New & Improved Thread: An Injured American In Paris: Maitaitom's Miracle Christmas Trip
Jan 23rd, 2007, 03:29 PM
#1
Original Poster
New & Improved Thread: An Injured American In Paris: Maitaitom's Miracle Christmas Trip
Due to circumstances beyond my control, the thread I started became too cumbersome to read (and for once, not because of my writing) thanks to a wayward URL from a poster. The Fodor�s editors must be on a cruise, because I have had zero help in getting the thread changed to the correct format. So my trip report is now here and hopefully will some day end here.
(To fully explain the �miraculous� part of our journey, I am forced to give you details of events leading up to it. This is a story about the importance of really good friends, the extreme kindness of absolute strangers, the love of an incredible wife and the dumb perseverance of yours truly. Finally, it is about my favorite city on earth, Paris.)
<b> PRELUDE TO A MIRACLE </b>
It was 11 p.m., and as I attempted to get up from the dinner table at our friends� dinner party on that Saturday night, I came to a very terrible and unsettling realization; it was 36 hours before our flight to Paris, and I was literally unable to walk.
Now, usually that would mean I had consumed too much wine or had downed one (or two) extra martinis earlier in the evening, but that was (unfortunately) not the case. In August, I had undergone arthroscopic surgery on my right knee, and after some physical therapy, I had been absolutely fine�until earlier that day when I felt a slight twinge of pain. That slight twinge had now turned into incredible, sharp pain. I could not bend my leg without groaning (ok, I yelled a little bit). Timing is everything!
Having suffered rheumatoid arthritis since I was in my mid 30s, I am pretty immune to most pain, however the pain I felt that night surpassed my worst days of RA (I�ve been on a great med since the late 90s, and I have felt great for the past eight years, but I�ll never forget the pain I endured those 12 previous years).
On Sunday morning (after a night of no sleep), I gimped down to my local Urgent Care in the faint hope I might see a doctor who has practiced medicine for more than a few months. As usual, Urgent Care lived down to my lowest expectations, and the doctor could not figure out what was wrong, so he gave me a pain shot that was completely useless. It was now 23 hours until our flight.
When I got home, Tracy was packing (hopefully to go with me and not leave me). I will usually come up with any reason not to pack, but feigning a crippled person (a lame idea, don�t you think) is not one of them. For the rest of that day, we grappled with the thought of not going, but we had the hotel booked for eight nights, and our plane reservations were made through Priceline, so God knows if we�d ever see any of that money again. Canceling the trip could cost me two to three thousand dollars (that�s a lot of vin rouge). On the bright side, weather.com said the next week should be sunny in Paris.
After another night of little or no sleep, I woke up at 6 a.m. on the day of our flight and tried one last desperate measure. I called a local doctor (unfortunately my RA doc and Orthopedic doctor were not possible to see and get to the airport in time that morning). I had been to this local doctor before on numerous occasions and thought for sure he would give me a shot of cortisone to ease the pain of the journey. My leg was actually worse than the day before.
To my dismay (and my orthopedic doctor�s dismay when I related the story to him upon my return), he would not do it, but said, �Hey maybe since you are in such pain, they will put you in first class.� At the time, to say the least, I was pretty upset. Fortunately, the cats were already on vacation and didn�t see my display of temper.
I could barely get my leg in the car, and Tracy asked one more time, �Are you sure we should really go?� The smart answer would, of course, have been �no�, but I have never been all that smart. In my best Gary Gilmore impersonation (at the time, I think I would have been happy if someone did shoot me), I said, �Let�s do it!�
As Tracy drove to the airport, I thought about the movie, Star Trek: Wrath of Khan (Vicodin does strange things to people). Thinking about his dead comrade (well, at least for part of another movie), Kirk remembered something Spock had told him, �There are always possibilities.� At this point in time, I was hoping there were possibilities for me, but none were top of mind at the moment.
After parking, and as the shuttle brought us to the terminal at LAX, I realized this trip was going to severely test my motto of �Enjoy The Journey. Attitude Is Everything.�
Dragging our luggage toward the Air Tahiti check-in, I began thinking, �This could be the dumbest decision I have ever made in my life (and believe me, I�ve made a ton of bad ones).� As the bags disappeared on the conveyor belt, I realized we had passed the point of no return. For better or worse, it was Paris, here we come!
<b> COMING UP � DAYS ONE AND TWO: NIGHTMARE AT 38,000 FEET, DAWN OF THE DEAD, THE FERRIS IN PARIS AND THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS </b>
<b> DAYS ONE AND TWO: NIGHTMARE AT 38,000 FEET, DAWN OF THE DEAD, THE FERRIS IN PARIS AND THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS </b>
About 45 minutes before take-off, I had a momentary cause for optimism. I heard the ticket agent at Air Tahiti Nui say, �Could Mr. You Walk Like Walter Brennan please come to the counter? I have an acquaintance who works on projects with Air Tahiti Nui, so I was hoping against hope he might have upgraded us to first class. Alas, she only wanted to correct my passport number they had on file.
On board, the good news was that it seemed Air Tahiti Nui had a little more legroom than some other airlines I frequent. The bad news was I needed a lot more room than they could give me.
After watching Clint Eastwood blow up Hal Holbrook in Magnum Force and coming to the quick realization that I really suck at science trivia questions (I do love those television screens at every seat, though), I told Tracy I did not know how I was going to survive the trip.
Every attempted movement of my knee was worse than the previous move. I think tears were in my eyes, but I often get that way during Clint Eastwood movies. I told Tracy it felt like someone was hitting me in the knee with a ball-peen hammer (of course, I don�t really know what that feels like, but it sounded good). My beloved wife then took one for the team.
For the next seven hours or so, I put my leg up on Tracy�s lap, and she rubbed (very gently) my leg and knee. Between the Vicodin, a glass of wine (yes, I know you�re not supposed to do that) and just trying to block out the pain, the trip really is kind of a blur. I do remember the food on Air Tahiti Nui being good, and the flight attendants being very tolerant of my foot sticking out slightly into the aisle for most of the trip.
We arrived in Paris at 7:30 a.m. It was still dark, and I felt like Jack Bauer had just put me through some 24-like torture. I looked (and felt) like death. The cab ride into Paris only exacerbated the pain.
It was at this point, I had to make a decision; either be a whiner, or suck it up and make a go of it. I decided to suck it up. I also had a plan in the back of my head, but I hadn�t quite thought it out all the way.
It was a gorgeous, sunny morning in Paris, and our funny cab driver (complained a lot about the traffic in an interesting French/English mix) dropped us at the Hotel de Varenne in the seventh arrondissement. The hotel is located about a block from The Rodin Museum, and it was to be our home for the next eight nights.
The room was small, but clean, and the bathroom was more than adequate. Best of all, though, was the shower (our room had a shower curtain, by the way). It had great water pressure, and I ran hot water on my bad knee for about 15 minutes. Although I had not received much sleep for a few days, I felt strangely rejuvenated.
Tracy and I walked (well Tracy walked while I hobbled). We got our six-day museum pass (I�m nothing if not an optimist) and strolled through the garden. We had to take our requisite �Thinker� picture before we came to the conclusion that we were starving.
The nearest place was across from the Assemblé Nationale called Le Bourbon. It was nothing special, but lunch hit the spot (as did a little spot of vin rouge).
There was no way I was going to waste a day in Paris, so we walked to the Seine. I have been to Paris many times, but I never recall seeing a more beautiful day there during any season. It seemed like you could just reach out and touch the Eiffel Tower. The golden statues on the Seine glistened, and for the moment, I was feeling somewhat human.
Tracy asked if I wanted to go on, and, of course, the answer was positive. At the Place de Concorde, the big Ferris wheel was operating, and believing I was not going to get many pictures by climbing stairs on this trip, we went on it and got a few great Paris shots.
We pressed on up to the Madeleine, saw the Hermés horses sticking out of the windows, and stopped for a moment at Hédiard, where we always spend too much money when we come here. We walked through an outdoor passage nearby that was full of red Christmas trees, so I got the idea to take lots of Christmas decoration-type photos for my music trip video I make when I get home. I also had another idea�about my bad knee.
It was a long trek (for me) back to the hotel. I couldn�t even shorten the route by taking the metro, because I couldn�t navigate any stairs. It was frustrating, but I was trying not to let it get me down.
Back at the hotel, I told Tracy my convoluted plan. Our good friends, who we traveled to Italy with in 2005 (I didn�t drink all the vino trip) have a son who dates a girl whose dad is a doctor somewhere outside of Paris. If somehow I could get in touch with him, maybe he could get me in touch with a doctor in Paris. It had taken nearly a full day, but I finally got �the look� from Tracy.
I set the wheels in motion and e-mailed our friends in California where it was still early morning. Within the hour, Mary had called their son who called his girlfriend who called her father who we were told would be contacting us shortly at the hotel. When he called, he said he and his wife would come to the hotel to examine me. What a great world!
I told him not to inconvenience himself, but he would not take �no� for an answer.
Traffic was horrible that night, and it took him about two hours to get the hotel. I waited in the lobby with Soultan, the night reception person at the Hotel de Varenne (who was really a nice guy and very helpful). The doctor and his wife arrived about 9:30 p.m. He put some pressure on my knee, and, trying not to look like a wimp, I just grimaced in pain instead of yelling.
After a few minutes, he reached into his coat and gave me a packet of anti-inflammatory pills (which I am familiar with) a tube of anti-inflammatory ointment (which I have never seen in the U.S.) and some pills for my stomach to tolerate this new medicine. He said to take the pills twice a day and put the ointment on three times a day.
Then he said, �I�ll come back tomorrow afternoon and give you an injection of cortisone.� I told him he didn�t have to do that, but again, he would not take �no� for an answer.
After they left, I went up to the room, took the pills and rubbed the ointment on my incredibly painful knee. I woke up in the middle of the night and rubbed some more ointment on my knee.
Tracy said, �What are you doing?�
I laughed and said, �I�m rubbing some more of the Magic Cream on my knee (which still hurt like hell). As I tried to get in a comfortable position to get back to sleep, little did I know that when I awoke, I would be a firm believer in the Magic Cream.
<b> COMING UP � DAY THREE: ALL I KNEED IS A MIRACLE, THE BEST LITTLE CHURCH IN THE WORLD, DINING LIKE ITS 1699 AND THE SHOT HEARD �ROUND THE WORLD </b>
(To fully explain the �miraculous� part of our journey, I am forced to give you details of events leading up to it. This is a story about the importance of really good friends, the extreme kindness of absolute strangers, the love of an incredible wife and the dumb perseverance of yours truly. Finally, it is about my favorite city on earth, Paris.)
<b> PRELUDE TO A MIRACLE </b>
It was 11 p.m., and as I attempted to get up from the dinner table at our friends� dinner party on that Saturday night, I came to a very terrible and unsettling realization; it was 36 hours before our flight to Paris, and I was literally unable to walk.
Now, usually that would mean I had consumed too much wine or had downed one (or two) extra martinis earlier in the evening, but that was (unfortunately) not the case. In August, I had undergone arthroscopic surgery on my right knee, and after some physical therapy, I had been absolutely fine�until earlier that day when I felt a slight twinge of pain. That slight twinge had now turned into incredible, sharp pain. I could not bend my leg without groaning (ok, I yelled a little bit). Timing is everything!
Having suffered rheumatoid arthritis since I was in my mid 30s, I am pretty immune to most pain, however the pain I felt that night surpassed my worst days of RA (I�ve been on a great med since the late 90s, and I have felt great for the past eight years, but I�ll never forget the pain I endured those 12 previous years).
On Sunday morning (after a night of no sleep), I gimped down to my local Urgent Care in the faint hope I might see a doctor who has practiced medicine for more than a few months. As usual, Urgent Care lived down to my lowest expectations, and the doctor could not figure out what was wrong, so he gave me a pain shot that was completely useless. It was now 23 hours until our flight.
When I got home, Tracy was packing (hopefully to go with me and not leave me). I will usually come up with any reason not to pack, but feigning a crippled person (a lame idea, don�t you think) is not one of them. For the rest of that day, we grappled with the thought of not going, but we had the hotel booked for eight nights, and our plane reservations were made through Priceline, so God knows if we�d ever see any of that money again. Canceling the trip could cost me two to three thousand dollars (that�s a lot of vin rouge). On the bright side, weather.com said the next week should be sunny in Paris.
After another night of little or no sleep, I woke up at 6 a.m. on the day of our flight and tried one last desperate measure. I called a local doctor (unfortunately my RA doc and Orthopedic doctor were not possible to see and get to the airport in time that morning). I had been to this local doctor before on numerous occasions and thought for sure he would give me a shot of cortisone to ease the pain of the journey. My leg was actually worse than the day before.
To my dismay (and my orthopedic doctor�s dismay when I related the story to him upon my return), he would not do it, but said, �Hey maybe since you are in such pain, they will put you in first class.� At the time, to say the least, I was pretty upset. Fortunately, the cats were already on vacation and didn�t see my display of temper.
I could barely get my leg in the car, and Tracy asked one more time, �Are you sure we should really go?� The smart answer would, of course, have been �no�, but I have never been all that smart. In my best Gary Gilmore impersonation (at the time, I think I would have been happy if someone did shoot me), I said, �Let�s do it!�
As Tracy drove to the airport, I thought about the movie, Star Trek: Wrath of Khan (Vicodin does strange things to people). Thinking about his dead comrade (well, at least for part of another movie), Kirk remembered something Spock had told him, �There are always possibilities.� At this point in time, I was hoping there were possibilities for me, but none were top of mind at the moment.
After parking, and as the shuttle brought us to the terminal at LAX, I realized this trip was going to severely test my motto of �Enjoy The Journey. Attitude Is Everything.�
Dragging our luggage toward the Air Tahiti check-in, I began thinking, �This could be the dumbest decision I have ever made in my life (and believe me, I�ve made a ton of bad ones).� As the bags disappeared on the conveyor belt, I realized we had passed the point of no return. For better or worse, it was Paris, here we come!
<b> COMING UP � DAYS ONE AND TWO: NIGHTMARE AT 38,000 FEET, DAWN OF THE DEAD, THE FERRIS IN PARIS AND THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS </b>
<b> DAYS ONE AND TWO: NIGHTMARE AT 38,000 FEET, DAWN OF THE DEAD, THE FERRIS IN PARIS AND THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS </b>
About 45 minutes before take-off, I had a momentary cause for optimism. I heard the ticket agent at Air Tahiti Nui say, �Could Mr. You Walk Like Walter Brennan please come to the counter? I have an acquaintance who works on projects with Air Tahiti Nui, so I was hoping against hope he might have upgraded us to first class. Alas, she only wanted to correct my passport number they had on file.
On board, the good news was that it seemed Air Tahiti Nui had a little more legroom than some other airlines I frequent. The bad news was I needed a lot more room than they could give me.
After watching Clint Eastwood blow up Hal Holbrook in Magnum Force and coming to the quick realization that I really suck at science trivia questions (I do love those television screens at every seat, though), I told Tracy I did not know how I was going to survive the trip.
Every attempted movement of my knee was worse than the previous move. I think tears were in my eyes, but I often get that way during Clint Eastwood movies. I told Tracy it felt like someone was hitting me in the knee with a ball-peen hammer (of course, I don�t really know what that feels like, but it sounded good). My beloved wife then took one for the team.
For the next seven hours or so, I put my leg up on Tracy�s lap, and she rubbed (very gently) my leg and knee. Between the Vicodin, a glass of wine (yes, I know you�re not supposed to do that) and just trying to block out the pain, the trip really is kind of a blur. I do remember the food on Air Tahiti Nui being good, and the flight attendants being very tolerant of my foot sticking out slightly into the aisle for most of the trip.
We arrived in Paris at 7:30 a.m. It was still dark, and I felt like Jack Bauer had just put me through some 24-like torture. I looked (and felt) like death. The cab ride into Paris only exacerbated the pain.
It was at this point, I had to make a decision; either be a whiner, or suck it up and make a go of it. I decided to suck it up. I also had a plan in the back of my head, but I hadn�t quite thought it out all the way.
It was a gorgeous, sunny morning in Paris, and our funny cab driver (complained a lot about the traffic in an interesting French/English mix) dropped us at the Hotel de Varenne in the seventh arrondissement. The hotel is located about a block from The Rodin Museum, and it was to be our home for the next eight nights.
The room was small, but clean, and the bathroom was more than adequate. Best of all, though, was the shower (our room had a shower curtain, by the way). It had great water pressure, and I ran hot water on my bad knee for about 15 minutes. Although I had not received much sleep for a few days, I felt strangely rejuvenated.
Tracy and I walked (well Tracy walked while I hobbled). We got our six-day museum pass (I�m nothing if not an optimist) and strolled through the garden. We had to take our requisite �Thinker� picture before we came to the conclusion that we were starving.
The nearest place was across from the Assemblé Nationale called Le Bourbon. It was nothing special, but lunch hit the spot (as did a little spot of vin rouge).
There was no way I was going to waste a day in Paris, so we walked to the Seine. I have been to Paris many times, but I never recall seeing a more beautiful day there during any season. It seemed like you could just reach out and touch the Eiffel Tower. The golden statues on the Seine glistened, and for the moment, I was feeling somewhat human.
Tracy asked if I wanted to go on, and, of course, the answer was positive. At the Place de Concorde, the big Ferris wheel was operating, and believing I was not going to get many pictures by climbing stairs on this trip, we went on it and got a few great Paris shots.
We pressed on up to the Madeleine, saw the Hermés horses sticking out of the windows, and stopped for a moment at Hédiard, where we always spend too much money when we come here. We walked through an outdoor passage nearby that was full of red Christmas trees, so I got the idea to take lots of Christmas decoration-type photos for my music trip video I make when I get home. I also had another idea�about my bad knee.
It was a long trek (for me) back to the hotel. I couldn�t even shorten the route by taking the metro, because I couldn�t navigate any stairs. It was frustrating, but I was trying not to let it get me down.
Back at the hotel, I told Tracy my convoluted plan. Our good friends, who we traveled to Italy with in 2005 (I didn�t drink all the vino trip) have a son who dates a girl whose dad is a doctor somewhere outside of Paris. If somehow I could get in touch with him, maybe he could get me in touch with a doctor in Paris. It had taken nearly a full day, but I finally got �the look� from Tracy.
I set the wheels in motion and e-mailed our friends in California where it was still early morning. Within the hour, Mary had called their son who called his girlfriend who called her father who we were told would be contacting us shortly at the hotel. When he called, he said he and his wife would come to the hotel to examine me. What a great world!
I told him not to inconvenience himself, but he would not take �no� for an answer.
Traffic was horrible that night, and it took him about two hours to get the hotel. I waited in the lobby with Soultan, the night reception person at the Hotel de Varenne (who was really a nice guy and very helpful). The doctor and his wife arrived about 9:30 p.m. He put some pressure on my knee, and, trying not to look like a wimp, I just grimaced in pain instead of yelling.
After a few minutes, he reached into his coat and gave me a packet of anti-inflammatory pills (which I am familiar with) a tube of anti-inflammatory ointment (which I have never seen in the U.S.) and some pills for my stomach to tolerate this new medicine. He said to take the pills twice a day and put the ointment on three times a day.
Then he said, �I�ll come back tomorrow afternoon and give you an injection of cortisone.� I told him he didn�t have to do that, but again, he would not take �no� for an answer.
After they left, I went up to the room, took the pills and rubbed the ointment on my incredibly painful knee. I woke up in the middle of the night and rubbed some more ointment on my knee.
Tracy said, �What are you doing?�
I laughed and said, �I�m rubbing some more of the Magic Cream on my knee (which still hurt like hell). As I tried to get in a comfortable position to get back to sleep, little did I know that when I awoke, I would be a firm believer in the Magic Cream.
<b> COMING UP � DAY THREE: ALL I KNEED IS A MIRACLE, THE BEST LITTLE CHURCH IN THE WORLD, DINING LIKE ITS 1699 AND THE SHOT HEARD �ROUND THE WORLD </b>
Jan 23rd, 2007, 03:31 PM
#2
Original Poster
<b> DAY THREE: ALL I KNEED IS A MIRACLE, THE BEST LITTLE CHURCH IN THE WORLD, DINING LIKE ITS 1699 AND THE SHOT HEARD ‘ROUND THE WORLD </b>
The good thing about awaking in the morning is that your body goes into action before your brain can react (Hey, this is G-rated). As I attempted to get out of bed and before I could say “Magic Cream”, I was sitting on the side of the bed with my knees bent and feet on the floor. Had I attempted this feat 12 hours earlier, I would have been screaming loud enough to awaken residents in the sixth arrondissement. It still hurt, but not nearly as much.
Before going out, I rubbed some more of the Voltaren Emulgel (aka Magic Cream) on my knee. I had taken Voltaren pills (a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug) in the past for my RA, but I never knew there was a cream.
I knew I was better moments later when I tripped over a little crack in the street, and I only muttered a four-letter word instead of yelling it out. Tracy and I stopped in a little place down the street and had croissants and café, so I now I was feeling a little more Parisian.
The good news for me was I could walk better. The bad news for Tracy was that I could walk better. After our coffee, we picked up a chocolate and vanilla éclair along with some sort of delicious apple pastry and walked along the Seine. I was limpin’ but not really gimpin’.
It was another glorious day, so we were soaking up the sunshine (well as much as you can soak up sunshine when it is only 37 degrees outside).
We crossed the Seine and visited St-Germain l’Auxerrois (it so happens we ended up visiting a lot of churches I had never been to before on this trip)
After seeing the giant organ at that church, we wandered over to Les Halles and popped into St-Eustache, the place where Richelieu and some other famous folks were baptized. I took a picture of the marble tomb of Jean-Baptiste Colbert, who was some mucky-muck under Louis XIV. I thought I could put that picture at the top of my blog and call it The Colbert Report, but Tracy told me that name had already been taken.
The most famous painting at this church is Rembrandt’s “The Pilgrimage to Emmaus,” but I swear the church had it marked incorrectly, attributing it to another artist whose name, of course, we forgot to write down. I have not seen that mentioned anywhere, so I am assuming (1) we were looking at the wrong painting, (2) I was having a Vicodin flashback (although Tracy saw it, too) or (3) we have discovered something bigger than the Da Vinci Code.
We took a little detour in the Les Halles area and went through one of the passages, and then we decided to make our first metro attempt, since the knee was feeling better.
We had already picked up a carnet of tickets and made our way to the nearest metro, where I attempted to use my ticket. I put my ticket in the slot, walked confidently through…well not through because the door would not open.
Inside the little booth, the lady was screaming (yes, screaming) at me. Now before you think this is a case of blatant anti-Americanism or that I did something foolish (not so far fetched an idea), a couple of French speaking people tried to do the same thing, and the lady in the booth screamed even louder at them.
Suddenly a bunch of guys came over and started putting tape over the turnstiles, and we realized the metro station had been closed for an unknown reason. I kept looking for a French CSI agent, but Tracy said we had more sights to see.
We meandered (love that word) down to my favorite little church on the planet, Sainte-Chapelle. We just love this place, so much so that I even brought some tiny binoculars on this trip to look at the scenes in the stained glass windows.
I actually climbed the little round staircase with little or no pain to the chapelle haute that contains the beautiful stained glass, and once again it was merveilleux. The sun was shining through some of the windows, so we felt quite fortunate.
Even with binoculars, the scenes are a little difficult to discern. Tracy asked how, without binoculars, anyone could have ever figured out in the old days what was portrayed in any of the scenes in the stained glass windows. I told her that Parisians used to eat lots of carrots.
Speaking of food, after taking some photos at Notre-Dame (which had a giant Christmas tree in front), we walked over to Ile-Saint-Louis for a bite to eat at a place called I’ll Try To Find Out Later For You. Beef bourguignon hit the spot on this chilly afternoon, and the restaurant cat, Charley, reminded of us of our tabby, who was probably already plotting a revolt with our tuxedo cat when we get home.
After lunch, I finally got on the metro, and I gimped down the stairs as best as I could, hoping no one was in a rush behind me.
DIGRESSION: I have always been one of those guys to rush and catch the metro when I hear it coming, but on this trip (since running really wasn’t an option), I found that is really pretty stupid during the day, because there is always another metro a couple of minutes later. I guess since we weren’t running, Tracy and I were able to stop and smell the urine (hmm, not as nice a ring as that other phrase). More of my metro impressions (I love the Paris metro system) will be forthcoming in another post.
We zipped over to the Eiffel Tower, took a few pictures, met a couple from Philadelphia who had escaped the London fog for a day, and took the metro back to the de Varenne, because it was now time for a new episode of Hotel Surgery.
Right on time, my newest favorite person on earth, Dr. Save The Trip, arrived with his nurse (aka Mrs. Save The Trip). We went to our room, where he put a nice, new cloth down on the bed, where I sat as he got out the syringe. He put the medicine (which for you old Laker and Chick Hearn fans, I called “Don’t Hurt No More”), put on his gloves, sterilized my knee, put a little mark where the needle was to be inserted and stuck that baby right below the kneecap. I hardly felt a thing.
Had I been able to, I would have gotten down on my knees to thank them, but I thought that might counteract the injection. Instead I thanked him profusely and asked him how much I owed him.
“Nothing,” he said. “Any friends of (our friends back in California) are friends of mine.”
Try as I might, there was no way he was going to accept anything, so I gave them my undying thanks (I’m also in the process of getting them a nice gift, now that I know their address).
He said, “Your knee will get continually better and should be fine in a couple of days (which was good because we had a Friday walking tour scheduled with Michael Osman).” Then like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, it was “Hi Yo Argent, awaaaaay!”
After they left, Tracy and I said it was pretty amazing that a doctor in my hometown wouldn’t take five minutes to help me, but a complete stranger in Paris took a good six or seven hours out of his busy life, didn’t charge me a euro and, basically, saved our entire trip to France.
But discussion about the American medical profession and its shortcomings had to wait, it was time for something much more important…dinner.
We walked down to 36, rue de Grenelle to La Petite Chaise, which is one of the 100 restaurants in Paris that claims to be the oldest restaurant in Paris. We sat downstairs in a cozy little room. For those that care, there was only one other table (that we could hear) of English speaking persons, but we didn’t see very many Americans for the entire week.
The dinner included my favorite (escargot), a delicious canard, a carne agneau (rack of lamb that was delicious and an incredible chocolate cake in a crème anglais. As usual, we also had an apertif, a bottle of good vin rouge and some café. The bill ran a tad over 100 euros.
When we got back to the hotel, our friends (who set in gear the saving of the trip) had sent us a bottle of champagne. Coincidentally, that was where we were headed the very next day. After putting on more magic cream, I had the most restful night I had enjoyed in almost a week. Vive la France!
<b> COMING UP – DAY FOUR: CITIZEN CANE, THE TRAIN TO CHAMPAGNE AND THEN SOME QUICHE LORRAINE, UNBUTTON YOUR DAMN COAT AND THE APPLE(S) OF MY EYE </b>
<b> DAY FOUR: CITIZEN CANE, THE TRAIN TO CHAMPAGNE AND THEN SOME QUICHE LORRAINE, UNBUTTON YOUR DAMN COAT AND THE APPLE(S) OF MY EYE </b>
Tracy and I were up early, because we were going to take a little day trip to the Champagne region (Reims). We walked the short distance to our metro stop:
DIGRESSION: I had read (I think on Trip Advisor) that there was not a metro stop convenient to the Hotel de Varenne. If I remember correctly, the poster said it was at least a ten-minute walk. Tracy and I had walked to the metro stop (although couldn’t go because of my bum knee) a couple of days before, and even Mr. Gimpo here could navigate the walk in less than five minutes.
When two very sleepy tourists (us) got to the top of the stairs leading down to the metro, I wanted to take a quick look at the metro map for the best way to get to Gare de l’Est, where we would take the train to Reims. “This should only take a second,” I told her.
Tracy and I were standing right next to each other when, suddenly, we were accosted (well, that was my first inclination) by an unknown assailant. We felt a body crash into us, put his arms around us and grope us. “Aha,” I thought. “My first-ever time being pick pocketed.”
In a flash, I was able to remember all my martial arts training (which consisted of watching a Bruce Lee movie for about ten minutes). Using my newfound strength in my right knee, I pivoted like an NBA star and flung the attempted thief backward as far as a 54-year-old arthritic guy with a bum knee and no caffeine in his system could fling.
As the scoundrel flew backward at an accelerated pace, I caught my first glimpse of him, and he looked nothing like I thought he would from his initial burst into our serene morning. He was wearing big sunglasses and carrying a cane. Since it was still dark out, there could only be one observation made, and it wasn’t a pretty one.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, I almost sent a blind man flying onto his keister. Fortunately, as he stumbled backwards, a couple passing by were able to break his fall. The blind man collected himself, smiled and moved on. Or was he blind?
Yes, he did have sunglasses and carried a cane, but could it have been a devious ruse in order to steal my wallet or our passports? Fortunately those valuables were hermetically sealed in my front jeans’ pocket covered by my new overcoat, which I bought before I left.
In any event, the entire episode was better than a double espresso in getting our juices flowing, so it was on to Reims, where my overcoat would play another role in the day’s activities.
The train ride to Reims takes less than two hours, and for the first time since we arrived, gray skies greeted us as we got off the train.
We walked into town, in search of the cathedral. We found the tourist office, bought our audio guide for Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims and off we went.
What I remember most about this church was the cool façade (some of the outside has been cleaned, while some still needs a good scrubbing) and the fantastic rose window (I have a really good picture of that). The audio guide tour takes a little more an hour.
We then stopped in a little store, and Tracy bought some Veuve-Clicquot and very neat champagne cover, which keeps it chilled. As I attempted to pay, my umpteenth wardrobe malfunction was finally too much for Tracy to handle.
DIGRESSION: Living in Southern California, I have never owned an overcoat that goes as far down as my knees. That, of course, is because (until last week), I’ve never needed one here. Knowing that temperatures would be in the upper 20s and low 30s at night in Paris, and that I am a wimpy (except when I’m beating up blind people) Southern Californian, we decided this might be a good time to own one. When trying it on at the store, I told Tracy it kind of gave me the look of a secret agent. Tracy can really roll her eyes when she wants to.
Anyway, back to the wardrobe malfunction. For the past few days, I had my overcoat buttoned down all the way. Whenever, I needed to get money or metro tickets out of my pants pocket, it looked like I was having a stroke as I flailed around trying to unbutton my coat from the bottom, reach in my pockets and grab my wallet. It looked like I was doing a bad Steve Martin “Wild and Crazy Guy” impersonation, and Tracy told me I looked like a complete idiot (which, as you know, happens on every trip).
Well, after learning the intricacies of an overcoat, we walked through the Christmas booth maze to La Lorraine, a bar/brasserie that looked cute. Tracy had the Quiche Lorraine (a natural), while I opted for some onion soup gratinée and my first helping of pommes frites. It was then I made my first tour guide error.
We were going to go to Veuve-Clicquot for a champagne tasting, but it didn’t leave us much time to make the train and get back to Paris. Had I known there was one an hour later, I would have gone, but my bad knee that previous Sunday precluded me from doing my last minute planning (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). At least we had champagne for lunch.
We walked through town (I liked Reims) and walked behind the train station to the Surrender Museum, which served as Dwight Eisenhower’s headquarters in 1945 and where the Germans signed (one of) the surrender papers. Tracy and I were the only visitors.
I like reading about World War II, so this was mildly interesting, since the rooms have been left just like it was back in 1945. If you have some extra time, I would recommend it. It still looks like they are trying to add some things to make it more interesting. There is also a short film, and since there was no one else in the museum, for once I didn’t have to yell at anybody for talking through the movie.
The train ride home was much shorter, because we both fell asleep. Thankfully Paris is the last stop or we might still be on it.
We got back to the hotel and quickly showered, because we had 8:30 reservations at a restaurant that had Tracy concerned. But before we ate, we took the metro to see two department stores that we were told would be fun to see during the Christmas season, Printemps and Galeries Lafayette.
Both had some pretty amazing decorations, and they were open late this Thursday. It was only a few days until Christmas and it was fun to see people scurrying and worrying about buying last minute presents and, for once, knowing I didn’t have to be one of them.
We walked along boulevard Haussmann until we finally found my restaurant choice of the evening (I forgot how confusing the number system is on these streets, so I thought we were going to end up back in Reims before I found the restaurant). Pomze is located at 109 boulevard Haussmann (which I think is located next to 927 boulevard Haussmann), and, if you can’t tell by the name, specializes in dishes (and it turned out drinks) made from, what else, apples.
Now the reason why Tracy was a tad bit concerned was, well let me put this gently; oft times it seem apples cause an effect in her husband that creates noise, foul smells and occasional looks of anger from my most beloved wife (how’s that for beating around the bush).
The restaurant is modern, with a bar and store located downstairs. Upstairs, there is a main dining room and a few smaller rooms, where we ate. There was a birthday bash in the main room that evening with the piano and singing going non-stop. It actually sounded better (aka not as loud) from where we were sitting. The place was fun.
We dined on a chestnut cream soup (made with apple dices flambé with calvados – more on calvados later), scallops with an apple chutney risotto, a beef filet with morels and apple-polenta, an apple crumble with gingerbread ice cream and a caramelized apple cheesecake.
We had chatted with the owner a couple of times during dinner, and as we left, he asked whether we had sipped any of the Calvados. When I told him we had not, he escorted us down to the bar (how he knew we liked liquor I have no idea, except for the martini and bottle of wine we ordered with dinner).
He and the bartender then gave us a short course on Calvados, how it is made, fermented and other interesting Calvados’ facts. Of course the proof is in the pudding, so I bought one, saying I had not especially liked previous Calvados I had tried. This one, however, was very tasty. It tasted much more like an apple brandy.
The bartender then said, “If you like that, try this one from 1964.” Before I could ask him the price, he smiled and said, “This one’s on the house.” It was spectacular, and I thanked them. We enjoyed Pomze and its staff was professional, but very fun (always a good combo).
Before we hopped on the metro back to the hotel, we took some cool photos of Printemps and Galeries Lafayette. Some of them even came out.
We got back around midnight and went directly to bed because tomorrow we had a rendezvous at 9:30 a.m. with Michael Osman, the Paris walking tour guide guru. He was going to give us his special guided, half-day tour of the Louvre (that I had actually won for writing that trip report about Italy in 2005), but circumstances would dictate a deviation and detour in those walking tour plans, and we would not step inside the Louvre at all on that Friday.
As we went to sleep that night, Tracy and I could have had no idea that the following day would be the most fun and informative nine hours we had ever spent in Paris, courtesy of one Mr. Osman.
<b> COMING UP - DAY FIVE: WALK TILL YOU DROP, THE ATTACK OF THE NEWSPAPER MAN, IS THAT SPERM IN THE PANTHEON AND FORK IT OVER YOU STUPID AMERICAN </b>
The good thing about awaking in the morning is that your body goes into action before your brain can react (Hey, this is G-rated). As I attempted to get out of bed and before I could say “Magic Cream”, I was sitting on the side of the bed with my knees bent and feet on the floor. Had I attempted this feat 12 hours earlier, I would have been screaming loud enough to awaken residents in the sixth arrondissement. It still hurt, but not nearly as much.
Before going out, I rubbed some more of the Voltaren Emulgel (aka Magic Cream) on my knee. I had taken Voltaren pills (a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug) in the past for my RA, but I never knew there was a cream.
I knew I was better moments later when I tripped over a little crack in the street, and I only muttered a four-letter word instead of yelling it out. Tracy and I stopped in a little place down the street and had croissants and café, so I now I was feeling a little more Parisian.
The good news for me was I could walk better. The bad news for Tracy was that I could walk better. After our coffee, we picked up a chocolate and vanilla éclair along with some sort of delicious apple pastry and walked along the Seine. I was limpin’ but not really gimpin’.
It was another glorious day, so we were soaking up the sunshine (well as much as you can soak up sunshine when it is only 37 degrees outside).
We crossed the Seine and visited St-Germain l’Auxerrois (it so happens we ended up visiting a lot of churches I had never been to before on this trip)
After seeing the giant organ at that church, we wandered over to Les Halles and popped into St-Eustache, the place where Richelieu and some other famous folks were baptized. I took a picture of the marble tomb of Jean-Baptiste Colbert, who was some mucky-muck under Louis XIV. I thought I could put that picture at the top of my blog and call it The Colbert Report, but Tracy told me that name had already been taken.
The most famous painting at this church is Rembrandt’s “The Pilgrimage to Emmaus,” but I swear the church had it marked incorrectly, attributing it to another artist whose name, of course, we forgot to write down. I have not seen that mentioned anywhere, so I am assuming (1) we were looking at the wrong painting, (2) I was having a Vicodin flashback (although Tracy saw it, too) or (3) we have discovered something bigger than the Da Vinci Code.
We took a little detour in the Les Halles area and went through one of the passages, and then we decided to make our first metro attempt, since the knee was feeling better.
We had already picked up a carnet of tickets and made our way to the nearest metro, where I attempted to use my ticket. I put my ticket in the slot, walked confidently through…well not through because the door would not open.
Inside the little booth, the lady was screaming (yes, screaming) at me. Now before you think this is a case of blatant anti-Americanism or that I did something foolish (not so far fetched an idea), a couple of French speaking people tried to do the same thing, and the lady in the booth screamed even louder at them.
Suddenly a bunch of guys came over and started putting tape over the turnstiles, and we realized the metro station had been closed for an unknown reason. I kept looking for a French CSI agent, but Tracy said we had more sights to see.
We meandered (love that word) down to my favorite little church on the planet, Sainte-Chapelle. We just love this place, so much so that I even brought some tiny binoculars on this trip to look at the scenes in the stained glass windows.
I actually climbed the little round staircase with little or no pain to the chapelle haute that contains the beautiful stained glass, and once again it was merveilleux. The sun was shining through some of the windows, so we felt quite fortunate.
Even with binoculars, the scenes are a little difficult to discern. Tracy asked how, without binoculars, anyone could have ever figured out in the old days what was portrayed in any of the scenes in the stained glass windows. I told her that Parisians used to eat lots of carrots.
Speaking of food, after taking some photos at Notre-Dame (which had a giant Christmas tree in front), we walked over to Ile-Saint-Louis for a bite to eat at a place called I’ll Try To Find Out Later For You. Beef bourguignon hit the spot on this chilly afternoon, and the restaurant cat, Charley, reminded of us of our tabby, who was probably already plotting a revolt with our tuxedo cat when we get home.
After lunch, I finally got on the metro, and I gimped down the stairs as best as I could, hoping no one was in a rush behind me.
DIGRESSION: I have always been one of those guys to rush and catch the metro when I hear it coming, but on this trip (since running really wasn’t an option), I found that is really pretty stupid during the day, because there is always another metro a couple of minutes later. I guess since we weren’t running, Tracy and I were able to stop and smell the urine (hmm, not as nice a ring as that other phrase). More of my metro impressions (I love the Paris metro system) will be forthcoming in another post.
We zipped over to the Eiffel Tower, took a few pictures, met a couple from Philadelphia who had escaped the London fog for a day, and took the metro back to the de Varenne, because it was now time for a new episode of Hotel Surgery.
Right on time, my newest favorite person on earth, Dr. Save The Trip, arrived with his nurse (aka Mrs. Save The Trip). We went to our room, where he put a nice, new cloth down on the bed, where I sat as he got out the syringe. He put the medicine (which for you old Laker and Chick Hearn fans, I called “Don’t Hurt No More”), put on his gloves, sterilized my knee, put a little mark where the needle was to be inserted and stuck that baby right below the kneecap. I hardly felt a thing.
Had I been able to, I would have gotten down on my knees to thank them, but I thought that might counteract the injection. Instead I thanked him profusely and asked him how much I owed him.
“Nothing,” he said. “Any friends of (our friends back in California) are friends of mine.”
Try as I might, there was no way he was going to accept anything, so I gave them my undying thanks (I’m also in the process of getting them a nice gift, now that I know their address).
He said, “Your knee will get continually better and should be fine in a couple of days (which was good because we had a Friday walking tour scheduled with Michael Osman).” Then like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, it was “Hi Yo Argent, awaaaaay!”
After they left, Tracy and I said it was pretty amazing that a doctor in my hometown wouldn’t take five minutes to help me, but a complete stranger in Paris took a good six or seven hours out of his busy life, didn’t charge me a euro and, basically, saved our entire trip to France.
But discussion about the American medical profession and its shortcomings had to wait, it was time for something much more important…dinner.
We walked down to 36, rue de Grenelle to La Petite Chaise, which is one of the 100 restaurants in Paris that claims to be the oldest restaurant in Paris. We sat downstairs in a cozy little room. For those that care, there was only one other table (that we could hear) of English speaking persons, but we didn’t see very many Americans for the entire week.
The dinner included my favorite (escargot), a delicious canard, a carne agneau (rack of lamb that was delicious and an incredible chocolate cake in a crème anglais. As usual, we also had an apertif, a bottle of good vin rouge and some café. The bill ran a tad over 100 euros.
When we got back to the hotel, our friends (who set in gear the saving of the trip) had sent us a bottle of champagne. Coincidentally, that was where we were headed the very next day. After putting on more magic cream, I had the most restful night I had enjoyed in almost a week. Vive la France!
<b> COMING UP – DAY FOUR: CITIZEN CANE, THE TRAIN TO CHAMPAGNE AND THEN SOME QUICHE LORRAINE, UNBUTTON YOUR DAMN COAT AND THE APPLE(S) OF MY EYE </b>
<b> DAY FOUR: CITIZEN CANE, THE TRAIN TO CHAMPAGNE AND THEN SOME QUICHE LORRAINE, UNBUTTON YOUR DAMN COAT AND THE APPLE(S) OF MY EYE </b>
Tracy and I were up early, because we were going to take a little day trip to the Champagne region (Reims). We walked the short distance to our metro stop:
DIGRESSION: I had read (I think on Trip Advisor) that there was not a metro stop convenient to the Hotel de Varenne. If I remember correctly, the poster said it was at least a ten-minute walk. Tracy and I had walked to the metro stop (although couldn’t go because of my bum knee) a couple of days before, and even Mr. Gimpo here could navigate the walk in less than five minutes.
When two very sleepy tourists (us) got to the top of the stairs leading down to the metro, I wanted to take a quick look at the metro map for the best way to get to Gare de l’Est, where we would take the train to Reims. “This should only take a second,” I told her.
Tracy and I were standing right next to each other when, suddenly, we were accosted (well, that was my first inclination) by an unknown assailant. We felt a body crash into us, put his arms around us and grope us. “Aha,” I thought. “My first-ever time being pick pocketed.”
In a flash, I was able to remember all my martial arts training (which consisted of watching a Bruce Lee movie for about ten minutes). Using my newfound strength in my right knee, I pivoted like an NBA star and flung the attempted thief backward as far as a 54-year-old arthritic guy with a bum knee and no caffeine in his system could fling.
As the scoundrel flew backward at an accelerated pace, I caught my first glimpse of him, and he looked nothing like I thought he would from his initial burst into our serene morning. He was wearing big sunglasses and carrying a cane. Since it was still dark out, there could only be one observation made, and it wasn’t a pretty one.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, I almost sent a blind man flying onto his keister. Fortunately, as he stumbled backwards, a couple passing by were able to break his fall. The blind man collected himself, smiled and moved on. Or was he blind?
Yes, he did have sunglasses and carried a cane, but could it have been a devious ruse in order to steal my wallet or our passports? Fortunately those valuables were hermetically sealed in my front jeans’ pocket covered by my new overcoat, which I bought before I left.
In any event, the entire episode was better than a double espresso in getting our juices flowing, so it was on to Reims, where my overcoat would play another role in the day’s activities.
The train ride to Reims takes less than two hours, and for the first time since we arrived, gray skies greeted us as we got off the train.
We walked into town, in search of the cathedral. We found the tourist office, bought our audio guide for Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims and off we went.
What I remember most about this church was the cool façade (some of the outside has been cleaned, while some still needs a good scrubbing) and the fantastic rose window (I have a really good picture of that). The audio guide tour takes a little more an hour.
We then stopped in a little store, and Tracy bought some Veuve-Clicquot and very neat champagne cover, which keeps it chilled. As I attempted to pay, my umpteenth wardrobe malfunction was finally too much for Tracy to handle.
DIGRESSION: Living in Southern California, I have never owned an overcoat that goes as far down as my knees. That, of course, is because (until last week), I’ve never needed one here. Knowing that temperatures would be in the upper 20s and low 30s at night in Paris, and that I am a wimpy (except when I’m beating up blind people) Southern Californian, we decided this might be a good time to own one. When trying it on at the store, I told Tracy it kind of gave me the look of a secret agent. Tracy can really roll her eyes when she wants to.
Anyway, back to the wardrobe malfunction. For the past few days, I had my overcoat buttoned down all the way. Whenever, I needed to get money or metro tickets out of my pants pocket, it looked like I was having a stroke as I flailed around trying to unbutton my coat from the bottom, reach in my pockets and grab my wallet. It looked like I was doing a bad Steve Martin “Wild and Crazy Guy” impersonation, and Tracy told me I looked like a complete idiot (which, as you know, happens on every trip).
Well, after learning the intricacies of an overcoat, we walked through the Christmas booth maze to La Lorraine, a bar/brasserie that looked cute. Tracy had the Quiche Lorraine (a natural), while I opted for some onion soup gratinée and my first helping of pommes frites. It was then I made my first tour guide error.
We were going to go to Veuve-Clicquot for a champagne tasting, but it didn’t leave us much time to make the train and get back to Paris. Had I known there was one an hour later, I would have gone, but my bad knee that previous Sunday precluded me from doing my last minute planning (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). At least we had champagne for lunch.
We walked through town (I liked Reims) and walked behind the train station to the Surrender Museum, which served as Dwight Eisenhower’s headquarters in 1945 and where the Germans signed (one of) the surrender papers. Tracy and I were the only visitors.
I like reading about World War II, so this was mildly interesting, since the rooms have been left just like it was back in 1945. If you have some extra time, I would recommend it. It still looks like they are trying to add some things to make it more interesting. There is also a short film, and since there was no one else in the museum, for once I didn’t have to yell at anybody for talking through the movie.
The train ride home was much shorter, because we both fell asleep. Thankfully Paris is the last stop or we might still be on it.
We got back to the hotel and quickly showered, because we had 8:30 reservations at a restaurant that had Tracy concerned. But before we ate, we took the metro to see two department stores that we were told would be fun to see during the Christmas season, Printemps and Galeries Lafayette.
Both had some pretty amazing decorations, and they were open late this Thursday. It was only a few days until Christmas and it was fun to see people scurrying and worrying about buying last minute presents and, for once, knowing I didn’t have to be one of them.
We walked along boulevard Haussmann until we finally found my restaurant choice of the evening (I forgot how confusing the number system is on these streets, so I thought we were going to end up back in Reims before I found the restaurant). Pomze is located at 109 boulevard Haussmann (which I think is located next to 927 boulevard Haussmann), and, if you can’t tell by the name, specializes in dishes (and it turned out drinks) made from, what else, apples.
Now the reason why Tracy was a tad bit concerned was, well let me put this gently; oft times it seem apples cause an effect in her husband that creates noise, foul smells and occasional looks of anger from my most beloved wife (how’s that for beating around the bush).
The restaurant is modern, with a bar and store located downstairs. Upstairs, there is a main dining room and a few smaller rooms, where we ate. There was a birthday bash in the main room that evening with the piano and singing going non-stop. It actually sounded better (aka not as loud) from where we were sitting. The place was fun.
We dined on a chestnut cream soup (made with apple dices flambé with calvados – more on calvados later), scallops with an apple chutney risotto, a beef filet with morels and apple-polenta, an apple crumble with gingerbread ice cream and a caramelized apple cheesecake.
We had chatted with the owner a couple of times during dinner, and as we left, he asked whether we had sipped any of the Calvados. When I told him we had not, he escorted us down to the bar (how he knew we liked liquor I have no idea, except for the martini and bottle of wine we ordered with dinner).
He and the bartender then gave us a short course on Calvados, how it is made, fermented and other interesting Calvados’ facts. Of course the proof is in the pudding, so I bought one, saying I had not especially liked previous Calvados I had tried. This one, however, was very tasty. It tasted much more like an apple brandy.
The bartender then said, “If you like that, try this one from 1964.” Before I could ask him the price, he smiled and said, “This one’s on the house.” It was spectacular, and I thanked them. We enjoyed Pomze and its staff was professional, but very fun (always a good combo).
Before we hopped on the metro back to the hotel, we took some cool photos of Printemps and Galeries Lafayette. Some of them even came out.
We got back around midnight and went directly to bed because tomorrow we had a rendezvous at 9:30 a.m. with Michael Osman, the Paris walking tour guide guru. He was going to give us his special guided, half-day tour of the Louvre (that I had actually won for writing that trip report about Italy in 2005), but circumstances would dictate a deviation and detour in those walking tour plans, and we would not step inside the Louvre at all on that Friday.
As we went to sleep that night, Tracy and I could have had no idea that the following day would be the most fun and informative nine hours we had ever spent in Paris, courtesy of one Mr. Osman.
<b> COMING UP - DAY FIVE: WALK TILL YOU DROP, THE ATTACK OF THE NEWSPAPER MAN, IS THAT SPERM IN THE PANTHEON AND FORK IT OVER YOU STUPID AMERICAN </b>
Jan 23rd, 2007, 03:34 PM
#3
Original Poster
<b> DAY FIVE: WALK TILL YOU DROP, THE ATTACK OF THE NEWSPAPER MAN, IS THAT SPERM IN THE PANTHEON AND FORK IT OVER YOU STUPID AMERICAN </b>
We woke up with a dilemma. Looking out the window as daylight finally arrived, it looked like it was going to be another spectacularly sunny day. On the other hand, we had Michael Osman arriving in a little less than an hour to take us on a tour of the Louvre. I could see Karl Malden as I thought, “What do you do? What do you do?”
As mentioned, Tracy and I had won a half-day tour with Michael on SlowTravel thanks to them liking my story about our Italian trip in 2005 (finally there was a reason why I put the wrong gas in the car). I really had no idea what to expect of Michael, since I had not read a lot about him before, other than he was an artist and was from Philadelphia. Was he fun? Was he stodgy? Was he interesting? Only time would tell.
I was in the bookstore (foreshadowing for later that morning) next to the hotel when he arrived and met Tracy (at least he knew that ½ of his contingent was normal). As soon as I met Michael, I knew that stodgy was out while fun and interesting were definitely in.
He was wearing a black hat, had a satchel under one arm and, as we were to find out, he had a lot more than a satchel full of information and tidbits about Paris. If you could picture in your mind the person you would want to give you a tour, this guy was it.
I sheepishly inquired whether he could change from a Louvre Tour to an outside walking tour. He replied that he had his Louvre game face on, but that he loved walking in Paris, so he replied, “Let’s see what happens.” I love spontaneity.
We walked through the Place de Concorde to the metro, where we rode to the Bastille area, passing by the Louvre. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Michael said. I hesitated, but said, “Yes.”
When we got off the metro, Michael showed us where we could go on a boat ride that would take us through locks. I hadn’t known that this little trip existed, and it sounded interesting for a future Paris trip (when it’s a little warmer).
On that morning, he first gave us a little Bastille history and as we walked through the Marais, he gave us information about Caron de Beaumarchais and his influence on the American Revolutionary War.
Then it was on to the Place des Vosges and more fun facts.
We walked through a courtyard to a bookstore in an old residence near the Place des Vosges where I suffered the second attack in two days, this time by a crazed Frenchman carrying a wadded up newspaper. As I was about to go through the door, the man (possibly retaliating for my pummeling of a blind man only 26 hours earlier on the other side of town), starting shouting in a crazed, and I might say, drunken barrage.
He then took his wadded up newspaper and beat me about the head and shoulders as I attempted to go in. I had learned yesterday that my now superhuman powers could nearly cause a blind guy to be hurled feet (perhaps yards) backward, so instead of retaliating from this merciless pummeling, I sought refuge in the Paris travel book section. I told them there was no bruising, but I believe I saw the remnants of newsprint on my new overcoat. It was at this point both Tracy AND Michael gave me the look.
Michael had taken us to the store because there are some very good books about Paris, although not all of them are in English.
After showing us a piece of the old Paris wall from the 11th and 12th centuries, Michael took us through the Jewish quarter of the Marais and showed us where an assassin killed six people at the Goldenberg restaurant on rue de Rosiers in August of 1982. He gave us a very interesting overview of the Marais and how it has changed through the years.
We then ducked into the Musée Carnavalet – Historie de Paris. Michael gave us a greatest hits tour, which took us to the paintings about the French Revolution, which included many going to their inglorious ends.
There’s nothing like some pictures of people getting their heads chopped off by a guillotine to give a person an appetite. After visiting Saint Paul’s church, the three of us had lunch outside at a little place just over the Seine on Ilé Saint-Louis. I had my first-ever Croques Monsieur, and it was trés delicious.
As we had crossed the bridge to the restaurant, the Pantheon loomed in the distance, through what Michael called “an impressionistic haze (I’ve got to use that the next time people come to our home near Los Angeles and complain about the smog).” It was also interesting how the sun never rose very high during the day at this time of year, which makes for some difficult picture taking at times.
After lunch, it was decision time again. It was still gorgeous, and Michael asked what we wanted to do. For some reason, I had never gone to the Pantheon on any previous visits, so I said, “Let’s head up there.”
We stopped by a church on the way (I cannot remember the name), and Michael said it was unlike the others. “You’ll see,” he said.
It wasn’t because of the church interior; it was the people that were a little, uh, off. I guess they don’t get a lot of visitors, because they were much more religious, and as we exited the church one guy was giving me “the look” of a different kind, the blank kind. It was a little weird, but well worth the experience to witness the Stepford Parishioner.
We walked up to the Pantheon, and when we got inside there were white nylon things hanging down from the ceiling, and they were filled with white Styrofoam. It looked like something out of Woody Allen’s “Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex.” Indeed, without too much imagination, they looked like sperm. “I never had anything like this in sixth-grade Sex-Ed,” I said.
I have no idea why we had never visited the Pantheon, but I liked it (even with the sperm hanging down). The only down side was that the crypts were closed that day, which was sad because, like that kid in the movie, “I like seeing dead people.”
As we walked out, and impressionistic haze shrouded the Eiffel Tower. Love that damn phrase.
Next stop was the nearby church of Saint Etienne-du-Mont, and we weren’t going to let a little thing like a funeral get in the way of tourism. Fortunately Michael knew the back entrance to the church where a few pieces of St. Genevieve, the patron saint, of Paris still reside, and where we would not disturb the people at the funeral.
Michael wanted to show us a back room where there are some spectacular pieces of stained glass that can be viewed. It was cool to be able to actually stand within an arm’s length of these pieces, because you could actually see the story that was depicted within each frame.
We bid au revoir to Genevieve and headed for the rue de Mouffetard and its shops, restaurants, patisseries, cafes and open markets. It has a great Parisian flavor to it (there was an organ grinder in front of one store and some kids were shooting a low budget movie on one of the side streets).
The markets are a little different from your farmers’ market at home. The fowl they sell still have the feathers (to show its freshness) while behind one of the counters there hung a freshly killed rabbit (I didn’t stick around long enough to watch them split hares).
In our quest to visit all ethnicities, our next stop was the Paris Mosque. It was nearing dusk, so we didn’t have a lot of time, but we ducked inside and there is a tearoom, a restaurant (that was very colorful and looked charming) along with a spa. We didn’t get back on this trip, but have marked it down for our next Paris experience.
We scurried through the Jardine des Plants and found Michael’s favorite carrousel in Paris, the one next to the Musée National d’ Historie Nuturelle. It had dinosaurs and other exotic creatures instead of horses. As a fan of Godzilla (only the one with Raymond Burr, please), it was fun. We also got a fun picture of a dragon in the park (not a real one, of course. It looked like it was made out of recycled cans).
Speaking of draggin’, we were all pretty tired by now from our Michael Marathon, so he decided for us to catch a bus back to the Place de Concorde, where we had virtually started our day.
We got on the #24 bus, but as we made a right turn over the Seine, Michael said, “This is strange. The bus is headed in the wrong direction.” Within a few minutes the opera lay ahead, Michael told us that we had just passed near Harry’s Bar (trip report foreshadowing again) and we were headed toward Printemps.
It just so happens that earlier in the day Michael had said the roof of Printemps gives you an amazing view out over Paris at night. As the bus headed toward the Printemps stop, Michael said, “You guys want to go see the view?”
Well, we never met a view we didn’t like, so up the 12,000 escalators we rode to the top of Printemps. Out on the roof, the view was mind-boggling. We got there just after 6 p.m., and the Eiffel Tower was doing its light show incroyable with what looked like a million sparkling colors dancing like a freaked-out 80s’ disco. Wow!
Behind us was Sacré-Coeur, basking in its lights on its façade. Other monuments (the Madeleine in its blue lights was astounding) and churches throughout Paris were lit, and words cannot describe how beautiful and exhilarating the experience was for us.
We told Michael that we had probably worn him out enough for the day, so we all walked back together to the metro station where we were to say good-bye. Sadly, our guide then had to be witness to another Maitaitom wardrobe malfunction.
Michael’s tour went above and beyond the call of duty, so I thought it would be nice to give him a substantial tip. Unfortunately I had worn my tighter black jeans on this day. Located inside my right front pocket were our two passports and my wallet, containing the aforementioned tip. I had also buttoned down my coat too far…again.
As I moved away from Michael and Tracy in a surreptitious attempt to get out my wallet, I started to go into my “wild and crazy guy” routine. I think Michael was about to call the Paris paramedics when Tracy said, “Oh no, it’s just my stupid husband trying to get his wallet out of his pocket.” Well, so much for the surprise tip, eh?
We bid farewell to Michael (and told him we’d take that Louvre Tour the next time we visited), and as we headed back to the hotel, we both marveled at how fun the day had been. If anyone wants an up close and personal guide to Paris, Michael gets our highest recommendation. He is very informative but above all, he is just a joy to spend the day with and learn about Paris.
The evening was still young, so we hopped in the shower, hopped on the metro and out we went. We had dinner reservations at Le Tastévin on the Ilé Saint Louis.
We were going to be late for our 8:30 reservation, so I hurried ahead of Tracy to make sure our table was still there, opened the door and saw…no one! Yep, we were the only people there (a few minutes later, others started trickling in).
Now, I have never been known as Mr. Etiquette, but I do have a sense of decorum and have not embarrassed anyone too much at a meal (well, since I was 40). I have never noticed that in some restaurants in Paris, the forks by your plate are turned downward.
We ordered our dinner and a bottle of wine, and as we sat there chatting, I fiddled with my turned-down fork. Suddenly my mother was reincarnated in the form of the restaurant owner. If she’d had a ruler, she would have smacked my hand.
“You are in Paris. In Paris, the fork is always turned down,” she said, and she didn’t have that Colgate smile when she relayed this startling information to me. Needless to say, I didn’t move that damned fork until my dinner came, because I think she had a secret peephole in the wall to spy on unsuspecting Americans who play with their forks when she leaves the room.
The dinner (except for the fork incident) was uninspiring, but the molten chocolate cake for dessert was phenomenal. I would not recommend the place, even if the owner was a tad less obsessive-compulsive about her forks. Not until the last night of our trip did we encounter another restaurant where the fork was turned down. Fortunately, that restaurant was sans peepholes.
It had been a long day, as we didn’t get home until nearly midnight, but one that shall long be remembered.
<b> COMING UP – DAY SIX: THE INFAMOUS RUE CLER, A GRAND EXHIBITION, OUR TAKE ON THE LILIES, WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN AND FINALLY FLORIMAND </b>
We woke up with a dilemma. Looking out the window as daylight finally arrived, it looked like it was going to be another spectacularly sunny day. On the other hand, we had Michael Osman arriving in a little less than an hour to take us on a tour of the Louvre. I could see Karl Malden as I thought, “What do you do? What do you do?”
As mentioned, Tracy and I had won a half-day tour with Michael on SlowTravel thanks to them liking my story about our Italian trip in 2005 (finally there was a reason why I put the wrong gas in the car). I really had no idea what to expect of Michael, since I had not read a lot about him before, other than he was an artist and was from Philadelphia. Was he fun? Was he stodgy? Was he interesting? Only time would tell.
I was in the bookstore (foreshadowing for later that morning) next to the hotel when he arrived and met Tracy (at least he knew that ½ of his contingent was normal). As soon as I met Michael, I knew that stodgy was out while fun and interesting were definitely in.
He was wearing a black hat, had a satchel under one arm and, as we were to find out, he had a lot more than a satchel full of information and tidbits about Paris. If you could picture in your mind the person you would want to give you a tour, this guy was it.
I sheepishly inquired whether he could change from a Louvre Tour to an outside walking tour. He replied that he had his Louvre game face on, but that he loved walking in Paris, so he replied, “Let’s see what happens.” I love spontaneity.
We walked through the Place de Concorde to the metro, where we rode to the Bastille area, passing by the Louvre. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Michael said. I hesitated, but said, “Yes.”
When we got off the metro, Michael showed us where we could go on a boat ride that would take us through locks. I hadn’t known that this little trip existed, and it sounded interesting for a future Paris trip (when it’s a little warmer).
On that morning, he first gave us a little Bastille history and as we walked through the Marais, he gave us information about Caron de Beaumarchais and his influence on the American Revolutionary War.
Then it was on to the Place des Vosges and more fun facts.
We walked through a courtyard to a bookstore in an old residence near the Place des Vosges where I suffered the second attack in two days, this time by a crazed Frenchman carrying a wadded up newspaper. As I was about to go through the door, the man (possibly retaliating for my pummeling of a blind man only 26 hours earlier on the other side of town), starting shouting in a crazed, and I might say, drunken barrage.
He then took his wadded up newspaper and beat me about the head and shoulders as I attempted to go in. I had learned yesterday that my now superhuman powers could nearly cause a blind guy to be hurled feet (perhaps yards) backward, so instead of retaliating from this merciless pummeling, I sought refuge in the Paris travel book section. I told them there was no bruising, but I believe I saw the remnants of newsprint on my new overcoat. It was at this point both Tracy AND Michael gave me the look.
Michael had taken us to the store because there are some very good books about Paris, although not all of them are in English.
After showing us a piece of the old Paris wall from the 11th and 12th centuries, Michael took us through the Jewish quarter of the Marais and showed us where an assassin killed six people at the Goldenberg restaurant on rue de Rosiers in August of 1982. He gave us a very interesting overview of the Marais and how it has changed through the years.
We then ducked into the Musée Carnavalet – Historie de Paris. Michael gave us a greatest hits tour, which took us to the paintings about the French Revolution, which included many going to their inglorious ends.
There’s nothing like some pictures of people getting their heads chopped off by a guillotine to give a person an appetite. After visiting Saint Paul’s church, the three of us had lunch outside at a little place just over the Seine on Ilé Saint-Louis. I had my first-ever Croques Monsieur, and it was trés delicious.
As we had crossed the bridge to the restaurant, the Pantheon loomed in the distance, through what Michael called “an impressionistic haze (I’ve got to use that the next time people come to our home near Los Angeles and complain about the smog).” It was also interesting how the sun never rose very high during the day at this time of year, which makes for some difficult picture taking at times.
After lunch, it was decision time again. It was still gorgeous, and Michael asked what we wanted to do. For some reason, I had never gone to the Pantheon on any previous visits, so I said, “Let’s head up there.”
We stopped by a church on the way (I cannot remember the name), and Michael said it was unlike the others. “You’ll see,” he said.
It wasn’t because of the church interior; it was the people that were a little, uh, off. I guess they don’t get a lot of visitors, because they were much more religious, and as we exited the church one guy was giving me “the look” of a different kind, the blank kind. It was a little weird, but well worth the experience to witness the Stepford Parishioner.
We walked up to the Pantheon, and when we got inside there were white nylon things hanging down from the ceiling, and they were filled with white Styrofoam. It looked like something out of Woody Allen’s “Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex.” Indeed, without too much imagination, they looked like sperm. “I never had anything like this in sixth-grade Sex-Ed,” I said.
I have no idea why we had never visited the Pantheon, but I liked it (even with the sperm hanging down). The only down side was that the crypts were closed that day, which was sad because, like that kid in the movie, “I like seeing dead people.”
As we walked out, and impressionistic haze shrouded the Eiffel Tower. Love that damn phrase.
Next stop was the nearby church of Saint Etienne-du-Mont, and we weren’t going to let a little thing like a funeral get in the way of tourism. Fortunately Michael knew the back entrance to the church where a few pieces of St. Genevieve, the patron saint, of Paris still reside, and where we would not disturb the people at the funeral.
Michael wanted to show us a back room where there are some spectacular pieces of stained glass that can be viewed. It was cool to be able to actually stand within an arm’s length of these pieces, because you could actually see the story that was depicted within each frame.
We bid au revoir to Genevieve and headed for the rue de Mouffetard and its shops, restaurants, patisseries, cafes and open markets. It has a great Parisian flavor to it (there was an organ grinder in front of one store and some kids were shooting a low budget movie on one of the side streets).
The markets are a little different from your farmers’ market at home. The fowl they sell still have the feathers (to show its freshness) while behind one of the counters there hung a freshly killed rabbit (I didn’t stick around long enough to watch them split hares).
In our quest to visit all ethnicities, our next stop was the Paris Mosque. It was nearing dusk, so we didn’t have a lot of time, but we ducked inside and there is a tearoom, a restaurant (that was very colorful and looked charming) along with a spa. We didn’t get back on this trip, but have marked it down for our next Paris experience.
We scurried through the Jardine des Plants and found Michael’s favorite carrousel in Paris, the one next to the Musée National d’ Historie Nuturelle. It had dinosaurs and other exotic creatures instead of horses. As a fan of Godzilla (only the one with Raymond Burr, please), it was fun. We also got a fun picture of a dragon in the park (not a real one, of course. It looked like it was made out of recycled cans).
Speaking of draggin’, we were all pretty tired by now from our Michael Marathon, so he decided for us to catch a bus back to the Place de Concorde, where we had virtually started our day.
We got on the #24 bus, but as we made a right turn over the Seine, Michael said, “This is strange. The bus is headed in the wrong direction.” Within a few minutes the opera lay ahead, Michael told us that we had just passed near Harry’s Bar (trip report foreshadowing again) and we were headed toward Printemps.
It just so happens that earlier in the day Michael had said the roof of Printemps gives you an amazing view out over Paris at night. As the bus headed toward the Printemps stop, Michael said, “You guys want to go see the view?”
Well, we never met a view we didn’t like, so up the 12,000 escalators we rode to the top of Printemps. Out on the roof, the view was mind-boggling. We got there just after 6 p.m., and the Eiffel Tower was doing its light show incroyable with what looked like a million sparkling colors dancing like a freaked-out 80s’ disco. Wow!
Behind us was Sacré-Coeur, basking in its lights on its façade. Other monuments (the Madeleine in its blue lights was astounding) and churches throughout Paris were lit, and words cannot describe how beautiful and exhilarating the experience was for us.
We told Michael that we had probably worn him out enough for the day, so we all walked back together to the metro station where we were to say good-bye. Sadly, our guide then had to be witness to another Maitaitom wardrobe malfunction.
Michael’s tour went above and beyond the call of duty, so I thought it would be nice to give him a substantial tip. Unfortunately I had worn my tighter black jeans on this day. Located inside my right front pocket were our two passports and my wallet, containing the aforementioned tip. I had also buttoned down my coat too far…again.
As I moved away from Michael and Tracy in a surreptitious attempt to get out my wallet, I started to go into my “wild and crazy guy” routine. I think Michael was about to call the Paris paramedics when Tracy said, “Oh no, it’s just my stupid husband trying to get his wallet out of his pocket.” Well, so much for the surprise tip, eh?
We bid farewell to Michael (and told him we’d take that Louvre Tour the next time we visited), and as we headed back to the hotel, we both marveled at how fun the day had been. If anyone wants an up close and personal guide to Paris, Michael gets our highest recommendation. He is very informative but above all, he is just a joy to spend the day with and learn about Paris.
The evening was still young, so we hopped in the shower, hopped on the metro and out we went. We had dinner reservations at Le Tastévin on the Ilé Saint Louis.
We were going to be late for our 8:30 reservation, so I hurried ahead of Tracy to make sure our table was still there, opened the door and saw…no one! Yep, we were the only people there (a few minutes later, others started trickling in).
Now, I have never been known as Mr. Etiquette, but I do have a sense of decorum and have not embarrassed anyone too much at a meal (well, since I was 40). I have never noticed that in some restaurants in Paris, the forks by your plate are turned downward.
We ordered our dinner and a bottle of wine, and as we sat there chatting, I fiddled with my turned-down fork. Suddenly my mother was reincarnated in the form of the restaurant owner. If she’d had a ruler, she would have smacked my hand.
“You are in Paris. In Paris, the fork is always turned down,” she said, and she didn’t have that Colgate smile when she relayed this startling information to me. Needless to say, I didn’t move that damned fork until my dinner came, because I think she had a secret peephole in the wall to spy on unsuspecting Americans who play with their forks when she leaves the room.
The dinner (except for the fork incident) was uninspiring, but the molten chocolate cake for dessert was phenomenal. I would not recommend the place, even if the owner was a tad less obsessive-compulsive about her forks. Not until the last night of our trip did we encounter another restaurant where the fork was turned down. Fortunately, that restaurant was sans peepholes.
It had been a long day, as we didn’t get home until nearly midnight, but one that shall long be remembered.
<b> COMING UP – DAY SIX: THE INFAMOUS RUE CLER, A GRAND EXHIBITION, OUR TAKE ON THE LILIES, WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN AND FINALLY FLORIMAND </b>
Jan 23rd, 2007, 05:35 PM
#9
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Maitaitom,
We will actually be staying on Ile Saint Louis for our vacation, and you mentioned this place;
"After visiting Saint Paul’s church, the three of us had lunch outside at a little place just over the Seine on Ilé Saint-Louis. I had my first-ever Croques Monsieur, and it was trés delicious"
Do you happen to remember the name of this place? Was it a cafe or a restaurant? Thanks for another post of your trip report!
We will actually be staying on Ile Saint Louis for our vacation, and you mentioned this place;
"After visiting Saint Paul’s church, the three of us had lunch outside at a little place just over the Seine on Ilé Saint-Louis. I had my first-ever Croques Monsieur, and it was trés delicious"
Do you happen to remember the name of this place? Was it a cafe or a restaurant? Thanks for another post of your trip report!
Jan 24th, 2007, 05:10 AM
#15
Join Date: Sep 2004
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aww, you psyched me out - I thought we were going to get more! I love it so far!
i'm trying to decide if I need to redo mine b/c I forgot to put trip report in my title of a "Free Man (and Woman) in Paris, Unfettered and Alive".
i'm trying to decide if I need to redo mine b/c I forgot to put trip report in my title of a "Free Man (and Woman) in Paris, Unfettered and Alive".
Jan 24th, 2007, 07:27 AM
#18
Original Poster
"Do you happen to remember the name of this place? Was it a cafe or a restaurant?"
I did not, but I sent an e-mail to the "Walking Man" (Michael Osman), who sent me back a nice e-mail this morning.
He said, "Our lunch spot on the Ile Saint Louis was called Le Lutétia, 33 quai Bourbon. I'm a big fan of this place because they have terrific daily specials."
I did not, but I sent an e-mail to the "Walking Man" (Michael Osman), who sent me back a nice e-mail this morning.
He said, "Our lunch spot on the Ile Saint Louis was called Le Lutétia, 33 quai Bourbon. I'm a big fan of this place because they have terrific daily specials."
