I arrived at Cork Airport a bit later than I had hoped. I had pre-booked the parking but, when I put my credit card in, the system did not recognise my card. The barrier lifted anyway and I had passed my first obstacle en-route to Paris to watch Chelsea play Paris St. Germaine in the Champions league round of 16.
 |
| CDG airport security |
There was a much longer queue than usual for mid morning Cork Airport at the security scanners. It was only ten and the flight wasn't until eleven ten. I'd been hoping for a free breakfast of scones, Danish pastries washed down with gallons of coffee in the Gold Circle lounge. I'd allowed half an hour for this craic. The queue meant I'd only get 10 minutes. I'd just eat faster.
In the lounge I saw a guy of about forty with a Chelsea scarf. I asked if he was going to the match. I'm quick, me. He said he was. I wondered how he got the ticket as I had to join the PSG members club to get mine and would be sitting with the PSG fans. He, like me, was a member of the CFC season ticket scheme. But, unlike me, he was a member of the away scheme also. This got him a ticket in the Chelsea end. I'd be with the menacing PSG supporters. More of that later. Patrick Purcell was his name. We exchanged phone numbers so that we could sort out tickets for future games. Nice fella.
The flight was uneventful and I landed in Charles de Gaulle Airport at 13.50 local time. I'd a few hours to kill as my partner in crime wasn't flying from Dublin until four o'clock. I killed time by finding out how to get into central Paris from CDG. When I was last at the airport some kind of long running dispute meant the train used only go as far as Gate du Nord. This dispute seemed to about the difference in pay between Metro drivers and train drivers. The argument being that the trains are underground in central Paris so the train drivers should get paid the same as the underground Metro drivers. Anyhow, its all solved now and I could see that the train from CDG would go right to Luxembourg Gardens, 500m from our hotel. I resolved to pretend to Sean that I had planned it this way from the outset.
The airport security was very tight. There were armed soldiers wandering around all over the place. I imagine the Charlie Hebdo assassinations had heightened tensions. Sean arrived safely and we both headed off into Paris on the aforementioned train arriving at Luxembourg by half five. Our hotel was a very pleasant and reasonable, Royal St. Germaine on Rue de Rennes. It was near to a massive sky scraper that had a viewing tower on its 56th floor. We resolved to go up in the morning. We bought some grapes in a little RamJam shop. We call them this because everything is ram jammed into them. This one used a pen and pencil as a till mechanism. I'm sure the French tax collectors would not approve. We checked into the hotel and left our bags, taking with us our wallets, match tickets and passports. We were delighted to find a McDonald's only three doors from the hotel. I pretended to Sean that I had planned it that way, but the truth is, it was luck.
Now, some people might shudder at eating under the Golden Arches in the culinary delight that is Paris. Well, let's puts it this way, that's not us. On a budget, short of time, nothing beats Micky Mac. The Micky Mac had a computer touchscreen ordering system that worked well for me. However, Sean terminal would only present him with option in French. He wasn't sure what he'd ordered but, given where we were, he was bound to be edible.
Sated we wandered off toward the Eiffel Tower. We could see it from the top of our road and, 30 minutes later, we were at its Pilar Est. There were lines to buy tickets to go up. Sean and I had promised ourselves that we would walk up as far one is allowed, the second viewing platform at around 350ft high. We made that promise after an early walk up Ulm cathedral, he worlds tallest spire accessible to the public. Anyway, that wasn't going to happen since the access to the pillar that has pedestrian access to the stairs was closed.
We both needed the jacks and we were happy to see that under Pilar Est was a supervised underground toilet. The security to get in there was quite impressive and the cleanliness was average, especially considering the tower is the most visited 'pay in' spectacle in the world.
Happy that we had seen Gustave Eiffel's creation we pushed on for the match. We decided we would walk along the river until we got to the the Pont St. Cloud which our tourist map told us was close to the Parc de Prince, PSG's home ground. I hadn't been there since the 2007 rugby world cup. It was very cold by the river so we crossed to the north-side and took the Avenue de Versailles which was parallel to the river but one street in. There was no indication that there was a match on other than police paddy wagons flying by every now and then. By eight we had arrived at Porte de Saint Cloud, a huge roundabout at the end of the Avenue de Versaille. Within minutes the crowd had swelled and were now pushing our way through the PSG fans.
 |
| PSG fans for the day |
It was now time for our ingenious, if a little cowardly, plan. We had not been able to secure seats in the away fans section, that is with the Chelsea fans. So, having joined PSG fan club we were able to get seats in the PSG sections. We bought the match day scarf from a wizen old woman who flogged us 2 for a tenner. These scarfs are neutral as they have the colours of both teams on them...entente cordial and all that stuff. We then bought two PSG beanies
from a bemused Algerian who was certainly not impressed with my grasp of French. We quickly put our hats on and shut our traps as the crowd swelled around us. The stadium is right up next the Paris' ring road, the Boulevard Periphique. As a result there is a natural pinch point as crowds funnel through to the entrance gap between the street and the edge of the motorway walls. There were a number of security guys in high vis jackets checking tickets at mobile barriers located at this pinch point. Sean and I had been told that if there was any suspicion that we were Chelsea fans we would not just be banned from the ground, we could find the crown on our backs. About half the crowd pushing and shoving around us seemed African or Arab. We were hemmed in with no way forward or back as we inched our way to the pinch point. A few tried to jump the barriers and found themselves getting a few whacks on the back from the strong police presence behind the high vis stewards. They were dressed in full riot gear. We eventually made our way through the pinch point and were found ourselves in a line heading toward a security station that was frisking fans. Sean was in one line and I was in the other. I passed through with no problem but the security guard frisking Sean started asking him something in French. Sean looked at his questioner and gave a perfect Gallic shrug, hunching up his shoulders and outstretching his hands. This seemed to work and were allowed through. We had printed out e-tickets. We now needed to exchange these at some terminals that would dispense our actual match tickets. This process was seamless but the match tickets were tiny, about the size of a cloakroom ticket.
We made our way to our seats which were in the upper stand at the very back. We were quite pleased as we were along the penalty box line, not behind the goal as can happen. We had two seats together on the edge of the row and the two seats immediately next to us were empty. Then this guy who looked like Barry White arrived. He was being followed up the steps by a wheezing lady who was at least twice his size. Our luck had run out. Barry White squeezed passed us followed by his woman. When they sat down they flowed over onto Sean's seat, forcing him to stand leaning on the backrest of his seat for occasional support. Lucky there was no-one behind us. Barry and his companion then started producing food from their coats and proceeded to eat for the duration of the game. When they left it was like the after of a hamburger stand, just at their two seats.
 |
| The view from our seats |
The match itself started after a raucous welcome of the home team. Chelsea should start some of these theatrics at Stamford Bridge. The play was cagey and guarded. Diego Costa was unnecessarily petulant and didn't seem to us to be firing on all cylinders. Ibrahimovic and Cavani looked dangerous for PSG, being fed by Levazzi in mid-field. The rest of PSG were average, including David Luis, our former accident in waiting defender. It tells you all you need to know about the first halt when you understand the nature of the first goal. An unnecessary foul by Ibrahimovic on our most fouled player, Hazard, gave us a free on the right wing. That led the defenders to go forward. The resulting free led to the ball arriving at the feet of John Terry, our captain and full back, who crossed the ball from the left wing, it was flicked on by our other full back, Gary Cahill, to be headed into the net by our right back, Bratislava Ivanovic. Chelsea were one up with half time approaching.
Sean and I couldn't celebrate. Instead we adopted the pose of disappointed PSG fans, shaking our heads and throwing our arms in the air in an exasperated fashion. Barry White and companion kept eating. Chelsea started the second half in muted fashion and allowed PG a lot of possession. In the end they scored through a Cavani header from a great cross from the right wing. Both teams neutralised each other after that and the game finished one apiece. PSG beat us here 3-1 last year so we were happy.
 |
| From Pont Mirabeau |
We lingered back watching the Chelsea crowd to our left who were penned in and would not be allowed leave their section until all the PSG fans had well cleared the ground. This is standard practice at away games, especially on the continent. We were happy that we'd be on the road sooner. The exit from the ground was trouble free and soon we were walking back along Boulevard de Versailles toward central Paris. Sean had spotted the new BMW something that could do 100 miles to the gallon in a showroom window and wanted a closer look on the way back. We could the showroom and there was the car, shying and new with its doors opened up like wings of a soaring eagle. It was being recharged by some electrical hospice connected to its 'fuel' cap. Having marvelled at the science of the BMW we pressed on. I wanted to get something to eat so, having crossed the Seine at Pont Mirabeau, we got the Metro at Javel. We forgot we still had our PSG hats on and some French guys started asking us about the game and what the score was and so forth. We smiled foolishly and gave some weak thumbs up gestures. The train came quickly thank god and we boarded before our cover was blown. The ticket guy had said we should go to the Odeon station and from there change lines to find our way to St. Placid. Our tourist map was detailed enough to show we'd be much faster getting off at Duroc and walking the 800m or so to the hotel. This is what we did and we arrived back at out Micky Mac just before midnight. We stocked up of food and brought the stuff beck to the hotel. We ate the delights in the first floor breakfast room next to our room, overlooking Rue de Rennes. The room was lovely. There were about ten small circular tables each with two seats. We sat at the one closest the window and gorged ourselves on the BigMac meal and caramel sundae. We had just made it since the McDonald's closes at midnight.
Our trick had worked and the bedroom was freezing. The open widows had pet the brisk northerly wind chill up the rooms. We watched some BBC news channel. Apparently there had been trouble on the Metro involving Chelsea fans. We turned off the TV and went to sleep.
When I awoke around 8.30 the next morning to find there was no sign of Sean. His bed was empty and the key was gone. The windows were open and the room temperature, which had risen dramatically during the night once we had closed the windows, was down to a chilly 8 degrees. That's the way we like it. Sean arrived back around 20 minutes later with two massive bags of grapes that he'd bought in the ramjam shop near St Placide . He ate one of the bags while I showered. Sean had woken early, showered and gone for a little exploration while I slept. We checked out and looked at the feasibility of going up to the top of the Tour Montparnasse. Its upper floors were shrouded in mist. We knew it didn't open for another 45 minutes in any case so we decided to have breakfast in a café on Rue Notre Dame des Champs and see what it was like when we were finished. We had omelettes for breakfast, with a baguette and coffee for me and water for Sean. The commuters and business people around us were just finishing up their breakfasts and heading to work. Whilst a major city it all just seemed a bit more civilised that Dublin or London. More sedate, measured and less frenetic. We were trying to make contact with Sean's brother Derek who lives in Paris and works for a transatlantic luxury airline that flies out of CDG. Sean has sent him a text but he had not heard back. When we finished the breakfast we went back onto the street and looked up at the massive 210m high tower. It was still in the clouds and mist at the top. The view would have to wait until another time. We decided to head for les Invalides, the site of a military museum and the location of Napoleons tomb. Whilst walking there, and very near the luxury Bon Marche department store we saw a homeless man with a cardboard square about the size of an album record sleeve, propped up against his knees as he sat, half in his sleeping bag, against the wall of the building. The cardboard had, handwritten onto it, with some green coloured cartoon shamrocks, "Je suis Irlandais". We stopped and asked him was he really Irish. He was grey haired and in his fifties. He said he was Irish. I was still carrying my bag of grapes that Sean had bought. I asked him if he wanted them. He said 'absolutely', adding that fruit was very expensive in the city centre and he doesn't get to eat it much. We chatted with him for about fifteen minutes. He was born in Kilkenny and moved to Portmarnock when we has eleven. He had come to Paris thirty years earlier and had, as he put, fallen upon hard times, and had lived on the streets since. His mother had dies two years ago and he had tried to settle back but it didn't work out. He slept on the streets most nights and said that it wasn't too bad at all as he had a good quality bivvy. He had been reading a French newspaper when we met him and was up to speed on the match, knowing that the second leg was in three weeks time. There was no smell off him and his finger nails were clean and his diction clear. We chatted about Ireland for a few more minutes, gave him the grapes, and headed on our way.
Very shortly afterward we passed a building with a massive police presence around its grand doors. I asked what was going on. The heavily armed gendarme informed us that it was Hotel Matignon and its the official residence of the French prime minister, Manuel Valls. Sean and I had never heard of this guy but one things was for sure, he had a nice house.
 |
| Car crash remnants in moat |
We pressed on and shortly found ourselves in front of the massive site of Les Invalides . It was built by Louis fourteenth as a hospital for sick soldiers. It has fifteen courtyards. When it was finished he asked that a royal church be built at one end. This was done, as you might expect, and it was fashioned on St Peter's basilica in Rome. It is ironic that Napoleon, who hastened the demised of the monarchy, is nor buried under the apex of the massive dome of this royal church. When I was last there there was no charge to see napoleons tomb. This had now changed the ticket desk lady informed me in perfect English. The only free thing now was the Eglise St. Louis, the church the old soldiers had to visit daily. Unfortunately, she added, it was not open to the public today, as there was a private event being held there. She wouldn't divulge what the event was. We wandered about a bit and tried to sneak in to part of the museum exhibit but were stopped by a youthful but armed museum attendant. We are not complete cheapskates but the museum entry fee of €9.50 wasn't justified for us based on the half an hour we had before needing to make our way to the airport. Derek had just sent Sean a message that he had only just arrived in from New York and wouldn't be able to meet us. We joked he probably just wanted to make sure we didn't try and crash in his apartment on little adventure.
On the way out we noticed that there were many chauffeur driven black Renaults and Citroens coming and going into the vast cobbled area in front of the main buildings. I asked one elderly looking guy with a a black arm band on what was happening. He clearly struggled with my French but eventually told me that it was the funeral of the former prefecture of Police. This was Philippe Massoni who was prefect from 2002 until 2007. He had died on St. valentines day just passed.
While crossing the moat of Les Invalides we noticed that there was damage to the wall surrounding the moat. Some police tape had been put up around the broken blocks, like they put up around crime scenes. We gingerly went under the tape and looked into the moat, now dry of course. In there was the front number of a citreon car together with various broken bits of headlamp glass and indicator lights. We could not fathom how it had got there.
 |
| The famous left bank cafe |
 |
| Notre Dame from St. Michel |
We pressed on, heading up river, along the Boulevard St Germaine. We were trying to recall who had that one hit wonder,'where do you go to my lovely', that included some lines about this very boulevard. We gave up. We couldn't remember. We arrived at Place St Germain, the site of one of the oldest churches in Paris. When it was built around 560 AD, the area closer to the city was all boggy and could take a stone building like this. So it was built in what were then fields, or
pres , in French a little outside the walled city. Hence, St. Germain de Pres . Just after it we reached Café de Flore, one of Paris' most popular cafes. We veered left here and headed toward St. Michel where we would get the RERB, direct to CDG airport. We had some trouble finding how to get to the actual ReRB line as two metro lines and two train lines came together at the point. Anyway, after looking at the impressive twin towers of Notre Dame cathedral for a while, we went underground, bought our tickets and left Paris.
Epilogue
I was supposed to give Seam my Chelsea card so that his brother Pat could go to the next Chelsea home game against Burnley, the following Saturday. I had said to Sean a few times things like, "I must give you that card when we get the hotel" and so on. In any case, I had completely forgotten to actually give him the card and now, I was sitting in the plane, taxiing before takoff to Cork and a text comes through from Sean. He was waiting for his Dublin flight which would leave a couple of hours later. He had just remembered I hadn't given him the card. Oh oh. When I landed in Cork I resolved to make good my mistake by driving Northward toward Dublin to rendezvous with Sean's sited in law Mary to give her the ticket. I met her at Urlingford, about 80 miles from Cork. I gave her the ticket and apologised for the mess up. She was delighted to have the card I think and wsnt too put out by her drive south from Dublin. This mission accomplished I drove into Urlingford in order to get something to eat. Now this place was a hot bed of transport cafes and fuels stations in the past. But, the new shiny motorway has by passed it and its now showing signs of decay. They once packed Josephine's café and petrol forecourt was closed down. I went into an establishment called 'The Sunshine Takeaway and Restaurant". It was one of those places that has a high counter that you place you order at. I'm sure there is a baseball bat or a Hurley with nails in it on the other side of the counter. I ordered catch of the day and chips. I asked where the toilet was only to be directed outside a back door, through a yard, to a chilly cubicle. At least it was clean. I returned and while waiting I started chatting to the Turkish looking guy who served me. We were the only two people in the place. It turns out he is a Kurd from Northern Syria. He finished each sentence with the words 'my friend'. His mother and father are now living in IS controlled territory in Northern Syria. I said it must be difficult for them. "Of course it is" he shrugged "but, this is life, my friend.". He was amazed that I had heard of Kurdistan and added that not many people had ever asked him about his homeland. The fish and chips were nice and I washed them down with a coke. When I came to py he made me a 'special price', €4. Now that is good value.
When I let I passed a bar that was also an undertakers. I thought to myself that that very morning I had been at the tomb of Napoleon, the funeral of the Prefect of Police and now I was at this bar come undertaker in Urlingford. You see a lot of things when you follow Chelsea.
When we left the cathedral Sean noticed one of the most unusual things we'd ever seen. A guy was standing near a small wall with something attached to his forearm. Upon closer examination we saw that it was some kind of bird of prey. I thought it must be some kind of elaborate begging scheme, perhaps an intricate puppet that would peck at giggling tourists in return for donations. Cautiously, we approached the man and his avian pal. I asked him was he some kind of street theatre act. He laughed at that. "Not at all" he said " I work for a pest control company". It turns out that the bird of prey was a Harris Hawk. It is used in urban settings for deterring vermin and unwanted other birds such as pigeons. He would release the bird every five to ten minutes and it would cycle around the area looking for food. He told us that it returned to him only when he would produce some food himself. "Harris Hawks aren't loyal" he said. "If you want loyalty, don't get a raptor" he added, somewhat unnecessarily. Sean and I were sure that neither Scamp nor Crosby would ever like to come across this Harry Hawk.
Anyway, Mr Knausgobbler senior came to Ireland in 1952 to work in the catering sector and improve his English. He met and married a woman from Longford, and settled in Killarney. His wife, and mother of the Mr Knausgobbler junior who was sitting beside me on the plane had a cousin a priest. That priest was T'Aithair O'Mhurchu. T'Aithair O'Murchu was the priest who baptised me in St. John's Tralee, almost fifty five years earlier. Its amazing what you come across when you follow Chelsea.