We've covered nearly a hundred kilometers in the last fifty minutes. The last part of the drive is almost done. The motorway A13 ends and spills streams of little cars onto the Boulevard Periphérique. We turn left, heading east. More than two hours remain until the departure of the train, and we're almost there, but the worst might very well still be ahead of us. I'm not thanking any deity yet. The Periphérique is notorious for congestion.
For the moment, traffic flows at a sensible pace. The Eiffel Tower comes into view, breathtaking underneath a brooding storm cloud that's surrounded by the brilliant light of the dusk. At the feet of the mighty tower stretches the expanse of the City of Lights where I've just spent four magnificent days. It's getting dark.
In the opposite way, cars go at a snail's pace, but in our direction the sailing is smooth. We had started our return to Paris quite early, in anticipation of delays en route. Our train would be the last of the day, and for all my love of this city, I didn't want to miss it and spend another night here. Better be early than sorry, I thought. All was going according to plan.
We set out in the morning to compare reality with the beautiful Impressionist paintings we had seen a day earlier in the gigantic Musée d'Orsay. Monet, whose creative output fills several rooms in this converted train station, retreated to Normandy in the final decades of his life. There he devoted his life to recreating in his garden the colors and moods he liked to immortalize on canvas. After drawing inspiration from nature in his early years, he later found joy in shaping and idealizing it.
His house and garden are a museum these days and a major tourist attraction. More parking spots than the village of Giverny counts inhabitants attest to that. When we arrived, on a cold but brightly sunny morning, an eerie silence hovered over the dissipating mist. The car parks lay deserted. Besides a few dogs barking behind wooden fences, no sign of human habitation was evident. The numerous restaurants were dormant and the souvenir shops abandoned in neglect. Monet's house itself was locked, and there was no way into the garden. A sign by the door gave the mystery's solutions. The village hibernates until April.
Poor preparation on our part – we could have found out about opening hours before coming – turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The village was relaxing, and we were free to wander it, studying ancient fieldstone walls, peering into deserted galleries and, most importantly breath fresh air. We had nothing on our agenda and felt no hurry. A day of quiet nothingness was a perfect respite from busy urban life, be it in London or in Paris.
At the other end of the long village stood the church in whose cemetery Claude Monet has found his final rest. This is another peaceful place, well worth half an hour or so. The site also houses a well-presented Royal Air Force memorial and several graves of local dignitaries that are infinitely more boastful and glorious than the hamlet's most famous son's.
Memories of these quiet hours are going through my head as I turn off the Péripherique at Porte Maillot, following a blue sign for a gas station. Off the motorway, the city encroaches upon us immediately. Lights break the flow every few hundred meters. People cross, mopeds weave, and buses and taxis ping-pong in and out of their own lanes with bold disregard for inferior traffic. While my eyes and driving pattern still adjust to the new conditions, the entrance to the gas station, invidiously sharing space with an underground parking garage, flies by. The moment it's gone, I forget about it because ahead of me, pale grey against a sky of the deep magenta rises the Arc de Triomphe. I'm heading for it, straight into the black hole that is the Place d'Étoile roundabout.
For a moment, an old stories flushes through my memory. Friends went to Paris years ago and got stuck in the roundabout. They found themselves in the central circle and didn't see a way of getting out without crashing into what looked to them like continuous traffic. Circumnavigating the great arch half a dozen times, they had visions of starving to death before mustering the courage to break out.
This fate is now upon me, but what strikes me is not trepidation or fear but a jolt of energy. Heading into the insanity, I find myself laughing madly. More fun can't be had at a steering wheel. Craziness is glorified on six cross-intersecting lanes devoid of any rules. Cars go at right angles to each other, buses block the way, scooters seem to celebrate suicide while rushing left and right of pulsating traffic. I do two rounds and see no accident. The game seems to be to come as close to death as possible but getting out unscathed and with the slimmest of margins. One can almost imagine a god, sitting on top of the arch, grasping after the most reckless drivers, marked for damnation. Every time, though, swerving erratically, they're out of reach and gone into the darkness.
No two vehicles ever go in the same direction. Eight major roads radiate from the roundabout and traffic surges into them out in random pulses. Sometimes the priority is with them in the circle, sometimes those joining from outside yield. There is no rhyme or reason. The square's sobriquet étoile (star) is only fitting because supernova in the process of exploding would be a bit cumbersome.
The peace of rural France seems light-years away – and I have the time of my life. To make the moment last (and because I don't really remember what road I have come from) I do the circle again and again. Four times around, my head is getting dizzy. My focus slackens and my vision blurs. It's time to head for an exit, any exit. When we finally reach the Gare du Nord and leave the car with the rental agency, adrenaline is still rushing through my veins. Good-night, Paris. It's time to head back to my city.
No comments:
Post a Comment