Small Town Rock and Roll

First of all, I must apologize that it has taken so dang long to get another post up here.  My life's flow was exquisitely interrupted a couple weeks back by a little physical malady called a perforated appendix.  Or more colloquially known as a burst appendix.  Pus.  Gangrene.  Flying monkeys with butcher knives.  Emergency night time surgery.  All up inside my belly.  What a world, what a world.

Rest assured there is a story here, a real fun stunner too!  But that's gonna take a little more time since I'm not quite up to sitting down for any extended period of time at this here keyboard quite yet.  "Angels On My Barcalounger" will be appearing as soon as it will. 

This little malady also interrupted a major ongoing late summer project I had hoped to have completed by this time, or Thanksgiving at the latest.  This may or may not happen by that deadline since I really need to take it easy for a while, especially at my tender young age.  However, "Wilson Pickett Fence Land" will also be forth coming before too long as well.

I have been working on a couple other offerings which have been primarily drafted for my second book, which will be a regurgitated compendium of certain Rooster posts along with a lot of new additions.  BTW, if you haven't picked up book one yet, there's still time and there's also a link for it somewhere around here.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy "Small Town Rock and Roll".  

Honestly, I can't constantly write about home improvement projects around the old homestead here, can I?  You're probably going to think that's all I do.

OK, it's just about all of what I do.  If you're not a home improver, my life's gotta sound boring as hell.  But there is a method to my madness.  I don't think we're out of this international economic mess yet and I do believe food and the transportation thereof will potentially become a problem in these here United States.  It is with this urgency in mind that I continue to strive for as much self sufficiency as is physically possible for me to attain for my family.  There's also a lot of ground to cover around here, and from what I can tell it ain't had a going over for just about, oh, forever. 

I do actually let me out of here every once in a while.  Last May, a scant 5 months ago, we took some friends of ours to see the international renowned musical artist Johnny Clegg at our local Center for the Arts.  Yes, South Africa's Johnny Clegg at a 300 seat venue.  This guy has played a sold out Royal Albert Hall for crying out loud.  What's he doing coming to our little Northern California Sierra Foothill town?

I must say our non-profit Center for the Arts has really been bringing some talent to the area over the last couple years.  Artists like Graham Nash, David Crosby, Kris Kristofferson, Chris Issac, Bela Fleck, David Wilcox, Jewell, Steve Earle, John Mayall, Melissa Etheridge, Joan Baez, Marc Cohn, and of course Johnny Clegg.  To name a few.  Sure beats having Blaine Tidswell playing accordion at the Holiday Inn as the only source of musical entertainment for miles around.  Right Des Moines?

This is a small country town, about 50 miles outside of Sacramento, the California state capital.  There have been a number of concerts, shows and events here over the years.  Some fairly large acts have stopped by, folks like Johnny Cash, CS&N, and The Band to name a few.  Our lovely county fairgrounds also hosts a World Music Fest every year, they just picked up the Strawberry Music Fest and there is a world famous blue grass festival held here every Father's Day weekend.

There's also several local bars that feature live music.  There's fewer today than when I was haunting the neighborhood.  Back then a few folks like Elvin Bishop would mosey on up and play this one place that was called Big Al's.   You could definitely get up close and personal in that type of atmosphere.  Plus, an old school chum of mine was then doing Elvin's sound board so I got a back party pass with the boys.  Back in the drinking days.  Poking fun at Elvin with way too many beers under my belt.  Ah, memories...

But the Center for the Arts is the first full time event coordinator we've had around here in like, forever.  If the artist is too large for the 300 seat Center venue, they get moved down the street to the Veteran's Auditorium, which seats 950.  That's where we saw Crosby and Nash a couple years ago.

We have seen that duo and all their many formats numerous times.  I mean, we were originally from the Bay Area in California, which I think had one of the best music scenes anywhere in the world in the 1960's and 70's.  Hell, they still do.

Back in that day we used to drive up to SF from our South Bay haunts and catch shows at Winterland as well as new artists a a night club called the Boarding House.  We caught Jimmy Buffet there a couple times just after Come Monday came out and before he went parabolic.  John Stewart, Arlo Guthrie, David Bromberg, Jesse Colin Young, Barry Manilow. To name a few.

The Center for the Arts brings back memories of the Boarding House.  It's about the same size, the sound is good and for folks who imbibe you can have cocktails.  I personally had to quit drinking a couple decades back.  At the rate it was going I was going to drink up all the alcohol in the universe.  Then there would not have been any left for you if you went to see a show at the Center, for instance.

You're welcome.

Going to a rock show these days is just about the same as back in the day when we'd lace up a watermelon with vodka and spend the day in Oakland at one of Bill Graham's Day on the Green concerts.   Maybe drop some stuff.  Smoke some stuff.   Eat some stuff.  Rock and roll baby.

Today everybody still rocks, everybody still rolls.  We probably don't drink, drop or smoke as many things though anymore.  Primarily because many of us have grey hair and are still here.  Those that continued on their hell bent lust for maximum overdrive generally aren't here anymore.  Or only speak in one syllable sentences accompanied by a look of satisfied confusion.

As I mentioned, my lovely wife and I have seen David and Graham numerous times in various formats.  But this was the first time we could see the color of their corneas since we were sitting about fifteen feet from the stage.   They opened with a stellar "8 Miles High", after which Graham commented that "the acid must be kicking in" when pointing out a girl who had already begun to dance.

Then David interjected, "No, I don't think it's acid.  This area's better known for it's agricultural pursuits."

Which, of course, brought resounding cheers from the audience.  This foothill locale actually does a remarkable amount of medicinal marijuana growing.  In fall, where ever you drive, the air is redolent with the scent of Cannabis.  Or Sativa.  Possibly both.   

It was a fabulous show.  And I have to say, kudos to our gray haired music loving mature audience up here in the hills.  I have heard Graham and David sing "Guinevere" live four or five times.  Every single time some putz in the audience has to let loose a coyote cat call somewhere in the middle of one of their soft, soaring harmonies.  There's always some Putz.  But that night was the first night I was able to enjoy that song in it's entirety without any type of putz intervention.  Here's to maturity!

I also must say that during intermission the parking lot was ablaze with glory.  The cloud of smoke was so thick they were diverting air traffic from Des Moines to Mars.  A Grateful Dead show had nothing over this scene.  Other dimensional UFO's were sputtering when trying to travel though the air space.  The low, thick fog at ground level was rife with gray hair and white rabbits with snorkels on their kazoos.

Ahem.  Where was I?

If you are not familiar with Johnny Clegg or his music, do yourself a favor and hit one of these links on You Tube: "Dela", "Take My Heart Away", "I Call Your Name", and "Asimbonanga".  I dare you not to tap your toes.  What you won't get from the videos is the amazing love and energy this man possesses.

His opening salvo blasted my heart chakra open like a power lawn mower would a tin can of sardines.  Gold fluorescence cascaded round the filigree like a kaleidoscope rainbow on the 4th of July.  The caress of  rhythm was transcendent.  My spirit danced, frolicked and cavorted like a puppy dog chasing a butterfly on a warm summer afternoon.

Did I mention I thought it was a good show?  I first saw Johnny Clegg on Johnny Carson around 1989 during a very dark period of my life.  His music was inspirational, and the one time I tried to see him in 1990, an outdoor show, was canceled due to rain.  I went home and faced some music of my own that day.  But that's a whole nother story, which can actually be found right here: Late Night Letters to the Moon.

There were a few folks under age 40 at Johnny's show up here, but I'd say 90% of the audience was over 50.  Most of them, men and women, were looking effervescently distinguished and gracefully cosmopolitan. You know, older and gray.  But that didn't matter as far as the groove went.  I would say that less than 5% of the crowd was NOT moving.  It was impossible not to move.  Such joyous sound, it lifted your caboose and turned it loose. 

And most of the crowd actually had decent rhythm.  That could be a testament to the artist, it could also be a testament to the experience of the audience.  I mean, I'm certain our friends and us were not the only ones that went to a few rock shows over the years with a vodka laced watermelon.  Or some acid.

My first show was actually a shared experience with good pal I shall call Miguel.  We went to school together and chummed around in the suburbs of the south bay area, which was a scant hour drive from the San Francisco music scene.  Every rock artist at the time came to San Francisco.  Or was from San Francisco.

It would have been tough to be a rock fan in the 1960's-70's if you lived in the middle of Montana.  Or Topeka.

We were big fans of Poco, one of the seminal country rock bands of the time.  They were playing at Winterland and were the 2nd act on a 3 bill show.  The opening band was a group called Focus, whose last yodeling song just didn't quite segue into Poco's country rock flavor.  Yep, yodeling.  And then country rock Poco didn't quite segue into the headliner Yes's unique sound.  Nevertheless, it was a fabulous experience for a first concert and it also turned me into a Yes fanatic for a number of years.

Miguel and I went to many many many shows together over the years, we were Boarding House buddies too.  Miguel is also a critically acclaimed musician as well as a bright and funny guy.  You can check out his music here at Sandbox Records.  OK, his real name is not Miguel.

One of the absolute best parts of having a music scene locally here is the lack of driving to get there.  Even back in the day it was an hour cruise up to the city.  Which wasn't too bad unless you discover you left all the tickets at home once you've almost arrived in the City and everybody in the car is just coming on to the acid you dropped on the way.  That makes the drive back home and then back up again quite arduous, extenuating and more than a little bit white knuckle interesting for the driver.  Quite colorful and usually funny as hell for the passengers.

Now we have a scant ten to fifteen minute ride to town, and there is generally ample and FREE parking within a short walking distance.  Who would have ever figured a rock and roll show could get this easy?

Small town rock and roll.  I'm a fan, for sure.

Fowl Update

Our little original flock of 8 has now grown to a robust 14, plus that rooster.  Besides the 3 surviving pullets I started this spring, a friend, who recently moved to one of the most loveliest spots on the planet, Late Tahoe, also gave me 3 laying Blue Andalusian hens.

Andalusian.  Sounds straight out of Star Trek.  But they're not, as far as I can tell.  Or maybe we are eating some space age eggs.   

 With our 3 self raised newbies now laying as well as the Andalusians, we are getting quite an assortment of colors and sizes of eggs these days.  The Blue Andalusians lay the white eggs.  The small, browner egg in the middle is from our Rhody, Rosy Posy Josie.  Guess who named her?  Our Americana and Speckled Sussex are also both laying a lighter brown egg.  And we're still getting a good assortment of AAA Large from the more established ladies of the flock.

The Speckled Sussex, who is named Flash, or Beatrix, depending on who you are talking to, has turned into the most amazingly loving hen we have yet met.  She is cute as hell, greeting us at the gate, even when all the rest of the flock is already perched up for the night.  She loves to be held and petted, and would easily come into the house, sit on the sofa and be treated like a cat.  If she were invited of course.  And maybe had fur instead of feathers.  OK, this drug addled brain appears to be heading off track again.

Happy  Fall Y'all.

Lemurs, Lemmings, Dorothy Lamour - Our March on Versailles

It was Tuesday morning.  The air was damp and cool, it had rained briefly the night before.  The weather was forecast to be cooler with a chance of rain.  I'll tell you what, this little excursion was one of the gosh darn hardest to pack for since our Everest ascent.

Just kidding.  Packing for Everest was easy.

We thought we did our due diligence.  I scoured the internet, checked with Rick Steve's, consulted with Al Roker, chatted with Paula Deen, all that.  Everybody and everything pretty much said the average temperature was in the high 70's-low 80's.  But then one source said it could be a wide swing, from the high 60's to mid 90's.  Apparently during the summer months rain could happen at almost any time.  It all seemed as unpredictable as, say, the weather.

So we sort of planned accordingly.  But as I think I previously mentioned in a previous Paris post I ended up wearing one pair of shorts, my snappy cargo shorts, five of seven days on the street.  And as it so happened, I decided to wear them this day, the day of our march on Versailles.  Good thing too, one always needs an extra pocket or two when going on a march.  You know, extra room for a fife and a fiddle.  I also wore a T-shirt under my regular good enough to be seen in public shirt, just so I had another layer.

As any good travel troop should, we did a fairly decent route recon for our journey into the luxurious lap of French royalty.  Versailles, as you may or may not know, was the residence of French monarchs and the cultural heartbeat of Europe for about 100 years, until the revolution of 1789 changed all that.  You know, "Let them eat cake and maybe I'll lose my head."  That sort of thing.  It is a MUST SEE apparently if ever one gets within its vicinity.

The town of Versailles is about a half hour train ride from Paris, depending on where in the city you pick up the train.  The RER train is available at 6 different metro stops and runs on 3 different lines.  But by this time we were subterranean pros and took the metro to one of the appropriate stops, paid the E6.60 each for the round trip train ticket and then my lovely wife and I hopped on the appropriate train in a rush of people, leaving our favorite traveling companions standing on the platform in a crowd of foreigners. 

I was a little irked because we had been herded on in a mass of humanity by some lady who had on a hat and badge and looked official.  Now, as I looked around, I discovered there weren't even two seats for my lovely wife and I to sit upon.  Had we been ushered on to a slow train to hell?

Fortunately, not everybody on the train was on the 30 minute ride to Versailles.  At the first stop two seats became available on the lower deck.  Two stops later almost the entire upper deck became available as about 56 college aged females departed for either a rugby match or science contest.

We moseyed upstairs and then enjoyed a picturesque ride the rest of the way to Versailles.  The train goes way too fast to enjoy the scenery if you're sitting on the lower level.  Greenery just whooshes by.  But on the upper level you get a pretty decent view of just about everywhere.

Once we arrived in Versailles we waited at the station for the next train.  It soon arrived and there were our companions.  And there, at the station, we also quickly discovered the multitudes had risen.  Orderly hordes and a mass confusion of humanity were everywhere.  There weren't just thousands of people, there were TENS of thousands of people.  Everywhere.  Nobody even remotely famous was around.  The Pope wasn't even there.  Everyone was on a pilgrimage to see old fashioned glitter.

The palace is about a quarter to  half mile from the train station, with an endless ant trail of folks going back and forth.  Across the street a wild horde had gathered around some sort of travel agency.  Some nice lady with a name tag and hat told one of our companions that we needed to get in that line.  It was like, a couple hundred strong at that point.  Why would we want to stand in that line?  Because some lady with a name tag said we should?  What was up with official looking ladies in hats telling us what to do, anyway?

So we got in the ant trail and followed the horde up the street and around the corner.  And then, wait for it, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."  (An angelic hosts sings.)

Our eyes were almost blinded  by an incredible array of light from all the gold gilding upon the front gate.  Rays of light were shining up through the cloud dotted sky and into the heavens.  You could almost hear the departed Monarch spirits singing like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  Or Lynyrd Skynyrd. 

That was about the only thing we saw.  Other than people.  I have never seen that many people in any one place at any one time.  Except for maybe Bo Belinski's debut in the Bay Area in 1966.

According to Rick Steve's, the absolute worst day of the week to visit Versailles is a Tuesday.  He said it was really crowded on Tuesdays.  He didn't say why, but he said it.  I took this into consideration when I drafted the ESS, originally planning to assault Versailles on Saturday.  Rick Steve's, the Tuesday thing, he is right.  Boy is he right.  I don't know what Versailles is like on any other day of the week, but I can most certainly say that just about everyone in Europe and Japan was at Versailles on the day we visited.  Which was a Tuesday by the way.

By this time I really, really, really had to pee.  I still had morning coffee trying to make a break, and it was getting extremely uncomfortable.  There are no restrooms at metro stations, I didn't see one at the train station either.  And then we'd been wandering aimlessly among the hordes for almost an hour, trying to figure out which way was up.  And I really, really, really had to pee.

Even our magical museum pass would not get us through the security line to get in.  That was the main cause of the immense line.  They want to make sure no one is carrying any C4 that might blow up, you know, beautiful, priceless, culturally beneficial objects of glitter and art.

We looked at the line again, it was still immense.  Like a line from California to Kansas would be, only wound up like a serpent so they could all fit within a football field or two.  A big, sweaty football field.  I knew I would never make it another ten minutes let alone the four days it was going to take us to get in via that line.

While we were consternating our next move, my next move was to the parking lot.  On one side of the lot were about 100 tour buses, I'm not exaggerating.  Probably tens of thousands more.  Now I'm exaggerating.  But that was out since most of the bus drivers were sitting in their seats reading newspapers.  I'm sure they wouldn't have liked it if some dude went out and started marking their wheels.

In another area was a regular parking lot with cars, vans and scooters.  I waltzed out there, not really.  It was pretty painful by this point.  I staggered out there like a short Frankenstein who'd just been hit with a thousand volts of hot buttered elasticity.  Or just recently hit in the private region with a really big toaster.  That probably makes more sense.  Once safely ensconced within the garden of vehicles, I became one with the cars and vans and managed to relieve myself without getting intercepted by a single witness.  That I know of.  Hopefully a video won't surface any time soon.

Instead of standing in line FOREVER, we opted for a look see at the gardens, which was recommended by Rick Steve's (in case the palace line was massive.)  These grounds aren't just like a patch of vegetables on the corner block, these are miles and acres of gardens.  Apparently royalty back then rather enjoyed endless artistically manicured wilderness.

We basically strolled on down to the Grand Trianon, the royals home away from home, which lies near the end of that lake in the center of the above photo.  That's about a mile or so away.  Near the Grand Trianon, we also visited the Petit Trianon, Marie Antoinette's party place when she wanted to be away from the ball.

The gardens were endlessly immense, exquisitely manicured, and fun fun fun if you were in a golf cart, which we weren't.  We did stroll down to the lake, but then picked up a shuttle bus that took us to all the remaining pertinent locations, even bringing us back up to the garden entrance by the palace.

We thought our three hour detour would have made a dent in the line, it hadn't.  Even a male tour guide with a hat and a name tag said the huge square would be half empty by 3PM.  It wasn't.  It was still full and sweaty.  We were getting absolutely no satisfaction this day from anybody that looked official.  Apparently.

The sisters decided they had to hit the gift shop at the very least.  After burning up fifteen minutes there, we all decided to walk back to the town of Versailles to grab a late lunch.  The town of course sprang up around the palace just to house and provide services to the hundreds of folks who provided services at the palace.

Once again we found a lovely outdoor brassiere, sat down for more awesome cuisine and burned up an hour.  It was now 4:00 PM.  The palace closed at 5:30.  There was still a pretty long line, like from California to Colorado.  You'd think some people would have gone home by now, but apparently some had just moved to the gardens while half the orderly horde yet remained.  

A little more than dismayed, the sisters decided to hit the gift shop one more time.  I sat outside and watched the line.  It was moving and was actually shortening.  About 5 minutes later the good Doc joined me and we decided to get in line, just because why not.  We were hanging out anyway.  There were still about a hundred folks in front of us, but the line was moving fairly quickly.  The lovely sisters soon joined us, and before we knew it we were in.

It was, how can I say this, incredibly, extremely crowded.  There's only one direction to go, and once you're in you pretty much have to go that direction.  It's a human tide.  If you tried to turn back it would be like a salmon swimming upstream.  It'd be like Richard Pryor with his hair on fire trying to run through a parade of circus clowns and elephants.  Uh-oh, flashback again.

The four of we intrepid explorers were together for a while, but then somehow it was just me and my lovely wife.  And four thousand other people in one room.  We did see the largest chandelier ever known to man though.  It was the size of the Empire State Building, or at least as big as a really large watermelon.  It would take half a day to dust that puppy if it took a minute.

Somewhere along the way my lovely wife and I got separated.  It wasn't difficult.  There were hundreds of people politely jostling along.  One misstep and you could be separated for life.  I am talking the shoulder to shoulder shuffle, your own personal space limited to about 2 inches.  Everywhere.  You are shuffling along in an endless parade of people.  There was no going back.

Somewhere along the line there was a little off shoot heading into maybe a parlor, or bedroom, or some other incredibly lavish situation.  I was simply swept in that direction and my lovely wife was shuffled forward.  I have no idea.  My life was not my own at that point.

I was enveloped by a huge throng of foreign speaking tourists.  They all wanted a look see at the luxury.  I no longer cared.  I just wanted out.  I was almost there before I was whooshed away and ushered in another direction, but now it was imperative.  I had to get out.  Minutes shuffled by.  Hundreds of people all crushing about.  It was hot, it was stifling.  I was in a slow shuffling crowd of about 400 tourists, probably.  I was shoulder to shoulder with a cacophony of people, no way out in front, back or sides.  

This was, then, surely hell.  Where else could it be?  I was alone and in hell with hundreds, nay thousands of other people.  And then my lovely sister-in-law grabbed me from behind.  Ah!  Thank God.  I knew she'd end up here too.  Through the onerous din, I indicated I needed to get out.  She, too, thought it insane.  We slowly moved with the crowd, through the off-shoot parlor detour and then merging back with the main crowd.  The shuffle was now slowed to about six inches per second, maybe ten feet per minute.  Maybe not.

Yep, I had surely died and gone to hell, because, well.   I was in hell with all it's crowded multitudes, wishing they had guild in their bathrooms while they were living.  I thought the devil was chiding me.

I muttered, "There's got to be a fu*king way out of here."

And then I heard a deep voice above my head say, "There is no way out."

The voice had a Scottish brogue.

Apparently the devil was from Scotland and was a very tall fellow.

The voice continued, "All these people you see, they have been here since six this morning trying to find their way out.  It's hopeless.  There is no way out.  Got a bagel?"

And then I looked up and discovered a rather tall chap in a baseball cap with a kid by his side.  He was smiling.  He had heard me mutter there was no way out.  At least my lovely sister in law and I had an allay.  And one who could see where we were all shuffling.  It was another ten to fifteen minutes though before we found our way to an exit.  Once outside we exulted like butterflies on a soft summer breeze.

There was certainly endless, unbelievable opulence to be seen, maybe that's why it's such a big draw.   I think it's a much better draw than say, Disneyland Paris.  And I can definitely say, with utmost authority, if you have read this passage and ever visit Versailles on a Tuesday then you would be a bona fide fool.  Unless, of course, you really want to see more people in one place than you've ever seen before in your life.

That evening, in preparation for their departure, the good Doc and I did some research regarding airport transfers.  We ended up finding a place that was about $15 less expensive than ihatetaxis.com.  We both ended up booking our return transfers from them, which was great.  But I do want to say it was rather important (for us) to be in the presiding country of travel to book that transfer.  I am still a HUGE ihatetaxis.com fan as far as initial airport to location transfer.  I think it's just too iffy to try and initially book internationally.  Before you take off for any foreign country, I would definitely put ihatetaxis.com down as one of your first research sites.

That night, our last night all together, we ate, drank and sang more sailing songs.  Off key and off kilter, of course.

The next morn our companions departed.  There were sister tears, there always are.  The good Doc and I are accustomed to this.  It happens every time.  Once the tears had subsided, my lovely wife and I were off for our final day of Paris exploration.

In doing a little more on site research, I noticed a neighborhood fairly close that we had not yet visited.  We strolled on down to le Grands, about ten blocks away and discovered an incredible array of fashion icons and edible wonders, among other things.  There was, of course Chanel.

And then there was Fauchon, founded in 1886, a bastion of over the top edibles like tea, caviar and foie gras.  There's Hediard, another gourmet shop founded in 1854.  Caviar, candy, truffles.  And while you're eating all that luxury you can be wearing the fashion you've also purchased at shops like Ralph Lauren, Gucci and Hugo Boss.  All of which places have security at the front and side doors.

We picked up a few gourmet goodies for gifts and then meandered back to the Eiffel Tower, where we took several selfies-

That last evening my lovely wife and dined at yet another wonderful brasserie.  My lovely wife, always the adventurous diner, decided to go for a little steak tartare.  When she ordered it the waiter looked straight at her and asked in marginal English, "You know what it is?"   To which she nodded her ascent.

Steak Tartare seems like a pretty big deal in France.  It's not really what you see here in America, you know, a raw beef patty with raw egg on top.  Mmmmm, yum?

No, not at all.  In France the meat is actually very finely cut up steak.  Nice cuts too.  Not a gram of fat.  Many brasseries had very special recipes for their Tartare, adding herbs and spices to make it their own.

The waiter was very pleased my lovely wife almost finished her steak.  I, too, had a bite.  I'll try anything once.  I was a little more food adventurous when I drank alcohol.  Hmmh.  Probably gonna be tough to get me to eat bugs or lizard gizzard anymore.

We thoroughly enjoyed our last dining experience together in Paris, the food and street ambiance were supreme.  Here is my lovely wife feeling a satisfied, happy melancholy.

That last day while shopping we also went in to a store to buy my lovely wife a lovely pair of lovely, renowned Parisian underwear.  If you know what I mean.  I think every woman who goes to Paris surely must buy at least one pair.  It should be a law.

Me?  I do not need a macho pair of renowned Paris underwear.  I got a pair of butt enhancing briefs to remember the trip.

Epilogue

Travel, for the most part, is fun.  Except for the travel part.  Most all exotic destinations are generally fantabulous, but getting there and back, unless you're traveling by burro, can be quite boring.  And scary.  Flying scares the hell out of me.  How does that dang couple ton hunk of metal get in the air and stay there anyway?  Same thing with a fax.  How did that letter go through that wire?  I just don't get it.  But I digress.

So we're on our way home, the flight via Air Canada from Paris to Montreal was just peachy.  Then upon our three hour layover in Montreal-which was a good thing since Montreal is an entrance point for the US-I came down with a little tickle in my nose.

But let me retreat.  Customs is quite exacting in Montreal.  Holy cow.  First they usher you into a smallish room, all the passengers on the Air Canada flight who were going into the US, about 50 of us.  So we're all just sitting in this room, waiting, and video surveillance was EVERYWHERE.  I could feel ten pairs of eyes watching my every move.

"Don't pick your nose now Homeboy," I said to myself.  It could make Canadian news.

Then we finally get up to the guy, and he looks at our ticket, punches in some numbers on the computer and then pulls up a picture of our luggage on the video screen in front of him.  WTF?  Could they also see my lovely wife's new underwear from Paris?

We verify it's ours, and then go into ANOTHER waiting room with video surveillance cameras everywhere.  Dang, I still couldn't pick my nose.  We waited there another thirty minutes or so before finally standing in front of a customs agent in a booth.  It was kind of like confession.  Only different.

He asked if we were bringing back regular type tourist stuff, to which we replied yes, which was true.  Mustard, wine, candies, scarfs and other knick knacks like that.  An Eiffel Tower replica.  Tourist stuff.  Hell, they'd probably already looked at everything anyway.  It was a quick stamp of the passport and we were off and free to roam the Montreal airport. 

It was there, after my dinner which included Canadian French Fries, I felt this little tickle in my nose.  It felt like an allergy thing.  I usually carry some antihistamine in my magic back pack, but I had switched packs for Europe and the little yellow pills that stop Niagara Falls were left behind.  Dang.

So I ran the gauntlet past the two or three book store mini marts seeking antihistamine, and I could not find a thing.  I said OK, I can handle this.  I have a hanky.

It must've been the Canadian fries.  By the time we were in flight for an hour I had a soggy hanky.  At one point water was dripping out my right eye while it was also running out my nose, doubling my liquid pleasure.

Upon landing in SF, after the mandatory wait while all the rude travel bubs get their too many sad sacks of crap out of the overhead bins, I raced to a magazine stand.  There I found 2 Claritan's for almost $6, a helluva deal.  I'd have paid $20.

We had a real quick layover in SF, and after a real quick fifty minute flight we were back at our local quasi international airport.   Our son and fabulous girlfriend were there for the airport to house transfer, and we were home around 1:00 AM (PST), or 10:00 AM (Paris time).  Hell, it was just about time to get out on the street for the day's adventures.  

It will hopefully be a birthday my lovely wife will remember and cherish for the rest of her life.

Double Epilogue

The only reason Dorothy Lamour is in the title of this post is because I think her last name sounds so good with the first couple words of the title.  I like words - it's a problem, I know.

Flagrantly Fragrant French Fromage

One thing sure seemed relatively certain to all four of we traveling foreign foodies, the French folk sure seemed to be serious about their food.  From our first encounter in the grocery market to all the restaurants we visited thereafter, we did not encounter anything that even remotely tasted eh.  Apparently we could not find any bad food in Paris.  And we also discovered right away they were very flagrant about their fragrant fromage, or cheese.

I am lactose intolerant, have been for over a decade now.  Yeah, I can take them lactose enzyme things, but for me, they only work so much.  And cheese, for me, is the absolute worst as far as milk products go.  I have gone without or adapted to many milk products over the years, and actually have found a way to make many cream desserts without the cream.  I'll have to save that for another post actually, but a definite game changer for lactose intolerant folks who love desserts.  Stay tuned.

Ah, where was I?  Oh yes, lactose intolerance and the tons of gourmet cheeses in France.  When I first became aware of my intolerance and started changing my diet, it was initially difficult to stop eating cheese.  But I adapted over time and I haven't really missed it in years.  My other three traveling companions, however, are not so afflicted.  When they first encountered the cheese section at the market I could have sworn I heard chirps of ecstasy.  And then some yodeling.

There was some serious French fromage in that there market cheese section.  There's actually entire French Fromage shops, selling nothing but kaboodles of the pungent stuff.  Hell, back in Amsterdam the market we went to there had a cheese wheel the size of a semi tire.  In France the big wheels of cheese were the size of a semi truck.   You know, like, if there were big rectangular wheels for instance.

So at that first foray into the market, a couple different cheeses made it into the basket.  Not my basket, but
somebody's.  There was other stuff in my basket, like meat and chocolates.  And the good Doctor always made sure we had a baguette of true French bread.  Every day.  Wine and French Bread.  Did not go home without it.


The second afternoon of our stay somebody noticed that the fridge was starting to smell a little frommagy.  Like all of us.  It wasn't hard.  It seems the blue cheese my lovely wife bought, the stuff that was growing new mold on the already blue mold, was affecting everything else in the fridge with it's odorous vintage.  The only thing saving us all from a full on bio assault was the three inch thick metal casing surrounding the cold air inside the fridge.  But once that door was opened, you had to duck.

Everything inside the fridge smelled of fromage.  Peaches, chocolate, wine.  Now, cheese and wine typically go pretty good together, but not out of the same bottle.  Ah yes, here we have a nice bottle of vintage Bordeaux.  A classic varietal, with subtle notes of cheddar and jack.

Cheesy chocolate?  No thanks.  Something had to be done.  We could toss in on a neighbor's porch...

That does remind me of a high school senior prank an old school chum and I pulled one day.  On our own.  We took a first period cooking class together, and one morning the class was about different kinds of cheese.  One of them happened to be Limburger, a cheese with a particularity heightened brand of odor.  My chum and I took a bit of that cheese along with us to our next class, which we took together, creative writing.  There we wrote a funny little sonnet by sticking small amounts of Limburger cheese underneath about ten desks.  By mid afternoon the doors and windows of that room were all open and about ten desks were out in the plaza, having been recently cleaned.  Class was being held in the library.  We never got caught.

On our way out that day, as always, we took down the garbage.  That day we also dropped off the cheese.  It was actually growing.  The blue was begetting more blue and it was getting cheesier all the time.  I don't know what's going to happen to it now that it's been sent to a landfill somewhere around Paris.  Hopefully a nice French rat, like Ratatouille, or a nice French skunk, like PePe Le Pew, will find it and eat it before it frommages up the entire country.

The day after my lovely wife's birthday had to be a mellow one.  Are you kidding?  Was once a time we never slept through entire weekends, now and then.  Staying up past nine is a big event anymore, 1:00 AM?  Way big doings, that's for sure.  And for sure, everyone needed to sleep in.

So, rather than do the Louvre, which would be an all day affair and was on the ESS for that particular day, we all opted to go to the Musee d'Orsay, which would only be a half a day at best.  We decided to lateral the Louvre a couple days out.

The d' Orsay houses French art from 1848-1914, which covered the most important part of art history for us, Impressionism.  As a matter of fact, the d' Orsay houses one of the largest collections of Impressionist art in the world.   Universe even.

As always, we strolled down to the museum.  Our apartment was in a wonderful location, with no large historical venue more than a couple miles away. We would typically start our daily adventures with a stroll, or city hike, and then see what fortunes the day might bring along before deciding how to return.

On the way to the d' Orsay, which is across the Seine from the Louvre, we accidentally happened upon the Pont des Arts, or bridge between the museums. This bridge is moderately famous because of all the locks that have been placed on the chain link fence.  And I quote from somewhere,

 

"Some years ago, a new fad started when love-struck sweethearts began locking padlocks onto the chain link fence of the Pont des Arts, which crosses from the left bank to the Louvre museum. The love padlocks, called cadenas d’amour, multiplied until there were thousands of love tokens on the bridge, each engraved with a message of love. After locking the love padlock onto the fence, lovers toss the keys into the Seine river – a sign of their eternal devotion."

Both us traveling couples became high school sweethearts once again, forty some years of ups and downs erased in a couple youthful heartbeats.  Fortunately a couple young enterprising vendors made it easy for we star struck lovers to join in the fun.  One young man sold locks, quite reasonable as a matter of fact (a couple euros) and a young lady would engrave the lock for a fee.  If you didn't want to pay (or wait) for engraving, the lock seller also had a Sharpee with which to inscribe the lock.

Both we couples bought a lock, one couple had their lock engraved.  The other couple wrote their initials on their lock with a Sharpee.  For our part, my lovely wife and I placed our lock on the chain link fence together and then kissed, our left legs rising in unison at the knee.  Then we tossed the key in the river and Cha Cha Cha'd across the bridge.  We all felt like high school kids again, which is actually where both couples first met and began dating, so many wonderful years ago.  Jeez, dare I say decades?

There was a French accordion master playing a few wonderful versions of old French standards, which  added a nice, romantic touch to the ambiance.   Then there was an old gypsy hag in a bundle of haphazardly thrown together shawls, bandanas and pup tents who was limping along like she was dragging a two hundred pound wooden canary beneath her shroud.  Her head was usually down and she muttered about for change as she dragged her cannon leg along.

"Eggs for the poor," she muttered.  Only it sounded different in French.

What struck me though about Hag-zilla was that every now and then she would lift her head up and her clear, sharp eyes would dart about, deftly surveying her surroundings.  And then in an instant her head was down and she was back to muttering form.  I tossed the accordion master some change.  I stayed as far away from Hag-zilla as possible, she scared the hell out of me.

Once we were through with our high school sweetheart regression, hand in hand we strolled over the bridge and into the Musee d'Orsay.

The d' Orsay is not quite as well known as the Louvre, so there was not nearly as much of a crowd. There was still, however, a good fifty person line waiting to get in.  Happily our little traveling party with our Paris Museum Pass's walked right in through another entrance, NO waiting at all.

Since we had worked up quite an appetite rekindling our high school romance(s) along the way, and since we figured we'd need a little sustenance before engaging the Impressionists, we decided to engage the dining room.  And boy howdy were we happy we did!

Everything in that room was a work of art.  From the ceiling and fifteen layers of guilded crown molding to

what they put on the plates, it was all a work of art.

Here's some fabulous Pate de Foie Gras, served on a plate with several different types of peas and some sort of art nouveau cracker.

I mean, how can you not like ground up fowl organ meat when it looks like that?  Yum.

After our sumptuous dining excursion we delved right on in for a few hours of incredible culture.

If you really wanted to see everything in the museum, you should probably allow all day.  The place might not be the football stadium(s) that are the Louvre, but it's still pretty darn big.  We all focused on our favorite period, which was good, because after a few hours we got to hear the final cattle call of the day, "The museum is closing in fifteen minutes.  Get the hell out."  Or something like that.  What do I know?  I don't speak French.

On the way out, my lovely wife entered the absolutely PACKED gift shop.  It was closing time and it was sardine time.  I motioned that I would mosey outside and catch her there.  Where there was air.  I'm not much of a sardine guy.  Anchovies either.

I stepped outside, the entrance square was alive with the hustle and bustle of happy tourists at play.  A dozen different languages  in the background chitter chatter.  People watching in Europe, it does not get better.  As I scanned the late afternoon arty exit ambiance, I noticed a small crowd gathering and sitting on the long steps of the square, which rose up from a pedestrian thoroughfare.  I wandered over and discovered a solo male violinist in his thirties holding court, playing real good.  For change.  He sounded like a symphony player, or at least first chair in a high school band.  His audience grew as he quite melodically sashayed through some Paganini, Puccini and Pet Shop Boys.

Then there was this tall, almost homeless looking man who had set up camp within close proximity of the violinist.  Mr. Mimic, who looked like a cross between Gerard Depardieu and Marty Feldman, would spy an unsuspecting approaching human and then mimic their walk and demeanor in a rather humorous and sardonic fashion.  In some instances he was not very kind.  Funny, but not very kind to many of the the innocent passersby.  Some of the victims played back, some ignored him, several fled.  The audience all laughed.  Although he was quite vigorous in his comical assaults, he was also quite gracious, sincerely adopting a "Wai" gratitude pose when gifted with change.

The rest of the party soon joined me, and before long there were about eighty people enjoying both shows.  We watched another ten minutes or so and then walked over to the metro since we had become seasoned metro commuters.  When we exited at the Bourse, we accidentally discovered an even closer market, like only three blocks from the apartment.  Instead of ten.  Viola!  We picked up the usual stuff, including baguette, returned to the apartment, ate, drank and sang more sailing songs into the heart of the night.  

Sunday morning we actually returned to the ESS, or Excel Spread Sheet.  Sunday had always been the 2nd most important day of the trip, flea market day.  My lovely wife loves flea markets, and Paris hosts the MOTHER of all flea markets, the Puces St. Ouen (pronounced "Huh?"), which hosts over 2,000 vendors.

From Rick Steves: "Paris' sprawling flea markets are over-sized garage sales.  They started in the Middle Ages, when middlemen sold old, flea-infested clothes and discarded possessions of the wealthy at bargain prices to eager peasants.  Buyers were allowed to rummage through piles of aristocratic garbage."

The Puces St. Ouen lies on the outskirts of Paris, definitely not within strolling distance.  So we took the metro out, making a couple underground changes along the way.  Once we arrived top side we followed the crowd and eventually entered acres and acres and blocks and miles and oodles of vendors.  This really wasn't a parking lot where pick-ups drove up and folks plopped their wares on the asphalt.  Most of the vendors had their own stalls, some were pop-up tents, some were within huge warehouses.  Certain areas specialized in certain items, so if you were looking for something specific you could narrow down your search area.  You know, like down to a square mile.

We soon discovered there was the typical every day flea market cheap stuff and then there were fourteen thousand Louis the Whatever chairs that were all for sale in excess of thousands of dollars.  A lot of stuff was BIG, and none of it seemed to be whispering a sweet take me home sonnet.

We wandered and strolled and got lost, finding ourselves once again on a nondescript corner somewhere in and around the madcap mayhem that is the Puces St Ouen.  There was but another charming sidewalk brasserie and we plopped ourselves right on down.

This brasserie was owned and operated by a very gracious and entertaining gentleman who also happened to be our waiter.  He spoke decent enough English, substantially better than any of our French.  We found out his parents first opened the place after WWII and it had pretty much been his life for sixty years.

There was an eight by ten black and white of him as a kid waiting tables.  It was on the wall, along with many other old photos of life back when on the block.  An entire life spent in one building, really.  I found him a fascinating story and individual.

By the way, did I mention you pretty much get French Fries with everything?  Burger?  Fries.  Steak?  Fries.  Ice cream?  Fries.  I ate a lot of fries while I was in France.  Basic, thick cut fries.  Everywhere.  I think they standardized them just like they did the baguette of bread.  They seemed to be French institutions.

Sometimes they served mayo as a condiment with the fries, sometimes not.  They definitely don't serve ketchup with them, and don't ask.  My lovely sister-in-law was politely accosted by our waiter when she asked for some.  He then proceeded to ask her, quite humorously, if she wanted ketchup with her salad.  And then with her ice cream.

After we had been sitting for a few minutes, outside of course, some classic French accordion music began inside.  Soon it was joined by a most lovely, alluring female voice.  I could see the gentleman playing the accordion through the open door, but I could not see the singer.

The simple background music set a most delightful ambiance.  We were sitting outside in a brasserie on a lovely afternoon in Paris, listening to a wonderful version of "C'est Magnifique".

When the music stopped, an utterly charming seventies something Chanteuse in a leopard print mini-skirt came by our table with a hat.  I gave her a ten for the table, for which she responded with an enchanting smile.  For being seventies something, that girl looked great and sounded like Lady Gaga on steroids.

After lunch we once again embarked, searching for the prefect antique to bring home.  But alas, the antique angels were not apparently with my lovely wife that day.  She really didn't find anything that sang to her.  Not like the candle Abra she found our last day in Amsterdam.  And boy howdy did that ever NOT fire my rockets when faced with the challenge of getting it home.  In a suitcase.

 

Actually, that little puppy can break down and just about fit in a shoe box.  Really.

And now a news bulletin:  The night before in Paris, unbeknownst to most of the real world, there was some Muslim rioting in the streets over the Israel-Gaza affair.  My lovely sister in law discovered this factoid online on the Huffington Post that morning and we took note.

Then, as we were wandering along in the amazing maze of vendors and antiques, we noticed there was a large group of young men starting to coagulate under an overpass, by a corner, not very far away.  Like, right over there not far away!  You know, like fifty feet.  When I say large group, I'm not talking ten to fifteen.  No, there were at least a hundred young men and they were being joined by more and more young men every minute.  With the riots in mind from the night before and the intersection not looking like a likely scenario for a soccer match, and not quite wanting to get involved in a potentially heightened foreign affair, we decided it was time to go.  Like, anywhere but there.  The thing was, like, we were lost again and had to figure out where the train station was.

I found the route, (not covered by the Moon Map Guide-there's a separate map for the flea market) which unfortunately took us kitty corner across from the impending insurgency.  And as we walked, I noticed a couple cop cars blazing into the scene, four coppers to each small sedan.  It didn't look like they were armed.  Maybe they were going to just going to flail and kick.  Or they carried some magic sauce somewhere.

Our pace quickened, and now we were in the thick of the less expensive side of things, the cheap stuff you see at all the flea markets over here.  Made in China.  The Dollar Store.  And the walkway was thick with young, foreign speaking potential agitators.  It was a long, hard football field and more of zigging and zagging, but we wound our way through the crowd and got to the metro and eventually home.

The next day, a Monday, was going to be our assault on the Louvre.  We had to, we were running out of time.  Our companions were departing in two days, we in three.  And we still had Versailles to see.

After another festive night of wine, fromage and sailing songs, we left the next morning with our standard stroll from the apartment.  Actually at a decent hour this time.  The Louvre was still packed, but we entered via the pass line and this time had to wait behind four or five other people.  Sheesh.

Once inside, the place looked even bigger than it did from the outside.  One of the main reasons to hit the Louvre is to see the Mona Lisa, which seems to be a mass favorite amongst all speaking peoples.  And according to Rick Steves, the room in which she is housed can get quite crowded at times, with lines and everything.  We decided to immediately make a beeline to the Mona Lisa and get that smirking, docile little wench out of the way.

We looked at the museum map, Mona appeared to be about a mile from where we entered.  Not in a straight line either. We just had to go down a couple corridors, make a right, then pass through a couple interconnected rooms  Then walk down a wide hallway and make a left.  Now that we were at the stairs we went up to the 2nd floor, made a right and walked down a corridor.  From there it was another right, or left, another hall, another room, hell, who cares at this point?  We finally found her, somehow.

Mona is actually a tiny little painting setting by herself on a HUGE wall.  Meh.  But she was a must see, kinda like the Eiffel Tower.  Even though we made a wounded bee line to the masterpiece, there was still quite a crowd.  I couldn't imagine what the room would have been like in an other hour.

With Mona out of the way, what next?   Our companions had a couple things they really wanted to see, and my lovely wife really wanted to see some Etruscan things.  Not crusty things like I first thought.  Really really old things.  Like the oldest things ever.  Older than most crusty things even.

To get to the Etruscan scene, I think we had to cross the river Rhine and then come back via Spain.  Over the Alps.  Something like that.  It took us about an hour to find the exhibit, getting lost a couple dozen times along the way.  Fortunately there's priceless art all along the way, so it wasn't like we were missing out on too much.  Just 7/8 of the rest of the stuff in the place.  The Louvre is huge, massive.  You can take a guided tour, but that would still only hit the high points.  If you really want to explore the whole museum, allow at least three days.  And bring some extra food and water just in case.  And a flash light.  You never know.

I think we randomly stumbled upon a couple Reuban's along the way, saw a couple French Dips too.  Tuna Salad anyone? 

Sorry.

After a few hours we were through.  Even though we hadn't really been on a wildly urgent art museum kick, we were still getting a little culture burn.  Besides, it was brasserie time.  We hooked up with our companions and off we went in search of that afternoons repast.

Amazingly we didn't have to travel very far.  There's just about one on every corner.  Our waiter there didn't speak a lot of English and at first seemed annoyed we Americans had arrived within his sphere.  But then he broke the ice by playfully tossing cloth napkins on everybody's lap.  It was another enjoyable French meal, and again we had fries.

From there we wandered over to a neighborhood recommended by Rick Steve's and, even though we never really found it, we had a nice afternoon stroll nonetheless.  That night we did the usual, actually earning the disdain from one of our neighbors for the second time.

"Louder please," I believe was the sardonic response to our apparently ever elevating decibel level.  She had an almost vulgar French accent.  Gutteral baby.  Probably enhanced by French wine.  Probably a lot of it.  We sang the last few tunes quietly and retired early.  We had to be ready for the next day, our March on Versailles. 

There's Serious World Class Art, and Then There's Paris

The day after our on-off bus soiree was my lovely wife's birthday, the main reason we were in Paris.  We had all decided that night was going to be the main dinner event of the trip.  But where?  There's only something like twelve thousand restaurants in the city, most of them fabulous, what to do, what to do?

In perusing our individual laminated map within the Moon Map Guide Paris (we were staying in the Louvre district) I noticed there were several nice restaurants within walking distance of our apartment.  One of them, Le Grand Colbert, looked like it would fit the bill quite nicely.

You may be familiar with the restaurant.  If was featured in "Something's Gotta Give", that hilarious romantic comedy for over fifty somethings with Diane Keaton, Keanu Reeves and of course Jack Nicholson.  If it was good enough for them it certainly should be good enough for my lovely wife.  When presented with the idea she excitedly said, "What the hell."

I made reservations the night before and the soonest we could get in was 10 PM.  How decidedly European.  With that time in the bag we were definitely gonna need a nap!

Everyone pretty much slept in the morning of my lovely wife' 60ths birthday.  It could have been the fabulous French wine from the night before, it could have been the sailing songs.  I was up at a reasonable hour, like 8ish, and made some coffee.  Then I drank some coffee, a lot of it, and realized that by sleeping in my traveling comrades were totally screwing up the Excel spread sheet (ESS), the one I had spent hours and hours detailing and compiling.

So far, one day, so good.  We were on track.  An all day bus tour to get acquainted with the city, simple.  On her birthday, according to the ESS, we were supposed to go on a historic Paris walk, including Notre Dame, during the morning.  The walk would end at the Louvre, where I figured we could spend the afternoon.  Stroll back to the apartment, nap, then go out and have a fabulous French dinner.  That was reasonable, it wasn't too far out of line.  But in order to accommodate this, it would require us to get out and moving by at least 10:00 AM, but better around 9:00.  Or maybe even 8:00.

I had another sip of coffee and rolled.  It was vacation.  We were in Paris.  It was my lovely wife's birthday, of all the days of the year she should be able to do what she wants it should be her birthday.  If she wants to sleep in, so be it.  What the hell?

I think we all got moving around 11:00 that morning and strolled the other way than we had previously gone, down towards the Louvre.  We walked past and through the Royal Palace along the way, apparently we were staying in a fairly classy neighborhood.  It was a nice enough building and grounds, but then we arrived and stood in awe of the spectacle that is the Louvre.

This ain't just a museum, it's like a couple of football stadiums filled with art.  Endless, priceless art.

The main entrance is through that glass pyramid right there. Then you have the three story building with side wings seemingly a mile long that is a "U" around that entire square above.  There's priceless art in every room.  Then, of course, a large part of the museum exists underneath that square right there.  Yeah, I discovered route finding in avalanche territory in the Sierras, a weekend course I did a few decades back, was a hell of a lot easier than route finding in the Louvre.  But that was to be discovered another day.

We had decided prior to leaving that we were going very "light" that day as far as culture was concerned.  The Louvre would take some time to visit, like forever.  Another museum, the Musee de L'Orangerie, which sat at the far end of the Louvre gardens, would only take a couple hours. 

The Louvre is no doubt Paris's most famous art museum, partly because the Mona Lisa is exhibited there.  But the Louvre only covers the ancient world to 1850 as far as eons are concerned.  Naturally, if one is in Paris, one must really visit the Louvre, if only to say one did so.  But for Impressionist and Post-Impressionist art enthusiasts, such as our entire traveling party, the Musee de Orsay and L'Orangerie museums housed the stuff we really wanted to see; Monet, Renoir, Cezanne, Van Gogh, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Gauguin, Degas, Etc.

We meandered around the Louvre square for a few minutes, marveling at the impressive structure.  Then we walked past the pyramid, off the square and out into the gardens.  It was another lovely, sweltering, summer day in Paris.  There were many benches and chairs in the shade under the trees, and many of them were being used by both Parisians and tourists.

How can you tell the difference?

Pretty easy, actually.  Tourists looked like metro commandos.  Cargo shorts, back packs, CAMERAS, hats.  Walking into walls with their not so smart phones.  Of course, those were the subtle indicators.  Favorite sport team baseball hats, t-shirts and tennis shoes were the more obvious. 

We always typically try to blend.  I don't usually wear sneakers anymore anyway, 'cept around the old homestead here.  And I'd NEVER wear anything with verbiage that would indicate I was American.  Not while I'm strolling in a foreign country.  I want the terrorist to hear me telling them to "F#@k Off!" in a steady, even voice to learn I'm American, not be able to shoot me from a thousand meters away. 

As far as the Parisians go, they're usually NOT taking pictures.  Nor are many wearing back packs.  And they were all pretty trim.  If a person was heavy set, male or female, that was another good tourist indicator.  Try as we might to blend, the locals saw us coming a mile away.  Of course it could have been the American accent of our banter and laughter, which accompanied us pretty much everywhere we went.

After strolling along the main thoroughfare of the immense park and gardens for what may have seemed like hours, we decided it was time to stop for refreshment at a basic outdoor French brasserie.  I say basic because they are everywhere.  All are individually charming, all serve some sort of spectacular specialty, all serve beer and wine.  Essentially the definition of a "Brasserie" is an informal French cafe.  Shoot howdy, what more could any wayfaring traveler desire?

Oh, and yeah.  They all had a toilette.  One who is wandering the streets of Paris soon discovers toilette's are hard to come by.  The simple solution; stop at a brasserie, they're like on every other corner.  Yeah, you do have to buy something, like a glass of French wine.  So what's your point?

An interesting tidbit about most of the sidewalk brasseries, typically all the chairs faced the street.  Patrons were obviously encouraged to enjoy the fabulous and lively pedestrian parade that is always apparent in Paris.  From a morning coffee through an evening glass of wine, the city air is charged with a delicious, effervescent energy, a sumptuous treat that needs to be savored and surveyed. 

Most of our party had been up for an hour and a half, so of course it was necessary to stop, rest and repast. 
We did all that, and then proceeded a much shorter distance to the Musee de L'Orangerie.  While the musee hosts a number of fabulous Impressionist works, if you're a Claude Monet Water Lilly fan you may never leave the place.

As Rick Steve's says, "Like Beethoven going deaf, a nearly blind Claude Monet (1840-1926) wrote his final symphonies on a monumental scale.  Even as he struggled with cataracts, he planned a series of HUGE six-foot-tall canvases of water lilies to hang in special rooms at the L'Orangerie."

Fortunately there was not a long regular line at the lesser known L'Orangerie, and we were within the air conditioned lobby within minutes.  Lines, at other venues we soon learned, could take HOURS.  HOURS!  Once up at the cashier we purchased four-six day museum passes.  As Rick Steve's also says, "In Paris there are two classes of sightseers-those with a Paris Museum Pass and those who stand in line." 

If you're going to go to more than one museum, you really do need to purchase a pass.  They sell two, four and six day passes, which do pay for themselves just through admission.  Simply tally up which places you want to see, how many days that will take and proceed from there.  Of course, you may even think you want to draft up an Excel spread sheet, but why bother?  It'll just get blown to shreds the first or second day anyway.

Just about every major historical attraction is covered by the pass.  While the modest euro savings is nice, probably the major most important benefit of the pass is you get to enter the venues via a pass line, of which there generally wasn't.  We walked right in every place after that-except Versailles, but that's another story-while others without a pass waited in line for hours.  Hours.

The first thing we did after obtaining our passes was wander into this room-Monet's Opus-

There's another room just like it.  Four incredible six foot high sixty foot long murals.  One can, essentially, walk around the room, become immersed in the cool, inviting water and swim with his lilies.  Or just sit on the shore underneath the willows, enjoying a cool, tranquil day, gazing upon the incredible beauty of a few dabs of oil paint and utter genius.

Once back out in the sweltering sun, we contemplated our next move.  We were so far off the ESS there was no going back.  We decided to hit the Musee Rodin, which was just across the Seine River and a few blocks west.  Or east.  Who cared?  Either direction was still Paris.

Surrounded by a ten foot high plaster wall, the museum and gardens were a definite worthwhile visit.  Although without AC that building was incredibly warm. One could say dang hot since many people were sweating inside.  Fortunately there were scattered works throughout the shady gardens where we could linger a little longer.

While at the Rodin I first learned of Robert Mapplethorpe, a New York photographer, whose works were also on exhibit at the museum.  Bob came to prominence in the 1980's, and like Rodin showed keen interest in the human body.  But Bob, I think, was a little more enamored with the male physique.  Sometimes ragingly so, if you know what I mean.  Right in your face, if you know what I mean.  I'm certain I blushed.  I found I'd much rather look at the pornography conveyed in all the pastry shop windows.  Pastry porn.  That I could not get enough of.

Both museums were fairly quick visits, and we found ourselves back on the street in little over an hour.  Now late afternoon, we contemplated our way home.  Even though we had our great Moon map guide, knew where we where and where we needed to go, it was still a few miles back to the ranch.  It was still pretty hot and I don't think anybody felt like walking.  After trying to flag down a couple occupied cabs, we figured out the occupied ones had a red light lit on top while unoccupied and ready for fare had a green light.  Made sense, but it still didn't help us find an unoccupied cab.

We did find a cab stand sign, where ostensibly cabbies lined up for waiting fares.  We waited there for about fifteen minutes, still no cab.  Then, much to our chagrin, a supposed handicapped looking old dude in a rumpled old suit limped his calculating French way kinda right in front of us.  So what should the good Doc and I do?

We had two very lovely ladies who were very tired, they needed a cab bad.  But apparently so did the supposed handicapped French guy.  I say "supposed" because the old dude kind of varied his limp from time to time as he wormed his way over, making sure we saw him.  I mean, the Doc and I could have gone over and kicked him in the knee, but what if he really was handicapped?  I shudder at the headlines.  

"American doctor and American writer beat up an elderly handicapped French man today so that they could get a taxi..."

Actually, with the current way of the world, that's probably already happened.  What's wrong with people anyway?

So we didn't kick the old dude and we all waited another ten minutes or so and still no cab.  It was then that someone suggested the metro.  There was a metro stop about four feet away from where we were standing.  It was the chivalrous thing to do.  Besides, we could potentially be waiting the rest of the day for that elusive cab.  Let the handicapped charlatan have the fare, we were off on another adventure.

We walked down the steps, right into the bowels of the city's subway system.  European metro systems, like their train systems, are generally fabulous.  I'd ridden the metro in Madrid some years back with an old friend who was very experienced and adept at travel.  His system, get a map of the city and a map of the metro system at the airport after you land.  We traveled all over the city of Madrid for a week for about $20 each.  It takes a little while to get your bearings, especially when chasing through pedestrian tunnels changing trains, but it's a great and inexpensive way to get around large foreign cities.

In Paris it was also entertaining at times.  Sometimes a couple musicians would pop in your car at a stop and start playing.  Could be a saxophone, clarinet, guitar, accordion, or pink translucent recorder.  You never knew.  You might get to hear the entire song or not, depending on where you got off.  When they ended they'd pass a hat, hop off at the next stop, hop on the next train and do it again.  As long as you don't actually exit the system and go up for air, you can ride around the metro underground all day and night for the price of one ticket. 

Once in a while you'd find an old French accordion master playing "Pigalle" or another French classic for change in one of the underground pedestrian tunnels.  I found the music nostalgically charming, probably from charmingly nostalgic old movies like "Rosemary's Baby." 

We found a metro pocket map and a ticket vending machine and were through the gates in minutes.  Along with about six hundred other people since we decided to hit the metro for the first time during rush hour.  Our first leg was easy, a couple stops up the line to a major changing station, one we would soon get fairly well acquainted with. 

We wound our way through the very well signed labyrinth to the tunnel that would eventually take us to our stop, the Bourse.  Still not quite comfortable with the map, directions and still trying to figure out which way was up, a very nice French gentlemen in a quite classy business suit perceived our confusion and asked in very good English if we needed any help.

To which we replied, "Yes."

After a quick "where ya going" we learned we were on the wrong side of the tunnel.  The side we were on would take us in the opposite direction of the Bourse.  Right line, wrong side.  Not too bad though, there were about four lines that all intersected at this particular station so at least we had found the correct line.

After saying, "Merci", we wrapped around, up and over to the other side, all the while enveloped in a wild rush hour crowd.  Once there, and talking amongst one another, a younger man, somewhat shabbily dressed, approached us and asked us in not so good English where we were going.  On high alert for something skinny, we listened as he informed us we were on the wrong side and needed to be back where we started.  That was all.  He surely looked like he was in for a scam, or pick pocket, but he merely sent us back the other way. 

We stopped in the tunnel, consulted the metro map and concluded the stranger in the business suit was correct.  The map corroborated this.  Why were we listening to a derelict anyway?

We wondered what his scam might be.  We didn't see a henchman.  Nobody was pick-pocketed, nobody was hurt. 

Actually, he probably had no idea where he was.  Or maybe he was mentally ill.  Or got his jollies telling people to go somewhere else.  What's wrong with people, anyway?

We stuffed ourselves along with every other person in France on to the next train and in several stops we were off at the Bourse.  Score one for the gentleman in the suit!

We knew our way home from there, and within ten minutes our feets were up and some heads went down.  We had a dinner to do that night!

Around nine pm the pre-party started and actual French champagne was uncorked.  The festivities had begun!

From the apartment it was a short, leisurely ten minute walk to our world class dining arena.  We were a couple minutes early but were ushered right in to our waiting table. It was ten pm.  The place was buzzing.  Every table was full and waiters were fluttering around like bees on a buttermilk biscuit.  While there were certainly quite a few romantic booths, a party such as ours was destined to be seated at a table in the middle of the floor.  It was quietly noisy, with enchanting French banter intermingling with quiet, sustained American laughter.

The dining room was gorgeous, the service spectacular.  Although I can't remember what everyone had, the meal was incredible, especially for foodies. Subtle sauce flavors, perfectly crisp tenders.  And of course, my lovely wife had to have some actual French snails.  Fresh from France.  And everything.

I'm personally not much of a snail guy.  The flavor's moderately palatable, it's really something stomach churning about the endlessly chewable texture.  OK, maybe where they come from is part of it, their relatives and all.  And the flavor too.  Yeah, I'm not much of a snail guy.  I'll do Tootsie Rolls, but I won't do snails. 

The good doctor also had a plate of snails for an appetizer, while I think my lovely sister-in-law and I both had some Pate de Foie Gras, or ground up duck liver.  Yeah, I won't eat snails but I will eat fowl organs. 

Two hours later, after a final course of coffee and actual French Crepes Suzette, we were out the door.  Our wonderful traveling companions paid the bill, mostly as a birthday gift for my lovely wife and minutely because they said I did so much planning.  You know, on the ESS we were no longer attached to and the one I had so much fun planning, knowing pretty much full well it would be blown out the window at some time anyway.  It was quite generous, thanks again guys!

Once out the door, all of us, mostly reformed smokers, lit up some tobacco.  The good doctor and I sparked up a couple small Cuban Cohiba's we had purchased earlier in the day.  The lovely ladies lit a couple long American Salem's one of them had purchased earlier in the week. We then strolled and smoked our way home through the now much quieter neighborhood, our stomachs in ecstasy with all the flavors and textures they were absorbing.

Here is my lovely sister-in-law, a disarmingly charming French chanteuse if I've ever seen one, looking dazzling in front of our apartment in the early morning hours of Paris.