Metro Contretemps

Jules and I planned to go to Versailles today.  Neither of us had been and we’d always wanted to go, but had been thwarted by circumstance (or prior traveling companions).  As it happens, we were not destined to go today either. 

We went to the Métro stop at Rue Madeleine.  I taught Jules how to order two roundtrip train tickets to Versailles at the ticket booth.  Tickets in hand, we turned and walked through the gates and realized that we were at the wrong train platform.  We needed to take the 8 to Balard, not the 14 to Bibliothéque Fr. Mitterand.  We turned around and exited.  The woman at the ticket booth took pity on the two dumb Americainnes and gave us an exit ticket for the 8.  She also gave us two sprigs of lilies, to commemorate the first of May.  They were wrapped in plastic emblazoned with Je porte bonheur (I carry happiness).

At Invalides, we headed towards Platform A to wait for our train, the RER (Réseau express  régional) C, to Versailles.  As we sat there, we noted an American couple who had been before us in the ticket line.  They were either on their honeymoon or subject to the oneiric state of being in Paris because they spent much of their wait kissing and holding hands.  I’m telling you, Paris is in a league of its own when it comes to romance.

The train pulled up and I asked a young couple, “Excusez-moi, c’est le train pour Versailles?”

“Oui,” said the girl.

“Hey Jules, let’s go.”

“Oh wait,” said the girl with a lilting Australian accent.  “Versailles is closed today.”

“What?” we said.

“Versailles is closed today.  It’s a holiday for them,” said her boyfriend.

“Some holiday this is for us,” she grumbled.

“Is the premier mai a major holiday?” Jules asked.  “Because we looked on line and they said they were open every day except Mondays and major holidays.”

“It’s Labor Day for them,” he answered.

I shouldn’t probe that remark too sarcastically because there are French people whom I adore and I would not want to cast aspersions on their nationality but I have as awful a weakness for oxymorons as I do for puns.  Let us leave it there.

“Well,” said Jules, “What are we going to do?”

I watched as our American compatriots climbed the train for a forty-minute ride to a palace that was closed for the day.

“Let’s go get our money back and figure out what to do next,” I said.

Easier said then done and so French an experience…

We went to the information desk and explained our situation to two gendarmes who were guarding the exit.  Apparently there was some sort of event above the Invalides stop and they were re-directing everyone to another exit.  They told us to go back to the Madeleine exit and try to get our refund there.  Why I couldn’t get a refund at Invalides is beyond me. “Oh !@#$%^&*( this,” I said to Jules.  “Let’s go to Montparnasse and get our refund later since we’ll have to stop off at Madeleine to go home anyway.”  We went to take the 13 towards Montparnasse and ended back up on the 8 going the wrong way.  Actually, the 8 was already the wrong train and we found ourselves back at Madeleine.

I began spitting out a string of obscenities.  “Okay, let’s get the refund.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Jules.

“No, consider to whom you are talking,” I said, marching to the information desk.

“Versailles is closed today,” I said to the woman behind the counter.

“Ah oui, c’est le premier mai,” she answered. 

I told her we wanted to get a refund because Versailles was closed and we couldn’t go.

She said, “Ce n’est pas ma faute.” (It’s not my fault)

I always forget that French service isn’t.  “We asked the ticket seller earlier if Versailles was closed and she said no.”

“So?”

Blood boiling.  Danger Will Robinson, danger!

“Well she gave us incorrect information!”

“What has that got to do with me?” Well you fucking work here, yes?  “Just use the tickets on Tuesday.”

“We can’t because we’re leaving on Tuesday for the States.”

She shrugged.  So Gallic.  “Ce n’est pas ma faute.”

Apparently I can speak French fluently when I’m sober, too.  I just can’t remember any cuss words.

“Vive la France!” I yelled, turning around and grabbing Jules.  We exited topside and realized we’d been traveling back and forth underground for almost an hour.  At about this time, a text message from Hubby came in:  Drink a GREAT wine today.  See, this is why I’m married to the man.  He just knows.

“Jules, let’s go to Montparnasse.  There’s a café I’d like to visit.”  We went back down into the Madeleine stop and proceeded to walk towards the platform entrance.  And once again, we headed through the wrong turnstile.  Or rather, Jules did.

“Jules, wait!” I yelled as she passed through.  “Wrong platform!”

Jules turned around automatically and pushed her way back through the turnstile doors, wrecking them in the process. You know, I needed that laugh.  Once I recovered myself enough not to pee in my pants, we headed towards the right transfer station.  As we passed a trash can, Jules reached into her bag.  “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I’m not carrying much happiness right now,” and trashed the lily bouquets. We calculated we spent an hour and a half wandering underground in the Metro, getting on the wrong trains repeatedly and backtracking.

There’s an entire other story about getting there (“Jules, if someone grabs you, turn around and yell at the top of your lungs, “What the !@#$%^ do you want?” and kick because it ain’t me grabbing you and you don’t know anyone in Paris.  It’s better to be an ugly American than a mugged American.”), but I finally realized two particular quests: time at both Café Deux Magots and Café de Flore, in St-Germain-des-Prés.

The oldest church in Paris is the St-Germain-des-Prés. It was built in 542.  It served as a Benedictine abbey and burned during the French Revolution.  Rebuilt in the 19^th century, it is noted also for one of its original Romanesque belfries, the oldest in France.  René Descartes (“I think therefore I am”) is buried there.  Quite apt as the church faces Café Deux Magots, where the French existentialist movement was brought to life and argued by Sartre, de Beauvoir and others including Camus and Juliette Greco over cups of coffee.  Hemingway and his fellow American ex-pats spent plenty of time there as well, as well as other notable intellectuals and artists of the time like Ford Madox Ford and Ezra Pound. Café de Flore is across the street, no less celebrated but much quieter.  At Deux Magots, we ordered lunch, sparkling water and quiches.  Clichéd? Touristy?  $7 coffees?  Sure.  But worth every moment.  Jules and I just sat back, drank our coffees and just admired the effortless style and manner of the French women (Jules:  “My dogs are barking!  How the hell do they walk around in those heels?”).

So…drawback to Paris:  the constant smoking.  I can’t tell if it’s a blessing or curse that I live in a pristine world in which non-smokers are more prevalent than smokers. I have really sissy nasal passages that just can’t make nice with first or second hand smoke. I start dripping like a faucet.  And the post nasal drip drainage – yay.  So there I am enjoying an agreeable moment for the first time that day, and some jackass at the table in front of us lights up a stogie and starts blowing smoke in my face. He took a puff, turned around and exhaled, deliberately ignoring my and Jules’ horrified expressions and coughing. Cigarettes I can almost handle; cigars…well, even the Parisians around Cigar Man glared. My throat is killing me now from the constant drainage. I hope he gets cancer and dies.

We paid our bill, got up, and walked across the street to Café de Flore, found another seat outside and had café crèmes and good conversation.

I’m glad Jules was there.  It’s good to have someone witness your life, but especially in Paris.