Welcome to the second of a two-part series of notes written during a weekend trip to Paris. In this edition, I wait patiently for the peleton, visit my favourite Parisian park, meet more Aussies and nearly get struck by lightning. If you haven’t read part one, don’t you think it’s a more logical starting point? Idiot!

Sunday

11h23 CET Morning! Sat on a bench on the Champs-Élysées. The crowds are starting to build to the sound of very loud grunge music. Can’t imagine many people are into it. There are a lot of Aussies here (with inflatable kangaroos) to see if Cadel Evans can find just over 1 minute to halt Carlos Sastre’s almost certain victory. Still a couple of hours before the Publicity Caravan rolls in. I’m gonna stick around here. Seems like a safe bet.

11h29 There are barriers and stripy tape all over the city centre, inexplicably cutting off paths and roads. This has caused there to be a lot of dead ends which are catching people out. I’m sitting in one now. There’s a constant stream of people doing uturns.

20h25 Back in my hotel room. It’s been an exhausting day. I didn’t plan the day very well, so I spent much if it just hanging around on the Champs-Élysées, waiting for the tour to arrive. The first sign of it was the Publicity Caravan, a convoy of trucks, car, vans and bikes from the race sponsors, horns blaring and lights flashing. No free stuff unfortunately ( I suppose by now they’d run out) but good and noisy as expected. About an hour later, the cyclists arrived. By then, the crowds were heavy. A roar rose when the peleton swishes past. It was an awesome sight. Due to the way the course in Paris is set out, I got to see the racers swish past 14 times. Carlos Sastre of Spain ended up retaining the maillot jeune, making it a bumper year for Spanish sport all round (that’s enough now I think). It was a good atmosphere, but I wish I’d spent my morning more wisely. I ended the day with a meal and a short wander through the narrow streets if Île Saint-Louis, where queues for famous ice cream shops wound around corners. Even at 8’o’clock at night, the sun was blisteringly hot. Too hot for me. If it were more comfortable, and my legs weren’t hurting from the the walking I’ve done, I would have stayed out longer. In all, an experience I’m glad I had.

Monday

11h04 I’m sat in my favourite part of Paris, Jardin du Luxembourg. I’ve found a nice shady spot, amongst the trees. Temperatures in the sun are once again far too high, but at least in the shade and with a pleasant breeze, it’s comfortable. Around me, people are slowly walking, chatting to one another. To my right, a man is teaching two ladies tai chi. Ahead are a herd of donkeys, silently snuffling the ground and patiently waiting to transport kids around the gardens. To my left, an outdoor cafe is selling crepes and coffee, while a group of men play petanque. Behind me, there are occasional screams and cackles if laughter emanating from a huge playground. In the distance, the typically Parisian two tone siren competes with the pats of ball against tennis racket from the nearby courts. The bells on the French senate building here in the gardens have just signalled quarter past the hour. Shortly, I’ll be off to find a brasserie, before taking a guided tour. Good times in Paris.

11h36 One of the ladies doing tai chi just lit a cigarette. The smell was too much and I had to move. What’s the point if doing tai chi if you smoke away the internal goodness straight after. Ridiculous!

19h13 On the Eurostar back. I’m hungry, but I don’t have any cash and they don’t accept my card so a bottle of Orangina and a cup of ice will have to suffice (it’s fun to rhyme). Had a cool day. After my sit in Jardin du Luxembourg, I visited a very busy Champion supermarket to get some coffee milk for my dad (you just can’t get it in Britain), picked up a delicious ham and cheese baguette from a grumpy lady and raced to the meeting point for a free walking tour of the city. It was exceptionally… My god is it chucking it down outside. The sky’s gone black! Now hailing! We must be approaching Britain… Anyway, the walking tour was brilliant. The tour guide had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the city and while some if her stories were repeats of stuff I’d heard on the bike tours, I learnt a lot of new stuff. In keeping with the trend of chatting to Australiasians, I met Daniella, a half Australian, half British, another bit German girl who was travelling on her own around Europe. We shared an interest in Europe and wanting to get into the media, so we had plenty to talk about. After the tour, we walked past The Hôtel de Crillon where the cheapest rooms are from £500 a night. Daniella wondered what It was like inside, so we marched over to the entrance. Inexplicably, I hadn’t banked on there being door men. After a moment of indecision, we were approached by one of the fellas. “Can we look inside?” she asked. The doorman didn’t speak English, but he knew if he shock his head and pointed at the way I was dressed, we’d probably understand we couldn’t. After some pleading, she was allowed to go around in the revolving door while I stood outside like some penniless t-shirt wearing tramp. It was nice inside according to her, which at the asking price, you’d probably expect. She’s leaving Paris tomorrow. When we parted company at the metro, she still hadn’t decided where she was going to go next. Perhaps Nice! I couldn’t do that. I’d have organised every detail of the trip months in advance. It showed impressive independence and guts. I’ve got both independence and guts, but she had more of it.

19h56 Just passed through Lille. Passing underneath a storm at the moment. Train slowing down for some reason.

20h08 Big flash of lightning right next to the train. Train now at a crawl after rapid, juddering deceleration. This isn’t normal. The Eurostar isn’t supposed to stop.

20h12 Train now at a standstill. The train manager has just announced there is a problem with the high speed line.

20h23 We’re moving again. Impressive lightning strikes all around before we enter the tunnel. Running 16 minutes late.

20h12 BST Back in Britain. A couple of minutes before I arrive at St Pancras. Can’t believe I’m back at work tomorrow. It’s been an awesome weekend.

Related Content

There are 106 photos taken during my weekend in Paris, now viewable on Flickr.

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Last Saturday, I experienced something I have never experienced before. The past five years or so, I’ve watched and enjoyed it on television, but when it made a historic trip to London, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see it in person. I’m talking of course about the Tour de France, not just the most prestigious cycle race in the world, but also one of the most grueling and challenging sporting events. Why did the Tour de France start in London this year? It’s a good question and one I’ve been asked an awful lot this week. It’s simply a case of the organising committee selecting London out of all the bidding towns and cities. And what a good decision that proved to be.

I was one of 1 million spectators lining the streets of London that day, to see the prologue, or individual time trial event, before the race proper started the next day. I cannot express the magnitude of the event. It’s organisation must have taken some doing. Almost the whole of central London was closed to traffic for the entire weekend. Hyde Park was turned into the cycling festival ground, The Mall was turned into a broadcast centre and finishing line and Horseguards became a people’s village and team preparation and resting zone. Adjoining roads were closed and turned into the race route, while other roads were used as a car park for the hundreds of vehicles brought from across the channel. It was almost as if the French had invaded. The Gendarmerie, the french military police force were present and assisted the British police in escorting the riders around the course. It was very odd indeed to see Gendarmes riding down The Mall on their motorbikes. Everywhere you looked were French registered vehicles. The food outlets were french, the big screens were adorned with “France Télévisions” logos and even camera hoists and cranes were brought over especially. While passing through Holborn underground station, the announcements were in French. Everywhere you looked, there was banner adverts and sponsorship signage for French supermarket chains and French banks. It was bizarre.

It was about to get even weirder. Before the riders roll through, spectators are treated to one of the Tour’s famous traditions, the publicity caravan. A parade, often stretching for miles, of floats, trucks and cars from the sponsors of the Tour. Five million free gifts are thrown out to the spectators from the caravan of whistling and tooting vehicles before each stage. I chose a spot on Parliament Square, next door to St. Stephen’s Tower (Big Ben) to watch the caravan roll through. The first signs of the caravan approaching were the sounds of French police sirens from the Gendarmerie and an announcement welcoming everyone to the Tour (you’ll hear this when you watch the video below). The next half hour was a noisy and chaotic time where I had keyrings, cloths for cleaning glasses, all sorts of hats, t-shirts, cuddly toys, miniature cars, lanyards and packs of sweets thrown at me. Many of my fellow spectators were caught unawares and were hit in the face, but delayed their pain long enough to swipe the freebies before anyone else did. It was great fun, but it was a bit odd. Most of the companies I’d never heard of. I couldn’t understand why these companies had any interest in the UK market and as such, why they travelled hundreds of miles to throw free stuff at us. From one of the floats, people were handed coupons for washing detergent that isn’t even on sale in Britain, and only redeemable at a French supermarket chain. Unless the recipient of the coupons were making an upcoming trip to France, they were completely useless.

It was easily one of the most unusual experiences I’ve ever had. The degree of how french London had become was alarming. For a francophile like me, it was brilliant. I’ve been to London countless times, but I’ve never been there and felt I somewhere else. Sadly, it’s highly unlikely London will play host to the Tour in a similar fashion again. So I guess if I want to experience the magic of the Tour in the future, I’ll just have to go to France. Oh damn, how awful! ;) To see the photos I took on the day, visit Flickr.

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