On June 28 I had my last breakfast in Tours, said au revoir to Diane, and went off to the train station while she remained behind for another couple of days at the conference. I made the train in plenty of time, rode to the transfer at St. Pierre-des-Corps, and boarded the TGV to Paris. At no point did I have to show a ticket (cheapskate travelers take note).
I zoomed across the French countryside to the end of the line at the Gare Montparnasse, on the southwest side of Paris, then rode the Metro across town to the Gare du Nord at the north side of the city, and boarded a train to Charles De Gaulle airport. I passed completely through Paris without once setting foot above ground.
The train to De Gaulle was hot and seemed to take forever, but I did arrive in time for my scheduled appointment at the Objets Trouvées office. Just in front of me was a man a few years older than myself, who had apparently lost a bag containing his phone, tablet, and even his hearing aids. He was understandably upset — especially when he got the same spiel I did a week earlier about going to the Web site. Without any electronics, how could he do that? And how could he get an email if his bag did turn up? In the digital, all-electronic world I think there should still be physical analog backups for everything.
Perhaps he had softened up the office lady's resistance, because when I came to claim my bag — which happened to have Diane's nametag on it rather than mine — I got only a little perfunctory official puffing and blowing about proper documentation before she made me sign an illegibly blurry scan of my passport to certify I had picked it up, and then gave it to me.
Everyting was as I had packed it, which was a huge relief. My hand did not stop clutching the handle of that bag until I reached my room at the Hotel BASSS (not a typo) in the Montmartre section of Paris.
After wasting two hours riding back and forth to the airport I still had a few hours and the weather was adequate. So after a quick rinse off in the phone-booth-sized shower in my tiny room, I went out to explore the neighborhood.
I climbed up the Butte de Montmartre (the big hill where St. Denis was martyred) but didn't go into the Basilica on top as line for entry was too long. The view across Paris from there was very impressive. After descending again I looked into the Church of Saint-Jean de Montmartre, an Art Deco era gem on the Place des Abbesses.
After a big fancy dinner at the restaurant across the street from my hotel, I wandered down to Boulevard de Clichy and passed by the famous old Moulin Rouge nightclub. Once the center of Paris's naughty nightlife section, the whole area is kind of bland looking, with a Starbuck's and the inevitable Irish-themed pub. The only trace I could find of Montmartre's "bohemian" past was a high proportion of Italian restaurants on the side streets. I strolled back to the Hotel BASSS (not a typo), crawled into my tiny bed, and went to sleep.
My flight out in the morning was scheduled for 9 a.m., which meant I had to get to De Gaulle by 7. Not wanting to trust my fate to the train again, I arranged for a taxi to pick me up at 6 a.m. Both I and my driver were early, which meant I had just enough time to grab a coffee and a croissant before riding off through the early-morning streets.
When you get through the security checkpoints at the international terminal at De Gaulle airport, the duty-free shops are incredibly lavish. All the famous luxury French brands have big stores. I looked for things to spend my remaining Euros on, but everything was priced way beyond what I had left.
After that there's not much left to tell. I flew to Dublin, stood in a lot of lines, sat around, boarded my flight back to New England, and read ebooks most of the way home.
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