Later, not good-bye, London

I haven't blogged in several days because I've been too busy living this adventure, which is a good thing, right?  Right!

But, today we're taking a mid-week morning break and relaxing in front of a fire, while watching bad (sorry, U.K. pals) TV.   With choices like "West Wing" "Supernanny U,S." or "Road Patrol," we're both on our iPads.

We ended last week in London by enjoying a subtle Indian breakfast at Dishoom Carnaby, actually located behind Carnaby in a really lovely, quiet area with a pretty little park, Golden Square.  That was a nice place to sit and have the chai tea our waiter insisted we try--for free--since we'd said "no thanks" to it and ordered lattes instead with our eggs on naan breakfast.  Nice people here! And still a "no" to the chai, by the way.

Carnaby Street is still a fun traffic-free road.  It's very short, with quirky clothing stores sharing the limited space with tacky souvenir shops. No sign of Mary Quant,Twiggy or a pair of white go-go boots to be found.

Saturday morning we took a few tube transfers to Borough Market.  We LOVE this open air market, the oldest and largest in London, with a best guess opening date of 1014.  if it's edible and you seek it, you will find it here.  100 kinds if cheese?  Check. Sea creatures you've likely never heard of? Check.  Zebra steaks?  "Cook 'em as ya would lamb, luv. Keep it a bit rare."  Check.  But, also, fudge to die for, fresh squezed mango orange juice and carved-to-order turkey sandwiches on clrusty bread.

We bought some fudge (duh) and a basket of beautiful strawberries, which flew with us to Cornwall, and we headed back to the hotel to pack.

TIP:  knowing that I have rented apartments in Europe for over 20 years, I've been asked why I use hotels in London.  Several years ago, after searching for something in our meager budget, we settled on a lower flat on The Kings Road. Now, we don't require elegance, but we do want it clean, decently equipped and in a good location.  Well, this one had one out of three: a good location.  Although I still search before visiting, I've come up short.  However, there are so many great hotel booking sites that a nice one can usually be found at a reasonable price (Londontown.com, Laterooms.com, for example). If you stay in apartments in London, I'd be happy to have your recommendations!

For those who routinely stay in hotels when traveling abroad, let me share why we prefer apartments:  first, they are usually less expensive then a hotel (unless you stay at the Ritz or Four Seasons).  Second, an apartment allows you to be part of the neighborhood, if only for a short time.  Third, you have space to move around, read a book, watch TV, etc., in the living room while your partner sleeps in the bedroom.  And, you have a kitchen to cook the odd breakfast or sit and enjoy take-away for dinner.  Also, not to be overlooked is the benefit of a washer; especially important if, like us, you carry-on only.

NEXT LEG
We flew Flybe out of Gatwick to Newquay very early Sunday morning.  Now, I'd read lots of bad reviews about this British Airways subsidiary, mostly about lousy departure times and cancelled flights.  I decided to roll the dice because 1) it cost only around £24 ($30-ish) one-way, 2) Time wasn't important at that price, and; 3) I would get BA points.  Our experience?  It took off and landed on time!  We'll see if our luck holds on our flight to Paris next week, which lays over in Manchester.

I'm not including our first few days in Cornwell in this post, because it deserves its own post. I will say that we are totally in love with this part of England.   And Doc Martin sightings aren't the only reason, by far.  😉

The Breakfast Club

The hub and I are not exactly early risers.  We're not even semi-early risers, if there is such a thing.  But on a city vacation, I like to get up with the pigeons and get going. Gene, not so much.  However, my family knows that if there's one thing Gene willrise and shine for, it's breakfast. In London, that means heart-attack-on-a-plate Full English: Sausage, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, cooked tomatoes, baked beans and toast. That was fine in the past, but what to do now that his diabetes has become more severe and carbs are the devil ingredient?  The answer: reservations.

This trip I decided to scout out restaurants with healthy breakfast alternatives and reserve in advance.  Tip:  making reservations for the first meal of the day is also an excellent way to force yourself up and out. Another bonus is trying new, often hip, places for a fraction of the cost of dinner.  True of lunch, too, of course. 

So yesterday, a rare day of perfect weather in London, we took an uber to Kensington Gardens and enjoyed poached eggs and beautiful, thin ham on rustic bread with pumpkin seed pesto at The Magazine in the Sackler Gallery at the Serpentine. Trust me, this was amazing.  And, at around £9 each, it easily beat the hotel’s £22 .

Tip: uber is the way to go here if you're in a time crunch and/or the bus or tube route to your destination is not very direct.  A ride from Kensington to the Sackler, only about two miles, but a 15 minute ride through traffic, was £5.61 plus tip. A great deal. 

We decided to ditch plans for the Tate Modern and stay in the park, wandering Kensington Gardens, then through Hyde Park before wandering back into the traffic circle around Buckingham Palace to visit the Royal Mews.  

The Royal Mews are the stables.  But these ain't your rancher father’s stables.  These are over-the-top, fit for a queen horse lodgings (as, of course, they are).  Also stabled here are the royal coaches and cars. There's a whole lotta gold in them thar stables!  Gilt overload! And, not being a British taxpayer, I loved it all!  

Fun fact:  the term “mews” comes from the sport of Falconry. The “mews” was the cage (or stable) the Falcons were kept in.  Okay, I said fun fact, not fascinating. 

Today's breakfast will be at Dishoom Carnaby (thanks, AnnMarie).  Yes, this us the same Carnaby Street where Mary Quant started the Mod movement in the 1960’s. This will put us center city, just off Regent Street, so our day will be completely different from yesterday. 

Hmmm, I wonder if they sell white go-go boots and patent leather mini-skirts in a retro shop on Carnaby…  Dare me???

Superstition.  Tradition.  Tomato.  Tomahto.

When the wheels left the ground, I was holding Gene’s hand, clutching my gold Miraculous Medal with the other hand and silently repeating the Hail, Mary.  This went on until the plane leveled out, the earth disappeared below and we were deep into the clouds.  I do this every time I fly.  What started out 23 years ago as a first-time flyer’s plea for safety instantly became my “whew. Thank  you, God” message to heaven for a safe flight. A message that I am afraid to stop sending, even long having become comfortable (or, maybe just fatalistic) about flying.

This little bit of drama seems harmless enough, right?  Well, first of all, I'm now a lapsed Catholic, so the medal/Mary ritual seems pretty nervy of me these days.  Shouldn't my God-centered plea be more generic?  But, what if I change my airborne routine? What if I stop? I mean, I have the fate of approximately 250 people in my hands!

Once we've touched down, there is the “arrival” ritual. This one depends on where we've landed.  This trip, it's London.  After checking into our hotel and dropping our bags (and getting the usual reminder that rooms aren't ready until two o’clock,) we drag our tired and somewhat ripe selves to Harrod’s department store.

This started as a mindless activity to kill time until we could get into our room and nap. Museums, stately homes and gardens are a waste if you're sleep deprived.  Shopping, however, can be done on automatic pilot.  So, we purchase a few gifts, choose our annual Christmas ornament, and take a peek at the  Dianna and Dodi shrine in the Egyptian elevator, (which we've watched become more faded, dusty and, if it's even possible, inelegant over the years).

Are these ritual must-do activities superstition or—more kindly put—tradition?  And, does it matter?  Well, it does if forgetting your medal or flying without your husband’s hand to hold fills you with—not yet panic—but definitely, angst.

I blame this on my father.  The Irish Catholic grandson of a  Northern Ireland-born Catholic lad, dad was raised in deeply-Irish superstitions that were not to be trifled with.  I can easily conjure up the image of him saying “Shoes. Off. The table. NOW!”   I know.  It makes sense, right?  Shoes on the table?  Yuck!  But, I'm talking about fresh from the store shoes, still in their box and bag.  Heading through the dining room with that package?  Keep walking.

Truthfully, I don't really question any more whether these little travel rituals are a hark back to familial superstition or just my own happy traditions.  The result is the same:  I'm able to begin my vacation relaxed and at peace.

Until the guy across from me takes off his shoes. Or the lady one row up opens her home-made tuna and garlic mayo sandwich.  Or the “you-call-that-tortellini” dinner arrives.   But, you know, you can't ask a Medal for everything.

Do you have any travel superstitions traditions?

Tossing and Turning

I’m not the only person who lays in bed at night thinking about the stuff that I’m too busy to think about during the day, right?  And it usually gets out of hand, true? 

Example:

Last night I was thinking about something I need to buy and, knowing it was going to rain today, I decided to first look on the Internet.   While I was musing about where to look, I took the next “thought step,” which was:  if everyone stays home tomorrow and uses the Internet to shop, the stores will be empty. (If that were true, by the way, even the rain couldn’t have kept me away.)

This is not an original thought, of course.   We all recognize that the mom-and-pop stores have all but disappeared thanks to the convenience and cost-effectiveness of using the big box stores.  As much as we long for the days of going to the little shop around the corner for our shoes, the reality is that the majority of us can’t afford it. 

But should the big box stores be worried now?  Are they being gobbled up by the mega-Internet?  How much Christmas shopping did you do online last year?  For me, it was almost 100%.  This year I might reach that percentage.  Especially if it snows J

How quickly will we become an insulated, stay-at-home society?  This is where my mind spiraled last night.   Toss:  We shop from home more and more.  Turn: The big-box stores gradually close (there are rumors that Best Buy is already on its way out).  Covers off:  If we don’t need to go out to shop, we don’t need cars—at least not our own, personal cars.  One car per household will be enough. 

Covers on: Everything comes to us.  We buy even more comfortable furniture.  Nesting is taken to its highest level.  The result?  We get fatter.  Maybe even the French get fat!  (Hit the floor and do a few happy shuffle steps.)

Burrowing back in: On the other hand, the Jewel Tea man, the Omar bread man, the milkman and the butcher used to deliver and they went the way of the nickel Hershey bar.  Why?  Was it because we wanted to get out?  We are social animals, after all.

Oh, wait, we can now socialize on the Internet.  Without taking a shower or putting on a bra.

Tonight I’ll work on world peace.

Good Cop, Bad Cop.

Our daughter’s thirteen-year old car bit the dust Saturday.  It coughed up its last noxious fumes shortly after she left the gas station, with a full tank, of course.  She asked her dad and I to go car shopping with her on Sunday.  Her parameters for purchase were simple:  Used, low mileage, good on gas, cheap.  Here’s the kicker:  She asked for her dad because he can (euphemistically) kick the tires.  She asked me because I’m the “bad cop.”  I’m the one who doesn’t care about the kids in the picture on the salesman’s desk.  I don’t care if Heather “looks good” in a blue car.  I don’t need a new best friend. And I’m not afraid to walk if the deal isn’t right or takes too long.

She was right, of course.  Historically, I’ve always been the hard-nosed realist.

“No, you can’t wear the jeans with a hole in the knees to Mass.  I don’t care if dad said you look cute.”

“No, you can’t eat an ice cream sandwich for lunch.  Yes, I know.  Funny daddy said it is a sandwich, after all.”

“Call when you get there so I know you’ve arrived safely.  Call me or I’m coming to find you.  Yes, I trust you but, unlike daddy, I can’t sleep until I know you’re safe.”

I cross-examined the boyfriends.  Dad played golf with them.

I wasn’t always crazy about my reputation with my kids as the bad cop, but I also silently loved that they had such a sweet relationship with their dad, too. 

This is the part of parenthood that gets better with time.  Instead of the tears or stomping feet or swishing hair or rolling eyes I got when she was a kid, I now get asked to use the bad cop part of my parenting repertoire. 

And here’s the best part:  I’ve raised a good negotiator.  She called today to say, “I told the salesman to put the car up on the rack and have it inspected (they don’t offer that at this small lot) and to put a full tank of gas in it, too (they don’t do that, either) if they want me to buy it.  And I want it in writing.  He agreed.“  Well done, grasshopper.

I guess that makes me a good “bad cop.”  

Who’s the “good cop” in your household?  I’m betting it’s the hub.  If it’s not, humor me and tell me it is, okay?

Goodness Gracious Me!

Tonight after dinner, the hub and I went for ice cream.  At one point I heard a lady say, “my goodness, this is really good.”  My first thought was, “who said this?”  My second thought was, “that was me!”

Do you get it?  Did you hear what I said?  my goodness, this is really good!  Twenty-year olds don’t say “my goodness.”  I don’t think fifty-year olds do, either.   But now I know sixty-year olds do.

I’ve been noticing a lot of this “old lady” stuff about myself lately.  When I was on vacation last month I spent way too much time complaining about my knees, which, admittedly, were just singing with pain for most of the last two weeks.   So that’s a double dip of old lady:  complaining and pain. 

The good news is that I was totally annoyed with myself for feeling bad when I wanted to feel good.  For slowing down when I wanted to move faster.  For staying put when I wanted to walk up one more hill.  So I guess this means I haven’t given in to my old lady status entirely.  I mean, I’m not saying “well, of course, I can’t make that trek.  I’m no spring-chicken, you know.”  No, I’m still saying, “I can do this (ouch), wait, gimme a minute (ouch), okay, go, I’ll catch up with you later.” 

I was so pissed off at myself for feeling that I was less than I wanted to be that I made an appointment with my orthopedic guy from Paris!  I saw him on my return home and, after reviewing the x-rays, he said he thinks the arthritis is worse (really, doc?  Ya think?) but he wanted an MRI to see more.  Did the MRI last week and I’ll see my guy again on August 22^nd for the reading.  I’ll keep you posted.

And my face feels funny.  It feels scratchy.  Hmmmm.  So this weekend I went out and bought new facial scrub stuff and an anti-aging gel.  I used both, then took a 200 mile ride on the back of the hub’s Harley.  When I came home I felt a little chapped.  Looked in the mirror and my face was red and on fire.  But it was soft.  Hoping that it was a combination of the new products mixing with the sun and wind I’ll try again in a few days.  After the swelling goes down.  I don’t know if it will really improve the texture of my skin, but it definitely improved the quality of life for my credit card company, so someone will benefit.  I’ll keep you posted.

My toes are wrinkled.  Are yours?  They look like I just got out of the pool, but I haven’t been in a pool in over a month.  So I’ll increase my pedicure appointments and, in between, I think I’ll try that facial gel on them.  I’ll keep you posted.

All this is to say that I am taking charge of this aging thing.  I’m going to move more and take vitamins and work on my skin.  And I’m going to think before I speak so that little kids don’t start asking me for brownies and milk and my husband doesn’t buy me lavender toilet water for my next birthday.  Yes, indeedy bob, I’ll keep you posted!

There's No Place Like Home

When we arrived home late Thursday night from our trip I felt like I had just arrived on vacation!  For years, I’ve been the person who said, “If it weren’t for the kids and grandsons, I could gladly give up permanent digs and just roam the world for the rest of my life.”  Yet, this time, after only about 25 days away, I was anxious to be home.  Well, this was a surprise!

I started thinking about “home.”  Of course, it has different meanings for many, and I can only address my own, but what I’ve concluded is that “home” evolves.  Here’s how:

As a child, home meant Lake Avenue, seven people at the dinner table, birthdays with a favorite aunt and uncle, warm Christmas eves, one bathroom, sharing a bedroom, and the freedom to roam our small town in the summer.

As a teen-ager, home meant being answerable to annoying parents on Lake Avenue, missing brothers who were in the service, missing an older sister who had moved to North Jersey, babysitting a little sister, having my own room and my own phone and four around the big table at dinner.

As a young adult, married and living in Ohio, home still meant Lake Avenue.  We would go “home” every long weekend for years.  We would go “home” every Christmas.  Our apartment, even after the birth of our daughter, wasn’t “home” to me, I guess.

This went on for years.  Of course, I recognized that our houses were homes, especially the one in which we raised our two children.  For my kids, this was “home” and, though I really, truly thought of them as home, I continued to say “we’re going home” whenever we were headed to New Jersey.

My parents sold the home I grew up in and moved to Florida in 1981, shortly after marrying off the last of us.  I was appalled.  I’d been gone for ten years, yet I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that Lake Avenue would no longer be “home.”  I remember my daughter asking me why I was upset.  This 9-year old, to whom home was Melwood Drive in Columbus, couldn’t understand how I thought of an old house in New Jersey as “home.”  She was right, and from that point on, where I lived with my husband, children and dogs, was home.

Several houses later, “home” has now morphed into another iteration.  Our present home is not as large as previous places, we’ve not as much property (in fact, a postage-stamp front yard) and the last piece of new furniture I bought was I-don’t-know-how-long-ago.  The days (years) of collecting the perfect pieces for each room are long over (embarrassing confession:  I bought a yellow striped velvet couch during the early 1970s “Mediterranean” phase).  I now have confidence in my own personal style.  Walking through the door Thursday night and seeing the things we loved enough to keep sitting companionably on bookshelves; climbing the stairs to the bedroom we carefully refined over the years, I knew I was home. 

True, we raised our kids in another home, cared for and said good-bye to a parent in another, prepared for a child’s wedding in a third and welcomed grandchildren to still another.  Momentous occasions all that should, by definition, be recalled as true “homes.” And, at the time, they each were.

But this place we are in now is definitely home.  Just the hub and I on a full-time basis but imbued with all the bits and pieces of our previous homes and re-animated as in earlier homes when family and friends gather here. 

It’s a cliché, I know, but home really is "where the heart is.”   Our hearts just define it differently at various stages of our lives.  At least, that’s the way I see it.

1962 on Lake Avenue. L-R: Mom, Collene,
Melaney, Jackie

50 years later.  2012 on Grand Strand Drive

And Then There Were None

Today was our last day in Paris.  I think we spent it well:

After breakfast at "home," we headed for the base of Montmartre to browse a few shops for last minute pressies to take home to friends. Then the metro to the Ile de la Cite to leave our "love lock" on the Pont de Arts bridge behind Notre Dame.  After securing our lock, making a wish and tossing the keys into the Seine, we headed to Restaurant Le Tournebievre for a late lunch.  With a view of the bookinistas, the Seine and Notre Dame, we had frissee with bacon and poached egg (me) and tomatoes with mozzarella (Gene) for starters then steak Tartare (me) and Lieu Jaune, or Pollack, (Gene) for plats.  Both excellent. 

After lunch we walked to the Ile St. Louis for Berthillon cones.  We both chose double dips of chocolate and caramel burre sel.  OMG.  I knew I had to wait until the last day for this treat or I'd have been in line at Berthillon's every day and needed a second seat on the plane home!

Tidying up the apartment (lest Le French poop tries to withhold our deposit) and packing this afternoon.   Of course, I tossed a few articles of clothing to fit the new stuff and gifts.  (Yes, THAT is how serious I am about carry-on only.)

Gene made a final run to the patisserie for our last baguette and croissants which, along with some leftovers in the fridge, comprised our dinner.

In the morning, a taxi to the airport at 8:00 am then home via Philly. Heather and Clay will pick us up at the airport in Columbus.  My palms are already itching to get my hands on them. 

Thanks for coming along on our adventure!  Please check back in a few days for pictures.  Then it will be on to postings that I hope will interest you.  Please don't forget to comment.  I love dialogue, remember?

Are you looking forward to the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics this weekend?  I sure am!

Winding Down

Today we took it easy. Not that we've been running around like crazy the past week, just slower than normal.  Our usual style of vacation is to intersperse a few museums, exhibits or special activities in with a lot of just wandering around and becoming part of the scenery.  In other words, we're very good at doing nothing!

Today is a good example of this.  We were up and out by 10:30, hit Paul's up for almonde croissants and cafe creme and, with no destination in mind, we just walked in a new direction.   The ability to get lost is one of the reasons I'm not a fan of cruises.  You can only wander the ship so long before you end up back where you started, then you are out of new places to explore.

We walked to Ave Montaigne and window-licked the couture shops of Dior, Chanel, Valentino, etc.  Heres my Tip of the Day:  within two years we in the states will be wearing elephant bell trousers again--just like 1975.  Also, palazzo pants.  This is good news for those of us with big thighs.

 At one point I had to use the bathroom and, after wasting five minutes explaining to the hub that, no, I couldn't just ask the big guys in black suits in the doorway to Emilio Pucci to let me use the facilities, we walked at a faster clip a few blocks over to a more laid back part of Paris (there's a sentence I never thought I'd use) where we could use a cafe's WC for the price of a couple of diet Cokes or coffee.   By the way, both beverages are roughly $5.50 and no refills, which makes the privilege of ducking past an open urinal to get to a seat damned pricy.  

Le Toilette Break

Home to rest my mushy knees by 2:30.   Back out at 8:00 for a lite dinner of spaghetti Bolognese, a bottle of pully fume and espresso. Walked to the Champs for an ice cream cone and home again by 10:30.

Tomorrow is our last full day and will be spent picking up the various things we promised to bring back for people.  Neither of us will be sorry to say good-bye to the little studio apartment and we're both looking forward to getting home, but I always hate saying good-bye to Paris and this trip, in particular, has been special because so much of it was spent with my special friends; my Jersey Girls.  

Le Tour de France and Other Significant Moments

Today, Sunday, July 22nd, the Tour de France concluded with a triumphant seven laps through the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs Élysées.  We were front and center when Wiggins, trailed closely by a horde of muscular calves, sped by over and over again. We captured it on film, but that will have to wait for our return to be posted. 

At the same time, we were remembering with a ceremony earlier this week, the rounding up of over 4,000 French Jews on June 16, 1942.  Mainly children, they were dragged from their homes by the French police in cooperation with the German government who, although they had taken Paris, did not participate in the round-up.  This was strictly a French action, though the reasons have never been made clear. President Hollande, in remarks while laying a wreath at the site of the former Velidrome  a few days ago (where they were taken and held for ten days, in the heat, with no toilet facilities and little water before being transported to the death camps), repeated President Mitterand's apology of 1996, by taking responsibly on behalf of France.   Reportedly, less then 100 survived the camps.

I report this because I find it so ironic that this took place in an arena that was built for indoor bicycle racing and was, from the turn of the twentieth century until the 1960's, a place of pride for Parisian cyclists and fans.  Yes, they resumed using the Velidrome after the war.  It has been since torn down and only a small plaque marks its original spot in the Fifteenth Arrondissement.  For more information, read the fictional but historically accurate novel, Sarah's Key. 

Let's see, how to end this post on an upbeat note.   Oh, after falling four times over the course of this trip, my knees-already mush to begin with-have not given out completely.  But the local meds aren't worth the euros you pay for them, either.  Oops, not a Happy conclusion.  

Tomorrow we go to the exposition center at the Porte de Versailles to see the Tut exhibit.  12.90e on Mondays, 15.90e every other day. Now that's good news!  

Saturday = Flea Market Day

When in paris, Saturday morning is traditionally spent at the Porte De Vanves flea market.   Not to be confused with the overwhelming Marche de Puce at Clignoncourt, to which people are usually referring when they speak of "Paris flea markets."

This market takes place deep in the fifteenth arrondissement and is not a permanent site, like Les Puces, but a street about a mile long of vendors who dump their wares from the back of their vans onto the sidewalks.  In the past we've found some good stuff, but the days of collecting are over, I think, except on a small scale.  Today's haul?  An old metal Harley Davidson sign Gene got for 10e. I was proud of myself for passing over a sketch I really wanted.

A stop at Cafe Diderot to split a club sandwich and order of frites and it was back to 

the apartment to do laundry and, later, cook a dinner of scrambled egg sandwiches. Yes, we do travel glamorously, I know. Try not to hate. 

And Then There Were Two

The hub and I moved from the hotel to an apartment on Wednesday.  We decided to try  a new part of town since we were looking for very inexpensive digs near the terminus of the Tour de France on Sunday.  Although I always thought of the Champs Elysee and  surrounding area as very commercial, we settled on a small studio on rue Colisee, directly off the Champs.   Well, surprise, we love it!  Franklin Roosevelt has wonderful stores, patisseries and restaurants and the Metro is at the intersection of our street and the Champs.  (Tonight was the scheduled premier of The Dark Knight at the same intersection but, due to the tragedy in Colorado, it was cancelled. )

Inner Courtyard to our apartment

Eiffel Tower from apartment window

The one thing that would keep us from recommending this area is that the metro connections are not great. Only two lines run from our stop, which means lots of changing to get anywhere and a masters in puzzle-solving to do it without accessing the dreaded Chatalet stop!

Happy Hub!

Place d' Concorde

Place d' Concorde

Monday, Monday

Our last day as a group. Mary and Wayne decided to hold hands and explore Paris on their own.  I'm glad they found that "Paris is for lovers" is not just a cliche. The rest of us headed to Montmartre.  Before reaching Sacre Couer there were more scarf purchases, as well as postcards, magnets and the other assorted souvenirs one must bring home and dust regularly. 

After the church we headed to--of course--Place du Tartes so the artists could tempt the tourists with quickly-rendered scenes of various monuments.  Though frequent visitors tend to turn their nose up at the commercialism of the Place, I think it's time we all  agreed that some are actually quite good and few of us can afford to buy from the studios on rue Josephine anyway.

Lunch at Le Cremillerie, an authentic Belle Epoque bistro from 1900 with a beautiful interior and decent food, and we were on our way down the hill to Pigalle for pictures of the Moulin Rouge. ("that's it?  Yup, that's it") and a discreet peek in the windows of the sex shops.   Oh, stop. You know you would have looked, too!

We then headed to the posher end of town, Place Vendome. Home of the Ritz, last stop for Princess Diana, and which will close at the end of the month for two years of renovations. 

A detour:  Gene was unable to get cash from the ATM.  We returned to the hotel and I  checked our account on my iPad.  Turns out we'd been cleaned out.   Wayne had also been taken for $300.  How did this happen?  Had to be a scanner set up at an ATM machine the guys used in Venice.  Several calls to our bank and the fraud department and, because we had told them we were taking our cards overseas, they agreed to reimburse our account within twenty-four hours.  However, before that could happen, we had to pay cash to the person who was leasing the apartment we were moving to the next day.  

Olivier, who shall be herewith called "Le French poop" wouldn't let us move in without it, even though our deposit covered the first night.  Seemed it would entail his meeting us to provide access and returning the following day for payment.  He lived twenty minutes from the apartment and didn't want to make two trips.  Let me note here that he does not have a job to work around. Leasing his apartments all over Paris is his full-time business.  So we spent another night in the hotel and paid for that night at both places.  Footnote:  it is now two days later and the bank hasn't reimbursed us, but our fabulous daughter floated us a loan.   I guess that this being the first incident of its kind in over  twenty years of overseas travel makes us lucky. 

Tip of the day:  of course you will tell your bank you are going to be away-and where-before leaving town, even if traveling within your own country.  But make sure you provide a good means of contacting you if necessary.  The bank flagged the card after the money was removed (from machines in Washington, D.C.) but left a message on our home phone, which was useless. Wayne, on the other hand, had provided an email address so they were aware as soon as they checked in with their mail. 

Our wonderful "Jersey" reunion was now coming to an end.  We gathered for a last dinner and drinks and said our good-byes.  The group would be leaving for the airport early the next morning and Gene and I would remain in Paris.

For those of you contemplating an adventure with old friends, let me assure you that it  can work.  It takes a little space, a lot of compromise and complete honesty about your expectations and your specific needs.  But, mostly (in my opinion), it just takes genuinely caring about each other and a great sense of fun and adventure. 

We're already strategizing about next year's trip. I think that says it all, don't you?

Paris, Thanks for the Warm Welcome!

Fireworks the day we arrived.  Who says the French are reserved?  Sure, it was Bastille Day, but we prefer to think this was all for us.  Kind of a merci for returning Lafayette from our revolution so he could start theirs, if you will.

I've been in Paris on New Year's Eve and this was much the same.  I love the joy with which they celebrate.  They drop their chip and are full of Bonhomme.   There were  a lot of restricted roads as they prepared for the fireworks, concerts and other celebrations so we walked in circles a bit, but we were able to be part of the crowds this way, so it was all good. 

We arrived too late for the parade down the Champs, but caught a bit live on tv before heading out to explore.  We went first to the Trocadero for the requisite pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower, only to find it was cordoned off.  We could get no closer to the Tower, either, and many of you know just how far the Troc is from the ET, so that gives you some idea of the security. 

Steps near the Troc, Paris

Heading for fireworks on Bastille Day, Paris

A drink before dinner on Bastille Day.  L-R: Pat, Diane, Jan

Mary at the Richard Lenoir Market, Paris

The army was out in force, but in friendly force.  They stood on Camouflaged tanks and hauled up children who wanted their pictures taken with real soldiers. They paraded down the streets all day and into the evening, waving out the windows of their jeeps and accepting the kisses and cheers from the spectators. The fervent show of patriotism  was a reminder of our own, just two weeks before.

The next day, Sunday, we headed out on the Metro at 9:00 am for the Richard Lenoir street market.  Every Arrondissement has street markets, but on different days. The Lenoir, held at the Bastille on Sunday and Wednesday is, in my opinion, the best.  Probably a mile long, the sights and smells alone are enough to make you stop and say, "Paris, you really are a crowd-pleaser."  We bought scarves, shoes, grapes, pralines and, as it started to drizzle, several 5euro umbrellas.  Sadly, we had to pass on the roasting chickens with "drippy" potatoes, beautiful veggies, pates, breads and prawns because we no longer have a kitchen.  However, Gene and I are staying another ten days in a apartment so we'll be back next week. 

Chicken ala King, Richard Lenoir Market, Paris

Escargole

Richard Lenoir Market, Paris

A popular vendor

Fromage

Broiled Lapin

Lapin (rabbit)

After a morning at the market we headed for the Marais.  We wandered through the Place de Voges, where I purchased two water colors from an artist I have bought from before. The Place is the oldest park in Paris and so lovely in its symmetry.  We eventually found our way to the Hotel DeVille, where we caught a Metro back to our hotel.

That evening, Pat, Gene and I skipped the boat ride down the Seine, but the rest enjoyed it.  We enjoyed gorging on Profiteroles, which came three to a plate.  Decadent. Tip of the day:  in the summer, it doesn't get dark until after 10:00pm.  Wonderful if you like daylight but not ideal for viewing the "City of Lights" unless you can stay up and out past midnight.  We couldn't.

Paris When it Sizzles

Disclaimer:  I liked that title and thought it would be appropriate for a mid-July visit but it has been, in fact, cool and breezy, hovering around seventy degrees most days. But "Paris when it's balmy" just didn't work.

On Saturday, July 14th we bid farewell to John at the Nice Airport as he reluctantly headed home to Florida and the rest of us boarded our plane for Paris. By eleven in the morning we were in our taxi heading for our boutique (a euphemism for tiny, cheap two-star) hotel in the non-touristy Fourteenth Arrondissement.  We were already missing our friend, who was a great companion and conversationalist over the past week. John, can't wait to tell you what we're cooking up for next year!

After checking into our hotel, we went across the street to Cafe Rendezvous (seriously) for lunch. Hamburgers are becoming trendy here and those who ordered them gave the French version two thumbs up. I had onion soup that was exceptional. We then wandered around a bit and made plans to meet later for a little exploring before heading back to our rooms.  This was the first time we'd been truly separated in ten days. No communal kitchen or shared living room.

View from our Hotel Room - Hotel du Lion, 14th Arr. Paris

Night view from hotel room

Looking far right from hotel room, Paris

For my travel friends, a few words about the hotel:

We stayed at the Hotel Du Lions on Ave General LeClerc in the Fourteenth. Of course the rooms are small and there's a flight of steps to walk before reaching the lobby, but it's very clean and comfortable and staffed by very friendly people.  Only 33 rooms and once you reach the lobby they have the typical tiny elevator so no worries about winding staircases to a garrett.  Good metro stop directly in front (RER B from CDG), good neighborhood bistros and patisseries and a MickeyD's next door for cold coke with ice. I'll definitely look for an apartment in this area next time I'm in town. 

Consider this recommendation my Tip of the Day:  Ask for Ishmael.