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Health & Fitness

Tour de Paris, Part Deux

Word to the wise, this is no gentle touring ride along the Seine with a breeze fanning your hair and a song in your heart.

Even the French told me that the whole bike thing was not a good idea (bon idée), but I decided that I was more adept at survival than most tourists loitering in Paris.  Beating cancer will do that to you.  So, the morning of Julie’s Big Day In Paris dawned bright and fair, a promise of heat to come with a slightly sticky over coating of humidity.  Perfect, I thought, for a good sweaty trek.

I concluded after my divine French breakfast (always included in the price of the hotel) that I was biologically programmed to get up at 9:30 a.m. no matter what country or time zone I happened to be in. Not that I hardly ever get a chance to that mind you, but turns out, when I do get to sleep in, 9:30 a.m. is my body’s ‘happy time’ for waking up. Saturday in Paris was no exception.  I was on my own for the entire day, having arranged that pre-trip to ensure I had some time to myself. 

Map in hand, I set off for the metro, a good 15 minute walk from the hotel which the French consider, ‘very close by’.  I made mental notes of the landscape because I really am just that directionally challenged.  Bank on the corner, check, past the store and the bakery, check, turn at the Dupont Café on the next corner and…done, fini. I never got the chance to figure out the whole Metro ticket thing by myself because some clerk was helping the English tourists already there so before you could say, Voila! I was on the metro, peering suspiciously at my hotel map as I rambled by each sortie, exit.  I got off at the stop I was told for Bon Marché and since it was me doing the navigating, I was instantly lost, if only for a few brief moments.  Being that it was me, I took the wrong exit from the metro and had to traverse the entire city square block to find what corner it was situation on.  Of course it was the LAST of the four corners I searched.

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My initial attempts at ‘being French’ were a success.  Almost.  I say ‘almost’ because when I used my French to ask the doorman to point me in the direction of the baby department, he replied in French. Thrilled, like I had gotten away with something forbidden, I started to walk away until he thanked me in English.

“Was my accent that bad?” I asked, also in English.

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“Non, Madame.  Your accent, she is perfect.  Your purse is, however, American.”

Note to self, buy a French purse as soon as possible.

I wandered aimlessly around for another 15 minutes and finally stumbled on the baby girl department whereupon I instantly knew that I was going to have to sell a lot of books to afford the kinds of clothes I wanted to buy for CJ.  After much consternation, I settled upon an incredibly pricey tiny black sweater, teeny pleated skirt and teal knit hat.  Trés chic, trés French and more than I’m apt to spend on myself when buying for spring or fall fashion trends.  Baby CJ, your Nana really loves you. 

After checking out the jaw dropping prices of dresses in my size, I concluded that I needed to make way more money than I currently did and left.  I never found the famed Bon Marché gourmet supermarket that so many celebrity chefs enthuse over.  It must have been in another location entirely.  Sigh.

I found my way back to the metro and was secretly pleased when some out-of-towners, Frenchwomen all, asked me for directions.  Really?  I must really look like I know what I’m doing.  I assured them that the stop they wanted was on this line, in French no less, and went on my merry way.  Gosh, I’m good. Getting off on the stop nearest the Assemblee Nationale I walked confidently up to the Seine but not before some very bewildered Japanese tourists asked where the river was.  I pointed at it, not 50 meters away, feeling like my navigation skills were not nearly as bad as I had always thought.  That’s when I realized my folly.  I had no idea where to actually rent this bike I wanted to ride.  Everyone said that the rental locations were, ‘all over Paris’ but apparently not where I could see them. 

I braved the traffic and crossed to the Place De La Concord thinking surely bikes would be for rent there but all I saw were a lot of cars and tourists snapping pictures so I snapped pictures of all the fountains too, pretending that I actually knew what I was doing.   Total poser.

Walking back across the same busy street I spied a huge knot of tourists on bikes with one very loud American tour guide.  Perfect.  Over the roar of the traffic, I asked him where I could rent a bike.  He cheerfully waved behind me, back towards the Eiffel Tower (in the opposite direction of where even I knew I needed to go) and said on the left. Great…more walking

I walked away from my intended target, Notre Dame Cathedral, and swiftly passed all the con artists who were scamming unknowing tourists.  The set-up is always the same.  They lure strollers by with a card game or one of those ‘find the ball under the cup’ games and keep the crowds enthralled while pickpockets thread their way silently through the unknowing onlookers and clean up.  I insolently glared down one pickpocket who dared to size me up as I walked by but that was the extent of it. 

Finally, ten minutes later, I crossed the street again and found the bikes but realized I had no clue on how to actually rent them.  Of course. It took me another clueless ten minutes to figure out that I couldn’t just swipe a credit card at the bike stand, somebody actually had to point out the rental machine not ten feet away.  Of course, this was more like me, totally clueless.  Another 25 minutes later, a helpful Frenchman and some curious English onlookers and I was on my way.

Loaded down with electronics, the handles and handlebar of a rental bike in Paris is heavy.  VERY heavy, in fact.  That makes the bike frankly wobbly to ride and steering out of the way an art — particularly with respect to couples who stop to embrace and smooch passionately in public (more on that one later) and elderly Frenchwomen hobbling along the boulevard with their teeny, tiny (totally snobby) dogs.  Younger people seemed to move out of the way with grace and instinct. 

Note to self: Parisians who do bike in Paris are fearless.  Or vaguely suicidal.  

Perhaps a bit of both. Having already beat one deadly foe, cancer, I decided that surviving the day would dominate my plan of action.  That meant traversing the bridges all the way down the Seine and sticking mostly to the wide sidewalks that frame the quays of the riverbanks.  This is because the so-called bike lanes are frequented by buses.  French driven buses are very difficult to win an argument with on the open road.  I therefore chickened out and spent at least 60 percent of my ride time on the bridges and sidewalks.  But the good news was that I nearly doubled my kilometers ridden in the process.

Word to the wise, this is no gentle touring ride; enjoying the amazing sites along the Seine with a breeze fanning your hair and a song in your heart, a glass of icy vin blanc awaiting you at your destination.  Sorry, but the reality of the traffic and the way locals drive is that one must remain utterly paranoid, stalwartly vigilant and street savvy in order to ride a bike in Paris and not get squashed like a tiny little Parisian bug.  I made my way down the river banks, sweating profusely and trying really hard not to run over the locals because you know, the French, getting run over makes them all testy.  Trés testy.

Once I pedaled past the Louvre, I skipped back over to the other side of the Seine; right, left, droite, gauche, left, right, made no difference.  I kept trying to find my rhythm but in reality, Paris has a rhythm all its own.  An hour later, seriously dehydrated, I collapsed at the nearest likely restaurant and ordered a Perrier and two large limoaides (that's how the menu spelled it anyway) while keeping a wary eye on my bike.  Until I parked that sucker and the City of Paris took back over, electronically speaking, I was responsible for it and the $150 Euro deposit the city had charged to my AMX account.

The deposit goes away when you return the bike which I did after I found my unlikely way to Notre Dame.  Luckily for me, the police were strolling the area spoke just enough English to point in the direction of a bike facility or I would still be in Paris, riding around, looking for a place to legally return/dump the bike.  After four hours of being out and about, I was no longer enamored of biking in Paris and headed straight to a cafe to do something about my rock-bottom blood sugar. 

To Be Continued.....

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