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 4th 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 4th day here. We are on the 4th 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.
we have also been a hotel without the elevator being out, although much less magnificent. The first two nights were in a room that was so small, there was not enough room for more than one night stands...the bathroom the same size as the bedroom.
ReplyDeleteBut the last few nights were in a much larger room thhat apparently was parts of at least two other rooms at some time.
wonderful location though, near a whole foods and the circulator to the subway...and a short walk to Dupont circle, my favorite place in Dc (well, after the mall, of course)