Eiffel

Two days down in Paris. Oddly, my left foot has entirely given out. Tomorrow ought to be entertaining.

Yesterday I tramped all through the Louvre in the heat and the smell of tourists. French museums are interesting, there’s no attempt at catering to foreigners – though I suppose there shouldn’t be – nor is their any appreciable attempt to direct people through the museums in anything like a logical path. You seem to be meant to wander. Which is, I’ve discovered, very French. Time doesn’t seem to mean a whole hell of a lot here. You really just need to enjoy the moment and not get so wrapped up in where and when it is.

Following the Louvre I walked through the Tuileries Garden and down the Champs d’Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe just in time to see some sort of ceremony presumably involving the 6:30 relighting of the eternal flame over the tomb of the unknowns. All I know is that I had to stand around in a security zone for about an hour until the speeches were done. On the bright side, I did get to hear a brass band play La Marseillaise under the Arc. So I’ve got that going for me. And then I got to go up top for a spectacular view of Paris.

On the way back, happily, I found an Irish pub where I actually understood the food, beer and language. So that too was a plus.

Today I walked over to Les Invalides, wandered (again) aimlessly through the Musee de Armee, paid tribute to Le Emperur at Napoleon’s tomb and then mosied over to the Eiffel Tower. I didn’t go up. Didn’t feel like standing in line and wrestling tourists for the opportunity. Instead, I walked across to the Trocadero and stood where Hitler did in the famous photo. I would have liked to have my picture taken in the same spot but I didn’t hear any English speakers around to ask nor was I willing to leave my camera several metres away for ten seconds. It was that kind of place.

So, I buggered off, braved the Metro to the Bastille, wandered aimlessly again and went home to Rue de Richlieu.

Tomorrow: Pantheon, Notre Dame, St Eustache, Ile St Louis, Pont Neuf, and Montmartre.

I like to cover ground. While whistling old marching songs. I could use some suggestions, I’m just about out of good ideas. When you’re humping eight or more miles a day there are only so many times you can whistle “It’s a long road to Tipperary” or “Marching through Georgia.”