Rainy Paris

What a wild part of Cologne it was where I chose to spend the night. Pubs, bars, people galore line the small back street in which the hotel is central. I have to admit that I was a bit concerned about the noise keeping me awake. However, given I didn’t get into my room until gone 1am this was seriously not an issue. Not that it stopped the revellers.

This morning, in comparison, the scenes of Bacchanalia had vanished, to be replaced with sunshine, clean streets and no hint of the previous night’s debaucheries. It did occur to me that possibly last night had been a sort of fever dream after the day’s travel escapades.

Who knows. I mean, it could have been when you glimpse the carpet in the hotel.

Ignoring the crazy floor coverings, the room was excellent. The shower especially so. I realise I have stopped reviewing bathrooms. Some of my greatest posts feature bathroom reviews. Not that I feel like restarting just now. Suffice it to say that the water was hot and the pressure was very good.

My walk down to the hbf felt a lot shorter than it had last night, possibly because I knew where I was going today. Last night it had been a bit of a mystery. It also felt like it took me a lot longer last night but it didn’t really. About 15 minutes and, more or less, in a straight line.

My Eurostar train wasn’t due to leave until 12:39 so I had a leisurely wander around, a couple of lattes at Starbucks and, eventually, a bit of a read on the platform.

Something I have discovered at Cologne hbf is a huge lack of seats. Such a huge lack that there isn’t any at all until you get onto the platform, and then they are only at one end. It makes for a lovely open entrance to the station but, really, would it kill them to have a couple for the wobbly patrons? I realise they don’t want the homeless to sleep on them but why should that discomfort me?

Anyway, eventually my train pulled into the platform and, naturally, it was right down the other end and, along with a few hundred other disgruntled travellers, I hauled ass down to my carriage.

Train #5: Cologne to Paris

The train had started somewhere else, so there were already three other people sitting with me and one of them was in my booked seat. There was a bit of light-hearted discussion and it turned out that the fellow in my seat was sitting next to his wife and his booked seat was actually sitting at the window opposite her.

I said I was fine sitting by the window unless his wife would prefer otherwise. The husband and the other person sitting opposite him laughed. His wife said nothing. After a while I realised she didn’t speak English which explained a lot. Anyway, all was fine and I took up my very comfortable seat by the big window.

Then, before we left the station, a woman came up and showed us all her ticket which was for the seat next to me. The man in that seat showed her his in return. They were both identical. We all wondered how Eurostar could possibly book the same seat twice. Well, apart from the wife who, as I said, didn’t speak English, which was obvious when the husband offered this other woman his lap. I suggested that might also be for his wife to decide.

So, the fifth person vanished. We didn’t see her again so I have no idea how she got on.

And the trip to Paris was a delight. And on time. And comfortable. I watched some TV, listened to a podcast, read for a bit and dozed. My favourite kind of travel.

Finally, we pulled into Paris Nord, a station I know extremely well.

I hauled my bag to the main entrance and started searching for my bed for the night.

This was not difficult. It was a seven-minute walk away and, like last night, more or less in a straight line. It’s actually a hostel which also has separate rooms with ensuite.

As I laid on the bed, resting up for an hour with a cup of coffee delightfully provided by the hostel (such a rarity), the rain started. And it didn’t stop pouring down until a good deal later when I found myself in a small bistro somewhere near Gare de l’Est, eating a lovely plate of tartare de boeuf and drinking their finest apple juice.

I sat looking out at the usual Paris traffic and realised how much I love the city. I often wonder what 20-year-old Gary would think if I was to tell him how much he would not just love but also feel at home in, Paris. He’d probably say, “Piss off, grandpa, you’re an idiot.” And who could blame him? Certainly not 70-year-old Gary.

I got to speak my very limited Aussie French, and enjoyed eating and sitting in a very French bistro for a bit, out of the rain and soaking up the atmosphere. Obviously I waved away any suggestion of an English menu as I basked in my superiority over a few tourists who came in, wet, lost, bewildered and not sure that they should stay.

Once the rain stopped, I headed back to my room and, to the sound of a lot of youngsters enjoying a night of booze and loud music, I went to sleep.