Paris with backache Part I: trip report (long)
Jun 13th, 2005, 03:38 AM
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Paris with backache Part I: trip report (long)
This may seem a bit more self-indulgent commentary than helpful factual review, but I hope it shows Paris can be a fun experience even in trying circumstances. Another exchange was planned with my regular home swap partner in the 11th, and I was keen to try out my new digital camera. However, I had a really painful muscle spasm induced by over-enthusiastic preparatory cleaning - the kind that leaves you thinking you daren’t move much, if at all, and that you can’t trust your back and leg muscles to work if you do. After a day or two of deliberately staying as upright and possible and trying to keep the affected muscles moving with frequent short walks (or hobbles), I chickened out of the hassle of trying to reorganise at the last minute, and went for it.
Thursday:
The journey to Waterloo was less stressful than I had feared, though I took my time, and the Eurostar was as smooth and anticlimactic as ever (but why is it that the people with the most penetrating voices have the least interesting conversations to be forced to overhear?). As I fortunately had a metro ticket and some euros left from last time, I hobbled straight towards line 5, only to fall for the change trick. A smiling old lady standing by a vending machine proffered some coins and asked for a euro. When I gave it to her, off she went, explaining she needed it to buy a metro ticket. Forget pickpockets, muggers and fundamentalists, it’s the little old ladies you have to watch out for.
I had been worried about changing trains - metro stations have even more ups and downs and long corridors than London tube stations - but knowing that there was much much less of a route march between lines 5 and 8 at République than at Bastille saved me a lot of grief (I don't know if there's a guide to Metro stations that would advise on this sort of thing (and I wouldn't care to research or write it), but there's certainly room for one). The train arrived at the platform as I did, and I was in the flat within 20 minutes - fortunately it’s right on top of the metro station (though as it’s what the estate agents call ‘côté cour’ it’s beautifully quiet).
First task, to a cash machine and then the Marché Aligre for fruit and veg, with the covered Marché Beauvau for charcuterie, and photo opportunities all round. I nearly took a photo of four porkers hanging on the butcher’s stall and an equally rotund butcher carefully cleaning some skewers beside them, but a glare from Madame la patronne put an end to that. After a croque-madame at a nearby bar and stowing away my purchases (barely E10 for enough fruit, veg and charcuterie for simple suppers for my three nights here), I set off to the place des Vosges, the chic and chi-chi shops on the rue des Francs Bourgeois and elsewhere in the Marais. The shop selling antique musical instruments was open and the proprietor was demonstrating something to a customer. 2 Mille et Une Nuits was as full of photogenic oriental lights and fabrics as ever, but La Chaise Longue’s latest ranges of retro housewares looked merely kitschy and chi-chi rather than chic. By the time I got to rue des Archives, the heat of the sun was making my lunchtime beer feel like a mistake, and my back was demanding a sit-down. Sitting outside the café, I saw crimson geraniums in an upstairs window box glowing in the sun - and the old-style lantern on the street-lamp just below them was at just the right angle of wonky for an evocative (I hope) photo. Eventually, I risked standing up without too much of a creak and I went for a lie-down.
In the evening, I wanted to try out the new camera on the Eiffel Tower lights. I’d feared I’d left it a bit late, but at this time of year there’s still a fair amount of twilight until after 10pm in Paris, and it turned out to be exactly the right time, for both still pictures and the video function on the new camera. A very satisfactory day.
Thursday:
The journey to Waterloo was less stressful than I had feared, though I took my time, and the Eurostar was as smooth and anticlimactic as ever (but why is it that the people with the most penetrating voices have the least interesting conversations to be forced to overhear?). As I fortunately had a metro ticket and some euros left from last time, I hobbled straight towards line 5, only to fall for the change trick. A smiling old lady standing by a vending machine proffered some coins and asked for a euro. When I gave it to her, off she went, explaining she needed it to buy a metro ticket. Forget pickpockets, muggers and fundamentalists, it’s the little old ladies you have to watch out for.
I had been worried about changing trains - metro stations have even more ups and downs and long corridors than London tube stations - but knowing that there was much much less of a route march between lines 5 and 8 at République than at Bastille saved me a lot of grief (I don't know if there's a guide to Metro stations that would advise on this sort of thing (and I wouldn't care to research or write it), but there's certainly room for one). The train arrived at the platform as I did, and I was in the flat within 20 minutes - fortunately it’s right on top of the metro station (though as it’s what the estate agents call ‘côté cour’ it’s beautifully quiet).
First task, to a cash machine and then the Marché Aligre for fruit and veg, with the covered Marché Beauvau for charcuterie, and photo opportunities all round. I nearly took a photo of four porkers hanging on the butcher’s stall and an equally rotund butcher carefully cleaning some skewers beside them, but a glare from Madame la patronne put an end to that. After a croque-madame at a nearby bar and stowing away my purchases (barely E10 for enough fruit, veg and charcuterie for simple suppers for my three nights here), I set off to the place des Vosges, the chic and chi-chi shops on the rue des Francs Bourgeois and elsewhere in the Marais. The shop selling antique musical instruments was open and the proprietor was demonstrating something to a customer. 2 Mille et Une Nuits was as full of photogenic oriental lights and fabrics as ever, but La Chaise Longue’s latest ranges of retro housewares looked merely kitschy and chi-chi rather than chic. By the time I got to rue des Archives, the heat of the sun was making my lunchtime beer feel like a mistake, and my back was demanding a sit-down. Sitting outside the café, I saw crimson geraniums in an upstairs window box glowing in the sun - and the old-style lantern on the street-lamp just below them was at just the right angle of wonky for an evocative (I hope) photo. Eventually, I risked standing up without too much of a creak and I went for a lie-down.
In the evening, I wanted to try out the new camera on the Eiffel Tower lights. I’d feared I’d left it a bit late, but at this time of year there’s still a fair amount of twilight until after 10pm in Paris, and it turned out to be exactly the right time, for both still pictures and the video function on the new camera. A very satisfactory day.
Jun 13th, 2005, 03:39 AM
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Friday: one of the things on my list for this summer was the Monet garden at Giverny. Since I’d woken early and my back and hip felt much more relaxed, I set out for the 8.16 train from St Lazare (thanks to the Fodorites who advised an early start in view of the throngs of visitors - there were no real queues for tickets to Vernon (E22.20 return), and the clerk volunteered a leaflet in English with all the necessary information on times of buses, return trains, entry fees and so on - they always know I'm English). The train seemed fairly full, and when we got to Vernon there must have been a full load lining up for the bus, all no doubt without exact change for the fare. So I took a chance on the information I’d found on the Giverny website (www.giverny.org) about the cycle/footpath from Vernon: it’s only a couple of miles, after all. I had walked through Vernon town centre and across the Seine (some good views) before the bus came along.
It was a glorious walk on a sunny morning, level all the way (the path is laid along a disused railway track running parallel with the road to Giverny), only one or two other people around, birds singing their hearts out (there were swallows swooping along the main street in Vernon) and some interesting glimpses into back gardens. Eventually the laid path led straight towards a petrol station, but a stile led to a well-trodden path through a fallow meadow. The hedge shut out some of the noise from the road nearby, and the crickets/grasshoppers/cicadas and birdsong helped. Two dragonflies flew right across in front of me, one gold, one in an iridescent peacock blue. The grasses grew almost to chest height: if it had been a certain British TV commercial and I a pretty young woman, this would have been the time to unwrap the oh-so-suggestive chocolate bar, but it wasn’t and I’m not, so on I went into the village.
This is clearly what in Britain we would call ‘stockbroker belt’, with some very expensive-looking restored houses. I don’t know if it’s in the local bye-laws but almost every house seems to be trying to look like an impressionist painting, with flowers everywhere: irises, philadelphus, peonies, lavender, geraniums and roses, roses, roses. A restorative coffee at the Musée de l’Art Américain (which has some impressive gardens, and a poppy meadow), and I was ready to push on to the Fondation Monet, which is almost at the other end of the very long thin village (about 45-50 minutes walk in all). The gardens were very crowded already, but people seemed to be very patient with each other - it must be all the flowers - and as for taking photos, well it pays to look down or try to adopt a low vantage point. In the wooded parts around the water garden, look up; or use the reflections in the water. I’m really, really pleased with the results from the digital camera: and they really don’t show just how crowded it was. The queue to see the house was very long, so I didn’t bother and went instead to see the exhibition of Mary Cassatt prints at the Musée de l’Art Américain - some lovely things.
A snack lunch at a café further back in the village (a plate of great cheeses with salad), and I was ready to move on. But there was an hour before the bus back - so I decided to walk back again. Not, as it turned out, such a good idea on such a hot day, although there were some more photo opportunities (maybe the best of the bunch - a black flying beetle with red spots on its wings, on a pale lilac scabious flower surrounded with grasses). By the time I got back across the bridge to Vernon, the back was sending out some warning signals if I turned suddenly, but I felt I’d rather push on to the station before sitting down again: if getting up was going to be embarrassing, I’d rather it was in sight of the train. A large bottle of water and a sit-down at the station soon improved matters though. Here there was a line of railway staff checking to make sure everyone had ‘composté’ their tickets. There had been warnings about this at St Lazare, and I’d had time to get off the train to do the outward journey’s ticket (though the machines didn’t strike me as particularly obvious, and in the end no-one came to check); but here the machines worked differently for some reason – such is technology.
After an uneventful return journey (oh the bliss of hving space to take my shoes off and put my feet up), I made a slight detour to photograph some guerrilla anti-advertising graffiti I'd spotted the night before in a metro station, and another to buy a cake to have with my tea - but since I'd have had to ask for change from a E50 note, I thought it only fair to buy two. After all I'd probably used up all those calories in advance.
In the evening, I followed up something else I’d seen in this forum and on the net: the Friday night roller-blading rally (parade? trip?) that starts at the Tour Montparnasse. Eventually I found the route at www.pari-roller.com (use the link ‘parcours’ at the top of the page, not ‘randonnées’ on the left menu, which misleadingly continues to state that the current week’s route isn’t available when it is). I chose a point about 1km from the start, and got there just in time. The scheduled start is 10pm, which is when I arrived at my vantage point; but within a very few minutes, the police had arrived to stop the traffic (cars and motorbikes with ‘blues and twos’, and a fair number of roller-blading cops too). Once that was done the massed ranks surged past me with a roar and a cheer. There must have been hundreds, maybe more than a thousand. If you want to start a revolution, put the roller-blades in the vanguard of the assault (provided the oppressors have keep the road surface in good order, of course). This being Paris, it cannot have been more than two or three minutes before the held-up traffic starting honking away, to be met by whistles and boos. But the throng had passed on within 10-15 minutes and I was back in the metro by 10.20. And the photos came out well, too.
It was a glorious walk on a sunny morning, level all the way (the path is laid along a disused railway track running parallel with the road to Giverny), only one or two other people around, birds singing their hearts out (there were swallows swooping along the main street in Vernon) and some interesting glimpses into back gardens. Eventually the laid path led straight towards a petrol station, but a stile led to a well-trodden path through a fallow meadow. The hedge shut out some of the noise from the road nearby, and the crickets/grasshoppers/cicadas and birdsong helped. Two dragonflies flew right across in front of me, one gold, one in an iridescent peacock blue. The grasses grew almost to chest height: if it had been a certain British TV commercial and I a pretty young woman, this would have been the time to unwrap the oh-so-suggestive chocolate bar, but it wasn’t and I’m not, so on I went into the village.
This is clearly what in Britain we would call ‘stockbroker belt’, with some very expensive-looking restored houses. I don’t know if it’s in the local bye-laws but almost every house seems to be trying to look like an impressionist painting, with flowers everywhere: irises, philadelphus, peonies, lavender, geraniums and roses, roses, roses. A restorative coffee at the Musée de l’Art Américain (which has some impressive gardens, and a poppy meadow), and I was ready to push on to the Fondation Monet, which is almost at the other end of the very long thin village (about 45-50 minutes walk in all). The gardens were very crowded already, but people seemed to be very patient with each other - it must be all the flowers - and as for taking photos, well it pays to look down or try to adopt a low vantage point. In the wooded parts around the water garden, look up; or use the reflections in the water. I’m really, really pleased with the results from the digital camera: and they really don’t show just how crowded it was. The queue to see the house was very long, so I didn’t bother and went instead to see the exhibition of Mary Cassatt prints at the Musée de l’Art Américain - some lovely things.
A snack lunch at a café further back in the village (a plate of great cheeses with salad), and I was ready to move on. But there was an hour before the bus back - so I decided to walk back again. Not, as it turned out, such a good idea on such a hot day, although there were some more photo opportunities (maybe the best of the bunch - a black flying beetle with red spots on its wings, on a pale lilac scabious flower surrounded with grasses). By the time I got back across the bridge to Vernon, the back was sending out some warning signals if I turned suddenly, but I felt I’d rather push on to the station before sitting down again: if getting up was going to be embarrassing, I’d rather it was in sight of the train. A large bottle of water and a sit-down at the station soon improved matters though. Here there was a line of railway staff checking to make sure everyone had ‘composté’ their tickets. There had been warnings about this at St Lazare, and I’d had time to get off the train to do the outward journey’s ticket (though the machines didn’t strike me as particularly obvious, and in the end no-one came to check); but here the machines worked differently for some reason – such is technology.
After an uneventful return journey (oh the bliss of hving space to take my shoes off and put my feet up), I made a slight detour to photograph some guerrilla anti-advertising graffiti I'd spotted the night before in a metro station, and another to buy a cake to have with my tea - but since I'd have had to ask for change from a E50 note, I thought it only fair to buy two. After all I'd probably used up all those calories in advance.
In the evening, I followed up something else I’d seen in this forum and on the net: the Friday night roller-blading rally (parade? trip?) that starts at the Tour Montparnasse. Eventually I found the route at www.pari-roller.com (use the link ‘parcours’ at the top of the page, not ‘randonnées’ on the left menu, which misleadingly continues to state that the current week’s route isn’t available when it is). I chose a point about 1km from the start, and got there just in time. The scheduled start is 10pm, which is when I arrived at my vantage point; but within a very few minutes, the police had arrived to stop the traffic (cars and motorbikes with ‘blues and twos’, and a fair number of roller-blading cops too). Once that was done the massed ranks surged past me with a roar and a cheer. There must have been hundreds, maybe more than a thousand. If you want to start a revolution, put the roller-blades in the vanguard of the assault (provided the oppressors have keep the road surface in good order, of course). This being Paris, it cannot have been more than two or three minutes before the held-up traffic starting honking away, to be met by whistles and boos. But the throng had passed on within 10-15 minutes and I was back in the metro by 10.20. And the photos came out well, too.
Jun 13th, 2005, 03:40 AM
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Saturday: I set out to the Musée d’Orsay, having been recommended to the neo-impressionist show, but it was a lazy start and the queues were a mile long by the time I got there, so I decided to try out the Matisse show at the Luxembourg instead. The elephant and rhino outside the d’Orsay were wrapped, Christo style, but only up to the neck: they rather looked as though their mums had decided they were looking a bit poorly and needed cossetting. Once at the Luxembourg, I bought a ticket for the Sunday morning, and stopped to watch the activity in the gardens. A more or less non-stop procession of joggers, people playing tennis, practising self-defence moves, and under an alley of planes, playing boules: except that on each of the trees was a large Gilbert-and-George-style photo of a naked man in various postures (but a plane-tree leaf covering his bits): another photo-op. As I walked towards St Sulpice for a coffee, a mauve balloon soared up into the sky, as a face-painted little girl came round the corner in an operatic flood of tears. Behind her, a face-painted little boy was clutching his balloon, but with a very sulky expression on his face as his mother scolded him. Outside St Sulpice, there was an antiques market to explore once I’d had my coffee and sit-down; mass was being said in the church so I didn’t stay. I had shopping to do, so it was on to the metro again; as I passed the fire station, the firemen came out selling tickets for the firemen’s ball (cue ancient joke about firemen and policemen).
I needed to get some posh(ish) chocolates for the office, but first I went to Barbès-Rochechouart to see what stupendous bargains there might be at the temple of style that is Tati. Between the metro and the shop, I ran the gauntlet of people pushing leaflets for various marabouts: Monsieur Karamba and Sheikh Mamadou promised to solve all my problems with exams, career, love-life and driving tests, and to ward off the evil eye - payment on results only. But I took my chances, and bought some cheap shirts and swimming trunks, then on to Galeries Lafayette for the chocolates (and to wave a Tati bag at them). En route, I found a stylish-looking sandwich bar right beside the Strasbourg-St Denis metro station, but there was only one harassed-looking young man doing everything front of house, and an equally-harassed cook who took a martyr’s delight in telling him there wouldn’t be any more potatoes for a while because she’d only just put a batch on. But I didn’t mind having a cold dessert instead.
Shopping duties done, I followed up the route Degas posted in this forum to explore the Passages. This sunny Saturday afternoon didn’t seem to be bring out the punters - they were all very, very quiet, but there were some stunning shop-fronts and interiors to try to photograph. In the Galerie Vivienne I saw what looked like a Regency (English regency) screen, with elaborate fretwork at the top; but it was outside a shop selling beautifully decorated boxes, and it turned out to be made entirely of cardboard, the ‘fretwork’ being tightly rolled strips of the stuff. As I walked down towards the Bourse, my way was blocked by a stern and unmoving riot policeman in full Robocop kit: plastic protectors on his shoulders and shins, truncheon and helmet hanging from his waist. There was one on each approach road. But the amplified noise I heard turned out to be a priest with barely a dozen anti-abortion demonstrators.
A little while later, I saw why the cops were there. A rather more menacing demonstration from the Trotskyite left came along the road, red and black banners flying, and a strident young blonde tricoteuse leading the chants. But I couldn’t help noticing that behind the first few rows, people were chatting and laughing like neighbours at a church social or village fete. One young woman had moved out from the crowd to one side and wiped her hand across her face in a rather tired and resigned way. Her banner spoke of revolutionary determination; but as she passed the shoe-shop window, I saw her eyes sidling towards the sequinned sandals.
Passing through the Palais Royal (far more people and jollity than in the Passages), I came to the Passage du Grand Cerf, and my eye was caught by, of all things, a coat-hook, the kind of thing I keep thinking I need for my entrance hall but never get round to looking for. These were of pieces of 19th century tiling in a brass framework with china-tipped hooks brazed on: and I found one that will fit the spot exactly right
Time for another long sit-down, in the Brazilian café at the end of the Passage. By now, there was just a residual soreness in one hip and it was only getting weak and tired if I was on my feet for too long; but having something interesting to do is a great distraction. I caught up with the French newspaper I'd bought: amid all the fall-out from the referendum result, the new government's plans for the labour and immigration laws, and the unions' suspicions about the closure of La Samaritaine, it appears that French bosoms are getting larger - according to a company that specialises in support for the more imposing sort of balcon.
Back to the flat for more tea (and cake).
Odd fashion(?) notes:
In a group of teenage boys promenading in basketball-style outfits, one was wearing what looked like a surgical corset outside his vest; I remembered seeing one of the joggers in the Luxembourg (a man in his mid 30s) also wearing a corset outside his T-shirt. Could they both have ricked their backs? It didn’t look like it - and if that were the case, why wear support on the outside? But why else wear it at all?
On the metro, there was a group of young people, just the right side of jolly-drunk. One young girl in denim jacket and jeans had a white pashmina-style scarf wrapped round her backside, rather like a baby’s nappy. Was this why she was also sucking a baby’s dummy? Isn’t people-watching fun?
Sunday: To the Matisse exhibition, which turned out to be perfect for a sunny Sunday morning. I hope I’m still that positive and forward-looking in my 80s. On the way to the metro, I saw a police car stop; the policeman got out, walked across the pavement (sidewalk to US readers) to pick up a banana skin someone had left there, and put it in the rubbish-bag, then off they went again. There was enough time before I had to leave for me to see the Sunday market on Boulevard Richard Lenoir, picking up some paté to take back to London, and a cheap CD (we’re swapping again in July, so I might visit the Saturday arts and crafts market there).
I was back in my own home by 4.30 - just the right time for another pot of tea. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I used up all but one ticket of two carnets (E21): not much in it financially as against a Paris Visite card. Other things I didn’t manage to see but might be of interest: an exhibition on photos and film clips of Chaplin at the Jeu de Paume (till 18 September), and an exhibition on Jewish life in the Marais at the Hotel de Ville (till 27 August).
I needed to get some posh(ish) chocolates for the office, but first I went to Barbès-Rochechouart to see what stupendous bargains there might be at the temple of style that is Tati. Between the metro and the shop, I ran the gauntlet of people pushing leaflets for various marabouts: Monsieur Karamba and Sheikh Mamadou promised to solve all my problems with exams, career, love-life and driving tests, and to ward off the evil eye - payment on results only. But I took my chances, and bought some cheap shirts and swimming trunks, then on to Galeries Lafayette for the chocolates (and to wave a Tati bag at them). En route, I found a stylish-looking sandwich bar right beside the Strasbourg-St Denis metro station, but there was only one harassed-looking young man doing everything front of house, and an equally-harassed cook who took a martyr’s delight in telling him there wouldn’t be any more potatoes for a while because she’d only just put a batch on. But I didn’t mind having a cold dessert instead.
Shopping duties done, I followed up the route Degas posted in this forum to explore the Passages. This sunny Saturday afternoon didn’t seem to be bring out the punters - they were all very, very quiet, but there were some stunning shop-fronts and interiors to try to photograph. In the Galerie Vivienne I saw what looked like a Regency (English regency) screen, with elaborate fretwork at the top; but it was outside a shop selling beautifully decorated boxes, and it turned out to be made entirely of cardboard, the ‘fretwork’ being tightly rolled strips of the stuff. As I walked down towards the Bourse, my way was blocked by a stern and unmoving riot policeman in full Robocop kit: plastic protectors on his shoulders and shins, truncheon and helmet hanging from his waist. There was one on each approach road. But the amplified noise I heard turned out to be a priest with barely a dozen anti-abortion demonstrators.
A little while later, I saw why the cops were there. A rather more menacing demonstration from the Trotskyite left came along the road, red and black banners flying, and a strident young blonde tricoteuse leading the chants. But I couldn’t help noticing that behind the first few rows, people were chatting and laughing like neighbours at a church social or village fete. One young woman had moved out from the crowd to one side and wiped her hand across her face in a rather tired and resigned way. Her banner spoke of revolutionary determination; but as she passed the shoe-shop window, I saw her eyes sidling towards the sequinned sandals.
Passing through the Palais Royal (far more people and jollity than in the Passages), I came to the Passage du Grand Cerf, and my eye was caught by, of all things, a coat-hook, the kind of thing I keep thinking I need for my entrance hall but never get round to looking for. These were of pieces of 19th century tiling in a brass framework with china-tipped hooks brazed on: and I found one that will fit the spot exactly right
Time for another long sit-down, in the Brazilian café at the end of the Passage. By now, there was just a residual soreness in one hip and it was only getting weak and tired if I was on my feet for too long; but having something interesting to do is a great distraction. I caught up with the French newspaper I'd bought: amid all the fall-out from the referendum result, the new government's plans for the labour and immigration laws, and the unions' suspicions about the closure of La Samaritaine, it appears that French bosoms are getting larger - according to a company that specialises in support for the more imposing sort of balcon.
Back to the flat for more tea (and cake).
Odd fashion(?) notes:
In a group of teenage boys promenading in basketball-style outfits, one was wearing what looked like a surgical corset outside his vest; I remembered seeing one of the joggers in the Luxembourg (a man in his mid 30s) also wearing a corset outside his T-shirt. Could they both have ricked their backs? It didn’t look like it - and if that were the case, why wear support on the outside? But why else wear it at all?
On the metro, there was a group of young people, just the right side of jolly-drunk. One young girl in denim jacket and jeans had a white pashmina-style scarf wrapped round her backside, rather like a baby’s nappy. Was this why she was also sucking a baby’s dummy? Isn’t people-watching fun?
Sunday: To the Matisse exhibition, which turned out to be perfect for a sunny Sunday morning. I hope I’m still that positive and forward-looking in my 80s. On the way to the metro, I saw a police car stop; the policeman got out, walked across the pavement (sidewalk to US readers) to pick up a banana skin someone had left there, and put it in the rubbish-bag, then off they went again. There was enough time before I had to leave for me to see the Sunday market on Boulevard Richard Lenoir, picking up some paté to take back to London, and a cheap CD (we’re swapping again in July, so I might visit the Saturday arts and crafts market there).
I was back in my own home by 4.30 - just the right time for another pot of tea. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I used up all but one ticket of two carnets (E21): not much in it financially as against a Paris Visite card. Other things I didn’t manage to see but might be of interest: an exhibition on photos and film clips of Chaplin at the Jeu de Paume (till 18 September), and an exhibition on Jewish life in the Marais at the Hotel de Ville (till 27 August).
Jun 13th, 2005, 06:40 AM
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A wonderful report, Patrick. As a fellow member of the "OUCH, DAM*, RATS, OOOOH...Back Club", I congratulate you on your perseverance, and also on your ability to know when to stop and take a break. I always get that wrong, to my great chagrin. A delightful report.
Jun 13th, 2005, 07:36 AM
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<Her banner spoke of revolutionary determination; but as she passed the shoe-shop window, I saw her eyes sliding towards the sequinned sandals.>
Wow, Patrick, amazing! I loved this report and hope your back has recovered. Thank you!
Wow, Patrick, amazing! I loved this report and hope your back has recovered. Thank you!
Jun 13th, 2005, 09:12 AM
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Loved your report, Patrick! You have a wonderful way with words: "I saw her eyes sidling towards the sequinned sandals." Terrific!
As a brand new member of the "Back Club" described above, I can only say I feel your pain (written while perched on the edge of a chair that permits me to rise without seeing stars).
As a brand new member of the "Back Club" described above, I can only say I feel your pain (written while perched on the edge of a chair that permits me to rise without seeing stars).
Jun 13th, 2005, 10:32 AM
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Bravo, what fun to read. In April, I was recovering from a torn tendon in my right foot and found that walking Paris was a wonderful cure. My doctor says it is mind over matter. I am amazed at what you accomplished. My travel companion had hurt her back the day before we left, and one trip on the Metro did her in. We went our separate ways. I walking; she using cabs to take her to where she could sit and people watch, and then cab back to the hotel. All told, she says she still had a good time.
