Cigale, I am with you. I think she fell in love with it again. At least I hope so!

S.O. ponies up and buys into the place.

They win the lottery and buy it outright.

StCirq, if you don't hurry up and put us out of our misery, we'll be forced to finish it for you!

I've been really busy going to doctors, getting MRIs, neighborhood projects, and a killer work project, which I just finished. Next installment, though a short one coming tonight. Then there's only our final full day in Paris to drone on about, and I should be able to do that tomorrow. Oh...and let you know how it all turned out!

I hope you're OK, StCirq.

I'm OK, muskoka, just still having problems with the ankle. It's still stiff and swollen and I have to think there's some ligament damage or something going on. Big PITA, as I like to move around quickly. It's WAY better than it was in France, but still not even close to normal.

So, to continue...we are due to meet runningtab's friend Florent tonight for dinner. Florent has suggested La Vigne St-Laurent (http://www.lavignestlaurent.com/) as he's coming in from Strasbourg and it's just a few blocks away. His train isn't arriving until 9 pm, so it's going to be a late dinner. I'm not yet up to taking a bus, so we head out around 8:15 to the taxi stand at the Père Lachaise métro. Now, I have only minimal familiarity with Parisian taxi stands, but it's curious to me that there are two taxis parked right next to it, empty...and none with drivers. Even more curious that as the minutes drag on, not a single taxi driver racing past us stops, even those with no passengers.

I'm on crutches, and it's a total pain to be standing, in rather cold and windy weather, here in rush hour, seeing taxis race in all directions through this major intersection, without a single one stopping. Runningtab goes to the other side of the street to try to nab one, and one does stop and say he'll turn around and come get us. He never does. In the meantime, I'm examining the physical structure of the taxi stand apparatus, and find that there is a button you can push, and one of those little grilled outlets like the ones on apartment building entries that leads one to think if one pushes the button one can communicate with someone. I push it and push it and push it and push it....nothing. Finally, after almost 40 minutes, a cab pulls up and off we go.

He tells us that those buttons and speakers are just for the taxi drivers to use among themselves. He also reveals that he is a Berber, so I am immediately interested, having spent a fair amount of time in Berber Morocco. He has little positive to say about the French, or at least Parisian, reaction to Berber immigrants. He doesn't seem bitter, just resigned to being delegated to inferior status. And he seems completely perplexed that I, an American, have been there, even that I am speaking French to him. Makes you wonder what the average cabbie in Paris meets in the way of riders. It's an interesting ride to the Gare de L'Est area, where the restaurant is located.

We are at La Vigne St-Laurent a few minutes before Florent arrives and are greeted with aplomb and placed in a booth at the back of the tiny place - maybe 10 tables. It's such a wonderful stereotype of an old Paris institution - you can imagine travelers coming in from the cold here in the late 1890s to warm up and have a plate of charcuterie. And it's no wonder that Florent, from Strasbourg, chose it. It's all about meat, meat, and more meat.

And here comes Florent, around 9:15 pm, dapper as a pin. I've never met him, but have Skyped with him before, so know what he looks like and sounds like. He's on his way to meetings in Germany tomorrow and looking very business-like. And I am prepared to let this just be a reconnection with Runningtab and Florent, who were business colleagues in Hong Kong a decade or more ago, and stay out of the inevitable reminiscences and such. But it turns into a lovely roundtable discussion of many things, reminiscences included that I'm not part of, but Florent has some ideas for my house in the Périgord, and seeing him reconnect with Runningtab after maybe 10 years is a pleasure. I let them talk on and on about things they've shared in the past and am genuinely pleased at how happy they seem to be to have reconnected.

We share an enormous plate of charcuterie (see the menu on the website); Florent has the magret de canard; I have a salad, which wasn't totally appealing; and runningtab has a pork dish he absolutely loves. We don't do dessert; it's getting too late. We don't finish up until about midnight. Then au revoir to Florent and a cab drive with another disgruntled Berber driver back to the dark apartment.

Very nice wine list and the desserts must not be missed when next you visit, especially the tiramisu.

Looking forward to the denouement of this marvelous piece.

Re: Your ankle. It has been a PIA for a while now. Best wishes for rapid improvement.

Thanks, muskosa. There are actually some interesting adventures to come tomorrow, even though we were limited to a small area of Paris.

Thanks for good wishes on my ankle. I'd like to saw it off and start over again at this point.

I missed this the first time around as I was traveling. I've read the first several entries, and must bookmark so I can come back and finish!

Am I correct that with the sorbets listed on the dessert menu you could have a matching brandy?
If so...... I'll have one of each -:)

t

It’s our final full day in Paris, and this always troubles me (in fact at this point in a trip I’ve already been fretting about it for a few days), so I wake up already sad, especially so in Johanna’s dark apartment, though given a choice I’d actually stay here for another while or two, quirks or not. Back when I was young enough not to realize I’d be coming back over and over, it wasn’t out of the question for me to shed big, huge, stupid crocodile tears at my last dinner in Europe, and I’m not a cryer. I just always hate, hate, hate to leave. So the morning, which is gray and misting, comes not so lightly, and I’m fighting being inconsolable. Not only because it’s the last day in France, but because we haven’t solved the problem of the house in St-Cirq and what is to become of it. Everything seems very precarious.

We have all kinds of practical stuff to do: figure out how to use Johanna’s dishwasher to wash the things we’ve used (anyone who’s ever encountered a French dishwasher for the first time will know that this is no picnic even if you read French), do laundry (same deal), pick through our belongings and find things that can be tossed, assemble a small cooler of edibles we can snack on while traveling, and organize our suitcases. It takes time. All the while, someone in an adjacent apartment is practicing, badly, on what sounds like a French (and why wouldn’t it be?) horn, which seems the perfect disconsolate background.

It’s probably noon by the time that we venture out of the apartment and head to La Factoire, where we definitely have become regulars by now. We order two Leffes and a plate of this or that, just appetizers. The waiters know us by now, and it’s all totally comfortable.

And there unfolds one of the most amazing scenes I’ve ever encountered in any country. There is a paunchy, middle-aged man, seated just a few feet away from us, who looks exactly like Lionel from “As Time Goes By.” Oversized jacket of the type described previously, baggy pants, tweed cap, 50+, looking haggard and overwrought and downtrodden. He orders a beer. He sighs. And while he sits there looking utterly forlorn, a woman barrels down the sidewalk, rotund and wrapped in a cheap Parisian black and white flowered housecoat, with a bad wig on (it’s the High Holidays for Jews in Paris, and we've been seeing wigs all day), straight toward him and she’s got a major axe to grind.

We’re just sitting there checking our email and sipping our beers, but it’s not long before we’re catapulted into high, high drama. I wish we had recorded it. She flings herself down in the chair next to him, and immediately launches into the longest, loudest diatribe we have ever witnessed. And she talks a mile a minute.

W: “Your mother wants me to make the meal. She’s crazy! “
M: (big sigh) “Well, do something.”
W: “Something? Something? SOMETHING?? You must be kidding! I do something, I get screwed into doing everything! NOT going to fall for that!”
M:“Ok, can’t you just say I’m bringing this or that?”
W: “This or that? What kind of this or that? Hell, no, I’m not doing this or that! Whenever I do this or that, they don’t like this or that. Last year I brought the soup and your damn sister said it tasted like mud. Forget this or that!”

And she hauls herself up, pounds on the table, and starts to walk away. The man heaves a loud sigh and just lifts his palms skyward. But then she comes right back and plonks herself down again.

W: “Who the hell do you think I am, anyway? I take care of everything for this bunch of ingrates, and I still catch hell for it. No, I’m not doing a damn thing. Nothing. NOTHING! You hear me? Nothing! No soup, no kugel, no pot roast, nothing! And no cleaning up after, either. Last year I cleaned the whole kitchen while those lazy-asses sat around the living room. And no looking after the kids, you got that? They can take care of their own damn kids!”

And so it goes, on and on, for a full 45 minutes. The man stares straight ahead, motionless except for the occasional shrug, never altering his ashen expression. The woman bellows, pounds on the table, stands up, sits down, storms off, comes back…over and over. The man’s beer goes untouched; he looks like he’s half-dead. Her wig goes all askew as she bounces around and up and down the sidewalk. Passersby stop in their tracks and gape. Customers at the café can’t get their checks fast enough. It’s like watching a hurricane, Mrs. Bucket on steroids.

Finally, as the hour comes to a close and every family member has been mercilessly villified and picked apart, every holiday dish and tradition rejected and scorned, every dirty secret revealed, every French invective exhausted, the woman stands up, rushes out to the sidewalk, nearly wiping out a group of students, violently throws her pudgy arms up in the air, makes a huge swiping motion across her throat, and screams: “ WELL, I’M NOT GOING! YOU CAN ALL ROT IN HELL, YOU ESPECIALLY! C’EST FINI! FINI! FINI!!!”

And she storms off around the corner. But for good measure, whips around and comes back for a final “SAAAAAAA-LUT!!!!”

Wow. So much for a happy new year! We’re exhausted. That was a first! The poor man just continues to sit there, slumped over. After about 10 minutes, when it seems the harridan won’t be returning, he slowly finishes his beer and asks the waiter for the check. And when the waiter brings him the change, he leans over and says “Voici, monsieur. Bon, bon courage.”

Eventually, it’s time to take a last stroll around the neighborhood and go back to “our dark place” and get ready for our last dinner, at my friend Véronique’s apartment. Véronique and I met almost 40 years ago, when I took my first trip to France as a chaperone for a school group. She was our tour guide on that trip (5 days in Paris, 5 in the Loire), and even though she was a novice guide, she was outstanding. I’ve never known anyone so intensely passionate about a city and country. I swear she knows every stone in Paris by now and is still thirsty to learn more. We haven’t seen each other for several years now, so I’m really anticipating this.

Véronique lives near the Gare de l’Est, not far from where we dined last night. Tonight we have far better luck catching a cab (another Berber driver), and are there in 15 minutes even though traffic is heavy. It’s a medium-size, modern building. We have the codes, two of them, to get in, and we manage to get through the main doors easily, but where to go then? There are hallways and corridors and an escalator (going down), and what looks to be the entrance to an underground parking lot. But what appears to be the main interior door is locked, with no apparent device to enter a code into. So we call Véronique on the cell phone and she helps us locate the box where we enter the code. Up the elevator, and there she is to greet us! And what a lovely apartment!

Véronique lived for years and years in a garret on the 8th floor (walkup) of a building right around the corner from the Gare du Nord. This is palatial by comparison, and, exposing hitherto unknown talents, she explains how she gutted the entire place and built it up again, piece by piece. It’s small, of course, but stunning, and predictably full of books on Paris and the many other French destinations she takes her clients.

We sit in her living room and sip a Pic Saint-Loup and munch on toasts with a Boursin-like spread and pâté and catch up, and it seems as though it was just yesterday that we were touring France with a bunch of 14-year-olds. Then it’s time for dinner, and Véronique reminds me that she’s not a cook. Oh yes, I remember that. ..some funny meals in the past come to mind. Well, tonight we’re having a Picard feast (http://www.picard.fr/Default.html): steak, mixed vegetables, and if I recall correctly stuffed baked tomatoes. A great baguette, of course, to go with it, and a nice bottle of Côte du Rhone. Ice cream for dessert.

At some point I ask Véronique if she thinks I should call a cab tonight for an early pickup tomorrow, and she says “Let me call a friend.” In minutes we’ve got a ride to the airport tomorrow for a flat price of 50 euros with a friend she works with in the touring business. And then, after much good conversation and food, it’s time to close down the evening. Hugs, kisses, and promises to be back soon. We walk a couple of blocks and easily find a cab, with the now-expected Berber driver.

Back at Johanna’s it’s quiet – maybe they’re here, maybe not. We don’t want to go banging on doors, so we write out a thank you note, tempted to suggest some other lighting arrangements, but we leave it at thank you. One last look at our bags to make sure everything’s accounted for, one last sit on the balcony, and we’re ready to bid adieu to one of the strangest places in accommodation history.

Fascinating anecdote about the Jewish couple! Such theatrical performances in cafés are not uncommon but they rarely last so long. That was a real treat.

Oh, it was a doozy!

Of course, having heard only one side of the story, I am siding with Wig Lady. If Mr. Downtrodden cannot come up with a plausible defense for his family, that's too bad.

A great story to read as I contemplate the ordeal that Thanksgiving has become.

Great ending to a great travel saga. Well, maybe not quite the end, unless the fate of the house in St. Cirq is still up in the air.

Véronique’s friend arrives a few minutes late to pick us up, but we’ve allowed plenty of time. It’s a huge van, I think a 9-seater, and very comfortable. He’s an affable fellow who’s only recently started this business and happy to get an extra customer or two. We roll out of Paris and onto the périférique and sail along for about 20 minutes; then everything comes to a halt, and we crawl for another 20 minutes or so (at which point I’m glad we’re not on a meter). Just when I’m starting to get worried about being late (I know what CDG can be like!), we see the accident and police cars up ahead and realize we’ll be fine once we get past it. And indeed we are.

We get to CDG 2.5 hours before our flight, and even though the Air France line is long, I’m not worried because I’m asking for a wheelchair! Sure enough, we get to go to the head of the line, check in, then get to bypass the usual security line. There are only two other people in line in front of us – both in wheelchairs, too, and looking far worse off than I am – and before you know it we’re on the train to take us to our terminal.

Where, having gained a lot of time, we have 2 hours before boarding – enough time for a snack and a beer (I don’t even drink beer at home, but I’ve learned to love those Leffes). We have priority boarding because I’m a gimp, and pretty much the same seats we had on the way over. But the minute the airplane doors close we realize we’re on a plane with only about 50 other passengers. This on an aircraft that holds something like 520! A flight attendant immediately comes up to us and says feel free to pick another seat. So runningtab and I claim an entire row of five seats and prepare for a nice ride home. And so it is. The flight’s as smooth as can be, the food’s good, and after 2 of those little bottles of wine I stretch out and sleep for a solid 5+ hours – a first for me.

We arrive at Dulles at 4 pm, grab a Washington Flyer cab, and are home just after 5. We’re feeling a lot better than we usually do after coming back on a westward flight, so we decide to get right back into our normal evening routine, which is to sit outside in our tiny front patio, have a glass of wine, talk, and mingle with neighbors and friends who come by. But before we do that, runningtab decides to load our videos onto his laptop so we can look at them while we sit outside.

Being a rather quirky fixture in the neighborhood, we have many guests and stoppers-by that evening, people asking why they haven’t seen us, people who were worried about us, people who knew where we were welcoming us back and asking about the trip. A very social evening for us involving lots of people we know and some we really don’t, who just noticed our absence (says something about this community, I believe). In between we try to think of what we need to do next about the house in St-Cirq; we make lists of tasks and possible workarounds, given what we now know about the work that needs to be done and who can do it.

Around 7:30 we’re starting to droop a bit, and then down the street come our friends and neighbors P and C. Really interesting characters, major-league Europhiles and avid and frequent travelers. Hugs all around and two more wine glasses brought out, and we catch them up on some of our goings-on in France and with the house. Then runningtab remembers the videos and runs inside to get the laptop, cues them up and hands the laptop over to P and C.

And despite the fact that the videos are crude and amateurish (well, you've seen them) P and C love them, want to see some of them over and over, start asking all kinds of questions, exchanging mysterious glances with each other. Exactly where is it? What’s nearby? How cold does it get in winter? What kind of heat do you have? Who takes care of it when you’re not there? Do we have photographs? Sure, and we bring them a stack. And talk until we are too tired to talk anymore and need to go inside to bed.

And suddenly, on the very night of our return from an inconclusive (but wonderful) trip, the narrative arc of this ungodly long tale peaks……………………………

Aha! the plot thickens!

I'm still limping with a swollen foot
but it means I stay at home waiting for you to post.