Toni's Top Travel Tips for Paris

+Have a credit card that gives you frequent flyer miles. You can research
these online. Even if you don’t have miles enough for the trip, you can buy
more. Charge everything you buy to the card, even your Starbucks iced tea.
Pay the bill at Happy Hour and have your friends give you cash, unless they
are also scrambling for miles (in that case, split bill). Book your trip early.
I think 350 days in advance is the maximum…that way, you can swing a seat
on the daily non-stop Air France flight.
+Do not stay in a hotel. Get an apartment via VRBO or google “Paris apartments.”
You will be overwhelmed. Leave time for this, as you need to research and
compare. Does it have Wifi? Are there cafes beneath the windows or don’t you
care about noise? Does it have a/c as this can cover up street noise at night?
Ask friends who have been there. My personal preference is to be walking
distance from the Seine, in the Marais for example. If you want some hotel
features, stay at a Citadines, a nice apart-hotel chain.
+Take an online French class. There is one offered via SCCC, available anywhere.
I found it through a UM online learning site. Very practical and geared to us
short term travelers. You will get beyond Bonjour Merci Au revoir and Chouette.
+Visit museums other than the Louvre and the Orsay, though do not miss
the Pompidou, ifjust to go up the exoskeleton exterior. Find the City of Paris
free museums, small and charming. The Carnavalet features the always-
exciting French Revolution, root of today’s greves. The Bourdelle includes
Antoine Bourdelle’s work and home. He’s Rodin’s star pupil, so choose this free
musee instead of Rodin’s. You will see Montparnasse, once the center of Paris’
artistic life. Go up to the top of the really ugly Tour Montparnasse for the views.
The construction of skyscrapers was subsequently banned in the City center.
Other great view places: top of Samaritaine, if the department store ever
reopens; top of the Pompidou; Sacre Coeur…
+Visit churches and cemeteries, also free, Sainte-Chapelle being an exception.
I love Pere Lachaise, though don’t go there dead as it’s all full up.
Most popular grave: Jim Morrison’s.
+Check out all the newsstand and online guides like Paris-update.com to find
current exhibitions and shows. We were lucky to have Regina studying these
and so got advance tickets to the Monet expo and we learned about the
amazing Andre Kertesz exhibit at the Jeu de Paume (tennis court) at Concorde.
+Use public transportation and be in awe of how easy it is to navigate.
I am a personal advocate of the Metro. You are free to go anywhere and
everywhere at minimal cost. Get a carnet of 10 billets at many stations.
Absolute must buy is The Paris Mapguide, Penguin Press, available at most bookstores.
It’s lightweight and slim. I’d feel naked without it. A Metro map in front is followed by
detailed maps of the city & an index to find streets. Markets are noted, etc.
You can hop on buses using the same tickets. French trains are
fabulous when not on strike. A fast TGV train takes you to Reims
(pronounced: Rahnce!) in 45 minutes. Keep one of two tiny phrase books with
you in case of panic at a train station: Lonely Planet or Rick Steves.
Least favorite Metro station: Chatelet. Too many exchanges
(correspondence) can have you walking a mile underground.
+Walk all over the Marais. Sit in the Place des Vosges, the most beautiful
square in Paris. Victor Hugo home is open to the public for a small fee.
Lunch at Les Rosiers, a small and inexpensive down-to-earth French
restaurant. Skip had tongue this visit, though Regina and I stuck to chicken.
Say hello for us, the Obama people…story from last visit. Carnavalet
is in the Marais, as well as the gem Musee Picasso, on the road for another
year while they renovate. Rue des Rosiers (Street of the Rosebushes) is
the center of the Jewish Quarter of Paris. Businesses are more apt to
be open Sundays, closed during Yom Kippur. Visit it.
+Boulangeries in the morning, lunch at a café, dinner at home thanks
to the Monoprix or Franprix in your neighborhood. Monoprix carries
everything from housewares to clothing. The recent trend to
emporter, carry out, has given rise to small businesses with all
kinds of delicious morsels to take home, still enormously cheaper than
dinner at a restaurant. Neighborhood markets dot the city, some daily
as the Rue de Levis, some a day or two a week, like the giant Sunday
Bastille Market. Spend an hour your first day touring your
neighborhood to see all the shops and the metro/s. Supposedly you are
never farther than 500 meters from a Metro stop. Lots of places are
closed Sundays, not usually the boulangeries and these
may carry salads and small meals.
For a wild extravagance or just regarder, visit the Gran Epicerie of
the glitzy Bon Marche. Try not to have your mouth agape as you
stroll around. No need to visit Fauchon or Hediard. They have their
own little sections here.
Embarrassing to admit, but my top fave food may be all the custards.
Every variety, with cherries, flanlike or out of an old Rombauer…I
miss them all.
+Groupons have invaded Paris and I tried them out. Since it’s a new
concept, it doesn’t always work well. I gave up on trying to get a
manicure. The business seemed to be a one-room closet and the
woman never answered her phone. Pas de probleme: the local Groupon
office wanted to hear about it and will (I hope) refund my money.
We ate out at two restaurants, brought food home from another brand
new place (yuk!) and had fun at a candy store where the enthusiastic
Suzanne (relatives in New York, wants to learn English) barely let us
go. I have to send her the photos we took.
Add Paris Groupons to your email list; check the expiry date and the
address (you DO have your Paris Mapguide) to see if it’s near where
you are staying or somewhere you want to go. Print them out before
going. I forgot to do this for cocktails and tapas and just mailed it
to the Bonnafouxs. You might have it on your cell, but they may not
have Wifi. I found that Wifi was mostly password-protected.
+What to take: I don’t pack light, so I can’t give recommendations.
I took too many shoes and wore only one pair, the doc-approved
walking shoes, though in black instead of my usual white. Skip wished
he’d heeded Rick Steves’ advice to take only 2 pairs of pants.
Warning: you could age 6 months before French dryers actually dry
jeans. We did not have a functional heated rack in the bathroom
this visit (ask when you are negotiating a rental). Unless you don’t not
mind wearing dirty clothes, take things that dry overnight on their
own. Of course, if you go in summer, pas de probleme. Take a bathing
suit for the plage on the right bank of the Seine. Sticking to one
color (black anyone?) keeps it simple. For women, a purse with
shoulder strap you can wear in front is ideal. I also have a snazzy
thing to wear around my waist, with a small wallet attached.
Leave room in your suitcase and bring me back some goodies
from Fauchon.
+Last thoughts: Hang out as much as possible. The cafes have
outside tables and they come with heaters. Wine is cheap, along
with baguettes, Metro tickets, the gardens and the City museums.
And the Seine. (I forgot to say, take a bateau mouche ride up and
down the river). Enjoy, listen, and bring back photos for us to see.
I was glad to come home, but I miss Paris.
Louisette, the apartment caretaker, was barefoot and standing in the
bathtub when she said she did not like the Spanish painters so much.
Their paintings are sad. Life is to be enjoyed.
La vie est jolie!

Au secours! The Greve's gonna get me!

Last day, last Metro home, via Miromesnil.
Still down in the bowels of the station, the air is smoky
and getting more so as I ascend. I’m proud to not panic,
but I cover my face and move fast. More and more smoke
until we all emerge into not so fresh air and a mass of young
people, burning something and shouting demands. I stop
to snap a picture and again remember 1968. Skip returns
from his last day of shooting everything that moves or
doesn’t move and we return to Miromesnil to do the photo
booth photos we’ve talked about. We decide against a
drink in a bar, since we’ve stuff to finish off in the fridge.
Yes, we are officially old.
Next morning, Saint Christian arrives on his mighty steed
around 6am and our trip down the actual elevator and to
Charles de Gaulle is easy. No truckers massing to slow down
traffic, no blocking of access routes.
He stays to ensure our flight is expected on time, though
over 3 hours away, and we kiss goodbye, once on each
cheek. It’s doubtful I can convince Regina to come to
Seattle, but I’m still working on Christian.
Skip and I repair to the Air France lounge, well staffed and
well supplied. You can get drunk at 7 in the morning if
that is your wish. I try and read the French paper, though
I’ve given up on speaking the language. It’s so tiring to
come up with words when it can take me 5 minutes to recall
them in English. My sentences end in the middle, waiting for
someone to finish them, usually not moi.
I like to stop at the Duty Free Shop! I like to stop at the Duty
Free Shop! Extra credit for remembering who said it on
what TV series. Maybe the hard-to-find miniature Eiffel tower
as a prize.
I’ve never shopped at the Duty Free Shop, but when they roll
the cart down the aisle, I decide to look at the book. Pages
of perfume until, voila!, I see the perfect Judah gift. I even have a
few euros left. A little Air France Airbus 380 airplane set, with
everything from baggage cart to signs: arrivals, departures,
airplane ahead. Judah likes the plane and doesn’t eat the small
parts. He is 10 days away from the recommended 36 months.
Trip highlights: being fed continually for 10 hours; seeing rocky
Greenland and puffy Baffin Island; Skip, giddy with excitement as
we descend over Seattle: Look! There’s Ballard!

The Center of the Universe

And you thought it was Fremont. Non.
C’est Notre Dame.
It’s point zero in France, the point from
which all distances are measured. Its
island in mid Seine was once the center
of the town 2,300 years ago when the
Parisi tribe fished there. (from R.Steves)
And an invisible magnet keeps drawing
me in. I light another candle, watch
the tourists, say bonjour to the headless
saint at the left front entrance. Maybe a
billion photos he’s endured, but I add
another to the pile. Dig in my pocket for
the centimes I think everyone in Paris
keeps there to give to the sad people
begging. I reserve the bigger coins for
the Metro musicians. The acoustics in
those catacombs is fabulous and I think
I’m at a concert.
The Seine is beautiful in the cold October
air, leaves turning and clouds enhancing
the river and sky. You really should be
here.

How la vie and our Paris adventure are the same

Once you start getting the hang of it, it’s time to move on.
Our elevator is fixed and the water is on. We’ve got our
Metro routes figured out and have established our
favorite foods and kinds of food places for the trip.
My French may have regressed, but I keep trying.
We’ve gone to lots of cool places. La vie est jolie!
So it’s adieu in another day, assuming strikers are
not blockading access roads to Charles de Gaulle and
the planes have fuel and the sky doesn’t fall.
Did you ever read about Crictor the boa constrictor
and his beloved Madame Bodot who walks him in
the Parc Monceau? We walked in Parc Monceau
this morning and it was a thrill to tread where
Crictor slithered. Lovely park, though the swings
for toddlers cost 1 euro per 5 minutes, among other
constrictions.
We visited one of the always charming official
Paris museums. They are all free. The Musee
Cernuschi is the City Asian art museum. A giant
Buddha had us photographing every angle.
And I have been reminded of another book:
In an old house in Paris that was covered
with vines/lived 12 little girls in two straight lines…
the youngest one was ___________ (you know that!)
She goes off in the night in an ambulance. At one point
I thought I might have to and did visit a Paris medical
clinic; paid my 22 euros to see a doctor like everyone
else. It was just a bad cold. No ambulance needed.
Everything is still chouette.

3 photos for previous post...

all are small but you can click and make them bigger.
The Rube Goldberg machine with a ball flying through its loops.
Skip coming through the metalin the Cyclop.
The ground floor of our building. I think you can just see the
broken sign on the elevator. We have such bronzes in the apt,
the cringing lady variety, gracing each side of the bronzed fireplace.

Camping out Louis XV style and other trip pleasures

Of course, the title is just to suck you in though I don't seem to be one of those ideal travelers for whom every bump in the road is another delight of the road. They all look like potholes. We spent too much on this year’s apartment, our 4^th rental in Paris since 2001. Mary found it for me on the VRBO site, later admitting it was a joke; too pretentious. Decorated by the owner’s wife, who is French and an interior decorator in Atlanta. I think mother used to call this style Louis XV in the same spirit as Mary made the recommendation. It’s roomy and airy, with carved ceiling moldings (“empire” said the ad) and “point- de-hongrie” floors. Most of the lights don’t actually work, but we were pleased with all the comforts. The ad promised 1.5 baths. I had an awkward moment when I first attempted to use the large, marble bathroom off the bedroom. Ou est le toilette? It’s in the .5 W.C. next to the kitchen! The elevator is what we have come to expect, a tiny rectangle in which one person and one suitcase can just fit. No problem. Until the elevator’s motor died on our 4^th day here. We are on the 4^th floor, which means 5 floors American. This would have been fine 10 years ago, but arthritic old me (the cortisone shot pre-trip did not take) struggles up the beautiful old and narrow dark wood stairs winding tightly around the elevator shaft. I take so long to trudge, the light goes out midway and I have to fumble for one at the next level, clutching the rail for dear life. Sunday, a large notice appeared on the main door: plumbers would be working on the building and we wouldn’t have water for 3 days, our last 3 days. We got up early today for our showers. (full disclosure: we get it back for the night). Outside our little nest, the strikes continues unabated. If Sarkozy could find another line of work, things would calm down. You’ve probably read about his anti-Roma and women in head scarves measures, the latter seeming to be ignored. The latest worry is fuel, as strikers are block refineries and truckers stage a slowdown to block the highways. Motorists line up in hopes of filling their cars and the planes which can actually land are required to bring their own fuel for the return trip. At least oneflight from Seattle (same we are booked on) had to stop and refuel somewhere inEurope. Air France says no guarantees.

Thanks to Regina and Christian, we had an amazing outing this weekend to thepretty Milly-la-Foret, an hour outside Paris. Jean Cocteau is buried in the little Saint-Blaise Chapel he decorated with his fanciful art, including an acupunctured Jesus and homage to the medicinal herbs (blaise=basil) the town is known for. Cocteau’s home and garden with castle moat were just opened to the public. We loved it all. The big treat of the day was a visit to Le Cyclop, hidden in the forest outside townand accessible only at certain times with a tour guide. I fell in love with the giantsteel monster, its visage a gleaming eye (of course) and a cascade of mirrors with a waterfall tongue. This was originally intended as a children’s slide until they realizedthe tykes would cut themselves on all the mirrors. Le Cyclop is completely interactive and we clamored up various levels, me forgettingmy aversion to precarious heights and Regina discovering she will never be a squirrel. Highlights: a little theater in which our chairs moved around; a forest of hanging metal bars which the brave ones went through, the clanging and density obliterating the world. Scrap metal gears everywhere and an ogre-sized game where you start a ball going and it meanders a la Rube Goldberg . I went through the metal curtain two times, not enough. A hanging boxcar, used as transport to the WWII camps, contains ghostly sculptures. It took sculptor Jean Tinguely and his wife Niki de Saint Phalle more than 20 years to complete. She’s a personal fave of mine and the two of them did the delightful Stravinsky Fountain outside the Pompidou Museum. The tour was in French, but when our guide mentioned la greve and asked if we remembered the strikes of 1968 in the States, I happily bragged that I was part of it, impressing her. Vive la greve, well not maybe so much right now.

Now I must trudge down to harass the concierge about the plumbing.

Mon caracol francais

see previous post for details.

Raison d'etre

I committed the grievous sin of eating a day-old croissant
this morning. Your breads are required to be fresh
daily, but a day-old croissant in Paris is still preferable to
any I’ve ever eaten in the States. It crumbles all over you,
a sensuous brown crusty exterior with a warm secret inside.
I want one RIGHT NOW. I’ve done my part to sample all
the breads and the rolls (love the olive-studded ones) and
the cookies and cakes and the custards… Everything the
boulangeries and patisseries have to offer. I have a favorite
bakery: Julien’s at St. Phillippe de Roule in the 8ieme. In
general, I’d like to recommend every boulangerie in the
entire city. It’s reason enough to come to Paris.
I also recommend having a friend like Regina who cooks fabulous
multi-course French meals daily. Lucky Christian can view
the menu on her little kitchen chalkboard. Our Sunday
afternoon meal included amuse- bouches too numerous to
mention, along with aperitifs. Skip and Christian had Pastis.
The “entrée” or first course is depicted above. The center mold
is an avocado aspic she created with clever use of tuna tins.
Main course was salmon and other goodies, as she is considerate
of my aversion to red meat. After a walk along part county-part
suburban village roads, we returned for (almost) 90-year-old Anne
Marie’s apple cake. It’s true, I’ve gained another 10 pounds, but
I can’t reveal Regina’s address. Well…maybe if the bidding got going.
Something new since our last visit 2 years ago: the proliferation of
take out food, which I’d assumed was a no-no here. I take advantage
of the famous French salades composees. Tonight’s is curry chicken
with ruby red tomatoes, grapes and more.
Breakfast and dinner chez nous in our Louis XV splendor (more on
this later), dejeuner at whatever little café we find on our traipses
or places for which I have an actual Groupon. Yes, I went overboard
with the www.groupon.fr, with mixed success. The best to date was a super
elegant Japanese place, savvy enough to serve the miso soup after
the main course. One of the amuse-bouches was a big fat snail,
reminding me of those in my garden at home. The snail was
unadulterated, that is undisguised in its sinewy snailness. Urp.
Restaurant Kiyomizu is right around the corner from Julien’s.
Bon Apetit!

"You had better have your vegetable garden"..NYT

New York Times
The Opinion Pages

Op-Ed Columnist
Retirement at 62? Non!
By ROGER COHEN
Published: October 14, 2010

PARIS — Welcome to France! As my train emerged from the tunnel linking Britain to the European continent, the announcement came: “As a result of a general strike, certain rail and other services will be disrupted

Labor unions are mobilized, high school kids are out in force, oil refineries are struggling and more than one million people have taken to the streets as France rises to confront the government’s decision to lift the retirement age to 62 from 60. Yes, you read that right: to 62 (and gradually at that.)

The movement amounts to the broadest social challenge faced by the center-right government of President Nicolas Sarkozy. It comes as European governments from Britain to Spain — and even the lost socialist paradise of Sweden — struggle to refashion cradle-to-grave welfare systems undone by a double whammy: aging baby boomers and plunging post-crash tax revenues.

I found Christine Lagarde, the French economy minister, in a combative mood. “Yes, we are going to hold firm,” she told me. Then she gave me the math: “There are 15 million pensioners — every year we add another 700,000 — and already 1.5 million of them, or 10 percent, receive pensions financed by debt. We just can’t go on like that.”

The French now live 15 years longer on average than they did in 1950. They exist in a globalized economy where the Chinese don’t get the notion of retirement. As for financing lifestyles on credit, I suggest the French strikers ask debt-deluged Americans about the wisdom of that — and the Greeks about unbalanced budgets.

This reform is a no-brainer. Come on, France, get real!

I say that not because I think Europe’s tempered capitalism with its far reaching entitlements in health, education and unemployment is dead, but because it’s clear that the only way to preserve the core of the welfare state is by reforming it.

Europe’s social solidarity is precious. Greed does not a society make. But reform will involve tough choices made in the knowledge that the alternative is collapse. Then the French would really face the unbridled capitalism — they call it “American” — that constitutes their collective nightmare.

“This is a key test of France’s ability to be sensible about its public finances, sensible about grabbing the future and not taking it on credit,” Lagarde, 54, said, dismissing some Socialist Party opposition as “totally irresponsible.” She sighed: “I hope we can demonstrate that France can actually change without breaking its chemistry and its culture and its intricacies.”

Aaah, French chemistry and culture and intricacies! Lagarde, whose elegant professionalism has proved an essential foil to Sarkozy’s explosive restlessness, spoke in the lovely Hôtel de Seignelay overlooking the Seine. On a mantelpiece lay the gravestone of Coco, “the favorite dog,” the inscription says, of Marie-Antoinette, who entrusted the pet to a friend before her execution in 1793. The stone has been uprooted from the garden because the property is for sale. The state needs cash, and not just from asking people to work a couple of years longer.

I believe France can change and preserve its social-market balance-cum-essence. The trouble is Sarkozy’s unpopularity is such that the reform has become a lightning rod. The left loathes his policies; many on the right loathe his style.

But he’s right. Lagarde estimates the reform, expected to get final parliamentary approval this month, would add 0.3 percent to annual G.D.P. growth and cut the deficit by 0.5 percent (beginning in three years).

That’s critical to a fragile recovery not helped by the clouds over America. “I am more concerned about the U.S. economy than the French,” Lagarde told me, citing the “structural de-leveraging” that is hitting a “world economy that had been driven by high U.S. consumption.” Add to that U.S. unemployment trends that are “not reassuring” and a low-interest U.S. monetary policy that’s “understandable” but “not helping developing countries or emerging markets or anyone.”

So, I asked, are you a double-dipper? “Not for Europe,” Lagarde said. “I don’t know enough about the United States to pass judgment. I would hope not.”

And what of her next move? Sarkozy has promised a cabinet shake-up, and Lagarde, who has earned broad respect, is viewed as a possible prime minister. “I don’t have a clue,” she said. “He is the one who decides. It’s all a bit unsettling. You don’t really know if at the end of the month you will still be around!”

A decision had better come soon. France takes over the Group of 20 presidency next month facing the small task of stabilizing global capitalism. Lagarde saw how near to implosion it was in the “tsunami” — as she calls it in the new documentary “Inside Job” — of 2008. I asked her what lessons she drew.

“Greed is everywhere,” she said. “I think we can collectively lose the moral compass without even knowing it. We came very close to collapse, to a place where all circuits were empty and value had evaporated, with people saying, ‘Where’s my money, where are my savings?”’

So, she concluded, pointing to that beautiful yard minus its Coco gravestone, “You had better have your vegetable garden.”

Vive la Revolution!

Vive la revolution/La Greves!


The French workers strike again! This is our 4th visit to Paris
since 2001 and someone has been striking somewhere each
time, in past a one-day or just the museums.
This year we hit the jackpot: the entire country is involved in a
series of rolling strikes, primarily affecting transportation.
We’ve given up on taking the train to Reims or Rouen. Even
if we make it, could we get back? Ticket office was closed
yesterday and today. A travel agency said it’s uncertain.
Subways are pretty much back to normal, but the national unions
threaten an all-out effort tomorrow and again in a few days.
High school kids have joined in, fearing no jobs in their future and
no chance of retiring.
I can only look through my American eyes. Our unemployment
rate is close to their 10%; our retirement age has inched up to
67. They are fighting to retain age 60. Age 60! Christian says
because so many young and old are out of work. I still don’t
understand. If you see a good analytical article, send it my way.
Michael Moore loves the French workers because they are in
charge. In the States, unions have lost ground during the
recession (eg: our library has cut mid level union jobs in favor
of higher level non-union positions). In France, the poor
economy seems to strengthen union resolve. They want to
shut the country down until the much-hated Sarkozy gives
in and the legislature backs down. What will happen?
Vive la France!

photo belongs to Monet's my Man post

Monet's my man!

I’ve loved Monet since I lived in NYC in the 60s and joined MOMA, probably on
a student rate. As I recall, it was an L-shaped room, walls covered with his water
lilies. I liked to go there and just sit, as did Ferdinand with his flowers.
On 2 previous trips to Paris, Regina drove us to Giverny, Monet’s home of 40 years.
He gardened as he painted and his Japanese water garden, complete with bridge,
old rowboat and hundreds of water lilies, is the eighth wonder of the world (or
thereabouts).
The big Fall Expo at the Grand Palais is …tah dah…Monet! Some 200 Monets
from museums and private collections all over the world, the most complete
exposition of his work ever mounted. And it’s splendid. Skip commented on
the kodachrome feel to many of the works. I looked up info about his first
wife, depicted in a gray dreamlike (after)deathbed portrait and in an equally
haunting portrait seen out the garden window in a red cloak. She died before
age 40; never received adequate medical care due to their poverty.
The term Impressionism came from a painting of the port of Le Havre Monet
showed in 1874 entitled “Impression soleil levant”. A critic ridiculed the style
as “impressionist”. Impressionism was not always considered serious art and,
to this day, some feel the French have not been fans. You will be one of this
show if you can make it to Paris by January 24, 2011.
Our advance tickets, thanks to Regina and Christian, put us second in line that
morning until a few line crashers arrived. We kind of had the place to ourselves
at first. To prolong the occasion, Regina had read about a great restaurant online
and Christian made reservations. We walked the entire length of the Champs-Elysees,
past the Arc de Triomphe, to a pretty little street, walked up and down in vain.
We had the correct address, but they’d apparently moved and not changed it on the web. We found another. All was chouette.

Paris and Us October 2010

Aging Ungracefully or Should these people really be traveling?

Off we go into the wild blue yonder, bound for Paris. We make it as far
as Minneapolis without mishap. At that airport, hourly updates by the
captain include the overly candid remark about the 767’s “aging electrical system.”
We eventually take off as the hour approaches when the crew would be
grounded for the night. Either coincidence or what the hell, it’s now or
never.
My frequent flyer miles have landed me in that lap of luxury called Business
Class, while Skip, who normally sleeps from takeoff to arrival, is in what can
Best be described as Steerage. I am shocked when I go back to check on
him. (note: Delta is not the airline of choice from Seattle to Paris. Get on
Air France by any means possible). Hundreds of bodies cheek to jowl,
unable to move arms or legs without abusing their neighbors.
Skip is not sleeping; he is writhing in pain. He displays his right arm,
wounded while attempting to squish his carry on into the pint sized overhead.
It’s not bleeding, but is bruised and swollen. He claims he’s fine, that the
neighbors next door gave him painkillers. Making it worse are his memories
of our last two big trips: a torn meniscus first day up at the Hills in June; a hurt
shoulder lifting a canoe third day in Northern Michigan last September.
He’s jinxed!
Of course, I changed seats with him. Well, I DID ask.
22 sleepless hours later (counting from our 3:30am get up time), we are at
Charles de Gaulle Airport, not my favorite place to land since they still have us
creeping down rickety airplane stairs for a 10 minute bus ride to the terminal.
Not ADA friendly.
On the other hand, our suitcases were of no interest and we breezed through
Customs to greet Christian, waving a giant bouquet of Stargazer lilies on the other
side of a glass partition. The flowers are a Joyeaux Anniversaire for moi, though
my birthday is 2 days away and it’s actually Christian’s birthday. Heaven to be
greeted so. He drives us to our new chez nous, expertly missing the 3 million
(or 900,000 according to police) protesters. Everyone hates Sarkovsky and
nobody is happy about the upcoming change in retirement age from 60 to 62 by
2018. We take him out to dinner at a sidewalk café. Is there any other way to
eat in Paris? We get friendly with a street bum, dressed like an old English prof,
cigar waving wildly as he orates to the masses. What’s he saying? I ask Christian.
I have no idea, he replies. Best of all, what I do understand is the word “Chouette!”
(Great!) which I learned in the French online class and figured would never hear
again since the teacher admitted that one would not really use it in general conversation.
We end the evening with a round of photos: us and the Professor.
Paris is beautiful in the evening light. Chouette!

Bad time=Adobe Good time=The Hills

Let's all write on bathroom walls: For a really really bad time, call Adobe tech support. This movement is probably as close as a Facebook page. And we'd only write where graffiti already exists, environmentally conscious all of us. I'm not talking about one 1/2 hour phone call. I'm talking a week of calls, of holding, of being passed from hand to hand, finally waiting for that nirvana of all tech support: "an advanced tech expert for Photoshop Elements will call you within 72 hours." Maybe I misunderstood. Was that 72,000 hours?
This is a wordy excuse for inability to post pictures. I haven't given up. Maybe Adobe is ringing the home phone off the hook now the coast is clear and we're in the wilds of Canada.
I want to show you the beautiful Hills, the Hills Health Ranch at 108 Mile House, B.C.
It's my 9th year in a row as I struggle to age gracefully. I think struggling to age gracefully is a contradiction, but more on this later.
I have to struggle with posting pictures first.