by James Birk
Chapter 26
I remember an aunt and uncle on my dad’s side who returned from Paris unimpressed with everything. I recall them describing the Eiffel Tower as an eyesore, complaining that the Louvre as ‘over the top’ and claiming that their overriding impression of the French capital was that it was ‘dirty’. Sixteen hours into my trip and I couldn’t have disagreed more. Standing at the foot of the huge wrought iron structure that is considered a symbol of not just Paris, maybe not even just France, but possibly the whole of Europe; I could only be impressed by the magnificence of the Gustave Eiffel’s eponymous Tower. Granted I didn’t really understand the point of it, but it was remarkable, imposing and inspirational. I didn’t need to have travelled to Paris to know what it looked like, such was its iconic stature worldwide, but to see it in person was to truly appreciate what an amazing piece of engineering it was. Did I think it was beautiful? Probably not; I found it aesthetically pleasing in its own way though.
Not everything in Paris had been great in truth. Having negotiated my way out of the intimidating Gare du Nord and realising that even equipped with the internet map that I had printed out prior to leaving Cardiff, I still had absolutely no idea how to find my hotel. Being somewhat desperate to use the toilet, I had allowed myself the luxury of a taxi ride. The driver had been gruff but efficient and a hair-raising rollercoaster ride through the busy roads of the tenth arrondissement and I found myself on an eerie little street standing in front of a shabby looking building that was to be my home for the next three days.
I had marched up to the reception desk to find a seedy looking man chewing on a cocktail stick and looking anything but interested. I had my reservation details on a sheet of paper and I used my best GCSE French, coupled with a few expressions I had learned by heart from a phrase book prior to my departure.
‘Excuzez-moi, j…j…j’ai une r…r…res…réservation,’ I attempted.
He looked unimpressed. I continued, trying a different tack.
‘Je…j’ai… reserve…’ this was not easy, ‘chambre… pour moi?’
He stared at me apathetically. I was at a loss. I was already using my best French. I started pointing at the paper helplessly and repeating the words chambre and reservation intermittently.
Eventually and with a huge sigh, he looked directly at me as if I was a particularly annoying insect.
‘Why don’t you tell me your name sir?’ he growled in perfect English.
‘Oh, right yeah, it’s Parker.’
He glanced down at a book before tossing a key at me and barking ‘Room twenty-two.’
‘M…m…merci,’ I replied pathetically and backed slowly away, not daring to ask where I might find room twenty-two.
It was on the second floor, which I accessed via a rather terrifying ride in the world’s smallest elevator. The room itself was not too bad. It was not the Ritz, but for the money I was paying, it was OK. The bed was comfortable enough and there was an en-suite shower that actually worked and even if the décor was a little gaudy and the overall appearance was a little threadbare, it was fairly clean.
I had ventured out for a walk in the evening, in part to get my bearings and in part to find somewhere to eat. A short walk away from the hotel I found a large square with lots of shops and a huge statue of a woman holding aloft what seemed to be a branch in the centre. It was called Place de la Republique and it was exactly what I was looking for. I wasn’t quite ready to attempt to order unfamiliar food in a French restaurant, and I was operating on a limited budget so my heart sang a little when I spotted a McDonalds, because I reasoned that I would at least know what to order there. Plus memories of John Travolta in Pulp Fiction told me that I couldn’t possibly leave Paris without ordering a ‘Royal With Cheese’. I noticed that there was a similar looking fast food outlet next door called Quick, which was not a brand I had come across in Britain, and part of me thought that if I was going to order junk food anyway, I might as well try the native chain. My internal Travolta wouldn’t let me though, so I went into McDonalds and successfully ordered a ‘menu Royal Cheese’ without the need to speak English, which was not much of an achievement but made me feel a little better after my experience with the hotel manager.
Post fast food I had returned to the hotel, not feeling up to exploring at night in a strange city, however romantic it may be. I passed a pleasant enough evening, watching French television and trying to understand it. There were a number of French versions of British programmes that I was familiar with, such as The Weakest Link, which was called Le Maillon Faible although the French version of Anne Robinson seemed a little bit too nice really.
The following morning I was served breakfast by the same sullen manager who had met me the night before. He made a point of checking my key, to ensure that I was in fact a paying guest, even though he obviously knew that I was, as he had quite clearly checked me in. I was pleased to see that he treated the other guests with as much disdain, and they were actually French, so at least his hostility wasn’t racially motivated, although evidently he was in the wrong profession if he despised people that much.
The marathon was not for another day, although I still needed to collect my race number from something called the marathon expo, which according to the information I had printed out before my trip, was at a place called the Parc des Expositions, which seemed to be a fair distance from where I was staying. It was open until eight o’clock in the evening though, so I decided to explore Paris a bit first. My natural instinct was to head for the Eiffel Tower, and so I had negotiated the metro, which I found to be a little more user friendly than the London Underground and significantly cheaper.
Having soaked up the delights of the Tower, I strolled along the Seine, for a while, enjoying the sights and sounds of one of the world’s most celebrated cities. I didn’t really have a particular objective in mind, but after wandering aimlessly for a while I decided it might be worthwhile consulting the guidebook that I had brought with me. Memories of secondary school French lessons told me that I should probably visit the Arc de Triomph and Notre Dame Cathedral, but I noticed that another landmark called Invalides was nearby so I headed in that direction. According to my guidebook it was the burial place of Napoleon, so it seemed worth a look. It was a pretty impressive dome-topped building, and I was suitably awed, but Invalides was also impressive because of a huge area of grass in front of it that despite being intersected by some fairly busy roads was nonetheless a haven for lots of attractive young people who were either sunbathing or engaged in more active pursuits such as roller blading or playing football. There were also some older people playing the French game of Pétanque, which I vaguely recalled playing with my family on a gite holiday in my distant youth. The boules being used by the locals looked a lot more professional than the cheap plastic ones used by my family, and although relaxed and friendly, there seemed to be a definite intensity about the way they were playing. I secured a spot on a bench near the Pétanque players and consulted my guidebook about where to head next.
I noted that the French parliament, the Assemblée National was around the corner, and although this didn’t hold much more than a passing interest for me, there was a metro stop there that would take me to the marathon expo, so I wandered slowly towards it.
My metro journey to the Parc des Expositions was entertaining as I was joined in my carriage by a busker, who complete with a CD player, crooned to me and my fellow passengers for three stops. He wasn’t bad, but I hadn’t got the hang of the Euro yet, and I was reluctant to hand over any coins when he came around with his little cup for fear of insulting him by giving him next to nothing, or worse, of accidentally giving him too much and being unable to afford to buy myself lunch. Most people didn’t give him any money either, although he seemed to get one or two donations so maybe his enterprise was worthwhile.
Parc des Expositions was an intimidating affair. My first impression was that I was entering a theme park although, as theme parks went, it wouldn’t
have been all that exciting as instead of rides there just seemed to be a lot of exhibition halls. I wondered if the National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham might have been the British equivalent but I had never actually been there so I couldn’t be sure. Certainly it was intimidating in its scale, although as it turned out, the Marathon Expo was fairly well sign posted and all seemed to be taking place in one hall, which was still fairly impressive in size but actually only a fraction of the whole park.
Getting my race number entailed waiting in a long queue. It moved fairly quickly though and I delighted myself by carrying out my second exchange entirely in French. Granted, my end of the conversation only required me to give my name, but I was still pretty happy. I was given my race number along with a duffle bag full of all kinds of goodies that I wasn’t actually expecting, but which included an energy drink, a nutrition bar, and a small bottle of shower gel. There was also a brochure for the marathon which was handily written in French and English (I wondered if they provided a bilingual brochure at the London Marathon, and found myself doubting it somehow). I was ushered to a neighbouring stand, where a friendly old man asked me a question I didn’t understand.
‘Pardon?’ I replied hoping that I would magically improve my French the second time he asked.
‘Quelle taille?’ he asked again patiently, but seeing my still blank face, he took pity and translated for me, ‘what size? For the t-shirt.’
I told him extra-large making no attempt to say this in French and he promptly handed me a reasonably good quality Paris Marathon T-Shirt, which pleased me no end.
The rest of the Marathon Expo seemed like a fantastic opportunity to part people from their money, as there were a variety of stalls selling running merchandise. There were also representatives of other marathons from around France and indeed Europe. I was almost tempted into entering the Berlin Marathon, but reasoned that I should probably complete the task at hand before I got too carried away. I did come across a souvenir stall selling official Paris Marathon merchandise, but although I was tempted to buy a souvenir, I decided that my free T-shirt was sufficient memorabilia for the time being.
On leaving the Marathon Expo, I realised that I was feeling pretty hungry, and I recalled that the French were supposed to be pretty good at making bread, so I located a boulangerie in order to buy a baguette. The array of sandwiches on offer was not particularly exciting, presenting me with a choice of jambon, which was ham, fromage which was cheese, or one called mixte, which was rather excitingly ham and cheese. Feeling extravagant I purchased a sandwiche mixte and a can of peach flavoured Ice tea, which I had seen advertised everywhere in my short time in the French capital and which had aroused my curiosity. It was all pretty good and set me up well for an afternoon of sight-seeing.
I retired to bed that evening having had a pretty good go at ticking off the major points of attraction in my guide book. I had seen the Champs Elysées along with the Arc De Triomph, I had walked through the Tuileries and seen the outside of the Louvre although I hadn’t quite managed to go in yet. I had visited Montmartre and seen a big white church called the Sacre Coeur that I’d never actually heard of, but it seemed fairly impressive. Finally I’d spent the evening in St Michel, where I’d seen the imposing Notre Dame Cathedral, and found a fairly decent Italian restaurant in which to eat the pasta meal that I had read one should eat before attempting a long distance run.
As I drifted off to sleep I started to worry about what people would say if I couldn’t complete the marathon. But then who would know? I would know of course. I thought about everything that I’d gone through to get there, and I realised that actually I hadn’t gone through that much really. My life was pretty much the same. But I was a bit fitter and healthier, and my jeans were a bit looser these days so that was all pretty positive. And, I reflected, I wouldn’t have got to see Paris without entering the marathon. So that was something.
But I knew it wasn’t enough. I didn’t really expect running a marathon to change my life, but I knew that I would be hugely frustrated if I couldn’t finish it. I drifted into an uneasy slumber with thoughts of failure and disappointment clouding my dreams.
