On a slow boat to …Sydney

Once upon a very long time ago I used to take the ferry to and from high school (aka St Trinian's… although it wasn't nearly as much fun) every weekday. Or, rather, those days when I wasn't suffering too much from 'nerves' to go to school. Gosh, I had quite an impressive absentee record when I look back.

But I digress.

This post is about Sydney's ferries. Here's what a modern Sydney ferry looks like:

Nice enough, but rather soulless compared to the lovely old ferries I used to use as a teenager. The 'Lady' and 'K' series were built in the early 1900s through the Edwardian era, and featured padded and reversible seats downstairs, painted wooden seats upstairs which curved nicely around your bum, and, excitingly, a view down the stairs to the smelly, noisy and quite glorious diesel engine. You'd hear the bell the captain rang telling the engineer to give it some welly, put it in neutral, or in reverse.

This is the lovely old Karrabee, which was the ferry I usually rode home on:

She's painted in the colours I remember too, and went off the run in the 1980s as the oldest ferries made way for the current batch. The Karrabee memorably sank in the Australia Day Ferryboat Race in 1984 but managed to make it back to Circular Quay. Refloated, and fixed up, she was sold and became a static floating restaurant up at the Central Coast. Sadly she wasn't well-maintained at her new home and gradually deteriorated into the mud she rested on, and was broken up nearly ten years ago.  Find out more about her here.

These old ladies had dual controls - the captain could change ends, so that when he berthed at Circular Quay he could stroll the top deck and use the wheel at the other end, simply sailing out from the wharf rather than having to reverse and turn as the modern ferries do.

Riding the ferries was a big thrill when I was a little girl, before my high school years. A trip on the ferry was a trip to town in the school holidays, to see a movie or meet with friends and family. Ferries meant a treat, with the journey as big an excitement as the movie or friends. And 'town' was much nicer then, with only a handful of high-rise towers and most buildings on a human scale.

Because I rarely use the ferries - I'm not a huge fan of the Sydney CBD and only venture in there when I have to for client stuff, or a few times a year to visit the Art Gallery of NSW, see a show or other activity only available in town - going for a trip on the ferry still has some of that childish thrill for me.

Is there a nicer way to travel to the city? I doubt it. When the sun's shining, even on a winter's day it's a lovely journey. You simply HAVE to slow down. You're not in a car cursing the other drivers and wondering if the parking station will be full. You're not on a bus with a fat man redolent of body odour plonked beside you and oozing flesh over your legs and arms. It's probably sad for the ferries on my run that they AREN'T crowded. Even in peak hour, you rarely reach 'standing room only'.

Today I had to head into town for a client meeting and caught a ferry soon after 10am. I was one of about 15 people on it. Likewise on the return journey at nearly 2pm. And this is during school holidays, so about 1/3 of those travelling were kids with parents.

There was a chill breeze this morning so I sat inside on my trip to town, relishing the sun sparkling on the water, eyeballing the lovely waterfront houses at Birchgrove, enjoying the choppy water under the Harbour Bridge which boaties call The Washing Machine and missing our grumpy old boat Bootle (which we sold earlier this year).

The sun had hit full capacity on the way home, so I sat out the back with the breeze on my face, enjoying my surroundings. Sydney's main attractions always look nicer from the water. As the ferry left tourist-infested Circular Quay behind it my spirits lifted.

I could have taken this photo without the ferry's superstructure, but I chose not to. Likewise this:

Through The Washing Machine and over some nice bouncy wake from another ferry, around the corner heading away from Balmain's Thames St Wharf I saw these buildings, which have received a very jolly coat of paint since I last saw them - which must have been months and months ago:

I like this photo - you can only really see Sydney Tower in the background; just a hint of the Horrible Highrise that is our CBD these days.

Even though I was using the ferry for work, the trip on the water made me feel as if I were playing truant from my business, which was a superb and uplifting feeling.

If I didn't hate the soulless, cement-ridden modern Sydney city centre so much, I'd find excuses to ride on the ferries more often. I look back at my time at St Trinian's and realise the ferry rides were the best part of those four hated years and I was privileged to use such a pleasant mode of public transport. There are times when it really is better to travel hopefully than to arrive.

Just what is it about Paris?

The French. You either love them or hate them. Or love France and hate the French.

Just what is it about Paris that makes it flavour of the month for sea change (or country change) biographies and blogs? Why IS it the city of romance? Why does my local $2 shop sell hat boxes covered in drawings of the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame?

Your roving reporter spent a week there earlier this month to find out.

Paris smells of pee. Mainly men, some dogs. Every tree along the Seine near the Musee D'Orsay and the Louvre has been anointed by a hundred penises. As it hadn't rained for a while, the smell was intense.

If you want to move to France, you'd better speak French. Unlike here, where all government paperwork is available in about sixteen different languages, French paperwork is only in French. French officials only speak French. Parlez-vous Francais? Non? Tant pis… va t'en!! And French officials are legends when it comes to being obstructive. Not that I have tried to move to France but in my travels I spoke to a couple of expats who told the same story.

The drivers are bonkers. I was insane enough to drive through Paris in 1988 and I wouldn't be game to do it now. We had three wild rides in taxis which had my right foot permanently jammed 'on the brake'. So as a pedestrian in Paris I took my life in my hands. Drivers don't stop for pedestrians at pedestrian crossings. You have to wait until the road is clear and hope a Vespa doesn't come screaming out of nowhere when you're half way across. Scooters, motorbikes and bicycles have a scant disregard for red lights, especially if they are making a right hand turn. So what if you have a green light to walk? They'll be inching closer, itching, just itching, to run you down. Don't ever look them in the eye; it might be all the encouragement they need.

Paris is full of crowds. Forget going up the Eiffel Tower, it costs a bomb and you'll be queuing for years. Especially if you're waiting for the lift. The Louvre and Notre Dame also measure their queues by the furlong.

The French love their strikes. While we were there the RER (Railway) was on semi-strike; some of the trains were running but not to the usual schedule. There was also a baggage handlers' strike at the airport, making us happy we'd come on the Eurostar.

And let's not forget the scam artists who prey on tourists in likely spots, e.g. the Quartier Americaine (the part of Paris on both sides of the Seine near the Louvre. It's not really called the Quartier Americaine. I made that up. But it should be. It's where the American tourists hang out.) They pretend to be deaf mutes and ask you to donate ten euros to them and sign their badly-photocopied Official Donation Form (bollocks to that!). And there is the Paris Gold Ring Scam; I had a couple of those tried on me. I was stupid enough to have my camera out of my bag at the time, looking like a tourist. A simple snarl of "Va t'en!" usually had them apologising and moving away. When I swear in French my accent is perfect.

We were also accosted by very well-fed and reasonably well-dressed beggars at Gare du Nord station; there seem to be more beggars around than two years ago. The French economy is fairly buggered but not that you'd know it from all the locals eating out at cafes every night.

And those were all the downsides I found. Not that I looked hard.

We lived in an apartment for a week, in the 11th arrondissement. It was up four floors in a 120 year old building with an original and worn staircase. I suspect the paint on the stairwell was original too!

The apartment is owned by a young guy who works in IT and we found it on airbnb.com.  Our neighbours were all permanent residents, owning or renting their apartment. We were living like locals in a 50 square metre house with the tiniest kitchen imaginable. A two burner hotplate, a sink and a microwave inside the front door. Even the toaster and cutlery had to live in the living room. This is not atypical for a Parisian apartment; I think it's why a lot of people eat out at cafes.

Downstairs, on either side of the iron door onto the footpath, was a boucherie  and a boulangerie. We didn't buy anything from the butcher's - I was tempted as it all looked delicious - but got our daily fix of baguettes and croissants from the baker. Ask for a baguette traditionel and croissants du beurre to make sure you get the good stuff. And this WAS good, and a fraction of the price you'd pay at a decent Sydney bakery.

A block down the hill was the supermarket with an impressive wine section and big fresh veggie section - not to mention a huge cheese and pate section. Dinner sorted. The supermarket was small but had everything you'd need at a reasonable price. In Paris itself - within the route peripherique - you don't find big shopping malls and shopping centres; they are in the outer suburbs.

And across the road was a cafe where I'd head for my daily fix of coffee. Ask for un cafe and you get an espresso; a flat white is a cafe creme. I love the sharp taste of un cafe, drunk within a minute of arriving at the table before it turns bitter.

I got propositioned during my afternoon cafe fix one day at the cafe by an ageing roue.  He was a sweetie and didn't speak any English - not that you need anything except the language of lurve, non? So my pathetic French was well and truly tested and I had a great conversation with him.

When I wasn't walking - and I walked for about five hours a day on average - I was hopping on the metro to get to my walking destination. The metro is fab; trains every three minutes. You buy tickets, or carnets, in books of ten and it works out as about $2.50 per trip. Once you're in the metro you can swap trains etc on the one ticket. I had a morning's fun just riding around; I took the metro going in the wrong direction and had to change and swap over. All part of the Paris adventure.

The architecture is beautiful. I loved walking along the street - any street - and looking up at the apartment blocks, none of them taller than six storeys with an attic. Mostly stone, some brick, each with slightly different decorations. Paris is built on a human scale, and I love that. Peeking behind gates I saw courtyards with posh cars, old cars, smart tubs of fruit trees, lines of washing… as diverse as you could expect. Especially on the day when I got lost thanks to my iPhone app. I didn't realise that when I pinched it to enlarge the map swivelled around. I'd been aiming for the Seine. I ended up at Place de Clichy after a vigorous two hour walk through a very suburban, untouristy, pleasant but not overly opulent or rich part of town.

Even in the non-posh areas, such as the part I got lost in, there are joys and interesting sights around every corner. The shops are interesting; even washing powder and dishwashing liquid seems more exotic with a French label. (I have a vision of me bringing back a bottle of dishwashing liquid and getting pinged by Customs. "What on earth is this?" "Dishwashing liquid. Look, it's Pamplemousse scent, have a sniff. Mmm.")

The French have a sensible attitude towards animals and hygiene. Dogs are welcomed at cafes; outdoors as far as I know but possibly indoors too. There was a dog at the table next door when we had a farewell dinner at our local cafe and watched France wallop Switzerland in the World Cup (Mondiale to the French). Every happy smoker lit up like a chimney too without the slightest hint of being ostracised. And there were two very Parisian girls at another table who managed that casually put-together but magically elegant look that French women just do so well.

I could do an entire blog post - or more - on Parisian chic and how these women must have a gene that enables them to do magical things with scarves. Perhaps that's another reason Paris represents an almost-mythical place for some; the hope that somehow they will transform into a French woman.

And the French themselves, scarves notwithstanding? For the most part they were as delightful as my hopeful, would-be suitor, Marcel. Even though my French is execrable it got me food, drink and everything else I needed (including books! yay!) and most shopkeepers were happy to talk slowly to me once they understood I was from Australia.

I had halting conversations in French, some in English, and only found friendliness. I spoke to women who had the same breed of dog as I; there are quite a few about in Paris. I shared a table with a Parisienne near the Trocadero with a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower and we spoke in two languages about our countries; she gave me a great tip for an exhibition to go to.

And maybe that's the real key to the love affair people - me included - have with France. French is such a beautiful, if complicated, language. Things just sound better in French. That pamplemousse I mentioned earlier; it's grapefruit.

I learned French for one year at high school and enjoyed it but as my attendance record was so crap I gave it up. My Mum learned French and while she'd forgotten most of it could obediently trot out that staple sentence of 1940s schoolgirls: La plume de ma tante est sur la table (the pen of my aunt is on the table). I used to tease her with my own version: La plume de ma tante est le cul de mon oncle (the pen of my aunt is up the arse of my uncle). Being me, I learned the rude words first. I did two years' part time Conversational French study twenty years ago but have forgotten most of that too, worse luck. I can read French more easily than I can speak it or understand it when it comes at me rapid-fire.

After a week there, the longest time I've spent in Paris, it does have a magic for me. Could I live there for a while? Yes. Even though it would mean an apartment about one sixth the size of the house I have now and no garden save the obligatory pots of red pelargoniums on the balcony, should I be lucky enough to have one.  I do love the place, but I think I'll have to visit in winter one year to make sure my love isn't just a summer love. I love the metro, the bonkers drivers, the fresh and wonderful food, the phone deals which mean really cheap broadband and free international phone calls, the  flights of stairs and the French themselves.

I did have one beautiful moment though, when the legendary French Service With A Sneer reared its head. We were at Charles de Gaulle airport, wandering around before boarding the aircraft home, when I spied an elegant shop (below) selling macarons. I had been very good during my week in France - not a pastry had passed my lips, nor a macaron. I had five euros left and bought one each for G and myself.

The exquisitely pretty mademoiselle behind the counter (you can see her in the pic) managed condescension with such silence, and a mere lift of one eyebrow, that I realised here was the personification of the French that people love to hate. It wasn't just that I was a cheapskate. The guy before me bought about 90 euros worth of them and received the same treatment. My faith in The Superiority of the French was restored. It was the perfect ending to a fabulous week.

The wheels on the bus go round and round...

Oh frabjous day! My gorgeous little car, more of a pet than a form of transport, is home again from the panelbeater's. She's shiny and fixed and the paint match is superb.

Because my husband is away at the moment, I had to catch public transport to the panelbeater's. What is normally a 25 minute drive took 1 hr and 40 minutes. Phew.

This is a bit memorable because for the first time in years I caught a Sydney bus. Stop laughing.

It's not that I'm a total car freak and never use public transport, because I enjoy taking the train into town, except for peak hour when it's seething with the great unwashed (sometimes literally I believe).  The train isn't as awful for my sociophobia as the bus. The carriages are quite wide, and there seems to be a little more legroom between seats. Mostly I can get a seat to myself, and I can listen to music, look out the window or read, which is a lot less stressful than driving through Sydney traffic into the centre of the city. It's also a lot faster and stops a lot less often than the bus, so you get to where you're going quicker than by bus.

Unless of course you're going to somewhere the train doesn't service.

Travelling by bus used to be easy. You'd step on board, give the driver some money, he'd grunt and give you a ticket and change where appropriate, you'd find a seat or hang on for dear life to a strap and all would be well.

Now, however, several bus services and major interchanges are cashless. You have to buy your ticket in advance, and no, there are no ticket machines at the bus stop, even if it's a major interchange. That would be too bloody logical. You have to find someone who sells them, usually a newsagent.

I had a sinking feeling that the interchange at Parramatta station would be a PrePay one, so while walking to my own train station stopped at the newsagent for a bus ticket. She didn't have any single tickets, only packets of ten, and buggered if I'd pay $45 for a single bus ticket.

The ticket seller at my own station said some bus drivers would accept cash if you had coins and smiled nicely, but she also only sold packets of ten.

At Parramatta train station there were ticket machines selling tickets to anywhere, so I lined up only to find that none of them was for a bus service. By now I was starting to be not in a good shape. People all around, no bloody signs saying Buy Your Bus Tickets here.  I made myself do some deep breathing and found a sign which looked initially unhelpful at the railway ticket office: We Do Not Sell Bus Tickets. Squinting, I made out a map underneath and ran over to it, discovering that the newsagent across the way in the station sold tickets.

When I said I wanted a single ticket to Gladesville that caused consternation. Where was Gladesville? I had to explain. I also felt a twit when I blurted out, "No, I don't know how many sections it is, I haven't taken the bus before!" and added quickly, "Not from here anyway."

Ticket finally in hand, I waited for the bus, hopped on, validated my ticket and like most of us as the bus was empty, got a seat to myself.

Two stops on a fat bloke got on board. I could be very PC and say he was morbidly obese but really, he was a fat bloke, almost as wide as he was tall.

To my horror, he thumped down next to me. Nearer the back of the bus were empty seats, lots of them, but obviously exercise like walking down to get to them wasn't his thing. I wondered briefly if he was a bit OCD and I was sitting in "his" seat, the one he always had.

I'd had the sociophobia under control but when a really big person sits within millimetres of me, so I can feel their body heat and almost their pulse, I tense up, and I did then, easing myself as close to the window as I could.

Then I had to put my hand over my mouth. Herbert! The pong!  Not only fat, but smelly. Old body odour, maybe the same shirt for the third day running? Whatever it was - Whoof!

Cruel and possibly Nazi as it sounds, I pondered then and there the invention and senate approval and installation of Personal Hygiene Meters on public transport. Robotic, probably, with a sensor that takes a sample of the air closely around you as you walk on board. If you smell too offensive, the buzzer beeps and sorry, mate, you can't board. Not until you put some deodorant on or otherwise get rid of the pong. Or...ah...this is good...have a Stinky Section at the back of the bus and put all the stinkers together. Maybe that would help them realise how much their smell offends others. The Stinky Section would have extra aircon to draw the smell out.

The PHMs would be easy to police on buses, but perhaps a matter for the guard on trains. Stinkers go in the Stinky Carriage -! Yay!

Or... charge them extra. Make them pay for being offensive to others. >:-)

Anyway, Stinker got off at Rydalmere and I started to breathe again and expanded to fill a bit more of the space around me. Thankfully I managed to keep my seat to myself on a half-empty mid-afternoon bus, but I was glad to step off the bus and into the rain, and walk in fresh air to where Minerva was waiting for me. It's been a long month without my four-wheeled friend, but Jeez, was today a loooong afternoon!