My Grimly Glamorous Life – Paris in Winter

I had another weekend visit to Paris, and was determined to take photos this time!  The results are a little misleading, since Paris looked more like St Petersburg than itself, especially the bridge shots.  So here is another, taken just off the embankment, which looks more properly Parisian.

Paris was cold cold cold, more so than London, but there was no snow.  Most of the little book seller stalls that line the embankments of the Seine were closed, and for the first time ever in my experience there were more natives than tourists (all wearing black, of course!).  Except in front of Notre Dame, which, judging by the shreds of conversation I overheard, was firmly in the hands of Spanish visitors.

As usual I had all sorts of plans, but abandoned them when faced with -9C temperatures.  Instead I did a bit of Non-Shopping – it is still the Soldes (twice annual sales) Season, and numerous over-confident tourist baiters cracked their teeth on my granite-hearted stinginess.  I was so not in the market for a ten foot long plaster crocodile, and anyone trying to flog me a substandard scarf would have to either live in la Bourboule (where my usual protective mechanisms are non-operative) or catch me half-drunk (not likely at the best of times, never mind during a Great Freeze).

Incidentally, I am quite an expert at Non-Shopping.  It consists of going into a shop – the bigger the better – and demanding to buy the one item they should have but don’t.  Try watermelon-rind-pickle at Harrods; I had five flustered employees surround me in the Food Halls there once, all trying to explain why they did not stock this delicacy (one actually admitted not to know what it was!).  Asking for Elderberry-Port is another dead-cert, I had a long argument about it recently with a manager of a huge London wine shop who claimed it did not exist until I produced a label.  There is also Nefarious Non-Shopping, sometimes referred to as Aggravated Non-Shopping, which consists of asking to buy things which do not actually exist, although they jolly well should, but I try to restrain myself during the Soldes Season since the shop assistants have enough other problems.

Having thus filled the time I had intended to crowd with culturally praise-worthy exploits with exasperating numerous Parisian shop assistants, I went to my favourite Café and had lunch (and very good it was, too).  Then S arrived, who I often meet in Paris for intellectually (and linguistically) challenging conversations.  S is one of those utterly charming French women who claim that my French is not as horrifically awful as I very well know it to be, and proves her point by listening to it for hours.  I try to make up for it by spending the other half of our time together speaking English, not that she needs the practice, but the fact remains that I am deeply in her debt.

The point of this post, however, is not really about my time in Paris.  It is, in fact, about my trip back.

Normally going to and from Paris is a doddle.  True, getting up at 4am to catch the bus to London is not for the weak of character, but aside from that it is really just an extended commute, and since I commuted from Oxford to London every day for eleven years it is not a big deal.  Getting back is again no problem – if everything goes well!

Getting back from Paris this time everything did not go well.  The Eurostar journey from Paris to London went as scheduled and we arrived on time.  But a quick glance out of the window when we emerged from the Tunnel boded ill for the remainder of the trip.  White as far as the eye could see!  Not really all that much snow, just 10 to 20cm, but as usual no one was prepared and the roads were neither gritted nor salted nor cleared.  The Underground worked well, and I walked through the snow and to the bus stop without too much trouble.  But I had to wait almost an hour for the Oxford bus, standing in sludge in the falling snow.  By the time the bus arrived there was a long queue of shivering disgruntled passengers.  It got worse.

Our hopes for a quick trip back to Oxford and a warm bed were cruelly dashed by more snow, inexperienced drivers (if not to say retarded petrolheads), and a hands-off attitude by the civic authorities.  I have never seen such chaos on the road!  A heavy layer of snow was compacted into frozen grooves, and a three-line motorway became transformed into sometimes one-lane, sometimes four-lane, or anything in between-lane, demolition derby style highway to frost-bitten misery.

Cars broken down or abandoned in the slow lane, in the middle lane, in the fast lane.  Our intrepid bus driver dodged them one by one, weaving between them expertly and to occasional applause from us passengers (when we weren’t holding our breath).  But eventually the broken-down cars became too numerous, and finally a jack-knifed lorry did for us and we came to a complete stop.  We weren’t the only ones!

Right on cue radio communication had broken down, so no actual information came our way, but rumours and innuendo abounded.  Drivers were walking between their steaming cars exchanging unreliable news, policemen discussed the situation with the AA rescue team who also got stranded, and a lone snow-plow who had at first been loudly hailed as the saviour who would get us all out of the situation until he, too, got stuck, told us about the jack-knifed lorry.  I was lucky in having two seats to myself and sitting right up front, so I was able to hear a lot of the gossip being disseminated.  Whenever that paled I tried to sleep, though not too successfully it must be said.  After a few hours we were pretty hungry, and pooled our resources, and all my Carambars were eaten by fellow passengers.  And still the snow fell.

Half the time I felt terribly victimised and sorry for myself, the other half I thought it was all pretty cool and exciting and character-building and would make a great story to tell my grandchildren.  I was very tired by then, and had forgotten that I lacked all traces of grandchildren.  I wondered whether the fuel would run out and plunge us into freezing darkness before the road could get cleared, but in the end Fate pulled itself together and some strong people of the male persuasion pushed the jack-knifed lorry into the bushes and we managed to squeeze through the cleared bit of motorway this created and were on our way once more.

Back in Oxford the bus-driver got a standing ovation, certainly the most deserved one I ever witnessed!  It had been an epic journey and I would not have missed it for the world.  Come to think of it, that sentiment could be applied to my whole life!