Paris 07 Ancien - Quartier Marché-Saint-Jean

Today we planned to take a day trip suggested in the book “An Hour From Paris”, by Annabel Simms, a Brit who lived in Paris for a time and spent her weekends riding the Metro to the end of the line and exploring whatever was there.

The trip we planned today, to the medieval town of Senlis, actually involved taking the Metro to Gare du Nord then catching a local train to the town of Chantilly and from there a bus to Senlis.

Getting to Chantilly was a bit trickier than the guidebook implied and involved using a very weird, very old ticket vending contraption with a finicky joystick type mechanism.

There were rows of shiny modern touchscreen kiosks vending tickets to the shiny modern trains but because we needed to take the milk train I was stuck with the WWII era relic. You might expect there would be a ticket booth with a helpful human being at such a major transportation hub and there was. One. Huuuuuge line. I left Ellen standing in the line while I tried my hand at the vending machine.

It was a bit like trying to use one of those arcade crane games to “pick up” the tiny picture of a tiny ticket and maneuver it into my tiny basket without dropping it. An older gentleman at the machine next to mine kept swearing and finally gave up. I persisted and did a happy dance when the machine spat out an actual tiny ticket.

By that time, our train was due to depart at any moment so I ran to grab Ellen out of the unmoving billetterie line and we raced off to the appropriate platform. The ticket validation machine would not accept our tiny ticket so we dashed toward a group of official looking people in railroad attire and one of them graciously initialed our ticket and gestured for us to board the train. We found two open seats and plopped ourselves down.

We only needed to ride two stops down the line, about 25 minutes. The uniformed group we had met on the platform turned out to be fare inspectors and when they entered our car I proudly produced my tiny ticket. The inspector (not the nice one we had just spoken to) looked at my ticket, looked at me, and asked my why I was using a half fare youth ticket for which I clearly was not eligible. I gave her my best Gallic shrug and she sighed. She saw that my ticket was for two people so I pointed at Ellen and muttered, « ma sœur ». She sighed again before moving on to the young man sitting across from me. He had a story about having forgotten to buy a ticket. The fare inspector issued him a hefty fine on the spot. I felt a twinge of guilt over pretending to be a teenager but I got over it.

We had planned to spend an hour or two exploring Chantilly before catching the bus to Senlis as recommended in our guidebook, so we headed off on a quiet path through a lovely wooded park, past the hippodrome (sadly, no hippos today), toward the château on the other side of town. When we got near the château we noticed there was some sort of event happening on the grounds. The event turned out to be opening day of a weekend garden show. There were dozens of tents and vendors selling all types of plants and garden art, spread out beneath large trees on the lawn beside a moat with white swans. We bought tickets (from a human) thinking we’d wander for an hour or so, maybe have lunch, then continue our trip to Senlis.

A couple hours in, we agreed that Senlis could wait for another time. We were enjoying wandering the grounds, taking photos of all the beautiful displays, people watching, and shopping.

Favorite anecdote: I was passing a booth selling colorful little rubber galoshes that slip over your shoes when the proprietor began his sales pitch. I replied that « je ne parle pas français » and he quickly switched to English, saying « we can’t all be perfect ». Then he asked if I’d like to try on one of his overshoes. He slipped one on my foot ( a vaguely Cinderella moment) and noted that they can be worn on either foot. He pointed to his own which were two different colors and said I was welcome to mix and match. To which I wittily replied, « Or I could just buy one and hop everywhere. » He laughed and told me the French word for hopscotch (« marelle ») while he demonstrated. We hopped for a bit, then he took my picture and asked for his boot back.

We ate ice cream cones topped with chantilly (aka whipped cream), then crossed the bridge over the moat to visit the château.

Château de Chantilly was originally a fortress built in the 11th century but was dismantled, rebuilt, and renovated many times. The last occupants had no heirs and set up a trust to turn the chateau into a public museum. The best part is that there are no guided tours; you can wander through on your own. Very gaudy decor featuring a huge collection of oil paintings, some really awful. The Louvre has spoiled me. It was fun to poke around.

At the end of our château infused afternoon we hoofed it back to the train station to return to the city. (Had a laughable situation with the public toilet, but I’ll spare you.)

I was pretty psyched to have another crack at the arcade/vending machine train ticket roulette game but alas there was a human being this time. She sold us two tickets (full adult fare) just as our train pulled into the station. We hurried aboard and rode the 25 minutes back to Gare du Nord, navigated the underground maze to our Metro train, and emerged as if by magic exactly where we should. Another successful outing.

Today’s photos are pretty self explanatory.Baca lagi