MELBOURNE-PARIS. 13th-14th August.

Left Tullamarine 3.30pm Wednesday. It became dark about 4 hours later somewhere over Indonesia, and then didn't get light until about an hour after landing at Heathrow at 5am GMT, some 23 hours after take-off, which made for a long night. This was a unique experience, as I'd never been on such a long flight before. Heathrow was interesting, it took 18 minutes by shuttle bus to get from one of it's terminals to another. After a five hour wait we went through immigration etc. I had my toothpaste confiscated, and all toiletries etc. had to be put into clear bags so that they could see what was in them. You had to take your shoes off, and then the shoes and every single item in my day-pack were zapped "for traces of explosive".

By contrast, at Charles de Gaulle Airport our passports were cursorily checked and then we grabbed our bags off the carousel and away. Not wishing to shell out 25 euros for a ride to the hotel, I opted for a 3-90 Euro (3 metro tickets) ride on the bus. This was a good way to see the outer suburbs, and also observe the local populace, as the bus stopped about twenty times. The highlight was a truly bravura argument between the driver and a guy that he hadn't stopped for, who caught us up at the lights. This altercation went on for 8 or 10 minutes, the driver weaving in and out of the traffic all the time, while they fired off verbal ripostes at each other non-stop, without either of them ever repeating himself, as far as I could make out. An unusual thing I noticed was gangs of young women "windscreen washers" at busy intersections.

I got off at Gare de l'Est, and looked around for an ATM, as Lonely Planet had advised that there are always some at the main railway terminii. Then followed one of those "it only happens to me" episodes, exacerbated I suppose by sleep-deprivation and jet-lag. There were loads of ATM's (I thought), but my card wouldn't work in them. I was directed to the Post Office outside the station, where the English-speaking Postal Manager advised that sometimes this happens, and you have to keep trying until you find one that works. So I repeated the performance (and there were loads of these "ATM's" to try) with the same result. Giving up, I decided to try getting the Metro instead, and while I was waiting to cross at the lights I glanced back at the post office and saw 3 obvious ATM's (not Metro ticket vending machines) in the wall near the post office....
(Be quiet, Michele).

Now being more in funds, I bought a Metro ticket (at the ticket office), and started trying to find the way to the Metro station near the hotel (Colonel Fabian). This proved impossible, as nobody I asked had heard of such a station, including 3 policemen in an alcove that I approached, who seemed about to give the 3rd degree to some young guy. Plus, I didn't at that time realise that at a point touched by several Metro lines, (such as a large railway station) that you sometimes have to walk an epic distance through several tunnels until you get to the line that you need.

So I decided to walk to the hotel, using my skimpy Lonely Planet map. This would have been simple if any of the streets had been signposted, but no such luck. However, after walking twice as far as I needed, I found the hotel, where I have a pleasant room off a courtyard.

I later ventured along the Rue Belleville near the hotel, in search of food. On my way out of the hotel I rashly asked the man who had signed me in what his name was. His reaction indicated that this question was politically incorrect. Pulling himself up to his full height, he said "my name is Mister (whatever)". However, he does have odd flashes of humour - when I arrived at the hotel sweating profusely beneath my backpack, he asked me if I'd walked all the way from England. I told him no, it just felt like I had.

I celebrated my first night in what is argueably the world's gastronomic capital by searching out a Chinese cafe. The menu was in French only, and I guessed all the Chinese staff only spoke French, so I plumped for the only thing that sounded familiar, "Bouef Cari" along with "Riz Naturale", which turned out okay. Later I needed a top up of hot water for my "Tea Cina", and approaching the front counter, I dredged back five decades to my schoolboy French and asked the lady of the house for "eau chaud Madame, s'il vous plait", which seemed to go down well and produced another scalding hot tea. Later still I felt suitably smug when an English-looking couple walked in, demanded to see the menu, and then walked out when they realised both the menu and the staff only spoke French.

Not long after, I tottered into bed and slept the clock round.