2016 SPRING ON CAPE COD -Where everything old is new again.

Taken this April 3rd.  We had flowers blooming, too,
but it wouldn't be a real New England Spring without an April flurry.

State Route 6, the main corridor through Cape Cod, has again been a sea of orange and white striped barrels, shrinking traffic to three lanes.  We anticipated some repaving before Memorial Day to smooth out where the new water pipes were installed last Fall, but the digging continues and the race is on to finish before Memorial Day.  

Of course, it's the new Red Sox season and we've got a hot new pitcher!  
It's still cool enough for a cozy evening fire, and the Red Sox blanket is Bob's favorite.

In the past, I've mentioned the town meetings that make our local government unique.  They are frequently tedious affairs of one committee or another, but occasionally spark some ire when least expected. Such was the case at a recent meeting in the quaint, fishing town of Chatham, located at the "elbow" of Cape Cod.  The kerfuffle arose during a meeting of the Aunt Lydia's Cove Committee and the Waterways Committee as a result of the issue of whether non-residents should be heard from before increasing fees at the fish pier.  A disagreement escalated when one of the members called the chairman "a term similar to being a chicken, but far stronger".  The chairman responded in kind, prompting an overturned chair and a fist fight.  As all town sessions are video recorded and televised on local t.v., there was no need for embellishment and it quickly became of much more public interest than the issue before the Committee.  Whatever would Aunt Lydia have thought?  

The first hummingbird showed up the first week of May, and we were ready.

Right whales are back for their annual pilgrimage to Cape Cod Bay.  Of about 500 known right whales in the world, about 100 have been spotted here so far this Spring, with more expected to arrive.  They come for the tiny crustaceans called copepods which feed on the plankton in the bay.  Right whales are a species of baleen whales, but got their name from whalers who called them the "right" whale to kill on a hunt for their plentiful oil.  In addition, the Center for Coastal Studies in Provincetown reported they've also sighted 20+ humpback whales and 11 fin whales.  It should be another good year for the whale watching cruises.  In fact, we've been sending B&B guests to the Race Point and Herring Cove beaches in Provincetown, where the whales can be seen breaching from shore.  

Coast Guard Beach in Eastham is busy all winter.

When our guests are welcomed into their B&B Suites for the first time, we always hope for a great first impression.  As practiced as we should feel by now about creating it, the process getting there isn't always the same.  It's a real team effort, and when one of Team Daniels goes on the injury list, the other steps in to wing it and hope for the best.  Last summer was my turn to pull some double-duty, and this Spring has turned out to be Ron's when my knee stubbornly refused to cooperate.  As I've coped for the last three months, using crutches and braces, while waiting for diagnosis and treatment, I'm frequently asked by friends and total strangers, "what happened to you?"  In an effort to keep it light, I usually say something absurd like, "sky-diving", or "bungee jumping", that sounds funnier than "my knee's deteriorating from old age".  It finally dawned on me this week, as I've been waiting for the arthroscopy that will get me back into the game, that I've had the perfect responses all this time, but didn't think to use them.  So, take your choice:  

A.  Hiking to the geysers in Iceland

B.  Climbing the steps to the London Tower

C.  Walking the Red Light District in Amsterdam, or

D.  Ascending to the top of the Montmartre neighborhood, overlooking Paris 

They're all valid and I think I left a piece of my knee at every one of them.  The rest of May will be a whirlwind of day surgery, physical therapy and a lot of extra chores for Ron. I can't vouch for the highway work, but I know I'll be ready for Memorial Day Weekend!

2016 CARPE DIEM TRIP - PART VI CONCLUSION

Paris' subway system

TUESDAY, DAY 20 – THE LONG TRIP HOME

By the time we turned in the night before, everything but the bare minimum had been stowed in suitcases.  As we searched the room for any forgotten item, I had my third brilliant idea of the trip.  There was an extra single bed against the far wall that we had used to set our suitcases.  On a hunch, I pulled it away from the wall to see if anything might have slipped behind it and found the bag of socks Ron thought he’d left in Amsterdam.  Also, the thin, nylon bag I’d packed, just in case we couldn’t fit everything in on the way back came in very handy, holding my new coat, Ron’s new red shoes and his Harrod’s toy.  We could do this. 

Making our way to the Metro, rolling suitcases behind us, Doug’s strong, young back came to the rescue, helping to get everything quickly down the steep stairs to the train and out of the way of the people behind us.  As we rolled past Paris suburbs on the way to the airport, a weak winter sun favored us on our last view of this feisty little country.  As if on cue, the doors of our car opened, and two young men entered, enthusiastically wishing everyone “bonjour” as they set up a boom box and proceeded to launch into a loud French rap performance.  Had they made eye contact, they would have noticed that they were being unanimously and studiously ignored.  I covered my ears, but they didn’t seem to get the hint.  When their song was done, they nervously passed a plastic cup around for money with no success, so they quickly moved to the next car and we enjoyed the last bit of France passing by with just the rhythmic sound of the train.

Au revoir!

Since we had come through Iceland, our first class tickets required us to return through Iceland.  It was a bit longer that way, but worth it.  It was lovely to be able to wait in the first class lounge again, snacking on the buffet and catching up on emails and news from home.  I remembered to take my Nausi-calm and we settled into our seats for the next delicious airplane meal and the first uneventful leg of our trip home.   As we approached Iceland, the bright sunny skies turned gray and we descended in a big snow cloud, gently sprinkling the runway with delicate flakes that scattered as we landed. Switching flights, Doug received bear hugs and boarded a plane to take him back home to D.C. for his first time in five weeks.  And our flight, conveniently at the next gate, would return us to Boston.   As I’d hoped the medicine not only kept my stomach comfortable, but made it easy to drowse the flight away until I felt the jolt of tires on the runway in Boston.  We're almost HOME!  

But, there was still the matter of being admitted back into the country, and then getting back to Cape Cod.  One thing at a time.  Three weeks of constant walking and climbing had taken a toll on what I refer to as my “geezer knee”, and it took this moment deplaning to tell me it had had enough, causing me to limp, which put an added burden on my “geezer hip”.  Holding on to Ron’s arm, we made it down the covered tunnel that connected the plane to the terminal, and then moved out of everyone’s way.  I noticed several wheelchairs parked against the wall, and thinking they were there for people like me, we grabbed one and rolled to the luggage pickup.  It got really tricky as Ron pushed the wheelchair with one hand while pulling his suitcase behind him with the other.  I rolled my suitcase out to the side.  We were an exhausted rolling sideshow and thrilled that we could skip the big line and go straight to the first class check-in, which only had a couple people ahead of us.  But, it got trickier still when we were asked what we were doing with a wheelchair when Ron clearly wasn’t a wheelchair aide with a neon orange vest.  We were also asked to provide a declaration form that we would have been given on the plane if we'd called ahead for a wheelchair to meet us.  I explained that I wasn’t expecting to have to enter Logan Airport on wheels. [If you’re not in a wheelchair, the form isn’t required at all, but that logic still escapes me.]  It also didn’t help that the picture on Ron’s passport was taken before he had chemo, so instead of straight blonde hair, he now has curly gray hair, which according to this hulk of a security guard, now made him look like the dad on the Brady Bunch instead of Rod Stewart.   We didn’t feel like arguing with him, we just wanted to catch our bus to Barnstable and GO HOME!  Twenty minutes later, after finally finding someone to come up with one of the forms and returning through the line, we were allowed to pass.  Looking for an elevator to wheel into, a woman in uniform approached and asked us suspiciously where we’d gotten the wheelchair.  My exhaustion made me bold.  I said, Look, we’ve already been chastised about using it without calling ahead first, but right now, my hip won’t support me, so if you really want it back, I’ll get up and hop to the bus until my other hip gives out.”   Obviously a woman who knows how to pick her battles, she motioned to us to go ahead with the chair. 
  

We caught a bit of luck when the Plymouth & Brockton bus to Barnstable was running late.  It would have been another hour’s wait otherwise.  Leaving the wheelchair on the sidewalk, I hobbled up into a seat and dozed right across the Cape Cod Canal.  At Ginny’s suggestion, we'd put a shovel in our car, just in case there was snow while we were gone and we needed to dig out.  Ginny's has a lot of brilliant ideas, too.  Ironically, after the two blizzards we missed, there had been a big rainstorm that day on the Cape, and there wasn’t a bit of snow left.   We arrived home about 9:30 p.m. after waking up in France and briefly setting foot in Iceland.  Home never looked so good, and our cats remarkably welcomed us home despite our rude abandonment of them.

Patrolling the Eiffel Tower

The French Consulate in London under guard

Patrolling the streets of Montmartre

This is the part where after summarizing our travelogue and editing thousands of pictures, the more subtle memories and impressions begin to filter through.  I’ve already sufficiently patted myself on the back for reluctantly facing six consecutive flights.  But, terrorism has now become a common component of the fear of travel.  It’s one thing to ideally want to “show no fear” to the attackers [like my feisty husband], and another to actually do it when you don’t have to.  He’s often said, and I do find it to be true, that when one has traveled in another country and befriended its citizens, even on a short trip, one takes an attack more personally.  This was not the same Europe we visited in 2012.  Everywhere we looked, there were very no-nonsense groups of armed soldiers scanning the crowd and patrolling their sectors.   Opening one’s jacket and having bags searched is now commonplace.  And yet, life did go on, as it must, and should, and it felt the way any visit to a large city feels – busy and full of that life.  I can’t tell you not to be afraid.  I will probably be afraid again.   There will probably even be countries I avoid.   But, it probably won’t stop me from going again.  

Friends always ask, which country did you like the best?  It’s an impossible question, as each one has a personality all its own.  I might give Iceland a little edge this time, simply because it was a first-time experience and this was a second trip for the other countries, but each country provides specific reasons to be chosen.  Iceland’s culture is welcoming and their people have a certain open sweetness about them.  Their “big city”, Reykjavik is like a small, but cosmopolitan town.  The “suburbs” are horse and sheep-filled fields full of natural wonders like geysers, and waterfalls, and geothermal lagoons.  I know there’s much more to see in Great Britain than London, but their theatre district is what drew us back this time.  Because art is still government-supported, their stage productions are top-notch and affordable.  And, there were still plenty if other attractions we hadn’t seen.

Reykjavik

Amsterdam is steeped in tradition, but very laid back at the same time.  Live and let live; whatever floats your houseboat.  It’s easy to imagine what it was like centuries ago, walking past the old–world architecture along the canals, but watch your step because the modern trams and bicycle lanes will bring you conveniently back to the present.   Great museums, the flower market, the red light district nightlife, all make it distinctive in its own right.

Meow"-na Lisa at de Poezenboot in Amsterdam

Once again, I know there’s much more to France than Paris, but there is oh, so much to see in this city.  Besides the many museums, every utilitarian thing is an excuse for art.  Be it lampposts, bridge rails, even lowly trash cans, everything displays pride in its creation and great care is taken to keep it spotless and in good condition.  They are proud of their culture and even adapted a Starbucks coffee shop to a Starbucks “Reserve”, adding wine to their menu.  Even the Seine is not content to flow lazily along its banks. It roils under each elegantly sculpted and gilded bridge with an energy that mirrors the creative forces of this lively city. 

It’s like asking me “which flower do you like best”.

Being a traveler makes one a better host.  In our eighth year as innkeepers, we were due for a refresher course on what it’s like traveling in a foreign country.  First, there’s the language.  Even in London, many colloquial things require a bit of explanation for the first-timer.  Icelanders are taught English at an early age, but some still struggle with it as a second language.  The same holds true in Amsterdam and Paris, although fewer are as willing and able to speak English in Paris.  The best-formed and pronounced high school French question usually results in a rush of French, for which this tourist is not prepared.   And, you will find in all of these countries that some of those who struggle with English are really immigrants who are learning English, French, Dutch and Icelandic as additional ones to their native languages. 

I just want some money.

Then, there’s the money.  Whether it’s Kronas, Pounds or Euros, it’s all confusing and you’ll find more than once that, throwing caution to the wind, you’ll resort to holding out a fist full of bills and coins to let a clerk pick the right amount.  We’re not proud of that, but let’s be honest.  The Iceland Kronas are, by far, the prettiest coins, each sporting different kinds of fish.  Furthermore, when it comes to money, if you don’t tell your credit card company that you’re going on a trip, you’re likely to find that your cards suddenly don’t work anymore as they “protect you from the unusual activity”, and you’ll have to figure out how to contact them from a different country to fix it.

Another car alternative-pedal power

London is not the only city in Europe which makes being a pedestrian an extra challenge, although the fact that they drive on the left side of the road does ramp it up a bit.   Europeans are big public transportation and bike riders.  Gasoline has always been more expensive there, and many of the roads are too small to accommodate all the traffic.  The governments do an admirable job providing alternatives to cars.  In Amsterdam, bicycle riders have their own lanes next to the sidewalks, so it’s easy to forget when crossing the street that you’re probably about to cause havoc standing in front of an oncoming herd of honking bicycles.  But, pay attention because in the middle, past the bike and car lanes, is the track for the trams.  Paris is just a free-for-all with cars, bikes, buses and motorcycles all vying for passage, and walkers will be noisily reminded that they need to move.  Now!  At least their trains are underground like London's.  If I could put just one thing on an improbable wish list, it would be great if the long stairs going down to the trains had a ramp on the side for suitcases to be rolled as one descended the stairs.  I’m not holding my breath, but think about it, Europe.

Surprise!

Many of these cities have passes one can buy in advance for discounts on museums and popular attractions.  They also keep you from waiting in the long lines.  That was tempting, but for our style of travel, not as practical as it seems.  It’s a little akin to buying the cable movie packages. Maybe all you want is HBO, but you’re forced to buy a big package of channels you probably will never watch.  We decided that for us, we’d pay the extra and take our chances on lines, rather than feel pressured to get our money’s worth out of a big, packaged deal.  The surprises we always find leisurely strolling far outweigh the big museum we missed, and with the lines comes the freedom of choice to move on to another adventure.

"Life without art is stupid." - outside the Centre Pompidou in Paris

It’s difficult to espouse socialism in the U.S. without inviting disbelief and criticism from people who don’t understand what it is.  I first embraced it when I co-owned a home healthcare franchise in the ’90’s and found firsthand that business and medical care was a terrible combination.  It becomes evident when traveling in Europe that the care of their people and their country comes first.  Socialized medicine rewards doctors for promoting the things that keep their patients healthy, instead of the bottom-line medicine practiced by U.S. insurance companies.  [We actually heard this from a retired British doctor, who stayed at our B&B.]  Food is healthier.  Infrastructure is in a constant state of maintenance, providing many jobs, and the work is made as attractive as possible while it’s being completed.  The arts are supported and language proficiency is valued.  When we heard that Bernie Sanders had won some primaries while we were in Paris, we had a brief moment of hope that, even if he doesn’t win the presidency this year, we are all the better off that he’s made his best attempt to explain why socialism is not a dirty word.  If you still think it is, it’s time to take a trip or two to see where and how it works.  And that’s as political as I get.

Some of the nicest moments come from helping a total stranger.

And, the jet lag?  Totally real, but totally worth it.  By far, the best takeaway from this trip has been to walk in the same shoes as the visitors who come to our B&B from far away places.  It’s to gain a healthy dose of tolerance for the people who didn’t follow the driving instructions I provided for them, or who are confused by our rotaries and road signs, and clog up the grocery aisles trying to find food labeled in a foreign language to them.  I had detailed instructions about how to find our host in Iceland that I Ieft at home in the confusion of packing.  And, forget about those Icelandic parking signs… When Doug was coming down with his chest cold, I had to ask a stranger for help in an Amsterdam market to pick out which can was chicken soup. I found out that sometimes, the reason tourists stay in their rooms instead of going out to see all the sights in the brochures I provided is because they’re enjoying just taking a break and relaxing in a different, pleasant place with different decorating and views out of the windows.  I learned that traveling with our son provides an opportunity to try things I might not have otherwise.  I enjoyed comparing the places we stayed with the places we offer our B&B guests, looking for inspiration, and getting reassurance that our accommodations stack up to the ones we liked.  Finally, tourists are willing to be totally out of their comfort zone and rely on the kindness of strangers.  We want to be those kind strangers, who are strangers no more, and to feel great about the experience when they leave us.

   

There's no place like home!

                  

2016 CARPE DIEM TRIP - PART V - PARIS

MONDAY, DAY 12 – DESTINATION PARIS

When we arrived at Schiphol Airport from Rita’s Amsterdam apartment, Starbucks drew me like a moth to a flame.  I grabbed some morning brew and a quick bite.  Even with an economy class ticket this time, I was still feeling like a seasoned traveler on this fourth flight in two weeks.  What put a damper on that were some very strong winds, which if you like roller coasters would not have been a problem, but my breakfast never had a chance.  As we were landing at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport, Doug told me that I wasn’t the only one grabbing the little paper bag provided in the seat backs.  It was a first for me and I vowed then and there that it would also be the last if I could find the equivalent of Dramamine in France before the trip home.  It was just not the dignified return to this elegant city I'd expected, or hoped.  We retrieved our luggage, and Ron and Doug waited patiently with me in an airport seating area until my face lost its greenish tinge and my stomach settled down.  As we sat there, we watched a constant parade of camo-clad soldiers with machine guns patrolling in groups.  It certainly wasn’t a surprise after the recent attacks, but it was indeed a sobering welcome.  I began to feel a bit conspicuous sitting there with our luggage and talked myself into moving on to our next home away from home before we were asked to explain ourselves.   There’s something about a machine gun that just makes one feel suspicious.  It took awhile to purchase the correct Metro tickets for the week, but we also soldiered on, knowing how wonderful it would be to settle in again.  And, this time, we had eight nights! 

That's us, behind 'HOTEL'

When we visited Paris for the first time in 2012, we were quite pleased with our choice of Hotel de Nesle in the heart of Saint-Germain in the 6^th arrondissement. But Ron had noticed the Hotel Albe in the heart of the Latin Quarter, in the fifth arrondissement, which has so much to see.  He brought back their business card, which stayed on his bulletin board for four years, and it turned out to be a great choice.  First, upon our arrival, we were immediately upgraded to a room with a balcony overlooking the Saint-Michel neighborhood and one of the bridges that crosses the River Seine.  They also gave us three free mornings of breakfast at their downstairs buffet, which was quite sumptuous. 

Room with a view!

Across the street

 The travel had really taken it out of me and I luxuriated on the king size bed and checked email.  There was another one from Ginny at home, which took priority.  When we were in London, she wrote to say that the furnace had stopped working and they were expecting a blizzard.  I’d not only been concerned about getting it fixed, I was highly indignant that I was missing a perfectly good blizzard.  The furnace did get fixed quickly and I'd tried not to pout.  So now, I was receiving another picture from Ginny about a second big snowstorm.  Yes, that’s right, I was in Paris wishing I were at home in a blizzard.  Would anyone need any more proof than that how much I love snow?   But I fully expected that eight days in Paris would distract me. 

The view from Ginny's room on Cape Cod

Doug & Ron went out to find dinner while I rested.  They even found the same wonderful crepe place that we ate at on our first night in 2012, and brought me one of their delicious egg, mushroom and cheese crepes, made to order right in front of them.  It was a perfect ending to a roller-coaster day.

TUESDAY, DAY 13

Paris wakes up early, at least the city workers do.  Before businesses begin to open, there’s the rumbling and slamming sounds of garbage trucks making the rounds.   After that, the street and sidewalk cleaners take their turns so that the ancient cobblestoned streets are freshly spiffy for the new day.  We dozed right through the street noise, and were too late for the buffet that morning, but the concierge encouraged me to grab something to take back to the room before it was all put away.   Our first foray into the neighborhood was a short walk to Notre Dame.  Ron and I had visited on the last trip, but we wanted Doug to see it, and we also wanted to bring back a commemorative coin for our friend, Ray.  The grandeur of the architecture certainly supports at least two visits.

A tiny part of Notre Dame de Paris Cathedral

After getting lost in the arches and stained glass all morning, we crossed the street and stopped in Café Panis, one of the recommended restaurants in the Walking Paris book one of our B&B guests sent us.  It was wonderful, starting with the exceptionally cheerful and fun waiters, and of course, the delicious food.  Ron had a hamburger that he proclaimed to be the best ever.  The food really is better in Europe because they don’t allow genetically engineered crops or treating animals with steroids and growth hormones.  It’s just good old-fashioned food, which the U.S. is forgetting what that used to taste like.  I savored a Mediterranean omelet, and poor Doug, who still had a chest cold, ate “a plateful of stuff he couldn’t taste”.  After that, he decided it might be worth his while to visit a pharmacy to purchase a neti pot to try to clear his sinuses, so that was our next stop. 

This is what hot chocolate looks like at Cafe Panis.  The hot milk is in the pitcher.  Mmmmm.

Finding someone who speaks English well seems to be more hit or miss in France than in other countries we’ve visited, and one must often resort to a combination of pigeon high school French, augmented with pantomime.  Apparently, the term “neti pot” is not used there, so we began a reenactment of what one does with a neti pot, which at first baffled everyone, but then with a glimmer of light in her eyes, the pharmacist said, “Aaaah, RHINO HORN!” and pulled out a red plastic monstrosity that was their version of what accomplishes a simple rinsing of sinuses.  It looked like something from the Amsterdam Sex Museum, but...“OUI, merci boucoup!”  I figured while we were on a roll, I’d try for Dramamine, and successfully came away with “Nausi-Calm” for the trip home. 

Live and learn...I bet you thought you were going to see another picture of Notre Dame.

We spent the rest of the day wandering the ancient streets and shops of the Latin Quarter and finished the evening geo-caching, something Doug had previously introduced us to.  We were well aware when we asked Doug to join us on our trip that there were only so many shops, churches and museums that might hold his attention, so we decided that it might be a fun way for him to show us a different side to Paris.  I’ll let Wikipedia explain it to you: 

Geo-caching is an outdoor recreational activity, in which participants use a GPS to hide and seek containers called “geo-caches” anywhere in the world and then register it online for geo-cachers.  A typical cache is a small waterproof container containing a logbook with a pen.  The one who finds it enters the date and signs with their established code name, which they have registered online, then places it back exactly where they found it.  Some caches contain inexpensive toys or trinkets [swag] for trading.  Some instruct the finder to move it to a new position in an attempt to have it go around the world.   Geo-caching was originally similar to an old game called Letterboxing, which used clues and references to landmarks embedded in stories.  After the removal of selective availability from the global positioning system in the year 2000, the improved accuracy of the GPS allowed for a small container to be specifically placed and located.  [So basically in my words, it’s a treasure hunt with more emphasis on the hunt than the treasure.]  We found what we were looking for, and still full from our lunch at Café Panis, called it a night.

Success-our swag.

WEDNESDAY – DAY 14

This time, we all made it downstairs to the scrumptious breakfast buffet.  Another difference in Europe is that I was finding that decaf coffee is not available in many places.  I usually drink half-caf in the morning and decaf otherwise, and the full strength coffee was starting to affect my chi with the jitters.  I made a note to use a lot less coffee and a lot more milk.  We’d just returned to our rooms to get ready to go out when we heard an insistent beeping go off in the building.  Walking downstairs to the lobby, we found our concierge on the phone frantically trying to find out what the problem was.  We sat there quietly waiting for an explanation and an all-clear signal.  Meanwhile, other guests were coming downstairs, rubbing their eyes, in various states of undress and sat with us.  It was explained about ten minutes later that due to some sort of chimney cleaning down the street, the fire alarms had picked up some of the dust and it had fooled them into thinking there was a fire.  Good to know they work, and the lobby is a very chic place to hang out.

The Albe Lobby 

We decided that since we somehow had missed seeing the Arc de Triomphe on our last trip, we would give it priority on this trip.   Taking the Metro to a stop on the Champs d’Elysees, we began a long stroll through the neighborhood towards it.  The nice thing about having eight days was that there was no urgency to get anywhere and we could do what we love best, discovering fun places we didn’t know about.  On this stroll, we discovered a Citroen museum/showroom.  Ron has always had a thing for Citroens, and Doug for anything mechanical, so we jumped at the chance to go in.  This is where we were introduced to another new change about Paris.  In many large stores, there are now large men at the door to check your bags and make sure you open your coat for them.  It was another sobering reminder of the terrorist attacks.  Once inside, we were treated to a display of cars on a central column, which spiraled up several stories.  A staircase spiraling around the outside of the column allowed one to view each model displayed on that floor.  There were the usual older and current models, but also their version of a hovercraft and a model of the car featured in a James Bond film, complete with bullet holes.  On the top floor, we were rewarded with a beautiful view of the city.

The grand scale of the building makes these look like models, but they are car-sized.

Moving along to the famous arch, through which German soldiers once marched as they occupied the city during World War II, we found the corner packed with tourists taking selfies with the Arch in the background.  One can only marvel at the many lanes of traffic as it goes around the monument, and wonder how many accidents they have.  There seemed to always be a siren going by.  Just crossing the many spokes on foot takes quite awhile, but we found that all the selfie-takers stayed stuck in a knot on the other side and never bothered to cross. 

Champs d'Elysess approaching the Arc de Triomphe

No really, it's huge!

To give you a little history from Wikipedia, the monument was designed in 1806 to honor those who fought and died for France in the French Revolutionary and the Napoleonic Wars.  The names of all French victories and generals are inscribed on its inner and outer surfaces, and beneath its vault is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier from World War I.  The designs on the arch pits French youths in a type of classical sculpture called 'heroically nude' against bearded Germanic warriors in chain mail armor.  It set the tone for future public monuments with triumphant patriotic messages.  To give you an idea of the large scale, three weeks after the Paris victory parade, which marked the end of hostilities in World War I, a pilot named Charles Godefroy flew a biplane right through the arch and it was captured on newsreel.    

Nobody told these people there's no tourism in February

From there, we strolled towards the Eiffel Tower.  The elevator had been broken the last time we were there and we’d hoped to catch the view from the top this time.  I had already gotten what I thought was the perfect shot of the Eiffel Tower on our first trip, so I was obsessed with getting an even more creative shot this time.  The wind was picking up, and in the distance dark clouds were rolling in.  As we crossed a bridge, we noticed the sun coming through the dramatic dark clouds, illuminating a beautiful, white building up on a hill.  We determined that it was the Sacre Coeur Basilica atop the Montmartre neighborhood, and knew that we would put it on our list to visit.  Whoever wrote that winter was a great time to visit Europe because there were no lines must have done this before global warming became an issue, turning anytime into tourism time.  We found a two-hour wait facing us to ascend the tower and decided it wasn’t worth it to us to wait.  We people-watched for a bit, and then strolled through the neighborhood, stopping at a cafe on the way.

   

OMG, we are so cool.

By the time we returned to our neighborhood, it was time to pick from the many delicious restaurant choices in the Latin Quarter.  The prix fixe menu boards [a fixed price for your choice of appetizer, entrée and dessert] are displayed outside of each bistro along the narrow streets.  They are pointed at enthusiastically by an employee, whose job it is to convince you that theirs is the best, and hopefully entice you to come in.   We were all hungry from our long walk.  Ron and I started with a shrimp and avocado salad.  I chose the leg of duck, just to compare it to our friend’s Long Island Duck on the menu at the Red Pheasant on Cape Cod.  It didn’t come close to Bill’s, but I just had to see.  Ron chowed down on the filet mignon, and for dessert, he had sorbet and I had something chocolate that was a total religious experience.  The boy who couldn’t taste had a chef salad, spaghetti and fruit salad for dessert.  The nightly ritual became asking him, “Can you taste anything, yet?”  

We didn't eat at this one, but the colors caught my eye every time we passed.

While Ron and Doug watched the last available episode of Rick and Morty  on the laptop, something gave me another brilliant idea.  [If you recall, I already credited myself with one in London].  In each city, we’d fought the excessive warmth of the down-filled duvets, throwing them off when we’d wake up soaked, then crawling back under when we got chilled, and so forth.  It suddenly dawned on me to remove the comforter from the duvet cover and just use the cover, stuffing the rest into the top of the closet.  And, it only took me two weeks to figure that out…so much better!  And, don’t forget, brilliant.

THURSDAY – DAY 15

Sacre Coeur Basilica from afar

Doug and I breakfasted downstairs while Ron got some extra rest from our long walk the day before, and we brought a plate of cheese, fruit and croissants and espresso up to the room for him.   We decided to go to Montmartre to see the old artist’s neighborhood and the beautiful, gleaming white Sacre Coeur Basilica.  From Wikipedia again:  Montmartre is a neighborhood on a very large hill, which during the late 1800’s and early 1900’s became a place where many notable artists lived and worked.  It’s been featured in many films.  The Sacre Coeur [Sacred Heart] Basilica is a Roman Catholic church in Montmartre and the highest point in Paris.

Up we go, and go, and go.

The Metro stop let us off near the bottom of the hill and as we approached the neighborhood, we faced numerous flights of stairs.  No messing around, we were about to climb this mini-mountain, taking breaks to turn around to see the city get smaller and smaller behind us.  Finally at the top, we were rewarded with the sight of the immense and ornate church that we’d seen atop this hill from so far away.  The sunny, central cobblestoned square was full of artists painting and displaying their works, looking just as it did centuries before.  Some of them roamed the crowd hoping to paint caricatures.  The views of the city below were magnificent, making landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame look like Legos.  And, once again, dark clouds began to roll in and people scattered to find shelter in bistros and shops from the downpour.  It was a good time for a bite to eat, and the closest place to us turned out to be, of all things, an Irish Tavern.  It served decent French onion soup, and kept us dry until the clouds passed.  

A painter in the square.

Time out to rest and observe.

View from the Basilica steps

We opted not to walk up the 300-foot tower of the Basilica, and instead started to make our way back to the Metro, stopping from time to time in little shops.  It was here that I discovered Tcha Tcha’s, a Nepalese clothing shop.  The colors were so radiant, they drew me right in, the way an art exhibit might, and the all-cotton, unique designs hooked me.  Not usually one to shop for, or spend money on clothing, I had just planned to look, perhaps to find a gift to bring back for Ginny, our cat and house caretaker extraordinaire.  There was incense burning and it was such a pleasant place to be, Ron seized the opportunity to talk me into trying and buying a pair of pants while we were there.  As if our hedonist tendencies needed more seduction, we passed a biscuit shop afterwards, which means cookies, cookies and more cookies, with a lot of butter.   We were on a roll, but that bubble was about to get popped as we descended the steps back to the Metro and encountered the “Paris string men”.  I didn’t know exactly what they were up to, but I knew it was a scam and didn’t want to have anything to do with it.  I read later that these super friendly men approach tourists requesting to show them a magic trick, which involves tying string around your fingers and wrist.  Ultimately, they make a very simple bracelet and then try to charge you a ridiculous price for it.  They are known to be so persistent that tourists will give them money just to get them to leave them alone, which is how Ron decided to deal with them, with a few coins from his pocket.

A last look back as we descended caught the approach of more rain clouds, 
this lone umbrella and some young lovers.

On our way, to the Metro, we passed a section of town that was full of shops with tables piled high with clothing and merchandise.  People were pulling up handfuls of things at a time, searching for bargains.  It was their version of thrift shops, but blocks full of them.  It was also the antithesis of what one thinks of as Paris shopping.  It looked like fun, but having just purchased something, I wasn’t up to the hunt.

And, further down, this quiet carousel under Sacre Coeur's tranquil eye.

When we reached our Metro stop near the hotel, Doug went back to his room, and we made a stop at a wonderful men’s clothing store called Celio’s, where Ron had bought a couple of shirts on our first trip when he hadn’t packed the right clothing.  We thought he must have left the bag of his socks in Amsterdam, so Celio’s came to the rescue again.   Then, we picked up Doug and decided to return to Café Panis to try their dinner menu since we’d had such a nice experience the first time.  My leg of lamb with couscous and dried fruit was incredibly good and plentiful, Ron’s breast of duck [although also not as good as Bill’s] pleased him, and Doug’s Ginger-Lemon Chicken, well, at least filled him up even though he still couldn’t taste it.   Notre Dame was right across the street, so we decided to walk over to view the outside at night.  There were musicians playing informally in the big square in front, and the lights reflected beautifully on the Seine as we crossed the bridge and discussed taking the train to Versailles the next day.   It would have been a beautiful end to a beautiful day, but as I checked email before turning in for the night, I was alarmed to see messages from Facebook that many people were praying for a good friend of ours on the Cape, but didn’t say why.  I sent emails to his family to try to find out what was wrong and hoped for an answer in the morning.

FRIDAY, DAY 16

With still no response from the family, we decided to call one of his children, who lived in Europe.  We found that he’d suffered a serious stroke and the family was gathering at the hospital from both sides of the globe, and would try to keep us posted.  We quietly considered cutting our trip short, and with heavy hearts, we started the day at Starbucks for breakfast.  [The French cafes have tiny cups of espresso, and we craved our usual jumbo-sized mug].  The day was gray with occasional showers, and we decided to skip the day trip to Versailles and to just walk the neighborhood to look for a gift for Ginny and consider whether we should leave Paris early.  Doug opted to get some work done in the hotel room and rest his cold from the damp, chill outside, so we didn’t feel too guilty about more shopping.  At our first stop, I was doing my best to communicate with the sales clerk in French when Ron just asked her if she spoke English.  It turned out she was from Indiana and had married a Frenchman, and we all enjoyed just having a friendly conversation in our native tongue.  The next shop yielded the perfect gift we’d hoped to find, the one where you know it when you see it.  We carefully tucked away the sterling silver mandala earrings from Tibet with the green, Indian turquoise stones that we hoped she’d love.  

Crossing the street, I was stunned to see another Tcha Tcha’s store.  The colors glowed like a brilliant sunset under the gloomy skies.  Ron delightedly pulled me inside, “just to look”, but his campaign to buy me a coat he’d seen at the Montmartre store began again in earnest.  “Just try it on, please, and let me just see you in it.”  We attracted the attention of a sales clerk who liked the look of a husband encouraging his wife to try on clothes.  Although she spoke almost no English, as I selected a few things to try on she made note to herself what I liked and began picking out more similar things for me to consider.  This shop was bigger than the one in Montmartre, and there was a big leather chair in the dressing room for Ron to sit back in and enjoy a fashion show.  The two of them kept me trying on clothes for about two hours, making a ‘no’ pile and a ‘maybe’ pile.  When the maybe’s were getting out of hand, I said I still didn’t want to buy a coat and it was time to pick a couple of things and move on.  I tried to explain that for the cost of the coat, I could pick two or three of the other items that I’d wear more.  The two or three turned into six or seven, after Ron began to bargain with the sales clerk, and with his creative logic and generous heart, somehow talked me into a new wardrobe.  I was wondering how I would pack it all to go home.  

French General & Field Marshall Phillipe Petain - but why, you might ask?

We were drawn to a restaurant that night with the most dignified greeter, who Ron noted looked like a spitting image of the French General Phillippe Petain, a national hero of World War I and national disgrace of World War II.   He was so warm and charming, I was glad that we stopped, or I wouldn’t have gotten to enjoy the delicious salad with goat cheese, beef bourguignon and chocolate mousse.  Each night, thereafter, he greeted us warmly as old friends when he would see us walk by.   While we were savoring our dinner, looking out at the parade of people passing by, an Asian tour group swarmed the front window and began taking pictures.  It felt very peculiar to be the subject of someone else’s vacation, especially while we were on vacation, but having taken close to 3000 pictures so far on this trip, myself, I thought, why not?  I'd probably done it, too. 

When we returned to check email, we found that our friend's condition had been upgraded and was improving steadily, so we relaxed and looked forward to another day in Paris.
  

SATURDAY, DAY 17

We woke to another gray and rainy day, which is not unusual for Paris in the Winter and Spring.  In fact, any day in February with sunshine is a bonus, and Parisians openly express their enjoyment when the sun reappears.  Over another breakfast at Starbucks, we decided that despite the weather, we would try geo-caching again, this time exploring the neighborhoods of the Sorbonne and Luxembourg Gardens.   We found two out of the three caches we were looking for in those areas.

Jardins du Luxembourg 

The Garden's view of the Eiffel Tower

The Royal Luxembourg Pigeon Guards, standing at Attention

Wikipedia to the rescue again:  The Jardins [gardens] du Luxembourg was created in 1612 by Marie de’Medici, the widow of King Henry IV of France.  They were for the new Luxembourg Palace she had constructed that is now used by the French Senate.  The 30 hectares [about 75 acres] including lawns, tree-lined promenades, over 100 statues and monuments, flowerbeds, a gazebo, seating areas and fountains, are spectacular in February, so I can only imagine how wonderful they are during the summer.  As I said before, much was starting to bloom early this year.  But, we were getting soaked and decided to retreat indoors after a good look around.  We’d found a cinema near our Starbucks and settled in to watch the Oscar nominated movie, Spotlight.  It was a bit ironic enjoying a movie made in our town of Boston with French sub-titles, and it merited every good review and Oscar it received. 

Dried off and rested, we set out to find our restaurant of the evening.  Ron had something specific in mind, so we let him lead the way and ended up at a place called Frogburgers.   Let’s just start by saying that the burgers were beef, not frogs.  So, why the name?  There are many unsubstantiated reasons attributed to how the French came to be disparagingly called “frogs”.  One explanation refers to the insults traded back and forth between the English and the French, the French calling the English a nation of shopkeepers, or “rosbif” for their love of roast beef, and the English calling the French a nation of frog-eaters, which they were.  Another story dates back to the Middle Ages when the French flag had a blue background with a gold fleur-de-lis, which some of the English thought was a frog.  Still another referred to the swampy surroundings of Versailles where French nobility visited, inhabited by many frogs.  And, yet another refers to how well the French soldiers could hide from the British, like frogs.  In an article I found by Dan Smith called, Is It Okay To Call The French Frogs?, he says, “As with many 'insults', it really depends on the spirit in which they are said.  The British and French have one of the longest-running love/hate relationships in international history and calling each other rosbif and frog is just a running joke, which I doubt anyone would take offense to unless they were extraordinarily riled already.”  That settles the issue for me, and here’s what we found Frogburgers to be:  the most delicious hamburgers we’d ever had, with salads that could be substituted for fries.  And, not only that, the owner and all the employees came from the country of Columbia. 

Sunday, DAY 18- Valentines Day

Two valentines on the Seine

With good reports continuing to come in about our friend’s progress, we headed over to take a long walk along the Seine.  The weather was the usual cloudy/iffy sky, but there was plenty to see along this fast-moving river that made for great photo ops.  On the way back, we encountered a 10k race with big costumed characters stationed near the finish to cheer the runners on.  There was also a very charming, young mime working the crowd for whatever Euros he could earn for his efforts.    A stop at our Starbucks on the way back provided a particularly good brunch [brie, dried fruit and rocket wrap-the rocket is what they call greens] and then Doug headed back for more rest for his chest cold and a little work on his laptop. 

Such a sweet face, but still watching my pockets.

In June of 2015, 45 tons of padlocks were removed from the Pont des Arts bridge. the authorites stating that the weight was damaging the structure.  The deputy mayor in charge of culture asserted that they had tried to be sensitive to the feelings of the lovers who had placed them, but he urged people to find another way to express their fervency.  He declared that Paris was still "the capital of love and romance."   This bridge was quite full, so will probably get the same treatment soon.

Two more valentines placing their 'Love Locks' on the bridge.  

On our walk, we played
 "which head on the bridge looks most like our friend in the hospital".

We decided on the one on the right.

 On our stroll towards the hotel, we passed a gallery with some striking paintings in the window, so we stopped in to “discover” a new French artist by the name of Esther Marlot.  We were quite taken with her Matisse-like style and colors, two in particular.  The sales woman, who we found out was from Siberia, did an admirable job of impressing upon us that this artist was headed for more exhibitions and these were probably as low as her prices would ever be again.  It was tempting, but we weren’t willing to part with that much money on a whim, and continued on our walk.  In the next block, I spied an attractive display of earrings on a shop wall and we went in to look.  They were much more in my price range and size than the paintings, and I indulged in two pairs.  We continued down the block, and to my shock came face to face with Tcha Tcha’s again.  Ron’s eyes lit up and he literally dragged me inside by the arm, vowing to see that coat on me again.  At first, the sales woman looked concerned by the commotion, but when she recognized us came over with delighted hugs.  This time, Ron used the Valentine’s Day ploy to get me to try on and purchase more things.  He didn’t get to buy the coat he'd been so set on, but he found one that I liked much more and began bargaining again until everyone was happy and I had even more to pack.   The trip alone would have been treat enough for me.  It’s such a rare thing for me to splurge on myself that I decided just to let it go this time.  The prices are very reasonable for the quality and creativity.  If you’re ever in Paris, you must visit this wonderful store, but good luck "just looking".  I’m quite sure I will again, someday.

You don't need to speak the same language to communicate.

In our walks along the Latin Quarter to choose our restaurants for the evening, we noticed at least one that had their meats and vegetables roasting on a revolving grill in the front, and we opted to try one of them on this night.  It was another good choice, including roast chicken in béarnaise sauce, green salad with corn and beets, pomme frites [real French fries], salmon over pasta, and beef with Roquefort sauce and little potatoes.  All delish!

Yum

MONDAY - DAY 19           

On our last full day in Paris, we started with our usual Starbucks lattes and muffins, then, took the Metro to the Chatelet les Halles neighborhood.  Ron had a pilgrimage he felt strongly about making.  He had looked up the address for the Charlie Hebdo weekly satirical magazine that had been attacked by terrorists and wanted to visit to show his distain for the cowardly attacks.  We found our way to the building, but when we knocked discovered that it was the old address and the new one was being kept quiet.  

Centre Georges Pompidou - Art inside and out

Next we headed to the Centre Pompidou, which houses a vast public library, as well as, the largest museum of modern art in Europe.  Once again, we encountered long lines that we didn’t wish to stand in, but the trip wasn’t a wasted one.  Per Wikipedia, the Centre was designed by three architects, whose project was awarded to the team in an architectural design competition.  It was the first time French architects had been allowed to participate and they were one of 681 entries.  National Geographic described the reaction to the design as “love at second sight”.   An article in Le Figaro, a French daily newspaper, declared “Paris has its own monster, just like the one in Loch Ness.”  [Parisians also hated the Eiffel Tower when it was first built.]  But two decades later, The New YorkTimes noted that the design of the Centre “turned the architecture world upside down” with its exposed skeleton of brightly colored tubes on the exterior walls for the mechanical systems.  All of the functional structural elements were color-coded:  green pipes for plumbing, blue ducts for climate control, yellow electrical wires and red circulation elements and safety devices.  The exterior, alone, was certainly a sight to behold and worth the time.  And...

Across the street, there were bright, motorized works of art in a pool, which we would have loved to see running, but even still, they were a sight to behold.

The next stop didn’t go as planned, either.  I had read about a large underground mall with gardens atop it at Les Halles, which was close to Centre Pompidou.  But, when we reached the location, we found that it was under an enormous renovation.  We peeked at it from different viewpoints, but started to walk back to the hotel in the sunshine that had broken through so we could rest and regroup.  For me, that meant starting to see how much of the clothing purchased at Tcha Tcha’s would fit in my suitcase.  Luckily, I always under-pack to leave room for purchases. 

A small part of the massive Les Halles underground mall project.
It reminded me of Boston's "Big Dig".

We found “General Petain” again for our last dinner in the French Quarter, and it was my best dinner, yet.  Close your eyes for a minute and imagine a fresh tomato and mozzarella salad, Paella with tender, sweet mussels and calamari, and then, chocolate mousse for dessert.  Ron tried the oysters, mostly out of curiosity, and found that our Cape Cod Wellfleet oysters truly are the best.  We learned that our “general” was named Gigio, and was from Italy.   We thanked him for making us feel so welcome and told him we would be returning to the U.S. the following morning.

"General Gigio Petain" - a dead ringer.

NEXT:  PART VI - THE CARPE DIEM TRIP CONCLUSION 

TEASER:  

A trip like this leaves one with so much to think about.