I made it Paris in pretty good shape. It was a long bus ride, but now I am relaxing in the Parisian warmth and enjoying the sightseeing. I will be posting pictures of the Eiffel Tower tonight as well as some of the random city I have found interesting. Stay tuned!
I have heard and read a lot about Paris and its’ people. It all seems to be true. I arrived in Paris via bus, which is not the most luxurious or quickest way from Dublin, Ireland, but it is the cheapest over land way. (Flying via the Irish airline Ryanair would have been a little cheaper, and much quicker and easier.)
After traveling for just over 24 hours straight, I walked out of the bus terminal in Paris and found an information booth. Up until now, language had not been an issue for my travels. This was the first non-English speaking country I was really setting out in. I came up to the glass and said, “Bonjour”.
Most countries have embraced English as the world language, and enjoy practicing it with people. France, and particularly Paris, is still highly resistant to English. You probably have heard horror stories of French people being extremely rude to English speaking tourists in France. Speaking a few words of French to start a conversation is expected of tourists and really helps ease that tension. Bonjour (Hello) is a must. The next thing I said was “parlez-vous anglais?” (Do you speak English?). I was hoping for a yes, even if begrudgingly. Unfortunately, the information booth attendant did not. I grimaced. This was not going to be fun. I knew from looking at the map the night before I left Dublin, that my hostel was about 25 minutes by car from this bus station and the bus system in Paris, while extensive, is complicated to learn. I said the only other word I could think of that might help. “Taxis?” He looked at me for a moment then pointed towards a corridor behind me.
I took this, then a set of stairs to the open air. I looked around for a taxi stand or sign. I didn’t see one, so I wandered around a bit. I found a lone taxi across the street, loading a couple people up. I repeated this process. “Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais?”
“Very little”. Oh boy. “When will there be another taxi?” He shook his head and pointed at the ground. “Not here?” I asked. He nodded, then, looking around he pointed down a street and said something in French, which I assumed meant, walk down this street then (Motioning to the right) take a right. There will be another Taxi stand sign (pointing to the sign I was standing next to). I thanked him (Merci) and turned. The street was a two lane affair with a tree lined median. The sidewalks where narrow and obviously a commercial back end of some larger building. It wasn’t scary but it wasn’t pretty either.
I walked down the block, turned the corner and thank there was the promised (I assume) taxi stand. With three taxis waiting, no less. I went to the one in the middle, which had its window down and started another awkward foreign conversation. This time the driver seemed to speak a little more English, though he said, again, “Only a little”.
I asked if he was available. He was! Excellent. I handed him the address and name of my hostel. He looked it over and then said the sweetest sounding thing I’d heard in days. “Yes, no problem!”
We packed my guitar and backpack into the trunk of the car, and I stepped into the back seat. Then we were off. The ride to the hostel was twisty and passed a lot of very interesting buildings. It was strange to see how spread out the City was. The main thoroughfares were wide and newer buildings lined them. The older areas were very narrow and the buildings seemed much older. We pulled up to the hostel, he helped me remove my bag and guitar and I paid, leaving a generous tip for getting me there quickly and not running the meter up. I had calculated the price before I left for Dublin and had an idea of the cost ahead of time.
The hostel was situated in older white plastered brick building. The door was, however, locked. There were no English signs to indicated which button (there was a keypad next to the door) to press. I waited. After a few minutes a group of Australians came up the sidewalk and asked if I was staying here as well. I informed them I was, but the door was locked and I didn’t know how to get in. One of the Australians, who knew French, read the other signs (mostly in French) and figured out the buttons. We buzzed the reception and were let in. After checking in and getting my room (on the third floor), I started to unpack what I would need immediately. The room was not small. It was tiny. 4 beds (2 bunk beds) were crammed into a room about 8×16. The window was open letting a bit of a breeze, but the room was still quite hot. There was no one else there at the moment, but all the other beds were obviously occupied. The ceiling was very low (luckily I am not tall by any stretch of the imagination) and since we were on the top floor, they were steeply sloped, following the roof line. There were ancient looking wood beams exposed between the green painted plastered wall/ceilings.
It was already late but I was starving now. I walked out on the street and looked both ways. To my right was a corner and several closed shops. To my left was a long narrow street. I decided to go left. Up this street I turned onto a wider avenue, and I found a small bar with outside tables on the street. I stopped to read the menu. It was in French and I couldn’t really tell what there was except lots of different omelets. I was amused to see Omelette Du Fromage on the menu, reminding me of an old episode of the cartoon “Dexter’s Laboratory”. A waiter came up and asked if I wanted a menu. I took it and ordered an omelet from the menu and sat down outside. It was a warm night, and darkness had just settled in the city. The waiter came back and set a place for me, and asked if I wanted a drink. I didn’t recognize the brands on the list, so I just ordered one that had Orange as the base of the name. It turned out to be pretty good, like carbonated orange juice.
After I finished, I started back towards the hostel to sleep finally. As I stepped into the room, towards my bunk (the top), I was reminded of the low ceiling and the large exposed beams that hang down near my bunk. The thud of my head contacting the strategically placed support would serve as decent reminder for the remainder of my stay. I crawled into bed and quickly fell asleep, completely drained after such a long voyage. I will be spending the next few nights in Paris, exploring the city before I head to a rural town near Villedieu Poeles to teach English to students. Check back soon to see the results of my first attempts to take pictures of the Eiffel Tower!
I wandered the streets of Dublin, between the brick buildings and stone edifices waiting for the check in time of my hostel. There was music everywhere! I was in the Temple Bar district of the city, near the quay (Pronounced “key”), where the river Liffy flows through the city. On the sidewalks musicians perform for change, a different song on around corner. The songs ranged the gamut from modern pop music to classic rock, even a few traditional Irish performers. As I walked by enjoying the sound of the songs and looking in the various shops, I wondered how many times I would be doing this same thing, in different cities, and different countries across the rest of Europe. Here at least the language was not an issue. How well would I fare in France, my next location?
As I made my way around the streets and back towards the hostel, I found one narrow brick paved street with some advertising and graffiti on it. Dublin is an old city, and portions of it show the age, and reflect the recession’s effect. There are shuttered shops and posters advertising buildings for lease. Around one corner I came face to face with an old paper ad of a woman wearing a black dress, and a laced headband plastered to the site of a building that had been defaced and torn at. It struck me as quite beautiful, even in its damaged state.
Dublin is also a city being reborn. There is construction going on all over the place. Sidewalks closed to be repaved, and new construction underway. Any city of this age and size will change as the years go on, highs and lows. As the economy recovers, Dublin will rebuild and new businesses will fill the now vacant store fronts.
One area that has remained popular and up to date is the Guinness Storehouse tour. The old brewery building, built on land leased for 9000 (Yes 9 THOUSAND) years back in 1759 by Arthur Guinness was converted to a giant attraction in the early 2000’s. Now it is a 6 story recreation of a Guinness pint glass, with each floor telling a different part of the Guinness story. The ingredients and process of the brewing, the history, the marketing, the charitable causes, and training facilities to learn to properly taste a Guinness and to pour a perfect pint.
I went through the tour site, and was blown away by how in depth the location was. It was one of the best tours I have been on since I left home. There was a full on bar with the most amazing panoramic view of the city at the very top (The Gravity Bar) where you can sit and relax and enjoy a drink. There is are two small cafes and a restaurant in the building as well to enjoy a meal inspired by and including Guinness as ingredients. The gift store at the bottom level is impressive as well, and not terribly over priced as some tourist locations get to be.
I think the part of the tour that was the most fun was learning to pour “the perfect pint”. They take it very seriously and have developed a very specific way to go about each step and have a reason for each motion. Presentation is stressed heavily as they want everyone to see the beauty that is inherent in the beer, the black stuff they call it. The colors change as the beer is poured from the tap, the nitrogen rising causing the frothy head while the CO2 is pushed to the bottom. Slowly the dark red-ish brown draws its way from the bottom of the glass to near the head, and the whole drink becomes darker and darker as the creamy head settles to be just a few centimeters tall.
Then the proper way to enjoy a fresh Guinness. A deep breath, a long pull through the creamy head. Let the dark liquid roll over your tongue, finally falling over the back of your mouth and down your throat. Finally breath out, tasting the lingering hoppy taste until you start again with a sweet roasted flavors at the start of the next drink.
I am excited to have gotten this certification to be properly trained to pour and drink this most Irish of beers. It makes me excited to come back home to my favorite pub back home, O’Briens, with the only Guinness on tap! I find myself at the moment getting very hungry and very thirsty for some reason though. Time to sign off!
-Ty