Airport Express Lines and Italian Bartenders Following Ill-Advised Beard Trend

It's a given. Airport line ups for check-in, security, passport control, Starbucks. They're everywhere. While I don't consider myself a travel expert, I have navigated enough of these lines in enough countries to have a decent grasp on how to at least not raise the ire of flight crews, customs officials, and baristas.

Some more modern airports have blissfully caught up with technology and you can, if you have an electronically-chipped passport, breeze through passport controls by scanning your documents, having a quick snap taken of your travel-weary mug, and off ye tot. This was the case in Rome, so I found myself a good 45 minutes earlier than expected, as I had circumvented a huge line of plebe passport holders that had to wait for an actual PERSON to process them. (Yes, I become that snobby and entitled that fast when it comes to border crossing.)

I smugly sauntered in to the Priority Plaza Lounge, which was fairly new, and gathered some snacks, maneuvered around obvious first-timers (sigh) and plunked down at the bar. At this lounge, beer and wine are complimentary, but not spirits. Having my newfound (ha?) superiority complex, I indulged in a "premium" gin and tonic.

My bartenders, both in their late twenties, were mildly distracted by some printer issue. Between gesticulations and the small amount of Italian I could discern, the printer had been down all morning, no one had come to fix it, and they were ready to throw the printer onto the runway. I, too, was distracted by this, being an industry "veteran" (thanks, AMo, I'll never live that down), I felt the pain of broken equipment, and even briefly thought of offering a glance to see if I could help. I decided against, for gin reasons.

I ordered a second round, and it was at this point I realized, to some mild horror, that both of my bartenders had beards. Like, bartender beards.

I haven't been back to Italy for some three years, but when I was there last, there were no beards. Young men were clean shaven, especially in hospitality. But there they were. Groomed hipster dumb-ass bartender beards. I was, and am still, underwhelmed by this new data.  I had to ask, so I gestured the seeming senior of the two men over. "Scuzi... How long have you had a beard?" He looked a bit shocked, but answered, less than a year. I nodded.  "Why did you grow it? Does your mother like it?" I knew the answer to this in advance, but wanted to see his response. He threw his hands up in despair. "NO! She hates! She won't take me to Mass as long as I have this beard. I have to go to the later Mass." So, why keep it? "Madam, I am a bartender, not only here, but in Rome, and all the important barmen have beards." Dear god, I thought. This is insane. "What about women bartenders? They cannot have beards?" "No, no," he shakes his head. "They have the tattoos."

I am dead.

European Vacation 2019

Travelogue: en route to Rome.

Landed in Milan, at Malpensa Apt, which is 1.5 hours away from Milan, so not in Milan at all. The "express train" is 45 minutes and not cheap. It is a tranfer airport, quite austere except for the pornographic duty free shop in the international departures wing.

Wandered to the transfer point, where there was a considerably long line, and one security station open, processing one person at a very slow time on an ancient scanner that looked like it was being cranked by a circus monkey. Some locals on their way to Palermo thought that due to their flights leaving sooner (not true for all in the line) that they should be allowed to budge. They have children, they have bad hips, they don't want to walk fast, it's hot, their mothers are waiting for them. My ears tingle on the last one, for if an Italian man is going home to a mom, he is likely single.

If you have ever seen an Italian car accident or even a heavy traffic jam, you may know what ensued. Why are people from Palermo more important than everyone else? My mother was from Palermo, I wait like the others. If you were from Firenze/Bologna/Insert Italian town, you would be healthier and not have bad hips. If the food in Palermo was better, you would have more energy.

Then, of course, the retorts. The gestures. The vulgarities causing mothers to cover the ears of the young and cluck at the men.

Security, and eventually the Polizia showed up.  It was a complete stand still as all the customs officials had to get involved. I believe some showed up from other gates.

I am drinking gin. Thank you Priority Pass lounges.

Bonus blog material:

I flew Air Italy, out of Pearson. Security and boarding were a snap, in fact our plane was loaded so efficiently that we sat for 35 minutes as we were early.

We were handed moist towelettes as compensation for the lack of air con. Children were screaming.

No one was in first class, and I was seriously thinking about bribing the purser to let me sneak up there, just so I could sleep.

Dinner came rapidly after reaching cruising altitude, a menu with choices  of Chicken Velouté or Tomato Pasta, with potatoes and mixed veg, lemon mousse, one drink and tea or coffee at the end.

I urge you to look up Velouté, if you don't know what it is, and please know, this was no Velouté. This was melted  butter floating sulkily, unsalted, in milk. The veg were steamed to death. The Lemon Mousse reminded me of cool whip with lemon juice vaguely spritzed on it by passerby. The wine was cold. That was the highlight. 

I am now suffering the consequences  of being too hungry to refuse the refuse, and must now quell the churning with free pouring gin and tonic.

Xtina out.

I just can't get this out of my head...

Where the hell is my cousin Ben?
Billy Joel.
That property in Costa Rica I should have had the balls to buy.
Did my ex AKS ever write a book?  Was I in it?
Was I right about Toronto?
Am I doing the thing that I'm really the best at or is something else really what I'm meant to be doing?
I don't care about so many things.  When will this bite me in the ass?
Public perception.
Pubic perception.
Is it me or is it them?
Next vacay - Italy or Cuba?
Should I drink more or less bourbon?
The eggs are going to go bad soon.
I'm not wearing socks.
Tom Waits.
Jesus, I swear a lot.
If it doesn't matter, then why does it?  What fucked up psych 101 retardation causes me to stress about shite that isn't even there?
Money.
No, not money, BANKS. Fuck banks.
Money.
I hope Adele never loses her voice.
I would love to sit and talk to Keith Lancaster.
Oakridge C of C.

Wednesday - and Home

Today is Wednesday.  The past two days have been a blur.  I can't believe I'm sitting in Gare du Nord, waiting for my train back to London. Paris has been wonderful - exactly the kind of trip I was hoping for, with no hiccups, no drama, just a lovely week and a bit away from home and work.




On Monday I went coocoo for coco puffs on Rue Rennes, the local shoe district. Tons of shops, all in a row, selling shoes shoes shoes.  I bought 4 pair.  4 really good pair that I'll wear for years, so I don't feel bad. (Like I would feel bad anyway)  I felt intense satisfaction as I made my way back to my hotel with multiple shopping bags in tow.  As I reentered the hotel, I was informed that the extra night I was hoping to add to my stay wasn't possible, that I'd have to find another hotel.  Oy.  SO I plunked my purchases on the bed in my room and used Blackberry Travel (very handy BB app, for anyone out there who hasn't abandoned BB yet) to find another room.  I splurged a bot and found d decent room, but in the 9th arr. this time, a little closer to the action and on the other side of Montmartre, in Pigalle.


Pigalle is full of sex shops, peep shows and music stores, with a dash of everything else thrown in.  I was meeting Loic for my last night in town - we were going to Charlot on a friend's recommendation.


I checked into the new room and was pleased. It was close to three times the size of my other room and had a charming view of Sacre Coeur up the hill and a sweeping view of the city looking south. I was on the top floor, and the gables windows were arched and seemed oh-so-very French.  I would have given my limb for a bath but alas, a shower only, again.  My feet were screaming for a good soak, but they had to settle for a hot towel and cozy socks.


This hotel had free WIFI, as well a full range of TV stations, so I relaxed for a few hours, dozing in and out, watching Friends, in English, which was novel, and Poirot in French, which was challenging.  


I headed out to meet Loic at 7:15, taking the Metro two wee stops up the line to Place de Clichy.  Charlot has been around forever, is known for it's shellfish platters, and is the swankiest restaurant I went to in Paris, save for the Ritz, of course.  It's a traditional brasserie, so not too formal, but certainly more refined than a cafe.  Loic was in jeans and a sweater and complained that I should have told him to dress up.  Whatever.  We were seated, ordered wine and a Roi de Coquillages pour deux.  


Sweet mother of god, the platter was huge, with crab, langoustines, clams, oysters, sea snails, another size of crab, baby shrimp and god knows what else.  A bottle of Chablis and we were set.  Now, I can usually make my way through a seafood dinner with decent manners, but the shells on this shellfish were tough.  Also, they didn't separate the oysters from the shell when they shucked them so you had to wriggle them around on your own.  I, of course, discovered this trying to suck one oyster off its shell, which didn't sound or look too hot. The mignonette was extremely acidic and made me cough.  Thankfully Loic was cursing at snails not coming out their shells.  I cracked open a crab claw and sprayed the mirror beside me.  We couldn't stop laughing, and I was grateful to be hidden in a corner, with only tourist tables surrounding us.  No one cared.


We got through most of the food.  It was a leisurely meal, as getting the meat out of the shells was work.  We paid and left, choosing to wander up Rue Pigalle to see what was what.  We passed Moulin Rouge and all the cheesy sex shops (which are identical to the ones at home, just bigger and more of them).  


We were passing by a bar with a piano being played and someone butchering Frank Sinatra.  We had to go in.  A carafe of wine was ordered and we sat and watched (I sang along) to most of the My Fair Lady songbook, and classic Frank Sinatra tunes you'd expect to hear away from home (NY/NY, Chicago, Summerwind). The singer was also a bit of a tap dancer, so we'd get the occasional tap intermezzo during a number.  The place was moderately busy.  A large group of Irish tourists were singing along, occasionally sharing the mic with Dude.  Our wine finished, we parted ways with a hug and the traditional kiss-kiss.  I was only 2 blocks from my hotel and was happy to settle into bed and zonk out.  I wanted to get up in decent time to have breakfast and get some last minute shopping done.


I ate and checked out of the hotel, leaving my luggage behind for later.  The hotel was relatively close to Gare du Nord, and my suitcase had increased in weight significantly enough that I was happy to pay for a cab.  Dealing with it on the Metro would not be fun.  So, I made sure I had enough cash for cab fare on my way back, and waited in the lobby for my taxi to arrive.  


I'm very very early for my train.  I can't check in yet - that's how early I am.  I didn't want to spend anymore money, so I figured I'd get to the train and hang here, finish writing and get into my book again.  And so I leave Paris.  I have to say I'm looking forward to getting home, but know that I only scratched the surface of the city.  Every street you pass has a whole other adventure around here.  I look forward to coming back soon and digging in deeper.


-----


This was my last post in Paris.  I arrived in London, found my hotel and went to bed, wanting an early start to the airport the next morning.  I arrived at Gatwick after a lovely express trip on the train, and paid an astronomical fee for my luggage being overweight.  (SHOES!)  I didn't sleep much on the way home.  We were chasing the sun and it made for weird body-clocking.  


I was excited to get home.  I wanted to be home.  I wanted to be in my apartment, to wander Gastown and see my lovelies.  I wanted to sink into my barstool at Boneta, embrace my friends and laugh at nothing with a cocktail in my hand.  I wanted the rain, the leaves.  I wanted the phone calls from work, the stress, the hubbub.  I wanted Vancouver in all its young, imperfect glory.  I was ready to be back, and that readiness in itself was its own kind of happiness.


The sun was shining when I landed, but you could still smell that it had just rained.  I took a deep breath as I walked outside to meet Mylene.  


Home.

Friday Saturday Sunday

Friday - Galleries Lafayette revisted - Cafe Marcel with Loic and co


I was excited to get an early start on the Metro Friday morning.  I was headed back to Les Galleries Lafayettes... the gorgeous shopping mall in central Paris.  This time, I wasn't tired, I was wearing proper footwear and was ready to get some new stuff.


There was a sale on throughout the mall, so it was busy, even in the morning.  I was determined to speak French all day and not cheat, so off I went, a little bashful, but confident enough that I could get through shopping, at least, without breaking down into English.


It turns out, my natural love of shopping lends itself well to the French I actually remember.  Go figure.  I was asked where I was from, and when I told them, they were impressed and complimented me on my lack of accent, which is a good thing, I guess.  


A wee explanation of what this mall is like - it's made up of hundreds of designer stores, all side by side, and then accented by the house brand, dotted around them.  The designer stores are seperated by small walls, but no doors, so everything is open. The floors are prganized by type of fashion - contemporary, sportswear, lingerie, etc.  The basement is all shoes.  The main floor, not unlike stores at home, is cosmetics and accesories.


I started my purchases with a wool blend little black dress with side ruching and a gold zipper detail at Maje.  The salesman attending me far too excited about the retail experience, showing up with accessories, shoes, bags and anything else he could get his hands on that he thought was chic.  Didn't necessarily go with the dress, just stuff he loved and he HAD to show me or he might die.  I got the dress.


I continued around... Karen Millen for the UK has fantastic stuff.  For women with no breasts.  Pass.  Ralph Lauren, yawn... moved along to Promod, a chic value-centric brand again out of the UK.  Grabbed some fully lined wool pants, a cute blouse and a hat.  Kept wandering... The house brand had a huge sweater section so I grabbed a very 50's twin set in leopard.  The sales lady approved of this, saying no one ever has the courage to wear leopard anymore.  Pleased to meet you.  The lingerie floor was overwhelming and I decided to save that for a whole day unto itself.


Down I went to the shoes. Lots of cute designer stuff, but nothing was really grabbing me.  I grabbed a cool pair of suede loafers with a stacked stiletto heel.


I was getting hungry so I stopped at the lunch counter and had a tabouleh salad and glass of champagne. Or two.  I went back to Karen Millen, determined to find something that fit.  No luck. I was disappointed.


I headed back to my hotel happy with my purchases, but wondering where all the good shoes were hiding.


Loic called me a few hours later, inviting me out to join him and his friends at a gig somewhere near St Germain des Pres.  Okey doke.  I met him at his place, which is ridiculously French.  The person with whom he shares the space is a film guy, so lots of books, movie posters and jazz music all over the place. The apartment itself was small, but not bad for Paris standards. Two rooms, a kitchen, pantry and bathroom.


I waited for Mr. I-have-nothing-to-wear preen and perfume himself and off we went in search of Cafe Marcel.  Thankfully it was easy - exit at Eteinne Marcel and voila, across the street with the loud afro-jazz band blaring outside.  His friends were sitting outside, drinking pastis.  Introductions were made... a note about French intros... You kiss each other on each cheek, without fail. Bon soir, smooch smocch, say your name, smile, move on.  This takes forever and the charm of it wears off very quickly, but it's proper manners here.


Three guys, plus Loic, and three girls, plus me.  All of them were under 30 for sure, likely close to 26 or 27.


The band was cool, luckily, because everyone was speaking so quickly I had a hard time keeping up with the conversation.  I was able to answer questions and such, and Loic played translator when I was clueless.  Turned out, by the end of the night, half of them spoke English, but were as nervous about their language skills as I was.  A few drinks seems to clear this up.


It got cold. The wind picked up and all of us started to shiver. We managed to score some seats inside just as the band played their last songs. I had switched from Pastis to red wine and was started to feel a bit tipsy.  The bar said they specialized in cocktails, but I saw what was being made and going out and snootily passed. I also passed on the shots going around and Loic and I headed out to the Metro shortly thereafter.


Back to my hotel uneventfully, and to bed.




Saturday - more shopping and a late house party with Loic and co


I woke up a bit late Saturday morning, thankfully without a headache, and slowly made my way to another part of Paris where there was some shopping.  ANother mall, this one more similar to back home, with shops for older women and kids, as well as large anchor stores.  There was a smaller version of Les Galleries Lafayette, so I took a breeze through there.  Most of the same brands were represented, just on a smaller scale.  A large discount store called C&A had some good deals on accessories, and I grabbed some perfume at Chanel.  


Back to the hotel for a nap, and Loic texted late, saying there was a house party near my hotel, did I want to join?  Sure, why not.  We met at the Metro and walked over to a tiny little apartment, but so well designed and decorated.  Ten people or so were hanging about, drinking wine and chatting. Again, no one got into English until about an hour in, and my French was for some reason just not happening, so I found the best think to do - hang out outside with the smokers.  Smoking in Paris is still the norm.  Even if you're a non-smoker, chances are you smoke on occasion.  It's social, it's French.


A quick walk back to my hotel around 1:30 and I was back to bed.




Sunday - St Germain de Pres, Au Sauvignon, Ritz Hemingway Bar


Most stores are closed on Sunday, a fact I didn't know when I headed out in the mid morning to shop.  So, instead, I ate.  I was in St Germain again, and found a cafe that wasn't packed full of brunch eaters... Au Sauvignon.  I ordered wine and Rillettes au Pain and sat, watching the people go by, tourists and locals alike.  


I walked back down to Les Tuileries and had a coffee in the park, with about 9 jillion other people.  And, for thie first time since I had arrived in Paris, actually got hit on.


Yeah, the FIRST.  I had not experienced the same Paris as my friends, with men chatting them up or chasing them about.  Nada.  So when the gentleman sat next to me and started talking to me, I almost choked on my coffee.  He asked me, in French, what I was dreaming about, because my expression looked like I was a million miles away.  Not dreaming, I said, just planning my day. Chat chat chat.  I managed to keep it in French, which at time proved difficult.  About 30 minutes in, he switched languages for a second, I think it was German. I told him I didn't understand. He looked surprised. He thought I was from wherever it was.  Nope.  Canadian. So now we had to talk about Canada for another 30 minutes.  What's up with Montreal? Dunno, never been. Oh. Another few minutes, then I excused myself, needed to get back to my hotel and have a nap, at least.  He asked for my email, which I gave him.  Nice guy.  EMail.  Sure.


I got back to my hotel and decided that I was going to go somewhere swish.  I wanted a cocktail, I wanted to dress up and I wanted it immediately.  I gussied up, put on some heels and wisely packed my flats in my purse. I headed to Le Place Vendome, where the Ritz Hotel has been located forever, and wound my way around the hallways until I found Le Bar Hemingway, which had been recommended to me by Simon at Boneta.


What a lovely little bar.  I was charmed immediately. Tons of pictures of Poppa all over, guns on the walls, cozy seats and a small bar.  I grabbed a bar stool and ordered the house cocktail - the Serendipity. Then a Corpse Reviver #2, but no... wait... they don't have any Absinthe, the bartender embarassedly tells me.  A bar in Paris without Absinthe.  Really.  So she made something up that came close, and I moved onto a French 75. 


 Each drink came with a rose garnish, which is a part of the history of the bar.  Before it was named after Hemingway, it was the Ladies Bar - the bar across the hall being for gentlemen only, as the sexes were not allowed to comnsume alcohol together until the 30's I think.  SO at that point, men could come into the Ladies' Bar, but not vice versa.  Hemingway, in character, liked to hang out in the Ladies' Bar, and was sitting with F. Scott Fitzgerald one eveing and they had a wee competition that involved sending flowers to a table, and at the end, Hemingway eating the petals of the flower with a dirty look on his face, or some such thing.


Hence, the rose garnish.


I went for a walk around the nieghbourhood and found my Metro Station.  To bed, for tomorrow, there would be shoe shopping.

Misc Pics

Some views from the streets of Paris for your viewing pleasure...

Side of the Louvre

Pont Alexandre III

Pont Alexandre III

Pont Alexandre III

Winnie

Detail from Le Grand Palais

Doorway to Le Petit Palais

Sculpture along Les Champs Elysees

Street Post detail - Le Place de La Concorde

 Le Place de La Concorde

 Le Place de La Concorde

Gates to Les Tuileries

Les Tuileries

Nymph at Les Tuileries

Gates to Le Louvre

Tour Eiffel, Place Concorde, Tuileries, Louvre (almost) - Thursday

Sleeping for over 12 hours was a good thing.  I woke up Thursday morning feeling normal.  Except I was awake at 6:30 again, which is NOT normal, but I got dressed, checked my maps and got ready to head out.  Today I was going to see the iconic Tour Eiffel and I wanted to get an early start of it.  Tourist season may officially be over, but the tourists haven't heard that yet.


I took the Metro to Trocadero and headed up the stairs.  Tour buses lined the street, so I knew I was in the right place.  I should tell you that up until this point I had not seen the Tour Eiffel since my arrival in Paris.  Just one of those things, but if you're not in the right place, you just don't see it.  SO as I rounded the corner, I was a bit tingly from excitement.


It did not disappoint.  From Trocadero, you can see the whole tower, the top still hidden by the morning fog.  It's all the things you hear everyone say about it, and for a tourist destination, it isn't cheesy at all.  It is a marvel.  

I headed up the garden toward the gates, all the time the tower getting bigger and bigger, more and more detailed.  A few of us who were walking in a group all almost got ran over by a truck, we were so busy looking up.


Once on the property proper, we all lined up.  The tower elevators open at 9:30, and it was only 10:00, but the line up extended well past the caged queue section.  I was in line for about 45 minutes, took some snaps and got through security. 

Once my ticket was purchased (something most people evidently do in advance) I was in the short line waiting for the elevator.  It seemed to go up forever, and that was only to the 1st landing.  

We kept going up to the second, then were waved in a general direction toward the elevator that would take us to the very top.  The view is indeed breathtaking.  I was a wee bit disappointed that the fog was hanging on, so my pics are a bit unclear, but you get the gist.


There was a large group of teenagers screaming around the top, seemingly attended to by only one adult, so I was motivated by my annoyance and made my way down the elevator to the second level, where there was more space and less adolescence. The view is equally astounding here.  Not only because you're so high up, but because you're looking at PARIS.  

The city really is beautiful in it's architecturally asymmetry.  Circles of buildins swirl, place de Concorde cuts a swath through the whole thing, Notre Dame imposes it's dauntingly stunning spires above it all.  The new area of Paris is kept all in one place, more or less, so the modern buildings aren't dotted in the with the old, which is nice. My stomach required attention, so I decided to skip the line up waiting for the elevator going down and took the stairs.  My knees were not happy about this and I realized how much walking I had been doing and that my joints were actually not feeling so hot.  I felt old for about thirty seconds, then saw a woman at least ten years my junior walking up the stairs, red faced, whining and wheezing.  Schadenfreude saves the day, again.



On the main deck, there's a small garden area, two restaurants and a gift shop, as well as a promenade all the way around the perimeter.  It's a huge area and reminds you of the scale of the tower itself.  I peeked in to ta restaurant and was told they'd be open in 20 minutes.  I went to the raised garden area, surrounded by bamboo and watched the staff set up the beverage bar.  I was too early for champagne at the summit level (there's a champagne bar up there), but was looking forward to having a glass or two with lunch.
Once the restaurant was open, I entered and was greeted by a terribly cheerful waiter who sat me next to a window and asked if anyone wold be joining me.  Nope.  He immediately plunked himself into the seat across from me, cupped his chin in his hands and said "I am your date. You're in mt seat."  Charming little thing.  I told him to be a good date and go get Momma some champagne, saying Momma out of habit.  he took to this very quickly and for the rest of my meal called me Momma instead of Madame, which I think he got flack from his boss for.  But it was cute and made me feel at home.


The concept of the restaurant was a bit weird, but interesting.  You could order a la carte or prix fixe, but your starters and dessert were picked up at a counter, then your main was prepared and brought out to you.  Drinks were served by your server.  SO I went for the prix fixe 3 course, wondering if this was going to be bad tourist food or if they could pull this off.  The starter and dessert came in seperate little covered boxes, carefully placed in a wire basket and walked over to my table. Weird, but they both were beautifully presented.  I had a duck and foie terrine to start, served with bread.  I dug into the terrine and was happy - just salty enough, the duck was tender and not too much aspic (blech).  My main came out in its own little box, salmon with risotto and fava beans, again, nicely presented. The 
salmon was remarkably well cooked. I was expecting it to come out dry, but it was moist and lovely.  The risotto as well, was obviously cooked by someone who knew what they were doing. So as much as delivery of the food was odd to me, the food itself was above par. And of course, so was the bubbly.


My waiter brought me a second glass without asking and winked at me.  "I assume, Momma." God bless him.  So all in all, two glasses of champagne, three courses, tax and tip = 47 euros. For a restaurant in the Eiffel Tower, I was impressed. I wold have thought at least 60, but there it was.  I was reading my bill as I headed out the door with my camera slung over my shoulder.  My subconscious must have thought the weight of the camera was my purse, but as I entered the gift shop and looked down, there was no purse.  Merde.


I started around the gift shop to the exit when I heard a furtive semi-whisper "pssst... Momma? Are you in here?"  Sweetest boy in the world chased me down with my purse. Vive la France, I say. 


As I left the Tour EIffel area and walked along the Seine, I decided I'd walk up toward Le Place de Concorde and see what was what.  The walk itself is lovely, with trees and leaves blowing in a gentle wind, and not too crowded.  The bridges started to appear... Alma, Invalides, Alexandre III.  I crossed here to the other side of the Seine and crossed over to walk up Avenue Winston Churchill, between the Grand Palais and Petite Palais to the Champs Elysees.  


Standing in the middle of the road on a pedestrian island, you can look up one way and see L'Arc de Triomphe and down the other and see the Obelisque that marks Le Place de La Concorde.  I started toward the Obelisque, and veered off the sidewalk to amble through a garden walkway that was named something to do with Ambassadors, I can't recall.


Le Place de La Concorde is crazy.  It's beautiful and traffic is insane.  Trying to take pictures while crossing the street may not have been smart, but everyone was doing it, regardless of the horns blaring at us.


Continuing further, I came to the gates to le Jardin de Tuileries, which is just plain lovely.  What a culture - a park full of people sitting in chairs, dotted everywhere, not bolted down, no graffiti on the benches, just people napping in the afternoon sun.  Four cafes with wine and coffee and snacks line the main walkway.  On either side of the main path there are little gardens off set with ponds and different flowers and ducks.  Lots of ducks.  I chose a small garden with a statue of Pan at the head of the pond.  It was so amazing ot think this had been built of royalty, that it had been around for so long, being enjoyed by all sorts of people for centuries.  I grabbed a coffee and continued up to another fountain and sat for a while longer.  My feet hurt and I was pretty sure there was a blister forming somewhere.


I could see the gate to the Louvre coming up ahead.  As I got near the entrance I could see the line up and my feet immediately informed me there was no way in hell I was walking through a museum.  I deked left and found a Metro Station.  I got back to my hotel around 4:30.  I picked up some wine and cheese on my way back.  I happily munched in my room and watched BBC Newsworld for a couple of hours. My feet were throbbing, so I laid back and put my feet up for a bit, and naturally dozed off.  I woke up and drowsily wandered to a nearby cafe for a light supper and glass of wine.


Back to my room for the night, another glass of wine and a long, solid sleep.


-- The wireless connection I have is blinking out, so uploading pics is sooooo slow.  I'll post pics when I get a better connection.

Sacre Coeur, Montmartre, Galleries LaFayette - Wednesday

Jet lag sucks. There's not other way to say it - it just sucks.  A whole city is buzzing around you and you are out of sync.


I woke up Wednesday morning at 6 am.  This is so obviously out of character, but I was wide awake so I made tea and got dressed and was out the door around 8 am. I sat and had a leisurely coffee at a cafe on my way up Rue Mont Cenis.  I had studied my map and knew that if I continued straight up this road, I would wind up at Sacre Coeur. I headed up the road around 9 am.


Now, I had heard that Sacre Coeur was on top of a hill, but I had no idea how much of a hill, nor did I know there were more ways than one to climb said hill.  I was going up the back side, which turned out to be all stairs.  Four sets of stairs, each enough to set my lungs ablaze. Damned French and their cigarettes.


I used the excuse to take pictures at the top of each flight, to badly mask the fact that I was about to have a coronary.

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Once I reached the top, there was a small village of tourist shops and men with sketch pads all wanting to draw me.  "I am inspired, madam." I bet you are.  "I must draw your red hair." Oh lord.  I waded through the small crowd (It was early yet) and rounded a corner to see the side of the cathedral.  I've seen pictures of all sorts of churches but this was impressive.  The scale of the building is enormous.  I walked slowly to the front of the building, but what took my breath away first was the view of the city from here. The city was still under a slight morning mist but you cold see how wide spread the city was.  I turned my attention back to Sacre Coeur.


I'll let the pictures tell you about the exterior.  

We weren't allowed to take photos inside, which is a shame, as the art and skill used inside was magnificent.  The central focus was the basilica, of course - a huge Christ surrounded by all the saints and apostles.  The walk way took us around the side and back of the building, behind the dais. Small alcoves with statues of all sorts of saints for praying to dotted the path. As I neared the other side of the room, a song started and a clear soprano began to sing a hymn.  Mass was starting.  In French, which was a newbie for me.  The priest extended a welcome to everyone and encouraged people to sit and take rest.  


I sat for a bit on the side.  I am not Catholic, but ritual has always fascinated me.  After a few minutes, I made my way back outside and started down the front of the property.


Once at the bottom of the hill I was in Montmartre, the tourist area.  The whole street was lined with your typical shops all screaming for your attention, filled with tacky bric-a-brac of all sorts of shapes and sizes.  It was about 11:30 at this point and I was hungry.  I stopped into a small cafe and ordered a beer.  As I looked at the menu, I knew I was going to get ripped off, so I finished my beer and decided to head out and find a reasonable cafe or bistro further away from the hullabaloo.

I have found that the challenge to getting around Paris on foot is keeping my bearing.  The buildings are just high enough and the streets narrow enough that you can't see anything above.  So I started walking, hoping I was going the right direction.  I wasn't, of course, and turned myself around.  I wanted to get to Les Galleries Lafayette, which is a high end shopping mall.  I assumed i would find somewhere to eat along the way. 


 I finally got headed in the right direction and grabbed a seat at a brasserie cloes to the mall. I barely got "Bonjour" out when the waiter asked, in French, "Language, please?"  Uh.  English, I guess.  I certainly could have handled a French menu, but whatever.  I was sat on a banquette next to three other single diners. Nods and smiles were politely passed.  A glass of wine and a Croque Monsieur ordered, I checked my phone for messages and the time. 1 pm.  Not bad. 


My food came out promptly, but was a bit disappointing.  The salad was limp and the Croque Monsieur was dry. At least the wine was good. The place was packed with Parisians, so I assumed I just ordered the wrong thing.  I paid my 11 Euros and headed acorss the street to the mall.


Now some people may think it's tacky to go to a mall in Paris.  But you haven't seen this mall.  It's all designer and the building itself is a masterpiece.  A gorgeous dome made of stained glass hovers above the cosmetics and accessories on the first floor, surrounded by floors and floors of fashion looking down into the atrium.  Menswear is in another building, so the place is filled with women.  Each floor has a small cafe looking over the atrium, one an organic cafe, one a lunch counter and one, ooooh yes, a champagne bar. Ding ding ding.


I took a quick walk through a couple of floors, but I suddenly was hit with a wall of fatigue.  I needed to lie down and sleep in the worst way.  I found my way to the Metro station and was relieved to see that my Metro line - #4, was direct and I wouldn't have to transfer.  This is a very good thing and made my day more than once during my trip.


Back to the hotel and I was out like a light.  Jet lag got the best of me, as well as just needing a rest.  I was asleep at 4 pm, woke up briefly at 10 pm, and slept thorugh to morning.  When I awoke, I didn't have that overslept-feeling.  I was rested and at that moment, was on Paris time.