The sight that met me, left, as I drove onto the Périphérique for my trip to England, was guère réjouissant. Traffic was almost at a standstill. It took me an hour to get to Porte de la Chapelle, the gateway to the north.
[Tour-guide aside: The Chapelle 
of "Porte de la Chapelle" is the Cathedral of Saint-Denis, which was built on the spot where the saintly bishop of Paris, martyred by the Romans on the hill of Montmartre, stopped walking after his death and handed his head to a woman to be washed. Did you know a head-carrying saint is called a cephalophore? The highway north from Paris follows the old Roman road and makes a sharp right turn just south of the cathedral, and probably because of it.]
Over in England, the entire country was in World Cup fever. I was bringing a grand picnic from Paris, with cheese and macaroons and orangettes (those delicious little batons of candied orange peel dipped in dark chocolate), but I stopped in a supermarket Saturday morning to buy cold drinks and fruit, and it was jammed with people wearing England t-shirts and funny hats and wigs, buying barbecue supplies and bantering about the game.
"World Cup widow?" said the loudspeaker. "Why not treat yourself to a nice long bath with our bath salts whilst they're all watching telly?"
"Feeling guilty about ignoring the missus during the games? Bring her home a bouquet from our flower department!"
"Make sure everyone knows you support the team by flying the flag from your car!"
It was a glorious day and I got a sunburn even though I was (as any Southerner will) wearing a large hat. All the English were turning lobster red and basking in the unaccustomed sun. The few dark-skinned people from hotter climes had sensibly sought the shade.
At the start of the match, England vs Paraguay, all the men and boys disappeared, only to come out not much later to say it was all over already.
On the ferry, going back to France, the World Cup mania continued. The entire ferryload of men gathered in the bar on board, watching a huge screen and drinking a disquieting amount.
This truck was typical. It had a big England banner in the windshield, surrounded by smaller flags of Saint George (which used to have a racist connotation in Britain, but now is becoming a national football/soccer emblem). In the window were also teddy bears wearing the cross of Saint George and a festoon of colorful flags.
This morning, driving back, I passed Parc Astérix, an hour north of Paris, at about 10h30. It was already complet, closed because the park was full. A sad line of cars was backed up from the park entrance to the autoroute exit and then there was a traffic jam all the way back to Paris. I thought compassionately of all the miserably disappointed children wailing in those cars, and the hot, tired and cross parents in the front seat who had all se tapés des heures d'embouteillages to find the gates shut. Astérix is mostly a rides and water park and on a hot day would normally be much more fun than Disneyland. But I would have known better than to try to go on the first hot Sunday since last summer.
This happened to be the weekend when several British friends took advantage of the cheap Eurostar weekend rates to come to Paris. One of them told us that his hotel had arranged a taxi to meet him at the Gare du Nord after he and his wife got off the train. "Is it normal for it to be so expensive?" he said.
"Well, that depends," I said. "Taxis are allowed to charge more late at night. They used to be able to charge more from train stations, but not any more. Where is your hotel?"
"In the Marais."
"It shouldn't cost more than 15-20 euros max," I said, "even late at night."
"It cost 110 euros," he said.
"Oh my God," said N. "That's just insulting. You could go to the airport and back twice for less than that! Was it a metered fare? If it was, I'll report them to the taxi commission."
"No, the hotel just arranged a flat price. All weekend they kept asking me if I needed another taxi!" our visitor said.
"I'll bet they did! They were thinking, 'Oh, another dumb-ass tourist to rip off!'" said N.
"That's me," said our Brit, laughing with chagrin. "The D.A.T.!"
All the same, we told him to write to the tourist commission. The basic reason for his rip-off is that there are never enough taxis at the train stations, thanks to our mayor's insane traffic policy, and you can wait sometimes hours for one. Merci, Monsieur Delanoë !
Tip for British visitors to Paris on the Eurostar:
Don't wait in the taxi queue if it's long (it does move fast). Instead go out the front of the building and walk left a block or so, where there are more taxis and no line. If that doesn't work, just go a little farther and hail one on the street.
Hi Sedulia !
Taxiwise, it's going to become worse.
The City of Paris, i.e., Mayor Delanoe the Incompetent Socialist, is setting up a "numero unique d'appel" ("single call number", for the non-francophone francophiles –grin-) which, of course, is to be an added-value number so as to rip off the consumer even more and put money in the coffers of the parasites. For the moment, one calls to one's local taxi stand to obtain a taxi, and one pays for one local call. In future, when the system is up and running, one will have to call the expensive 0892 number and a taxi will be 'efficiently' despatched, 'according to circumstances'.
Ca promet.
Best,
L'Amerloque
PS: If it's not too much trouble, just which hotel was it, that arranged the 'flat price' ? Perhaps something can be done.
Posted by: L'Amerloque | 12 June 2006 at 15:42