Day two here (well, in fact, day 3, but I am recounting yesterday. Allow me that level of literary conceit, s’il vous plait). Despite this, it feels as if we’ve been here for weeks; even though I have another three weeks or so of vacation, I feel starved for time. It’s as if I am just sitting down at a smorgasbord and acutely aware that my stomach will only allow me a plate or two of food before I’m done.
Still, I try to force myself to relax, as I am doing now with tea and keyboard—my two universal staples of calmness. The evening after I wrote the last, we went ambling about the cobblestone streets of the Sacre Coeur, looking for an open brasserie.
Well, that was hardly difficult, and we had gone but two blocks before we spotted one filled with locals leaned up against the bar. In yet another demonstration of just how wrong the stereotype of Gallic inhospitality is, they all started waving us in with cries of “Bon soir!”. I am serious. I honestly can’t imagine this happening anywhere about the LA area, even in our small little beach town. A few stammered apologies about our bad French later, we were deep in conversation with a gentleman who wanted to practice his (flawless) English. He had a son who lived in Newark (the nice one in the UK). Turns out said son was a luthier by trade—the same word in English and in French, it turns out. Since Oxy is one of the 1 percent of people who actually knows what that word is (guitar/lute maker), they hit it off well enough. As for me, I tried more of my French on the bartender as he cheerfully shoved everyone down the counter to make way for his evening game of “bullet”. I tried to follow the rules, but couldn’t quite. The bartender explained it as best as he could, and it seemed to be some whist variant, with hands of five cards and a point bid before each hand. Score was kept with dice, and no money seemed to be involved, just bragging rights. This didn’t keep the locals from extremely animated commentary while they were playing, however. There was none of that “play in silence” whist/bridge nonsense here.
That night was less than restful, with some loud discussion between a man and a woman going on next door. I couldn’t make out what the couple was talking about, but it seemed important, and possibly romantic. I am happy to say, it sounded as if everything was resolved well enough, with giggles and sighs to embellish the end. I am unhappy to say, said resolution did not occur until 3:30 AM, and it was a while before my jet-lagged mind could head back into unconsciousness. So it wasn’t until noon that we woke up, and then only because of the maid’s vacuum (I hate to disappoint male fantasies, by the way, but all the French maids I’ve met are of a matronly bent: more intent on tidying than affaires de l’amore). Staggering over to visit out friend Rex next door, we were accosted by a waiter from a local restaurant, who gamely told us the menu. I had no sooner heard “poulet avec sauce du champignon” than I was seated inside with a cup of reasonable tea, munching on toasted goat cheese and chicken. Said meal kept us both going until nine or so.
The day that followed was what can only be called an “obligatory tourist day”. That’s not to say we didn’t enjoy ourselves, but we had the Parisian experience most tourists have. We hopped le Metro down to the Champs Elysees; hiked down past a thousand overpriced, mostly catering to tourists, boutiques;
walked about the Arc de Triomphe (which is truly beautiful);
and then headed down to the banks of the Seine.
Once we got away from the crowds of the Champs Elysees, it was beautiful enough, but all that tea I’d been swallowing led to the inevitable ou est les toilettes femmes, si’il vous plait. I must say, the public toilettes are very nice, clean and even have running water. The problem is, there are too few of them. I staggered about over bridge and gardens, asking people and getting the inevitable desole, je ne sais pas Ha! I mean, where do they go? Well, that question never does me any good in English, much less in a foreign language. One girl at a booth proved sympathetic, but her insistence on trying to give me directions in English hindered things a bit and we ended up wandering about the docks below the Musee d’Orsay. I know my accent is horrendous, and I’m far too frumpy looking to be French but I understand directions perfectly well, thank you very much. Anyway, an increasingly desperate hour later, Oxbridge finally found a café with a very nice facility, personnel who did more of that speaking to us in English nonsense, and terrible tea. By this point, I was getting tired of the tourist district, as beautiful as it was. Perhaps it was my crankiness, but really, I was getting quite sick of people who would answer me in English when I would ask questions in French. I mean, they clearly understood me, since they were answering my questions. It’s not as if their English was any better than my French, either. I chalk it up to the hordes of English and French tourists they have waddling about that area; they must be a bit tired of us all, I suppose. But fortunately, such behavior was in stark contrast to everyone else we’d met so far.
Some beautiful gardens I ran through, sans toilettes
Once we refreshed ourselves for a bit, we went back down to the Seine, much more appreciative of the scenery this time. There, we hopped onto one of the boat tours down by the Pont Neuf.
Again, as touristy as this is, I highly recommend that tour. It takes you past all the “big sites” like Notre Dame and the Tour Eiffel.
Notre Dame
Oh, take a wild guess smile
Sitting down for a bit while the boat did all the work was another point in its favor. Paris is really beautiful, as trite as that sounds, and if I ever meet Napoleon III, I shall shake his hand and say “Well done, Monsieur, well done!”. I am usually more of a fan of medieval architecture, but I am sold on all the Third Empire edifices.
The Eiffel Tower I am less sold on, and I sympathize with the Parisians who wanted to tear it down, back in the day. But it’s distinctive, if ugly, so I suppose it remains as a early example of the “branding” concept corporations are so fascinated with these days. Just don’t expect me to buy one of those cheap plastic replicas the street people keep hawking on every corner.
The scenery seen, it was back to our hotel, where we gave the evening walk a miss and hit the local marche instead. Back in the land of the polite, the security guards let us in despite the fact they were closing. I looked as charming as I could and said Je voudrais solemente un boutielle du vin et du pan. Cinq minutes, s’il vous plait I stuck to the plan for the most part, although I had a bit of trouble miming “corkscrew” (the word is tire bouchon should you ever find yourself in a similar predicament). Then it was back to the lobby for another French “plowman’s” and a pleasant chat with an Israeli tourist while we hit the Internet in search of tickets to England (we are to head to Glastonbury, perhaps tomorrow, to visit a friend). Our adventures with getting international phone service and internet will have to wait, though, as Oxy is tapping my shoulder and pointing to the time. Today, we head out to an Early Music shop he knows about. Should be fun, and certainly less touristy. Maybe I’ll even find a decent cup of tea!
