Versaille

Versaille is a little overwhelming. The grounds stretch out impossibly far--the pond itself is enormous. Then there are the paths through sculpted hedges, patterned gardens, the buildings themselves, and, of course, the farm!

The farm was my favourit part of Versaille. Near a little hamlet (not really a hamlet, but it was almost big enough to be) where the people who tended the grounds lived, was the farm. The Farm. Pigs! Pigs so round and snuffling, and goats--angora, pygmy--sheep with their tails yet to be docked, a gaggle of geese, a pair of peacocks, hens, muscovy ducks, and plenty of other animals. I guess it was just a nice contrast to the week of exhaust and noise.

Things I can't take pictures of in Paris

Dog shit. Everywhere. Everyone seems to have a little dog (to match there little apartments, I assume), and little dogs make little messes that don't always get cleaned up. In Paris, it seems they often do not.

The way the French throw their garbage in the street. I don't mean their sacs of rubbish, but the paper cup they just finished their coffee from, their cigarette they barely started smoking. I've seen it in other countries, too, like Italy and Scotland, the nearly derisive fling of the offending piece of trash into the gutter. At night, water flows down the curbs of the street, rinsing everything away. I do love the practice of washing the street--seeing women scrubbing the wooden doors down, men sweeping the fronts of stores. It seems somewhat (oh, I can't think of the word) devotional, the cleaning of spaces. But it also reflects the need to clean, when the air is so filthy and the streets are filled with litter. (Nothing, however, compares to China...)

Along La Rue Magenta, there was a tarp city of migrants postered with "No papers, no rights". I was considering going down to talk to some of the people who looked as if they were trying to organise them, but the next day I saw on the cover of 20 Minutes that the police had finally acted on their long-standing plans to clear the squat out. Cycling by, most of the faces I saw seemed African; I do wonder at the story behind it.

The number of people who have disfigured limbs--either by accident or by birth-- who beg along the streets is almost unnerving. In the mornings, I see them arranging their deformed limbs on pillows and blankets, asking passers by for change. I don't know if it is just the area that I've been in, but most of the people I've seen begging have been Muslim, judging from their attire. I need to read up on my recent French history... The people--mostly men--of European descent who aren't always begging, tend to be men, tend to be intoxicated, and tend to be really aggressive and angry. I'm glad I don't understand what they are saying.

Adventures of Calamity Jane in the Land of Oh-la-la

Well, perhaps not calamities, but I've certainly had ten days of misadventure.

On my first day of cycling in Paris, I timidly wobbled along the separated bicycle paths, and walked my bike whenever they petered out or I was expected to rush along in the bus lane with traffic. After about an hour or so, I gave up, and threw myself in. Cycling in Paris is great. I'm not totally sold on the bicycle paths being part of the sidewalk, though separated from pedestrians, since tourists especially tend to walk on them (myself included).

My second day, I rode along the canals that lead to the Seine; following a cobbled road out to the periphery ring road, intending to visit a flea market, the nut holding my front brakes to my frame fell off, nearly sending me tip over teakettle when they fell off and lodged into my front wheel. Thankfully, the wheel seems fine, as am I. The rest of the day I rode around Paris with my front brakes flung over the handlebars, where I proceeded to lose the brake pad from one side. Sigh. I found a cycling shop the next day--Toy Paradise Velo--where the man at the counter chided me for using the wrong brake pads, and the mechanic installed new ones for me.

Montmartre is a pretty neighbourhood, just on the other side of la Rue Magenta from where I am staying. Sacre Coeur is particularily beautiful seen from far away, the white mosque-like domes on the hill, the highest point in Paris, I suspect, and even prettier, believe it or not, seen through the veil of smog that tends to sit over the city. Paris Respire is an initiative to reduce the city's visible pollution--by cycling, walking, or taking transit. The distorted colourations of Sacre Coeur in the distance attest to the degree of air pollution.


Montmartre is pretty, but it is also very well known. I walked up early in the morning and got a few sketches done, uninterupted by anyone else. I returned after lunch to continue, but was met with a very different scene, one which I quite expected. Tourists, everywhere. Scams and scam artists everywhere else.

Wandering back to the hostel, or trying to, though the throng plus the twisting streets made it seem an impossible task, I was asked by a middle-aged man if I would pose for a sketch. Of course, I was mildly flattered--who wouldn't be--and he seemed a conservative French man, with a clear accent and a friendly manner. He was with a group of other men with large sketchpads, and I assumed he was on some sort of artists' tour of Montmartre. It wasn't until I had already consented that I realised he was going to ask me for money. After ten minutes of him sketching and politely engaging me in French conversation, he showed me the sketch and the ticket of prices--80 Euros for a professional, 50 for a student, whatever those two designations meant. I gave him a little money--no where near what he asked for--and took the sketch. I'm usually aware of the scam artists--this one fooled me. Tant pis--it was not so much money, really. Better that than my finger lost to one of the ring braiding guys on the steps of Sacre Coeur, though I think maybe that is a bit of a tourist tale, and not so much the norm.

Things I love about Paris

Paris is such an old city; it's had urban planning and infrastructure for a few centuries, I am sure. Which is why the H&Ms, the Footlockers and WH Smiths, along with the international grocery chains haven't made huge inways yet. Yes, they all exist here--along the most celebrated streets and in the flashiest of neighbourhoods. But you can still buy a baguette that's still warm from having been baked in the back room, and there are plenty of small grocers selling fruits and a limited range of prepared foods. While North America is returning to small and artisanal, Europe never fully left it...

As well, since the buildings have been here for so long, the city is low--most apartment buildings and hotels are six storeys with the first storey--again, something North America is 'rediscovering'--being commercial space, the above five, hotels and apartments. It makes for a less cold and towering space.

Sabine, my newly named bicycle, before I dismantle her to send her to France

My seat--a Selle Anatomica,

And my lovely bell...

And we're off (or soon!) Hopefully I'll be posting soon, with pictures of Paris.

A bientot to all,

alissa

Journey Out to My Parents'

After a frustrating day of moving--mostly cleaning--I left Vancouver for my 63km bike ride out to my parents' a few hours--430 instead of 2--later than I had intended. It was a great three-and-a-half hour ride, with nice weather and, somehow, pleasant traffic. A lot of the worrying parts of the Lougheed now have bike paths--particularly around the Pitt Bridges, which helped immeasurably in the pleasure of the trip. I stopped at Bruce's Country Market in Albion for a lemon soda and a container of yoghurt. (Metro Vancouver note: Albion is where the ferry used to be, before the recent completion of the Golden Ears Bridge, which, rumour and complaint have it, no one uses). I arrived before dark--though barely--at a little past 8.

My parents live on 5 acres of pretty land, with a creek bisecting it (when the beavers, industrious rioters that they are, don't dam the flow with their construction in the logging area adjacent to their property). One side of the creek is their house and shop; the other is the barnyard, where they keep turkeys and chickens. There used to be a plethora of other animals, from a small angora goat herd to a clutch of rabbits.

I wanted to add something to the gardens as a reminder and marker of me while I was gone. I don't know when I will return, if ever. Chances are good my parents may choose to sell and move into a smaller home at some point.

Since my father is sure to hate it, I don't know how long this will stay up. My parents have two apple trees in their back yard, very low and lovely ones with delicious apples most years. Earlier this summer, I discovered how lovely keys sound when they clang freely against one another; as I was packing up my apartment this past week, I decided to construct a windchime for my mother in my parents' yard. The apple trees seemed the best location for it.

I used glass (maybe plastic) bottles I found at Urban Source a couple of years ago, plus a bunch of keys that I found around the house. I added to this cutlery I was getting rid of, plus any sort of metal bit I could find. The best audible combination seems to be the soup spoon and the spent bullet.