It was gross weather (again) so we waved down a cab and paid the 13€ to get to the middle of the city. Worth it.
My rain boots have been a godsend, and I splashed through the giant puddles outside while Mark danced on the cobblestones to avoid getting wet.
We waited a bit outside the Notre Dame, but were soon inside, so didn't get a chance to listen to Rick Steves' podcast about the exterior until we had left. Once inside, a service was happening where pairs of people went up to someone (perhaps a bishop?) who put a purple scarf over their head after listening to them talk briefly. It meant that we heard a few hymns during our circuit of the massively old cathedral, which echoed hauntingly and enchantingly.
It took two hundred years to build the church, and one can only imagine, moving that much stone to those great height with hoists with only manpower, how it makes sense that it wasn't done sooner. There was a display case that showed the human hamster wheel that powered a crane, as well as the huge amounts of wooden scaffolding.
I remembered the amazing rose stained glass windows that flanked the altar, and the statue of Joan of Arc, the patron saint of Paris. I didn't remember where the climb to the tower was, but we skipped it anyway. I supposed I didn't need to have stairs everywhere.
In front of the church was a crypt with archeological ruins that I had done before, but that was with the museum pass. Paying 8€ to get in to see some rocks didn't seem worth it today, so we continued.
A few blocks down, along the Seine, we cut in to the building surrounding Sainte Chappelle, which was the Palais de Justice. After a security line there, it was another line in the drippy rain to pay the 10€ to get into the cathedral. Mark questioned if it was worth it - for this sight, it definitely was.
The first floor of the church isn't anything special - it was where the commoners worshipped. Upstairs, though, climbing a tight spiral staircase, you are placed into a room of splendor.
We take walls of windows for granted now, but the miracle of the Gothic arches has never been so obvious as when we entered that cavernous room. Fourteen panels of stained glass, if I'm remembering right, plus a rose window in the back of the church dazzled us and painted the room in a glow of awe.
The church was built as a container for the crown of thorns, and cost less to make than the crown did to obtain. François I wanted everyone to come see how good a Catholic he was for bringing the crown of thorns to France. Now, this "box" for the crown is getting more facetime with crowds than the crown is.
We soaked in the colored lights, picking out a few Bible scenes (thanks to Rick) and admired the golden pedestal that didn't have the crown on it anymore. (It is in the Notre Dame treasury.) The stairs up to the high altar were locked and the key hung around the king's neck.
We hopped in a taxi back to the hotel. It was nice to not be rushing for once, and we passed by the opera house yet again. Taxis, like in Portugal and other places, can use the bus lanes, so we skipped easily back to Montmartre.
Now, the highlight of the trip, the reason we were in France - the Irish national team playing the French national team during the Six Nations match. Not the Washington Irish, Mark's team, playing the Paris Olympic Rugby Club; that happened last night. In this Six Nations game, the French won.
But, the group trying to head to the stadium didn't win. It was a struggle. The metro right by the hotel goes right to the stop by the stadium, so we bought some tickets and headed down to the platform in a herd of thirty. However, our herd was no match for the dozens and dozens of travelers already packed on the trains in the direction we wanted. Mark was comparing it to Japan, but I've seen trains like this just a few times at rush hour in DC - it is every man for himself when the doors open, and the mass of humanity bubbles out before being thrust back in when the doors chime and close again.
We didn't make the first four trains that stopped. Maybe ten people in the station total made it on those trains. Mark and I had taken sanctuary at the very last door on the platform, and might have made it in another train or two, but might not have. We threw in the towel too when Zach came by to say a contingent was calling it quits and taking cabs.
Zach, Carolyn, Mark, and I were yet again sharing a car. The drive was half an hour, which meant we joined the mass of people outside the stadium with only 45 minutes to gametime. (We could have been there a minute faster had we not stopped on the street to buy a beer each for the boys and a bottle of sparking wine for the ladies. That half bottle of fake champagne was the only reason I didn't mind that crush of disappointed people. The slow oozing flow meant that we had plenty of time to drink it too!)
The match had started when we finally got to the division for men and women - while I appreciate the gesture of letting us get patted down only by other women, it took us an extra two minutes to get through our line because there was only one guard for us. Sexism, man.
We rushed to the nearest turnstiles, and waited through that five minutes. At the ticket machine, it rejected our tickets because we were at the wrong gate!
It was a speed-walk-jog that got us around a quarter of the stadium to our dear, beloved Gate B. A few more minutes in line (where we found a fuming Julia and a silent Whitney, who had spent half an hour queueing at the wrong gate) and we were in!
We dashed to our seats, and saw - a penalty kick for the first points of the game, fifteen minutes in.
Thank God we were under cover - the drizzle looked miserable. As it was, I need a hot chocolate (not good, but at least warm) during halftime to get some warmth back. The Irish were up at that time, so the sea of green and jolliness that surrounded us was in a good mood.
The only thing ruining the good mood for them was the lack of alcohol. We had been warned (hence the drinking on the street), and didn't even try to buy the beer that said "sans alcohol" (without alcohol) underneath it on the menu. I will say, though, it was the only thing on the menu that wasn't translated to English.
When an Irish fan a few rows ahead of us came back with three of the 9€ cups, his buddy near us called out to him: "hey! You know there's no alcohol in that?"
His face falling was pretty much the highlight of the game to me. (Sorry, yeah, go rugby.) Someone had just told him that Christmas was canceled forever - his cups of gold were now just cold, sweet fake beer he had paid too much for.
In general, the rugby game was slow, with only penalty kicks through the first half (with Ireland up 9-6) until the France battered their way with scrum after scrum to score a try with twenty or so minutes left. The conversion was good, and they were up 16-9.
At least, that's what I remember happening. All the scrums, taking forever to line up, the chill, and the end of the champagne hitting me meant that I had a couple long, slow blinks during the second half.
All in all, the game went quickly. I'm too used to football and baseball, where there is a 2.5 hour minimum commitment; 80 minutes was over in a jiffy! The French had it in their possession as the clock ran out, so stopped play with an out-of-bounds kick. French flags were waving all over the stadium, and the Irish fans surrounding us sighed and made for the closest bar. Heck, we made for the closest bar. Inside please!
It was a group of at least 25 that ended up at a pizza-ish pub together. Our server got our orders in, and then within ten minutes was delivering the food.
But the beers, wine, cappuccino, anything to drink? An easy hour. Easy. Mark's calzone wasn't sitting well with him (which just meant that I got it) and Emily had been recovering from a stomach bug, so they took Jackie with them to find an Uber. (They ran into Dan and Julia on the way, walked all the way to the metro stop, spent ten minutes waiting, then took the half hour ride home.)
The boys finally got their rounds, and the quiet tables became anything but. We had been seated right by a tv, which Rich proceeded to block every time he stood to point (with his elbow, of course, because that's a tour rule) and shout. It was unclear who or what the old man at the neighboring table was outbursting about, but it might have been that.
The waiter asked us to take the check (which has never happened before - maybe it was a subtle hint to leave, but it just made the boys walk down to the bar to bring drinks back upstairs), and I started to get the itch to leave. The crowds had dispersed, so the metro would be fine. Duma and Karen agreed, and so a contingent (including Justin, JT, and Whitney) headed there.
It was a jolly walk with the boys, and an easy ride back. I came back to find Mark showered and dressed, and, with a quick change for me, we headed out to the rugby bar a block away.
The hotel, while not convenient to the museums or the Seine, was perfect for the trip. There was a rugby bar a block away, an Irish pub just across the street, and, if you really stretched, we were two blocks from the Moulin Rouge (and I'll just let you imagine the establishments that surround an infamous burlesque club like that). We'd actually stayed in an Ibis hotel when we were in Chinon too, so it is a good quality for a great price.
The evening continued as it usually does on tour. Mark had a good streak of arm wrestling wins before we crossed to the Irish pub, which was quite the discotheque on a Saturday night, and danced until it was time to find our beds.
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