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.