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Getting a rheum in Paris, then Django Fest week in Fontainebleau

Getting a rheum in Paris, then Django Fest week in Fontainebleau

Old Jul 18th, 2015, 06:31 PM
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Getting a rheum in Paris, then Django Fest week in Fontainebleau

I'd be hard pressed to add much about Paris that hasn't been discussed before. Will give it a shot.
My husband, newly college grad daughter and I spent our first week in a cozy airbnb apartment north of the Place des Vosges. It was her graduation present before she spends the summer travellng around Europe, and my husband's dream of hanging around Festival Django in Samois-sure-Seine finally came true while we spent another week riding rented bicycles around Fontainebleau.

Before the trip I'd worried about our airbnb reservation, with recent crackdowns by Paris, and booked a backup refundable hotel. Was my attitude not so good? Is that why I was scolded one time too many by guards, and furthermore getting a rheum? (pronounce "rheum" the way Peter Sellers did in The Pink Panther.)

We liked the apartment very much: down the street from an elementary school, loved watching parents walk their children to school. I kept expecting to see and hear street musicians in the Place des Vosges, though, kept looking for Borsalino and listening for the countertenor under the archway. Where did they go?

I had planned to make Café Hugo my morning coffee spot, but it was closed for renovation when we arrived, and as seen through the windows all torn up; it was impossible that they would open in a few days as promised on the signs. And yet! Day by day it shaped up, the mosaics renewed, the floors replaced, the chairs stacked outside, and then on the appointed morning it was open for business. I stopped by for an early noisette while my family slept in.

When we first got to the apartment from Gare du Nord, it was late afternoon and we hadn't eaten since breakfast. I had the notion that we could find a cafe for late lunch or early supper if we headed north on r.d. Turenne, but somehow it got more instead of less touristy. We tried one place where the waiter handed us the English menu with a smirk, then another, though we were using our very best rusty French with them. Ended up eating overcooked "bio" brochettes at the Marché des Enfants Rouges, and can now consider that scratched off my list.

We should have just headed east to the Bastille area, where we later realized one of Bob's jazz manouche heros was playing at L'Atelier Charonne. If we'd had (a very good) dinner there we could have sat up close to the musicians instead of back in the bar. There was I sat through one set and then left Bob and H to stay for the remainder, which they loved. I wandered by faulty memory towards rdl Roquette, looking for the Monoprix I hoped might be open that late, ended up by the Voltaire Metro. Wandering around Bastille at night felt good, and I found a supermarket to stock up for breakfast.

H and I wanted to take advantage of the 2-for-1 deal you get at certain museums when you present your Eurostar ticket within a few days of arrival, so the next day we visited the musée du quai Branly after walking through the crowds under the Eiffel Tower. We loved everything about the Branly, starting with the surrounding walled gardens, the architecture reminiscent of the Guggenheim and of hippie adobe, the collection. I skipped the Tattoo exhibit, sipping refreshments instead, but Hannah liked it a lot. We also bought 4-day Museum Passes there to start using the next day.

That day I was tired, and realized I was starting to get a cold that eventually became pretty bad, the kind where you suspect it might be the flu. I was glad Bob had a daughter-buddy to go to the jazz manouche clubs. That night it was near Sacre-Coeur in Montmartre, a tourist audience much more sparse and detached, Bob said, than the music deserved.

In the morning I went to a pharmacy around the corner on rd Turenne and chatted with the pharmacist there about what I needed. I am so impressed with French pharmacists. She asked about my symptoms and then brought out a homeopathic syrup and some Vitamin C. The consultation was all in cheerful French and mimed coughing, and at the end she peeked at what must have been an English cheat sheet and said, "Three times a day."

After a few days, H asked me please not to use the word "politesse" again in her earshot. I love politesse, as a concept and in action, and how the French value it. I entirely understand how a person's supply of it might dwindle if he or she had to deal with masses of tourists every day. One morning H and I started to approach the entry desk of the Musée Cognaqc-Jay and we heard one of the reception staff bitterly complaining to the other about someone's lack of politesse in not saying Bonjour. He continued his discussion as we stood there for a minute, while the other woman gave us tickets, and as was still at it as we walked down the hallway.
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Old Jul 18th, 2015, 07:22 PM
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Hi STOKEBAILEY,

Love your reports and will continue to follow along. Hope you are feeling betters. Such a bummer to get sick when traveling...
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Old Jul 18th, 2015, 07:38 PM
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Eager for more, as well. And no wish for travel ills!!
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Old Jul 18th, 2015, 07:46 PM
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Love your writing style and want to read about your further escapades. Could you keep the rest of your trip report on one thread so it's easier to follow? I just happened to open your second "chapter" without realizing who posted it. Was delighted to discover it was an update posted by you.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 02:27 AM
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I love the French "je suis désolée" when you ask for something that they don't have, it sounds so much more than the "I ain't got it, now ...off" and you get to understand how people stay calm in France.

I still remember when my British company was taken over by some guys from Chicago. They felt we could never get to the point and we felt they were asking us to be rude.....
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 02:55 AM
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bmk for later.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 05:43 AM
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Delightful. Will there be more?
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 08:25 AM
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Lateday, paris1953, Coquelicot, you are very kind. Annhig, no rush!

Betsy, thanks and sorry about that. The two threads may have been because tempted to use the word "rheum" that ran around my ailing head as I missed a couple of days' Paris time.

Bilboburgler, I hear you. We almost always fly back through Chicago returning from Europe, and the manners contrast tends to be harsh. This time, it was the Chicago Union Station Amtrak conductor shouting at everyone to Get On The Train Now! (in so many words) that made me especially long for politesse.

I won't dwell on my cold. Whether through the placebo effect or miraculous homeopathy I felt a lot better the morning after I started the medicine. Unfortunately, my worst evening was the one when we had long-standing reservation at L'Ange 20. There was no way I could have appreciated the meal, so the others ended up going back to L'Atelier Charonne for dinner and front row seats for more gypsy jazz.

I'd started to type above that back in the bar where we sat the first night there was a teenager who didn't order anything but clearly was there for the music, and another appreciative solo man nursing one beer throughout the set.

After reading MaiTaiTom's excellent most recent Paris report, the one where he ended up being miserable from a respiratory infection, I gleaned two key ideas:
1. Make L'Ange 20 reservation
and
2. Get lots of rest if I ever get sick while on vacation, so I don't get worse.

I regretted missing that dinner, since my family had always been too rushed, frugal, or indifferent to the concept of good French restaurants. I felt that this was my turn. L'Ange 20 was not able to fit us in later in the week when I could have tasted it. Oh, well.

We got two Museum Passes, since there were some that H and Bob especially wanted to see that I didn't, and others where I was happy to go along with her while he amused himself. (I'm not sure if that's an OK way to use them, though. Likely not.) It's so worth it to be able to bypass most of the long lines. Bob and I went to Ste-Chappelle together, since he'd never been, and we had to queue for security but then breezed to the front once inside.

H and I went to the Louvre one afternoon when we had a couple of hours on our own, again happy for our Pass, and went for the Spanish painting rooms. We realized as we got into the long hallway of Italian paintings that the masses were headed that one really famous portrait of a lady, so we slipped into that room to view the scene. Hundreds of people with their arms over their heads, snapping photos of other arms and a glimpse of the Mona Lisa. I don't get it. People walk past other da Vincis, like his Virgin and Child With Saint Anne, for instance, scarcely giving it a glance. The Virgin's, Child's and Anne's smiles are at least as charming. It reminds me of junior high school, where all the girls have a crush on one male object of adoration.

It was a thrill to see David's monumental Napoleon Coronation and some Vigée-Lebrun portraits, since we were in Revolution bicentennial mood.

But here I began to wonder whether something about me was triggering suspicion in museum guards. H walked past the Louvre entrance guard and flashed her Museum Pass. When I followed with an identical motion, the woman grabbed my wrist in a "not so fast, Sister" sort of a way. Then let me pass when she saw I was legit. I'm wearing a nice though admittedly travel-wrinkled linen dress and fashionable-enough shoes and purse, and am as well-intentioned, soft-spoken, and middle-aged as they come; why me?

One afternoon H and I decided to try for last-minute Opera Garnier tickets, for Handel's Alcina which should have been fun in that ornate hall. Around 17h00 we entered at the billeterie door and nodded at, then started to walk past a guard towards the box office. He stopped me abruptly and barked that tours were FINI! Um, yes, but I want to buy tickets, I replied in French. Tickets? for this evening? Yes, please. Well, that was autre chose, he said. Yes, it would be, wouldn't it? He let us pass, almost ready to appear sorry for being so harsh.

When we got down the hall to the ticket office, I could see a few people waiting behind velvet rope, and a couple speaking with the box office staff. I made the mistake, I later decided, of using English to ask the guard there about last minute tickets. English seems, understandably, to bring out the worst. She told us we'd have to go wait in line behind the rope for another half hour before tickets were available, but that she could not give us any more information. I thanked her, then took a step towards the box office. She angrily stopped me and ordered us to the end of the velvet rope line. So we sheeplike did as she said, until a couple of young Canadian women who'd gone directly to the ticket agent got behind us and explained what the procedure was. By that point, our opera desire had cooled quite a bit, so we left and went to Galeries Lafayette instead.

Another day H and I spent a couple of hours enjoying the Rodin museum, large parts of it closed off while being renovated, inside and out. The temporary indoors exhibit of his works in progress was good to see at the end of our visit, until a guard shouted at me from across the room, accompanied by vigorous arm motions. It seemed I had crossed a grey line painted on the floor with the words "do not cross" printed in inch-high letters. I "pardoned" several times and backed away with hands in the air, but he continued to berate me. Unfortunately we went from the Rodin to Garnier, when my "aw, heck with touristic Paris" attitude solidified.

H and I were nicely dressed, as I said, all of these times. She tends to look like a million bucks, if I do say so, and in fact I witnessed four different French men press their cards on her hoping for a chance without her mama. I looked like her mama, inoffensive to the nth degree. I think my mistake was going with her to the heavily trafficked spots as she wanted on her third trip there, instead of the quieter offbeat spots I'd have chosen. Musée du quai Branly is under-visited, and everyone there was lovely. Our later attempt for last-minute tickets at Opera Bastille, though unsuccessful and involving a long queue in the rain, was also fun and politesse-soaked.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 08:33 AM
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I got therapeutic carryout Thai soup two evenings for my supper while Bob and H went out for music and food. It may be that the thom kha gai is what ended up curing me.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 09:40 AM
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Hi
Nice report.
Don't bother about language - speaking French doesn't get you a better treatment by these guards... they are 'fonctionnaires' (public 'servants') and can't care less... thye get their salary at the end of the month regardless.

By the way, what are :
- rheum (is it a cold - rhume in french with a typo ?)
- H (i thought Husband but you put it as female)
- noisette ? (some kind of café ? (I don't drink café but don't know the term 'noisette' unless it is chestnut o walnut, never know which one.

Enjoy Paris.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 10:17 AM
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I am following along. I hope the trip is going well in spite of the "functioneres" and the cold.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 11:03 AM
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Excellent report, stokebailey. Sorry about your rhume but I had one this summer as well. It never slowed me down but it was annoying.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 01:21 PM
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Hi, thanks, Kerouac and irishface. Does anything ever slow you down, K? Yes, pariswat, it was a rhume. Count mine as an ignorant phonetic misspelling and not a typo, probably based on how Peter Sellers said it. And sorry to be confusing; I'll call my daughter "Hannah" here to be clear.

Our older daughter got me started ordering noisettes, short black coffees with a little steamed milk. There are probably other terms for it, but servers would return with something small, dark, and inexpensive.

I have nothing but sympathy and respect for fonctionnaires, really, or anyone dealing with streams of pleasure-seeking humanity. It would have to be numbing. After Galeries Lafayette, since we were in the general neighborhood and it seemed like her best chance, we took the Metro to the Arc de Triomphe. I sat on a bench near the entrance and sketched while Hannah climbed to the top, and I observed the entrance guard dealing with one person after another trying to get past without tickets, arguing their points and turning away.

It was her second time at the top, and H said the climb was very worth it. I was still conserving energy as much as it's possible to do when touring with my daughter. In the de Gaulle-Etoile Metro station a couple of young backpack-wearing Americans of the type my girls and I call "bro's" approached us for help finding the way to their Montmartre hostel. They were friendly Texans who cheerfully confessed they didn't know a word of French. I imagine the hostels of Europe are full of such young people who speak only English; Hannah and one of her friends are in a Budapest hostel this week, entirely innocent of any Hungarian.

Thanks to Kerouac, we knew about Tango on the Seine, and Hannah happens to be quite the tango dancer. One evening she and I headed for the Quai Saint-Bernard to check out the scene, Hannah in her tango shoes. She told me no one would ever ask me to dance in my flat sandals, and I replied, "Good." From the Pont de Sully we walked past the salsa dance semicircle, then to the tango area. The long daylight lingered. No sooner had I told H that there might not be enough leads, or male dancers, when one approached and whisked her off. They made a tall graceful couple, and he was obviously very good. Apparently the etiquette is to stay with one partner for four dances, chatting in between, and then move on. As soon as she finished one set and started to walk away, another lead would approach. The man who runs the PA and music took a break to collect donations. The light faded, the sky turned midnight blue, and tourist boats cruised past shining spotlights on the crowd. Men sold individual beers from a bag, evaporating when the police walked by. One would-be lead walked by and checked out my shoes, then moved on. All summer they're out there every evening, dancing beautifully.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 01:25 PM
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I love the French "je suis désolée" when you ask for something that they don't have, it sounds so much more than the "I ain't got it, now ...off" and you get to understand how people stay calm in France.>>

and I love the way that they say it as if they don't give a t...

great start, stoke - encore, s'il the plait.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 01:26 PM
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oops - there goes the auto-correct again, inserting an H where there shouldn't be one. WHY????
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 01:53 PM
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I too love to say 'je suis désolée' or just 'désolée'--it sounds so much sorrier even, as annhig above notes, it is not.

Yes, more please!
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 07:35 PM
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Hi Stokebailey! I am in Paris at this very moment, in our home-exchanged home. Thanks for your report, I am avidly following along.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 08:14 PM
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SO-o-o GOOD, more!
Love Django, so anxious to hear about that.
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 08:56 PM
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Loving your report - was there in May (trip report with many similar things) - I am always amazed that gallery goers spend so much time taking photos ! Do they ever really look at the Art ? Does a photo really show the art in the best way ?
We found the Musee de Branly this trip . I think even just as a building its beautiful - as well as superbly displayed aboriginal art from around the world . It's also got the best views of the Eiffel Tower from its gardens .
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Old Jul 19th, 2015, 11:20 PM
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I too was captivated by those Tango dancers! Di
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