Amsterdam Part I: Getting There is Half the Journey (Literally)!

Let’s talk about Amsterdam a bit, shall we? Or rather, the trip to get there.

You see, my holiday as a whole was four days long, but two of those days were spent purely in transit between London and Amsterdam. This is because I decided to use MegaBus to facilitate my journey.

Now, I know what you’re thinking:  

Brett, you hate the bus! You would rather walk a mile (or more) than take the bus somewhere local. Why on Earth would you subject yourself to a 13 hour bus ride?

Me on the bus, on the return journey.

In short, the answer is because it’s cheap (round-trip tickets were only £20). But even that low, low pricetag wasn’t the sole reason why I went this route: I also wanted to get a sense of some other European locales, even if it was from the highway. After all, it’s taken me 30 years to make it to Europe—who knows when I’ll be back?

So, on the morning of Sunday, 13 May, I set off for Victoria Coach Station at o’Dark early. (Seriously, I left the house at like 5:30 AM!) We got a bit of a late start, and didn’t actually leave until about 9:15 AM, but the bus wasn’t crowded—I had an entire row to myself—and everyone was half-asleep, so no one seemed to care too much.

After crossing out of the London city limits, I started reading my book (Game of Thrones) since I was already familiar with the sights between there and the Channel Tunnel. Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked up and realized that we were actually headed for the ferry rather than the Chunnel! Suddenly my excitement doubled, and I hurriedly stashed my book and started soaking up the 'new' surrounding coastline.

With Dover Castle looming above us, itself atop the towering White Cliffs, we passed through the Port Authority and boarded the giant ship that would take us across the English Channel.   

Dover Castle as seen from the ferry

I made my way onto the deck, and watched as we left England behind, with seagulls gliding along in our wake. The ferry crossing itself was quite nice. I spent the entire time just traveling back and forth along the ship, staring at the shrinking English coast one minute and the growing French coast the next. I confess to being surprised by how close they actually are—I expected it to be kind of like Lake Michigan (where there’s just enough distance between Illinois and Michigan that you can’t quite see the opposite coast), but for most of the trip I could make out both bodies just fine!

The White Cliffs of Dover

Calais and the French coast

 The ferry docked in Calais, France, which—much as when I went to Paris—I found myself wanting to explore further. It seems like a charming seaside town, dotted with dozens of gorgeous steeples. Sadly, the bus wasn’t scheduled to stop in Calais, so I didn’t have the chance. 

We continued onward courtesy of the A16, cutting across northern France by way of Dunkerque. (Notwithstanding Dunkerque's significant place in the WWII context, I was again reminded of my earlier trip to France, when I was generally unimpressed by the passing scenery between Calais and Paris.)

Eventually we crossed into Belgium, which was a great thrill for me as it was another country I could cross off my list as having seen! Now, there are some who might argue this point—for instance, Nic doesn’t think it counts unless you stop to eat or sleep. I see the logic in this argument, but for my own selfish purposes I’m going to ignore said-logic and say that I’ve been there. It’s also worth noting that we didn’t stop at any kind of border patrol point. This made me kind of sad because I was looking forward to having a Belgian stamp in my passport, but I guess it just doesn’t make sense to have checkpoints across all of the roads that cross European borders.

Upon crossing into Belgium, we started heading east. Though not listed on the manifest, we stopped briefly in Gent so that the bus driver could trade with another. We were given about 10 minutes to get off the coach and stretch our legs—so now I can say that I have not only driven through, but also set foot on Belgian soil—but since we were in a hotel parking lot there wasn’t much to see or do.

My only photo of Gent--just something to remember that I was there, however briefly, LOL!

Eventually we loaded back on, and continued onward. About an hour or so later, we arrived in Bruxelles. Excepting the traffic, which was atrocious, I thought the capital of Belgium (and the de facto capital of the EU) looked to be a beautiful old city. We passed the gorgeous Nationale Basiliek van het Helig-Hart (Basilica of the Sacred Heart), and I even caught a glimpse of the Atomium sculpture before stopping at Bruxelles’ main bus hub for those passengers switching there. 

As in Gent we were given the opportunity to get off the coach and stretch our legs, but this time we had a full 30 minutes and there was much more to see. (Mostly, however, I just walked around the terminal and surrounding area, as I was terrified of missing the bus.)

Out and about in Belgium...sort of.

All too soon we were on our way again, cutting through Antwerpen before crossing into The Netherlands proper. Much like the non-city parts of Belgium, The Netherlandian regions known as Brabant and South Holland seemed to be mostly farmlands, though gorgeous nonetheless. 

Sadly, I didn’t see a single tulip along the way, and I only saw a handful of windmills (though the latter grew more frequent as we neared North Holland).

We finally arrived at our final destination—Zeeburg P&R Coach Park at Zuiderzeeweg—at about 9:50 PM local time, from whence I hopped on one of the trams and headed to Amsterdam Centraal Station, and then on another that would take me to my hostel in-time for my 11 PM check-in.

Amsterdam Centraal Station (taken 15 May 2012)

My hostel (taken on 15 May 2012)

I actually missed my stop on the second tram because I didn’t realize you had to both press a buzzer to let the driver know you want off (as on a bus) and then a second buzzer to actually open the tram doors (like on the DLR). 

Fortunately, it was only a short walk back to the Prinsengracht stop from where I was, and I still made it to check-in in time—and, somehow, even at that late hour it only seemed like dusk! There was plenty of natural light to see by as I found my way back to Prinsengracht and then on to a street called Leidsegracht, where my hostel was located overlooking a canal.

After checking-in, I realized how hungry I was. And, since the sun still hadn’t completely disappeared—again, it was about 11 PM at this point—I made my way out to find food. I quickly found a place serving vlaamse frites (i.e., fries/chips drowning in mayo) and made a fast, cheap meal out of that!

Having found a quick meal and drink, I returned to the hostel and hit the hay in preparation for the next day’s adventures—but more on that later!

[NB: Unless I remember something significant that I forgot here, I probably won't post anything about the return-trip, as it's pretty much the same here but in reverse. The only exception is that on the way home I packed a chocolate-covered waffle (bought in Amsterdam the day before), which I wanted to eat until I was in Belgium—get it?]

All Sorts of Easter Goodness...

Just a super-quick blurb about this past Easter weekend.

I’m still dealing with the residuals of my recent illness (seriously, WTF?), but it was Easter weekend and so some pretense of ‘doing something’ was in order.

Saturday morning (7 April) was cold, gray, and raining, but I forced myself out of bed relatively early nonetheless. This was so I could meet EN at nearby Stratford Center and get my eyebrows threaded—she found a place there that would do it for £2, which is a heck of a lot cheaper than what I paid before. 

Well, let me tell you: there’s a reason why it was so cheap! 

The first time I underwent this process it was a breeze…this time it was a hurricane. I seriously thought she had drawn blood on more than one occasion. I think in the future I’ll stick to my hot, albeit more expensive Middle Eastern stylist.

As an aside, it was also during this trip that I realized that the God-awful, red, twisted-metal thing that I can see from my kitchen window is actually part of the Olympic Park! (In other words, all those times I said I hadn’t seen any of the Olympic junk firsthand I was totally wrong!) 

The monstrosity is called the ‘ArcelorMittal Orbit Sculpture,’ and is the tallest sculpture in the UK—taller, even, than New York’s own Statue of Liberty…

But, seriously, isn’t this the most hideous thing you’ve ever seen?

The sculpture and stadium where the Olympics will be held. [NB: This image is not mine!]

At any rate, having de-caterpillared my eyebrows I headed back home and spent the rest of the afternoon attempting (and failing) to start on my final essays for my three UEL classes—as crazy as it is to believe, we only have one class session left, and then one week after that to work on our essays…and then the semester is over!!!

That night, I decided to reward my…lack of progress with another trip out. 

EN and I met up again in Soho, determined to have a night of fun and dancing. And we succeeded this time! We met at Village at around 10:30 PM, and didn’t leave until they closed—and most of that time was spent up on the ‘stage’ downstairs, jumping around like crazy people. 

(At one point we got down, but I was prompted to get back up by some random guy who told me I was a good dancer. I don’t know if he was just drunk, or if he meant it, but it gave me an ego boost and so I climbed back up—EN was right on my heels, LOL!)

Where it all goes down... (This photo was taken on a different day when I was in the gaybourhood.)

Sweaty dancing queens...in bad lighting...

As another aside: since the tube stops running at around midnight, after my nights out I’ve been frequently forced to take a bus (which everyone knows I hate). In particular, I take the 25 bus to get to my place on the eastside of London. 

I bring this up because some of my readers who are also my Facebook friends may recall that I posted a comment Saturday night/Sunday morning complaining that there’s always some form of drama on the bus on my way home. (In that particular instance it was three young, drunk, straight guys harassing a lesbian couple, and then everyone who tried to intervene.) 

So, I did a bit of research today…only to discover that “Route 25 from Ilford [basically where I live] to Oxford Circus [which is where Soho is] has been revealed as London's most dangerous bus route with 471 code red emergency calls…” Now, admittedly, this statistic is from 2006—but still…not overly comforting.

Moving on...

Despite the fact that I only had one beer Saturday night—far less than I’ve had any other time I’ve gone out during this trip—I didn’t wake up on Easter Sunday until almost 2 PM. I guess I was just depressed that the Easter Bunny couldn’t leave me his/her usual basket of goodies (though she did send me an e-basket with money which was greatly appreciated). 

Regardless, this meant that my day was pretty much over before it even began, because I needed to leave shortly thereafter to go to church.

Yes, church. (I’m not a total heathen…I just play one on TV and the interwebs.)

Since arriving in London, one of my goals has been to go to the Easter service at Westminster Abbey. Well, I made it! Fortunately, their main service for the day wasn’t until 6:30 PM, so my extra-long sleep didn’t totally mess up plans.

I arrived at around 5:45, and we were finally allowed into the abbey at around 6:15. I took an aisle seat to the right of the High Altar, in the area known as ‘Poet’s Corner’—near where Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip sat during Prince William and Catherine’s wedding service.

Eyebrows Threaded and Ready for Easter

[NB: Obviously, I was not at the wedding, nor is the image mine (other than the arrow and text).]

What I did not realize going in, and which came as a welcomed surprise, was that the official delivering the service was the brother of my friend AH. (I knew that AH’s brother was a reverend at Westminster, but I had no idea I would ever actually sit through a service delivered by him.) 

Another welcomed surprise was that the first song was ‘Jesus Christ is Risen Today.’ By itself this was not a surprise—it is, after all, a traditional Easter song—but this particular song is a favorite at my parents’ church, and so it made me feel somewhat connected to them to hear it. 

Also, while I’m on the subject of music at the service: I was standing near a woman whose voice was…well, bless her heart, I’m sure it sounded lovely to the good Lord’s ears. But, though off-key, it was also kind of sweet to mine because it reminded me of my paternal grandmother. My grandmother was the epitome of a good Christian woman (the real kind), and I have so many fond memories of standing beside her at Sheppard Park, listening to her joyfully warbling along with the hymns. 

So, in a way, the service not only reached me on a spiritual level, but it also made me feel more closely connected to my friends and family (both here on Earth and beyond). Aww…

Finally, I just want to share striking bit of text that was included in the service’s program. This excerpt comes from an Easter sermon attributed to St John Chrysostom (c. 347-407):

If any be lovers of God, let them rejoice in this beautiful, radiant Feast. If any be faithful servants let them gladly enter the joy of their Lord. If any have arrived only at the last minute let them not be ashamed because they have arrived so late. For the Master is gracious and welcomes the last no less than the first. Enter then, all of you, into the joy of your Master. First and last receive alike your reward. Rich and poor dance together. You have fasted in Lent and you who have not, rejoice together today. Come, all of you, to share in this banquet of faith; draw on the wealth of God’s mercy and love. Let no one lament their poverty; for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one weep for their sins, for the light of forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death; for the death of our Savior has set us free. He has destroyed death by undergoing death. He has despoiled hell by going into hell.

Though it may come across as a bit preachy, I share this bit of text because, for me, it encapsulates the true meaning of Christ’s teachings: love and forgiveness, regardless of your socioeconomic class or potential moral failings. In essence, none of that matters because we are all equal (meaning it is none of our places to judge another). 

This is the ideology behind my understanding and practice of Christianity, and it is this understanding which allows me to continue calling myself a Christian despite the fact that men like James Dobson and the Pope have tried to pervert what it means to be a Christian.

And so, I leave you with that happy thought—now, if anyone wants to send me some of their extra jellybeans and/or chocolate bunnies (even if you’ve already bitten off the ears), let me know and I’ll give you my address!

Paris: Endings and Things

So, I figure: what better way to get everything off of my ‘To Do’ list than by taking time out to write one last blog entry about my Parisian experience? I mean, doing so has been looming over my head—sure, it’s not as important as my midterm essays, but… 

Aww, screw it!  

Who am I kidding? I just want to put the academics away for a bit and focus on some of the fun things I’ve done recently. Plus, I want to blog about my Moroccan adventure, but can’t until I finish with France.

With that said, let’s get right down to it:

On 20 February 2012, after leaving the Eiffel Tower, I made my way to Père Lachaise Cemetery. That’s right, I spent part of my holiday in the world’s (ostensibly) most romantic city in a cemetery—in fact, it’s such a big cemetery, and there were so many people to ‘visit’ that I wound up going back on the 21^st prior to boarding the bus back to London. (In all fairness, the second trip was more the result of logistics—Père Lachaise is only one metro stop away from the bus station.)

Amongst the 1,000,000 bodies who are interred at Père Lachaise are some of the world’s most notable authors and artists. Since I don’t personally know anyone buried there, it was obviously these famous figures that I was interested in.

So who’d I see, you ask? Well, let’s see…

The first one I found was Isadora Duncan. Now, I confess that I don’t really know much about Ms. Duncan beyond the fact that she was a famous dancer. However, I had heard Nic talk about her before, and so I knew she was someone important to him. With that in mind, I crossed my fingers and tried the camera again, hoping there would be enough ‘juice’ left in the battery to get at least a photo for him—miraculously, not only did it give me enough power to snag the photo of Ms. Duncan’s burial spot, but also all of the others that followed over the next two days! Success!

NB: This is not my photo!

After Ms. Duncan, I made my way to the next ‘big’ name on my list: that queer, literary mastermind Oscar Wilde. Now, you’ll notice that there’s a plastic casing surrounding his marker. That’s because there was a tradition of people donning lipstick and kissing/writing messages on the stone. After a while, this began to take its toll on the gravesite, and so they’ve enclosed it within said-protective plastic. I didn’t have any lipstick on me (and had no clue how to ask for some in French), so I just took a quick self-photo alongside the resting place of Dorian Gray’s creator.

NB: This is not my photo!

Exhausted and praying the camera doesn't die!

 Next up: Edith Piaf. Most Americans only know of Ms. Piaf through her famous song ‘La Vie En Rose’ (and admittedly, that was my first exposure to her). But she also led an incredibly fascinating and tragic life. Also, for the record, I like ‘Jezebel’ a bit more than the earlier mentioned song.

The lyrics to 'Le Vie En Rose' are on the green sheet.

Sarah Bernhardt was next. As with Isadora Duncan, my connection to Ms. Bernhardt is a bit more tangential. I knew that she was a silent-movie era actress known for being overly dramatic, but the main draw here (for me) was that we used to refer to my little sister as ‘little Miss Sarah Bernhardt’ when she would throw temper-tantrums and whatnot. (Although, according to my Mom, she called my sister that because her own grandparents had called her that at the same age.)

The other two graves I visited on the 20^th—Jim Morrison and Frederic Chopin—weren’t ones that I necessarily ‘cared’ about per se. I just felt like I should since I was there.

NB: This is not my photo!

NB: This is not my photo!

Shortly after finding Mr. Chopin’s grave, I was kicked out of the cemetery because it was closing time. This was done by a creepy guy who just appeared out of nowhere while I was walking between some graves and told me that the sun was setting and I would have to leave. Not totally convinced that he wasn’t part of the walking dead himself, I did as instructed, returning to the hostel on painfully sore feet—there was certainly no going back out that night because I could barely stand, and so I just watched the French version of ‘Cops’ (which focuses on firefighters instead). 

As I mentioned before, I didn’t have much time on the 21^st to do anything, and so I returned to Père Lachaise for my last hour or two in Paris. This enabled me to snag some of the interred folks I had looked for but was unable to find the day before. That day’s batch included:

The world’s most famous mime—Marcel Marceau—who I remember mostly from I Love Lucy (though I can’t find any record of him ever appearing on there, so maybe they just talked about him?)

NB: This is not my photo!

Mr. Marceau was followed by Richard Wright, the author of Native Son. I actually just read Native Son last semester for my Fiction I class, and it’s an amazing book (albeit very difficult to get through—but then, that’s part of what makes it so amazing). Mr. Wright also shared a friendship (for a time) with another American author living in Paris whose work I read last semester: James Baldwin. (Still more interesting is that Mr. Baldwin wrote Giovanni’s Room, after which my Parisian hostel was named.) Sadly, Mr. Wright’s ashes are interred in a very inaccessible, easy to overlook spot beside a staircase.

NB: This is not my photo!

Quite by accident, I stumbled upon the painter Max Ernst’s resting place as I was walking away from Mr. Wright’s.

NB: This is not my photo!

And finally, I found the frustratingly elusive last two on my list: Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, the world’s most famous literary lesbians—

Sorry, I have to interrupt for a moment to do this: 

“They were quite regularly gay there, Helen Furr and Georgine Skeene, they were regularly gay there where they were gay. They were very regularly gay. To be regularly gay was to do every day the gay thing that they did every day. To be regularly gay was to end every day at the same time after they had been regularly gay. They were regularly gay. They were gay every day. They ended every day in the same way, at the same time, and they had been every day regularly gay…” ~ Stein, “Miss Furr and Miss Skeene”

—Now, admittedly, I’m not a fan of Stein’s work (which I quoted above). But, I cannot detract from the headway she made in the world in terms of living an openly gay life.

In that vein, I was surprised at first to find Ms. Stein buried by herself. It was well known, even while they were living, that she and Ms. Toklas were living together as partners-in-life. And yet, Ms. Toklas was nowhere to be found. 

 

At first I was very upset—how could they have separated them at the end?

But then, as I was walking away, something caught my eye: Ms. Toklas’ information actually was listed on the stone (albeit on the back), meaning that they were buried together. Crisis solved, and now I could have my Awwww moment, followed by my professing my sincerest thanks for my predecessors’ (including Wilde’s and Baldwin’s) efforts to make my life today a little easier.

Stein (l) and Toklas (r). [NB: This is not my photo!]

Stein's Side

Toklas' Side

Also worth noting at Père Lachaise were the memorials seen below. I found them to be incredibly striking in their grotesqueness, especially when hit by the setting sun.

And so, for all intents and purposes, my trip to Paris comes to a close. Fitting, I think, to do so with an entry dedicated to a cemetery. In case you were wondering (which you probably weren’t), nothing all that interesting happened on the ride back to London. There was a bit of drama at the border (one guy was detained, and I almost missed the bus because I was stuck at the back of the line), but in the end I made it!

Will I ever return? I wouldn’t necessarily rush back, but I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity either. However, I did fall in love with Montmartre, and I really enjoyed the Louvre and what I saw of the Pompidou—ooh, and the crepes!—and so I would definitely return to those parts of Paris!

Paris or Bust...By Bus!

I suppose I should start blogging about my Paris experience while it’s fresh on my mind. The problem is, there’s just so much to say that I don’t know where to begin. So, I think I’m just going to break it up day-by-day and in chunks, and take it from there…

18 February 2012:

Saturday morning started at O’Dark Early as my old friend and coworker Teresa used to say. The bus that was to take me from London to Paris was scheduled to depart Victoria Coach Station at 8:00 AM, but I was supposed to be there by 7:00 AM. Under normal circumstances, it would only take me about 50 minutes to get to Victoria Coach Station from where I'm living—except, the city’s transportation authority decided to shut down a portion of the District Line between my flat and the station. Fortunately I found out the day before, and was able to plan an alternate route by bus.

Yes, the bus. 

Now, almost everyone in my immediate circle knows how much I detest the bus, and they also know that I will usually take whatever out-of-the-way routes are possible to avoid taking the slowest, most irritating form of transportation (that was surely developed by the Marquis de Sade) ever concocted! Nonetheless, at such an early hour, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and climbed aboard a friggin’ bus. 

Over an hour later, I was finally at the station and, finally, at about 8:10 AM, we set off for Paris!

From Victoria Coach station, we crossed over to the ‘southside’ of London and down through Lewisham. (In fact, we passed near Blackheath, and I even saw the side-road where KG&MM lived when Nic and I stayed with them back in 2008!) From there we headed toward Kent, passing within 6km of the beautiful Leeds Castle, and then on to Dover (though, sadly, I was not able to see the famous cliffs).

Our Approximate Route Across England

At Dover, we approached the entrance to the chunnel (a.k.a.the channel tunnel), where we encountered the following sign, leading to generalized excitement amongst the passengers:

'Lies, Damned Lies And Statistics!' ~ Benjamin Disraeli

However, said-sign was misleading: first we had to go through the border crossing process (which, in hindsight, took far less time that the nightmarish crossing back—but that’s a post for later). We sat in front of this sign for about 20 minutes, at which point two agents from the UK Home Office finally boarded the bus. We were all told to give them our passports, which they collected and disappeared with for another 20 minutes or so. Eventually, the agents returned and gave our passports back to us with the appropriate stamps in-place.

Cleared, the bus was allowed to move toward the chunnel. Now, I don’t really know what I expected the channel tunnel to be like, but it was nothing like what I encountered. I suppose I had a vague assumption that it would kind of be like a regular tunnel—you know, like the kind that cuts through a mountain, or the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel or something—and the bus would just drive through.

I was wrong.

The area was like some kind of bizarre mining operation—or, perhaps a better example, like the Fright Zone from the ‘She-Ra’ cartoon!

Inspiration for the channel tunnel?

There were tracks as far as the eye could see, and these massive train cars—tall enough to hold either two rows of cars stacked on top of each other, or conversely a single row of double-decker buses. 

I watched with a profound sense of wonder as our bus actually maneuvered its way into one of the giant cars, and we settled in for the crossing.

Once we were loaded up and en route, we were free to move about the train. Of course, there wasn’t much to see—the windows looked out onto a dark tunnel, no different from a typical subway—and the only places to go were the bathrooms at either end of the massive train. Nonetheless, I got out and walked around for the sheer fact of the experience.

Now, some things worth noting about the undersea journey between England and France:

1. Yes, your ears do pop a bit.
2. To pass between the massive cars, you have to press this scary looking red button for two seconds which, I guess, equalizes the pressure between the cars long enough for you to cross between them.
3. There are these lovely placards everywhere that tell you what to do in case of an emergency, and they are accompanied by a lovely graphic (drawn in a sedate, calming blue) of the train pausing at a special ‘emergency access tunnel’ between train lines, and letting off a bunch of happy, walking passengers in an orderly fashion. Upon seeing this image, I couldn't help laughing because I remembered the airplane scene in Fight Club and pictured the chaos that would ensue should there be an actual emergency—you know, like 250 feet-worth of water crashing down on top of us!

Fortunately, there were no emergencies, and we emerged on the other side successfully and, at last, I caught my first sign of the European continent!

Calais, France, the town in which we (basically) emerged, looked to be a charming place from what little I could see of it from afar. And there were old steeples absolutely everywhere! The effect was quite pretty.

However, I must confess something here, as it was around the time of our emerging from the channel tunnel when I had this realization: 

France smells, Now, I know that’s a positively horrid thing of me to say, and I’m sure a great many people worldwide would say the same about the US. But, whereas (for instance) Ireland was possessed by a pleasingly sweet scent, which danced in the air and just slightly graced one’s nosehairs every now and again, France was filled with a heady, somewhat overpowering perfume-like smell. You know the kind I mean—that stuff the older ladies in Atlantic City use. And there was no dancing in the air or graceful tickling with this stuff—it hit you in the face like a can-can dancer’s…well, I digress…

But enough about unpleasant odors...

Within about twenty minutes, we had started the longest part of our journey—about three hours through Northern France’s countryside. I wish I could regale you with tales of its beauty, but—owing to the time of year, and rainy weather—there wasn’t much to see. 

Honestly, it kind of reminded me a bit of a cross between Montross, Virginia, and Galway, Ireland. And many of the houses were somewhat reminiscent of the Dickens Village houses you see at Christmastime: tall and skinny, with angular roofs. Immediately, the song ‘Little Town’ from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast came to mind:

 

 

In fact, after watching the above video in setting up this entry, I realize just how accurate my initial recollection and comparison of the architecture was.

Aside from these occasional ‘provincial’ towns, the only other things worth noting from this portion of the journey are a preponderance of high-speed trains (why, oh why, don’t we have these in the US yet?), and a breathtaking glimpse I had about 40km from Paris of two people in full, navy-blue horseback riding kit galloping down a steep hill atop their beautiful horses!

Eventually, the bus reached our penultimate stop: Charles de Gaulle Airport. Now, I didn’t get off at this stop, but I kind of which I had. It was a huge facility, and designed in such a way that it was like being in a giant honeycomb—or maybe an ant’s hive is a better comparison. The roadways were all massive, looping and corkscrewing! And neither time I was there—either on the way in to Paris, or on the way back to London—did the drop-off and pick-up area seem clogged, no doubt owing to this ingenious layout! It really was stunning! (Of course, much like the traffic circles in London, I’m sure this is an engineering marvel that simply wouldn’t work in the US because we’re too stupid to use it properly.)

After leaving Charles de Gaulle, it took about 20 minutes to reach Gallieni, where I debarked. (FYI: according to Wikipedia, Gallieni is named after General Joseph Gallieni, who commandeered 600 taxis in order to get his troops to 1914’s First Battle of the Marne. Don’t know if that’s true, but—if it is—it’s an interesting story!)

And now that I was in Gallieni, it was time for my Parisian adventure to begin...

Pre-Trip Excitement!

I think I effectively slept for about three hours last time, but at least this time it was owing purely to nervous excitement and not loud, Lithuanian dance music courtesy of my flatmates. I'm very excited to get on the road, and I hope the current rain and windy conditions dies down so I can really see the sites.

I'm not really sure what route the bus is taking, but Googlemaps recommends drivers go by way of Dover and Calais, so I can only imagine that's how the bus will go to. (Then again, Googlemaps also likes to recommend things like paddling to Hawaii...)

Well, time to go. Talk to you on Tuesday!!!

Au revoir!

_________________________________

Je pense que j'ai effectivement dormi pendant environ trois heures la dernière fois, mais au moins cette fois, c'était uniquement en raison d'excitation nerveuse et pas trop forte, la courtoisie lituanienne musique de danse de mes colocataires. Je suis très excité pour obtenir sur la route, et j'espère que la pluie actuelle et des conditions venteuses s'éteint donc je ne peux vraiment voir les sites.

Je ne suis pas vraiment sûr de ce acheminer le bus prend, mais Googlemaps recommande pilotes passer par de Douvres et de Calais, donc je ne peux imaginer que c'est la façon dont le bus ira à. (Là encore, Googlemaps aime aussi à recommander des choses comme pagayer à Hawaii ...)

Eh bien, le temps d'aller. Parlez-en à vous le mardi!

Au revoir!