Tuesday, Nov. 2-- Paris

Petit dejeuner at a cafe where the waiter had obviously taken lessons from the woman in Vex about menu substitutions.  No matter how V tried to explain it,  her request to have a capuccino instead of a regular coffee met with refusal.  It was a small thing, however, and we did not let it dampen the giddy spirit of being in Paris with a whole day to explore.

Met V's niece, Amy, who had been working at a vineyard in Burgundy, and together we signed on to a walking tour of the Marais District. It is a travel truism that tours are made by the guide. We found this true in Istanbul, and it was certainly the case here. The tour was a delight thanks to the animated, knowledgeable British guide who, despite reminding me of the Uriah Heep character from the 1930s film version of David Copperfield, was funny and engaging and not the least bit humble.

Amy and V

We traversed the neighbourhood and were regaled--can one be re-galed without having been galed first??--with interesting bits of history and local sites.  The history was highlighted by a lengthy story about a popular minister at Eglise St. Paul-St. Louis and his female flock.  The power of this man's sermons, not to mention his dazzling good looks, apparently had the ladies sending servants down to line up for prime pews.  Competition was so fierce that, once ensconced, the ladies were loathe to leave their seats during the three plus hour sermons, lest they be invaded by others.  The ladies coped with the call of nature, apparently, by having designer bowls beneath their skirts which, once used, were passed back to an attending servant.

Graffiti from the French Revolution

"Republique Fancaise (sic) ou la mort"

Local churches and impressive mansions, once private homes but now mostly public edifices, all had centuries of fascinating stories associated with them, but the group's attention was perhaps most focused when the guide pointed out the front door of a couples swapping club and provided floor-by-floor details of the activities inside.  He was careful to point out that this information was second hand, speculative, and rumour, and not at all based on personal experience. 

The tour ended in Place des Voges, one of the city's oldest residential developments and most distinguished addresses.  Here , we found a plaque on one of the townhomes claiming it to be where Victor Hugo wrote Les Miserables.  Interestingly, Les Miz has been an ongoing theme through this trip, beginning with the plaque on a house in Guernsey claiming it to be the spot where Hugo composed the story.  Then, of course, there was the memorable stage performance in London's West End, and finally, the claim by 21 Place des Voges as being the real site of Hugo's writing. 

Met Amy's friend and fellow wine maker, Chris, and went for lunch at Chez Janou, a small bistro around the corner.  The food was delicious, the wine list, according to our lunch partner experts, was impressive, and the service was delightful and attentive, qualities not often associated with Parisian restaurants.  They even allowed substitutions!!  We lingered for a couple of hours over the food and conversation, enjoying the ambiance and the company.  This is what the Paris experience is all about.  Well...all that AND  a GIANT bowl of mousse (see photo).

Monster mousse

Goodbyes at the subway station, the young people back to Beaune, and us off on a twelve-stop metro journey beyond the Montmartre.  Trains full of commuters looking exactly like commuters everywhere.  Reality is that if you're battling your way through throngs five days a week, struck on an overcrowded mode of public transport, trying to get to or from a job that ain't great, then doing it in Paris is no more fun than doing it in Vancouver or Istanbul.


Had a drink with Careen's oldest daughter Leonie--if you have no idea who Careen is, then you have skipped over some of the entries. Go back--in a small cafe in the 18th arrondissement.  Leonie, like her sister, is an artist, and this neighbourhood, and particularly the cafe felt like the kind of place where struggling young creative minds and bodies convene.  It was cold and inexpensive and V and I were the only people over 30, or so it seemed.  Can imagine that this is what Cafe Flores and other Parisian haunts were like for Hemingway and his cronies during the 1920s.

Despite being tired, did not want Paris to end, so we walked the 85 (or so it seemed) miles back to the hotel.  Wonderful to see the city at night even if it is a bit tainted by the Vegas-like light show on the Eiffel Tower.

Eiffel Tower ablaze

Only one incident worth noting, and it had to do with my ongoing battles with technology. 

When one needs to pee in Paris, the city has conveniently located fully automatic toilets on street corners. 
I can attest to the fully automatic part.  With the cold and the pints working their wonders, I was happy to espy one of these conveniences.  While V stood guard, I pushed the button, and like a hatch on a starship, the door swooshed open.  Inside was a marvel of technology with buttons aplenty, a toilet and sink, and a big red handle.  I need not, dear reader, go into the sordid details of the encounter.  Suffice to say that I ended up on the sidewalk, unrelieved, with the door sealed and the damn machine thinking me still inside and so refusing to allow entrance. My pressing condition was not eased by my Vs being doubled up with laughter.

Arrived back at the hotel in the nick of time--I was not about to relive the recent humiliation.  Too tired to go our for dinner.  The smiling owner of the Indian restaurant next to the hotel was delighted to have me as a repeat customer.