Cinderella III
I hopped on my bike and looked for the Eiffel Tower. The skies were too cloudy; I couldn't find it. And it was drizzling. But I knew which way was south, and even if I didn't go straight toward home, if I could just find the Seine I could follow the quay to my bridge, no problem.
Still, it would have been nice to have remembered my map.
I hopped on the bike and started down the hill. Hot damn! I've had two bikes stolen, and I hadn't bought another one since the most recent theft, a couple years back in (where else) Baltimore. It was very exciting to mount MY bike. Now I could go more places, faster. The wind could blow in my face, and my quadriceps could burn, and I could switch gears and go faster, and I could ring my bell if someone was in my way.
I found my way to the wide Boulevard de Clichy and headed west, past Moulin Rouge and the red light district. The streets were nearly empty, so I was really cooking. Accessing the fuzzy map of Paris in my brain, I realized that I needed to turn left when I entered the 17th arrondissement. I looked at one of the street signs that they have on the buildings at every street corner and saw "17e." I turned left.
Now I was going downhill. I had to stop at traffic lights, which was a drag, but I did not want to run afoul of the Paris Police, not even for a minor bike violation (even though La Vendeuse told me that she had been caught several times going the wrong way on a one way street and successfully pulled the "Je suis desolee! Je suis americaine!" card).
After a while, I felt like I needed to turn left, so I turned left. Then I thought I ought to bear left a little, so I did. Then I thought I had gone too far east, so I turned right. (I'm looking at a map right now and I wish I could tell you the street names, but I was seriously effin' lost by this point.)
I found a wide boulevard and decided to just follow it: I attributed it to instinct, but it was really desperation. I ended up at Porte Dauphine, which I knew was bad because "Porte" is the word they use to describe all the circles along the city limits. I was almost in the suburbs. (Honestly, I had thought I was on Champs Elysees, but looking at the map right now I see that the only big boulevard that leads to Porte Dauphine is "Avenue Foch." Indeed.)
The bus stop at Porte Dauphine had a map, so it was at this point that I realized I was at the city limits, a long way from the Eiffel Tower, which I had even more trouble seeing because it was also at this point that it began to rain. Hard.
I followed another boulevard because it looked like it ended at the Seine, which I could then simply cross to be in my arrondissement. Wrong. Porte de la Muette. Muette means silent or dumb. Which I was not. I triangulated and headed in what I thought was the right direction. I rode down the sidewalk because the surface was smoother and, hence, faster. I passed several sadsacks walking alone under streetlights in the rain, and cued up Miles Davis's soundtrack to Louis Malle's L'Ascenseur Pour L'Echafaud in my mind's ear.
Finally, I saw the blasted Tower. I zigzagged through the one-way streets, unable to see the Tower because of the buildings I was riding between, but sure I was going the right way. Then I saw it again. Finally, I saw the Trocadero metro stop, which I knew was across the Seine from the Tower.
I got to the stop and found the spot directly across the river from the Eiffel Tower. It was a magnificent colonnade beneath the gorgeous, inspiring Palais des Droits de l'homme. The thing was, the colonnade was raised about 40 feet above the bridge. I delicately walked the bike down the slippery marble stairs and crossed the bridge. I rode under the Eiffel Tower; this is perhaps the least attractive perspective of the tower in the whole city. It almost felt impolite.
After an hour and a half of riding in the rain, I finally made it back to avenue du Général Tripier around 1:00 a.m., feeling like a soggy pumpkin.
Still, it would have been nice to have remembered my map.
I hopped on the bike and started down the hill. Hot damn! I've had two bikes stolen, and I hadn't bought another one since the most recent theft, a couple years back in (where else) Baltimore. It was very exciting to mount MY bike. Now I could go more places, faster. The wind could blow in my face, and my quadriceps could burn, and I could switch gears and go faster, and I could ring my bell if someone was in my way.
I found my way to the wide Boulevard de Clichy and headed west, past Moulin Rouge and the red light district. The streets were nearly empty, so I was really cooking. Accessing the fuzzy map of Paris in my brain, I realized that I needed to turn left when I entered the 17th arrondissement. I looked at one of the street signs that they have on the buildings at every street corner and saw "17e." I turned left.
Now I was going downhill. I had to stop at traffic lights, which was a drag, but I did not want to run afoul of the Paris Police, not even for a minor bike violation (even though La Vendeuse told me that she had been caught several times going the wrong way on a one way street and successfully pulled the "Je suis desolee! Je suis americaine!" card).
After a while, I felt like I needed to turn left, so I turned left. Then I thought I ought to bear left a little, so I did. Then I thought I had gone too far east, so I turned right. (I'm looking at a map right now and I wish I could tell you the street names, but I was seriously effin' lost by this point.)
I found a wide boulevard and decided to just follow it: I attributed it to instinct, but it was really desperation. I ended up at Porte Dauphine, which I knew was bad because "Porte" is the word they use to describe all the circles along the city limits. I was almost in the suburbs. (Honestly, I had thought I was on Champs Elysees, but looking at the map right now I see that the only big boulevard that leads to Porte Dauphine is "Avenue Foch." Indeed.)
The bus stop at Porte Dauphine had a map, so it was at this point that I realized I was at the city limits, a long way from the Eiffel Tower, which I had even more trouble seeing because it was also at this point that it began to rain. Hard.
I followed another boulevard because it looked like it ended at the Seine, which I could then simply cross to be in my arrondissement. Wrong. Porte de la Muette. Muette means silent or dumb. Which I was not. I triangulated and headed in what I thought was the right direction. I rode down the sidewalk because the surface was smoother and, hence, faster. I passed several sadsacks walking alone under streetlights in the rain, and cued up Miles Davis's soundtrack to Louis Malle's L'Ascenseur Pour L'Echafaud in my mind's ear.
Finally, I saw the blasted Tower. I zigzagged through the one-way streets, unable to see the Tower because of the buildings I was riding between, but sure I was going the right way. Then I saw it again. Finally, I saw the Trocadero metro stop, which I knew was across the Seine from the Tower.
I got to the stop and found the spot directly across the river from the Eiffel Tower. It was a magnificent colonnade beneath the gorgeous, inspiring Palais des Droits de l'homme. The thing was, the colonnade was raised about 40 feet above the bridge. I delicately walked the bike down the slippery marble stairs and crossed the bridge. I rode under the Eiffel Tower; this is perhaps the least attractive perspective of the tower in the whole city. It almost felt impolite.
After an hour and a half of riding in the rain, I finally made it back to avenue du Général Tripier around 1:00 a.m., feeling like a soggy pumpkin.
posted by disappearingink at 3:21 PM
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