rumbles, I could eat that baguette. I believe I’m going to leave France with a lot more weight than I arrived with, and it won’t be just the baggage allowance that’s increased.
We have to queue for thirty minutes, even though we have group tickets. Of course, there are other groups besides us. However, our queue is still a lot shorter than the other poor tourists. I turn back to look at them. Attendants are shepherding the queue so a lot more people fit into the grounds. I’m sure if I was at the back of that queue I would give up and go home. They have more determination and stamina than I do.
We slowly make our way through a tunnel structure, now out of the cold, and then we have to wait for our handbags to be checked by security. After this it’s time for another wait, this time for a lift. At last, I’m seeing the structure up close. The iron girders come together in a symmetry of style, held together by two point five million rivets.
Then the lift is rising, through to the first floor. We get out and, oh my goodness, it is so cold. We walk around the Perimeter, looking at the sights of Paris. The wind is almost intolerable up here so I escape into a gift shop. I spend around twenty minutes perusing before buying myself a shopping bag with a chic French woman on it, as if I might become that person through osmosis.
Then it's back outside where I let out a noise that is just a little too loud but indicates to those around me that I am so cold I think I am going to die, right here on the Tower. I am going to develop hypothermia. In the near distance, I see a few of my group and move to catch them up. Celine comes bouncing up and informs us it’s time to move onto the third-floor viewing platform. We head for another queue that states the waiting time is forty-five minutes. She has got to be kidding. Alas, she stands in the queue and we file in behind her. I’m not sure I’m going to survive the day.
While I wait, I hear the usual chatter in my mind. Beautiful Paris? Freezing your rocks off on a pylon that looks like a larger version of the Blackpool Tower and stands over a view you can more-or-less see from your apartment window anyway. Where you’d be warm and toasty and could drink wine, laid on the sofa, or in the bed and you could eat crumbling croissants and not worry about the crumbs because it’s someone else who has to clean up and you could read and…
‘Stop it!’ I shout in my head. I take a deep breath and start up an inane conversation with other members of the group, about how cold we are and how we’ll reward ourselves with a drink at the cafe when we’ve finished looking around the top.
It’s not just the wind that takes my breath away as I step out onto the viewing platform. Though the weather is not at its best, the view is astounding. I take in a perfect vista of Paris. The lattice work of the metal that keeps us from leaping to our deaths reminds me of a large version of my mini greenhouse staging. We are the little seedlings, protected from being blown off the shelf. It makes me think of how tiny and unimportant we humans are in the large scale of the world; my problems are an ant’s dropping in the faeces of the universe.
We head out of the grounds and talk about going to a cafe for something to eat and drink and to get warm. Mark, a tall, thin man with grey highlights to his brown hair says, ‘You’ll come won’t you, Karen?’
I regard him for a moment too long while I process he has noted my name. I thought I was blending into the background. However, it appears not. The wife of another couple touches my arm.
‘Course she will. We’re all going, aren’t we?’
Celine directs us to a cafe on the Avenue de Suffren. Obviously built for tourists, it has red and white checked tablecloths and cheap plastic bottles of ketchup on the tables. There are wicker baskets containing napkins and cutlery.
The cafe is packed, but the Manager herds us into a corner saying he will
We have to queue for thirty minutes, even though we have group tickets. Of course, there are other groups besides us. However, our queue is still a lot shorter than the other poor tourists. I turn back to look at them. Attendants are shepherding the queue so a lot more people fit into the grounds. I’m sure if I was at the back of that queue I would give up and go home. They have more determination and stamina than I do.
We slowly make our way through a tunnel structure, now out of the cold, and then we have to wait for our handbags to be checked by security. After this it’s time for another wait, this time for a lift. At last, I’m seeing the structure up close. The iron girders come together in a symmetry of style, held together by two point five million rivets.
Then the lift is rising, through to the first floor. We get out and, oh my goodness, it is so cold. We walk around the Perimeter, looking at the sights of Paris. The wind is almost intolerable up here so I escape into a gift shop. I spend around twenty minutes perusing before buying myself a shopping bag with a chic French woman on it, as if I might become that person through osmosis.
Then it's back outside where I let out a noise that is just a little too loud but indicates to those around me that I am so cold I think I am going to die, right here on the Tower. I am going to develop hypothermia. In the near distance, I see a few of my group and move to catch them up. Celine comes bouncing up and informs us it’s time to move onto the third-floor viewing platform. We head for another queue that states the waiting time is forty-five minutes. She has got to be kidding. Alas, she stands in the queue and we file in behind her. I’m not sure I’m going to survive the day.
While I wait, I hear the usual chatter in my mind. Beautiful Paris? Freezing your rocks off on a pylon that looks like a larger version of the Blackpool Tower and stands over a view you can more-or-less see from your apartment window anyway. Where you’d be warm and toasty and could drink wine, laid on the sofa, or in the bed and you could eat crumbling croissants and not worry about the crumbs because it’s someone else who has to clean up and you could read and…
‘Stop it!’ I shout in my head. I take a deep breath and start up an inane conversation with other members of the group, about how cold we are and how we’ll reward ourselves with a drink at the cafe when we’ve finished looking around the top.
It’s not just the wind that takes my breath away as I step out onto the viewing platform. Though the weather is not at its best, the view is astounding. I take in a perfect vista of Paris. The lattice work of the metal that keeps us from leaping to our deaths reminds me of a large version of my mini greenhouse staging. We are the little seedlings, protected from being blown off the shelf. It makes me think of how tiny and unimportant we humans are in the large scale of the world; my problems are an ant’s dropping in the faeces of the universe.
We head out of the grounds and talk about going to a cafe for something to eat and drink and to get warm. Mark, a tall, thin man with grey highlights to his brown hair says, ‘You’ll come won’t you, Karen?’
I regard him for a moment too long while I process he has noted my name. I thought I was blending into the background. However, it appears not. The wife of another couple touches my arm.
‘Course she will. We’re all going, aren’t we?’
Celine directs us to a cafe on the Avenue de Suffren. Obviously built for tourists, it has red and white checked tablecloths and cheap plastic bottles of ketchup on the tables. There are wicker baskets containing napkins and cutlery.
The cafe is packed, but the Manager herds us into a corner saying he will
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