he gives me my room card. I am staying in room 101. I go up to the first floor in the lift, and exit onto the tiniest hallway I've ever seen. It's only about half a meter wide. I open the door to my room, and what a perfect little haven! It's absolutely gorgeous.

I drop my bags and then the first thing I do is drop to my knees in gratitude. I've been guided and protected once again.

I decide to have a walk up and down the little street. Right next to the hotel is a little grocer, so I buy a beautiful big peach and "des abricots aussi". The grocer is a friendly little man who looks Vietnamese and I am pretty pleased with myself that I could buy something in French without making a fool of myself.