Paris 2023
Yes it’s not table tennis, but a deep dive into the first stop of a fun three country vacation.
My wife Joanne had wanted for years to set foot upon Kilrush, the small western Irish town where her mother had attended school and church. I suggested tagging on an extra 500 miles, a few days, and an extra bucket load of Euros, as Paris had always been on my radar. ‘You know London lies between,’ Joanne added. So the tentative triumvirate was in the works.
With our son accompanying us, the trip would be a bit of a whirlwind in terms of the need to return sooner. I’d planned multiple domestic trips, but this was the Grandaddy. It was an ambitious undertaking, undoubtedly fertile for surprises with pre-purchased tickets for various modes of transportation across three countries. On the evening of Sept. 22 we embarked upon the first leg of many. Into the night sky the American Airlines Boeing 787 Dreamliner lifted off from O’Hare non-stop to Paris.
Late Saturday morning the tires touched the tarmac at Charles de Gualle International and seemingly squeezed shots of Dopamine into the cabin. We exited, serpentining our way through the ropes towards the French passport control agents. A tall black uniformed female with long straight hair awaited, perched securely above me in her enclosed station. I stepped up to present my passport with a bit of unjustified apprehension when a ‘Bonjour’ smoothly escaped her lips putting me at ease. I returned the magic elixir and our exchange was uneventful.
The low ambient noise level struck me as the three of us moved through the airport. It was huge, and international, yet the low din seemed to reflect the quieter nature of the French people. Attempting to visually match what was in front of us with what I had viewed on YouTube videos, I led us on a circuitous route to purchase Metro tickets. The signage was subdued or nonexistent, but hey, that’s cool, it’s their domain. Getting to destinations would be accomplishments, mistakes might even yield upside surprises. Armed with a handful of French words, and Google Translate, we stepped in line surrounded with unfamiliar chatter, uncertain if we were in the correct place. Finally, stepping up to the counter, a simple ‘bonjour’, and ‘I’d like three ten-ride Navigo cards’ seemed to please the agent. Some of their other exchanges we overheard didn’t go so smoothly.
Electing to save precious time, we chose to find a cab which entailed a lengthy walk to the other end of the airport. In orderly fashion we were directed to an official sedan where the salt and pepper haired gentleman tapped our 2nd arrondissement address into his phone and whisked us southbound on the A1 freeway. ‘Where are you from:’ he asked.
‘Chicago,’ I replied sitting in the front seat next to him.
And with that the gentleman spontaneously blurted out ‘Michael Jordan and Scotty Pippen.’
From that point on the language barrier dictated a quiet cab until a wah-woh wah-woh sound pierced the interior. We had only heard the classic police siren in movies, and this further cemented that we were indeed in a different part of the world. Traffic crawled on the southbound freeway enroute to our AirBnB. No patch of ‘untagged’ concrete existed on either side of this main artery. This aerosol can artistry stretched the entire route into Paris proper. Surreal.
Scores of black motorcycles with riders entirely outfitted in black weaved between stopped vehicles like schools of minnows. I first thought the riders figured who’s going to stop them, but signs indicated the legality of this maneuver with a speed limit of 50 kilometers per hour.
Our driver used the opportunity to make a couple of hands free calls. The soft and laid-back French exchange was possibly to a young granddaughter and then maybe a significant other. Once we breached the city limits, this seemingly low-key driver morphed into his Monaco mode. We zipped and slipped by parked cars on narrow streets with occasional ‘polite’ single toots of the horn. We blazed through bus lanes, well maybe they were okay for taxis. My reaction to this sublime sprint was silent, and nearly uncontrollable laughter, possibly from not sleeping a wink on the plane. Meanwhile, Joanne missed much of this, catching some shuteye in the backseat. Closer to our destination, we eased down a street which was lined with seemingly the crème de la crème of boutique French fashion and accessory makers. Within minutes this mini French Connection episode had ended, and we exited on Rue Danielle Cassanova.
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| Our place. Through the green doors beyond the closed Bean Boulangerie and up a couple levels. |
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| An Older Car |
I had spent much time back home mapping out our routes, and the marvelous Metro App now residing on my phone became an indispensable tool. With our ten-ride Navigo cards in hand we were set to enter the turnstiles. Our son was successful but Joanne’s and mine failed to give us access. In the midst of the bustle of the station, I approached a female attendant, locked eyes and issued the first ‘Bonjour.’ I gestured simultaneously speaking in English. Without trying our cards, or going to the office to check the balance, she pulled out a key, opened a tall metal gate, and waved us through to the platform…merci! Hmm, Bonjours did indeed open doors!
The ride to the Cite’ station located on the ^Ile de Cite’ (the island of the city, surrounded by the Seine) was short. We strolled, and then located the line outside for the tour of Sainte Chapelle. The chaotic confluence of pedestrians, cars, bikes, and scooters in front of us flowed amazingly without incident. Paris, like many other European cities, has taken measures to reduce the car traffic within the city limits. Entering the thirteenth century treasure, security was airport-like, and once inside, the iconic stained glass panels reached skyward, enveloping us with awe.
Our second stop would be the wounded gem of the island, Notre Dame. Scaffolding and cranes surrounded the massive cathedral. Renovation plans lined the walls separating onlookers from the relentless restoration.
Across the Seine on the left bank, we sauntered over to the famous Shakespeare Books, where writers wrote, read, and once slept. The line was lengthy, and Joanne slowly crept forward. With a meal and a trip to the Eiffel Tower still pending as shadows lengthened, Joanne capitulated, and regrettably stepped out of line.
I had jotted down a number of recommended cafes, but time dictated we grab something right here, right now. At the suggestion of our son Tim, we conveniently plopped down al fresco at a classic corner cafe Le Metro, which provided wide views of the bustling streets. The Croque Monsieur and Madame sandwiches were decent, the red wine of which I don’t recall, was of course excellent. The service, a bit on the brusque side, an aberration of all our experiences within the city. The reviews which I visited later, 2.5 stars, some reflecting this.
From there a cab whisked us off to the west side of the Eiffel Tower. I had really wanted to walk the steps of the ‘Iron Lady’ up to the first level to immerse myself within the structure. Unfortunately, that total lack of sleep on the overnight flight, combined with the day’s mounting steps, made this a no-go. We circumnavigated the massive base, stopping for photo ops as dusk approached. We really hadn’t seen anything in the way of police presence, but on the west side of the tower a half dozen officers emerged from vehicles. A no nonsense vibe emanated from their fit torsos.
I waffled between which Metro station to take us back to our apartment. A walk through Champ de Mars, the long east side park adjacent to the tower, or the Trocadero which I opted for. We crossed the Seine towards the steps of the Place du Trocadero and throngs of residents and tourists alike had the same idea on this perfect Saturday evening. Luck would have it as after I took the photo below, I learned Trocadero Plaza at that time of evening, was the ideal time and location to capture the iconic structure in all its glory.
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| Trocadero Plaza |
Arriving outside our building around 9:00 p.m. our son noticed a shop across the street with scores of wine bottles in the window and lining the walls inside. “I’d like a bottle of wine, said Tim. He was gone quite a while and finally emerged, bottle in hand. “It’s a wine bar and it’s closed, he said. They don’t normally sell wine to the public but the owner went in the back and grabbed me this bottle for 20€”. Ah, was that like something I remember in The French Chef by Julia Child? Julia stated that when she initially shopped the markets she was given the displayed run of the mill meat, cheese, and produce. After she became more acquainted with the merchants, they would go into the back to give her the good cuts. Maybe our son made a quick connection with the English speaking owner. I don’t remember the name, but it was an excellent red at a reasonable price.
Sunday morning our cab zipped past the glass pyramid nestled in the courtyard of the Louvre. That was not our destination, nor would it be this trip. We were off to the magnificent St. Germain des Pres for mass. Church bells echoed prominently in this sixth arrondissement as we exited the taxi. Across the street, the famous Les Deux Magots restaurant, once a rendezvous for the elite and intellectuals. The mass, spoken entirely in French concluded, and we strolled among others throughout the church, in awe of the restored interior, and the prominent collection of organ pipes. Our son rejoined us after roaming the streets having found a place for breakfast in this 6th arrondissement.
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| St. Germain de Pres |
Joanne was in need of an Advil, and had left ours at the apartment, so we found a Pharmacie a couple blocks away. The flashing green crosses were never too far away. Things are different in Paris. Prescriptions… three floors up the spiral staircase. The first two floors, hair products, skin products, cremes, lotions. The aisles were busy with Parisian women browsing the wares this morning. Fashion was on display behind store windows, and in motion on the streets, while beauty products jumped from the shelves. Style was ‘ever present everywhere’ to quote Van Morrison. Not in a glaring way like the flashing green crosses on the pharmacies, or in magazines, but subtlety and creatively on the busy sidewalks of the French capital… one of the big four fashion capitals of the world. Oh, the Advil…behind the counter on the first floor. Friendly merchant.
It was off to breakfast.
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| La Crepe Rit Du Clown |
The outside and main floor tables were full at La Crepe Rit Du Clown, so we were seated downstairs in a cozy room with stucco like walls and an arched ceiling. Large delicious folded square crepes populated our table, competing for space with glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice, and first class coffee. Yum!
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| YUM! My apricot crepe (not shown) was scrumptious. |
We found it to be true that to use the restroom in a Paris restaurant you should sit down for a cup of coffee or a bite to eat. We did not notice a bathroom downstairs, and right after we stepped outside Joanne said she should probably use the facilities and stepped back in. When we asked a waitress upstairs where it was, she gave a bit of a scowl, and hastily pointed to the stairs, likely thinking that we were just passers by. When Joanne returned downstairs, our waitress gave a friendly smile and directed her to around the corner. Yep, just like the script.
We had now in a short span seen grand architecture, sampled excellent food and beverages, and witnessed a fashionable culture. The people were polite, friendly, and willing to help. It was time for a ride on the Seine. We left the ‘left bank’ and our cab dropped us by the north side of the river. A walk alongside the water brought us to Bateaux Mouches, a major tour operator, where like most of the attractions, we had purchased online tickets Stateside. Seating ourselves atop a large boat, beautiful blue skies contrasted with historic weathered limestone structures straddling the Seine. The Musee d’ Orsay, Notre Dame, Louvre, Concierge, and Eiffel Tower among others collectively give the banks of the Seine World Heritage Site status. In ten months, the opening ceremonies of the 2024 Olympics would grace these same waters.
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| Pont Alexandre III Bridge |
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| The Louvre |
Onward with the compressed itinerary. We elected to hoof it in a northeastern trajectory along rue St. George V culminating at the Champs-Elysees. Strolling past the swanky hotels, storefronts, and upscaie residences above, we stepped onto the famous broad avenue. Famous for military parades, Tour d’ France finishes, and high-end retailers, it was evident that American influence had crept in and some influencers say it isn’t the must see attraction of decades past. Nevertheless, we were standing on a historical avenue, and future Tour de France finishes would always evoke memories.
Now heading west, the Arc d’ Triomphe stood boldly in the foreground. Tim, electing to further explore the offerings of glitzy tree-lined avenue, left Joanne and I to scale the Arc ourselves. The traffic circle that encompasses the structure is also the terminus for twelve intersecting avenues. Crossing it is not smart. So we of course opted for the underground passageway. In the midst of the busy tunnel, an officer strolled past, his rifle diagonally pressed against his chest. This was the only such sighting during our stay.
We emerged on the plaza with lines of people off to our left. A lone young woman was manning a roped off area. We walked over,
“Bonjour. I understand there is a lift.” She pointed to an entrance in the rear, opened the rope connector and we entered, short-circuiting the lines with just a ‘Bonjour’, and a short inquiry…hmm.
“Tell the attendant.”
So we entered and after again going through airport-like security we ascended some stairs looking for this attendant who we never saw, and elevator we never found. The lift, as I learned later, was strictly for people with disabilities, but maybe there was some exceptions. We climbed more stairs, circular in nature, and they went up and up…and up. A woman appearing to be in our age bracket clambered alongside with determination, visually commiserating as we made intermittent eye contact acknowledging the struggle. Alas, there was light at the end of this vertical tunnel! A last set of conventional steps revealed blue skies as we emerged atop the mammoth slab…284 steps later!
Steps away, sturdy chest high fencing offered protection, but no obstruction to the 360 degree views of the city, and landmarks including the Eiffel Tower. It was just high enough to get a feeling of wow, and still maintain a connection to the surroundings. How cool. I intended to ‘give up’ my knees for this city, yet by some miracle not one Advil was ingested the entire trip. The trek down was a ‘relative breeze’ and included a stop at the bookstore-boutique. Besides the obligatory refrigerator magnet, I opted for an official 2024 Paris Olympics coffee mug, one I use every morning. Never before had I been nine months ahead of the curve!
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| Champs-Elysees |
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| Atop the ‘Arc |
Completing the photo ops at the base, we reconnected with Tim and ‘metroed’ it to the Opera station. Unfortunately our Palais Garnier late afternoon tour was cancelled, and we would have to squeeze it in tomorrow morning. We walked a few blocks to Galleries Lafayette and entered. Our eyes were immediately drawn to the magnificent steel and glass dome high above us. Proceeding forward, we were surrounded by style, elegance, and luxury. Paris’ world renowned brands in the areas of fashion, accessories, cosmetics, and food were all encompassed under this grand coupole. There wasn’t time to shop, it was getting near dinner time…our dinner time, still a bit early for the locals, known for their later evening meals.
In all the craziness of the day it slipped my memory that going atop the Galleries was on my list of things to do. The large space on top of the building offers views of the city, differing from those of the Eiffel Tower or the ‘Arc, but indeed splendid. I’ve lived that vicariously through YouTube multiple times since.
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| The dome at Galleries Layfayette |
Tim, struck again with local wanderlust, split off as Joanne and I walked and walked southbound past busy cafes reading the posted menus. Darkness was settling in and we ended up around our neighborhood. Just around the block from our pad, we stumbled upon Capri St. Honore, Italian no less, and a solid four out of five star cafe. The outside dining was hopping, and full of ambiance. Since it was off the beaten path and likely frequented by locals, it just might be good.
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| Capri. St. Honore |
We were squeezed into an intimate table for two. Smoke did waff our way, but eased when one group exited. Our waiter spoke English and politely answered our questions. Joanne ordered a small four cheese pizza, myself salmon. My fish was the best I had ever tasted, super tender. My side with sun dried tomatoes and zucchini was also superb. Joanne’s pizza got better with each small piece I tried. Parisian chefs don’t over season their food, and the taste grew on my palate rather than immediately overloading it. Overall, a very nice experience. After a short walk to our apartment, we began to do a little pre-packing. Tomorrow we would be moving along, which would prove interesting.
Monday morning. We slugged our rolling luggage down the tight staircase, closed a door, a gate, and another big green door behind us and proceeded to the Avenue del Opera. Yesterday morning, a half block north, we had seen patrons lined a ways up the block outside a bakery, so we figured we would grab a quick delicacy as time was tight today. Cedric Grolet Opera Boulangerie-Patasserie: Salon de The Et Bar…a mouthful of words, would yield no mouthful of food. Closed Mondays. Funny yesterday, the people waiting all seemed to be conversing in French, and in no great hurry, locals by my observation. Yet this well known establishment was lacking a couple stars on some major reviewing sites. Was this to keep the tourists away? A number of comments said $$$$.
So we proceeded up the grand boulevard designed by Haussmann. It stretched from the Louvre to the Opera Garnier, where a morning tour awaited us. Tim awkwardly pulled his handle-less suitcase using one of the vertical rails. In this case, it was a wardrobe ‘container’ malfunction! Right across the street from the Opera on our side was the famous Cafe de ‘L Paix. It is famous for its ornate interior, but we chose al fresco on this beautiful morning.
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| Cafe de La Paix with a view of the shrouded Palais Garnier |
After our marvelous pain au chocolates, fresh squeezed orange juice and coffee, it was time to pay. We were running short on Euros, too short to pay this bill. Maybe we were a little undercapitalized in terms of currency and found the cabbies liked the colorful paper. What a time for the point of sale at the restaurant to go down and not accept credit. Ah, ATM’s across the street. After several tries, denied, denied. I later discovered I had failed to uncheck a restriction on my account. What the heck? On this very busy day, we couldn’t leave until the system came up. We waited.
Fortunately, only about 15 minutes more elapsed and the system was up. Onward to the Opera. With someone needing to tend to the luggage outside, we staggered our abbreviated self-guided walk-thrus. Some say it’s the most ornate opera in the world. Some say visit Opera Garnier and skip the crowds at Marseilles. Marvelous, and unfortunate we had to breeze through it. Across the street and down the stairs into the Opera Metro station we went.
Originally, I had allotted more time for Monmartre today, but the rescheduled Opera tour and the electronic payment snafu ate into the morning. The original plans were to exit at the Abbesses Station where we would see the Wall of Love and scale the long stairway, or ride the Funicular up to the Sacre Couer. The luggage malfunction dictated a different path. Strictly working from apps and maps, it appeared that a Monoprix (kinda like a French Target) was right across from the Blanche Metro. A quick stop inside, a transfer of clothes to a new case, and we would be rolling again, albeit on a slightly different route up to the highest point in Paris.
As we emerged from the subway onto the street, there stood the Monoprix, voila!..and it was encapsulated in scaffolding…completely closed for remodeling. No new suitcase. Hey, across the intersection was the Moulon Rouge, wouldn’t have gotten to see that had we chosen Abbesses. The way we elected to get to the top of Monmartre turned out to be via Rue Lepic, a famous street laden with eclectic shops and markets. There was no time to stop and smell the roses, and Tim’s patience navigating his rolling wreck along the narrow crowded sidewalk was running thin. I knew of a bus, but what was the route? I later saw the mini train that takes you up, incidentally with a pickup around the Moulon Rouge. This day, no bus, no train in sight. We slugged away up and up.
Finally, something familiar appeared, Le Consulat Cafe. I had seen that on the Monmartre section of the Paris map. It’s where famous artists, writers, and painters frequented…Van Goh. Monet, and Picasso to name a few. Tim and Joanne plopped down inside to rest their legs and grab a bite. I left my luggage and continued on up to the Plaza de Tertre, and the Sacre Coeur plaza for some views of the city. The lines to go inside the basilica weren’t as long as I had seen in videos, but that wasn’t doable today.
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| Sacre Coeur |
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| Plaza de Tetre |
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| Locks, locks, and locks! |
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| A great store for ceramics, and terrain not easy on rolling suitcases. |
We roamed a bit after a stop inside the Gallerie D’ Art, the iconic ceramic shop. Apprehensive about the integrity of our luggage wheels on the hilly cobblestone streets and sidewalks, we descended down the Rue de Saules, past the Maison Rose restaurant to the next intersection. Nestled among the quaint residences, an iron fence separated tourists from the only vineyard within the Paris city limits. The small hillside parcel yields roughly two thousand bottles, an annual tradition since the 12th century. These days, the proceeds of the harvest goes to charity.
The late September afternoon shadows were lengthening, and three $150 Eurostar tickets were at risk if we didn’t work our way towards a Metro station pretty soon. I’m good with a map in my hand, and navigating a car using GPS is a breeze, but the little blue dot on an iPhone map doesn’t move much when you’re walking. Walking an unnecessary block rolling luggage on cobblestone streets and sidewalks with time pressure can cause one to lose some composure…and I was getting a bit rattled.
I knew the Lamarck-Caulaincourt Metro station was not too far, but my usually good sense of direction was failing me in my current state. I asked one woman for directions and she directed me to the Abbesses Metro. Two blocks back up the hill and then a number of blocks, not happening. I approached an older woman and asked her where the station was.
“I live in the neighborhood. Follow me,” she said in English.
Merci! Our luggage bounced and rumbled as we steadily descended, intersecting with Rue Caulaincourt, an avenue giving off vibes of old time Paris, the way I always envisioned it. Although briefly on it, the feel of a neighborhood was present. Some say both chic and Bohemian. The Art Deco styled Metro station appeared on our left, unobtrusively built into staircases and buildings around it. One of the famous ones.
The woman pointed to the map on the wall and showed us the route to Gare Du Nord. I knew the way from here, but tried not to rush her through her instructions. She was likely a genuinely nice person, and maybe going out of her way to erase stereotypes some Americans still may hold. A nice memory.
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| Gare Du Nord |
Exiting our last Metro ride, we entered the expansive train hub. I had spent time virtually acquainting myself with the layout, but the vast interior did not match my viewings. Everyone was moving and no information booth was to be seen. I believed we had to make it up to the second level, but there were turnstiles. It didn’t make sense to need a Metro ticket to be able to get to the Eurorail platform. My apprehensiveness as to how long it would take to get through security was speeding up the clock in my mind, although we were really okay. My two travel mates were getting a bit flustered with me, and the signage wasn’t giving them any clues either. The only people who weren’t moving were a couple of French guards.
“Pardon. Can you tell me where to access the Eurostar trains?”
“Bonjour,” said the guard.
With my composure waning, I had for the first time failed to greet a French person with the magic word!
Embarrassed, I nodded my head, raised my hand a tad, and used my body language to indeed indicate that I had forgotten the golden greeting.
“Bonjour.”
Yes it was upstairs and we were lucky to have taken a few cab rides which left us just enough on our ten-ride tickets to enter. Amidst the throngs of people we lined up, and security was tight. Baggage X-Ray, Passport scan, face scan, things were not as easy with the UK out of the European Union, and not a Schengen Area. With ample time (I had stressed for naught) we poured over the last Parisian food offerings at Paul in the waiting lounge and grabbed a snack.
Our gate number echoed throughout the waiting area and we made our way down to the sleek train, entering the clean interior. Easing out of the station, we again encountered long stretches of aerosol based artwork before accelerating into the French countryside.
Wisconsin-like here in the north of France, in my opinion. Green, amber, wind turbines. No Alps or Pyrenees around here. This is high speed travel, city center to city center, 180+ mph, a pleasant ride, 2 hours 20 minutes. So much better than flying. The shrubbery became less of a blur and the already low din decreased a bit more. Concrete emerged on both sides, then darkness, as we descended under the English Channel.
The Paris portion of the trip was now behind us and was cemented into the memory banks. This description was at times a retroactive narrative, as time dictated that we flit about, taking one lick of the popsicle at each location, before moving on. Once home, I dove a bit further into the historical aspects of our visit, and of course we re-lived moments during the Olympics. Mike Tirico with the Eiffel Tower and Trocadero Plaza behind him…mesmerizing.
Oh, and did I mention that the weather was perfect? You might have been able to tell from the photos.
So so much we did not see.
Thanks for reading!
