Running away from home: Nikki's trip to Paris
Mar 26th, 2012, 03:39 AM
#1
Original Poster
Running away from home: Nikki's trip to Paris
Home after two weeks in Paris, I am awake in the middle of the night trying to sort my thoughts and experiences and put virtual pen to virtual paper while those thoughts and experiences are still fresh. This was a trip that had been planned as running away from home, a time to do the kinds of things I can not find other people to do with me. But I did not end up being alone very much.
Of my fourteen nights in Paris, I spent eight of them at performances of various kinds and the other six going out to dinner with large and small groups of friends, some of whom I had never met before and others whom I have met many times since becoming acquainted on the internet message board to which I am addicted.
I attended three plays (two classic and one contemporary); two dance performances; a chamber music concert; a night of music, silent films and history at the Opéra Comique; and a concert by the singer Bénabar at the large venue Le Zénith out in the Parc de la Villette. Then there were four art exhibits; four classes at the Collège de France; a flea market at the Village Saint-Paul; and the Omnivore World Tour, a food festival with demonstrations by chefs making everything from scallop pasta to smoked shrimp to chocolates.
Somehow I also found time to relax at my rented apartment and explore the neighborhood around it, learning which cheese to ask for at the corner fromagerie and which pastries at the bakery. Going out for some lunches and cooking a bit at home.
By the time I left Paris, I was ready to come home. There is only so much culture and so much excellent food that I can absorb, and I came home feeling I was ready for a break from them both.
When I started to plan this trip six months ago, I assumed I would be completely alone. I started researching events and buying tickets. As time went on I started to learn of friends who would be in Paris at the same time, and it became a jigsaw puzzle meshing my schedule with theirs so as to be able to enjoy time together in Paris.
Restaurant suggestions were flying across my e-mail inbox at a dizzying rate, and the more people joined in the plans, the more complex they became. This gave more structure to my trip than I usually have planned, but there was still room for enough spontaneous decisions to make running away from home a luxury and a pleasure.
Of my fourteen nights in Paris, I spent eight of them at performances of various kinds and the other six going out to dinner with large and small groups of friends, some of whom I had never met before and others whom I have met many times since becoming acquainted on the internet message board to which I am addicted.
I attended three plays (two classic and one contemporary); two dance performances; a chamber music concert; a night of music, silent films and history at the Opéra Comique; and a concert by the singer Bénabar at the large venue Le Zénith out in the Parc de la Villette. Then there were four art exhibits; four classes at the Collège de France; a flea market at the Village Saint-Paul; and the Omnivore World Tour, a food festival with demonstrations by chefs making everything from scallop pasta to smoked shrimp to chocolates.
Somehow I also found time to relax at my rented apartment and explore the neighborhood around it, learning which cheese to ask for at the corner fromagerie and which pastries at the bakery. Going out for some lunches and cooking a bit at home.
By the time I left Paris, I was ready to come home. There is only so much culture and so much excellent food that I can absorb, and I came home feeling I was ready for a break from them both.
When I started to plan this trip six months ago, I assumed I would be completely alone. I started researching events and buying tickets. As time went on I started to learn of friends who would be in Paris at the same time, and it became a jigsaw puzzle meshing my schedule with theirs so as to be able to enjoy time together in Paris.
Restaurant suggestions were flying across my e-mail inbox at a dizzying rate, and the more people joined in the plans, the more complex they became. This gave more structure to my trip than I usually have planned, but there was still room for enough spontaneous decisions to make running away from home a luxury and a pleasure.
Mar 26th, 2012, 03:44 AM
#2
Original Poster
Friday, March 9, I am getting ready to leave for the airport and I make a final check in my purse for the essentials. Can't find my passport. I know I had it out, what did I do with it? It isn't in the file of important papers in my carry-on bag. The copy I made is there, but not the original. It isn't in the file of less important papers in my checked luggage; it isn't on my desk, it isn't near the computer. I am sitting at the dining room table emitting (quite loud) cries of frustration when my husband notices the copy machine light is on and lifts the lid. Huge sigh of relief. I never would have noticed that light. We can go now.
There is a long wait at security in Boston, and my flight on Air France has been delayed slightly. The flight is overbooked; they are auctioning off seats on a later flight. I consider briefly, but the later flight would have to be a connecting one, as I am on the only non-stop flight between Boston and Paris, and I have a greeter meeting me at my apartment in the morning.
Just as boarding begins, Abby from Cape Cod shows up at the gate to say bon voyage. She and her husband Tomas are flying to Paris too, but they are on British Airways and their flight leaves later than mine. We will see each other for dinner at their apartment Sunday. Abby, a chef, will be doing the cooking. This trip is going to be fun.
The flight is uneventful, just the way I like it. After immersing myself in French culture for months, I inexplicably choose an American movie to watch on the plane.
Saturday, March 10, the flight arrives at Charles de Gaulle airport and leaves us out on the tarmac half way to Champagne. We take a shuttle bus to terminal 2F, which is not the terminal at which we were scheduled to arrive. I have no complaints though, as the terminal is empty. I breeze through immigration, and by the time I get to the luggage carousel after a brief stop my bag is one of only three still left there.
There is no line at the ATM and I am able to retrieve enough euros in cash to pay for my apartment. Then I get to the taxi stand and there is no line there either. As we are heading toward the city, the driver takes a phone call on speaker. He appears to be lecturing a sullen young woman whom I can not understand very well. I hope she is his daughter. He becomes increasingly agitated as we get closer to my apartment, and I am glad when we arrive.
I have rented a studio apartment on line from an owner who occasionally posts on the message board to which I am addicted. It is located in the 11th arrondissement, near the métro Voltaire. There is a lovely private garden, which is tended by the woman who greets me upon arrival. The doors to the garden are wide open, there are birds in the bird bath, primroses are blooming. It feels like an urban oasis. I am given one word of warning: do not leave the keys in the lock on the inside of the apartment's door. There is no way to get in short of breaking a window. I am told it has happened. Properly warned, I put the keys firmly in my purse and say good-bye to the greeter. http://www.vrbo.com/103254
I have been looking forward to staying in this neighborhood, which is well supplied with small shops, and before I have a chance to get too comfortable I head off hunting and gathering.
They don't know what to do with my credit card at the boucherie. I gather they don't see a lot of Americans here. So I pay cash for my half of a rotisserie poulet fermier and my fresh duck breast.
At the fromagerie, the nice lady asks me what I want and I respond with a look of bewilderment. She gets someone who speaks English, but this doesn't help. It isn't that I don't speak French; it's that I don't speak cheese. I have learned to ask for brebis, sheep's milk cheese, as I have found some that I like a lot. I don't know how to distinguish which ones those are though, and sometimes I get ones that are not quite what I had in mind. This time I get a winner, and I remember which it is for my next visit. It's the one with the leaf pressed onto the top of the rind. I ask for recommendations and come away with another cheese that I end up liking quite a bit but I have no idea what it is.
I have much less trouble at the boulangerie, where I know to ask for a tarte fine aux abricots. Then it's off to the charcuterie for some duck pâté en croûte, some terrine made from pork tongues, and a serving of stuffed eggplant. A quick stop at the produce store, and a stop at the Franprix for San Pellegrino and paper goods, and I am ready to go.
My rolling shopping bag has become quite heavy by now, and I notice that the three blocks back to the apartment are slightly up hill. For that matter it feels like an effort just keeping my eyes open. I have just about enough energy to make it back to the apartment, stow the groceries in the kitchen, and get into bed for a nice long nap.
There is a long wait at security in Boston, and my flight on Air France has been delayed slightly. The flight is overbooked; they are auctioning off seats on a later flight. I consider briefly, but the later flight would have to be a connecting one, as I am on the only non-stop flight between Boston and Paris, and I have a greeter meeting me at my apartment in the morning.
Just as boarding begins, Abby from Cape Cod shows up at the gate to say bon voyage. She and her husband Tomas are flying to Paris too, but they are on British Airways and their flight leaves later than mine. We will see each other for dinner at their apartment Sunday. Abby, a chef, will be doing the cooking. This trip is going to be fun.
The flight is uneventful, just the way I like it. After immersing myself in French culture for months, I inexplicably choose an American movie to watch on the plane.
Saturday, March 10, the flight arrives at Charles de Gaulle airport and leaves us out on the tarmac half way to Champagne. We take a shuttle bus to terminal 2F, which is not the terminal at which we were scheduled to arrive. I have no complaints though, as the terminal is empty. I breeze through immigration, and by the time I get to the luggage carousel after a brief stop my bag is one of only three still left there.
There is no line at the ATM and I am able to retrieve enough euros in cash to pay for my apartment. Then I get to the taxi stand and there is no line there either. As we are heading toward the city, the driver takes a phone call on speaker. He appears to be lecturing a sullen young woman whom I can not understand very well. I hope she is his daughter. He becomes increasingly agitated as we get closer to my apartment, and I am glad when we arrive.
I have rented a studio apartment on line from an owner who occasionally posts on the message board to which I am addicted. It is located in the 11th arrondissement, near the métro Voltaire. There is a lovely private garden, which is tended by the woman who greets me upon arrival. The doors to the garden are wide open, there are birds in the bird bath, primroses are blooming. It feels like an urban oasis. I am given one word of warning: do not leave the keys in the lock on the inside of the apartment's door. There is no way to get in short of breaking a window. I am told it has happened. Properly warned, I put the keys firmly in my purse and say good-bye to the greeter. http://www.vrbo.com/103254
I have been looking forward to staying in this neighborhood, which is well supplied with small shops, and before I have a chance to get too comfortable I head off hunting and gathering.
They don't know what to do with my credit card at the boucherie. I gather they don't see a lot of Americans here. So I pay cash for my half of a rotisserie poulet fermier and my fresh duck breast.
At the fromagerie, the nice lady asks me what I want and I respond with a look of bewilderment. She gets someone who speaks English, but this doesn't help. It isn't that I don't speak French; it's that I don't speak cheese. I have learned to ask for brebis, sheep's milk cheese, as I have found some that I like a lot. I don't know how to distinguish which ones those are though, and sometimes I get ones that are not quite what I had in mind. This time I get a winner, and I remember which it is for my next visit. It's the one with the leaf pressed onto the top of the rind. I ask for recommendations and come away with another cheese that I end up liking quite a bit but I have no idea what it is.
I have much less trouble at the boulangerie, where I know to ask for a tarte fine aux abricots. Then it's off to the charcuterie for some duck pâté en croûte, some terrine made from pork tongues, and a serving of stuffed eggplant. A quick stop at the produce store, and a stop at the Franprix for San Pellegrino and paper goods, and I am ready to go.
My rolling shopping bag has become quite heavy by now, and I notice that the three blocks back to the apartment are slightly up hill. For that matter it feels like an effort just keeping my eyes open. I have just about enough energy to make it back to the apartment, stow the groceries in the kitchen, and get into bed for a nice long nap.
Mar 26th, 2012, 05:18 AM
#5
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 13,406
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Great start! I have nightmares about not being able to find my passport. That apartment looks adorable and very reasonable! Ha ha, I always say the aircraft is parked halfway to Belgium but this time we actually got a jetway coming and going, a first I think.
Mar 26th, 2012, 06:22 AM
#7
Join Date: Aug 2003
Posts: 406
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Nikki, I am a fan of Brebis cheese also but not quite sure which one to ask for...is the one with the leaf in the rind an aged one as I prefer the semi aged like 6 months or so. it almost like shopping for wines in a way. enjoying your report also.
Mar 26th, 2012, 08:34 AM
#13
Original Poster
I wake up and have supper at home. Or maybe it is lunch, or arguably even breakfast. Then I am off on the métro to the Opéra Comique. There is a program tonight celebrating the history of this building and of the company which has presented and premiered many operas in the shadow of the more famous Opéra Garnier.
I am sitting in the midst of a group of ten year old girls who are studying various instruments at the Paris conservatory, accompanied by their mothers. We chat a bit before the program begins.
Someone has combed the archives and compiled a selection of short films about the building and the company. The very first one that is shown is from a movie about the fire that burned down this building's predecessor, which is somewhat unnerving as we sit and watch it. The evening's host and narrator admits it might be a bit cruel to open the program in this fashion but reassures the audience that this building has stood for over a hundred years and we are all quite safe.
There are musical selections performed by the Radio France orchestra, and three soloists sing arias from operas performed in this venue. A star of the company from the mid-twentieth century comes on stage for an interview and is greeted by extended applause. I feel a bit odd paying homage to this man of whom I have never heard but realize that the ten year old girls are clapping too although they too are unlikely to know of the old performer who speaks in a full melodious baritone and cuts quite an impressive figure.
I am feeling a bit sleepy after this, but I do not do as the girls around me do-- fall asleep resting their heads on the arm rests. I couldn't do that in any event.
On the métro platform after the performance, members of the orchestra with instrument cases strapped to their backs wait with me for the train. I notice a great many people with instruments throughout my stay, carrying them on the buses and the métro and in the street.
I am sitting in the midst of a group of ten year old girls who are studying various instruments at the Paris conservatory, accompanied by their mothers. We chat a bit before the program begins.
Someone has combed the archives and compiled a selection of short films about the building and the company. The very first one that is shown is from a movie about the fire that burned down this building's predecessor, which is somewhat unnerving as we sit and watch it. The evening's host and narrator admits it might be a bit cruel to open the program in this fashion but reassures the audience that this building has stood for over a hundred years and we are all quite safe.
There are musical selections performed by the Radio France orchestra, and three soloists sing arias from operas performed in this venue. A star of the company from the mid-twentieth century comes on stage for an interview and is greeted by extended applause. I feel a bit odd paying homage to this man of whom I have never heard but realize that the ten year old girls are clapping too although they too are unlikely to know of the old performer who speaks in a full melodious baritone and cuts quite an impressive figure.
I am feeling a bit sleepy after this, but I do not do as the girls around me do-- fall asleep resting their heads on the arm rests. I couldn't do that in any event.
On the métro platform after the performance, members of the orchestra with instrument cases strapped to their backs wait with me for the train. I notice a great many people with instruments throughout my stay, carrying them on the buses and the métro and in the street.
Mar 26th, 2012, 09:22 AM
#15
Original Poster
A father and two young children sit next to me on the métro. The youngest, a toddler, is fascinated with my hands. He touches my gloves and pulls on the fingers while I smile at him. "Yes, she is wearing gloves," the father says. It doesn't occur to me until later in the trip that people are not wearing gloves here. Winter coats and scarves, yes, but no gloves. The young boy is attracted to my gloves because he doesn't know what they are. His big sister is fascinated that I live on the other side of the ocean. I tell them I don't speak French any better than the toddler does.
Sunday, March 11 I get a very late start. I'm not sure I want to do anything ambitious today. I toy with going to a market, but shopping sounds like too much effort. I decide I should go to the Orangerie. It is a small museum and I can just go for a couple of hours and return. I take the bus. First it passes block after block of wholesale clothing shops, just north and east of the Place Léon Blum where I catch the bus. Then we turn down the Boulevard Beaumarchais toward the Bastille and I see a large brocante market set up. I resist a modest urge to get off the bus but hold firm to my resolve to get to the museum.
The bus turns west on the rue Saint-Antoine, and I remember going to the Village Saint-Paul last year and finding many stores closed. I wonder if they are open today. I remember the jewelry stores on the rue Saint-Paul where I spent a delightful afternoon shopping for necklaces. I am wearing one of them today. I wonder whether that shop is open. I see a sign for a brocante at Village Saint-Paul today and I get off the bus. I will not make it to any museums today. I return to the apartment with aching feet, colorful photos, and some new shiny things.
I have dinner tonight at the apartment Abby and Tomas have rented on the left bank. They have spent the day at the markets and preparing dinner. The food, the company, the setting, everything is wonderful. I keep them up far too long. Just before I leave, we take a moment to appreciate that we are here in Paris, having this evening together. Life is good.
Sunday, March 11 I get a very late start. I'm not sure I want to do anything ambitious today. I toy with going to a market, but shopping sounds like too much effort. I decide I should go to the Orangerie. It is a small museum and I can just go for a couple of hours and return. I take the bus. First it passes block after block of wholesale clothing shops, just north and east of the Place Léon Blum where I catch the bus. Then we turn down the Boulevard Beaumarchais toward the Bastille and I see a large brocante market set up. I resist a modest urge to get off the bus but hold firm to my resolve to get to the museum.
The bus turns west on the rue Saint-Antoine, and I remember going to the Village Saint-Paul last year and finding many stores closed. I wonder if they are open today. I remember the jewelry stores on the rue Saint-Paul where I spent a delightful afternoon shopping for necklaces. I am wearing one of them today. I wonder whether that shop is open. I see a sign for a brocante at Village Saint-Paul today and I get off the bus. I will not make it to any museums today. I return to the apartment with aching feet, colorful photos, and some new shiny things.
I have dinner tonight at the apartment Abby and Tomas have rented on the left bank. They have spent the day at the markets and preparing dinner. The food, the company, the setting, everything is wonderful. I keep them up far too long. Just before I leave, we take a moment to appreciate that we are here in Paris, having this evening together. Life is good.
Mar 26th, 2012, 09:43 AM
#17
Join Date: Feb 2003
Posts: 662
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
>> I will not make it to any museums today. I return to the apartment with aching feet, colorful photos, and some new shiny things.>>
Love this. I think that's the epitome of your "running away from home" theme!
Great start - looking forward to reading the rest.
Love this. I think that's the epitome of your "running away from home" theme!
Great start - looking forward to reading the rest.
