From Paris to Amsterdam Day Three
Bonjour! It's another beautiful day in France. The temperatures have dropped a bit, more compatible with the fall wardrobe I packed. There are more pastries and even flan in the kitchen, compliments of Troy and Connie this morning. Freshly squeezed orange juice and a cup of cappuccino from the local boulangerie round out breakfast. I could get used to this vacation thing.
We can hear intermittent fireworks in the distance. With a shrug of our shoulders we assume a local holiday is being celebrated. After our day of walking yesterday, combined with ouryoung age and our plans to visit the Musee d'Orsay, we decide to take the metro. We walk the block to our metro stop and see the smokey remnants of the fireworks a short distance away.
Feeling confident and smart, we descend the stairs into the metro, push the English option and purchase our train tickets. Through the turn-style we go, like locals. Bonjour! Ça Va? I'm thinking of speaking greetings to my fellow commuters.
While looking at the metro map, making sure we know where to change trains, a rush of firefighters enters the first platform, jump the turn-styles and crowd us and others on the platform. A woman tells them she was cheering loudly for them. I turn and look. Many have black French moustache's painted on their faces. Others are sweaty and teary-eyed. I'm starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. Something just doesn't feel right. I make eye contact with my group and we decide to go down to the next platform to catch the train.
When we get to the train tunnel, there are only a half-dozen people milling about. A woman on her phone standing next to the tracks, a mother and daughter have just arrived to wait with us. A lone man sitting in a chair, and us. That was unusual too. There are usually quite a lot of people waiting for the train, no matter the time of day. I hear over the speaker a woman is speaking in French and I can pick out the words sécurité and sortie. I look at the faces of my fellow travelers and I watch the reaction of the woman standing next to the tracks. She lifts her face from her phone and looks around. The times for the arriving trains are now only double xx's. How very strange. The announcement again, in French. Sécurité and sortie. Safety and exit. And then, a bomb goes off.
In hindsight it wasn't a bomb, but it sounded like one. Right next to us down the tunnel, a loud bang can be heard. The mom and her daughter scream and run for the exit. The woman with the phone turns and swiftly walks toward the exit. I do the same. Connie is running from behind me, she grabs me and yells, "We are not walking! We are running!" We run. Up the stairs to the first platform. The employee is pulling a gate across the exit. We run through the narrow exit with Troy and Patrick next to us. We leap up the last set of stairs and stop as the light of day filters through the trees around us.
There is smoke and water and debris littering the street around us. We cross the street and stop. We are across the street from the Place de la République. Catching our breath and letting our nerves settle, we observe. For the few people on the sidewalks it's business as usual. We see a parade of a dozen or so city vehicles coming through the intersection. Some go into the République square and look as if they are cleaning. Others go further on down the street toward the smoke and the sirens.
It seems to be safe enough right now. We look at each other, we're okay. What now? We walk back across the street and peer down the stairs to the metro. The gates are still closed. There are people standing and waiting. For the metro to open again? I speak in French to the woman next to us, "Do you speak English?" Of course not. We can't figure out what is going on. We wonder, should we go back to our apartment or should we leave this arrondissment and walk to the more touristy areas, hoping there is more security there? We wonder where the US Embassy is located.
Our plan for now is to walk to the Seine where there are more tourists and hopefully less locals. Traffic is jammed. Some streets are closed. I try again with another woman, I ask in French, "Do you speak English?" She answers no in French and then asks her own question of me which I do not understand. Again, people on the sidewalks are business as usual except for a few who are stopped and staring down the street where the smoke lingers.
We opt to continue with our plans of going to the Orsay museum. On foot again. The farther from the Place de la République we get, the more we calm down. Is it our imagination or are there more sirens than usual? Is the traffic here worse than yesterday? Is it all related?
We can hear intermittent fireworks in the distance. With a shrug of our shoulders we assume a local holiday is being celebrated. After our day of walking yesterday, combined with our
Feeling confident and smart, we descend the stairs into the metro, push the English option and purchase our train tickets. Through the turn-style we go, like locals. Bonjour! Ça Va? I'm thinking of speaking greetings to my fellow commuters.
While looking at the metro map, making sure we know where to change trains, a rush of firefighters enters the first platform, jump the turn-styles and crowd us and others on the platform. A woman tells them she was cheering loudly for them. I turn and look. Many have black French moustache's painted on their faces. Others are sweaty and teary-eyed. I'm starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. Something just doesn't feel right. I make eye contact with my group and we decide to go down to the next platform to catch the train.
When we get to the train tunnel, there are only a half-dozen people milling about. A woman on her phone standing next to the tracks, a mother and daughter have just arrived to wait with us. A lone man sitting in a chair, and us. That was unusual too. There are usually quite a lot of people waiting for the train, no matter the time of day. I hear over the speaker a woman is speaking in French and I can pick out the words sécurité and sortie. I look at the faces of my fellow travelers and I watch the reaction of the woman standing next to the tracks. She lifts her face from her phone and looks around. The times for the arriving trains are now only double xx's. How very strange. The announcement again, in French. Sécurité and sortie. Safety and exit. And then, a bomb goes off.
In hindsight it wasn't a bomb, but it sounded like one. Right next to us down the tunnel, a loud bang can be heard. The mom and her daughter scream and run for the exit. The woman with the phone turns and swiftly walks toward the exit. I do the same. Connie is running from behind me, she grabs me and yells, "We are not walking! We are running!" We run. Up the stairs to the first platform. The employee is pulling a gate across the exit. We run through the narrow exit with Troy and Patrick next to us. We leap up the last set of stairs and stop as the light of day filters through the trees around us.
There is smoke and water and debris littering the street around us. We cross the street and stop. We are across the street from the Place de la République. Catching our breath and letting our nerves settle, we observe. For the few people on the sidewalks it's business as usual. We see a parade of a dozen or so city vehicles coming through the intersection. Some go into the République square and look as if they are cleaning. Others go further on down the street toward the smoke and the sirens.
It seems to be safe enough right now. We look at each other, we're okay. What now? We walk back across the street and peer down the stairs to the metro. The gates are still closed. There are people standing and waiting. For the metro to open again? I speak in French to the woman next to us, "Do you speak English?" Of course not. We can't figure out what is going on. We wonder, should we go back to our apartment or should we leave this arrondissment and walk to the more touristy areas, hoping there is more security there? We wonder where the US Embassy is located.
Our plan for now is to walk to the Seine where there are more tourists and hopefully less locals. Traffic is jammed. Some streets are closed. I try again with another woman, I ask in French, "Do you speak English?" She answers no in French and then asks her own question of me which I do not understand. Again, people on the sidewalks are business as usual except for a few who are stopped and staring down the street where the smoke lingers.
We opt to continue with our plans of going to the Orsay museum. On foot again. The farther from the Place de la République we get, the more we calm down. Is it our imagination or are there more sirens than usual? Is the traffic here worse than yesterday? Is it all related?
Thought of the movie "The Italian Job" and many other films...
...and Phil when we saw this boat.
One of the many water fountains in the city.
Smallest house in Paris according to our tour.
Musée d'Orsay
Inside the Museum of Orsay
Now a museum, it used to be a railway station.
The building is art itself.
Claude Monet - The Cart
We closed the museum. It was a good place to be after the unrest of the morning. We walked to a restaurant and ordered a meat and cheese platter and drinks. The server spoke some English and told us of his friend from New York. He couldn't say Wisconsin, but bless his heart he tried several times. We searched online for news from the morning and find out it was a group of angry firefighters protesting.
We discussed our day with this guy watching our backs.
Apparently a meat and cheese tray just doesn't fill all the spaces for the guys. On our way home we came across another restaurant advertising pizza on the board outside. Patrick and Troy must. have. pizza. Hmmm, what should Connie and I get? Dessert of course. The four cheese pizza was horrible, the dessert was not.
Marianne, in the center of Place de la République.
Marianne personifies liberty and reason. According to Wikipedia, she is one of the most prominent symbols of the French Republic.
On the way home we walked by Marianne in the center of the square that was so chaotic in the morning. Now, all was calm and quiet. We stopped by the local grocer for more freshly squeezed orange juice and a bottle of wine to share. We were thankful the day turned out as it did. Step count for day three: 21, 137.
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Thanks for taking the time to comment. I always enjoy hearing from you. ~Kim