Saturday, November 10, 2012
We Made It Here Despite Cancer & Hurricane Sandy!!!
Incredibly, in the 90th hour Lower Manhattan was without power, Bernard and I had to leave for the airport. We walked down seven flights of stairs and paid a maintenance man $40 to carry our luggage downstairs. It took longer to get into this blog -- because illness last year made it impossible to get to the computer so Blogger gave me up for dead -- than to fly to Paris! And, amazingly, our good friend Rita Horiguchi is here too. It's been a wonderful week of catching up. All too soon, tomorrow, we have to fly back to New York.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Le Bosquet, 46 Avenue Bosquet, 75007 Paris
Unfortunately, I had to cancel our 2011 trip. At approximately the time we were to be there, I wrote to Jean-Francois and the team at Le Bosquet -- the only restaurant we make a point of visiting twice in each stay -- of my sorrow at not being able to see them as hoped, and that I looked forward to a visit in 2012.
Yesterday, to my amazement, there came a snail-mailed note from Jean-Francois, in English! "I'm writing this card to you because I'd like to have news from you. I hope you're doing fine, we think about you amd hope to see you and your husband. Kind regards from all the Bosquet team."
If I've loved them before, I adore them even more madly now. When you're in Paris, be sure to have a meal there (Metro: Ecole-Militaire). The food is excellent and satisfying: beef, chicken, specials that change daily. It was where we had our first-ever dinner in Paris (my first-ever restaurant meal there). Before deciding, we looked at several restaurants in the neighborhood, choosing Le Bosquet because the customers there looked so happy. Once we ate there, we understood why.
Tell them Tiffany sent you.
Yesterday, to my amazement, there came a snail-mailed note from Jean-Francois, in English! "I'm writing this card to you because I'd like to have news from you. I hope you're doing fine, we think about you amd hope to see you and your husband. Kind regards from all the Bosquet team."
If I've loved them before, I adore them even more madly now. When you're in Paris, be sure to have a meal there (Metro: Ecole-Militaire). The food is excellent and satisfying: beef, chicken, specials that change daily. It was where we had our first-ever dinner in Paris (my first-ever restaurant meal there). Before deciding, we looked at several restaurants in the neighborhood, choosing Le Bosquet because the customers there looked so happy. Once we ate there, we understood why.
Tell them Tiffany sent you.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Yes, we're going back!
Thanks to my excellent boss Trish (right, at the farewell party for our former boss, Maria --center), who approved the time I requested, I've gone and booked another trip: Halloween to November 12th. Also in the picture is Cheryl, who so kindly checks my in-box when I'm away. Another wonderful and trusty in-box checker is Michelle, but unfortunately I don't have a photo of her. I'm grateful to all! . . . Although I may have a serious, yet-to-be diagnosed condition, what could be more life-affirming than booking a trip to Paris?
!!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Marcel Ayme (March 29, 1902 - October 14, 1957)
It was this sculpture, the "Passe-Muraille" ("The Walker Through Walls") that brought Marcel Ayme to my attention. After getting back from Paris, I read this amusing story of a man who discovers by accident his ability to go through walls. On our latest trip, we discovered and bought the movie of this story, starring the delightful comic actor Bourvil. How to find this sculpture: 1) Go to Paris. 2) Take the #12 Metro line to Abbesses. 3) On nearby Rue Yvonne Le Tac, take the Funiculaire uphill. When you get out, 4) Turn left to Place du Tertre. When you see the restaurant La Mere Catherine, go beyond that on the same street (Rue Norvins) and 5) Keep going without further turns until you see the sculpture. 
Monday, February 21, 2011
Technological Torment
After printing the following report for xeroxing, and packing each copy with a letter for sending by snail-mail to those friends who requested it, I managed to copy said report into this blog. . . but the pictures didn't show up! The other day, when I tried putting in just a single picture, there was a prolonged "Uploading pictures" message. . . but said picture didn't show up! Isn't this getting to be the refrain of a bad song? Here, without further ado, and without pictures, is the report of our 2010 trip
October 29 - November 11th, 2010
Friday, October 29th - Departure day arrives at last. The night before, I was in a tizzy trying to find the 3 x 5 cards on which I’d written my tentative plans for each day. It must have been almost 1 AM that I started recreating them from memory. I did two days worth of plans before giving up in exhaustion. Fortunately, in the bright light of the next morning, I found the original ones in the closet. They had fallen out of the carry-on bag in which I’d left them. After a quick look at my blog, http://parisphile.blogspot.com/., i.e., this blog, we went off to the Pearl Diner (last bacon-burger before Paris). The rest of the day was fairly smooth: Got a cab quickly, through check-in ditto. The titanium clip installed as a marker in my body last January didn’t set off any alarms. By the time we got to the lounge, we were hungry again. Grape vitamin water and sandwich cookies took care of that.
The in-flight movie was appropriate: The Age of Reason, starring Sophie Marceau as a woman who receives on her 40th birthday a visit from the notary she’d hired when she was seven to deliver letters to her 40-year-old self. The letters remind her of what she’d wanted, and wanted to become, back then. The notary quotes Picasso: “Become who you are.”
Dinner was our 3rd annual Air France chicken-with-tarragon-sauce.
I don’t usually sleep on flights but this time I managed to log a few hours. Amazingly, during this entire 7-hour flight, the attractive Frenchman in the window seat never once woke me to let him out to go to the bathroom! There I am, with him on my left, and my husband on my right, and the scene never got to be as French as you’d imagine . . .
Saturday, October 30th – Without any wrong turns, and just one stop to ask directions in the airport, we found Cars Air France for our ride into the city. It was still the price we’d paid last year, 15€. During the ride to the Arc de Triomphe, the sun came out
At the taxi stand, we soon got a cab to the hotel, where Sylvie and Xavier welcomed us. Another short wait was for our room – 308 – to be ready. Much to our delight, there was a welcome gift on the desk for us: chocolates.
When unpacking, Bernard found a pre-printed note from baggage inspectors saying that they had had to open his bag and break the lock (which was missing, therefore a new errand for the day was to get a replacement lock).
Once we ventured out for the day, our first stop was the Metro, where a clerk was able to activate the unlimited-ride cards (Navigo) that we’d saved from last year, complete with our photos. As they always begin a week with Monday, we had to get a few individual tickets for the weekend’s rides. The store inside the Metro station had luggage locks, so Bernard quickly got a replacement for the missing one
Back up on the street again, we took the #87 bus to Bon Marche. At their crafts department on the 3rdfloor, I got two skeins of a multi-colored shaggy yarn in autumnal shades for a scarf – simple enough to do without needing instructions I can’t return for once back in New York. (By contrast, when making a sweater, I occasionally have to revisit the ladies at Gotta Knit on 34th Street for advice, more yarn, or to have the parts sewn together.)
As we were near a stop on the #12 line, we decided to go to the Convention stop, which printed guides had said was the stop nearest to La Ruche, a beehive-shaped building once owned by a sculptor where artists including Modigliani had been allowed to live rent-free. If there’s one lesson we learned from this particular adventure, it’s that a Metro stop said to be near a destination is not necessarily near it – it’s just not as far from it as every other Metro stop in Paris. We walked and walked, and asked directions in several stores. Upon finally finding it, we saw that it wasn’t open to the public, not even an exhibit space featuring the work of the legendary artists who’d once lived there. Merde! Then we walked and walked some more in search of a Metro stop from which we could get a Metro that would eventually get us to our home stop, Ecole Militaire, near which is Le Bosquet, the traditional place for our hello-Paris dinner. It being a Saturday, Jean-Francois wasn’t there, but the food was reliably delicious.
Sunday, October 31st – While I was waiting for Bernard to get ready to go downstairs for breakfast, I was checking the Euro supply, and found on the floor a 20€ note that somehow escaped from the others. I was grateful I’d found it before we left, before the maid could find it! She might well have left it for us, being honest, but I’m glad we didn’t leave any temptation.
The hotel’s croissants, although small, are delicious. Once fortified, we set out in the glorious sunshine for the Marais. To our relief, the Disc King near the St. Paul Metro is still open; this chain seems to be shrinking after the closure of the stores near Pompidou Centre and on Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie. I resisted the temptation to buy the film 4 Garcons Dans Le Vent (literally, 4 Boys in the Wind, but better known as A Hard Day’s Night, with French subtitles). The one thing I did buy was Odette Toulemonde (I’ve since seen it; apparently they didn’t know how to end it, as they literally send Catherine Frot and Albert Dupontel – the reason I bought it – to the moon.)
At Pitchi-Poi, the waiter said it would be 40-50 minutes before we could get a table, but it turned out to be less than ten. They still had Hungarian goulash on the menu, a bread basket unlike others in Paris (matzo, pumpernickel and rye instead of baguettes), and a “cascade des sorbets”: lemon, raspberry and pear. Bernard opted for the buffet.
Right next door to Pitch-Poi, perpendicular to it on the square Marche St. Catherine, is a small bridal-dress shop. I photographed a dress that’s trimmed in black. We joked that it’s for the would-be widow.
It was a short walk from there to Rue des Rosiers and Rue des Ecouffes, which we found quickly. At the Librairie de Progres, where last year the old woman there didn’t succeed in putting through the sale of two DVD’s of Yiddish movies Bernard wanted, the sale successfully went through. We were glad that the woman we’d met last year finally made a profit from her effort.
From the St. Paul Metro, we got the #1 La Defense train to FDR, with no correspndances. No one noticed or questioned us at the Marriott on the Champs-Elysees, where we like to go sit down awhile and rest our weary feet. The only possible indicator that this was Halloween was the fellow with a large black wig and star-shaped sunglasses. On the other hand, that might just be his every-day look.
As we were still too early for dinner, Bernard agreed that we had time for Sephora. I got a facial cleanser and three lipsticks. While I was waiting on line, I was behind a young woman whose boyfriend was charging on his card over 200€ worth of cosmetics she’d chosen. Behind them was a woman on her own, also spending over 200€. My mere 50€ was comparatively Spartan. The prices that appeared on the cash register’s screen were, miraculously, lower than those shown on the shelves.
At Virgin Megastore, we found Passe-Muraille, starring the great comic actor Bourvil. It’s an adaptation of the Marcel Ayme short story, with a happier ending. To say more would be a spoiler.
We decided to have dinner on the Rue Washington, a street which intersects with the Champs-Elysees. I was hoping for Les Ecuries, the crepe place that Rita had introduced us to in 2000, where we had gone again once the following year. To my shock, the place is no more. The wagon axles on which tabletops rested are still visible through the window, but the tabletops are gone, the lights are out, and there wasn’t a soul in sight in there. (I’m so sorry, Rita!) Instead, we went to Le Weekend, which we’d tried for the first time last year. No sooner had I put the last forkful of steak béarnaise into my mouth when thud: a drunk fell across my plate. I was so relieved he didn’t get sick or do anything gross, and that there wasn’t any food left on my plate for him to land on – nothing got wasted but the drunk -- that I could honestly say, “Pas d’ probleme,” each time he tapped me on the shoulder from behind after that, saying, “Je suis desole.” Following that, “chocolate mousse duo,” two little cupfuls of chocolate mousse.
Back home on the #80 bus, one of the reasons we like to go to the Champs-Elysees on a Sunday; it lets us off right across the street.
Monday, November 1st – Beginning our day at the St. Michel Metro, we went to Ile St. Louis for lunch at Café Med. The wait for a table was only ten minutes, which was good because they don’t have a foyer where you can sit and wait; you have to stand out on the sidewalk. Bernard chose a 3-course menu formule, but I had just trenche de boeuf with peppercorn sauce, no other courses. As always on Ile St. Louis, it’s a pleasure to look at the stores on both sides of Rue St. Louis en L’Ile, the island’s one street with stores.
On the other side of the Seine, at Esmeralda, I got a new umbrella, which is proving to be more durable than my two previous Paris-bought umbrellas, and a glittery pink Paris change purse for my Euro coins.
From there, we stopped at Shakespeare & Co to say hello to Sylvia Beach Whitman, who invited us to a tea party some days away, but on a day when we wouldn’t still be in Paris. I was sorry, because I’d like to get better acquainted with the Whitmans. (Her father is the legendary George Whitman, who had founded that English-speaking refuge – and hostel for starving writers – on the Left Bank sixty years ago. He just turned ninety-seven. Sylvia is twenty-nine, and now in charge of the day-to-day running of the store and its author events.)
It was a fairly quick trip (#4 to #8 to #3 Gallieni) to Rue du Quatre Septembre for Passage Choiseul. Unfortunately, it was closed for All Saints’ Day, so we walked from there to Galeries Lafayette to get gifts for various friends in New York. At Galeries Lafayette, I invariably give in to the impulse to photograph their Christmas tree.
From L’Opera, it’s a simple five stops home, for a bit of rest before our dinner at Café du Marche in the neighborhood: poulet roti with potatoes, profiteroles. Dinner for two came to only 32€70.
Tuesday, November 2nd – On the Metro platform at our starting stop, Ecole Militaire, as he was boarding the train, Bernard noticed right away that his wallet was missing. He grabbled the wrist of the little thief (who looked about twelve) and pulled her back onto the train to keep her from escaping. A good Samaritan – a young woman nearer to her than I was -- shook her until the wallet fell to the floor. This not only spared us the loss of his debit card, but also the hassle of reporting the loss of various cards to those who’d issued them, which would have consumed a precious Paris day. How that little thief knew which pocket to pick, and got through his trench coat and jacket to reach said pocket, and so swiftly, we’ll never know. He hadn’t taken his wallet out so she couldn’t have seen where he put it back.
At the BNP Paribas Bank on St. Germain, I tried to see the woman I had corresponded with by e-mail earlier this year, who had said that they open non-resident accounts. Just days before our departure, I e-mailed her the hotel’s phone number so that she could let me know if November 2nd wasn’t a good day for her. There having been no call, we went to the bank. She kindly came out to see us, if only to say that she had meetings all day and to make an appointment for the next day at 3.
We browsed awhile across Blvd. St. Germain at the bookstore L’Ecume des Pages (the Foam of Pages), where we bought birthday cards for one another.
In the St.Germain des Pres Metro station, Bernard’s Navigo card (unlimited ride) had to be validated again, by the man in the booth, and we were able to try again for Passage Choiseul. The holiday over, it was open again, much to our relief. Yesterday we didn’t know if it was closed because of the holiday or if the whole of Passage Choiseul was a closed-down ruin. Bernard was disappointed that the store where he had gotten some good DVDs last year, no longer has anything of interest to him. I, however, continue to love the art-supply store Lavrut. I got two tubes of water-colors (slipping up and somehow getting a second tube of Scarlet Lake) and a postcard-sized book of water-color paper.
Having gone to Galeries Lafayette yesterday, this time we went to its neighbor, Printemps, which has a floor of luxury jewelry stores, the floor where the bathrooms are. We were dismayed to learn that you have to pay there (2€) to use the bathrooms.
We asked where the DVD department was. They don’t have one any more. The security guard near the corner exit pointed the way to FNAC.
FNAC, I was amused to see, has La Reine Margot, a movie we once saw about the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, shelved among Comedy-Dramas.
As dinner would be in the Grands Boulevards neighborhood, we went first to the Virgin Megastore there. I got a few pens in colors I don’t find here, plus our Paris wall calendar for 2011.
Dinner at the delicious and low-cost Chartier was, as expected, wonderful: “rumsteack au poivre” with frites and coupe de crème chantilly. Although we usually glance at those at adjacent tables, sometimes chatting with them, this time we kept our eyes firmly on one another or on our food, careful not to look at the table immediately to my right/Bernard’s left: two young German-speaking men kept reaching across to grab one another’s hands or to kiss.
Back on the platform at the Grands Boulevards station, we waited and waited and waited for a train. Then there was a repetitious recorded announcement saying that because of some “incident,” service on the #8 line was suspended between Concorde and Republique. That’s several stops on either side of Grands Boulevards! As our cards are “unlimited ride,” I knew it wouldn’t cost anything to get back in so I went back to the booth to ask if service would resume tonight or if it was a lost cause. The woman merely shrugged. Said she didn’t know. When I went back to the platform and reported this to Bernard, we decided to get a cab home. By then it was close to 11.
At the cab stand, a young British fellow started to talk to us. We asked him if he too had come from the Metro platform. “No, I’ve been jumping around on a stage all evening, in The Italian Straw Hat.” He said that if he could persuade the couple who were next in line after him, and before us, to share his cab, the next cab would be ours. Very nice of him! It turned out that he could, and that we didn’t have long to wait for the next cab. Past the Louvre and over the bridge to the Left Bank, we saw, lit up for night, the beautiful landmarks of Paris.
Wednesday, November 3rd – I asked Xavier about Line 8. He said it should be back to normal after last night. That proved to be the case.
Our first destination was the Concorde area, three stops from home on Line 8. We had a bit of time before our appointment at the bank, so we went first to W.H. Smith, where I chose the book that would be my birthday present from Bernard, A CERTAIN JE NE SAIS QUOI: The Ideal Guide to Sounding, Acting and Shrugging Like the French by Charles Timoney.
Around the corner on Rue Royale, I went into Swatch while Bernard waited for me outside. I needed the strap on my watch to be fixed with the addition of that little red thing that the strap goes through to keep it close to your wrist instead of catching on everything you handle. That was done, free. I also hoped to get a backup of the watch I’m wearing, in case anything happens to this one (which is already a backup of the first-ever one I bought years ago). It was disappointing to hear that that design had been discontinued.
We took the Metro to St. Germain. Still early for our appointment, we browsed for awhile in the bookstore across the street, La Hune, which we had previously neglected in favor of the warmer-looking L’Ecume des Pages. At La Hune, I read a lot of – but didn’t buy – DESSINEZ-MOI UN PARISIEN by Olivier Marigny, As it was the result of a blog, it gave me hope that perhaps my blog might one day become a book. Anyway, I was amused to learn that Parisians are fascinated by New York (which the seatmate to my left, coming here, had confirmed). They get their notions of New York from such movies as You’ve Got Mail. It’s not surprising – after all, Americans’ views of Paris also come from movies.
At the bank, we were shown to an upstairs office at the end of the hall. The windows are large, letting in a lot of sunlight, so the atmosphere seemed warm and friendly. Mme L told me that their rules had changed in September, so she had sent back the documents I had sent to her in June: my check, a xerox of my passport, and a letter from my present bank saying that our relationship had been a good one in the many years my account was with them. She explained that since I’d sent all that, they established a minimum of 4,000€00.—lots more than the check I’d sent There would be a monthly maintenance fee of 8€00, and each of us would get a debit card on which we could each debit a monthly maximum of 1,000€00. She wrote down different account plans for us. We thanked her for her generosity with her time, and left.
When the appointment was still ahead of us, we hadn’t wanted to get involved with lunch, which could make us late; we didn’t know how long it would take to get service. We therefore postponed it until after we left the bank . .. about 3:30. We were ravenous! We therefore didn’t spend much time searching for La Palette on Rue de Seine, a number of blocks away from Boulevard St. Germain. Instead, stopping at the first pleasant-looking café we came upon – Au Chai de l’Abbaye on Rue de Bourbon off Rue due Buci.
Back on Boulevard St. Germain, we came upon a cane store. After Saturday’s ordeal of a walk, Bernard was curious about canes so we went inside. A woman with a large – and very quiet - dog showed him various canes, and offered us coffee or tea. We declined, with thanks, having just had lunch. The canes were all several hundred Euros, so we left empty-handed.
A walk along St. Germain to Rue du Bac, where I remembered having gotten a #69 Gambetta bus to the Marais during a previous stay, led to our return to the Marais. We got off at Hotel de Ville, from which it was easy to find the Movie Store across from Pompidou Centre, and then the DVD store on Rue St. Martin.
Also on St. Martin was a pharmacy, where I wanted to stop for Kleenex and cough drops for my cold Their PhytAlma cough drops are the shape and consistency of the old Pine Brothers cough drops, and taste like Pine Brothers Wild Cherry with some other flavor I can’t identify, added in.
As the #69 bus took us across the Seine toward home, I noticed that it went along Quai Voltaire, on which is the art-supply store Sennelier, where a number of famous 19th-century artists bought their supplies. Okay. Now that we know how to get there with a minimum of walking, we can visit it on another trip.
Dinner was in our neighborhood: Comptoir du 7eme: Poulet-roti and fries, coffee ice cream and whipped cream.
Thursday, November 4th – Our day got off to a cheery start with a welcome from Sophie, who was circulating in the lobby while we were at breakfast (which, I was glad to see, included croissants, baguette, and melon cubes).
For a trip to the Marais, on a weekday the way to go is the #69 bus to Bastille. First stop: the usual pharmacy for our annual purchase of the year’s supply of toothbrushes. The man didn’t seem to remember us this time, but he was surrounded with numerous customers, and a woman assistant handled our debit-card transaction.
The first time I wrote down what we did next (“Went to the Place des Vosges and sat and rested”), I wrote, “Sat and rescued,” but “rescued” is true too, thinking of our feet.
Eventually, we made a complete circuit of the square, then connected with Rue des Francs-Bourgeois and walked in the direction of the Pompidou Centre. On the way, we came upon the Filofax store, which I went into for a few packets of colored paper for my notebook, while Bernard waited outside. Much to my relief, the button that flew off my coat while I was in there hadn’t hit anyone.
At Le Celtic, we stopped for omelettes, hot chocolate and salad.
There’s a place called Design Store on Rue St. Martin, where we found a sound effects box. With the press of a button, you get applause, laughter, belches, and gunshots, among other sounds. We were tempted but resisted – didn’t spend the 11€90 after all.
Later, we went via Metro to FDR, so that we could have our honorary anniversary dinner at Boeuf Sur Le Toit. It has to be “honorary” because my workload never permits me to be away in December for our actual anniversary. This time: rare round steak, fries, lettuce, then sorbets: lime, mango, and passion fruit.
Friday, November 5th – The Musee de la Vie Romantique on Rue Chaptal (Metro: Pigalle) is having an exhibit on loan from a Russian museum, of which I was most impressed by the self-portrait by Sofia V. Sadkova-Kayline (1825-1867) and the detailed pictures of interiors. Those interiors might first be thought to be museum rooms but no, the tags underneath identify them as people’s homes.
From there we went to Grands Boulevards, and made it just in time at Sannine, before they closed for the between-lunch-and-dinner break. We like to have a Lebanese lunch at least once per stay. They have a great special of three kebabs—parslied beef, lamb, and chicken. They make it unnecessary to choose just one!
Another place I like to be reliable about visiting during each stay: Bresilophile, a beautiful source of minerals. This time, I got two citrines.
Once we finished going through the Passages, we were still too early for dinner, so we decided to find a bus on Rue du Faubourg Montmartre and take it to the end of the line, just to see where it goes. Today, it was the #74 which took us beyond tourist-path Paris. The destination named on the front of the bus was Barges of the Seine, which seemed romantic. We didn’t see any barges. What we saw looked much like a housing development in Queens. The driver got off, went inside a building, and eventually came out to make the return trip. We were at the stop waiting for him. The point at which we left was on the same boulevard as the one nearest which we first boarded the 74, but near a Metro stop, Richelieu-Druot, that’s one stop closer to home than the Grands Boulevards stop.
After a brief stopover at home to freshen up, we went back to Grands Boulevards for dinner at New Kashmir in the Passage des Panoramas, which we had discovered last year. Had shrimp curry and lemon and mango sorbets.
A newsstand nearby had a great price on postcards: 16 for 4€
Saturday, November 6th – I’ve lived to reach another birthday, with Bernard celebrating with me, thank God. That our celebrating is in Paris is icing on the birthday cake . . . and all the [unspecified number of] candles.
A quick check of the hotel computer got me a message from Rita. It’s always heartening to be remembered.
The #8 to the #12 to Abbesses got us to, first of all, the “I Love You” Wall, where we photographed one another. From there it was a short walk to the Boutique des Anges. After buying a few angelic gifts, we took the funiculaire up. At the Place du Tertre’s tourist office, I asked about the Musee de Montmartre. I had read online that it was in trouble, that the City of Paris wanted to close it and move its collections to a single room in the Musee Carnavalet, the museum devoted to the history of Paris. Much to my relief, they said that it still exists. When we got to the large house on Rue Cortot where the museum is – once the home of a member of Moliere’s company who, like Moliere, had died during a performance of The Imaginary Invalid – I expressed delight that the museum continues to exist. The man behind the counter said that it was thanks to private funding. It’s good to know that others feel strongly that Montmartre collections are displayed to best advantage in Montmartre. A downstairs room had an exhibit about the Franco-Prussian War, and an upstairs room featured the posters of Jules Cheret. (In my later attempt to reproduce the one below, from the Dover CD-ROM book Maitres de l’Affiche – Masters of the Poster – I discovered that my disk was cracked. I wrote to Dover Publications asking how much a replacement disk would be, as I didn’t need the accompanying book too. The lovely folks at Dover said it would be free, and they sent me a complete CD-ROM set, disk with book.) That’s why it’s possible to show you a sample of Cheret’s work. Don’t you get the impression that when you look away, she goes on dancing, skirts swirling around her?
As we were leaving the museum, we prolonged our stay a little with a look around the gift shop, where I bought a Chat Noir pen.
I had wanted to photograph my grave – or, rather, the corner of the Cimitiere St. Vincent (near the Lamarck-Caulaincourt stop of both the Montmartrobus and the Metro) where I want to be scattered, the corner diagonally opposite the entrance, where the graves of Theophile Alexandre Steinlen and Maurice Utrillo meet, perpendicular to one another, but the timing and geography just didn’t work out this time.
After the funiculaire landed at the base of the hill, we found fairly quickly Le Ronsard, the Montmartre lunch spot we favor. After omelettes and sorbets (for me, anyway: pear and raspberry), we browsed in a bookstore on Rue Yvonne Le Tac. The same street has a branch of the accessory store Takara, where I bought an orange and black bracelet.
For a brief rest, we took the same Metro lines back home. Bernard was relieved that his laundry was delivered to our room, so he would have something to wear tomorrow.
Before we headed back to Montmartre for dinner, we photographed one another in the hotel’s living room/computer room:
At La Mere Catherine, France Fannell sang “La Vie en Rose,” “Trois Petites Notes de Musique,” “La Mer,” “Mon Amant de St. Jean,” “Hymne a L’Amour,” “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” (without my having to request it, but it was heard faintly, when she and the pianist were in the other room), an encore of “Hymne a L’Amour,” and “Padam.” It was a pleasure to see her again.
My dinner of chicken in cider, Normandy style, and profiteroles with plenty of whipped cream, was perfect.
Sunday, November 7th – Breakfast at the hotel was especially filling: scrambled eggs and bacon as well as croissants (of which, I got the hotel’s last for today). Sufficiently fortified, we set out for the Musee D’Orsay. There was a very long line there, snaking back and forth – yes, in the rain. I asked a security guard where one pays admission, I learned the reason for the large turnout: It being the first Sunday of the month, admission was free.
They had an enormous exhibition of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist works, more than just the usual large amount on their fifth floor, which was in the process of being remodeled. For this show, works were borrowed from other museums as well. I was glad I had done a lot of picture-taking there on our previous visit, as that’s no longer permitted.
Across the street at a café called Les Deux Musees, I had a salade mixte and Orangina. When I pointed out to the waiter that he had initially misunderstood my order, he said, “Please, my life is difficult enough.” I said I’d work something out later, which is why I ordered the Orangina. Eventually, everyone was happy.
On our way to the Metro to go to the Champs-Elysees, we stopped in a souvenir shop where they had beautiful tree ornaments of famous paintings. While we browsed, their sound system played the Beatles’ “Let it Be.” I remember thinking, on a previous visit, when a singer on the steps outside Sacre Coeur sang the same song, “There’s nothing I’d rather ‘let be’ than time in Paris.”
From the Solferino stop, which is the one for the D’Orsay, we took the Porte de la Chappelle #12 two stops to Concorde, then got the La Defense #1 two stops to FDR.
At FNAC we succeeded in getting Nous Irons a Monte Carlo, an early Audrey Hepburn movie that’s the French remake of her Monte Carlo Baby movie done shortly before. As her French was fluent, she was able to play the same character in the remake.
Once again we enjoyed the hospitality of the Marriott: rest for our feet, then freshening up. After we left the Marriott, there was no further rain . . . at least for this day.
Dinner was further down the Champs-Elysees, at the Bistro Romain. Although it’s predominantly Italian, I was able to get a meal without cheese: entrecote with frites, then chocolate and coffee ice cream. Bernard’s choice also happened to be cheese-free, but not chosen for that reason: a sea-food platter.
At the Rond Point – the opposite end of the Champs-Elysees from the Arc de Triomphe – we got a #80 bus home quickly. Of all the buses we ride there, that one takes us closest to our door, across the street, at the nearer corner.
Later, I figured out that our Navigo (unlimited ride) cards enabled us to save the equivalent of $59.50 in bus and Metro fares.
Monday, November 8th – Bernard’s birthday – always a day of thanksgiving that he’s with me for another one. Not that the hotel folks knew the significance of the day, but there were more croissants available, as if in his honor.
I was pleased to find at the hotel’s computer that two e-mails had come from Rita, plus others from Mary and Jacqui.
Bernard’s choice of destination for the day portion of our fun was the Canal St. Martin area, to see if the café we had enjoyed a few years ago had reopened. It’s now a pizza joint. That being the case, we had to choose somewhere else. A coffee shop near the Jacques Bonsergeant Metro, Le Relais Magenta, conveniently minimized our time in the rain. Its back room filled with a single table was given over to our use. Our plain omelets with salad came to only 21€.
Deciding that this was no day for exploring the streets around the canal, Bernard said we should do something I had suggested for another day: Viaduc des Arts. The Place d’Italie #5 one stop got us to the Creteil #8 to Montgallet, one of the two stops named for this destination. As there are three stops between Montgallet and Bastille, the other stop, I warned Bernard that the walk to see it all could be a long one. Once we got out of the Metro at Montgallet, we saw one computer-parts store after another! At the last one, we stopped to ask directions to the Viaduc des Arts. Someone walked out of the store with me to point the general direction, but he couldn’t see how far it would be. When we came to an enormous store called Surcoeuf, which specializes in computers – it’s about a long block from end to end on the street level, and has a basement as well – we asked again. Has this store replaced the Viaduc des Arts? They weren’t aware of the place at all even though it turned out to be just a few paces farther along!
This former viaduct was now a series of artisans’ shops having only the street doors, no central corridor out of the weather. The various artisans we saw through the large picture windows were intent on their crafts, and no doubt didn’t want the interruption of visitors.
When we came upon a café called Le Jardin L’Arrosoir, with a large brick wall parallel to the picture window we looked into, we stopped in for hot drinks, grateful for the rest for our feet.
From there, it wasn’t long before we found the Bastille area. Amazingly, the FNAC adjacent to the Bastille Opera was out of business. Another DVD store nearby satisfied Bernard’s craving to browse DVD’s for awhile, before we got a #69 bus from the Birague stop back home.
Once we got off, we were right near the beautiful Bourdonnais Pharmacy (gorgeous woodwork!), where I got more cough drops. The woman graciously said she didn’t mind breaking a 50€ bill for a 6€ purchase.
Back home, we freshened up and changed for dinner, then set out for Odeon and Le Procope. On Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie, I couldn’t believe my eyes: Under the “Le Procope” sign was a place called Kickers. Closed. Had Le Procope, established in 1686, gone out of business? Just a little farther on was another overhead sign: “Salon de The [accent aigu].” Under that, we found Le Procope, the place we know and love. We were shown to a small dining room, among their many, which had only four tables. Of these, only one was in use besides ours.
Their food (entrecote, frites, then chocolate ice cream), as always, was excellent!
Tuesday, November 9th – More rain. We waited it out for a little while with a prolonged breakfast at the hotel: 2 croissants, scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit salad.
Eventually, we ventured out, after asking at the desk about a bus to St. Michel (the #87 from Ecole Militaire). I had thought that if we could just find the Luxembourg Gardens, we’d find Boulevard St. Michel. Turned out that in asking about the Luxembourg Gardens, I had asked the driver the wrong question. He told us to get off at a stop where the Luxembourg Gardens was on our right. Across the street, to our left, was the Duroc Metro stop. This told me that we were at the Montparnasse end of the Luxembourg Gardens, or, we’d have to go all the way through the Gardens, in the rain, before we saw the Boulevard St. Michel. In better weather, we wouldn’t have minded. I decided that, instead, we should wait for the next #87 bus and ask for the Boulevard St.Michel. The driver of said ext bus said “Cluny.” That stop got us not only to the Boulevard St. Michel, but to that part of it that was right near Monoprix and the Gibert Joseph stores (DVD’s, books, stationery – three separate stores: paradise!). At Monoprix, we got a much-needed tube of toothpaste, Elmex, flavored with apple (“Odeur (Pomme)”). At Gibert Joseph, I was tempted to get TRICOT POUR NULS (KNITTING FOR DUMMIES) to learn how such standard knitting instructions as “cast on” and “bind off” are expressed in French, but the weight of the book helped me decide not to spend the 11€90.
A couple of blocks down Boulevard St. Michel, we stopped for lunch at Le Lutece: plain omelette.
As it was still too early for dinner, and still raining, we decided to take a nearby bus to the end of its route just to see where it goes. We took the #27 d’Ivry bus. I had read in a magazine article that “d’Ivry” was one of the Chinatowns of Paris. Glimpsing a Metro station of that name near the turnaround point was our only clue that we were near the end of the route; we saw nothing remotely Asian. The return bus to Boulevard St. Michel left us one block from Rue des Ecoles – I learned from asking at a hotel between the bus stop and the street we sought – where we would get the #87 back to Ecole Militaire.
Dinner at Comptoir du 7eme was Supreme de Volaille with mushrooms, noodles, and a cream sauce so rich I decided to do without dessert.
Wednesday, November 10th – Our last whole day in Paris, and mercifully there was no rain. Between breakfast and our trip to Avenue Montaigne, I made a quick check of my blog at the computer downstairs in the lounge. Two comments from Rita.
The #80 bus to the Francois Premier bus stop got us a couple of blocks past the Theatre des Champs-Elysees [above] (the previous stop, Alma-Marceau, right after the bridge, would have gotten us closer), to see what they’re showing these days. Mainly symphonic and soloists’ concerts. This is the theater where the Revue Negre made a star of Josephine Baker, and where, in the movie Avenue Montaigne, Albert Dupontel as a concert pianist resumed his concert after removing his jacket, tie, and shirt. Everything on the current posters was for events after our departure, or we might have rushed right in and bought tickets for something.
I don’t remember whether the aforesaid movie changed the name of the nearby café, but it’s where Cecile de France got a job waiting tables when she first came to Paris from the provinces, and met such regulars as the actress played by Valerie Lemercier, who ordered salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing on the side – she liked to drink it.
We walked a number of blocks to the Champs-Elysees, looking at the decidedly expensive menu at the Hotel Plaza Athenee, and other costly places.
On the Champs-Elysees itself, I was able to get a good pair of panty hose at Monoprix. Not knowing my size in that line, I didn’t get more than one pair, which I now regret. They’re so strong, I still have them! We stopped at the Marriott so that I could put them on.
It was only in the few inches we traveled between the Marriott and Sephora that there was any rain that day. Only because it was raining did we duck into Sephora, where I resisted various temptations. After that, the rest of the day was clear. On our way to the Metro (#1 Chateau de Vincennes to Louvre/Palais Royal), a woman near us picked up something from the sidewalk – a gold ring – and held it out to me. She said it was too small for her fingers, which she proceeded to demonstrate, therefore I could have it, with her best wishes for luck with our marriage. And could we give her something so that she could get a bite to eat? I gave her four Euros, which still cost me less than other situations I could think of.
At the Palais Royal, where we made a complete circuit of the arcade with shops, we saw that the colored filters were no longer in the plank fence around the garden; the striking photos I took last year were no longer possible.
As we continued to the Rue de Rivoli, I was watching for Salon de The, for whose café liegeois (coffee ice cream, coffee sauce, and whipped cream) I was salivating. We walked and walked but didn’t see it – could they be out of business? -- so I decided to backtrack a little to Angelina. There was less of a wait for a table than usual, probably because it was an odd hour, after the lunch rush. The ice cream portion – coffee, chocolate, and vanilla, with whipped cream (o the whipped cream!) -- was so enormous that Bernard had to help me. What a rarity that is!
After we left, and went in the direction of Concorde, we eventually saw Salon de The. Well, the good news is, they continue to exist. The bad news: I was already too full of ice cream to want to go in. Next time . . .
One more browse at W.H. Smith. I started reading the Victor Legris mystery by Claude Izner, THE MONTMARTRE INVESTIGATION (which I would later finish in New York). . In a factual note about fin de siecle entertainers in Montmartre, after the end of the story (at which I swear I did not peek), there’s a mention of a unique fellow who could fart the Marseillaise at will. Incroyable! Bernard bought a DVD called Female Agents, an excellent if bloody movie in which Sophie Marceau stars as a real-life heroine of the Resistance.
Around the corner, as we walked along Rue Royale toward the Madeleine, we found a courtyard of upscale shops including Chanel, the Passage Royal (no “e”). All of them were clothing shops except for one devoted to cookware and a café.
The other side of Rue Royale has Laduree, a dessert café famous for its macaroons. I remember a photo of it in the book I SEE RUDE PEOPLE by Amy Alkon; the photo is of a woman changing her baby in the middle of a central table!
At the Concorde Metro, Bernard, miraculously, had no trouble getting his Navigo card to work.
Tonight being the eve of our departure, dinner was at Le Bosquet. Fortunately, it’s a weeknight, so Jean-Francois was there, welcoming us heartily. Their poulet roti (for me) and duck (for Bernard) are wonderful. Jean-Francois, sitting at a table across the room with guests, mouthed “Bon voyage” as we put on our coats.
Thursday, November 11th – We had another reason to be happy that the hotel included breakfasts in our room rate this year: We didn’t have to go out in the rain for breakfast. Yes, more rain! But this being our day to leave Paris, I wasn’t entirely sorry that the weather wasn’t better; sun would have seemed to taunt us.
In one of those coincidences between book and reality that I love so much, in THE AMBASSADORS, I reached page 308. Our room number. I know, I know, that’s really reaching!
The shuttle to take us to the airport was early. Owing to the hotel stops for others riding in the shuttle with us, the driver went through Montparnasse, past the famous cafes on four corners: the Dome, the Select, the Rotonde and the Coupole.
We got to our flight with plenty of time to spare, enough time for us to polish off a can of Pringles potato chips. Who knew how long we’d have to wait for dinner after the seat-belt sign went out?
Dinner was risotto with mushrooms. Not bad! Also enjoyable: talking to our seatmate, Ersiline Callender, a middle school guidance counselor who had just come from Spain. All she had seen of Paris was the airport!
In front of us was a cute little boy of about three, who kept looking at us over the top of the seat back, and giggling. He’d duck down, then come up again to see us and repeat the giggles.
We got a taxi quickly. When we went in the basement entrance, a man we had never seen before said, “Come right this way? What’s your floor?” Well, I may have gotten alert over nothing, but the book THE GIFT OF FEAR by Gavin de Becker tells us to be wary of anyone who seems to take charge of you, so I pressed one. Suddenly, checking for our mail seemed all-important, although Bernard had left instructions to hold the mail until we picked it up, but I just didn’t want this stranger knowing so much as our floor, much less opening our door to let us in, or helping us with our bags. Much to my surprise, the mail had been delivered! In lockers. Lots of it, including birthday packages. Yes, this happy birthday is lasting a little longer . . .
October 29 - November 11th, 2010
Friday, October 29th - Departure day arrives at last. The night before, I was in a tizzy trying to find the 3 x 5 cards on which I’d written my tentative plans for each day. It must have been almost 1 AM that I started recreating them from memory. I did two days worth of plans before giving up in exhaustion. Fortunately, in the bright light of the next morning, I found the original ones in the closet. They had fallen out of the carry-on bag in which I’d left them. After a quick look at my blog, http://parisphile.blogspot.com/., i.e., this blog, we went off to the Pearl Diner (last bacon-burger before Paris). The rest of the day was fairly smooth: Got a cab quickly, through check-in ditto. The titanium clip installed as a marker in my body last January didn’t set off any alarms. By the time we got to the lounge, we were hungry again. Grape vitamin water and sandwich cookies took care of that.
The in-flight movie was appropriate: The Age of Reason, starring Sophie Marceau as a woman who receives on her 40th birthday a visit from the notary she’d hired when she was seven to deliver letters to her 40-year-old self. The letters remind her of what she’d wanted, and wanted to become, back then. The notary quotes Picasso: “Become who you are.”
Dinner was our 3rd annual Air France chicken-with-tarragon-sauce.
I don’t usually sleep on flights but this time I managed to log a few hours. Amazingly, during this entire 7-hour flight, the attractive Frenchman in the window seat never once woke me to let him out to go to the bathroom! There I am, with him on my left, and my husband on my right, and the scene never got to be as French as you’d imagine . . .
Saturday, October 30th – Without any wrong turns, and just one stop to ask directions in the airport, we found Cars Air France for our ride into the city. It was still the price we’d paid last year, 15€. During the ride to the Arc de Triomphe, the sun came out
At the taxi stand, we soon got a cab to the hotel, where Sylvie and Xavier welcomed us. Another short wait was for our room – 308 – to be ready. Much to our delight, there was a welcome gift on the desk for us: chocolates.
When unpacking, Bernard found a pre-printed note from baggage inspectors saying that they had had to open his bag and break the lock (which was missing, therefore a new errand for the day was to get a replacement lock).
Once we ventured out for the day, our first stop was the Metro, where a clerk was able to activate the unlimited-ride cards (Navigo) that we’d saved from last year, complete with our photos. As they always begin a week with Monday, we had to get a few individual tickets for the weekend’s rides. The store inside the Metro station had luggage locks, so Bernard quickly got a replacement for the missing one
Back up on the street again, we took the #87 bus to Bon Marche. At their crafts department on the 3rdfloor, I got two skeins of a multi-colored shaggy yarn in autumnal shades for a scarf – simple enough to do without needing instructions I can’t return for once back in New York. (By contrast, when making a sweater, I occasionally have to revisit the ladies at Gotta Knit on 34th Street for advice, more yarn, or to have the parts sewn together.)
As we were near a stop on the #12 line, we decided to go to the Convention stop, which printed guides had said was the stop nearest to La Ruche, a beehive-shaped building once owned by a sculptor where artists including Modigliani had been allowed to live rent-free. If there’s one lesson we learned from this particular adventure, it’s that a Metro stop said to be near a destination is not necessarily near it – it’s just not as far from it as every other Metro stop in Paris. We walked and walked, and asked directions in several stores. Upon finally finding it, we saw that it wasn’t open to the public, not even an exhibit space featuring the work of the legendary artists who’d once lived there. Merde! Then we walked and walked some more in search of a Metro stop from which we could get a Metro that would eventually get us to our home stop, Ecole Militaire, near which is Le Bosquet, the traditional place for our hello-Paris dinner. It being a Saturday, Jean-Francois wasn’t there, but the food was reliably delicious.
Sunday, October 31st – While I was waiting for Bernard to get ready to go downstairs for breakfast, I was checking the Euro supply, and found on the floor a 20€ note that somehow escaped from the others. I was grateful I’d found it before we left, before the maid could find it! She might well have left it for us, being honest, but I’m glad we didn’t leave any temptation.
The hotel’s croissants, although small, are delicious. Once fortified, we set out in the glorious sunshine for the Marais. To our relief, the Disc King near the St. Paul Metro is still open; this chain seems to be shrinking after the closure of the stores near Pompidou Centre and on Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie. I resisted the temptation to buy the film 4 Garcons Dans Le Vent (literally, 4 Boys in the Wind, but better known as A Hard Day’s Night, with French subtitles). The one thing I did buy was Odette Toulemonde (I’ve since seen it; apparently they didn’t know how to end it, as they literally send Catherine Frot and Albert Dupontel – the reason I bought it – to the moon.)
At Pitchi-Poi, the waiter said it would be 40-50 minutes before we could get a table, but it turned out to be less than ten. They still had Hungarian goulash on the menu, a bread basket unlike others in Paris (matzo, pumpernickel and rye instead of baguettes), and a “cascade des sorbets”: lemon, raspberry and pear. Bernard opted for the buffet.
Right next door to Pitch-Poi, perpendicular to it on the square Marche St. Catherine, is a small bridal-dress shop. I photographed a dress that’s trimmed in black. We joked that it’s for the would-be widow.
It was a short walk from there to Rue des Rosiers and Rue des Ecouffes, which we found quickly. At the Librairie de Progres, where last year the old woman there didn’t succeed in putting through the sale of two DVD’s of Yiddish movies Bernard wanted, the sale successfully went through. We were glad that the woman we’d met last year finally made a profit from her effort.
From the St. Paul Metro, we got the #1 La Defense train to FDR, with no correspndances. No one noticed or questioned us at the Marriott on the Champs-Elysees, where we like to go sit down awhile and rest our weary feet. The only possible indicator that this was Halloween was the fellow with a large black wig and star-shaped sunglasses. On the other hand, that might just be his every-day look.
As we were still too early for dinner, Bernard agreed that we had time for Sephora. I got a facial cleanser and three lipsticks. While I was waiting on line, I was behind a young woman whose boyfriend was charging on his card over 200€ worth of cosmetics she’d chosen. Behind them was a woman on her own, also spending over 200€. My mere 50€ was comparatively Spartan. The prices that appeared on the cash register’s screen were, miraculously, lower than those shown on the shelves.
At Virgin Megastore, we found Passe-Muraille, starring the great comic actor Bourvil. It’s an adaptation of the Marcel Ayme short story, with a happier ending. To say more would be a spoiler.
We decided to have dinner on the Rue Washington, a street which intersects with the Champs-Elysees. I was hoping for Les Ecuries, the crepe place that Rita had introduced us to in 2000, where we had gone again once the following year. To my shock, the place is no more. The wagon axles on which tabletops rested are still visible through the window, but the tabletops are gone, the lights are out, and there wasn’t a soul in sight in there. (I’m so sorry, Rita!) Instead, we went to Le Weekend, which we’d tried for the first time last year. No sooner had I put the last forkful of steak béarnaise into my mouth when thud: a drunk fell across my plate. I was so relieved he didn’t get sick or do anything gross, and that there wasn’t any food left on my plate for him to land on – nothing got wasted but the drunk -- that I could honestly say, “Pas d’ probleme,” each time he tapped me on the shoulder from behind after that, saying, “Je suis desole.” Following that, “chocolate mousse duo,” two little cupfuls of chocolate mousse.
Back home on the #80 bus, one of the reasons we like to go to the Champs-Elysees on a Sunday; it lets us off right across the street.
Monday, November 1st – Beginning our day at the St. Michel Metro, we went to Ile St. Louis for lunch at Café Med. The wait for a table was only ten minutes, which was good because they don’t have a foyer where you can sit and wait; you have to stand out on the sidewalk. Bernard chose a 3-course menu formule, but I had just trenche de boeuf with peppercorn sauce, no other courses. As always on Ile St. Louis, it’s a pleasure to look at the stores on both sides of Rue St. Louis en L’Ile, the island’s one street with stores.
On the other side of the Seine, at Esmeralda, I got a new umbrella, which is proving to be more durable than my two previous Paris-bought umbrellas, and a glittery pink Paris change purse for my Euro coins.
From there, we stopped at Shakespeare & Co to say hello to Sylvia Beach Whitman, who invited us to a tea party some days away, but on a day when we wouldn’t still be in Paris. I was sorry, because I’d like to get better acquainted with the Whitmans. (Her father is the legendary George Whitman, who had founded that English-speaking refuge – and hostel for starving writers – on the Left Bank sixty years ago. He just turned ninety-seven. Sylvia is twenty-nine, and now in charge of the day-to-day running of the store and its author events.)
It was a fairly quick trip (#4 to #8 to #3 Gallieni) to Rue du Quatre Septembre for Passage Choiseul. Unfortunately, it was closed for All Saints’ Day, so we walked from there to Galeries Lafayette to get gifts for various friends in New York. At Galeries Lafayette, I invariably give in to the impulse to photograph their Christmas tree.
From L’Opera, it’s a simple five stops home, for a bit of rest before our dinner at Café du Marche in the neighborhood: poulet roti with potatoes, profiteroles. Dinner for two came to only 32€70.
Tuesday, November 2nd – On the Metro platform at our starting stop, Ecole Militaire, as he was boarding the train, Bernard noticed right away that his wallet was missing. He grabbled the wrist of the little thief (who looked about twelve) and pulled her back onto the train to keep her from escaping. A good Samaritan – a young woman nearer to her than I was -- shook her until the wallet fell to the floor. This not only spared us the loss of his debit card, but also the hassle of reporting the loss of various cards to those who’d issued them, which would have consumed a precious Paris day. How that little thief knew which pocket to pick, and got through his trench coat and jacket to reach said pocket, and so swiftly, we’ll never know. He hadn’t taken his wallet out so she couldn’t have seen where he put it back.
At the BNP Paribas Bank on St. Germain, I tried to see the woman I had corresponded with by e-mail earlier this year, who had said that they open non-resident accounts. Just days before our departure, I e-mailed her the hotel’s phone number so that she could let me know if November 2nd wasn’t a good day for her. There having been no call, we went to the bank. She kindly came out to see us, if only to say that she had meetings all day and to make an appointment for the next day at 3.
We browsed awhile across Blvd. St. Germain at the bookstore L’Ecume des Pages (the Foam of Pages), where we bought birthday cards for one another.
In the St.Germain des Pres Metro station, Bernard’s Navigo card (unlimited ride) had to be validated again, by the man in the booth, and we were able to try again for Passage Choiseul. The holiday over, it was open again, much to our relief. Yesterday we didn’t know if it was closed because of the holiday or if the whole of Passage Choiseul was a closed-down ruin. Bernard was disappointed that the store where he had gotten some good DVDs last year, no longer has anything of interest to him. I, however, continue to love the art-supply store Lavrut. I got two tubes of water-colors (slipping up and somehow getting a second tube of Scarlet Lake) and a postcard-sized book of water-color paper.
Having gone to Galeries Lafayette yesterday, this time we went to its neighbor, Printemps, which has a floor of luxury jewelry stores, the floor where the bathrooms are. We were dismayed to learn that you have to pay there (2€) to use the bathrooms.
We asked where the DVD department was. They don’t have one any more. The security guard near the corner exit pointed the way to FNAC.
FNAC, I was amused to see, has La Reine Margot, a movie we once saw about the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, shelved among Comedy-Dramas.
As dinner would be in the Grands Boulevards neighborhood, we went first to the Virgin Megastore there. I got a few pens in colors I don’t find here, plus our Paris wall calendar for 2011.
Dinner at the delicious and low-cost Chartier was, as expected, wonderful: “rumsteack au poivre” with frites and coupe de crème chantilly. Although we usually glance at those at adjacent tables, sometimes chatting with them, this time we kept our eyes firmly on one another or on our food, careful not to look at the table immediately to my right/Bernard’s left: two young German-speaking men kept reaching across to grab one another’s hands or to kiss.
Back on the platform at the Grands Boulevards station, we waited and waited and waited for a train. Then there was a repetitious recorded announcement saying that because of some “incident,” service on the #8 line was suspended between Concorde and Republique. That’s several stops on either side of Grands Boulevards! As our cards are “unlimited ride,” I knew it wouldn’t cost anything to get back in so I went back to the booth to ask if service would resume tonight or if it was a lost cause. The woman merely shrugged. Said she didn’t know. When I went back to the platform and reported this to Bernard, we decided to get a cab home. By then it was close to 11.
At the cab stand, a young British fellow started to talk to us. We asked him if he too had come from the Metro platform. “No, I’ve been jumping around on a stage all evening, in The Italian Straw Hat.” He said that if he could persuade the couple who were next in line after him, and before us, to share his cab, the next cab would be ours. Very nice of him! It turned out that he could, and that we didn’t have long to wait for the next cab. Past the Louvre and over the bridge to the Left Bank, we saw, lit up for night, the beautiful landmarks of Paris.
Wednesday, November 3rd – I asked Xavier about Line 8. He said it should be back to normal after last night. That proved to be the case.
Our first destination was the Concorde area, three stops from home on Line 8. We had a bit of time before our appointment at the bank, so we went first to W.H. Smith, where I chose the book that would be my birthday present from Bernard, A CERTAIN JE NE SAIS QUOI: The Ideal Guide to Sounding, Acting and Shrugging Like the French by Charles Timoney.
Around the corner on Rue Royale, I went into Swatch while Bernard waited for me outside. I needed the strap on my watch to be fixed with the addition of that little red thing that the strap goes through to keep it close to your wrist instead of catching on everything you handle. That was done, free. I also hoped to get a backup of the watch I’m wearing, in case anything happens to this one (which is already a backup of the first-ever one I bought years ago). It was disappointing to hear that that design had been discontinued.
We took the Metro to St. Germain. Still early for our appointment, we browsed for awhile in the bookstore across the street, La Hune, which we had previously neglected in favor of the warmer-looking L’Ecume des Pages. At La Hune, I read a lot of – but didn’t buy – DESSINEZ-MOI UN PARISIEN by Olivier Marigny, As it was the result of a blog, it gave me hope that perhaps my blog might one day become a book. Anyway, I was amused to learn that Parisians are fascinated by New York (which the seatmate to my left, coming here, had confirmed). They get their notions of New York from such movies as You’ve Got Mail. It’s not surprising – after all, Americans’ views of Paris also come from movies.
At the bank, we were shown to an upstairs office at the end of the hall. The windows are large, letting in a lot of sunlight, so the atmosphere seemed warm and friendly. Mme L told me that their rules had changed in September, so she had sent back the documents I had sent to her in June: my check, a xerox of my passport, and a letter from my present bank saying that our relationship had been a good one in the many years my account was with them. She explained that since I’d sent all that, they established a minimum of 4,000€00.—lots more than the check I’d sent There would be a monthly maintenance fee of 8€00, and each of us would get a debit card on which we could each debit a monthly maximum of 1,000€00. She wrote down different account plans for us. We thanked her for her generosity with her time, and left.
When the appointment was still ahead of us, we hadn’t wanted to get involved with lunch, which could make us late; we didn’t know how long it would take to get service. We therefore postponed it until after we left the bank . .. about 3:30. We were ravenous! We therefore didn’t spend much time searching for La Palette on Rue de Seine, a number of blocks away from Boulevard St. Germain. Instead, stopping at the first pleasant-looking café we came upon – Au Chai de l’Abbaye on Rue de Bourbon off Rue due Buci.
Back on Boulevard St. Germain, we came upon a cane store. After Saturday’s ordeal of a walk, Bernard was curious about canes so we went inside. A woman with a large – and very quiet - dog showed him various canes, and offered us coffee or tea. We declined, with thanks, having just had lunch. The canes were all several hundred Euros, so we left empty-handed.
A walk along St. Germain to Rue du Bac, where I remembered having gotten a #69 Gambetta bus to the Marais during a previous stay, led to our return to the Marais. We got off at Hotel de Ville, from which it was easy to find the Movie Store across from Pompidou Centre, and then the DVD store on Rue St. Martin.
Also on St. Martin was a pharmacy, where I wanted to stop for Kleenex and cough drops for my cold Their PhytAlma cough drops are the shape and consistency of the old Pine Brothers cough drops, and taste like Pine Brothers Wild Cherry with some other flavor I can’t identify, added in.
As the #69 bus took us across the Seine toward home, I noticed that it went along Quai Voltaire, on which is the art-supply store Sennelier, where a number of famous 19th-century artists bought their supplies. Okay. Now that we know how to get there with a minimum of walking, we can visit it on another trip.
Dinner was in our neighborhood: Comptoir du 7eme: Poulet-roti and fries, coffee ice cream and whipped cream.
Thursday, November 4th – Our day got off to a cheery start with a welcome from Sophie, who was circulating in the lobby while we were at breakfast (which, I was glad to see, included croissants, baguette, and melon cubes).
For a trip to the Marais, on a weekday the way to go is the #69 bus to Bastille. First stop: the usual pharmacy for our annual purchase of the year’s supply of toothbrushes. The man didn’t seem to remember us this time, but he was surrounded with numerous customers, and a woman assistant handled our debit-card transaction.
The first time I wrote down what we did next (“Went to the Place des Vosges and sat and rested”), I wrote, “Sat and rescued,” but “rescued” is true too, thinking of our feet.
Eventually, we made a complete circuit of the square, then connected with Rue des Francs-Bourgeois and walked in the direction of the Pompidou Centre. On the way, we came upon the Filofax store, which I went into for a few packets of colored paper for my notebook, while Bernard waited outside. Much to my relief, the button that flew off my coat while I was in there hadn’t hit anyone.
At Le Celtic, we stopped for omelettes, hot chocolate and salad.
There’s a place called Design Store on Rue St. Martin, where we found a sound effects box. With the press of a button, you get applause, laughter, belches, and gunshots, among other sounds. We were tempted but resisted – didn’t spend the 11€90 after all.
Later, we went via Metro to FDR, so that we could have our honorary anniversary dinner at Boeuf Sur Le Toit. It has to be “honorary” because my workload never permits me to be away in December for our actual anniversary. This time: rare round steak, fries, lettuce, then sorbets: lime, mango, and passion fruit.
Friday, November 5th – The Musee de la Vie Romantique on Rue Chaptal (Metro: Pigalle) is having an exhibit on loan from a Russian museum, of which I was most impressed by the self-portrait by Sofia V. Sadkova-Kayline (1825-1867) and the detailed pictures of interiors. Those interiors might first be thought to be museum rooms but no, the tags underneath identify them as people’s homes.
From there we went to Grands Boulevards, and made it just in time at Sannine, before they closed for the between-lunch-and-dinner break. We like to have a Lebanese lunch at least once per stay. They have a great special of three kebabs—parslied beef, lamb, and chicken. They make it unnecessary to choose just one!
Another place I like to be reliable about visiting during each stay: Bresilophile, a beautiful source of minerals. This time, I got two citrines.
Once we finished going through the Passages, we were still too early for dinner, so we decided to find a bus on Rue du Faubourg Montmartre and take it to the end of the line, just to see where it goes. Today, it was the #74 which took us beyond tourist-path Paris. The destination named on the front of the bus was Barges of the Seine, which seemed romantic. We didn’t see any barges. What we saw looked much like a housing development in Queens. The driver got off, went inside a building, and eventually came out to make the return trip. We were at the stop waiting for him. The point at which we left was on the same boulevard as the one nearest which we first boarded the 74, but near a Metro stop, Richelieu-Druot, that’s one stop closer to home than the Grands Boulevards stop.
After a brief stopover at home to freshen up, we went back to Grands Boulevards for dinner at New Kashmir in the Passage des Panoramas, which we had discovered last year. Had shrimp curry and lemon and mango sorbets.
A newsstand nearby had a great price on postcards: 16 for 4€
Saturday, November 6th – I’ve lived to reach another birthday, with Bernard celebrating with me, thank God. That our celebrating is in Paris is icing on the birthday cake . . . and all the [unspecified number of] candles.
A quick check of the hotel computer got me a message from Rita. It’s always heartening to be remembered.
The #8 to the #12 to Abbesses got us to, first of all, the “I Love You” Wall, where we photographed one another. From there it was a short walk to the Boutique des Anges. After buying a few angelic gifts, we took the funiculaire up. At the Place du Tertre’s tourist office, I asked about the Musee de Montmartre. I had read online that it was in trouble, that the City of Paris wanted to close it and move its collections to a single room in the Musee Carnavalet, the museum devoted to the history of Paris. Much to my relief, they said that it still exists. When we got to the large house on Rue Cortot where the museum is – once the home of a member of Moliere’s company who, like Moliere, had died during a performance of The Imaginary Invalid – I expressed delight that the museum continues to exist. The man behind the counter said that it was thanks to private funding. It’s good to know that others feel strongly that Montmartre collections are displayed to best advantage in Montmartre. A downstairs room had an exhibit about the Franco-Prussian War, and an upstairs room featured the posters of Jules Cheret. (In my later attempt to reproduce the one below, from the Dover CD-ROM book Maitres de l’Affiche – Masters of the Poster – I discovered that my disk was cracked. I wrote to Dover Publications asking how much a replacement disk would be, as I didn’t need the accompanying book too. The lovely folks at Dover said it would be free, and they sent me a complete CD-ROM set, disk with book.) That’s why it’s possible to show you a sample of Cheret’s work. Don’t you get the impression that when you look away, she goes on dancing, skirts swirling around her?
As we were leaving the museum, we prolonged our stay a little with a look around the gift shop, where I bought a Chat Noir pen.
I had wanted to photograph my grave – or, rather, the corner of the Cimitiere St. Vincent (near the Lamarck-Caulaincourt stop of both the Montmartrobus and the Metro) where I want to be scattered, the corner diagonally opposite the entrance, where the graves of Theophile Alexandre Steinlen and Maurice Utrillo meet, perpendicular to one another, but the timing and geography just didn’t work out this time.
After the funiculaire landed at the base of the hill, we found fairly quickly Le Ronsard, the Montmartre lunch spot we favor. After omelettes and sorbets (for me, anyway: pear and raspberry), we browsed in a bookstore on Rue Yvonne Le Tac. The same street has a branch of the accessory store Takara, where I bought an orange and black bracelet.
For a brief rest, we took the same Metro lines back home. Bernard was relieved that his laundry was delivered to our room, so he would have something to wear tomorrow.
Before we headed back to Montmartre for dinner, we photographed one another in the hotel’s living room/computer room:
At La Mere Catherine, France Fannell sang “La Vie en Rose,” “Trois Petites Notes de Musique,” “La Mer,” “Mon Amant de St. Jean,” “Hymne a L’Amour,” “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” (without my having to request it, but it was heard faintly, when she and the pianist were in the other room), an encore of “Hymne a L’Amour,” and “Padam.” It was a pleasure to see her again.
My dinner of chicken in cider, Normandy style, and profiteroles with plenty of whipped cream, was perfect.
Sunday, November 7th – Breakfast at the hotel was especially filling: scrambled eggs and bacon as well as croissants (of which, I got the hotel’s last for today). Sufficiently fortified, we set out for the Musee D’Orsay. There was a very long line there, snaking back and forth – yes, in the rain. I asked a security guard where one pays admission, I learned the reason for the large turnout: It being the first Sunday of the month, admission was free.
They had an enormous exhibition of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist works, more than just the usual large amount on their fifth floor, which was in the process of being remodeled. For this show, works were borrowed from other museums as well. I was glad I had done a lot of picture-taking there on our previous visit, as that’s no longer permitted.
Across the street at a café called Les Deux Musees, I had a salade mixte and Orangina. When I pointed out to the waiter that he had initially misunderstood my order, he said, “Please, my life is difficult enough.” I said I’d work something out later, which is why I ordered the Orangina. Eventually, everyone was happy.
On our way to the Metro to go to the Champs-Elysees, we stopped in a souvenir shop where they had beautiful tree ornaments of famous paintings. While we browsed, their sound system played the Beatles’ “Let it Be.” I remember thinking, on a previous visit, when a singer on the steps outside Sacre Coeur sang the same song, “There’s nothing I’d rather ‘let be’ than time in Paris.”
From the Solferino stop, which is the one for the D’Orsay, we took the Porte de la Chappelle #12 two stops to Concorde, then got the La Defense #1 two stops to FDR.
At FNAC we succeeded in getting Nous Irons a Monte Carlo, an early Audrey Hepburn movie that’s the French remake of her Monte Carlo Baby movie done shortly before. As her French was fluent, she was able to play the same character in the remake.
Once again we enjoyed the hospitality of the Marriott: rest for our feet, then freshening up. After we left the Marriott, there was no further rain . . . at least for this day.
Dinner was further down the Champs-Elysees, at the Bistro Romain. Although it’s predominantly Italian, I was able to get a meal without cheese: entrecote with frites, then chocolate and coffee ice cream. Bernard’s choice also happened to be cheese-free, but not chosen for that reason: a sea-food platter.
At the Rond Point – the opposite end of the Champs-Elysees from the Arc de Triomphe – we got a #80 bus home quickly. Of all the buses we ride there, that one takes us closest to our door, across the street, at the nearer corner.
Later, I figured out that our Navigo (unlimited ride) cards enabled us to save the equivalent of $59.50 in bus and Metro fares.
Monday, November 8th – Bernard’s birthday – always a day of thanksgiving that he’s with me for another one. Not that the hotel folks knew the significance of the day, but there were more croissants available, as if in his honor.
I was pleased to find at the hotel’s computer that two e-mails had come from Rita, plus others from Mary and Jacqui.
Bernard’s choice of destination for the day portion of our fun was the Canal St. Martin area, to see if the café we had enjoyed a few years ago had reopened. It’s now a pizza joint. That being the case, we had to choose somewhere else. A coffee shop near the Jacques Bonsergeant Metro, Le Relais Magenta, conveniently minimized our time in the rain. Its back room filled with a single table was given over to our use. Our plain omelets with salad came to only 21€.
Deciding that this was no day for exploring the streets around the canal, Bernard said we should do something I had suggested for another day: Viaduc des Arts. The Place d’Italie #5 one stop got us to the Creteil #8 to Montgallet, one of the two stops named for this destination. As there are three stops between Montgallet and Bastille, the other stop, I warned Bernard that the walk to see it all could be a long one. Once we got out of the Metro at Montgallet, we saw one computer-parts store after another! At the last one, we stopped to ask directions to the Viaduc des Arts. Someone walked out of the store with me to point the general direction, but he couldn’t see how far it would be. When we came to an enormous store called Surcoeuf, which specializes in computers – it’s about a long block from end to end on the street level, and has a basement as well – we asked again. Has this store replaced the Viaduc des Arts? They weren’t aware of the place at all even though it turned out to be just a few paces farther along!
This former viaduct was now a series of artisans’ shops having only the street doors, no central corridor out of the weather. The various artisans we saw through the large picture windows were intent on their crafts, and no doubt didn’t want the interruption of visitors.
When we came upon a café called Le Jardin L’Arrosoir, with a large brick wall parallel to the picture window we looked into, we stopped in for hot drinks, grateful for the rest for our feet.
From there, it wasn’t long before we found the Bastille area. Amazingly, the FNAC adjacent to the Bastille Opera was out of business. Another DVD store nearby satisfied Bernard’s craving to browse DVD’s for awhile, before we got a #69 bus from the Birague stop back home.
Once we got off, we were right near the beautiful Bourdonnais Pharmacy (gorgeous woodwork!), where I got more cough drops. The woman graciously said she didn’t mind breaking a 50€ bill for a 6€ purchase.
Back home, we freshened up and changed for dinner, then set out for Odeon and Le Procope. On Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie, I couldn’t believe my eyes: Under the “Le Procope” sign was a place called Kickers. Closed. Had Le Procope, established in 1686, gone out of business? Just a little farther on was another overhead sign: “Salon de The [accent aigu].” Under that, we found Le Procope, the place we know and love. We were shown to a small dining room, among their many, which had only four tables. Of these, only one was in use besides ours.
Their food (entrecote, frites, then chocolate ice cream), as always, was excellent!
Tuesday, November 9th – More rain. We waited it out for a little while with a prolonged breakfast at the hotel: 2 croissants, scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit salad.
Eventually, we ventured out, after asking at the desk about a bus to St. Michel (the #87 from Ecole Militaire). I had thought that if we could just find the Luxembourg Gardens, we’d find Boulevard St. Michel. Turned out that in asking about the Luxembourg Gardens, I had asked the driver the wrong question. He told us to get off at a stop where the Luxembourg Gardens was on our right. Across the street, to our left, was the Duroc Metro stop. This told me that we were at the Montparnasse end of the Luxembourg Gardens, or, we’d have to go all the way through the Gardens, in the rain, before we saw the Boulevard St. Michel. In better weather, we wouldn’t have minded. I decided that, instead, we should wait for the next #87 bus and ask for the Boulevard St.Michel. The driver of said ext bus said “Cluny.” That stop got us not only to the Boulevard St. Michel, but to that part of it that was right near Monoprix and the Gibert Joseph stores (DVD’s, books, stationery – three separate stores: paradise!). At Monoprix, we got a much-needed tube of toothpaste, Elmex, flavored with apple (“Odeur (Pomme)”). At Gibert Joseph, I was tempted to get TRICOT POUR NULS (KNITTING FOR DUMMIES) to learn how such standard knitting instructions as “cast on” and “bind off” are expressed in French, but the weight of the book helped me decide not to spend the 11€90.
A couple of blocks down Boulevard St. Michel, we stopped for lunch at Le Lutece: plain omelette.
As it was still too early for dinner, and still raining, we decided to take a nearby bus to the end of its route just to see where it goes. We took the #27 d’Ivry bus. I had read in a magazine article that “d’Ivry” was one of the Chinatowns of Paris. Glimpsing a Metro station of that name near the turnaround point was our only clue that we were near the end of the route; we saw nothing remotely Asian. The return bus to Boulevard St. Michel left us one block from Rue des Ecoles – I learned from asking at a hotel between the bus stop and the street we sought – where we would get the #87 back to Ecole Militaire.
Dinner at Comptoir du 7eme was Supreme de Volaille with mushrooms, noodles, and a cream sauce so rich I decided to do without dessert.
Wednesday, November 10th – Our last whole day in Paris, and mercifully there was no rain. Between breakfast and our trip to Avenue Montaigne, I made a quick check of my blog at the computer downstairs in the lounge. Two comments from Rita.
The #80 bus to the Francois Premier bus stop got us a couple of blocks past the Theatre des Champs-Elysees [above] (the previous stop, Alma-Marceau, right after the bridge, would have gotten us closer), to see what they’re showing these days. Mainly symphonic and soloists’ concerts. This is the theater where the Revue Negre made a star of Josephine Baker, and where, in the movie Avenue Montaigne, Albert Dupontel as a concert pianist resumed his concert after removing his jacket, tie, and shirt. Everything on the current posters was for events after our departure, or we might have rushed right in and bought tickets for something.
I don’t remember whether the aforesaid movie changed the name of the nearby café, but it’s where Cecile de France got a job waiting tables when she first came to Paris from the provinces, and met such regulars as the actress played by Valerie Lemercier, who ordered salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing on the side – she liked to drink it.
We walked a number of blocks to the Champs-Elysees, looking at the decidedly expensive menu at the Hotel Plaza Athenee, and other costly places.
On the Champs-Elysees itself, I was able to get a good pair of panty hose at Monoprix. Not knowing my size in that line, I didn’t get more than one pair, which I now regret. They’re so strong, I still have them! We stopped at the Marriott so that I could put them on.
It was only in the few inches we traveled between the Marriott and Sephora that there was any rain that day. Only because it was raining did we duck into Sephora, where I resisted various temptations. After that, the rest of the day was clear. On our way to the Metro (#1 Chateau de Vincennes to Louvre/Palais Royal), a woman near us picked up something from the sidewalk – a gold ring – and held it out to me. She said it was too small for her fingers, which she proceeded to demonstrate, therefore I could have it, with her best wishes for luck with our marriage. And could we give her something so that she could get a bite to eat? I gave her four Euros, which still cost me less than other situations I could think of.
At the Palais Royal, where we made a complete circuit of the arcade with shops, we saw that the colored filters were no longer in the plank fence around the garden; the striking photos I took last year were no longer possible.
As we continued to the Rue de Rivoli, I was watching for Salon de The, for whose café liegeois (coffee ice cream, coffee sauce, and whipped cream) I was salivating. We walked and walked but didn’t see it – could they be out of business? -- so I decided to backtrack a little to Angelina. There was less of a wait for a table than usual, probably because it was an odd hour, after the lunch rush. The ice cream portion – coffee, chocolate, and vanilla, with whipped cream (o the whipped cream!) -- was so enormous that Bernard had to help me. What a rarity that is!
After we left, and went in the direction of Concorde, we eventually saw Salon de The. Well, the good news is, they continue to exist. The bad news: I was already too full of ice cream to want to go in. Next time . . .
One more browse at W.H. Smith. I started reading the Victor Legris mystery by Claude Izner, THE MONTMARTRE INVESTIGATION (which I would later finish in New York). . In a factual note about fin de siecle entertainers in Montmartre, after the end of the story (at which I swear I did not peek), there’s a mention of a unique fellow who could fart the Marseillaise at will. Incroyable! Bernard bought a DVD called Female Agents, an excellent if bloody movie in which Sophie Marceau stars as a real-life heroine of the Resistance.
Around the corner, as we walked along Rue Royale toward the Madeleine, we found a courtyard of upscale shops including Chanel, the Passage Royal (no “e”). All of them were clothing shops except for one devoted to cookware and a café.
The other side of Rue Royale has Laduree, a dessert café famous for its macaroons. I remember a photo of it in the book I SEE RUDE PEOPLE by Amy Alkon; the photo is of a woman changing her baby in the middle of a central table!
At the Concorde Metro, Bernard, miraculously, had no trouble getting his Navigo card to work.
Tonight being the eve of our departure, dinner was at Le Bosquet. Fortunately, it’s a weeknight, so Jean-Francois was there, welcoming us heartily. Their poulet roti (for me) and duck (for Bernard) are wonderful. Jean-Francois, sitting at a table across the room with guests, mouthed “Bon voyage” as we put on our coats.
Thursday, November 11th – We had another reason to be happy that the hotel included breakfasts in our room rate this year: We didn’t have to go out in the rain for breakfast. Yes, more rain! But this being our day to leave Paris, I wasn’t entirely sorry that the weather wasn’t better; sun would have seemed to taunt us.
In one of those coincidences between book and reality that I love so much, in THE AMBASSADORS, I reached page 308. Our room number. I know, I know, that’s really reaching!
The shuttle to take us to the airport was early. Owing to the hotel stops for others riding in the shuttle with us, the driver went through Montparnasse, past the famous cafes on four corners: the Dome, the Select, the Rotonde and the Coupole.
We got to our flight with plenty of time to spare, enough time for us to polish off a can of Pringles potato chips. Who knew how long we’d have to wait for dinner after the seat-belt sign went out?
Dinner was risotto with mushrooms. Not bad! Also enjoyable: talking to our seatmate, Ersiline Callender, a middle school guidance counselor who had just come from Spain. All she had seen of Paris was the airport!
In front of us was a cute little boy of about three, who kept looking at us over the top of the seat back, and giggling. He’d duck down, then come up again to see us and repeat the giggles.
We got a taxi quickly. When we went in the basement entrance, a man we had never seen before said, “Come right this way? What’s your floor?” Well, I may have gotten alert over nothing, but the book THE GIFT OF FEAR by Gavin de Becker tells us to be wary of anyone who seems to take charge of you, so I pressed one. Suddenly, checking for our mail seemed all-important, although Bernard had left instructions to hold the mail until we picked it up, but I just didn’t want this stranger knowing so much as our floor, much less opening our door to let us in, or helping us with our bags. Much to my surprise, the mail had been delivered! In lockers. Lots of it, including birthday packages. Yes, this happy birthday is lasting a little longer . . .
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Georges Simenon (2/12/03 - 9/4/89)
This is the second time I'm creating this post, and I no longer have half an hour to search for that photo of the Place des Vosges, where Simenon lived (at #21).
Suffice it to say, when we were there we were awed at having set foot where M. Simenon went every day. His Inspector Maigret seems quintessentially Paris in a raincoat, aware of everything, making sense of everything at the end. As his books are republished under various titles, perhaps various translations, it's possible to read quite a bit of one before the deja vu sensation sinks in, but having read it before does nothing to diminish the pleasure of reading it. My own favorite so far -- of the admittedly too few I've read -- is MAIGRET AMONG THE MILLIONAIRES, which seems to capture exactly right the attitude of entitlement so frequently seen in millionaires.
Maigret was portrayed onscreen by Jean Gabin (Simenon's favorite), Harry Baur, Charles Laughton, and, on TV, by Michael Gambon. I haven't seen any of the Gabin or Baur movies, but have seen Laughton in The Man on The Eiffel Tower (based on MAIGRET'S WAR OF NERVES) three times. In the credits, one of the stars is "The City of Paris." By the way, that's not a studio recreation of the Eiffel Tower but the real thing. Seen from that vertiginous height, as well as at street level, that star steals the show!
As a P.S. Georges Simenon sent a fan letter to my husband, Bernard St. James, saying that his mystery novels of Napoleonic Paris (APRIL THIRTIETH and THE SEVEN DREAMERS) brought the era to life. I wouldn't have added this shameless domestic plug if it didn't relate to Simenon!
Suffice it to say, when we were there we were awed at having set foot where M. Simenon went every day. His Inspector Maigret seems quintessentially Paris in a raincoat, aware of everything, making sense of everything at the end. As his books are republished under various titles, perhaps various translations, it's possible to read quite a bit of one before the deja vu sensation sinks in, but having read it before does nothing to diminish the pleasure of reading it. My own favorite so far -- of the admittedly too few I've read -- is MAIGRET AMONG THE MILLIONAIRES, which seems to capture exactly right the attitude of entitlement so frequently seen in millionaires.
Maigret was portrayed onscreen by Jean Gabin (Simenon's favorite), Harry Baur, Charles Laughton, and, on TV, by Michael Gambon. I haven't seen any of the Gabin or Baur movies, but have seen Laughton in The Man on The Eiffel Tower (based on MAIGRET'S WAR OF NERVES) three times. In the credits, one of the stars is "The City of Paris." By the way, that's not a studio recreation of the Eiffel Tower but the real thing. Seen from that vertiginous height, as well as at street level, that star steals the show!
As a P.S. Georges Simenon sent a fan letter to my husband, Bernard St. James, saying that his mystery novels of Napoleonic Paris (APRIL THIRTIETH and THE SEVEN DREAMERS) brought the era to life. I wouldn't have added this shameless domestic plug if it didn't relate to Simenon!
Monday, November 29, 2010
Musee D'Orsay
If you go to Paris, try to include a first-Sunday-of-the-month in your stay. That, we found by chance, is when admission at the Musee d'Orsay is free. When we went, November 7, 2010, there was a colossal show of Impressionist and post-Impressionist works. Some works were from the now-being-remodeled fifth floor, others were borrowed from other museums.By the way, every picture I have of the Musee d'Orsay was taken on a previous visit, when I was amazed that picture-taking was allowed. I must have snapped the entire top floor, and I'm especially glad now that I did. Photography is now forbidden.
We couldn't have chanced on a better day!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving
In Paris, every day is Thanksgiving. The Parisians don't necessarily know this, or experience it, but that's my own prevailing state of mind. In fact, I carry with me at all times a little notebook in which I list each day's items for which I'm particularly grateful. This is how I do my post-trip reports -- sent to friends who humor me to a touching extent -- with such acute recall!
When I return to New York, I copy them more legibly to attach to the pages of the calendar that's devoted to each day's gratitude list. The main difference between the daily Paris lists and the daily New York lists is that there are more numbered items in Paris.
The photo I just tried == four times! -- to upload failed to appear: of the gentleman for whom I'm most thankful! This was taken on my birthday at the I-Love-You Wall in Montmartre, behind the Abbesses Metro: "I love you" appears in over 300 languages. Enough of that torment. I'll try, in a separate post, another photo, taken previously, with the other camera that had had a greater success rate in the uploading department.
When I return to New York, I copy them more legibly to attach to the pages of the calendar that's devoted to each day's gratitude list. The main difference between the daily Paris lists and the daily New York lists is that there are more numbered items in Paris.
The photo I just tried == four times! -- to upload failed to appear: of the gentleman for whom I'm most thankful! This was taken on my birthday at the I-Love-You Wall in Montmartre, behind the Abbesses Metro: "I love you" appears in over 300 languages. Enough of that torment. I'll try, in a separate post, another photo, taken previously, with the other camera that had had a greater success rate in the uploading department.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Book: DESSINEZ-MOI UN PARISIEN by Olivier Magny
While dawdling in the St. Germain bookstore La Hune (next door to Cafe Flore) until it was time to keep an appointment, I happened upon the above-titled book which began with a blog, Stuff Parisians Love. Turns out they love New York-- images of which they get from the movies You've Got Mail and Sex and the City -- and speaking Englsh. This is a great consolation! Now I know that when a French person switches to English with me, it's because they want practice speaking English, not because my French is lousy (although it may well be!).
A bientot!
A bientot!
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Movie: "The Age of Reason"
On the flight to Paris last night I saw "The Age of Reason," an obvious choice since it's about a woman's birthday, and I'm here to celebrate Bernard's (November 8th) and my own (the 6th) birthdays. On her 40th birthday, Margaret (Sophie Marceau), is visited by a now-retired provincial notary who has come to deliver to her a series of letters written to her by her 7-year-old self. It's seven that's "the age of reason." Forty, "your age, dear Me," is "very silly." Little Marguerite, as she was then called, offered the then-young notary who'd just started his practice, her life savings --which amounted to slightly more than 1 Euro-- to deliver her mail on her 40th birthday in 2010. She wrote about the various paths she might have pursued and about other important things in life such as "all-chocolate meals" and finding buried treasure. One thing that stuck with me was the notary's quoting of Picasso: "Become who you are." This is the kind of thing that can make you wish (a) that you had received letters from your kid-self, and (b) that your mature self could have written to your kid-self to benefit from hard-won experience, and spare said kid-self some of the grief encountered along the way.
Whether I'll get to post again before we leave Paris on the 11th remains to be seen. Meanwhile, the fun on Day 1 involved a visit to Bon Marche (where I got some gorgeous, silky-soft multi-colored yarn for a scarf), and the search for La Ruche, a house where free lodging was given to such artists as Amadeo Modigliani and Chaim Soutine. It was a very long search, there was no access to the building (I was hoping there'd at least be exhibit rooms we could see), and the even longer search for a Metro, but we were still thrilled to be in Paris.
Dinner was at the ever-wonderful Le Bosquet. Sorry Jean-Francois wasn't there tonight.
A bientot
Whether I'll get to post again before we leave Paris on the 11th remains to be seen. Meanwhile, the fun on Day 1 involved a visit to Bon Marche (where I got some gorgeous, silky-soft multi-colored yarn for a scarf), and the search for La Ruche, a house where free lodging was given to such artists as Amadeo Modigliani and Chaim Soutine. It was a very long search, there was no access to the building (I was hoping there'd at least be exhibit rooms we could see), and the even longer search for a Metro, but we were still thrilled to be in Paris.
Dinner was at the ever-wonderful Le Bosquet. Sorry Jean-Francois wasn't there tonight.
A bientot
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Incroyable -- We're Leaving Tomorrow
You've heard of a red-letter day? Well, this is a red-picture day! The picture is of the Palais Royal, snapped through a colored filter in a fence.
I doubt I'll get to post from the hotel computer, as there's so much competition for time there. Will I ever catch up when I get back!
Au revoir pour maintenant.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
It's Sarah Bernhardt's Birthday!
10/23/1844 - 3/26/1923
More amazing than this incredible woman's genius on the stage, or her continuing to tread the boards after a leg was amputated, or her ability to faint dead away when bored (I wish I could do that!), was her humanitarian creation of a hospital.
During the Prussian War's Siege of Paris (1870-1871), inspired by the Comedie Francaise's turning the theater into a hospital for war casualties, Sarah Bernhardt turned the Theatre de l'Odeon into a hospital. Getting a permit, and his fur-lined overcoat, from the Prefect de Police (who may have been her first lover), the twenty-six-year-old actress was completely focused on tending the wounded herself, assisted by two volunteers and instructed by a Dr. Duchesne, whose services she commandeered. Sarah Bernhardt, "the creature of fragile health, worked with the vigor of ten peasants."* Her richer friends were cajoled into supporting the hospital, donating money and supplies. One example: the chocolate magnate M. Meunier, who donated five hundred pounds of his nourishing product.
The raids at night made it necessary for the staff to move their patients to the cellar, where flooding and rats prevailed. Forced to close the hospital, Bernhardt moved the more serious cases to the military hospital at Val-de-Grace. For the twenty remaining convalescents, she rented at her own expense an empty flat in the rue de Provence, where she and her two stalwart volunteers (including a Madame Lambquin, an older Odeon actress) nursed them to recovery. All told, more than one hundred fifty solldiers and two civilians were cared for at the Odeon hospital.
*Recommended reading: MADAME SARAH by Cornelia Otis Skinner, particularly Chapter 4, "Sarah's Field Hospital."
More amazing than this incredible woman's genius on the stage, or her continuing to tread the boards after a leg was amputated, or her ability to faint dead away when bored (I wish I could do that!), was her humanitarian creation of a hospital.
During the Prussian War's Siege of Paris (1870-1871), inspired by the Comedie Francaise's turning the theater into a hospital for war casualties, Sarah Bernhardt turned the Theatre de l'Odeon into a hospital. Getting a permit, and his fur-lined overcoat, from the Prefect de Police (who may have been her first lover), the twenty-six-year-old actress was completely focused on tending the wounded herself, assisted by two volunteers and instructed by a Dr. Duchesne, whose services she commandeered. Sarah Bernhardt, "the creature of fragile health, worked with the vigor of ten peasants."* Her richer friends were cajoled into supporting the hospital, donating money and supplies. One example: the chocolate magnate M. Meunier, who donated five hundred pounds of his nourishing product.
The raids at night made it necessary for the staff to move their patients to the cellar, where flooding and rats prevailed. Forced to close the hospital, Bernhardt moved the more serious cases to the military hospital at Val-de-Grace. For the twenty remaining convalescents, she rented at her own expense an empty flat in the rue de Provence, where she and her two stalwart volunteers (including a Madame Lambquin, an older Odeon actress) nursed them to recovery. All told, more than one hundred fifty solldiers and two civilians were cared for at the Odeon hospital.
*Recommended reading: MADAME SARAH by Cornelia Otis Skinner, particularly Chapter 4, "Sarah's Field Hospital."
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Jean-Pierre Duprey (1/1/30 - 10/2/59)
In the course of researching a book, I was cruising around the ever-wonderful Wikipedia today and came across the name of this poet and sculptor. This was the first I'd heard of him. Wikipedia didn't describe his poetry or sculptures but did mention that he'd been arrested for having urinated on the grave of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe. It didn't say what year that happened -- how close chronologically was it to his suicide?
Three days before he hanged himself, he said to a friend, "I am allergic to this planet."
This has been a Cultural History Moment.
Three days before he hanged himself, he said to a friend, "I am allergic to this planet."
This has been a Cultural History Moment.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
On Parle Francais
Last week when Bernard and I were headed downtown on the Second Avenue bus, five French-speaking people got on -- a man who appeared to be in his seventies, with four women of various ages, from about 60 to 30.
The man got a seat in front of us, while the women sat on both sides of the aisle nearer to the driver. As a subtle way of letting them know that help in their language was close at hand, if they wanted to ask for it, I began to speak French to Bernard. (If they didn't want to ask for it, I wouldn't have interrupted their conversation.) It worked. By 6th Street, the man turned around and asked me how to get to "Hooston" Street. In a sort of Franglais, I told him the bus would turn left, and "en face et a gauche," was "votre arret." He said, "If you speak French, why didn't you speak French to me?" "I did -- I said '...a gauche.'" He asked if it was far. "Moins et moins." When their stop came into view virtually immediately, I pointed and said, "Voila votre arret." All said "Merci" as they went toward the door. I wished them "Bonne journee," and the man shook my hand. How I wished I had been able to talk to them sooner! Wouldn't you have wondered about such a menage?
I don't always have with me someone to whom I can speak French (or anything else) when there's the possibility of helpfulness combined with language practice nearby; a sandwich board saying "Ici on parle Francais" isn't an option! The next best thing: the $1 buttons you can get at the reception desk at French Institute: Alliance Francaise (fi:af), so I bought two that I put on the handles of my bag: "Ca va?" and . . .
. . . "Tout va bien." Oui -- tout va bien.
The man got a seat in front of us, while the women sat on both sides of the aisle nearer to the driver. As a subtle way of letting them know that help in their language was close at hand, if they wanted to ask for it, I began to speak French to Bernard. (If they didn't want to ask for it, I wouldn't have interrupted their conversation.) It worked. By 6th Street, the man turned around and asked me how to get to "Hooston" Street. In a sort of Franglais, I told him the bus would turn left, and "en face et a gauche," was "votre arret." He said, "If you speak French, why didn't you speak French to me?" "I did -- I said '...a gauche.'" He asked if it was far. "Moins et moins." When their stop came into view virtually immediately, I pointed and said, "Voila votre arret." All said "Merci" as they went toward the door. I wished them "Bonne journee," and the man shook my hand. How I wished I had been able to talk to them sooner! Wouldn't you have wondered about such a menage?
I don't always have with me someone to whom I can speak French (or anything else) when there's the possibility of helpfulness combined with language practice nearby; a sandwich board saying "Ici on parle Francais" isn't an option! The next best thing: the $1 buttons you can get at the reception desk at French Institute: Alliance Francaise (fi:af), so I bought two that I put on the handles of my bag: "Ca va?" and . . .
. . . "Tout va bien." Oui -- tout va bien.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
September 7 & 8, 2000
September 7th – On this, our last full day, we went first to the Musee D’Orsay to see the Impressionists and post- Impressionists. I like everybody but Gaugain, though some of his palettes were less muddy than others.
In their bookstore, I resisted the temptations in particular of a book about Metro stops and a French translation of ELOISE IN PARIS.
Lunch was across the street at a café called Les Deux Musees.
Then we went in search of two bookstores Bernard had noticed listed in a magazine about Paris: Tea & Tattered Pages, in what turned out to be Montparnasse, and W.H. Smith, a large English-language bookstore across from the ferris wheel we’d ridden the night before. The latter was more fun. T&TP was as cramped as our apartment, and didn’t have anything we particularly wanted.
After the bookstores, we went to the Marais district to see the Place des Vosges, the oldest residential neighborhood in Paris, and the surrounding Jewish establishments.
For dinner: the place where we’d had our arrival-night dinner: Le Bosquet. It gave us the illusion of beginning our stay, although all too soon we’d be flying back. We had the unexpected pleasure of being greeted as old friends by the chap who’d served us the first time, although he wasn’t our waiter the second time. The man who was our waiter then, upon hearing that another customer would be leaving Paris the next day, planted a loud smacking kiss on her forehead.
September 8, 2000 – On our flight home, a little boy who probably isn’t two yet kept coming over to Bernard, he being in the aisle seat, and giving him the cap of his bottle to hold. I was so relieved later, on landing, that the suitcase Bernard was getting down from the overhead compartment didn’t completely fall out of his hands and kill the kid! I shouted to him to watch out! One corner barely grazed his temple.
Already we’re homesick for Paris, if that isn’t too weird a thing to say of a place where I’d been for only one week. There wasn't an instant of culture shock going froml New York to Paris, only from there to here, and it’s a strain to remember the English for what had come so snappily in French.
In their bookstore, I resisted the temptations in particular of a book about Metro stops and a French translation of ELOISE IN PARIS.
Lunch was across the street at a café called Les Deux Musees.
Then we went in search of two bookstores Bernard had noticed listed in a magazine about Paris: Tea & Tattered Pages, in what turned out to be Montparnasse, and W.H. Smith, a large English-language bookstore across from the ferris wheel we’d ridden the night before. The latter was more fun. T&TP was as cramped as our apartment, and didn’t have anything we particularly wanted.
After the bookstores, we went to the Marais district to see the Place des Vosges, the oldest residential neighborhood in Paris, and the surrounding Jewish establishments.
For dinner: the place where we’d had our arrival-night dinner: Le Bosquet. It gave us the illusion of beginning our stay, although all too soon we’d be flying back. We had the unexpected pleasure of being greeted as old friends by the chap who’d served us the first time, although he wasn’t our waiter the second time. The man who was our waiter then, upon hearing that another customer would be leaving Paris the next day, planted a loud smacking kiss on her forehead.
September 8, 2000 – On our flight home, a little boy who probably isn’t two yet kept coming over to Bernard, he being in the aisle seat, and giving him the cap of his bottle to hold. I was so relieved later, on landing, that the suitcase Bernard was getting down from the overhead compartment didn’t completely fall out of his hands and kill the kid! I shouted to him to watch out! One corner barely grazed his temple.
Already we’re homesick for Paris, if that isn’t too weird a thing to say of a place where I’d been for only one week. There wasn't an instant of culture shock going froml New York to Paris, only from there to here, and it’s a strain to remember the English for what had come so snappily in French.
Monday, September 6, 2010
September 6, 2000
At the timeI'm posting this, ten years to the day later, it's almost the New York equivalent of the appointed time for our
Arc de Triomphe meeting.
Arc de Triomphe meeting.Champs-Elysees Day. Bernard insisted that it begin by going to the top of the Arc de Triomphe. As I climbed the nearly 300 spiral stairs, I hated that bastard Napoleon with a passion. And, at that moment, I was none too crazy about Bernard either! At the very top, the stair railing doesn’t go all the way up to the topmost couple of stairs, so, afraid to stand the whole way up without help, and see that dizzying view, I was, in effect, on all fours until a kindly stranger gave me his hand so I could clear those last steps. I looked around at the different avenues below but refused to go all the way to the railing, afraid that I’d lose my grip on my camera, drop it, and it would kill someone below! Eventually, we made the downward trek. I was never in my life so glad to set foot on solid ground!
Then we walked along the right (looking from the Arc toward the ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde) side of the Champs-Elysees. First: Le Drugstore Publicis, which has varied departments and a lot more to offer than the drugstores here. I bought an Edith Piaf CD: I had to get at least one in her city! Coincidentally, it reached the top of the stack in time to listen to as I’m writing this. (“Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.”)
Next: Citibank, where I had the scare of seeing on the screen that my savings balance was only 1/8 what my notebook of transactions says it ought to be. The teller called someone on the phone who said that their record of my balance agrees with mine; there’s just some glitch preventing it from showing on the screen! I should try again in at least an hour.
Going further along, we saw a lovely café called Le Paris, where we stopped for lunch.
Further along on that side we saw the only movie theaters we’d seen since arriving in the city; it’s as if they’re ghettoized on a single avenue. None had films we’d want to see, though.
Across the street there were numerous arcades full of various stores: as busy as malls but much classier. In the third of them, Bernard succeeded in getting for a lower price than at the previous places, a tiny gun that fires blanks and makes a very large noise. We also went to a favorite store of mine that originated in Paris: Sephora. Got, of all things, a Maybelline mascara, some bath beads, and two lipsticks. Pouring rain made us wait for quite awhile. We hoped it still wouldn’t be raining when it was time to meet Rita.
It wasn’t. We had a cold drink in the arcade, went back to Citibank (no change on the screen) , and to the Paris Tourist Office. I bought numerous postcards for my office wall rather than for mailing, two souvenir pens, and a guidebook for future visits: PARIS IN YOUR POCKET.
We were early at the Arc de Triomphe, but glad that Rita found us easily. The crepe place she recommended, Les Ecuries on Rue Washington, she had first (and last) visited as a 19-year-old. Fortunately, it’s still there and in business. The people there were flexible about letting us combine ingredients, so we were all happy. After some picture-taking, and lots of eating and talking, we continued to the Metro to Concorde for the ferris wheel. I felt less phobic about that because we’d be enclosed in little glass compartments the whole time: no stair-climbing and no parapets to walk toward. We went around on the wheel twice, to prolong the pleasure of one another’s company, enjoyed fabulous views of La Ville Lumiere at night, and saw Rita hail a cab.
Une bonne soiree was had by all.
Then we walked along the right (looking from the Arc toward the ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde) side of the Champs-Elysees. First: Le Drugstore Publicis, which has varied departments and a lot more to offer than the drugstores here. I bought an Edith Piaf CD: I had to get at least one in her city! Coincidentally, it reached the top of the stack in time to listen to as I’m writing this. (“Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.”)
Next: Citibank, where I had the scare of seeing on the screen that my savings balance was only 1/8 what my notebook of transactions says it ought to be. The teller called someone on the phone who said that their record of my balance agrees with mine; there’s just some glitch preventing it from showing on the screen! I should try again in at least an hour.
Going further along, we saw a lovely café called Le Paris, where we stopped for lunch.
Further along on that side we saw the only movie theaters we’d seen since arriving in the city; it’s as if they’re ghettoized on a single avenue. None had films we’d want to see, though.
Across the street there were numerous arcades full of various stores: as busy as malls but much classier. In the third of them, Bernard succeeded in getting for a lower price than at the previous places, a tiny gun that fires blanks and makes a very large noise. We also went to a favorite store of mine that originated in Paris: Sephora. Got, of all things, a Maybelline mascara, some bath beads, and two lipsticks. Pouring rain made us wait for quite awhile. We hoped it still wouldn’t be raining when it was time to meet Rita.
It wasn’t. We had a cold drink in the arcade, went back to Citibank (no change on the screen) , and to the Paris Tourist Office. I bought numerous postcards for my office wall rather than for mailing, two souvenir pens, and a guidebook for future visits: PARIS IN YOUR POCKET.
We were early at the Arc de Triomphe, but glad that Rita found us easily. The crepe place she recommended, Les Ecuries on Rue Washington, she had first (and last) visited as a 19-year-old. Fortunately, it’s still there and in business. The people there were flexible about letting us combine ingredients, so we were all happy. After some picture-taking, and lots of eating and talking, we continued to the Metro to Concorde for the ferris wheel. I felt less phobic about that because we’d be enclosed in little glass compartments the whole time: no stair-climbing and no parapets to walk toward. We went around on the wheel twice, to prolong the pleasure of one another’s company, enjoyed fabulous views of La Ville Lumiere at night, and saw Rita hail a cab.
Une bonne soiree was had by all.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
September 5, 2000
Our second stop of the day was the Gare St. Lazare to get the train to Vernon for the visit to Giverny. (Our first had been the post office to mail home to myself my new bag, with four worn blouses tucked into the pockets to make room in my suitcase for goodies I had yet to buy). After considerable difficulty finding the right ticket window, and a hot dog that was boiled rather than grilled, we were on our way. Giverny is gorgeous!
At first I thought that people who were buying tickets only to the garden, rather than to both garden and house, were missing something, but that was before we saw how extensive the gardens were and how tall the flowers. Then we were similarly enchanted with the house, pleased that we were doing this after rather than before Versailles, to which this is a good antidote with its human proportions and bright, cheering colors. That yellow kitchen is so homey it’s my ideal!
I was very thrifty in buying a postcard only for Alexandra Stoddard – who writes about Giverny and Monet every opening she gets! – and two magnets for the fridge. Then we had something cool to drink at the stand, and caught the bus back to Vernon. Fortunately, we both had naps on the train (which I’ve never done on a commuter train before!).
On our way from our hotel to find a restaurant, a young man standing in the lobby – someone we’d never seen before – said, “Isn’t it wonderful just to be in Paris?” He told us he’d soon be twenty-seven, had rented an apartment for a month in Paris, and was seeing to his mother’s reservation at her favorite hotel.
Dinner was near the Eiffel Tower at La Tour Royal.
Walking back to our hotel, we saw blinking sparkles coming from the Eiffel Tower, which we later learned were hourly for ten minutes each, just for the millennium celebration.
At first I thought that people who were buying tickets only to the garden, rather than to both garden and house, were missing something, but that was before we saw how extensive the gardens were and how tall the flowers. Then we were similarly enchanted with the house, pleased that we were doing this after rather than before Versailles, to which this is a good antidote with its human proportions and bright, cheering colors. That yellow kitchen is so homey it’s my ideal!
I was very thrifty in buying a postcard only for Alexandra Stoddard – who writes about Giverny and Monet every opening she gets! – and two magnets for the fridge. Then we had something cool to drink at the stand, and caught the bus back to Vernon. Fortunately, we both had naps on the train (which I’ve never done on a commuter train before!).
On our way from our hotel to find a restaurant, a young man standing in the lobby – someone we’d never seen before – said, “Isn’t it wonderful just to be in Paris?” He told us he’d soon be twenty-seven, had rented an apartment for a month in Paris, and was seeing to his mother’s reservation at her favorite hotel.
Dinner was near the Eiffel Tower at La Tour Royal.
Walking back to our hotel, we saw blinking sparkles coming from the Eiffel Tower, which we later learned were hourly for ten minutes each, just for the millennium celebration.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
September 4, 2000
After another bad night of coughing, Bernard urged me to have the hotel call a doctor. More medical French! The doctor who came, Thierry Belitti, didn’t look a day over twenty-five, and wore a cute beret just like that drawing in my French book pointing to marginal notes cautioning about pronunciation. Once we were assured that Bernard’s ailment wasn’t serious, I was inordinately pleased that he said my French was very good. He prescribed three things, wrote out the instructions, and charged 600F – no mention of insurance.
Once the medications were picked up, we went on to the Eiffel tower, which is in walking distance of our hotel. A sign said that due to technical difficulties the elevator wouldn’t go up to the top, so I thought that the first etage was all we could get tickets for. I asked at the window if the first etage was the only thing for which she was selling tickets, and she said yes. Bernard felt cheated that we didn’t go up to the second, which I’d been told wasn’t possible. . . until others in our elevator went there. They didn’t get off the elevator where we did! Nevertheless, I was satisfied enough with the view, and wouldn’t go all the way to the railing to get my shots. We walked around the circumference and then went down.
We soon crossed a couple of Seine bridges in search of the booking office for the line of boats called Bateau Mouche, which Bernard pointed to. All we ended up finding was the dock for Bateaux Pairsiennes (52F per person), but enjoyed the cruise enormously. We were amazed at the detail of the buildings visible from the river. The ear phone gave eight choices of language. The British-English narrator of the English-language track pronounced Pissarro PISS-aro, to our amusement.
Back on shore, we had lunch at the river end of the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, at a restaurant called La Tour Eiffel, then went back to the Metro (to Opera to get the #7 toward La Courvoise to get off at Havre-Caumartin) to go to Galeries Lafayette to see the gorgeous stained-glass dome in the rotunda and to use my 10% discount (which I applied to a red purse to be mailed home the next day). The discount wasn’t applicable to perfume, which we chose for three friends and me (3 Rive Gauches and 1 Paris). They accept travelers’ checks on purchases, and have a bank that converts to francs those travelers’ checks you don’t use for purchase. Their bank is open as many hours as they are! I cashed all my travelers’ checks, to give me a “backup fund” I was determined not to need. Also while on that mezzanine where the bank is, I bought some candy for the people in the office, and a tote bag bearing the names of Paris neighborhoods/attractions all over it; not to show off to others that I’d been there but to convince myself, when back amid my work, I didn’t merely dream the trip.
Later we went to dinner at a place called Café du Marche on Rue Cler, whose liveliness we liked when we passed it on our walk Saturday night. Our waiter was a cockney (“burgy for the lie-dy. ‘Ow do you like my English, mate?”). At last I got beef bourguignon. The dessert both of us chose: profiteroles to die for!
Once the medications were picked up, we went on to the Eiffel tower, which is in walking distance of our hotel. A sign said that due to technical difficulties the elevator wouldn’t go up to the top, so I thought that the first etage was all we could get tickets for. I asked at the window if the first etage was the only thing for which she was selling tickets, and she said yes. Bernard felt cheated that we didn’t go up to the second, which I’d been told wasn’t possible. . . until others in our elevator went there. They didn’t get off the elevator where we did! Nevertheless, I was satisfied enough with the view, and wouldn’t go all the way to the railing to get my shots. We walked around the circumference and then went down.
We soon crossed a couple of Seine bridges in search of the booking office for the line of boats called Bateau Mouche, which Bernard pointed to. All we ended up finding was the dock for Bateaux Pairsiennes (52F per person), but enjoyed the cruise enormously. We were amazed at the detail of the buildings visible from the river. The ear phone gave eight choices of language. The British-English narrator of the English-language track pronounced Pissarro PISS-aro, to our amusement.
Back on shore, we had lunch at the river end of the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, at a restaurant called La Tour Eiffel, then went back to the Metro (to Opera to get the #7 toward La Courvoise to get off at Havre-Caumartin) to go to Galeries Lafayette to see the gorgeous stained-glass dome in the rotunda and to use my 10% discount (which I applied to a red purse to be mailed home the next day). The discount wasn’t applicable to perfume, which we chose for three friends and me (3 Rive Gauches and 1 Paris). They accept travelers’ checks on purchases, and have a bank that converts to francs those travelers’ checks you don’t use for purchase. Their bank is open as many hours as they are! I cashed all my travelers’ checks, to give me a “backup fund” I was determined not to need. Also while on that mezzanine where the bank is, I bought some candy for the people in the office, and a tote bag bearing the names of Paris neighborhoods/attractions all over it; not to show off to others that I’d been there but to convince myself, when back amid my work, I didn’t merely dream the trip.
Later we went to dinner at a place called Café du Marche on Rue Cler, whose liveliness we liked when we passed it on our walk Saturday night. Our waiter was a cockney (“burgy for the lie-dy. ‘Ow do you like my English, mate?”). At last I got beef bourguignon. The dessert both of us chose: profiteroles to die for!
Friday, September 3, 2010
September 3, 2000
Today was our day to attend to that particular bit of unfinished business that Bernard had saved from his previous trip as a “reason” to come back (as if he needed a reason!): Versailles.
We took the RER C line, but where we connected with it doesn’t matter as we won’t be repeating that day trip. Looking at the surrounding area was more fun than waiting in line at that colossal heap of dark, depressing overdone rooms (not a one of which had a bookshelf!). I’d describe Versailles as EuroVegas, 17th-century Donald Trump, and for the same reason: a man who apparently feels teeny-weeny and has a lot to prove . .. and does so with glitzy excess. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to find the front of the building emblazoned with the klieg-lit words ‘Trump Versailles.”
We walked along a nearby street in the town, eventually having lunch at the first café we’d seen on our walk from the train, St. Claire’s. That was our first experience with bathrooms that aren’t free but require a 2F piece.
Back to Paris – love those words! – for dinner, which we had at an Indian place near the hotel, after some walking around and finding that most places are closed on Sunday.
We took the RER C line, but where we connected with it doesn’t matter as we won’t be repeating that day trip. Looking at the surrounding area was more fun than waiting in line at that colossal heap of dark, depressing overdone rooms (not a one of which had a bookshelf!). I’d describe Versailles as EuroVegas, 17th-century Donald Trump, and for the same reason: a man who apparently feels teeny-weeny and has a lot to prove . .. and does so with glitzy excess. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to find the front of the building emblazoned with the klieg-lit words ‘Trump Versailles.”
We walked along a nearby street in the town, eventually having lunch at the first café we’d seen on our walk from the train, St. Claire’s. That was our first experience with bathrooms that aren’t free but require a 2F piece.
Back to Paris – love those words! – for dinner, which we had at an Indian place near the hotel, after some walking around and finding that most places are closed on Sunday.
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