Au revoir

Here I am, in a restaurant opposite the Hotel de Ville, one block from Notre Dame: no French person would even consider eating in such a touristy spot. But how far wrong can you go, with French onion soup? Not wrong at all, it turns out - melty, salty, stringy just as it should be. And crusty bread to dip.

Hot, too, which is welcome on a spitty, chilly spring day which makes the original plan of mooching about Paris seem much less attractive. After a night of fitful sleep, anxious about validating my pass and missing connections, all has gone well so far.

Next step, Eurostar to London through the channel tunnel, and then no more language challenges - though, judging by the blank looks several of my comments at dinner last night scored from the Americans, my Kiwi accent could be making me the one people are struggling to understand. Eh, bro.