Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Back in Paris


October 7, Taking Off
We’re at the gate in Newark and will begin boarding United flight 54 soon for the flight to Paris.

We’ll be staying on the Left Bank at Hotel 3 Colleges, around the corner from the Pantheon. Not like the Roman Pantheon. This is an 18th century building where they bury famous French people.

Monday we are headed for Provence, where Larry will pick us up and take us on a road trip. We’ll be staying at a town called Beaumes-de-Venise in the guest house of Larry’s friends, who grow wine grapes.

We’ll stay one night at a small motel about 9 kilometers from the airport because, for some reason, there were no rooms closer.

If you go to Paris, book a flight to Orly. Charles de Gaulle is bigger, much farther away from the city, and a general pain in the ass. I won’t try it again.

Be well, all.
Harry

October 8
We got to Paris—well, within remote striking distance, at Charles de Gaulle Airport—on time. According to the airport website, you can take the RER B line, apparently part of the Paris Metro system—for about half an hour to a rail station in the city. I was planning to take a cab to Hotel 3 Colleges from there. 

According to the man at the information desk at the airport, that entailed a transfer. I’ve done that before lugging bags. It isn’t terrible, but even so, I opted for Line 4 of Cars Air France, a bus service. I had read about it and knew it would take longer but get me closer to the hotel.

It took over an hour to reach Gare Montparnasse, which is near Le Dome and the Galeries Lafayette where we bought the bracelet charms a year ago, and then there was a brief cab ride on top of that. Had we gone to Orly, a cab ride would have cost the same as the bus and cab rides together, or less,  and would have gotten Joanna and me door to door in half the time. Or less.

But I was thinking: Oh, we can take United to CDG and get points on our travel accounts. That was downright stupid. Fly to Orly.

By the way, there’s a story that goes with those bracelet charms. When we bought them we talked to the salesperson at Galeries Lafayette and in the chat told her we were from Montclair, New Jersey. Her sister, Rimi, was in Montclair at a bakery called Petit Parisien.

A couple of weeks ago, we stopped at Petit Parisien and met Rimi. Her sister is in Luxembourg now. Is that cool or what? As small as it is, there’s still room in Luxembourg to let people in.

We got to the hotel with little difficulty. I told the driver “Otel Twa Collezh, sayz roo cuzhah.” Wow, I felt so sophisticated.

He had no idea what I’d just said. “Do you have it written?” “Sure, here.” “Oh, Cuzhahss.” 16 Rue Cujas. Rhymes with “pas,” non? Non. Go figure.

But he got us there, and Joanna recognized some of the sights—le Galeries, le Dome—on the way.

We checked in (or enrolled) at 3 Colleges and ate breakfast at a place around the corner, Cafe le Duc. My breakfast was three cups of coffee, goat cheese on a baguette, and muscadet, a good breakfast wine. Give me a break. It was 2 in the afternoon here. Joanna had an equally good sandwich of ham and butter on a baguette. But she drank water. 

I don’t see how she can do that. Hell, water rusts iron and sinks ships. What’s it going to do to you?



Anyhow, le Duc is a great stop. It’s after ten local time, and I’m writing this from the same cafe.

We did visit a few other places in between.

We left the cafe this afternoon and went to the Pantheon, around the corner. It was originally a church dedicated to St. Geneviéve, patron of Paris, and after it fell into disrepair, was rebuilt by order of some Louis. Maybe the 15th.

Then came the Revolution. Talk about a weird mix of stuff. There are murals on the wall showing St. Geneviéve saving Paris from the Huns and St Geneviéve dying, and the baptism of Clovis.

As you might expect, there was one that held particular interest for Harry. Joanna noticed it first: the crowning of Charlemagne. It even had a caption: “In the year 800, at the feast of the Noel, Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne emperor of the West.”

Good or bad, it’s picture of the day, hands down. It shows that Harry is back in the domain of Charlemagne. All right.


 There were also monumental marbles of guys from the Revolution, other guys in old suits giving a hands-up (uncannily reminiscent of a fascist salute) to Liberty, and more guys with guns representing French victories over Prussians, English, and what not.

“Where is Voltaire,” I ask. “La bas,” the guy said, pointing through the floor. He pointed me the way to the stairs. I have to brag. I actually remembered to ask, “Ou se trouve Voltaire?” And I didn’t need a translation of “la bas.” Think of it. An exchange involving six whole words of French, and I got it—all right, with a little help from sign language.

We went down the spiral stairs to the crypt. Voltaire’s tomb faces Rousseau’s—the rationalist vs. the romantic. Very appropriate. 

We also saw some more serious stuff in the crypt, and I won’t make jokes about that. There is a national hero named Moulin, who was a Resistance fighter captured and tortured to death by the Nazis. He gave up no one. One of those he didn’t give up is down there, too—Andre Malraux, the writer. Besides being a French Resistance fighter, Malraux earlier had gone to fight for the Spanish republic during Franco’s Civil War.

When you come out of the Pantheon, yu can look down Rue Sufflot (named for the Pantheon’s architect) and see the Eiffel Tower.


After the Pantheon, we started toward Notre Dame, which is just down the hill. We stopped for Campari and soda at a bistro called Perigord on Rue St. Jacques. Very charming place. We looked at the menu and made a note of it.

We also detoured to an old church that houses a medieval museum and walked through its medieval garden. The foot of the place is the Boulevard St. Germain.

We got to the cathedral just in time to be locked out of the crypt again. Damn, I want to see the tombs of those guys killed by the stormin’ Normans at le Petit Pont. This crypt shuts at 6, and nobody gets in after 5:30. It was five to six when we got there. Fair enough.

We didn’t go into the cathedral. We’ll be back for a service on Sunday. 

We walked in the garden behind the cathedral under a darkening sky. We decided to head back home. We got there all right and picked up my umbrella and Joanna’s raincoat, then headed for Perigord.

Snails, boeuf bourguignon, fish (for Joanna) in a yellow sauce, and let’s see, a couple of merlots, a rosé, and some house-made custard.

Very nice.

The tables are very close together, and as Joanna pointed out, it was like a bar because strangers were talking to each other. We may have upset a young Korean lady at one table as she watched me draw snails out of the shell and then eat them. That, or she was fascinated by the process.

They serve snails in the shell, and give you those spring-loaded tongs to hold them so you can reach into the spiral with the little fork. I haven’t done that for a while, but I managed all six.

At the table on the other side was a couple visiting Paris from Amsterdam. The guy was Polish and the girl Russian. He was a chef on a touring boat. The boat makes tours of Holland and stops at various cities, where the passengers get out and bike for the day, and then return to the boat at night.

He agreed that the food in Amsterdam is iffy at best. But the beer and the muffins are damned good.

The rain picked up while we were in the restaurant. So it was a good thing that we went to the hotel first.

It’s about 10 now. Maybe later. It’s still raining outside le Duc. The Mac has a plastic bag, so all is well. The place is filling up with students. The waiter asked if I wanted to move to a quieter part of the restaurant while I worked. No need for that. 

But now, here’s Harry, signing off at le Duc after an indeterminate number of Bordeaux.

God bless us everyone, and my apologies to the atheists.

October 9
Hi Grasshopper, and a note to fellow readers,

Please note how generally cooperative and polite Harry's various exchanges with the Parisian locals have been.

Not to sound like a shill for the French Tourist Board, but having just been in Paris a week ago, I was noticing the old stereotype of rude Parisians refusing to speak English was shattered for me on numerous occasions. I can't tell you how many times servers, shopkeepers, etc. would happily answer my terrible French in English, and the service in most places was gracious.

The assumption by many Americans that "of course they ALL speak English" is also ridiculous, and most people that couldn't speak English were very patient with my bad language skills.

Even local folks in the streets, cafes, and shops would exchange pleasantries, or offer to help out with recommendations. Several exchanges were in halting combinations of French and English. It was often fun.

So, if you've been thinking of visiting Paris, but are concerned about unaccepting locals, my recent experiences and those of other travelers contradict this. Many young people are learning English, and many Parisians appreciate our business and presence there.

Paris is a very interesting, beautiful place every serious traveler should visit.

Salutations de Provence,

Larry  

October 9
My wife and I went to Paris and Provence several years ago. I (usually a curmudgeon) agree completely with Larry's assessment of the locals!
Jack T.

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