Apparently we should have researched Paris before we came here. Or so the woman in reception insisted. She was quite rude. However, she’s right, June is the WORST time to visit unless you like crowds and heat and more crowds. This is what the lady of the house has told us in no uncertain terms. She claimed Versailles tomorrow would be like hell on earth. OK, so we never come to Paris in late June again! It’s over 30 today and there are no signs it will get any colder any time soon.

Before going on I feel it necessary to talk about our hotel staff. Apart from the obnoxious though presumably well meaning American lady of the house, there is a well bearded chap who seems to be in charge on the weekends and appears to be wearing the same clothes that his grandfather wore doing the same job. Naturally, this would be fine, if they’d ever been washed. Honestly, the stench still remains a day after he’s walked by. All weekend we were forced to hold our breath from the stairway to the breakfast room then back to the front door. I can’t really say if he’s a nice fellow or not as we could never really get close enough without seriously gagging.

The kitchen staff are all very quiet but very nice. They are all youngish black girls who speak only French. They seem to smell ok. The night time guy on the weekends is a big jovial kind of chap. The guy who I think is probably the owner, is a surly fellow (at least he was this morning) and doesn’t appear to be at all pleasant. Of course he could have just been nursing a hangover I suppose. There’s a little girl who seems to be permanently plugged into a laptop in reception. I’m not sure what that’s about but she seems to be a fixture.

So, this morning we had breakfast then started walking towards the Mouff. We walked the tiny, litter strewn streets leading, higgledy piggledy to the Metro station at Place Monge. On the way we watched a couple of pigeons enjoying a morning shower under the sprinklers around St Medard. They lifted wings up, enjoyed the spray for a bit then turned around and did the other wing. Very cute and very smart.

Pigeons enjoying the water from a sprinkler, the Mouff, Paris

The Metro dropped us at the Louvre and we joined the thronging masses at the queue for security. I bought a ticket and we ended up at the Richelieu gallery where we looked at lots of gorgeous statues. At the beginning of the Richelieu wing are two rooms lit by huge windows that constitute the roof. In the right hand one are some magnificent statues by Puget (1620 – 1694), a French sculptor who, apart from anything else, carved a wonderful St Sebastien…apparently, it’s in Italy.

We also spotted a Joan dressed in her peasant dress but with armour by her side and boots obvious beneath the hem of her skirt, who looked remarkably similar to the Joan in the Pantheon. There were a whole host of wonderful statues, some famous, some rude, others just plain fun. I love statues!

The three graces, Louvre, Paris

Just around the corner from the statues is a whole range of early Mesopotamian artefacts including some pretty impressive items covered in cuneiform writing. The small cylinders which would be rolled over wet clay or wax blocks to form a distinctive seal, were particularly impressive.

We spent an hour wandering around then decided the crowds were getting a bit thick so decided to leave them to it. We settled for a street-side café in the Opera part of town. The café was called the Café de la Commedie. The waiter we had was awful. We formulated a system whereby if your service has been terrible you are entitled to take 15% OFF your total bill as a sort of anti-tip. This would give the management something to think about. If a particular waiter was bringing in 15% less than his workmates, what could the boss think? This is GREAT feedback and should be instituted straight away. It’s all very well expecting a tip for good service but what does the public get for bad? Apart from that, don’t go here as the waiter is awful. I mean he doesn’t even speak French for Christ’s sake.

After suffering through a beer and a panini, we set off for the Place de St Germain des Pres which we figured would be a whole lot more pleasant, which it eventually was. We spent a lot of our last time in Paris around this area so felt pretty safe it would be nice. We sat in the Lipp Brasserie where a lovely waiter served us coffee and tart. Now he got a good tip!

We sat for a bit then walked along to the Metro for the short hop back to our hotel for an afternoon rest. The search was on for an air conditioned cinema which shows round the clock English films…

Dinner was enjoyed at an Indian restaurant just down on the Boulevard Port Royal opposite the cinema, which does not dub…ever. Unfortunately it is only showing French films at the moment. Dinner was lovely even if it did feel somewhat English having Indian food and beer. Staff very friendly though a bit vague at times. One young chap insisted we try a glass of digestive from his home town. It was alcoholic lychee juice. Very, very nice.

Walked back to the hotel and slept.

Up even later, making breakfast at about 9:45 then off to the Metro. We wisely purchased a book of ten tickets. This works out cheaper and is more convenient. I recommend it for anyone thinking of using the Metro.

We took the train to Pont Neuf, emerging by the river, not far from St Chapelle, our intended destination. Naturally we had to sit and have a coffee within viewing distance of the Tai Chi group. Mirinda insisted we try at the restaurant but were quickly turned away towards the café. Here we settled down to a mid morning cup.

A couple of restaurants near the Palace de Justice, Paris

It was odd watching a group of older people try to copy a man dressed as a waiter as they swirled and dipped in slow motion but it was somehow slightly soothing. As they stopped for a break, we settled our bill and left.

St Chapelle was originally built to hold the relics of the passion. Louis IX founded it in the 13th century, building a parish church on the ground floor and a magnificent stained glass chamber above. It stood beside the royal palace on the Ile de la Citie, the original starting point of Paris.

Originally such relics as the crown of thorns and a fragment of the true cross were deposited in the chapel. A lot of gold and silver objects were collected over the years and the chapel must have looked fantastic with glinting metal. Then the French Revolution happened and the precious metals were melted down, the other relics were moved to other places.

The guide book claims that the actual crown of thorns was moved in 1793 to an antiques cupboard and then handed to the archbishop of Paris in 1804. It is still, supposedly preserved in the treasury of Notre Dame. It is displayed every Good Friday. I find this hard to believe. Not that it’s displayed, of course, but it’s a bit rich to expect a crown made of thorns to last 1200 years without turning to dust.

Anyway, that’s all by the by. You enter the chapel by the small parish church at the bottom. This room is richly decorated with painted columns and some lovely religious paintings of various heavenly hosts. It also houses the shop. This isn’t as tacky as it sounds and it’s a nice introduction to St Chapelle itself.

The top floor of the chapel is a magnificent room full of the most intricate stained glass I’ve ever seen. The walls are all coloured glass. The room is also full of tourists making too much noise and taking flash photographs with digital cameras that make that annoying little electronic click because they have no idea how to turn it off. This all creates a sort of strobe effect, ruining the true and natural effect of light on glass. A shame. Most other places have a ban on flash photography – actually the evolution museum did yesterday – why not here? The photo is ruined with a flash anyway. And these people don’t actually experience the glass or the space, they just click and whirr around it then leave.

I must say that I found a St Sebastian. Around the walls, beneath the stained glass are quadrifoils, pictures painted in small areas in the form of a four leaf clover, and one of them is of his martyrdom. I didn’t need a flash to take a pretty good photograph.

St Sebastien in a quadrifoil, St Chapelle, Paris

We left the chapel and wandered next door to the Conciergerie. It was part of the royal palace up until the end of the 14th century. Charles V’s father had a few advisors who were the victims of assassination and this freaked out Chuck so much, he fled the island and settled in the Louvre – that’ll be before it was an art gallery. When this happened he appointed a steward to look after the place. This guy was the concierge. He was in charge of keeping the place looking good as well as lording it over the prisoners in the jail.

A lot of famous prisoners have been incarcerated here at one time or another but it’s most famous was Marie-Antoinette who spent her last few days here before going off to meet Madam Guillotine. Her original cell is no longer there but it has been reconstructed on part of the actual site. The place is rather sobering when you consider it was used by the French Revolution for its tribunal and more than 2,700 people were tried before Fouquier-Tinville until he was also tried and executed. The Terror was a crazy time. In one room, there is a list of over 2,000 victims.

The place is a lot more sober than the chapel next door. There are no bright paintings or stained glass windows. Fewer flashing cameras. The original buildings above ground have been removed and all that is there now are reconstructions. However, it does not stop the women’s courtyard from having its own feeling of poignancy. In one corner of this courtyard is the ‘Corner of Twelve’. It was here, in groups of 12, that prisoners would wait before joining the cart that would take them to the scaffold.

As we left it was with great relief that we spied the huge and growing queues for both St Chapelle and the Conciergerie. There’s a lot to be said for getting out early on a Paris weekend!

We sat across the road in a brasserie and had a simple lunch of omelette (me) and chicken (Mirinda) with the famous Parisian frites (we call them fries…or chips). We spent most of the time watching the oddly dressed groups wandering by. It was with interest that I noted the new Japanese fashion for young girls. Having already given the world the shorts over tights thing, they are now wearing wrap around dark skirts over three quarter leotard-like cut off tights and ballet slippers.

Japanese tourists in Paris

We sat opposite an interesting family group. At a glance you would think they had stepped right off a trailer park. He looked a bit like Earl, but without the moustache, she was a brunette version of his ex-wife. The son had a wonderful mullet and looked every bit the hick red neck. What made the image all rather confusing was that they were, firstly in Paris, and secondly drinking red wine. They were a jolly threesome, nonetheless, and enjoying each other’s company enormously.

Apres dejeuner, we set off down towards the Ile de Louis as, apparently, this is now a tradition. A huge queue was lined up waiting to climb the tower at Notre Dame while being entertained by a mime artist in a rubber mask. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Suffice to say, we walked on by with merely a chuckle.

Two lovely ice creams were purchased in a parlous where the ice cream is fashioned into gorgeous flowers upon cone stems. I had pistachio, Mirinda hazelnut. Both were wonderful.

Rather than suffer like yesterday, we hopped on the Metro at Sully-Morland and were back in the hotel in time for a rest before dinner.

A delicious dinner was had at an Italian restaurant just up the Blvd Gobelins called Romains. Lovely pasta, lovely Chianti, very high pitched but lovely waitress. Unfortunately they were out of baba so my limoncello sorbet was sans baba. I think it made all the difference. It was very refreshing.

I should state that it has been very hot in Paris this time. I’m talking sweaty hot not your English warm. Farnham Park in the wind is looking pretty damn pleasant at the moment. Mirinda wishes she was a bird. Presumably a swallow as there’s a few about at the moment.

Up and down to breakfast at 9:30 – we are getting very French in our habits. A delicious coffee once more then off to the Jardin des Plantes.

Back in the 1600s, this was a scientific herbal garden and it is still very formal and you are shouted at if you smell the flowers too closely. The grass is, quite frankly, a bit ill. I think this is because humans are not allowed to tread on it. I think it’s also because the French have no idea what to do to get a good lawn, obsessed as they are with gravel. Anyway, the whole place is very regimented with thousands of plants in neat orderly little rows growing between two avenues of trees.

Along one of the avenues, a series of blocks have been placed at equal-ish intervals, each with a number on it. These denote millions of years. At various points along these blocks, larger blocks describe what is happening at this time. The blocks go from now back to the creation of the Earth 3.8 billion years ago and further to the Big Bang. It’s a lot of fun and all, of course, in French.

Time sections marked off in the Jardin des plantes, Paris

At the head of the garden sits Buffon, a wise man who claimed the universe was not created by a mythical god but rather by mechanical means, while at the other end is a quizzical Larmarck probably confused by his being proclaimed the father of evolution on the sandstone beneath his feet. Having walked one end to the other we then decided to check out the zoo.

Buffon statue in Jardin des plante, Paris

Built just after the Revolution it is a bit old in its approach to animal housing. It suffers from the old fashioned need to house wild animals in concrete and behind iron bars. Mostly it’s unpleasant. However, we tried ignoring that and tried to work out what the animals were given that everything was written in French. Antilope & Emeu are pretty easy (though I have to wonder why they felt the need to add the second ‘e’ in emu) but what the hell is a mara? Or a daim?

Fortunately we missed out on visiting the vivarium – it was full of screaming kids – as the Rough Guide describes it as ‘stinky’. There was a very interesting display of the wildlife of an atoll in the Seychelles housed in the rotunda. Some absolutely fantastic wildlife photography AND I managed to score 15 out of 16 in the quiz! It just goes to show that animals look much better in their native environment.

We sat in the zoo café and had crepes and coffee before heading out to the Natural History Museum so I could visit the Gallery of Evolution. While the museum has made excellent use of the old stuffed animals they had hanging around, the story of evolution is not so excellent. The story of how the story of evolution started is very slight and there’s only a very few fossils. Still, it was fun and the kids seem to like it.

Examples of early life based on fossil finds, Natural History Museum, Paris

As we stepped out into the daylight once more, Mirinda decided we’d have lunch at the mosque, which is just across the road. While internally I groaned, knowing there’d be no beer, I happily followed her in. What a fab place. It was like being at some oasis in the desert (though without beer), surrounded by all nationalities. The food was excellent (a sort of Moroccan version of the Cornish pasty, an avocado & prawn salad followed by very sweet pastries and mint tea) and the sparrows were extraordinary in how much they loved the couscous.

The women at the table next to us were Spanish. They pointed to things on the menu and asked the waiter what they were. He didn’t speak Spanish or Italian, which they did but he did have some English. They pointed at agneau and he said ‘lamb’. They had no idea what this lamb thing was either so he loudly bleated ‘baa, baa’! I’m not sure they figured it out even then though everyone else in the place did.

Another lady, sitting alone at the end of the row of round tables, was sharing her couscous with a flock of hungry little sparrows. They were also quite a picky lot as they preferred the couscous on her plate rather than the spilled stuff on the table top.

The sparrows were quite amazing. They flew and swooped, deposited little parcels on people and basically acted like the owned the place. Obviously it didn’t have a roof.

After lunch we headed off for the Shakespeare and Co bookshop, a very famous Parisian shop selling English books. On the way we managed to find the beginning of the gay pride march which, apparently was taking place in Paris today. Though nothing like as fabulous as the Mardis Gras in Sydney, it was very loud and very crowded as it wended it’s snaky way through the streets wide and narrow. There was a very large crowd of people following and generally walking alongside the few floats.

We watched for a bit, and I managed to get a picture of a rather alluring Jesus, then continued on our way, stopping at a café in order for me to have the beer I’d missed out on in the mosque. We stopped down near the Seine and had a great view of Notre Dame and of hundreds of tourists buying tacky souvenirs from the many stalls along the wall. Most of them were wearing odd red and yellow baseball caps. We thought they must have been some American tour group and this was their identification so they didn’t get too lost. They were, actually, French but what the caps meant I don’t know. Though I do think they were to help find straying members of the group.

Tourists with red and yellow caps near Notre Dame, Paris

We then spent a lovely half hour in the bookshop, buying books we don’t need. It was then time to head back to the hotel for a siesta before dinner. This was considerably easier to say than to do. Because of the march which could still be heard echoing around the streets, we were hemmed in on all sides by tourists and gay pride marchers. The streets were very busy. We ended up walking down by the river where, although lots of tourists still wandered, it was relatively sparse.

We sat and had ice creams while students painted various views of the Seine. We eventually tried to head back to the Mouff but once more collided with the march which had been going for hours. We gritted our teeth and dived through the crowd. I was quick enough to spot a Valkrie but that was all and we were soon climbing a very steep hill.

Today the Mouff was very different. It was alive with people. Even the Contrescarpe looked better surrounded by people, hiding most of the garbage. There was an odd little man playing a small upright piano on wheels where yesterday the post van was getting all road ragey.

FINALLY we made it back to the hotel, eight hours after we’d left – that’s a long time for us. We rested our feet in cold water.

A delicious dinner was had at Marty’s, just down the Blvd Gobelins. I felt terribly underdressed but Mirinda had to have her oysters so I swallowed my embarrassment (eventually) and settled down to a delicious, expensive meal. After feeling somewhat out of place, I engaged in some happy repartee with the waiter and soon forgot my discomfort. The food was fantastic.

Woke at 8 after a good 8 hours sleep. The day was glorious but the room hadn’t improved. Eventually we made our way downstairs for breakfast. The baguette was fine, the coffee was lovely, the tea too weak. Still, the breakfast room was pleasant enough. It looks out into the courtyard that our room overlooks.

Unlike previous holidays, there was no return to the room. Instead it was straight out into the Avenue des Gobelins. The idea was to walk the Mouff. This is an ancient custom around these parts where tourists walk along this street which once had lots of market stalls. It still has some, and the first bit was really lovely. There is the occasional interesting cheese shop and the blocks of flats are all interesting.

Market stalls along the Mouffetard, Paris

The Mouffetard is a road which, the Rough Guide claims ‘snakes’ through the area. It has one bend. So, not the most agile of snakes. It followed the old Roman route to Italy but when you consider that ALL roads lead to Rome, this could be any street. There is a supposed oasis in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the Mouff. It is called the place de la Contrascape. The Rough Guide calls it pleasingly run-down. It is a tip! The fountain has become a garbage dump, the small plants seem to be sprouting plastic bags and aluminium cans. The traffic is halted whenever a truck delivers beer to the pub and then the pedestrians get run over by irate posties. It’s really not very nice!

Eventually we managed to arrive at the Pantheon. This is a huge temple to the dead heroes of France. These are such people as Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Rousseau etc. The building was originally a temple, back in 507 when King Clovis became a Christian. St Genevieve was buried there in 512. She is the patron saint of Paris.

Nothing seems to have happened for a while so roll forward to 1744 when Louis XV got something in his eye. When it fell out (NOT the eye), he rejoiced, claiming it was St Genevieve’s doing. So he hired a local architect to redesign the place to what it is today – huge and ornate.

After this it was a temple, then a crypt, then back to a temple. Eventually (1885), when Victor Hugo died, it was decided to bury him there and so it became the place to bury really famous people. The inside is impressively decorated with huge painted panels and heavily populated sculptured groups. I was particularly impressed with the breasts that seem to tower over you, menacingly.

Breasts in the Pantheon, Paris

In the middle of the dome and hanging by a thread, is a working model of Foucault’s Pendulum which, in 1851, stunned the people by proving that the earth revolved. It’s amazing. You can tell the time by it.

Under the main building is the labyrinthine crypts. Passages and archways spread out everywhere. I imagine stray tourists are found wandering the halls, lost, after lights out on a regular basis. We wandered around looking up Voltaire, who’d been dragged out for a bit of an airing in the main entrance, and Victor Hugo, again looking uncannily like Nick. The actual memorials are all the same so, having seen one, you could basically say you’d seen them all. We wandered round reading for a bit but basically left for want of coffee.

Just outside the Pantheon (and a street away) we found the Crepe A Gogo. I recommend it’s coffee and it’s crepes. A lovely place to sit and watch the traffic and the people as they go about their daily chores. After an early and lovely lunch we set off to revisit the Luxembourg Gardens which looked quite different with lots of people around and a few flowers sprouted. We sat for a while and let Paris move around us for a bit then set off for the Montparnasse Cemetery.

Flowers in a planter, Luxembourg Gardens, Paris

We didn’t quite get there before being forced into a café for a coffee. THEN we went to the cemetery. A lovely quiet place, crowded with memorials resembling the tops of lift shafts. Unfortunately the only way is down in these particular elevators.

After a lovely stroll it was off to the Metro and a convoluted trip back to the Place d’Italie which leads back to our hotel. Naturally we had to stop off at a patisserie on the way.

The late afternoon/evening was spent in some sort of repose.

For dinner we popped across the road to Le Sirocco, ‘Cuisine Marocaine’, and each had a delicious tagine (Mirinda had chicken, I had lamb) with couscous. I tried a Casablanca beer which was a light refreshing lager (not alcoholic light, naturally). For dessert I bravely tried the crème brulee with something odd. Although pretty much NOT a crème brulee, it was actually very nice although I still have no idea what else was in it. Mirinda had some Moroccan pastries.

I decided to try the Café Parfum after the meal. This is a truly odd experience. Imagine black coffee with herbs and spices and strange little seeds floating in it. It wasn’t awful, just weird. And, a warning if you are ever tempted to have one: don’t drink the dregs. There’s all manner of strange things living down there at the bottom of the cup, things you are better off not swallowing.

After dinner we strolled around the back streets, finding a very steep hill that Mirinda ran up, and then returned to the hotel for bed.

Watching BBC News, it appears that the royals cost each person in the UK 66p last year, rather than the penny it used to be.

The Eurostar has moved from Waterloo to St Pancras. This is all very well for those who wish to travel to France from the north of England but where does it leave us in Surrey? I’ll tell you where it leaves us. After travelling for an hour into Waterloo in the noisiest quiet zone carriage I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit in, I had to manhandle the luggage across, up, down, around two Tube lines, fighting through crowds (no matter the time of day) and fearing heart attacks on each long staircase. It was pretty dire, I have to say. I finally arrived at St Pancras and begrudgingly have to admit it’s a lot better than Waterloo was. Grrrr.

We boarded the train and I managed to have two seats all the way to Paris. Mirinda was not so lucky – after Ebbsfleet, a French guy sat next to her.

After the obligatory 337 announcements telling us we were moving and the one telling us the buffet car was open, an odd message was conveyed over the tannoy. Something about there being no more service because of a ‘loading problem’. I’m assuming it made a whole lot more sense in French because the guy speaking was obviously French. Though I always assume the worst and feel he’s probably laughing up his sleeve at our ignorance. Anyway, he told us this a number of times but it never became any clearer.

Then, disaster struck. A fire on the tracks at Paris Garde Nord. We had to stop at Ashford and sat there for about 40 minutes as they fought to put the fire out. There was no further explanation. Mirinda managed very well by plugging her mp3 player in and putting her headphones on. This did mean the entire carriage was woken up when she decided to comment on the announcer’s claim that we would be there for ‘some short minutes’ at a volume high enough to be heard over whatever loud music she was listening to. It was very funny.

We eventually arrived in Paris and I forced a very tired and washed out Mirinda to catch the Metro to our hotel. It was not much fun. Especially the very smelly girl standing next to me at one stage. I’m not sure if it was her perfume or if she worked in a very spicy restaurant but it was pretty vile.

The hotel is a big disappointment. The Hotel Residence les Gobelins is featured in our Alistair Sawday book of Paris hotels. This is generally a guarantee of something special. Alas, this time, it is not. I should stress though that the room is perfectly clean and not smelly and although not far from a busy main street, not overly noisy. BUT. The room is a bit shabby, the bed a bit low and small. The bathroom, though big, is hardly what you’d call appointed. The classic is the shower.

The water pressure and temperature are just fine but the shower itself is just a showerhead and hose attached to the bath taps. This generally works just fine except it normally has a hook to attach to. So having a shower means standing holding the showerhead, wetting yourself, putting the showerhead down and soaping up then rinsing off the same way. Mirinda not best pleased.

We spent a joyful hour with Mirinda complaining. Luckily she was too tired to move to another hotel. We both fell asleep very quickly.