With its exotic and traditional offerings, the French city attracts many a tourist from all over the world
“There will always be Paris,” says Humphrey Bogart. Memories formed in Paris last forever in the movie Casablanca. Recently, the same was experienced by our family, when the verdant green slopes of the French Alps and the small towns outside the cities that boast a rich history became the setting for our memories during our ‘vacation Europe 2005’.
After landing at the Charles de Gaulle airport, we straight away moved towards a town outside Paris, called Port du Orleans. Like every town a significant historical monument distinguishes it from the rest. And here was Joan of Arc’s.
France boasts of charming towns where the masses walk to get their fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh baguettes from small neighbourhood bakeries, run by a mom-and-pop style operation, every day and sometimes even more then once a day, or visit a church or cathedral then sit back in the cafes and over a strong espresso with a piece of bread on the side, savouring the history surrounding them. There is no mad rush to work as it is a socialist government that is able to fulfil their basic needs and more. For example, it pays 500 euros every month for every dependent, French people work 35 hours a week, the shortest work week in the whole Europe and perhaps all the world, and get six weeks of vacation per year. The French stop, relax, ready to cooperate and help in their broken English whenever possible.
When asked, “Vous parlez Englaise?” they always reply, “a little bit”, which means really nothing. It usually means that they know a few words jumbled up that make no sense. But at least they don’t ignore us as overgrown stubble that irritates unnecessarily every morning when you look into the mirror. The adage that “French knows English but they don’t seem to speak it. French pride stops them from doing it,” seems to reverberate its truth every time we hope to contradict it. Their pride sure chokes them up or they just seem very narcissist and show that the French love themselves so much that they put up an act that everyone else can see through. They never speak English because they don’t know it, they want us to believe that baloney, but the FM channel on our car’s radio every second played English songs.
With no legend pointing out to any directions, we stumbled through the foreign land — mute and deaf. Not equipped with any lesson from Alliance French Institute, a favourite of upscale education institutions in Pakistan, which we resolved to sign up as soon we go home. Meanwhile, we were stuck with a major language complex. Hanging on to the frayed lifeline of the short listed resources, we continued to be ineffective for most of our stay in France, and southern half of Switzerland.
No talk and all action. It seemed like a scene out of an old silent movie. We were speeding our four-door blue Peugeot in circles, up the River Loire to the industrial area, then back into the city for hours as if in a wild goose chase. There was a reason why the destination didn’t corroborate with the map downloaded from Internet a night before departing from Lahore.
The directions downloaded from a website for a motel in Port du Orleans were written by someone quite unfamiliar with English and who we would have the pleasure of meeting later. The language barrier created a situation with lots of holes.
Our completely lost look perplexed the locals, no doubt. Stuck in a narrow street between the low-income apartment building where a group of latchkey children show off their shiny new scooters doing wheelies. Ruefully we took our car, a usual practice and not an act of brave desperado, over the half-foot-high kerb. Facing the teenagers “chilling” in the balmy weather with a friendly smile and a pleading look, we tried to explain. With every moment it was getting harder to understand what they meant; it was not their fault for they told us exactly where to go and how to go — but in French. Frustrated with our tourist inclinations to become dumb and dumber with every passing moment, the redhead with a bad case of acne, climbed up the snazzy red scooter and with the sweep of his arm asked us to tag along. Another young rider with a scooter also revved up like a kamakazi wind and aggressively swept the scooter at a 180-degree angle. We followed the leader. Nervous and feeling guilty, I wondered whether these young, high spirited, youngsters were legally old enough to be on the road. I don’t like breaking laws especially in unfamiliar places where you don’t know which stoplight has a surveillance camera attached.
Pointing out at the turn where the motel is supposed to be, the chunky redhead sharply turned on one wheel and zoomed back onto the main road. The motel was cheap, which explains why it is stuck in a hole behind a lumber store and a construction site for a new single unit homes.
After, unpacking our belongings into the small congested and “no place to step” place, we hit the road for groceries. The urgency was triggered by the fact that the supermarkets closed sharp at 7pm when the sun is still at its zenith. The sun sets at 9pm.
We crossed the bridge over the River Loire, which snakes through the industrial area then sways and coils around the soft curves of the green hills. A track for pedestrians and runners etched the edges of the river. The patches of white clouds softened the hard blue of the skies. Furthermore, the geometrical shapes of the new plazas and the hotels showed the changing geography. But there, progress is happening at a snail’s pace.
Somehow the progression into new millennium is always postmarked by the shortage of resources. The grocery store that we visited offered no grocery bags. While I carried soft drinks and bread, balanced precariously in a pair of hands and glass milk bottles clutched tightly inside the crook of the arms, the rest of the family carried their favourites: chocolates, whole wheat crackers, cheese and healthy snacks for our one week of gypsy living. For the three weeks spent vacationing in Europe, we happily forgot curries with oils and spices. Nutritious and tasty snacks were available only in France, it seemed, because of the simplicity of the food. No pretentious packaging-screaming flavour deceives the consumers. Nothing is contrived and artificial. The sober “take it in the stride” modernity is very much unlike the loud gimmick filled, and “buy one get two free” American marketing.
The French are great keepers of their history unlike the Americans who are young and brash and go for the immediate kill with their usual militant spirit for capitalist gains. Their national pride shows in the way history is preserved in the hundred-year-old limestone buildings and how the new accommodations needed for growing population is delicately balanced on top of the existing ones. The cathedral where Joan of Arc got her sisterhood and the pews that she bent down for appeasement are open to public and still honoured by Christians and non-Christians alike. We still go for their services in the impressive vaulted ceilings painted by some famous artist just as they did hundreds of years ago. The town centre with cobbled stones grey and immaculate is positioned in an impressive manner. Not knowing what to stare at any more, the ground that our shoes touch or the soaring heights of the great buildings, we shorten our strides and savour the essence of our being in a time and space so pristine and mystical.
We saw pedestrian crowds enjoy majestic buildings built by the once powerful Catholic Church, and click away pictures of the great sculptures in various postures. We were able to engage a young woman at the counter to give us the map for the southeast France bordering Switzerland. The half-a-page small map that we got from the car rental shop, covered only the city of Paris and was useless, but would come in handy later. “No charge for the map downloaded from a site and printed,” said the Madame. The phrase of ‘very cheap’ in French is “pas mal” and I parroted the feedback with correct intonation. It brought genuine chuckles from behind the counter.
But nothing was “pas mal” at the cafe in the corner of the several main junctions of the town centre.
The first day in Port du Orlean was well spent and we planned to stay here for half-a-day tomorrow before moving on. But it’s not the end, just the beginning as we spent the first seven days in seven different hotels. The rest of the stay would be at the upgraded hotels with French/Swiss style breakfast. Until next time, Au revoir.
“There will always be Paris,” says Humphrey Bogart. Memories formed in Paris last forever in the movie Casablanca. Recently, the same was experienced by our family, when the verdant green slopes of the French Alps and the small towns outside the cities that boast a rich history became the setting for our memories during our ‘vacation Europe 2005’.
No talk and all action. It seemed like a scene out of an old silent movie. We were speeding our four-door blue Peugeot in circles, up the River Loire to the industrial area, then back into the city for hours as if in a wild goose chase. There was a reason why the destination didn’t corroborate with the map downloaded from Internet a night before departing from Lahore.
After, unpacking our belongings into the small congested and “no place to step” place, we hit the road for groceries. The urgency was triggered by the fact that the supermarkets closed sharp at 7pm when the sun is still at its zenith. The sun sets at 9pm.
