Team Beck decided there was no way we could leave Paris for Hardelot in the north of France without fortifying ourselves for the journey with a genuine Parisian petit déjeuner at a genuine Parisian patisserie.

Breakfast at Thevenin's

@tim-beck consulted Madame Google, who highly recommended Thevenin patisserie on the Rue Daguerre, about a 10 minute walk from our Airbnb. This was the sight that greeted us.

Yup, more pictures of food

We bought ourselves a simple breakfast of coffee, croissants, pains au chocolat and in my case, an irresistible tomato-anchovy tart.

Emma went back in to take more photos of the deliciousness on offer.

Here we are, enjoying a perfect coffee and croissant, seated at one of the sidewalk tables outside the patisserie.

Here's Tim, looking à la fois happy and French.

Does this look like a Nespresso ad or what?

Paris knows how to say goodbye with a twist

Whoakeedoke! On the walk back to our Airbnb apartment, I boomeranged the way they do in cartoons when I saw this ad for personal services, which we must have already passed at least ten times at this point. I've seen a lot of variations on the oldest trade in the world, but this little spot of self-promotion had a couple of new angles for me.

"Jeune femme Black"? Perhaps I hadn't been in Paris long enough, but does saying it in English make her sound somewhat more exotic?

And since when do, er, masseuses érotiques advertise with pull tags on drainpipes in the age of the interwebs? Would this be an impulse purchase at its finest?

Or was Paris just getting us ready for Amsterdam?

Leaving Paris

All packed up with our one case and one knapsack each, off we traipsed to the Denfert-Rochereau RER station. There was more than a little South African outrage at the idea of walking for ten minutes with a case weighed down for all eventualities in tow, but c'est la vie, said we.

We needed a little (okay, a lot) of assistance finding the right platform to get the commuter train to the Gare du Nord, where we would transfer onto a regional train to get to Boulogne in the Pas-de-Calais region.

We emerged from our RER train at the Gare du Nord flushed with the triumph of having made it there more than half an hour early. This was unlike Team Beck and we deserved a mutual pat on the back. Perhaps a little time to browse the station? Check if there was a place which sells camera bags to replace one which had gone astray in the Louvre? First things first, though, we had to figure out how to make our transfer to our regional train and then we could self-congratulate to our hearts' content.

We looked for a sign, any sign, to show us how to find the "Grandes Lignes" (for the regional trains leave) to get to the right platform for our 13:28 train. Not a sign anywhere, no information kiosk, no person to ask.

Uh-oh, we might not actually get to leave Paris

This went from a minor issue to realisation that should be our only focus.

In rising desperation as it was getting close to 13:15 by this time, and I knew my travel companions simply wouldn't be able to help as this was a job for a francophone, I left them standing together with instructions not to move, then flew into a fnac store (a little variety store) to ask plaintively for help.

Mr GPS to the rescue

I announced with my biggest, most charming smile that we were REALLY lost, and a saintly man behind the counter said, "No worries, Mr GPS is here at your service." He really said that. I wish I'd taken a photo of his (at the time) angelic face; I'll just have to remember his calm, sweet, humourous demeanor as he staved off the ruined holiday and saved Paris' reputation.

I showed him our A4 printed tickets, and in no time, between teasing me about my Québecois accent, which he picked up with laser accuracy, and asking me where we were from and where we were going, he explained to me that we should turn right out the store, head up the escalators, go through the guichet with our Paris Pass public transport tickets (thank goodness we hadn't thrown those away!) one more time then go up another escalator to get to the Grandes Lignes.

I posted this story on Facebook later and one of my friends said she'd had the same problem years ago. Good grief, Paris! This is not a tough challenge for you. You are experts in signs. Put some up in that station, or you'll fall into the same category as South Africa - a country that puts up signs for people who already know where they're going. Tant pis for the novice.

Back on our way

Easy, right? I retrieved the rest of Team Beck from where I'd left them and calmly explained the route, which we then followed like religious pilgrims. And there was not a single (expletive deleted) sign to tell us we were going in the right direction. Thank goodness for Mr GPS. Any Parisian Steemians living near the Gare du Nord, please go to the fnac and tell Mr GPS - he'll know who he is - of his greatness and how unless I get struck down with Alzheimers I will never forget his kindness.

The last mile

But we weren't on the train yet, and it was already 13:23. We found our platform number on the overhead screen and I hustled Team Beck down the platform to our reserved seats in Car 17, which it turned out was seventeen cars down the platform - quite a hike.

I've just read while preparing this post what it says on the ticket under Boulogne Ville, our destination. Loosely translated, it says "If you aren't on the platform two minutes before departure time, you're cooked."

We got on the train at 13:26.

Once we were seated, my two travel companions asked, "What time is it?"

On the train

Departure would have done Switzerland and Germany proud, at 13:28 exactly as scheduled. I found myself wishing I'd turned my Polar heart rate monitor on for the trip from the Airbnb as it would surely have been one of my better workouts. Strength training, cardio, endurance - it coulda been a contenda!

But the heart rate gradually returned to resting and we finally relaxed in the seats I'd reserved months before, under the impression that

a) this was the TGV (Train à Grande Vitesse) and
b) it would be full.

Wrong on both counts.

While as a regional train it went fast, it was possible to actually watch the countryside go by rather than just seeing a blur as would have been the case on the TGV. @tim-beck and Madame Google again engage in intense consultations. He used her to track our trip and so was delighted to report when we were following the path of the Somme River. We were astounded when we finally saw it - it's not much bigger than a creek.

Madame Google was now our friend

Using Google Maps to track progress while moving is actually terrific. You know the names of the towns you're passing, you can see nearby and upcoming features and attractions and you get a better sense of the physical geography of the area as you can see forests and water bodies on the screen even when it's not possible to see them through the window.

Our journey took us through varied French countryside, most of it agricultural and extremely pretty.

And because the car wasn't full, we had plenty of room to move around.

Not all smooth sailing

Someone in SNCF had forgotten to turn on the air conditioning. The temperature in the carriage was much higher than outside. One member of Team Beck felt it important to mention this every few minutes in case the others hadn't noticed.

At Boulogne-Ville

With Madame Google and Tim such firm friends now, we confidently set out on foot from the train station for the rental car outlet, which Our Lady of Handheld Navigation said was about an 800m walk. Not too bad a distance, and having walked the rest of our transfers that day, we weren't going to start getting all namby-pamby wimpy and take a taxi. This was not a popular decision with one of the Team, but as England and the US have found out to their chagrin, democracy sometimes doesn't suit everyone. The holders of the purse-strings won the day, and we struck out on our trek.

In retrospect it was a really short walk. It seemed more dramatic at the time because of the prophesied imminent death of our Teammate.

On the way to Hardelot

Lucky us! We got an upgrade on the rental car and it had rear park assist and a built in GPS. Things were really looking up, until we tried to get the GPS to speak in English. I don't mean speak English, I mean speak in English. It spoke just fine in French. It was mute in English.

This is roundabout territory like you've never experienced. Once you get the hang of roundabouts, you wonder why all countries don't have them everywhere. We roundabouted our way on the wrong side of the road (for South African drivers) and began to allow the amazing Pas-de-Calais scenery to seep in.

This part of France, Pas-de-Calais, is so pretty, it's hard to believe that a hundred years ago most of it had been flattened by artillery and mining (the military kind) activities during World War 1 (or the Great War, as it was called then).

While Paris had caused me to ooh and ahh many times due to the extravagant, elegant, extraordinary works of humankind, Pas-de-Calais also elicited many oohs and ahhs from me, but this time it was because I was back in real woods territory, and there is nothing more refreshing for the city-worn body than the whispering of trees.

Image source

Those red dots are towns with a population greater than 10 000 people. Hardelot, Condette and the Domaine de la Traxène, the three places we'd be spending a lot of time, don't feature on that map.

You can see Hardelot and Condette on the map below, which shows our drive from Boulogne to Hardelot.

Arrival

We went around a roundabout in a particularly forested area, and all of a sudden we were in Hardelot. The next roundabout looked like an entry into a gardening competition, then a few metres down the road was the entrance to our hotel, our home for the next five nights, and our base to travel to the wedding of the century which would be held nearby.

We had little idea what to expect of the hotel except what the website had told me (I'd reserved in January on booking.com to lock in the exchange rate in case South African politics caused our currency to tumble), and turned into a driveway lined with tall pines and oaks. We walked into the lobby which was light and airy, and were greeted like long lost friends.

And next to that lovely open lobby area was an equally open bar/lounge area. What a change of gear from Paris! The peace and quiet of the woodsy area was already starting to seep into our bones. We would be comfortable here.

Stay tuned.

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Images by @kiligirl, @tim-beck and Emma Beck except where otherwise credited.

Other posts to date on our trip:

https://steemit.com/travel/@kiligirl/day-4-in-paris-for-team-beck-notre-dame-the-musee-d-orsay-and-le-marais
https://steemit.com/travel/@kiligirl/day-3-in-paris-for-team-beck-hop-on-hop-off-bus-tour
https://steemit.com/travel/@kiligirl/day-2-in-paris-for-team-beck-boat-cruise-down-the-seine
https://steemit.com/travel/@kiligirl/day-2-in-paris-for-team-beck-a-visit-to-the-louvre
https://steemit.com/travel/@kiligirl/two-weeks-ago-yesterday-we-were-wandering-around-the-centre-pompidou-in-paris
https://steemit.com/travel/@kiligirl/paris-day-1-part-2-of-several-posts-on-our-trip-to-paris-pas-de-calais-bruges-and-amsterdam
https://steemit.com/travel/@kiligirl/whirlwind-tour-of-paris-pas-de-calais-bruges-and-amsterdam