Entente Cordiale- My Travels In France- Part 1

Being British, the stereotype of the French being narcissistic,  arrogant, overly-suave buggers has forever been around me, and like many others, I have also joined in with the playful banter about our southern neighbours without actually going to France. So my feelings were slightly mixed when I took up the opportunity to go to Paris for a  weekend.

[Day 1]

Leaving on the 4.31 Eurostar from St. Pancras International, bound for Paris, Gare du Nord, there was a sense of camaraderie between the passengers on the train. Whether this was an "Oh shit, I'm going down so I'm taking you all with me" bond, or a "Well... we have a four hour ride, let's make friends" bond is still unknown, but it seemed fun at the time, with my friends and I making friends with quite a few of the other English speakers that were huddled around us, and making little bets between ourselves on whether the dude with the bald head and funky goatee opposite us would finish his bottle of wine before we got to Paris.

Paris, though... Paris really is a different kettle of fish to what I was expecting. I fell into my own trap, and thought Paris would be quite a tiny place- just like quite a few foreigners think London's just a small little town, slap bang in the middle of England, with nothing but a row of shops, and a steady line of peasants all vying for the opportunity to have one sip of tea [and no more than that- it's against the law, y'know] with the oh-so-magnificent Queen. Paris, though, is massive. Having got to the Eurostar station, we needed to successfully navigate our way to our hotel. This, dear readers, is where I started to miss London. The French tube maps are largely the same as British ones- but with a couple of key differences: The lines have numbers, not names, and instead of using a proper key to display the line numbers, they're just in a minuscule circle on the end of the line itself. Now, that's just asking for trouble, isn't it?

Luckily, though, the information desk was manned, and we got three tickets to La Bastille, where our hotel is located.

I know I've complained about the London Underground system quite a lot [it's because I'm British, I swear!], but I have to say that given the choice between the "Underground" and the "Metro", I'd pick the "Underground" every time. Metro trains are tiny, and everyone inside looks deadpan, with literally no expression, even though they're being squashed against the walls, and the seats, and having their face violated by another passengers luggage.  The doors, too, don't open themselves, and are locked by a passenger via a tiny latch. If no passenger wants to get off at a stop, no-one opens the latch, and the doors stay closed. This was a source of great worry to me and my friends, who feared that we wouldn't be able to work the latch system at our stop, and we'd be stuck on the train to "insertfrenchterminusstationhere". What was more amazing, though, was the fact that French passengers [or Parisian ones, at least] don't like to pay for their tickets. Various passengers leapt across the turnstiles at stations, inspiring an "OH MY GOD! WE SHOULD DO THAT!" from my friends.

Getting to La Bastille metro station, you'll realise that although Old Street station has 9 exits, and Swiss Cottage has about 5, nothing is as complicated as a station in France that has roughly 4 exits. Making it to the main station concourse [after an incident where a blind woman on a mobile phone ended up clattering into our bags, causing a flurry of:

"OMG! SAY SORRY IN FRENCH!"

"...Je suis desolée!"]

we stood for a literal half an hour, and deliberated which exit to pick. It felt like we were in one of those horror movies where you need to pick the right way out to escape alive, or the zombies [or in this case, French people who looked pretty battered after their evening commute] would eat you. We finally opted for the exit that said "Boulevard de Bastille", and immediately felt sorry for doing so. We ended up in the Boulevard de Bastille wing of the station, looking like real travellers, and helpless ones at that. We stood near a map [which was the only thing available, seeing as the workers at the information desk seemed to adore the schadenfreude that occurred by leaving the desk unmanned, and watching several passengers (actually, I'm just saying that to feel better- it was really just us) scratching their heads and looking extremely scared], and seeing as we couldn't see the road of the hotel on it, we decided to ask the people that passed by.

"Excuse moi, Ou est la Rue Croazatier?" I asked various people. Helpfully, as if we hadn't tried that, all of them pointed to the map and walked off. Pas merde, Sherlock. We decided to traipse up the stairs, bags in tow, and try and find a cab driver, or at least anyone upstairs who would know the directions to the hotel. Luckily, a taxi rank was just nearby, and after being directed to the first cab in the line [I think it's a rule in the "Fellowship of the Cabbie" or something], we handed the driver the card, and zoomed off to the hotel.

While driving on a French road, you discover a lot about the place. For example, you see that various drivers consider "synchronised three-point-turning on a road narrower than a dark alley" a sport, not a death trap. There's also the fact that Parisian pedestrians seem to think that they're built like the iron man, and will be completely unharmed if they walk into the road. There's one think you can't deny, though, and that's that France is a beautiful city, especially at night. The architecture is plain awesome, and the blinking lights in the dead of night just enhance the beauty, and turn everything into a masterpiece.

After surviving the wreckless French roads, and putting our stuff in the hotel, we decided to wander. My friend wanted cigarettes, and I, wanting to put my B at GCSE French into use, decided to ask where to buy them. The only problem is that when I wanted to speak French, a little bit of Spanish kept popping out. I got "acheter" [French for 'Buy'] mixed up with "comprar" [Spanish for 'Buy'] and ended up creating "Ou on peut compris des cigarettes?", which I think may just mean "Where can one understand these... Cigarettes?"

French 1, Ravi 0.

You'd probably expecting French crepes to be the most brilliant crepes in the world. But it's at this point that I'll need to break your hearts and shatter your dreams: the best thing about the first creperie we went to, was the sweater that was being worn by the man making the crepes. I would rather have eaten my own leg that ordered the rubber [it was meant to be cheese] filled pancakes that were received. After covering the shame of the crepes [or should I say "craps"?] with a packet of hard haribo, and a can of Fanta, we headed back to the hotel to say goodnight to a good first day.