Paris, December 2009

As 2008 came to a close, we prepared to welcome 2009 with a mix of excitement, trepidation, and hope. We had been planning to move to Paris for a couple of years and with the economy taking a nosedive the reality didn’t look too hopeful. With Obama’s victory we decided we had the “perfect storm” and within 8-10 weeks we signed a lease on our Arlington condo with a wonderful couple who came to D.C. from L.A. to work for Obama. Now we were off and running on our next two tasks...

The first task was to find a place to live in Paris. The second was to get our French up to conversational speed. The latter is a work in progress. On the Paris rental scene, we found many places on the Internet but didn’t want to commit without seeing the neighborhood and the apartment. But it’s amazing how many of your friends know of people who are living in France, just moved back from France, have family in France, or even lived there themselves. To make a long story short, after putting the word out that we really were serious about taking off for an extended stay in Paris, we were put in contact with a friend of a friend and we are now firmly ensconced in his apartment in the “Quartier Latin.”

And we couldn’t have asked for a better location. We are basically at the corner of Blvd. St. Germain and Blvd. St. Michel in the Latin Quarter. We are three minutes from Notre Dame Cathedral and about the same from the Jardin du Luxembourg. We have everything on our doorstep - health club, bank, cinemas, restaurants, the butcher, baker & candlestick maker and a wonderful open-air market on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. During our first week here, Mark’s nephew Erik and his wife Emily were visiting Paris. We spent their last 3 days here together, culminating with dinner at our apartment. Mark’s first [and apparently successful] attempt at Blanquette de Veau...

In a nutshell, that’s the story of our time so far in Paris. Nearly every other week or so, we have had visitors, both family and friends. We’ve been on several trips to “La France Profonde,” including Provence, Dordogne and the Loire Valley. Some of our adventures are described in Mark’s blogs. So rather than bore you with our Paris misadventures, you can go to our blog-site to catch up:……..

And, we hope you enjoy these pictures of Christmas in Paris as much as we did taking them.

We depart Paris on December 31st to spend the cold winter months in sunny Delray Beach, Florida and will return to Paris in the early Spring of 2010 for another extended stay.

With our very best wishes to all our family and friends for a happy and healthy 2010.

Katherine & Mark
53 rue de la Harpe
Paris 75005

     

Notre Dame Cathedral

Eglise St-Severin  [Quartier Latin]

Marché de Noël
[Place St-Sulpice]

Lavender Christmas Ornaments

Restaurant "Au Vieux Paris"
[Île de la Cité]

Eglise St-Sulpice
Christmas Crèche

Mark on the Île St-Louis
avec sa première boule
de neige!








Our private Terrace
after the first snowfall
of the year.

Galeries Lafayette

Mark with Jean-Pierre

his very patient french tutor

Window Display

at Printemps

Rue St-André des Arts

[St-Germain des Prés]

Another Printemps Display

Carousel

[Place de la Concorde]

.....HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND A HEALTHY NEW YEAR....

Mark and Katherine

Mark's eJournal October 22, 2009 – Odds and Sods #4 –The Gentleman’s Club

Katherine’s brother Bobby came to town. It was his 60th birthday in June, so as a present we brought him over to Paris for a visit. Now Bobby and I share similar tastes. We both are enamored of French doors. Separately, we have both been taking pictures of doors. As this picture shows, the doors are huge and beautiful. When I get enough door pictures, I plan on making an album. And for lunch, we like a little wine….well, at least he does….I save it for dinner. But we also enjoy trivial pursuit and Scottish pubs. Katherine and I haven’t really gone to many Paris pubs. Don’t get me wrong, we are single-handedly saving the French wine industry during La Crise Économique. But we have checked out where all the local pubs were, just in case we ran out of wine.

One pub we found was the Highlander…apropos given our heritage [or at least their heritage]. And to our great surprise, they had a pub quiz on Sunday nights. Without going into details, we came in second and won free shots of whiskey. And if it wasn’t for all those French questions like “what color is the number 4 Metro line and the name of its ending stations”, we would have come in first. But Bobby needed a pub with music, with characters, with life, and most of all, with cheap Guinness. And he found it. The Gentleman. Easily within walking distance of our flat, sober or not.

Now by himself, Bobby is a very friendly guy. He makes friends with everybody. Paris is no exception. And he makes important friends, like with the bouncer, Ahmed. This friendship ensured that no matter how crowded the Gentleman got, we were always allowed entry. It also allowed Bobby easy access to all parts of the pub especially where the music was playing. And the group [or should I say duo] that were playing were great. For a couple of acoustic guitars, they sounded great.

And I didn’t have any problems making friends with the locals either. I never met this guy, Vladimir, before but he and his friends loved Americans [or maybe just me]. Anyway, they were having this drink which looked very special. I think it’s called a B-52. I watched as he and his friends appeared to “snort” the flaming drink. Apparently, I was obvious so Vlad bought me one. Not to be outdone, I reciprocated…..twice. Not because I felt obligated but because Katherine didn’t really get a good first picture. Needless to say, I didn’t mind the retake. And for those interested few, here’s how you make one of these B-52s:

In a large shot glass layer Kahlua, Bailey’s, and then Grand Marnier.

In our case, the bartender used a tiny bent sugar spoon to pour each layer onto. This ensured three distinct layers. Then he ignited the Grand Marnier. Hence the reason the picture looks like we are snorting the drink….you suck the whole flaming drink [as in "on fire"] in one suck from the bottom using a straw.....hence the expression, bottom's up???

Needless to say, we all had a great time and we look forward to Bobby taking us through more pub crawls in Paris.

Mark's eJournal November 12, 2009 – Odds and Sods #5 – Le Tabac

It’s been awhile since my last eJ. No, it’s not that I don’t have anything to write about. Rather, September, October, and soon, November, have just been a blur with all the visitors we’ve had and trips we’ve taken. It started in September with Lynda and Ross visiting for a week. Then we left for 10 days for the States for our friend’s daughter’s big fat Greek wedding. Then Katherine’s brother Bobby came for a 10-day visit followed by my Glasgow University basketball buddy, Mike and his wife Hazel and son Grant. Then we left for Le Dordogne to meet up with our DC friends Peggy and Peter, whom we drove back to Paris with and spent a long weekend. Less than one week later, Katherine’s longtime friend, Liz and her husband Mike came for a visit. And sometime in there, Adriana [the big fat Greek wedding bride] came for a visit. November isn’t even over and we still have Katherine’s niece Kirsty and her boyfriend Graham and our DC friends, George and Doris, all circling the landing strip for a Paris visit.

Whew. Now I’m not complaining. The only bad thing about all these visitors is…..well, there really isn’t anything bad; just no time left over for writing blogs. The only good thing about all these visitors is….well, there are really lots of good things but my favorite is looking at Paris through their eyes; seeing things that I might have overlooked or never even noticed.

For example, Bobby fell off the wagon. He had given up smoking for a few months but I guess the French accent got to him. Studying French in Glasgow did his head in and he started to take a few puffs. By the time he got to Paris, he was out of smokes. And since Katherine and I are smoke-free, Bobby had to go out into the streets of Paris and fend for himself.

Now I knew that in France, you buy your cigarettes in a tobacco shop [Le Tabac]; not a supermarket or a pub. They’re all over the place but I really didn’t know exactly where the closest one was. In fact, I hadn’t even been inside a Tabac since I got to Paris. I didn’t even know what to look for except to peer into a store window and look for packs of cigarettes. And that’s where Bobby's new eyes come into play.

For the first time, Bobby pointed out the one exterior identifying feature of all Tabac’s. Their lozenge-shaped sign. And if you look at all the pictures in this blog, that’s them. They are all different yet similar. Kinda like the three balls in front of all pawnshops or, for us old folks, that barbershop pole...at least in the olde days.

So there you have it. I’ve seen these red, diamond-shaped, illuminated signs all over Paris, all over France. I never made the connection. So to all of you who are planning to visit us and to all of you who have visited us, stayed tuned for more revelations as I see Paris through your eyes.

October 17, 2009 – Odds and Sods #3 – La Poubelle???

My garbage can got arrested today. Our doorbell rang. Not the interior doorbell which sounds like a poor man’s cheap alarm clock and which we don’t have a clue about so that when it rings we pick up every phone, cellphone, and electronic gadget in our apartment before we realize it’s our front door… No, this was the exterior doorbell that has the video camera attached. I ran to the screen and saw that this guy was a complete stranger. I buzzed him in anyway and ran down the stairs to meet him.

Clearly my French must be getting a little better because he didn’t speak English and he was asking me questions completely out of my frame of reference. Apparently, he was from the Mairie de Paris [the mayor’s office of our arrondissement]. Somehow, the Mairie was informed that we had an illegal garbage can [la poubelle]. Apparently, all garbage cans are registered with the Mairie de Paris. Apparently our green garbage can is supposed to be blue. He was here to check on the registration number of our garbage can! Apparently every garbage can has a registration number.

What makes this very strange indeed, is that our garbage can is inside our hallway which is locked. And then it is inside a locked closet inside our hallway. I opened the closet and the agent marked down the garbage can number. He checked it against his piece of paper with the supposed registration number of our garbage can. It did not match. Busted. We have an illegal garbage can!

Now the questioning, in French, moved to who lives here, who is responsible for the illegal garbage can, yadda yadda yadda? Yes, I live here but I only rent. The owner, he lives in the States. I have a concierge but she lives in the Marais. I don’t think she has a clue about the illegal garbage can. But, wait, we do have a local concierge or person who cleans the common areas and takes care of the garbage. Would you like me to take you to her? Follow me.

I took him to our local concierge, Maria; a 70+ year old woman who lives a few doors down from us. I left after he rang the bell; no need for me to stick around. I don’t know what happened after that. I think our garbage can got arrested and is doing 5 to 10 in the Bastille. Actually, I think they are just registering our dustbin’s number. I don’t really care because what was really important to me is that I actually understood the French the agent spoke to me….and vice versa. Don’t misunderstand me. I am not saying I am fluent in French; not even close. All I am saying is that today, without any help, I was able to successfully communicate with a local official about an off-the-wall subject.

October 15, 2009 – Odds and Sods #2 – The Mean Streets of Paris

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean the unsafe or dangerous streets of Paris. Sure any major city has its share of lovers, muggers and thieves. Hold onto your wallet in the crowded streets that attract tourists to protect yourself from either pick-pockets or scammers selling you gold rings that they found at your feet. No, I mean “look both ways before you cross the street” dangerous.

Paris is one of the most densely populated major metropolitan cities in the world. I mean Paris proper; those 20 arrondissements that the true Parisian considers Paris….not unlike what we New Yorkers consider New York [Manhattan] or a DC’er considers DC [inside the beltway]. True Paris is crowded. Inside true Paris, you buy or rent your flat very close to where you work. You don’t have a car. You use public transport for a stop or two or walk. Sure, you give up living space. A large Paris flat is about as small as what we are living just now, 53 sq.m. [570 sq.ft]. And about 40 percent of the folks live alone!... Don’t get me started on that one….that is material for another blog and why the French all have pets or why there are so many little parks dotted all around Paris.

But public transportation is the rule, although as I observe on my daily run, it’s hard to tell. The traffic in Paris is horrible [and the driver’s are super aggressive]. I think that’s why the city planners came up with an ingenious way to improve traffic flow. One-way streets. Sure, all major cities have one-way streets but not quite like Paris.

Yes, DC [and maybe some other cities] have timed one-way streets [like Rock Creek Park] where during rush hour, the entire roadway is one way or the other. And some other cities have bridges, roadways, or streets that have moving Jersey barriers or are just simply sign-posted to say "in the AM three of these five lanes are in-bound" and "in the PM three of these five lanes are out-bound". But the French have taken it to a new level.

For example, Boulevard St. Michel is a 4-lane street. At one point, it was 2 lanes each way. The city planners decided to make it a one-way street. Then they decided to make one lane dedicated to public transportation and taxis (and bicycles). This is a good idea and not something new. Britain, for example, has been doing this for years. Except in Britain, the dedicated public transportation lanes have been repaved in bright bold red tarmacadam. I know this because I have been pulled over by a friendly Bobby or two who explained to me the difference between the dark black tarmacadam and the red tarmacadam.

However, the Paris city planners decided to make one of the public transportation lanes on St. Michel [and other main streets] travel in the opposite direction from the other three lanes. !!! This is still a good idea except that this one lane is not paved in red tarmacadam. All that is marked on the street is “Danger a Gauche”. So as you are looking to your right onto the three lanes of traffic bearing down on you, that five ton bus coming the opposite way up the “one-way” street has your name on it, en francais!!! Luckily Katherine has snatched me from this perilous situation several times, although she is certain that I am going to “buy it” one of these days when I am out wandering the streets of Paris on my own, sans chaperone…

October 14, 2009 – Odds and Sods #1 – A Tree Grows in …….

I can’t believe it. We are well into our 6th month living in Paris. And my familiarity with Paris has grown so much that it is hard to find the words to fill a blog or eJournal. Don’t get me wrong. I still pinch myself when I run past the Notre Dame Cathedral or get a couple of French “air-kisses” from my local boucherie when I buy my weekly meat from her open-air market stall. So I have decided to write about those little things that catch my eye. Yes, to be sure, there will be eJournal-worthy blogs to come but, for now, as I settle into an actual life in Paris, the big things that knock my socks off, are fewer and far between. But it’s the little things that catch my eye.

For example, on the block between our apartment and our fitness club, is a tree stump. It’s been there since we arrived. I must pass it at least twice a day; more when Katherine drags me out for a walk in the quartier. There are several full grown trees on this block in front of Place de Cluny but this one must have been hit by a car or bus.

I always remember this stump, which I named Brück-Lin and is ancien francais for stump. It just seemed odd that this stump remained. That the Mairie de Paris didn’t just gouge it out and plant a new tree. And then, one day, on the stump where the bark had come away and all that was left was that large smooth oval of under wood that, as a kid, I thought was the mouth of a tree, some artist had painted a face.

And not just any face. It was a sad face. And for emphasis, he drew one large tear falling from its eye. The tree was dead but the artist’s picture gave it life. Where else but Paris would some artist take the time to spruce up [forget the pun] this lifeless stump?

And so, for months, I would walk past Brück-Lin and smile at her painted face. Then, about four weeks ago, voilá, it sprang back to life. Little branches and leaves started sprouting. It was a sight to behold. The branches grew, more leaves appeared. There was life in this old stump after all. But last week…..another one of those massive, French, “we-have-nothing-else-to-do” parades occurred. And when I say “nothing else to do parades”, I mean that. Sure, we had the World War II parade; the Gay Pride parade; the Roller Blade parade; the best cheese in Paris parade [okay, I might be exaggerating] but the “we’re opening a new radio station” parade??? Give me a break.

And what made it even more surreal….it was larger than any of the other parades!! Tens of thousands of drunken French youths, dancing, drinking, smoking [yes], taking off their clothes [okay, that part wasn’t all that bad], puking, peeing, and standing on anything that would give them a better view of the parade….well, Brück-Lin just didn’t stand a chance.

I walked to the club the following day. Those newly sprouted limbs and leaves….gone. That tear in her eye…fitting, once again. Smashed and broken, she was a sorry sight. Katherine and I both thought she was mulch. But today, as we walked to the club, life was stirring. Just over her right “ear” was a bolt of green. I can’t promise she will live. You never know what other important parades Paris will have. But I can tell you this, a tree named Brück-Lin grows in Paris…

Mark's eJournal September 6, 2009 – The Misadventures of Visitors

For the past 5 days, we’ve had Lynda and her son, Ross, visiting with us from New York. Katherine, the Field Marshall of Concierge, has it all under control. Restaurants, markets, museums, churches, gardens, you name it, Field Marshall Katherine has it planned. But being a benign FM, Katherine does take requests. And Ross had his heart set upon Versailles.

Saturday is the day. With military precision, Ross and Lynda will arrive at our apartment absolutely no later than 7:45am. This is so we have enough time to buy our “aller-retour” tickets and catch the 8:19am RER train. Katherine’s alarm goes off at 7:00am, then again at 7:05, 7:10, and 7:15. Katherine finally gets up leaving me to lie in but her alarm still goes off at 7:20. So I get up. My job is to get some McMuffins from the McDonald’s at the end of our street. Quelle horreur, you say, eating McDonald’s in Paris??? Well, we feel the same way. I normally go to our bakery on the corner but it doesn’t open until 8AM while McD’s opens at 7:30. Ahhhh, and there’s the rub. They open at 7:30 but they don’t have anything cooked. I order two McMuffin breakfasts, one with coffee and one with tea. The drinks are poured immediately. The McMuffins come about 15 minutes later. You get the picture; cold drinks to go with warm McMuffins.

Lynda and Ross show up around 8 [for Lynda, this is on time]. I lead them to the station and we buy our tickets “aller-retour”. Through the turnstile and we walk to the appropriate platform. Our train is there. We jump on it just before it pulls away. Katherine asks me if this is the right train. “Of course it is” as I, in French ask a fellow passenger, “is this train to Versailles?”. “Oui”…. “I told you it was the right train”. Two stops later we all get off…it’s only a local train. But we manage to scramble onto the right train and we arrive at Versailles at the planned time.

Having heard my nephew Erik’s horror story of waiting on line at Versailles for 3 hours to buy tickets in early May, the Field Marshall had booked our tickets online. We took the audio tour of the palace, finishing it just in time to walk the gardens to music. About 3 times a year, they play music around the water fountains…this was one of those days. There were loudspeakers hidden away behind all of the tall hedges and hidden in tree limbs – classical music wafted out throughout the gardens as the fountains all sprang to life. You can imagine that in Marie-Antoinette’s day, hundreds of small string quartets were installed playing around the fountains for the courtesans.

Speaking of Marie Antoinette, Katherine insisted that we take in the Queen’s Hamlet near the Petit Trianon in Marie-Antoinette’s Versailles estate. We dutifully agreed this was a good idea. And we are glad we capitulated to her encouragements of “you won’t believe what you’re going to see next…!” To get away from French court life, Marie-Antoinette had an entire hamlet built in Norman style so she and her children could amuse themselves and play at French country life. We wandered around the Hamlet, Ross exclaiming how utterly decadent the whole concept was! Vive la revolution!

We trekked back to the Petit Trianon and gratefully hopped onto a bus-train that whisked us back to the palace. But the Field Marshall had just one or two more things that we had to see. First, there was L’Orangerie; an exquisitely laid out garden with potted fruit trees, bushes, and flowers. Then there was this fountain…which upon closer examination turned out to be a bunch of hoses, artistically arranged with Gardena hose bibs squirting out water. I have to admit; if you are going to view a hose fountain, this is the one to see. I also have to admit, I am being facetious. And because there is a water shortage in France [it’s been a very dry summer], the fountains were only on a few minutes each hour. A hose fountain with water flowing is one thing. A bunch of hoses stuck together in the middle of a pond….well, that’s another thing. But our Versailles trip was over and it was time to go home and see what the Field Marshall has planned for us tomorrow.

Katherine and Lynda did “girl” things, perusing the Marche Auguste-Blanqui in the 13th Arrondissement. Ross took off for the Louvre and The Eiffel Tower. I had the dinner to prepare. So we all went our separate ways with a plan for Ross and me to link up and go to the Jardin du Luxembourg [JdL] for some sightseeing and chess. Around 3PM, Ross showed up at the apartment; ready to play chess and explain his day’s excitement.

Although I’ve written about this before, Ross had a strange encounter which bears repeating, especially for those of you planning to visit Paris any time soon. While he was walking along by the Seine, taking in the gorgeous views and quietly minding his own business, a woman picked up a gold ring and asked if it was his. Despite his protestations, she made him take the ring and as he looked at it, she started walking away. Then she came back and asked Ross if he could give her some money for a sandwich. Ross is a prince and since there was a sandwich place right there, he offered to buy her a meal and a drink. She said no, that she wanted money to get her own sandwich so Ross repeated the offer…with the same response. Then the penny dropped and so did the ring, which Ross put back on the ground. That’s when the woman starting cursing him out and hitting him with her sweat shirt. And as Ross walked away, he saw several other women picking up gold rings in front of other tourists, and smiled…

We got to the JdL. And before we got to the chess tables, we walked around the garden; me showing Ross Le Senat, the main fountain, the petanque courts, the Statue of Liberty, and this strange game called “Longue Paume”…a sort of cross between tennis and badminton only there was no net, just red lines on the concrete court and what appeared to be a plastic ball. Nobody around us could explain the rules so we moved onto the chess tables. All the tables were taken so we made a table with cardboard and a picture that Ross bought as a gift. I don’t know what the attraction was, there were certainly more exciting players and games going on but for some reason we attracted a few folks….some of whom actually offered us alternative moves! Ross is a good player; I lost all my games….even the ones we played later. By now Lynda and Katherine had joined us; apparently they had been observing us for a few minutes. So we wrapped up our pieces and went home to dinner except that Katherine said she had one more little surprise.

As tired as we all were, we reluctantly agreed (don’t mess with the Tour Guide formidable!)…We entered L’Eglise Saint Sulpice, despite all the scaffolding that surrounds it’s much-needed multi-year renovation, and she guided us to a point just left of the altar. There it was – Dan Brown’s “Rose Line” as featured in “The Da Vinci Code.” Never mind that there are several notices mounted on the church’s walls that condemn any or all claims by a “certain recently-published novel of some commercial success” that this is not in any way a Rose Line nor is it connected to the Priory of Sion. Nevertheless, we followed the line across the church and imagined the chase and dastardly deeds that Brown described here in this church in “The Code.”

But all good things come to an end. Lynda and Ross’s time in Paris was coming to an end. The one thing that struck me was seeing Paris through their eyes. We’ve been living in Paris for 4 months but so much has seeped in unconsciously. During our walks and talks with Lynda and Ross, the stuff that came out of our mouths about Paris, France, the customs and mores, the food, the people, etc., just shows that we are truly absorbing it all. I just hope that the next time Lynda and Ross come to visit that the stuff that comes out of my mouth comes out in French…

Mark's eJournal August 24, 2009 – Glasgow

The French take their summer 4-week vacation usually between July 15th and September 15th. It’s known as Les Grandes Vacances. They desert Paris and leave it to the tourists. Restaurants put signs on their doors stating the dates they will be on vacation but these dates are merely suggestions. Check before you decide to walk to your favorite restaurant. That “back August 15th” sign is approximate. It could be the 17th, the 20th or even September 15th. This long vacation ends with “La Rentree” [or homecoming]. No more telephone messages stating that due to the short-staff situation no calls can be answered or returned at this time. Revived, reinvigorated, and refreshed after La Rentree, the French return to work on all cylinders. Instead of the short staff excuse, it’s “why don’t you call somebody who gives a merde”…..

So it comes as no surprise that we too, being Parisians, decided to leave for a fortnight’s holiday in Glasgow.

Stepping off the plane, it is hard to not make comparisons. Leaving the dry, hot weather of Paris and landing in the cool, moist weather of Glasgow; the 90’s of Paris for the 60’s of Glasgow [or 30’s of Paris for the teens of Glasgow for you metric-minded folks]; is like night and day. It’s refreshing. It makes my long runs easy. And then you notice that instead of the calcareous pebbles that dominate the paths and fields of the gardens and parks of Paris, the pavements and paths are dominated by tarmacadam…..which is not surprising since the Scot John MacAdam invented the stuff. We arrive at Katherine's sister May's house in Glasgow and immediately notice how green & lush her garden is.

And while you’re running, you make another observation. The Scots are friendlier than the French. Now, don’t get me wrong. The French friends we’ve made are every bit as friendly as our Scottish friends. Even the shopkeepers whose local shops we frequent are as friendly as their Scottish counterparts. But the French don’t go in for “glaikit” smiles, eye contact, and good morning to passing strangers. The Scots, on the other hand, encourage it. French runners don’t even acknowledge other runners. The Scots nod their head or wave a hand. Pass a Scot walking their dog or just walking in the park, and they’ll say good morning to you. Not so the French.

But the most shocking comparison is prices. After years of traveling to Britain, we usually pack the grocery advertisement section of the papers so that we can compare prices between the US and the UK. The UK is always more expensive. It’s always dollar to pound ratio. Now living in Paris for 4 months, we know that Paris is expensive but not by how much. What the UK prices are to the US prices is what the Paris prices are to the UK prices!!! With the exception of wine prices, it’s amazing how anybody living in Paris can afford anything…..including us.

But the silver-lining in Scotland is the beer prices, easily half the Paris prices. So it’s wine in Paris and beer in Glasgow…..and that’s it from me, I’m off to the pub.

Mark's eJournal August 17, 2009 – Jardin du Luxembourg – Redux

By now you’re all bored with my running stories. I still hit the alleys and byways of Paris daily, usually keeping to tried and true runs like the Louvre-Tuillieries, the Seine quai [east or west], the Jardin des Plantes, the Jardin du Luxembourg [JdL], or runs back and forth to hotels where visiting friends have been staying [so that I can give them the best directions and accurate times to get to our flat]. And like all runs, familiarity breeds contempt….or boredom.

I’m not saying that I don’t get goosebumps when I run by Notre Dame and the bells are ringing but the runs have become routine. Sorta like the runs you have when you leave work at lunchtime. You suit up, hit the road, and go on autopilot. Sure, you notice things like road works, a new car, a pretty woman but most of the time you’re thinking about pace and breathing. So I have to say that when Katherine took a short-cut through JdL last week after walking me to my bridge game on the rue Notre Dame des Champs in the 6th, I was taken aback by all that she encountered and reported on!

She asked me what I’ve seen at the JdL. “Everything” I said; I run there nearly 2-3 times a week. “Everything?” she asked. Have you seen L’Orangerie? NO. The Statue of Liberty? NO. The people playing chess? NO. The beehives? NO. The espaliered fruit orchard? NO. The pleached trees? NO. The children’s fairground? NO. The children sailing their rental sale boats? NO. The horse and mule rental? NO. The tennis courts? NO. The petanque courts? YES!! See, I do know JdL like the back of my hand!

So there it was, like the Emperor’s new clothing. I run around all these things but never really noticed what I was running around. It was time to take a walk through JdL with Katherine.

And what a walk it was. First of all, it must have been the hottest day of the year, 90°+. I dove from shade to shade, seeking shelter from the sun. And all the time, Katherine is asking me if I’ve seen this or that. NO, I run around the park. Only occasionally do I cut through the park. And that is true. The park is almost a perfect one mile circumference. Add to that, the one mile round-trip to/from our flat or our health club and my runs are perfectly measured. Add or subtract a circuit to suit your running distance.

The first thing we come upon is L’Orangerie. It’s a free museum that has changing exhibits. This time it was a painter who did impressionist floral work and a stained glass artist. From here, Katherine asks if I can see the tennis courts and the chess tables. I actually could but never when I was running. In fact, it was hard to see the tennis courts and chess tables because of all these damned trees which Katherine then informed me, were the pleached trees; row upon neatly laid out row…..

We walked through the pleached trees, past the tennis courts, and came out onto a wide dirt path. Here were all the kids with their parents paying their 2 euro to ride the Shetland ponies and mules. Walking past the ponies, you come out into the center of the JdL. There’s a large central, massive fountain here along with bed after bed of flower plantings, all in bloom…which I have actually run past, sort of. But what I didn’t see was the boat rental stand or the kids with their rented stick, pushing their rented sail boats into the fountain.

But it was hot. I needed shade. We went back into the trees surrounding either side of the central gardens, passing 4 or 5 impressive sculptures, which I had never seen, and then, there it was…….the Statue of Liberty! I actually knew that there was a liberty statue here; I even went looking for it on one of my runs but if it wasn’t very close to my circuit, well, you understand. This is actually the second Statue of Liberty in Paris. The other one is in the middle of the Seine near the Eiffel Tower. The one in the JdL is actually Bartholdi’s maquette of the actual statue on the Hudson.

From the Statue of Liberty, it is literally a petanque’s throw away from the petanque courts. And this is a really nice place to be on a hot day. It is deeply shaded with loads of benches and chairs to watch the petanque matches. Anybody can play. The French are very friendly. You don’t even need to have your own petanques; they’ll let you play with theirs but don’t. This is one of those games that takes a minute to learn and a lifetime to master. Practice by yourself or with someone of your own caliber before trying to take one of these guys on. And they even have a creperie here making fresh sweet or salty crepes…and NO, I’ve never seen it before even though I’ve passed the petanque courts.

After cooling down, it’s time to continue walking south, towards the end of the JdL. There are large warning signs here, telling you not to cross the grass because they have their own beehive colonies….dozens of them. And the beehives are for the 800 varieties of apples and pears that they grow in the park on espaliered trees. I’ve actually run passed some of these trees, all the while noticing the large white bows which I assumed were tying the tree branches to the espalier wire. But, as Katherine pointed out, I was wrong….these were white paper bags that were placed around some, but not all, of the fruit. Neither of us knows exactly why but we think it had something to do with saving the fruit from spoiling on the vines.

It was getting kind of late. I asked if we could go by the chess tables. We walked around the tables and it reminded me of Washington Square or Dupont Circle, but with a difference. Some people were playing on the park-provided tables. Others just put two chairs together and place their board on the chairs. Some people had those wind-up chess clocks where that little red flag would drop indicating time expired. Other people had those expensive computer clocks while others had no clocks. Some people were playing chess. Others were playing checkers. And some were playing that French card game Belote-Rebelote. But the difference was the bottles of wine. No drunks. Just a little refreshment. They even sell and serve beer and wine from one of the concession stands! Very civilized. I didn’t order anything but I was invited to play so I sat down. I now go to the park on a regular basis to play chess. It’s a good way for me to practice my French. I don’t know which is worse, my French or my chess!

I still run around the JdL, on autopilot, but now I know what I am missing.

July 5, 2009 – Pont du Gard

Today, Wendy has a surprise for us. It’s warm in Provence. When Wendy and Katherine were planning this trip, Katherine asked if there was a place where we could go swimming, a lake, a pool, or a river. We knew we were going swimming somewhere but not exactly. We packed up our stuff including a picnic of wine and paella which we had bought at the Uzès market the day before.

The drive to Pont du Gard was short; maybe 30 minutes or so. The walk from the parking lot to Wendy’s favorite spot was equally as long or at least it felt that long, carrying all our picnic stuff but I took courage [bon courage?] knowing that it would be lighter on our walk back to the car.

We got to the entrance of the park where Wendy demanded that we close our eyes or at least keep them aimed on the ground. We obediently followed her orders until instructed otherwise….which happened after 300 meters. And looking, we saw nothing to raise our eyebrows. But as we turned a corner, there it was…….

The Pont du Gard…built shortly before the Christian era to allow the aqueduct of Nîmes (which is almost 50 km long) to cross the Gard river. The Romans designed and built this bridge/aqueduct, which stands almost 50 m high and is on three levels – the longest measuring 275 m. It’s an impressive piece of work. Even better, having worked up a sweat getting here, it was now time to indulge ourselves.

We found a place on the riverbank to spread ourselves. Opened our paella, olives, and a bottle of white wine that we bought yesterday at the market and had a tasty picnic. Then it was time to take a dip. The water was cool but not cold. But swimming under one of the largest and oldest aqueducts in the world just put shivers up my spine. Gliding in between all the swimmers were kayaks and dinghies of all shapes and sizes – kayaks for 1 person, kayaks for two people and a picnic, kayaks for four people and a picnic plus a dog, all of them meandering downriver, the younger kayakers playfully splashing water with their paddles on other kayakers, or playing “ram the kayak” games…we have some wonderful pictures. We all went swimming (including Marie Antoinette) and enjoyed the wonderful cool water on a perfectly beautiful Provence day.

Now, wherever there is a river there are rocks to jump off. And this place is no different. But you also have the aqueduct. And while dozens of people were jumping and diving safely off the rocks, one young man was evidently goaded by some idiot friends to jump from the aqueduct….about 100 feet high. Not unexpectedly, the boy hit the water hard. The cops, emergency services, and firemen were on the scene within 15 minutes. (Wendy found out the following day at the Carrefour supermarche that the local boy suffered some very serious spinal injuries, which is so very sad). He was just out having some fun with a group of his friends on a beautiful day in Provence...

As we watched the emergency services attend to the boy underneath the historic arches of the Pont, some large back clouds and distant lightning were gathering. We hastily packed up our picnic baskets, grabbed our towels and Marie Antoinette and headed back to the car - we barely made it to the car, already soaking wet, before the heavy storm came roaring through. As we drove back through the rain to Masmolene (with a quick stop at the bakery and market at Uzes for bread, milk and chocolate - all of life’s essentials) we got some odd looks from the locals in our dampened state, especially Mark who walked into the shop wearing his swimming gear and carrying his shorts.. By the time we parked the car in the town square at Masmolene, the sun was shining again and we all trooped upstairs to shower and get into some dry clothes. Another very memorable day in Provence – The Pont du Gard should definitely be on your must-see list if you travel to this neck of the Provence woods…and think about taking a kayak downriver, you’ll marvel at the Pont hundreds of feet above you as you glide down the river.

July 4, 2009 – Uzès

Wendy knows I like to cook. She’s heard me talk about the fresh produce and meats that we have been buying at the local markets and has told me where some of the better Paris markets are. She’s even had a few meals of mine so her plan was two-fold. One, take us to the weekly Uzès market so that we could buy stuff to take back and cook dinner. And two, take us to a bistro to sample the local fare at her friend Tom’s restaurant.

The drive to Uzès was like our drive to Masmolene. Alternating fields of grapes, apricots, corn, asparagus, etc. and sunflowers which, in French is Tournesol because sunflowers turn their heads away from the sun! And the trip wasn’t nearly as scary since Wendy did the driving.

Uzès is a large hill town compared to Masmolene and it was built in the 5th century by the Romans, among others. It actually has shops, restaurants, bars, banks, pharmacies, etc. unlike Masmolene which has only one single post box! Now Uzès is a typical hill town. It has a circular road around it with spokes leading from that road to the town center [think of a wheel with spokes]. Park your car anywhere on the circular road and walk down any spoke and you hit the town center. And as you walk down these spokes, each one is filled with stalls selling clothes, craft items, plants, hardware, candles, and, of course, fresh produce and meats.

As you get to the end of a spoke, you hit the town center. The market is in full swing. You can’t see one side of the square from the other side. It’s hard to appreciate that the buildings that surround the square consist of dozens of restaurants and a few more shops that were built in that Roman “amphitheatre” style [at least to me] with those curved arched roofs undulating from shop to shop.

Wendy has her favorite merchants; she’s been coming here for 15 years. She explains to me each merchant’s specialty. What’s unique to Uzès. But best of all, she knows I want to speak French so she tells me to watch what the locals do and say when they order their stuff. “Trois têtes des artichauts” instead of me asking for three artichokes. Or “une cuillère des olives” instead of 100 grams of olives because in Uzès, the olive merchants use a large olive-wood spoon with holes in it to scoop up the olives. But the real killer is “bon courage” which you say to a merchant who’s being overworked by all the people buying from him. It always brings a wink and a big smile.

Having bought our dinner, we walk into Tom’s restaurant (“Terroirs”). Find it at www.enviedeterroirs.com. He has the best table reserved for us; next to the air conditioning which is a large fan. We order a few local tapas things to start like octopus salad, chevre, and anchovies and a few main courses which are thick slices of bread with warm toppings like cheese, tomatoes, sardines, onions confit, etc. and green side salad. And a bottle or two of the local wine. Parfait.

It’s now well past 1 o’clock and the market is being deconstructed in front of our eyes. White vans appear everywhere and the stalls with their wares, disappear. Slowly, you start to appreciate how large the square is. You begin to see the central fountain which used to be the town’s only source of drinking water. You start to see the other side of the square and appreciate the Roman architecture.

And then you realize that you’ve eaten too much. It’s time to go home, take a nap, and get ready for dinner. The perfect end to a perfect morning and afternoon in Uzès.

July 3, 2009 – On to Provence

Well, it’s the beginning of the end of my “birthday week”. Unbeknownst to me, Katherine and Wendy [our insider to all things French] were cooking up a birthday special for me. It began with Katherine taking me out to dinner on my birthday at one of Wendy’s [and now one of our] favorite restaurants called Fish in the 6th arr. And it ended up with us catching a TGV to Avignon and joining Wendy at her friend’s villa in Provence.

Now the TGV is the fastest passenger train in the world. At 150 mph you feel like you’re flying on the ground. That is, if you’re moving. We had a few problems. At first, we were told that we were pulling off into a siding because of some repair work up ahead of us. But after 5 or 6 TGVs came flying by us, another explanation was offered up to us over the loudspeakers (en francais, naturellement). We had some sort of engine problem but that it would only take a few more minutes to sort out. About 15 minutes later, we were given a call for help. Was there anybody on the train that could help with a medical emergency? Apparently, somebody was having a claustrophobia attack (the train was a double decker and the poor soul was travelling on the lower deck, 2nd class no less).

Anyway, we sat in the siding for about an hour with several more updates. First we would be going back to Paris. Then it was determined that our TGV could not go faster than 4 mph so another engine would be coming to push us back to Paris. No, another engine would come and pull us to Lyon…back to Paris, then maybe south towards Lyon and Orange…you get the picture. We ended up in Paris about the time we were supposed to arrive at Avignon.

And the silver lining to all this is the contingency plans that the SNCF [the national company that runs the TGV] have. As soon as we got back to the Gare de Lyon in Paris on the tracks right next to us was our brand new TGV. Off our broken train and onto the new train and we were rolling at lightning speed once again. And to sweeten the pot, we all got a free “coffret repas” – basically a French bento-box. And, unlike our air carriers who leave you stranded on the tarmac without so much as an apology, we were all given vouchers and postage-paid envelopes so that our fares could be refunded.

And now it was time to rent our car and drive to Masmolene. Avignon was hot as it usually is in July. Climatisation [or AC] if it exists, seems to be set to a cool 80 degrees! [or maybe it’s just set at 20 degrees lower than the ambient temp so you can feel the difference but really not get cool]. So as I am dripping in the Hertz office, I ask that we reserved a 4 car door. She tells me my sized car does not come with a 4 door model. Yes I know I rented the smallest vehicle made but I pick up the car sheet and show her the Hertz picture of my car in a 4 door variety. She says she doesn’t think there are any left. I summon up my best ass-kissing French that I can and ask her could she check one more time? And then I spring it on her “Vous êtes très gentile.” That did it. I got my 4 door car.

So we’re off. Katherine is directing the journey. I’ve got the AC on full blast [which seems to work as well as the AC in the buildings] so we’re basically forming small pools of liquid in our seats. Now Wendy was kind of enough to print out directions for us….the scenic ones. Now France has two main sorts of roads. N roads or national roads and D roads.

Now N roads aren’t all that bad. Think two lane each way highways only with smaller lanes. D roads think beautiful scenery, beautiful views, flowers, mountains, crops, animals and one lane each way except that as you plant your car comfortably in the center, it’s only when a car at lightnng speed and coming in the other direction that you realize it’s not a one-way street.

But the views……hard to imagine fields of lavender in all their purple glory next to a field of sunflowers in their yellow glory. You bob up and down over the gently rolling hills [and not so gently as you get closer to Masmolene – it’s a hill town]. A field of corn on one side of the road and maybe wild asparagus on the other side. Apricot orchards being harvested or vineyards with the grapes just forming after their flowering. And in the distance, up on the hillside, the village church and castle of Masmolene.

Now Wendy told us that Masmolene was tiny but that her friend’s house was comfortable and large enough for the 3 of us and Marie Antoinette [Wendy’s cocker spaniel]. She was correct on both accounts. The house, built in the 11th or 12th century just like the village, easily swallowed us up. On the outside, the house looked like every other building in Masmolene, entirely built with ancient limestone brick from the local quarry. The inside had been renovated a bunch of times [there was no running hot and cold water, toilets, or gourmet kitchen back in the 12th century]. And for being a tiny village, let me say truthfully that upon our arrival, we doubled the population.

We had got off to a bad start with the TGV challenges, but looking back, it was a valuable experience. Our 2 ½ hour journey ended up taking 7 hours. Our white-knuckle drive only lasted 45 minutes. The views were fantastic; we learned how to take a TGV; Wendy has a gourmet dinner prepared and cases of local white and red wine; and we’re here…..in Provence.

June 26, 2009 – A New Marche

The French have two things; their opinions and their love of food. Every French person has an opinion about the best wine, the best restaurant, the best part of Paris to live, etc. etc. and of course, the best market to buy food. Which is not surprising. They don't eat to live, they live to eat. And the basis of good food is good ingredients which in France means fresh. That is why the big supermarkets like we have in the States haven't really caught on. Instead, the are myriad local shops, each specializing in meat, cheese, bread, wine, deli, or vegetables where the French buy their stuff, daily. But to me, it's hard to say which market is the "best" since they all sell the same stuff at the same price. In fact, there are so many shops, all identical, that it baffles me how they can all stay in business. My local shops are just 4 blocks from our flat. But there is another set of shops, just a half block further down the street!

And to further add to my "baffleness" is that around each of these shops, about 3 times each week, is an open-air farmer’s market. Now these open-air markets are very interesting. They are all over Paris. There are dozens of open-air markets daily somewhere in Paris. On any given day you can find one. All that matters is how far you want to travel. So on top of the local shops competing with each other, you have the local open-air market competing with the shops, yet they all stay in business.

To me, again, these open-air markets are all the same. They are built the night before the market opens and torn down in the afternoon after the market closes. Posts are placed into permanent locking holes in the street or pavement and a canvas or plastic sheet is suspended over the posts. The farmers then set up their stalls in the early morning. Typically, these markets are built in the local square. Sometimes the market extends through one or two streets [or more]. In these cases, it looks to me that the local shops merely extend their store fronts by setting up a stall.....and that makes sense to me since it tries to stifle some of the competition. Invariably, the market terminates in the local town square.

And so, it was no surprise, that as I was trying to figure out what to buy and how to ask for it, at my local Marche Maubert, that this Asian guy in front of me, who spoke English, decided to help. As we spoke, I gushed how much I really liked Marche Maubert, the fresh ingredients, the negotiating, and then he burst my bubble. "If you think this market is great, you really need to go to Marche d'Aligre. It's better. It's bigger. It's open 6 days a week and it's cheaper. This local market is far too bourgeois. The real French go to Marche d'Aligre."

He said he was only shopping at the Marche Maubert because he didn't have the time to get over to Marche d'Aligre. Then I remembered that Wendy Lyn, our concierge, had mentioned le Marche d'Aligre and the penny dropped. Plus, the guy kept saying, "this cabbage, half the price at d'Aligre, these cherries, a third the price at d’Aligre...well you kinda get the message.

The next day Katherine and I walked to Marche d'Aligre; about a mile or so across the Seine near the Bastille. First of all, the market is huge. Five or six blocks long with a covered market and square right in the middle and on both sides of the street. Stalls fill both sides of the streets that are blocked off from traffic. There are people everywhere. You can hear the market from about four blocks away. In order to accurately describe this market, let me use places that all you world travellers are familiar with. It reminds me of Washington Square with those independent rock bands blasting out their music. Petticoat Lane with the buskers screaming out what's on sale. It's as crowded as Mott Street on any given day. Or the Barras in Glasgow, on the weekend, with people selling the same stuff from 10 or 15 different stalls. Or, for the cost-conscience, it's like an open air Costco. [Yes, it really is cheaper by at least fifty percent or more!!]

It's great. We go here all the time now. We eat lunch at a little bakery. We drink a glass of wine at the Baron Rouge. We buy fresh fruit, veggies, bread, meat, and fish, not to mention "bricolage" (haberdashery). I am very happy. I have my first French opinion - the best market to go to is Marche d'Aligre. And, just when I think I've found the pot of gold at the end of the proverbial french rainbow of markets, yet another french guy offers up another opinion. As I gushed over the vegetables at d'Aligre, he quipped, have you been to the "bio" market at Blvd Raspail? You must go there on Sundays... Ah, another market to experience....Yes, all the markets are the same yet different.