Practice for the Amazing Race

When I told my mom about our 2nd day in Paris, she was literally cracking up.  How could you not?  It’s pure ridiculousness.  Just wait and see…

[Laura captures the sentiments of the day in one photo]

Allow me to preface this with some background deets.  After a generous amount of research Laura and I had determined the two day museum pass was definitely the most cost effective option for Paris sight-seeing.  It was 35 Euro and included nearly everything we wanted to do, including admission to the Palace in Versailles.  Seeing as Laura and I have been to Paris before (and done the museum & monument thing in excess), we figured this would be a smart (read: cheap) way for us to do everything quickly.  We could see the main sights, lickity split, and then bounce…and since we weren’t paying full admission prices, we wouldn’t feel guilty for spending less than 30 minutes at certain spots (I’m looking at you Rodin museum).  So that’s what we did.

We discussed a game plan the night before.  We had a loose schedule.  And it was going to be perfect.

Half day in Versailles.  Return to Paris in the afternoon.  Conquer the Louvre before it closed at 6 pm.  And lastly, hike the Arc de Triomphe on the late night for scenic PM Paris-scapes.

Pretty smart, right?

We got to the RER station (St. Michel) to get tickets at 8:15 am.  Not too aggressive, but still early enough to beat the weekend crowds.  The screen showed an 8:30 train.  Excellent!  The lady at the station’s ticket window was super helpful and we got our to and fro tickets no prob.

As soon as we entered the platform area the screen that had previously shown our VICK train on time changed, and now flashed “retarde” where 8:30 once was.

Hmmm…get the translation book stat!

A 20 minute survey of fellow passengers and a French phrase book revealed confusing info.  All we could truly piece together was “retarde” was not good.  At least the next train was scheduled for 9 am, so all wasn’t lost.  We breathed a long sigh and simply decided to wait for the next train…lies!!!!  By 9:20 we were on our third retarde train.  At long last our VICK train pulled in and we boarded.  Finally, we were off!

Happily we chatted and the stops seemed to fly by.  Then we stopped and never started up again.  Were we already at Versailles?  It seemed a bit quick but none of us were really paying attention to the stops.  Everyone else on the train was looking similarly confused.  Then we heard an overhead announcement.  Again with the French!  They repeated the same thing several times, but seeing as none of us spoke French it was really no help.  Everyone else filed off the train.  Do we follow suit?  What’s going on?  Is there a shazam translation app?

Cut to 15 minutes later we learn (through ever so reliable sixth-hand information) that the tunnel ahead of us is full of smoke and the train can’t go through.

[If you’re thinking “why does that matter, the cars are on tracks?” you are not alone, I still don’t get it]

So there we stood.  Freezing on the random station platform.  Just waiting.  Rad.

Once it became apparent things weren’t happening anytime soon we re-boarded the train to stay semi-warm and sit down.  Lazy AND dumb.  Such stereotypical Americans.  Being the only ones on the train didn’t last long though and soon another group of American dopes joined us.  More French announcements.  More waiting.

Then, after a new set of overhead (and again, incomprehensible) instructions, a lady in the American posse said she heard the word “garage.”  Her husband promptly shooshed and dismissed her assessment, reassuring the rest of his group (and us, since we were clearly eavesdropping) that we were fine staying put on board.  He claimed the word she heard was “voyage” not “garage” but literally 30 seconds later we heard the jerk and hiss of the train.  And without a single word spoken between any of us, we all made a mad dash for the platform.  As we bolted to get off, the doors started to shut, slamming the poor old man rivers like a mouse in a trap.  Karma, dude.  Next time, listen to your wifey.  He barely escaped the vise-like-grip of the train doors, but thankfully he held them open long enough for us all to slip out (read: his body took the blow for the rest of us).  No less than two seconds later we watched from the platform as the empty RER began chugging away (maybe it was going to the “garage” after all…), leaving our confused asses completely and utterly stranded.

Now what?

Pretty sure the crowd was all wondering that same thing.  This is when Laura’s “Amazing Race” instincts kicked in.  Road block?  No problem.

[Please note: this is not an entirely accurate portrayal of the timeline as there was a good 45 minutes or so of iPhone/map consulting, crowd surveying, and even taxi consideration…however we had no access to any outside resources because we were stuck in the station…and leaving it meant buying new tickets…and don’t forget our communication was highly limited as English translations were offered 0% of the time]

Two transfers and an all out sprint later we had an alternate route before us.

The transportation fees were multiplying like gangbusters, but at least we were actually getting somewhere!

[We were still not entirely sure it was where we wanted to end up, but at this point the wrong direction was better than no direction]

The RER train we ended up on dropped us off a bit further from the Palace than our intended course, but we managed to get there nonetheless.  And it was before noon!  Success!!

Our (small) victory went unacknowledged as we stood in awe, staring at the massive golden chateau before us.

Holy decadence.  These Frenchies weren’t playin’ around.

Our museum passes finally got their cherries popped and even allowed us to bypass the lines.  Things were picking up.  We grabbed (free) audio-guides and and started touring the place, room by room.

Apparently mirrors were the latest trend.  And who doesn’t like reflections?

This room was mirror central and went on for-eh-ver.

After we finished inside, we headed for the gardens.

I felt a bit nickel and dimed because each area seemed to have it’s own entrance fee.  As luck would have it, our passes were only good general admission to the chateau.  Either way, it was well worth it and we spent the afternoon amongst the fountains and shrubbery.

It was gorgeous.

Quaint no?

For lunch, our options were minimal.  Either the restaurant in the gardens, or nada.

Once again, the vegan choices were sparse (slash nonexistent).  Even my most flashy smile couldn’t help make things work.

Door #1: veg and cheese baguette

The logical step here would be to ask for it sans fromage, but the French response to that was “no es possible.”  After the previous night, I was in no mood to argue.  Plus, it was a small place and they seemed to have the sammies pre-made, so I didn’t feel like pressing them too hard.  In hindsight, I realize I should have just ordered this and removed the cheese myself. 

Door #2: tuna sammie with mayo, lettuce, and tomato

This was actually my first choice, and I was prepared to remove the mayo myself if need be.  Unfortunately the tuna and mayo were already prepared together and so I was again met with the same “no es possible” response.  I detest mayo, so this option was ruled out immediately. 

Door #3: ham sammie

This time the “no es possible” response was from me.  I feel very strongly about this.

Instead of settling for one of these sub-par baguettes, I opted for a crepe sucre which I supplemented with an apple and Larabar I had stashed in my bag ‘o tricks.

What can you do?  I had been wanting a crepe anyway (because you can’t go to Paris and not get a crepe).  Plus, I know how my GI tract works and I know which foods are disastrous no-no’s and which I can get away with in a bind.  So that’s that.

To improve lunch (slash get our $ worth for the garden entrance fee) we decided to find the fountain show, which was why admission cost extra.  Nothing like lunch time ambiance.  Good thing it was a small garden with only one fountain…oh wait (that’s sarcasm for those of you only half reading).  It was like a wild goose chase.  Our map made it look so obvious, but by the time we finally found the damn fountain I had a cold crepe on my hand.  C’est la vie.
The fountain show was far from a Disney spectacular, but it wasn’t too lame.

My view at first was a bit obstructed (see above), but my face was in the crepe anyway.

A brief word about the crepe: YUM.

Post digestion, we were back to the garden wandering.  They seemed to go on forever and ever and yet once again we made the mistake of trusting our collective sense of direction enough to find Marie Antoinette’s section of the manor, called The Queen’s Hamlet (for anyone still reading this hoping for a history lesson).

I swear.  We are straight up losers.

Once again we managed to get derailed forcing an off road “shortcut” to get us back on track.  I wasn’t wearing the right shoes for swamp hunting (shocking, I know), so I ended up with “un salade” in my shoes.

Ethel had running shoes on, but didn’t fare much better.  Her yoga skills came into use as she emptied out her grass collection while balancing precariously on her other foot.  Shout out to Santa Monica YogaWorks?  I think so.

My feet were nearing the end of their tolerance level, but I managed to keep going.  As we made our way through Marie Antoinette’s estate…and then the gardens…and then more gardens…it became very apparent that walking back was maybe not the #1 option for us.

By the way, I should at least mention that the sheer size and beauty of these landscapes was blow-your-mind gorgeous.  It was like a fake movie set, that never ended.

Finding our way out was more difficult than we expected.  And, like you may have anticipated, we chose the wrong route at first.  Not wanting to scale down a 20 foot moat, we retraced our steps (slash harassed a gardener) to help us get back to the front of Miss Antoinette’s pad.  Then, like a rainbow after a storm, we saw the most amazing thing.  A shuttle!  Praise be to the blister gods.  The additional price hardly phased me, I was just so stoked to get a ride back to the Chateau.

Once the train started moving though, my opinion quickly changed.  Somehow the driver managed to creep along slower than an amputated escargot, while simultaneously jostling the bejeezus out of us.  I felt like I was getting 3 new vertebral disc fractures with each crack in the road.  I was flying off the seat as the tram took on every pothole in France…and still we were going so. friggin. slow.  Walkers were passing us.  Women pushing strollers were leaving us in the dust.  Confusing commute to say the least.

The moon was up by the time we reached the Versailles Palace.  Ok, not really, but it was almost 4 pm.  Meaning we had a mere 2 hours until the Louvre closed…and we hadn’t even gotten to the train station again.  Meaning we had to seriously book it.  Let the Amazing Race begin! (again)

Run, Lola, run.

We all zipped through the turnstile noting it was just four minutes until the next train departed for central Paris.

Then we see Ethel.  Stuck in the station.  Unable to get through to the platform.  In all the rush getting to Versailles, she somehow used her return ticket too.  This is actually highly understandable because we seriously used 25 different tickets getting to the damn city.  And it’s hard to tell which are already used.  So for the ride home, I just kept shoving different ones in over and over again until one of them went through.  Sadly, Ethel followed the same technique but none were good.

The problems:

1. Ethel had no more money
2. The train was about to leave
3. The line to buy billetes was loooooong

#1 was solved with a quick coin collection, passed through the gate to her.  #2 & #3 were less controllable though.  Once again we narrowly scraped by.  She sprinted aboard as the clock struck the hour.  Only no doors closed.  Instead we heard the ever familiar sigh of the engine and kssssh of the doors.  We were halfway out the doors before the overhead announcement even began.  Some might call us experts with unreliable transport.  Not the title I dreamed of as a little girl but we can’t all be Kate Middleton.

The next train we boarded was more successful and finally we were on our way to Paris.  On the train we devised a plan of attack for the Louvre.  We knew that the museum closed at 6 pm and so they stopped taking tickets at 5.  This left us 10 minutes upon arrival in Paris to get from the station to the museum.

As per google maps, that’s a 1.6 km (or 1 mile) walk run.  One mile in 10 minutes?  Totally doable.

Unfortunately, arriving by 5 pm only left us with a mere 30 minutes to see whatever we wanted to see.

[Note: I’ve been to the Louvre A LOT so seeing the Venus de Milo, Winged Victory, and the Mona Lisa in 5 minutes flat didn’t really break my heart.  Ethel, on the other hand, was a Louvre virgin so she deserved at least 10 minutes to soak it all in]

Like Langdon in The Da Vinci Code, we tore through Paris to slip into the museum just in the knick of time.  Then, we proceeded to glide through the place – hitting all the key spots – with the precision of Olympic bobsledders.  We were a well oiled machine!

Honestly, at this point, I was on a high from the craziness of accomplishing everything we had set out to do in the day.  The thrill of it all was exciting and the adrenaline junkie in me was loving every second of our adventure.  It didn’t stop me and Alene from taking up residence over an air vent on the floor though.  After the marathon race back to Paris, I was hot and sweaty and only just beginning to take the time to breathe and notice how much I needed something cool.  Like air conditioning…or a beer.

Pretty soon after we had made our way to all the main attractions the buzzer and closing announcements came on and we were ushered to the exit.

Not without some cheesy sculpture imitations though.  (It’s a family tradition)
We all agreed that what we needed the most in that moment was chairs and cerveza (not necessarily in that order).

As expensive as the Rue de Rivoli is, it’s location is unbeatable.  Prime people watching.  We took up residence in the corner table and got to ordering asap.  Five people at the mini table was not at all pleasing to our waitress and her expression let us know it.  Whatever.

Beers all around!

Like the last few dining experiences, our order got messed up but we simply rolled with it.  But when it came time for round two, Laura wasn’t messing around.  She got a liter.  The waitress thought she was loco and assumed the size of her drink wasn’t translating correctly.

No my dear, you underestimate my sister.

Once she saw we weren’t playing around, our waitress transformed into our #1 fan.  She brought food, joked with us, and chatted it up on her cigarette break.  When it came time to pay, Laura attempted French and requested “un poc minute” which definitely did NOT mean “a little minute” as she’d intended.  Nope.  Apparently she’d actually asked for “a pig minute.”  Because that makes sense.  Silly Laura.  No more making up French.  This isn’t a fake-it-til-you-make-it situation.  Good thing our waitress loved us and had a good sense of humor at that point.

The crew, from left to right: Alene, Laura, me, & Ashley (Ethel was taking the photo)

Eventually all was settled and we headed to dinner near the Arc de Triomphe.

SUSHI!  Mmmm…