February 20, 2023
No, this is not about a gas station in east Texas. But, oui, we are headed to Paris. France. For four days.
We left early anticipating afternoon rush hour traffic. And we drove considering the increased cost of Uber or Lyft. It is cheaper to park for a couple of days than run the risk of surge pricing using the cyber taxis. Besides, the long term parking at the International Terminal is very close and convenient.
Arriving at the terminal, we learned new lessons, as always. Number one. When traveling by air, fly on Monday nights. Nobody’s here. It’s empty. Number two. Never leave your emotional support chicken at home. The only food available here is the Varsity. A new adventure begins. At the bar.
February 21, 2023
Est arrivé ! The flight as well was nearly empty. It’s been decades since we’ve flown internationally where entire rows were empty affording the luxury of sleeping prone, a luxury normally reserved only for first class passengers. For us in steerage, it’s always bales of hay and sleeping upright on our cloven hooves.
Our seats, in the tail of the plane, had great views of our arrival.
With no checked luggage, we looked for a quick exit from the Charles de Gaulle Airport on arrival. Ten miles later, following jet ways, ramps, escalators, elevators, trains and trams, we finally exited the building to find that our driver, Ben, was not there. Not there. Where are you, Ben?
Ben showed up 15 minutes late, excessively cheerful, and explained that the traffic was terrible. Being from Atlanta, we bought the excuse hook, line and sinker.
On the way into the city, we had a lively hour long conversation with Ben. It covered everything. War. History. Economics. And the big one, Homosexuals. Ben don’t like them. It’s a communist plot from François Mitterrand, France’s President from the 1980s. As he dropped us off at our hotel, we all agreed to disagree. France, like the US and every country, has its share of conspiracy theories.
Checking in to the hotel near the Place de Bastille and Gare de Lyon train station, we were informed that our room wouldn’t be ready for several hours so we wandered around the neighborhood in a daze passing numerous sex shops and “Love Stores” until finally settling into a little cafe and ordering unknown items from a hand written chalkboard. Whatever I had was delicious. It tasted kinda like chicken.
Sunset. Time to drink. Versus Sunrise. Or 2 o’clock. Or 10. It’s Paris. And we found a quaint little Cafe called, “The Two Maggots”. I’m being told something about it is noteworthy. Hopefully not the larvae.
Following our “Cocktails with Max” (and Hemingway. He drank here. Where didn’t he?), we wandered around the neighborhood. Located on the left bank of the Seine, opposite from the Louvre, it appeared to be a quiet area and home to several colleges including the Ecole des Beaux Arts, a college I almost attended during my studies at Georgia Tech. The sophomore year for architecture students was held in Paris. “Study a year abroad”, they advertised. They never advertised where the money to afford it would come from. Which it didn’t. I was one of a handful of students who stayed in Atlanta.
On the way to explore my past possible digs, we stopped at the famous Hôtel d’Angleterre, the place to stay if you were a Hemingway, which, of course, we aren’t.
Following an evening of exploration, it was time to return to our “Ye Olde Holiday Inn”. But first, we stopped at a chichi bar and had a couple of more “Cocktails with Max”.
February 22, 2023
This, apparently, is the look you get from fellow subway riding Parisians who recognize you as a fugitive. Already on the run for several years (my speeding ticket was appealed and the French Supreme Court never made a decision so I’m not paying the fine until I get a decision), last night, after a couple of hours of enjoying local products, I jumped the subway gate turnstile, ran to the platform and hopped on board just as the doors closed with Teresa telling me that the guards were following.
A little background. Subways are confusing. Did I just buy a train ticket or a subway ticket? Is this the entry gate or exit? Where do I put the ticket and why won’t the gates open up? You get the drift. Teresa, BTW, sailed through like a pro. Me? I’ve never jumped a subway turnstile before.
Anyways, Wednesday’s child may be full of woe but this Wednesday’s child is on the go. Or more like on the run. Whoa!
Morning and time for coffee. A coffee cafe. I that a French oxymoron?
We have adopted our neighborhood coffee shop. A little cafe named Richards. Run by a tall middle aged chain smoking barista, the place serves great coffee and is usually empty. When paying the bill, I asked our host if his name was Richard, with me imagining some great back story of this gendarme’s family and the generations who’ve run the establishment. The place is filled with cups, trays and signs labeled “Richard”. “No!”, he replied. “It’s the corporate name and one of hundreds of chain outlets.” Well, at least I didn’t ask if his name was McDonald.
A chilly gray day inspired us to visit a nearby elevated park and walk its two mile length. Like the High Line Park in New York, this park appears to be built on the remnants of an abandoned elevated train line.
The trail followed above quiet residential streets. An occasional jogger or dog walker passed. The path wandered thru bamboo thickets and blooming pink cherry trees. The adjoining architecture changed from the classic Napoleonic French mansard-roofed walk-ups to a modern day (1970s) Soviet inspired uglyscape of bland concrete boxes. But, being Parisian, it still somehow worked.
Window shopping for E-Bikes. Born to be mild.
Birthday time and time for a shot (or two). As always, It’s cocktail hour here in the 12th. Which means it’s between midnight and 11:59 PM. Wait staff identified us as “Angleterre”. “I ain’t no Brit”, I said in my best Texas accent. Yee haww!
Take me out to the ballgame. As baseball is America’s past time, so opera is to the French. At least there’s less blood and gore than Spain’s past time, bull fighting. At least I am expecting less blood and gore, but it IS opera. The crowds currently in anticipation of the show are doing the wave. And a fat lady is clearing her throat. Ça bien!
A night at the opera.
Teresa got two tickets to the French National Opera’s performance of Carmen, written by the well known French composer, Bizet, and filled with music most would easily recognize today.
I’ve enjoyed listening to Carmen for a long time and always thought it was the simple (and wholesome) tale of a flamenco dancer who falls in love with a matador. Well, IT ISN’T!
The French, of course, never shy about anything, updated things a bit and what we ended up with is the 1890s meet the 1980s.
Packs of rusted Mercedes-Benz sedans rambled around the stage in circles driven by cocaine drug lords and passengered by various hookers. And the army. The Spanish Army. And around a raised flag of Spain. Nice touch. I’m just glad the Spaniards are so easy going lately.
There was naked dancing and blow jobs and money tossing and fortune telling. But at least no guns. In the end, our heroine, Carmen, is killed in a final stylized “bull fighting match” with, not the matador, but a “muy gordo” spurned ex-lover. Her bleeding body ingloriously dragged across the chalk outlined bull fighting ring to stage left. It turns out it wasn’t over until the fat guy sung. Drop curtain.
Voila!
The audience applauded and applauded for 20 minutes but there was no standing ovation, something American audiences are always generous with. The orchestration and singing was fantastic and I thought a standing ovation was deserved. But the French can be picky and, by the size of the audience, really know and love their opera. Oh, and making fun of their neighbors “South of the Border”.
February 23, 2023
A morning walk along Rive Droite, the “Right Bank”. And, from my scant knowledge of history, the source of American political terms of leftism and rightism. The left bank, Rive Gauche, is home to colleges and artists. This side is the money side. The other, there be commies. Liberal versus conservative. Red versus blue. It all originates here in Paris.
And while in Paris you are obligated to visit one of its many famous museums. This, the Musée d’Orsay, is another hulking behemoth with many levels and labyrinthine wings. Abandon hope, all ye who enter. Teresa had a plan. Keep it simple. So we chose the section devoted to Impressionism, both our favorites. We rushed to the Van Gogh salon where everyone else was and shoved and pushed to get a view.
After an hour our brains were full and we headed for the exit. We somehow ended up in the basement and, to our surprise, were greeted by Whistler’s mom. “Hi!”, I said. She just sat there glum in her rocking chair. Not a word came from her lips.
Last night in Paris and we decided to visit Montmartre, where Sacre Coeur is located for a sunset view and from there, a short walk to the Moulin Rouge for a final evening show.
Our Uber driver dropped us off in front of the church in the midst of what seemed to be a high school rally. Lots of screaming school students. We have no idea what was going on and we high tailed it downhill back into the city.
It’s showtime. And the band, weirdly, is playing Steely Dan.
The Moulin Rouge is famous and, from my knowledge, has been for a long, long time. It’s appeared in movies, music and cartoons. Bugs Bunny would fit right in. And, HEY, is that Elmer Fudd over there?
Tonight what heights they’ll hit. On with the show, this is it.
I expected the show to be a cross between Las Vegas, Branson, MO and Orlando. You know, cheap and tacky and filled with crowd pleasing spectacles. But, as with everything the French seem to do, it was more than that and actually pretty good.
The warm-up band was decent and, as previously mentioned, versatile in their music selection. A lot of American oriented music. They know their audience.
Teresa sprung for VIP seating. Top level, center stage. Our attendant was a young gentleman by the name of Logan, born in 1999 and the manager of the wait staff. Barely in his mid 20s, he spoke and behaved like a man of worldly sophistication. Born in Birmingham (England) with a British father and a French mother, he spoke clearly and confidently enough to actually be understood. He has worked at the Moulin Rouge for several years now and I guess that sort of education matures you early.
The lights dimmed and the lavishly costumed performers crowded on stage. There were feathers, twinkly lights, boas and spandex jackets. There were balancing acts and spinning gymnastics. At one point, a giant white Burmese Python in a pool of water wrestled with a young female performer (not a euphemism). The highlight of the evening was the Can-can. And of course, bare boobs everywhere.
Red gloves. Red bags. Red containers. A final night (for now) in Paris.
February 24, 2023
Our driver, Ben, picked us up for the ride back to the airport. He’s a good driver unlike the maniacs we’ve had rides with in Paris before. If you are planning a visit, let me know and I will send you his contact information. He’s cheaper than Uber, also.
It’s been a whirlwind few days. We walked 32.96 miles according to my stepometer. Ahead, now, an eight hour flight. The same time it takes to drive to Tampa from Atlanta. While I love Tampa, I will choose Paris any time given the choice.
While we wait for our flight, we had lunch at a restaurant named Paul’s. And, no, I did not ask the cashier if his name was Paul. I’m a quick learner.
Au revoir!