On to the next adventure

So much for Paris.

Some day I'll go back.

Today there's something else to do.

I'm off to the next adventure!

Complete every-last-detail trip journal...

Friday 1/12/07

I am flying to Paris, France, today. I will arrive tomorrow morning, their time, after an overnight flight from Washington DC. I am carrying one bag, a messenger-style bag, slung over one shoulder. I will be carrying this bag all over Paris. I chose this style bag because it is a little less obvious as a tourist-bag than a backpack. I have a list in my pocket with specific sleeping and waking hours and I know that I need to stick to my plan in order to optimize my time in Paris.

I checked in for my first two flights last night and printed up my boarding passes. It is cold outside, just about 18 degrees F (8 degrees C) and there is still snow in my front yard. My son, Mark, is graciously driving me to the Portland airport. I say “gracious” since he doesn’t yet know where I am going, only that I will be back on Sunday morning and he is picking me up. It is approximately 6:00 AM PST.

My flight to Dulles is 2,327 miles (3745 km) and 4 hours 50 minutes long. I ask the man who will be sitting in front of me to take my photo as I start on this adventure. I am sitting in the last row in the window seat on the plane to Dulles at 7:44 AM PST, watching the third plane down from us being sprayed with de-icer. Precautionary?

The cargo doors are being closed; we will soon be on our way!

I arrive in Washington, DC and walk leasurely to the gate where I wait to board the flight to Paris. It is afternoon here, somewhere around 4:00 PM EST, and my flight leaves at 5:42 PM EST. I have some time to relax.

I board my plane to Paris; this will be my night’s sleep. The flight is 3,861 miles (6,214 km) and 7 hours 23 minutes long. I will need to sleep for as long as I can since I will not be sleeping again until the end of my journey around Paris; I know that 6 hours sleep will be sufficient for me. I am right “on schedule”.

I put my earplugs in, cover my eyes and I’m asleep. I wake up after 5 hours or so with a horrible headache. I don’t know if it is a sinus headache or a migraine; the entire front of my head hurts. I try listening to the headache, take a guess, pop a Zomig for migraines and close my eyes for a nap. I awake about an hour later without the headache. I eat some of the Good and Plenty candy that I brought with me. The black licorice is good for tummies and I’m glad I brought them along. I take out the earplugs, turn on my iPod, and listen to Byron Katie talk about loving what is.

The touchdown in Paris is so soft, I hardly know we’ve landed. It is still dark out and the Charles de Gaulle Airport is north of the city where there are few lights. I go through immigration where my passport is stamped for arrival, pass by a window marked Customs without stopping since I have nothing to declare, and walk to the front of the airport. I sit down to gather my thoughts, checking my Rick Steves’ tourbook and map. I want to start my day at Notre Dame and I am checking the route and method of transportation to take to get there. My options are many - train (RER), metro, bus, taxi. I choose the train, re-reading the information. A woman sits down next to me, remarking on Rick Steves and we chat about our respective adventures. She is on her dream-trip to France - she and her two daughters are staying a month in Paris in an apartment in the Marais area, taking French cooking classes and going to the Paris Opera. One daughter is with her now, the other arriving in a couple of days. I wish them well as they head for the taxi-stand with all their luggage.

I walk to the elevator and get on to go to the train only to discover that I was on the right level already. A couple of helpful airport employees direct the elevator back to where we started and tell me how to get to the bus that goes to the train station. I thank them with a “merci” and the elevator doors close. When the elevator doors open again, I am back where I started. I leave the terminal, walk to the bus, verify that I am at the correct bus, go up the steps, sit down. There are only several people on the bus besides me. The bus takes us to the train station, passing by a couple of large chain-type hotels; I make a mental note, just in case I decide to get a room tonight.

At the train station, I make my way downstairs, find the ticket window, check the map again. I purchase a ticket for €8,20 and ask for directions to the train platform. I wait for the train to arrive, taking a couple of photos.

The train takes about 45 minutes to get to the Saint Michel station, stopping at several stations along the way. I leave the train and walk down the hallway with walls covered in tile mosaics, up the stairs and into the cloudy day of Paris. I am in the Rive Gauche, the Left Bank. I do not know where I have exited the station so I walk to a corner where I can see street signs and get out my map. It is about 9:45 AM Paris-time.

I orient myself with the map and begin to walk towards the Siene River, along the way finding my first pain au chocolat at a boulangerie named Paul. I walk on, fulling my mouth with the awesome pastry, every bite an explosion of joy in my mouth. I stop at the place St. Michel - the fountains have been turned off for the winter. It is still beautiful without the water. I continue to walk. I stop to take a photo of the art nouveau-style entrance sign of the Metropolitain metro station. As I turn a corner, I see my first glimpse of the magnificent Notre Dame and the peaceful, dark Siene.

I walk along the river, breathing in the Parisian air, thinking it might be different, cross over the river on a bridge, and make my way to the front of Notre Dame.

I wander around the front of the cathedral, taking photos, watching people, basking in the grandeur of the towers, marveling at the huge still-decorated Christmas tree out in the courtyard (or square). I find Point Zero, the center of Paris, a bronze plaque on the ground, the point from which all distance is measured. A group of young American tourists with a British-accented tour guide surrounds it and I wait for them to disperse, asking a young woman from the group to take a picture of me standing on the plaque. I am standing where the center of Paris was over 2,300 years ago. I look over at the statue of Charlemagne. I think about the real people who built this building, laying the cornerstone in 1163. I look up at the gargoyles, picturing them with water pouring out of their mouths when it rains. I try to see the gargoyle sitting up on the rail on the left side of the face of the church; I cannot see that far away, but I’m sure he’s watching me. I sit down for a few minutes on the short stone wall and just sit. I pull out the book and read about the façade - the statues of the Kings of Judah, the demons, Jesus, angels, the apostles. I listen to the bells of Notre Dame ring at 10:00 AM.

I enter the cathedral by the door on the south. I am in Notre Dame! Notre Dame the cathedral! I walk around the outside aisle of the seating area, in awe at the stained glass windows. I light a candle. I pray. I contemplate. I try to take photos in the darkness without a flash, I try to be respectful that this is a place of worship for many people, some of whom may be here, even right now. I manage to take a photo of the statue of Jeanne d’Arc (Joan of Arc) as she looks up at one of the rose windows. With introspection, I slowly walk to the exit and leave the peaceful cathedral. Or am I leaving the cathedral, peaceful? It is both, I am sure of it.

I walk to the north side of the building where I can see the flying buttresses. I have read in my guidebook that Notre Dame was one of the first buildings to use this type of construction; the structure is amazing.

I walk to Sainte-Chapelle. At first, I walk right by the entrance because I am looking at a large building with a beautiful, ornate fence around it. It is the Palais de Justice and Conciergerie Prison. I pull out my map and find the entrance to Sainte-Chapelle. I walk inside; the lower chapel is rich with wood and dark colors - reds, greens, blues, golds. I climb up a narrow winding staircase into the light of stained glass windows, brilliant in the winter brightness. I sit on one of the benches that line the walls, I read about the windows, I look for Cain clubbing Abel; Moses, and more Moses; Helena in Jerusalem. I look at the Rose Window above the entrance. Again, I am peaceful. I am calm inside. I am in harmony. I climb down the spiral stair on the other side of the room and leave the building, walking through the front yard of the Palais de Justice, through the ornate gate, and back onto the street.

I walk. I wander. I look. I take photos. I listen. I smell. I breathe. I hop on a bus. I am at rue de Rivoli. There are soldes (sales) everywhere. It is the shopping-season in Paris. The bus passes the Louvre where I get my first glimpse of the glass pyramid in front. We cross the Siene, turn right and drive pass the Musee d’Orsay. I take a photo of the front of the building with its big statues. I will come back some day to see the inside of this museum. The bus continues to wind through the streets, driving down lanes so narrow that I am sure the bus will scrape its sides on the parked cars and fence posts.

I suddenly jump up from my seat, press the door button and get off the bus. I do not know why I got off at this stop, just that I had an urge to do so. I do not even know where I am. As I walk down the street in the direction the bus would have gone, I see why I have gotten off here. Across the street is a la Poste. It is a very small post office, a virtual hole-in-the-wall, big enough only to hold several people in line at a time. I run across the street and into la Poste.

• The sidebar: I have a letter to mail to a new friend in Austria, a geo-cacher by the name of Gottfried, who has picked up one of my Travel Bugs (see www.geocaching.com) at a cache in Austria and it was missing a crucial piece - a compass. Through the expedience of the internet, he graciously gave me his address so I can mail him the missing piece while I am in Paris. I had asked him to come to Paris to have lunch with me at the Eiffel Tower but alas, he was not able to come. He and his wife have visited Paris and he offered suggestions for my whirlwind itinerary.

There are two people ahead of me in line, when it is my turn, I hand my envelope to the postal clerk. I know I will not be able to understand the amount of the postage so I also give her €5. She places a postage label on the letter, hands me the change. I say “merci, au revoir” and turn around to find that I am locked inside the post office. The station is closed for business for the day and the door is locked. Another clerk returns to unlock the door and let me back outside. Smiling, I now know why I had jumped off the bus. If a la Poste is open on a Saturday, it closes at noon and it was now 12:01 by my watch. And the letter to Gottfried is in the mail!

I walk down the street. I am heading to the Eiffel Tower but so far, I have not seen it. The buildings are tall, the streets are narrow, la Tour Eiffel is nowhere to be seen. I see the brick wall of a building rising above the stories of the building next to it. I take a photo. I know it will not do justice to what I see but I know I will take the photo anyway as a reminder of what I am looking at.

I walk around a corner, and there is la Tour Eiffel! Glorious and splendid, grand and impressive. It is still some distance away. I take a couple of photos through the trees.

I keep walking. I walk through the Esplanade des Invalides, pass by the Hotel des Invalides and a row of cannons aimed over the grassy mote. I stop to photograph a church - Eglise Evangeline Lutherienne Saint-Jean. It is tucked away behind a tall fence, surrounded by bare trees. In the summer, the church would be hidden behind the leafy trees, with only its tall steeple visible above the tree tops.

I am at rue Cler; I have read about this street and I turn to walk down the short blocks. It is a riot of colors, smells, activity, shops, people, dogs, Christmas decorations still over the street. I walk. I smell. I look. I see a little dog. I ask if I can take his photo. The gracious and charming French lady tries to position the dog so I can take a proper photo. He is not cooperating. I take the photo he has posed for - this is what he wants to look like in my photo gallery. I pat his head and walk on. I see the Eiffel Tower again in the distance. I find a little kitchen shop and go inside. The proprietor is speaking with a gentleman. I do not interrupt her to say hello. I find an espresso cup and saucer that I would like to have; she stops her conversation and greets me. I ask her if she speaks English. She says no but she ends up speaking enough to tell me what the price of the cup is. She says slowly “three fee-fty”. It is €3,50 and I purchase it.

I am hungry. I look at the menus posted in front of little cafes and brasseries that I pass by. I find a cheerful-looking place on a corner and I go in. I sit where I can take in the view of the streets outside through the tall glass openable partitions, the waiter brings a menu. I take a look at it. I have already decided to have one of the specials posted at the door - Coq au Vin. I try to pronounce it for the waiter but do not have any luck with my French. I have to point to item on the menu. I ask for a carafe of tap water to drink.

The name of the little café is La Champs De Mars. It has a resident dog, an Irish Setter. He is friendly, moving between the customers who pet him and talk to him. He comes over to me just as my food is served and sits with his back end to me while I eat. He moves away, standing at the door, watching the people go by. A little French girl joins him, petting him, hugging him. There is so much food on my plate that I’m not able to eat it all. I see crème brulee in the dessert area and I know I must order some - it is one of my favorites. I ask for an espresso and more water. I sit and relax, knowing that the check will not come until I ask for it. I could sit all afternoon, if I wanted to. But I only sit awhile and then I am back outside walking towards the Eiffel Tower again.

I have arrived at the tower and it is impressively huge! I take photos, I walk under it, I watch the people. There is an upside-down Christmas tree of green lights suspended from the center of the tower, far above our heads. Paris is till celebrating the holiday, even at the Eiffel Tower. I walk across the square, across the street, cross the Siene. I walk up the stairs of the Palais de Chaillot. There are kids riding the toes of their inline skates going backwards down the steps. They have quite an audience watching their brave descents. I am drawn in, watching their expert negotiation of the stone stairs. I take a photo, again knowing that it won’t do justice to what I’m actually seeing.

I find the Trocadero metro station and go into the restroom. It is clean, unlike everything I’ve read about Parisian public restrooms. A loud, beautiful, black, French woman is directing traffic between the stalls and urinals, collecting 20 Euro cents donation to use the facilities.

I find the ticket window, I purchase a ticket to the Charles de Gaulle Etoile station and get on the metro. The metro is very fast - I am at the Arc de Triomphe in no time at all. Very fast.

I am impressed by this structure. There is an “eternal flame” at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier from World War I with fresh flowers. New flowers are brought every day. I take photos. I look down the streets that branch off from here. I watch the traffic as it winds around the monument. I walk around the arch. I walk back through the underground passage and move towards the Champs Elysees. As I begin to walk down this beautiful, wide street, with soldes in every store, I realize that it is a very long walk to the Louvre, where I am headed next. I decide to take the metro. I look at my map and see where the next station is. I see a building with a crazy façade - it looks like huge sheets of glass or opaque plastic. I take a photo. I find the Franklin D. Roosevelt metro station, purchase my ticket, get on the metro. The metro cars are full of shoppers with bags of goods rescured from the shelves and displays of stores with soldes. I exit the metro at the Palais Royal Musee du Louvre station. It has only taken a few minutes to go the entire distance but riding the public transportation is such a treat - a few minutes to relax and breathe and watch.

It is approximately 3:30 PM Paris-time and I am still right on schedule for my mini-itinerary!

I walk through the lower floor area of the Louvre complex, peeking into the shops and go to the automatic ticket machine and purchase my entrance into the Louvre. No waiting in line. I check my bag and fleece jacket at the bag-check desk and head over to the escalator and up to the Denon wing. I am on a mission to see the Mona Lisa and the Venus di Milo. I pass through halls filled with incredible paintings and sculptures. I have to stop and take deep breaths just to make it through the rooms without stopping. I am on a mission! I know I have to return someday. The museum has only a few people in it, contrary to stories I have heard and read - masses of people, hoards looking for the same thing. I am fortunate - the throngs of tourists do not come when it is chilly and overcast outside. I walk passed huge paintings on the walls. I finally walk into the hall where the Mona Lisa hangs on the other side of a partition wall. I walk around the corner of the partition to see a small painting behind a glass and it is Mona herself. She is so compact compared to the humongous canvasses I have passed to get here. But she is the Mona and I am gazing on her face in person. I pause to reflect. A small thought crosses my mind - I recognize that if I also want to see the Venus di Milo, I must move on. Quickly.

I begrudgingly leave Mona’s mystical smile and walk through more halls filled with more treasures than imaginable. I find the Winged Victory, quite by accident. She is just there, as I am walking by. A young woman sits across from her, sketching her. She is outstretched above a massive ship’s bow looking like she will take flight at any minute. I move around her. I see her from all sides. I take a photo. I must move on. I am looking for Venus. Venus without her arms. I walk around a corner and there she is. In a room by herself. Not out in the open like Victory. Slowly, I walk around her. I read about her in the inscription on the wall. I walk around her again. I look at her. I wonder about her arms. I wonder as people have done for ages. Where are her arms? And how were they positioned on her body? I see her two halves at her hip. I wonder if she feels broken.

I look at my watch - I have time to find the Code of Hammurabi. I pass through more amazing halls filled with more amazing things. I must come back. I walk to the Richelieu hall, passing Oriental Antiquities older than I knew existed. I stop at a few, not being able to read the French descriptions, just observing them. I find Hammurabi’s Laws - all 282 of them carved on one eight-foot tall black basalt stela. It is older than the ten commandments. I walk to the alabaster carvings called the Winged Bulls. I am dwarfed before them. I walk among sculptures created in 710 B.C.

I have seen the few things that I really wanted to see and I walk slowly through other areas, just absorbing the energy. I find escalators that seem to go up into space. I am alone in this part of the museum, the few tourists still seeing Mona and Venus. It is surreal. It is peaceful. I am calm inside.

I leave the Louvre. It is dark outside. I walk along the Seine. I sit to look at the brightly lit Eiffel Tower and watch the beacon turn on top. Soon, the lights change and they are twinkling. I take a short video clip on my camera. I walk through the Marais area with its shops and cafes. I purchase a jambon fromage crepe, hot and freshly made as I watch. I am back at the Notre Dame. The Christmas tree is now lit. I sit on the same short wall that I sat on this morning. I eat my hot crepe, so big I can only eat half of it. I sit for on the cold stone wall and watch. I listen to Notre Dame’s bells ring 8:00 PM. The same bells I heard at 10:00 this morning. I can’t eat any more, I leave Notre Dame for the second time today.

I walk across the river and wander around the Rive Gauche, finding a lamb’s wool scarf for €5. There are no tourists shopping at the few souvenir stands that are open. The locals are beginning to congregate at the cafes for dinner. There are lots of people out tonight. It is a busy Saturday evening.

I wander down to a corner and sit on a cold stone bench, watching the vehicles go around the traffic circle. It’s Saturday night and the busses, cars, trucks and motorcycles are flying around the circle. It’s obvious they know where to go. Out of the corner or my eye, I catch a slower-moving vehicle and turn to watch it. It’s a bicycle. It’s an old man on a bicycle. An old man without a helmet. Heading for the center of the circle. I want to shout at him “watch out! It’s dangerous to ride your bike out there!” But of course, I only sit and watch as he steers out into the screaming motor vehicles driving at break-neck speed around and around. He’s not watching where he’s going. He’s just aiming his bicycle forward. I think I am going to see a death. The old man’s death under the wheels of a bus. But he makes it to the other side and disappears into a branch off the circle. I think he must be an anomaly. The bench is cold on my butt. My butt is cold from sitting on it. Look - here come more bicyclists. They do the same thing as the old man - steer into the insane traffic and head off to the other side. No one wears a helmet. No one looks where they are going. No one gets hit. I am amazed. Totally amazed. Completely blown away. I get up and walk down the street, shaking my head.

It is now 8:50 PM Paris-time and it’s time to head to the RER station, time to go back to the airport for a few hours before checking in for my flight.

I find the same RER station that I arrived at this morning, I purchase a ticket to the airport. The station is under construction so I ask for directions to my train. I wait on the platform and when the train arrives, I board it. It is very crowded with shoppers going home from a day of soldes. I sit next to a young Oriental woman and ask if she speaks English. She says yes and I question her about the train’s final destination. Does this train go to the airport? She thinks for a second and says yes, it goes to the airport. I settle in my seat. The Oriental woman gets off at the next station, shyly saying “bye” as she turns to exit the train car. The car empties out at the next few stops and I am almost alone in the car. I sit back, I read the train map and when the tracks separate, this train takes the tracks that head away from the airport.

I jump up to get off the train. At the next station, I am alone on the platform, I am in the middle of nowhere. There are no lights on buildings nearby. There are no buildings. I know I just need to get on a train going the opposite direction. I cross over to the other tracks and when the next train comes, I get on it. At the station where the tracks split, I get off. Again, I am alone. Completely alone. I cannot decipher the message board that indicates which track and train I need get on to go to the airport. There are four tracks. That could be four trains. A man and woman arrive at the station. I ask if they speak English. The man speaks a little. I explain that I don’t understand the board and I need to go to the airport. He has forgotten his glasses and cannot read the writing on the message board. He consults with the woman and after a conference, they agree on which train I should be on and point me in the correct direction. I climb the stairs to another track. I arrive at the proper platform, look across the tracks and wave at my rescuers. They wave back, their train arrives and they are gone.

It is 10:00 PM Paris-time. Once again, I am on the RER train to the airport. This time I am on the correct train. I am completely alone in the long train car. I get off at the stop for the bus that will transfer to the airport. I sit on the bus alone. One more passenger arrives and the bus takes us to Terminal 1. It is 10:45 PM Paris-time.

The airport is dead. Quiet. Deathly still. The check-in stations are all closed. The restaurants and shops are all closed. There is no one here. I go downstairs to find the restroom. I see a cleaning crew, a couple of supervisors. They do not seem to notice me. I walk pass them to go into the restroom. I wash up, brush my teeth, change into my clean clothes and organize my bag. It is still about 6 hours until I can check in for my next flights. I find a corner at the bottom of the terminal and read for awhile. The cleaning crew begins to wash and polish the tile floors with big ride-on floor cleaners, very noisy, very loud.

I find another person in the airport - a man sleeping on a bench around the corner from me. He and I have found the only two places on the first floor where the benches are long enough to lie down on because an arm is missing. I do not want to sleep now. I’m not even tired. I will need to sleep on the plane from Frankfurt to Portland and if I sleep now, I will not be able to sleep then.

I eat the last of the Good and Plenties. I eat the Weight Watchers snacks. I drink my bottle of water. I eat the fruit leathers. I listen to my iPod, the battery dies two hours before check-in time. I decide it’s okay to take a nap, a nap won’t interfere with my long-term sleep plans. It is very cold in this part of the terminal, the seats are metal mesh, I put my gloves on, I wrap my rain jacket around my waist, I lie down with my head on my bag. I doze off and on for about an hour, reading in between the dozing. About 5:00 AM Paris-time, I get up, walk around for a few minutes and head upstairs to the departure area. I am surprised to find there are a dozen more people up here, they arrived after midnight, they are occupying the few seats on the first floor, also waiting for the check-in counter to open.

The Lufthansa personnel are placing the posts to define the queuing areas and I sit down next to a young man who is trying to sleep. When he finds the noise is too much to allow him to continue sleeping, he sits up and asks me for the time. In another language. Not French. Maybe Italian? We begin chatting in his limited English. He is going home to Venezuela. He has been visiting family in Paris and Spain for the last two months. He is ready to go home. And he is tired - he stayed out all night to party before leaving Paris.

It is 5:45 AM Paris-time and the check-ins are starting to open. Travelers are arriving. We are getting checked in. We go to our gates. We sit waiting for our planes. The coffee vendor opens. It is 6:30 AM Paris-time. I buy 2 croissants and a bottle of water. I eat the croissants and drink the water. I go back and buy madeleines to bring home and another pain au chocolat. I board the plane to Frankfurt. The flight is 1 hour and 25 minutes long traveling 278 miles (447 km).

The bottle of water that I purchased in Paris is confiscated in Frankfurt. I buy another one on the other side of security. I talk with a family who is moving to Seattle after living in Germany for the last 8 years. The flight is almost full. I sit next to a young boy of 8-9 years and his mother. His father is sitting way up front in the first row behind Business Class. We are almost at the back of the plane. The flight from Frankfurt to Portland is 10 hours 45 minutes long traveling 5,226 miles (8,410 km).

I pass through immigration and customs, having only spent $10.15 on my two souvenirs. Everything else I spent was for food or transportation. An adventure doesn’t need to be expensive. I have stories and photos. That’s all I need. But I wanted the scarf and espresso cup. My souvenirs.

Mark and Nick pick me up from the Portland airport. I am home. It’s noon on Sunday. I feel good. I go to bed at 9:00 PM PST, rested, relaxed, adventured, full of stories, memories of an awesome trip.

Photos, etc.

It's been over two weeks since I returned from Paris - I am still amazed and whelmed. It was an incredible trip - it will always be a turning point for me.

Here are my photos. I'll be posting the blow-by-blow next. Warning! It'll be text-intensive...

I'm home!

Hard to beleive but I'm home already!

Yesterday I was in Paris - today I'm in Portland. What a wild, crazy, awesome trip!

I will post my whirlwind trip later today.....

Shopping

I'm off to Portland to buy a couple of things like a Paris map. And probably a Rick Steves' guidebook. I pretty much have everything else for the adventure.

One week from today, I'll be eating breakfast at some little Parisian cafe.

Whooppeeeeeee!!!!

Next Friday...

...I will be on my way to Paris.

I've talked about going to Paris for breakfast and flying home for as long as I can remember. I've always said that tomorrow could be the day and I wanted to be ready for it. When it actually came around, though, I found myself waffling. Actually freaked out is a better description. Could I really do this? Could I really go to Paris for breakfast and go home?

Heck yeah! I could!

When the pieces started falling into place, I admitted to myself that I couldn't stay at home and be okay with that. This was something I had wanted to do, I talked about doing, and now had the opportunity to do. How could I not?

I booked a flight. Didn't tell anyone right away. Didn't want anyone to know.

Tomorrow, I have things I need to go get like a Paris book. I've been reading my French phrase book and listening to the French language audio that I have. I suppose I'll be able to say good morning and good bye and thank you and please. With that and a smile, I'm good to go.

One week from tomorrow

So I decided to go to Paris for breakfast. I have talked about doing this for many years and next Friday is it!

I leave Portland at 7:45 on Friday morning. Arrive in Paris at 7:05 the next morning. And leave Paris at 6:50 the next morning! Paris in 23 hours including a stay in a hotel somewhere.

Adventure on!