Bonjour Paris
Early Saturday morning we bid farewell to the Haarlem studio that had been our home for just over a week. Our apartment was right around the corner, behind the white building on the left. This bus stop could not have been more conveniently located.
You just use your phone to tap-on and tap-off the bus. The R-NET 300 bus saved us a lot of walking between our apartment and the Haarlem train station. At some point we figured out that this bus also goes to the airport. Instead of taking a bus to the Haarlem train station, a train to Amsterdam, and then another train to the airport, we just hopped on this bus and arrived at the airport about 30 minutes later—easy peasy.
We had plenty of time to relax in the airport waiting for our departure. Unfortunately, our flight was delayed by an hour, so we didn’t push back until about 12:40 p.m.
Looking through the window of our Airbus A220-300 at a large and colorful tulip field toward the center of the image. Farewell Holland! We certainly had a wonderful time!
The hassles of transit by air and the hour delay aside, things had gone pretty smoothly between Haarlem and the Paris airport. However, things got interesting after we landed.
First, let me saw how extraordinarily better it is taking the train versus flying. No passports, no security lines, no delayed flights—just hop on board, relax, and arrive on time. Had we not brooked too lake on Easter weekend, we would have used Eurostar to get to Paris. 😔
I’m still bitter, so I had to throw that out there one final time. Anyhow, we would normally have taken the RER train from the airport to the Gare du Nord central train station. As it was, they were doing work on the RER near the airport.
As a workaround, they jammed a huge group of us on a bus. Half the bus, including Amanda and I, were left standing with all our bags for what should have been a 15-20 minute drive to the next closest RER station beyond where the work was being completed.
We were standing toward the front of the bus, so I quickly noticed the driver had trouble simply getting the (push-button automatic!) transmission into drive. She was so cautious and timid making turns at the airport, I thought we’d never leave the premises—if only!
Once on the freeway I noticed she was cheating so far to the right that the right side wheels were fully into the adjacent lane. Traffic was light so I thought perhaps there was no other traffic and she was just giving the cars on our left more room. That’s when cars, big rigs, and campers started passing us on the right—all honking their horns at our driver.
Several times she jerked the bus sharply to one side—causing one lady to blurt out, “Sweet Jesus!”. On transition roads she slowed to a snail’s pace to make the turns—always positioning the bus incorrectly in the lane.
By this point the guy standing closest to her figured out she was lost and turned on audible directions in French for her to follow. It barely helped. We wound up on residential streets and she was so distracted by being lost that she ran a stop sign, cut off a car while entering a traffic circle, and braked hard for speed bumps she saw at the last second—sending passengers tumbling.
At one point the woman standing next to Amanda ordered her to stop, but she either refused or was too overwhelmed to have heard her.
Miraculously, we made it to the station by the most circuitous route possible. I immediately found people associated with transportation and told them she needed to immediately be relieved of her duties. I don’t know what happened after that, but I did my part to ensure she never drives a bus again! And to think people worry about flying in an airplane!
Once the RER finally delivered us to Gare du Nord, it took us at least an hour, given our poor French and the archaic ticketing system used in Paris, to get to the two machines where every single arriving passenger was attempting to purchase tickets.
Because of the construction we never paid for the journey to Gare du Nord. This may sound like a bonus, but…without a ticket on the way in…it’s not possible to exit through the barriers to get to the ticket machines.
I was so pissed off by this point that I just forced my way through the barriers and then pulled the doors open again so Amanda could pass through. An alarm sounded both times but our brazenness seemed to draw little to no attention.
In the long line waiting to purchase Navigo cards, we attempted but failed to activate two of the three available apps (no idea why there is more than one). We finally purchased two Navigo cards but overpaid for the single journey we were about to take, once again due to our shockingly poor grasp of the French language. Sadly, likely due to Easter, none of the ticket sales desks were open, which would have made quick work of the issue. London’s system gets an A and Paris a C-. C’est la vie!
We made the long walk back to the Metro 2 line. Fortunately, the Pigalle station dropped us off with only a 4-minute walk left to reach to our apartment at 14 Rue Germain Pilon in the 18th Arrondissement.
We were nearly done, except that our apartment was on the 5th floor (6th by American standards) and, of course, there was no lift. So, after hauling our luggage up five flights of narrow spiral stairs, our day of travel was finally at an end.
Amanda says “stairs are number one”! Seventy-five steps climbed, only 15 left to go!
It took us nearly eleven—sometimes death-defying—hours to get here, but our reward was the Eiffel Tower through our apartment window! Oh Paris, your bus drivers may be complete dog shit, your RER line in need of repair, and your Metro turnstile system positively prehistoric—but you do get a pass—because you are Paris!
This is our building from the street. We are the top two dorrner windows on the left, directly above the green door.
We had hardly eaten all day, so we were thrilled that Green Farmer’s was a short walk down the street. My bacon cheeseburger and Amanda’s crispy chic’n Caesar salad were both super good. The burger gave
The Moulin Rouge was really close, so we popped by for a quick photo after dinner.
As it turns out, the Moulin Rouge is the most tame thing along Boulevard de Clichy.
This place is more red light district than Amsterdam’s Red Light District. Paris is the City of Lust—I mean Love—I suppose.
Anyway, we are finally back in our apartment and the sound of falling rain is lulling us to sleep. Bonne nuit from Paris!
