The Trek bagged after a last ride in search of packing materials to soften the blows en avion. Then the actual bagging before the rain started and forced me to hide in Saint Chapelle and the rather grim Conciergerie. Bike dans sac can only mean one thing. Home to wonderful down under.
I awoke to Brazilians crying at their Bayern Munchen defeat and Simon Gerrans upset with Cavendish's brutish shouldering to the Yorkshire pavement Then a subterranean petit dejeuner and off on the bike for an early morning last ride en Paris. The long way via Des Invalides and the Bastille meant I could arrive at the Pont Sully Geant magazin as they opened at 10.
They sent me empty handed to BHV a huge shop on Rue de Rivoli with bricolage for les cles allen. Then the last long way home on the faithful bici. Still limping with the front wheel bearing loose , never completely fixed in Orleans and last cleaned in Carnia. Bagged as best I can. I will enfold her with a golden net to protect her from further damage on the way home in meditation. Such a willing and faithful steed. She now sits in a courtyard awaiting me to carry her to the metro and thence the airport on friday.
Cleaned up after the pack up paying special attention to hands. Nails and shoes say so much in Paris. Perhaps tis the nowhere to look thing amongst one another sur le metro where one's status is revealed? How does everyone know I really speak only English? What body language / clothing/ makes me a tourist? All this is silently communicated on the metro.
Popped up out of the old ground across the road from Saint Chapelle. A grand but small palatial church fillled with the steady hammering of the stone mason repairing behind his discreet advertising screen. A more regal vibe for a church, than anything Italiano I've been in.. The Versailles chapel, grander more Baroque but in the same vein. A prince's kneeling zone. And medieval. A repository for a long since vanished crown of thorns. Anything Isle de la Cite has very old foundations.. Fortified to resist Vikings in the middle of their river. Felt like a regal private chapel. Les fenetres were glorious and amazing.
Then next door to the Clovis palace. Not much of the 500's remains. Burned twice at least, transformed by various dynastic egos and then left in the dust of history to become an awful prison and the launching pad i(n the Cour de Mai) for the pitiable victims, their tumbrels bound fof the guillotine in the Place de Concorde. I wonder did Cadel rue the painful heritage of the cobbles as he raced over them to win the finely woven maillot jaune? Thankfully youth in ignorance moves us all along.
Very new and fast jets broke the skies loudly as I splashed across the women's exercise yard with its blankly staring windows above a row of downward pointing bronze spears. Privacy was an expensive luxury in previous times especially when housed at the king's pleasure. Most had only straw between them.
Then a return to the Hotel to hand wash me daks ready for fridays flight. Next doir for the effective wifi and great pizza at the Absolut cafe which has just arrived so I shall down plume.
Kettle's on!
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