Missed Trains and a Midnight Channel Crossing

The problem, of course, was that the train actually left at 8. After repacking all my gear, getting a ride to a local train station, and riding that into St. Pancras international in downtown London–at an hour before ten–I printed out my ticket to realize that the last train of the day had left at 8. Either I’d misread my ticket, or the website I’d booked with had misprinted it (two other American girls there had the same problem), but regardless, I was going to be in London for another night.

But first, the day. We left that morning for Oxford University, where we parked the car right in front of the Eagle and Child, the pub on the campus where J.R.R. Tolkein, C.S. Lewis, Charles Williams, and the other members of their group (the Inklings) used to meet to have a pint and discuss their writing. We were even lucky enough to get the table where they’d originally sat, old brick walls now adorned with pictures of the Inklings and tidbits of information about them. To top off the experience, I even got to have a pint of green Stonehenge ale, which is apparently only available in the area.

After that, we walked around Oxford for a bit, commenting on the “ambient IQ” of the place–I overheard one girl discussing a series of essays she was writing on a specific field of semiotics–and then got back into the car to drive up to an English village called Bibury, a place that has realized the financial value of the word “quaint” and played it to the hilt. I wondered what it must be like to live here in one of these little stone cottages amongst the picturesque meadows and woods and streams, and to have herds of tourists snapping pictures of your front door every day from nine to five.

Then back to the Lundys’ for some truly amazing Thai curry, courtesy of Mrs. Lundy, followed by the incident of the missed Eurostar train. After trying fruitlessly to get my money back (the problem with cheap tickets is that they’re usually non-refundable) I walked back to the Lundys’ in the dark, and knocked on the door around 10:30. They were surprised to see me, and quite kindly took me in for another night. I wasn’t actually too disappointed–I had wanted to be in London for an extra day anyway. Besides, that way I got to watch Dr. Who, which, if you haven’t experienced it, is a thing truly not to be missed.

After thoroughly enjoying the following day of laziness, as well as cooking dinner for my hosts (I owed it to them), I caught–on time this time–the overnight bus to Paris. I’d expected it to be a straightforward enough crossing through the Chunnel, but half an hour after passing customs we were rolling onto one of the big Channel-crossing ferries of Dover’s harbor. We could see them as we approached, a long array of stocky white ships waiting for their cargos of cars and motorcycles and busses and freight trucks, all lit brightly and shrouded with the low rolling mist that spread out over the bay.

As soon as we were on board, I made my way for the open deck of the ship, even though by now it was after midnight. As the ferry’s engines groaned and we pulled away I could see the pale shapes of the white cliffs of Dover falling away behind us, lit by the working lights of the harbor. I hardly remember any of the following bus ride; I think was unconscious before we left Calais.

And then awake in Paris, my first stop on the continent and in a non-native-English-speaking country. I spent the first fifteen minutes of this magical time trying to decipher a subway map. Paris is a big city, and not the most logically laid out. But soon enough I was riding the metro into the city, and then on foot near the river Seine. The clouds were low and gray–followed me from England and Scotland, I suppose–and, as I climbed a hill in the gardens to the east of the river, I caught my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower thrusting up into the mist. Well, I thought, now it’s official.

A good portion of the rest of the day I spent exploring. One or two hours passed while I looked for someplace to get online so I could contact my couchsurfing host for the night–a place I finally found in the form of a municipal library accessible to the street by a single door and elevator, but occupying two full floors a few stories above the ground. I called and we arranged to meet after he got off work, around 7. At one point as I waited I noticed a thick column of black smoke billowing up from the city center. Apparently some troublemakers had burned a huge stack of tires in the middle of the road only a few blocks from the park in front of the Eiffel tower. They’d also managed to coat nearly everything nearby with rectangular yellow stickers whose meanings escaped me, either because I’m not French or because I’m not a psychotic tire burner, or possibly both.

Having wrapped it all up with the requisite Eiffle-tower-across-the-green shot, waiting semi-patiently for a herd of tourists on Segways (I know, it just keeps getting better) to get out of the way, I bought a map and headed for Marc’s (my couchsurfing host) house, out in the 18th arrondissement, with “a view on Sacre Couer” according to his couchsurfing profile. Sounded good to me.

Turns out it was even better. I was shown up to Marc’s apartment on the fourth floor by his neighbor, an older gentleman who’d lived in this area for some twenty years, less four spent teaching university in Boston. I was greeted there by a fellow couchsurfer, an Australian girl called Cate, who was staying here in Paris to await her boyfriend’s arrival in a week before her own departure on a fashion industry job to Dubai, UAE. I helped her set up a blog–which I will link to from here as soon as it’s ready–before Marc got back. Then, good conversation and good wine ensued for the remainder of the evening. This really is quite an amazing place, overlooking the narrow streets of Paris and, up on the hill, the Sacre Couer basilica. More Paris exploration tomorrow; quite possibly the catacombs, quite possibly the Louvre. Only time will tell.