There are a number of large cities, in particular capitals, where the city would not actually be improved by the replacement of the citizens with those from the countryside, another country or even robots. I think of Copenhagen where even the stressed shop assistants and wait-persons will offer a smile if you show even the most casual of pleasantries. Or Istanbul where the marketplace would be a pale shade without the swarthy calls of the denizens.

Paris, unsurprisingly, is not one of them.

From the moment of arrival at Charles de Gaulle we knew we were entering a third world country. Having endured a long cramped flight as usual with Air France who tried to recreate the temperature conditions of a Libyan desert with the air conditioning, the long wait to get off the plane was almost too much for some. The woman in the seat in front of us fainted and was dragged off by her companions.

Passport control was one man on a gate for all airlines arriving at that terminal. With the organisational skill of a football match, the crowd of passengers formed a huge scrum trying to get to this door. Three to four hundred people and this guy was having a ten minute discussion with each.

Eventually another guard averted a riot by opening another door and letting people through with only a cursory glance at their documents. Now was the time for the illegals to make a concerted rush.

Once out of the scrum we waited for our luggage which had still not arrived. When it did we then spent ten minutes looking for the taxi rank and bludgeoning an ATM machine to give us Euros. The taxi driver who took us had already unloaded several peoples luggage onto the curb before he eventually selected us as having a destination worthy of his endeavour.

We arrived at Yolanta's apartment in the middle of the afternoon in the 11th Arrondissement near the Pierre Lachaise Cemetery. Yolanta was the girl we met and stayed with in Latvia in the early '90s and we have seen her off and on ever since. Robert, her English husband was on business in the US so we didn't get to see him.

Not one to sit still for long, Yolanta 'insisted' that we go down the road ( a brief stroll as she told it) to the Pompidou Centre. This was just the first one of the forced marches that we went on in her company. "You can walk to anywhere from here" she said. This is probably what the commanders of the Para regiments who landed in the Falklands said before the troops set off on their hundred mile yomp across the heather.

We stopped in a cafe for some refreshment and I suddenly remembered why I had so much toruble with Paris when I first went there. You just can't get anything to eat!

This might sound surprising to those who hold the French art of cooking in the highest regard but just think for moment. If every time you wanted a quick bite, you had to choose from an expensive French restaurant menu. '%4*£-elettes a la $£&&%'. 'Brioche a la Escargot avec Insouciance Supranatural'.

"No! I just want a cheese sarnie"

"Mais non, monsieur... You must have the Boiled Pigs Liver a la Alsace Lorry-Lane"

Jeez, I never thought I'd crave a good Doner Kebab!

I had the 'Andouilette a Saucisson avec Pommes Frites' which sounded like sausage and chips in my language. Give him his due, the waiter did say it was 'Especial' (rough translation... it tastes crap and foreigners hate it). Assured by Yolanta that it was edible, the plate arrived with a roasted sock stuffed with bits cut out of animals that even MacDonalds can't use.

The chips were nice though and even my fare was more palatable than Zinta's. She ordered the cheese plate and it duly arrived with a wedge of cheese on it. Nothing else... just the cheese, and not a terribly big wedge at that. It was only NZ$11 (5 Euros) so what can you expect.

The Pompidou Centre has some great art. It also has some pretty bad art and they don't make any effort to separate the two. It's just so huge. You get art overload and by the end of just one floor you're flying by Warhols and Mondrians just to say you got to the end. As with many of the cultural parts of Paris, you need to spend time in just a small area and then retire to somewhere quiet for a nap.

Finding somewhere quiet is not really an option there.

We spent the night at Yolantas and then spent Friday morning hitting the shops. Z & I went to the Boulevard Hausmann and had a look around the Galleries Lafayette and Printemps, two of the largest department stores. It's not that we needed anything but it's nice to look at styles and the decoration. Lafayette has the most amazing central core and dome although you never seem to reach it when you're above the ground floor.

The stores are beautifully decorated with much richer decor than you find in Istanbul or even Copenhagen. Where a store in Turkey appears new and brash no matter how much expense has been lavished on it, Paris seems do exude good taste. Rich colours, leather and old wood are the universal theme.

We got to the Musee D'Orsay in the afternoon and had a quick look around the top floors before meeting up with Yolanta in the lobby. This is where the great Impressionist art hangs out. When I was first in Paris in 1982, the same paintings were in the Jardin de Tuilleries in a nice, quite simple museum. I understood why they were moved but it hasn't improved them.

But it is just amazing to see so much great art in one place. But again you find yourself skimming past a Renoir's and Monets because you want to see a Degas or a Gauguin. It's just too much. We both agreed that were we to come again, we would get a museum pass and do a little every day with lots of other stuff between. We also agreed to cook our own food most evenings and only go to restaurants for special meals.

In the evening we took a taxi to our hotel outside Paris, about twenty minutes north of the airport. This was the Chateau Mont Royale and was the reason for our trip. Zinta's old Danish colleagues were celebrating their success from last year and invited us along as Zinta was very much a part of that success.

Friday evening was the Fest Dinner in full suits and ties. This lasted about halfway through the evening. With about twenty managers and their spouses there, it was a very pleasant affair. The food was fair although I would have still gone for a cheeseburger from a good New Zealand chip shop. The wine was excellent as you'd expect.

Saturday we returned to Paris by train and met up with Yolanta again. Rather than hitting a large museum we route marched to a small one 'not far' along the Boulevard Hausmann. Somewhat before we hit the Bois du Boulounge, we turned off into a snug little city pad of some rich city burger. It is an ecletic little collection but the cafe was very nice. Giving the main course a miss, (a wise course to take in Paris) I had a very nice, and filling, Vanilla Slice.

The rooms are covered in Tapestries and the usual rosy cheeked French people with the occasional great piece of art. But it's main feature is it's quiet and the lack of milling tourists. You could actually see the art.

In the evening we met up with the company people in a Brasserie. The food was pretty good. Despite some arguments to the contrary ("No.... I didn't order the Steak Roquefort. No, not even if you bring it back several more times to the table"). But they were at their most amusing when they were trying to tell us that we couldn't possibly order the wine we wanted because then they wouldn't have any to give to other people.

Sunday, a sleepy bunch of people set off in a bus to sample some Champagne. I sort of assumed that we'd go to a wine bar somewhere but two and a half hours later we turned up at a vineyard in the Champagne Region. Being only a mere 1 and a half hours late we got the quick tour of the cellars.

I must say that the lady who runs the vineyard with her husband was the most charming hostess you could ever want. They both were although he spoke only French. They were enthusiastic about their business, knowledgeable and totally open to questions. This also reminded of the time I spent outside Paris on the my first travels. Most people are very charming and friendly. Parisians, they are not.

Lunch was in a upmarket restaurant in a little village not far away. Very fussy food but some was very nice. It took several people to explain that "No... monsieur eats no fish... Not...he eats only fish". The waiter insisted on putting his salmon steaks in front of my face while this was argued.

After this we set off back to the airport. Most people went on their weary way back to Denmark. Six of us were staying another night at the Chateau.

Despite feeling so full we would explode, we met up with the others in the bar at 8 and decided to force down some more food. As usual the only way you could get what you wanted was to order a heap of stuff that you really didn't. I pushed a lot of mine around the plate and ate the pudding.

Monday we left the hotel early and joined the queues at CdG airport. Queue here for this, queue here for that... queue for the loos. I can't believe an airport has so few conveniences. French people must have phenomenal bladders. It's the same story all over Paris.

Flying in to Ataturk was a joy. All the passport controls open... our luggage off and waiting and Erol faithfully waiting to whisk us home. Bliss!

Bruce
25 September 2002
PS: Any spelling of thim darned forrin words is approximate. Who can be bothered looking them up.

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