At the Louvre, the Venus de Milo

June 30, 2013

I feel like I need to be done with Paris, writing about it anyway, or this travel journal will be so far behind that I’ll forget too much and never capture the feelings and essence of the city of love. Which it isn’t–the city of love, I mean. I think my vision of Paris was the Paris of the early to mid 20th century: rain washed side streets with tiny bistros populated by intense artists sipping endless espressos, beautiful women drinking champagne, and debonair older gentlemen savoring aperitifs and beautiful women. I pictured lovers holding hands, stopping to kiss on the Pont du St. Michel and indulgent Parisians smiling complicity.

In a way all of these things were there. In another, more obvious, way Paris is a large, metropolitan city with little time for romance or tourists. If you were ever the new kid at a high school, you will likely remember the feeling of having no idea where to go, who to ask for help, or how to be. That’s Paris. Signs pointing to museums and other points of interest are scarce, questions about directions are often met with impatience, and the Parisian who is courteous frequently turns out to be from somewhere else. Like the nice Italian man whom we greeted with relief every time we saw him at the front desk of the hotel. In fact, we saved up our questions for him. I feel like I spent so much time trying to figure things out (the maps, the Metro, the trains, the schedules, the menus) that I was almost too exhausted to take in the city and appreciate its magnificence. Still, by Day Three, we had the transportation systems down and were able to visit Notre Dame Cathedral in the morning followed by a couple of hours enjoying the impressionists at the Musee d’Orsay. After that we hit the Latin Quarter for crepes and shopping. Mike and I headed back to the hotel to rest a bit before visiting the Louvre for the evening. Good plan. Unfortunately, we confused the train and Metro schedules and barely made it back by 5:00.

When we arrived at the Louvre we found that most of Paris decided an evening visit would be a good idea. We picked up our audio tour equipment, were stunned to hear complex instructions delivered rapidly in English (thank God) and be sent off to view the masterpieces with large, half GPS, half Nintendo, hand-held devices and unwieldy earphones. And they didn’t work consistently. The four of us wandered around asking each other if we were getting audio and trying to duplicate any success one of us might be having. This proved so irritating that we abandoned both the system and each other, agreeing to meet a few minutes before the museum closed at 9:45. Periodically I would see Mike or Dale or my sister and we would spend a few minutes looking at the Venus de Milo or the Mona Lisa together. Mostly I focused on paintings and sculptures that had audio information accessible by entering a number (I figured that much out). The commentary talked about the artist, told the story of the painting, often described technique, or provided the political backstory of the the work. Fascinating.

Although I have always wanted to see the great works, part of me never believed it would happen. I’m so grateful to have seen the Mona Lisa and other masterpieces. Even more, I feel so lucky to have discovered new treasures and paintings I didn’t know were in Paris. For instance the last time I tried to see The Boating Party by Renoir was at the Phillips Gallery in Washington D.C., it was on loan somewhere. I was surprised and gratified to find it at the d’Orsay along with Van Gogh’s Starry Night. There were portraits and landscapes by Cezanne and Monet that I didn’t know existed, had never seen, even in art books. Such a deep and satisfying experience–really there are no words.

Near the Louvre we found a little Italian bistro and enjoyed a late dinner (pizza) as well as a chance to sit and contemplate and sensually e sensual feast that is Paris.

The next day was different.

Knowing we would be renting a car and driving in Paris, we stayed in the northern part of the city and arranged to rent a car nearby. Because the Europcar site was .9 miles from our hotel no cab would take us to it. So Dale, Mike and I walked to pick up the car. Mike had to go because he was the principal driver; Dale had to go so he could be signed up as a secondary driver, and I had to go because I allegedly speak a little French or because I’m a bad person who deserves to be punished. You decide. While we were gone, Noni would buy water, baguettes, cheese, fruit, and macarones (cookies)  so we could picnic on out way to Normandy. Because we would be back so soon, she would rush through these purchases….

The three stooges–I mean Mike, Dale and I–started walking to the car rental place. Before long we were lost or rather one of us was sure we were lost and decided to hail a cab. The cab driver kicked us out of the cab and pointed us in the right direction; I’m pretty sure there were a few expletives involved. As always we were told the destination was 5 minutes away. This means 5-35 minutes but we knew that so it was no surprise to arrive at Euopcar about 11:30 (50 minutes after leaving the hotel). I’m not exaggerating when I say that renting the car involved 40 minutes of the salesperson typing information into a computer. She was very nice, spoke a little English so we muddled though the process. Finally we were to get our car, which was 2 blocks away in a parking garage but, not to worry, because ” here’s the security card which you will use to get into the building, operate the elevator and exit the parking garage.”. Got that? Neither did we, but off we went and eventually drove a manual transmission Passat out of the garage and into hell.

There are lots of one way streets in Paris so we knew that we would have to use an alternate route back to the hotel. First though, Mike had to drive around the Charles DeGaulle rotary, which surrounds the Arc de Triomphe, and is apparently the ninth circle of the Inferno. I don’t know if I can describe what it’s like to have 20 cars come at you when you’re trying to read street signs and find the one exit that will take you to the street you need. There are no lanes and there are no rules. Close your eyes, step on the gas and lay on your horn. There are hundreds of vehicles including buses, scooters, and motorcycles (not sure what the average life span of a cyclist is–can’t be long).

Eventually we made it back–about 1:00. We stuffed everything and everyone into the car and headed north–one more time through the Charles DeGaulle rotary–to Bayeux and the Normandy coast.

Macarones!

June 30, 2013
On June 24th, we arrived in Paris on the Eurostar train, which went through the Chunnel, a tunnel under the English Channel (yikes!). At the taxi stand I asked about the fare (this is the advice of every travel book–don’t get into the taxi without negotiating a fare) and was told in French, ” There’s a meter!” The subtext was ” you stupid idiot.” So we took the taxi (24 Euros) to Hotel Niel and dragged our duffles into a tiny but well appointed room. We found out from the person at the desk (concierge? Receptionist? Person who hates Americans?) that everything was closed, that lunch is from 12 – 2 and dinner from 7 – 10 and that Barbarians who want to eat now (4:30) can find food at the Hippopotamus. Okay, not sure if we were supposed to take that personally, although we did have a nice late lunch there and the waitress was very pleasant.

In order to get a feeling for the area we walked a couple of miles down local streets and the Champs Élysées where we stopped for cafe au lait and profiteroles (17 Euros and lots of snotty attitude). Before I start to come off as anti-French, let me say that every French person I met or spoke with prior to the trip assured me that “once you get out of Paris everyone is nice.” We found this to be accurate.

The Champs Élysées was not what I expected. It’s a busy metropolitan area with beaucoup expensive shops and cafes, which are not called cafes. Cafe is a drink (coffee) and don’t you forget it-at least not while you’re in Paris. Car dealerships next to restaurants next to pharmacies, next to high end retail (think Cartier). After that little foray, we returned to the hotel and got ready to walk to the Eiffel Tower to wait for nightfall and see the fireworks that were scheduled to celebrate the start of summer.

Summer. A word that leads one to expect sunshine and clear skies, if not warmth. I’m not sure if the weather pattern in Europe has been unusual this year (we’ve been told that), but the appearance of the sun has been rare. In London we bought an umbrella and I wore jeans throughout our stay there. To prepare for the 2.5 mile trek, I donned all my warm clothes: jeans, a shirt, the black sweater that will have to be tossed when I get home and my jean jacket. It was not enough.

We stood by the beautiful Seine for two hours, watching the crowd, declining to buy models of the landmark, taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower as the sky darkened, refusing opportunities to buy (cold) wine or key chains, taking pictures for other tourists, and, finally, after midnight figuring out there would be no fireworks. We have a couple of theories about this. On the hour the tower lights up with special, sparkling lights, in addition to the regular lights. Could those be metaphorical sparklers? Or did we interpret “at midnight” too literally? A lot of the crowd left at midnight but maybe they were tourists also. I’ve since learned that time and distance are merely estimated. For example, virtually every destination can be reached in 5 to 20 minutes while wearing gorgeous and expensive high heels. Not so.

The next day we enjoyed our first continental breakfast ala France. Each place was set with a cup, napkin and silverware along with a basket holding a huge croissant. A long table set buffet style held the rest of the food (baguettes, sliced bread, raisin pastries, small chocolate croissants, little donut things, cereal, and boiled eggs). Closer inspection revealed a small refrigerator with cheese packages and yogurt. Coffee was served on a hot ring alongside hot milk. I’ve become fond of drinking coffee this way as it tends to be very strong, almost espresso; the milk makes it delicious and keeps it warm.

When Mike and I were traveling through Spain a few years back, we stayed in a large hotel in Granada which featured a huge breakfast buffet that catered to international,tastes. We noticed that the Spanish ate cold meats and cheeses, Germans chose eggs and sausages, the British stuck to kippers, eggs and toast with beans on top, and the Americans favored fruit, cereal, and eggs. The French tended to choose a baguette with a little cheese, a roll, a croissant, another roll, a pastry and a roll.

Right before I left home I received the results of a recent blood test. Cholesterol down (yeah!); triglycerides up. I wasn’t sure what that meant, so my doctor told me to cut down on carbs and sugar. “But I’m going to France,” I told him. A pause. “Well, cut down when you get back.”

On our second day in Paris, Mike and I explored the city, especially enjoying the Latin Quarter, while Noni and Dale headed to Versailles. Our third day would be packed with sightseeing so we decided to sleep in, absorb the ambiance of the city and continue carb loading… That night, on the recommendation of the gentleman at the desk we went to a local brasserie for dinner. While we waited to be seated I was sent to look at the menu posted on the wall. I got a quick glance at it, noticing that haricot vert, green beans, were 16 euros ($20). Perhaps this was a special main dish? Non. As the person in our group who took French in high school, I got to deliver the bad news. At this very casual restaurant, with sidewalk seating and nothing that warned the customer, a dinner for four was going to cost us about $500–600. Everything was ala carte. The most expensive main course was a seafood platter (119 €–you do the math); the least expensive was 65 € for duck leg tendon or something equally appealing. We left.

Later we wondered why the man from Hotel Niel, a modest establishment, would recommend this brasserie. I had asked him to suggest a cafe and he’d informed me that cafe was a drink. He had mimed drinking coffee in case I was too stupide to get it.
Since leaving Paris, people have used the word cafe to mean small place to eat and the word is on actually on restaurant signs. Just saying.

Next…our last full day in Paris, one cathedral, two museums, and many foot miles.

Eiffel Tower at midnight

Only available in Scotland. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

June 20, 2013

This morning I dropped off our laundry-it was washed, folded and returned this afternoon. I could get used to this. I mentioned that we were getting a late start today and Hanni offered a breakfast in bed option. The service is so high level here that it shocks me to see no one leaving tips at the breakfast tables. Perhaps one tips at the end of the stay?

Between having walked miles yesterday and saturated our senses with the many sites of Bath and knowing that we are leaving tomorrow for London, we deliberately slowed the pace down a bit. During a mid-morning break for tea in the Abbey square we listened to a soprano with a lovely voice, who hit all the high notes without strain. It’s a pet peeve of mine when someone with a weak upper register sings “The Heart Must Go On” because it mustn’t, not if you can’t sing it. Later we strolled through town and spent some time enjoying the city parks and bridges over the Avon River–not to be confused with the river further north of Stratford-Upon-Avon Shakespearean fame. By the way, you are welcome the spell the Bard’s name as Shakespeare or Shakespear as he spelled it both ways. Many of us would appreciate the flexibility of spelling in Elizabethan times. Perhaps that’s texting’s contribution to the future of language. LMAO. Perhaps not.

This afternoon we had a “proper tea” in a local restaurant, opting to wait for the high tea experience in London–maybe. Besides two, thin crustless sandwiches, we were supposed to ingest 2 scones and 4 desserts: lemon tart, strawberry cream tartlet, chocolate decadence cake, and something like fruit cake only with pumpkin seeds on top (and unlike fruit cake in my experience, it was good). It’s a lowering reflection to realize that everyone has better pastries than we (Americans) do. I can attest to the truth of this in Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Scotland, and now England. And I haven’t even gotten to France yet. Before you start defending pastry in the US, I have one thing to say to you: donuts. And don’t mention beignets or croissants because they aren’t ours–they’re French!

I’ve been avoiding this discussion, but after nearly a week in the UK it’s time to acknowledge the obvious: pounds are not dollars. This is easy to forget when a cup of tea might cost 3.95 GBP (Great Britain Pounds). So $4.00, not so bad, right? Well, it’s not $4; it’s 4 GBP! Today that’s $6.08 in dollars–$6.08 for water and a bag (okay sometimes it’s loose tea in a cute pot but still). Food, in general, is more expensive here; in fact I haven’t found anything that struck me as a less expensive than the US. I wonder if people from Europe and the UK think the US is a bargain. Probably not. None of this has stopped me from shopping of course. Besides, I couldn’t buy an authentic, made in Scotland, pink version of the Royal Stewart plaid, child’s size kilt in the US at any price, could I? And don’t mention that I could’ve bought it online. What’s the fun in that?

June 19, 2013

It was a busy day, visiting 3 major sites and walking a few miles around the city. First a word about the Henrietta House, where we are spending 3 nights. Built in the 1700s, the B&B is a historic landmark, filled with antiques and lovingly restored rooms. Our small, quiet room looks out on a terrace of sorts and features a double sash window with the original indoor shutters. I’ve noticed that small hotel rooms are typical in Europe, probably a reflection of limited space. Walls have been painted in historic colors, tapestries and paintings adorn the walls and worn carpets cover wide planked, original wood floors. The bright and well appointed breakfast room is on our floor and we enjoyed the best breakfast I’ve ever had in a B&B.

We entered a room with tables for two and four covered in white tablecloths and place settings. Fresh orange and apple juices in pitchers had their own table while a longer table was filled with breads and toasters, including two hot, homemade baguettes, which were covered with napkins and placed on a cutting board. Cereal and granola (in individual jars) stood by bowls of fresh and dried fruits. A plate of croissants and pastries took up the remaining space. On each table was a menu with the exhortation to order more than one breakfast as “we don’t want anyone to leave our tables hungry.” Two college age girls took care of the dining room, bringing us coffee and the fresh squeezed juice of the day, carrot and cucumber. Mike ordered buttermilk pancakes with bananas, maple syrup and streaky (crisp) bacon. I had the omelet I with smoked salmon, sour cream and chives. Also on the menu was the full English breakfast, a soft boiled egg with bacon soldiers (strips of toasted wrapped with bacon), a mature cheddar cheese omelet, kippers and scrambled eggs, and another choice I can’t remember. Oh yeah, it was porridge with maple syrup and brown sugar. I should mention that the chef also provides each room with an assortment of homemade biscuits and fresh fruits each day to enjoy with an assortment of teas, instant coffee packets and an electric pot for heating water (typically found in UK). None of this begins to convey the commitment to comfort and service that characterizes Henrietta House. And everyone is so nice and seemingly happy to be here taking care of tourists. Refreshing.

After our early breakfast we walked the the Roman Bath exhibit. Fascinating. As an American it’s hard to fathom history that begins before the first century, when the Romans were already well established and beginning to develop the natural hot springs of this area into a spa and temple. Because the waters were naturally heated the Romans took this to mean they were sacred and built a temple to the goddess Minerva; they surrounded it with a vast system of baths, saunas, private rooms and altars (for animal sacrifice–apparently the gods enjoyed the aroma of a good barbecue). What remains today are artifacts from the temple and spa and the actual waters themselves. When the Romans left, the buildings were not maintained and eventually the pagan temple was destroyed. In the early 19th century the baths were rediscovered and somewhat restored so that the wealthy of Regency England (generally considered to be 1811 to 1837) could vacation here and drink the spa waters, considered salubrious and often prescribed by the medical community. The men and women of that era bathed separately and pretty much fully clothed; the Romans bathed together and naked. Unlike the Romans, the English aristocracy didn’t partake in the saunas and massages that followed bathing. Both cultures used the spa as a forum to socialize and do business. It might have been a bit awkward but the Roman version sounds like it was more fun.

After the baths, we toured the Abbey, a colossal monument to fortitude and faith. One glance into the ceiling of flying buttresses and decorative shields and you’ll understand why construction took over 100 years. Under the floors and on the walls are memorial plaques, which in some cases function as tombstones. In the “Beautiful Bath” gallery are pictures of three typical plaques. The earlier ones say that the body is interred or “lieth” here; later stones say the body is near the memorial plaque (a bit vague about location). I think the money from erecting these monuments probably supported the Abbey for many years. Believe me, there’s no room for any more bodies or memorial plaques. I’ve included a memorial from 1674 because the deceased had a long and busy life–3 marriages, 8 sons. The memorials for women seemed to focus on whom they were married to or the daughter of, these being important ways to convey status. I guess the women didn’t have much status in and of themselves. The other one I included is because the sentiment is so nice–clearly his son loved his ” Best of Fathers.” Many of the plaques have long descriptions and give a strong sense of the deceased.

We finished the sight-seeing marathon with the Jane Austen Centre, which one of us loved and one of us was a good sport about. Hint: the one who loved it dressed up in a Regency hat for a photo. Jane Austen is my favorite pre-twentieth century author. Spending time in the city where she lived and visiting the baths, Pump and Assembly rooms as she would have is a lifelong dream of mine and an experience I can’t compare to anything that would be commensurate for my husband. Visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame and throwing a pitch from the mound of the old Yankee Stadium? Maybe…. Even though I’ve read Austen for decades and taught Pride and Prejudice to high school students, with varying degrees of success, I learned a great deal about her and the era which both constrained and supported her. Luckily for Jane, first her father and later her brothers recognized her talent and promoted the publication of her work. No doubt her sister Cassandra and her mother also supported her, but as mere women any contributions they made were not recorded…. No formal portrait was ever painted of her so everything we know about how Jane looked comes from a sketch by her sister that her niece felt was a poor likeness and “hideous.” Written descriptions of her indicate she was very pretty. And she was quite independent, refusing an offer of marriage that would have kept her from the poverty she experienced after her father’s death. Jane Austen was 41 when she died, of what no one knows. It doesn’t sound like influenza or scarlet fever as she was treated for a few months for the illness before she died. We will never know what she died from just as we will never know if she loved and lost. Her eloquent, ironic descriptions of lovers and fools must’ve had some basis in experience….

June 18, 2013
I spent far too much time trying to upload the Scotland gallery below this post so I won’t go into any detail tonight about the beauty of Bath, our exquisite dinner, or bursting into tears when I realized we were near the Jane Austen Museum.

We left Edinburgh this morning and caught the 4 hour train, which turned out to be the 7 hour train, to Bath. No, it wasn’t a train delay; it was me listening to MIke (ever the optimist) when he said he thought it was about 4 hours… Still it was better than driving, which I don’t think we would’ve survived. There’s something so wrong about the left side of the road thing although I’m sure it’s the same for Brits traveling in the states.

As we rode south, the sounds of Scottish voices gradually dropped away so that by Sheffield I could understand most of what I was hearing, usually when people were on their mobiles. Raising the voice while on a phone appears to be a universal phenomenon. I think it’s easier to understand British and US accents because they are so common on television and in movies. Think James Bond and Harry Potter, not to mention Downton Abbey. The French waiter in the Spanish restaurant in Edinburgh (it’s a global society we live in) commented last night that while he could understand Americans and the English, he couldn’t understand the Scottish or Irish very well. He may have an attitude problem because he acted like he couldn’t understand my high school French either….

I was thinking about words today and trying to come up with synonyms for UK colloquialisms. I think that “brilliant” is equivalent to “awesome” and that “cheers” is kind of an aloha word. It seems to mean “here” in the sense of “here’s your food so enjoy it” and “drink up” in the universal sense, and “thanks” in other instances. “Ta” is a one-syllable way to say good-bye and thanks. I think. Reading 17th and 18th century British literature hasn’t prepared me to integrate seamlessly into the culture, not that I haven’t tried.

Other observations about rail travel in the UK: No one offered to help me any of the times I struggled to drag my duffle from a train to the platform. I can’t imagine anywhere In the US where that would happen (not being helped I mean). Everyone was perfectly pleasant and readily answered questions. Maybe it’s impolite to offer physical assistance–as if there would be implied criticism if one helped. Or maybe I just looked scary with my tense expression and scary hair (both frizzy and limp). At Bristol-Temple-Mead, we had 3 minutes to tear down the stairs from one platform and up another set to a different platform to make a connection. (I kind of regret how many gifts we bought in Scotland, now that I’m schlepping them through Europe.) During that transfer I twisted my ankle while vaulting on to the platform with my bag a few seconds ahead of me (hence the jarring and the sprain). Several men who looked like Colin Firth smiled politely. I managed not to moan or swear and kept the stiff upper lip that must be a legacy of my genetic past.

And finally, a message to the elegantly dressed gentleman on the train into Bath Spa. He apparently had (I’m being charitable here) an itch deeply inside one nostril. You’re not invisible, Mate!

Off to bed–I’m knackered.