Mirinda flagged down a taxi this morning for our trip to the station. I said Gare de Nord, he nodded and opened the taxi door. He repeated Gare de Nord and we set off. Mirinda was surprised as we appeared to be going the wrong way but, given her previous failures, she was happy to leave it to the taxi driver. When we passed the Bastille, I was a bit surprised. Even more so when we pulled up outside the Gare de Lyon.
I think I was getting a bit too cocky with my French. Mind you, Mirinda reckons he said Gare de Nord back to me. Maybe, she suggested, we thought Gare de Nord and he thought Gare de Lyon and that’s how we ended up catching another taxi back passed the Bastille and up to Gare de Nord. We made sure to add Eurostar to our request.
I did wonder where he thought we’d been to arrive at the Gare de Lyon to then go across Paris to catch the Eurostar to London. Mirinda suggested Lyon. We didn’t tell him it was because I was an idiot who speaks French like a foreigner.
That drama over with, we headed to the check-in. As usual, I was given a very helpful and smooth entry to the Eurostar lounge. Of course, Mirinda, as my carer, accompanied me. It all looked quite different. I swear they redecorate the departure lounge every time we go.
With reference to my walking stick and inability to walk unaided, later, when the train was boarding and I was heading for the ramp, the woman who had ushered me ahead of everyone else through security, grabbed me and insisted I push ahead of everyone waiting for the lift. Just as I was about to board the lift, she asked me where my wife was. Mirinda had gone for a wander, I told the lovely woman as the lift doors closed and I was carried down to the platform.
Could I just say how amazing the Eurostar staff have always been? They are exceptional, caring and always friendly. That’s both sides of the channel.
Anyway, eventually, Mirinda found me and we settled down in our seats. Sitting across the aisle from us was a couple wearing masks. The man was terrified of something. One thing he complained about was the lack of air. I would suggest that the mask would not be helping him breathe.
He was pretty bad when we left Paris. He really was in some distress. He bent over, his head almost on the table in between him and his lady companion. She then lowered her head to touch his. They remained like that for a while as the train left the city. He then calmed down, looking at Google Maps as the train flew through the countryside. He pointed out features as they appeared on his screen. Strangely, he was okay in the tunnel but then started getting stressed again as we approached St Pancras.
While clearly odd, it wasn’t the oddest thing between this couple. While he spoke English, she spoke French. In conversation with each other. It was very weird. His French was very good because he spoke to the train staff in very clear French, which they understood perfectly, not sending him to the wrong place. But, when he spoke to her, he spoke English with a definite English accent.
They obviously understood each other because they held conversations all the way.
Finally, we pulled into St Pancras at 11:20am, and our four days in the Marais came slowly to an end as the train stopped. We collected the parrot bag and slowly walked along the platform, heading down to the St Pancras colonnade.
We joined a very long queue for a taxi which eventually resulted in one. We parted ways. Mirinda had a meeting to go to while I was heading home. My taxi took me to Waterloo. Fortunately, the driver didn’t think I’d said Paddington.
Actually, Paul, the taxi driver was an excellent conversationalist, which was good because the traffic was so bad it took ages to get across London.
Paul told me about his many travels around the world. And how he’s introducing his sons to the magic of travel which isn’t just sitting by a pool at a Greek resort hotel. He asked me about Sweden and the best time to visit. Obviously, I regaled him with both ends of the spectrum.
Paul was the complete opposite of our taxi driver on Sunday, who didn’t even have a passport.
Finally, we arrived at Waterloo and I wandered over to the indicator board which announced in glaring red that the next train home was at 13:28. I waited for a platform.
Eventually, I was settled back aboard my final train of the day, very much alone, reading as we chugged through Surrey.
I walked into the house (after catching a bus) just before 3pm. Not bad, given we left Paris at 10:13am, on the dot. Or so the petrified man assured anyone listening.
Oh, and, Christine McVie died yesterday, aged 79. Fleetwood Mac was very much part of my youth. I understand what a great loss this is. I played Rumours, very loud, when I got home.
