Part 1, Departure and stop-over in NYC

In 2008 I traveled to France, Luxembourg and Spain, spending a few days in New York City on the way to and from Europe. I originally sent this travelogue as a series of e-mail messages with pictures embedded to my friends. I have not re-written the following entries, transferred from my "sent mail" to this blog, but I have corrected some typos and added some more pictures. Each of the blog entries corresponds to one of the original e-mail travelogue messages. The first two involve the airplane trip. You may wish to skip to the third one as that is the one that starts with my first exploration of Paris. -- Steven.

As some of you know last month I traveled to Europe for the first time in my life. Now, as I did with my China vacation, I am writing up a detailed account of my trip. It's lengthy, so I'm breaking it up into smaller pieces.  

Monday Oct. 20, 2008, time: the crack of 'why am I awake?'

I can't believe I'm dressed and mostly ready at this hour, some time around 4 a.m. I had initially scheduled a later flight but Jet Blue tried to re-route me to take off from Oakland (?!) and I negotiated this as the only alternative leaving from SFO that they could provide me. But surprisingly, when the SuperShuttle robot calls me I am packed, my baggage ready by the door and I'm dressed. (I always forget to pack something, it's just a question of what will it be this time). The robot recording tells me I have 7 minutes so I get the idea into my head that I need some other bit of info about Europe before I go and I try to find it on the web. Writing this now I can't even remember what it was. But the van shows up sooner than the robot promised and despite all my efforts to have a more-or-less organized departure, I have to scramble like an idiot. I gave myself two problems: one I will have to deal with in NYC. And for the other: I will have a surprise waiting for me when I return to my apartment in a month.

At SFO I soon discover that the shuttle services have dumped about 30 or 40 passengers, myself included, at the airport even before the security people open up. There ought to be a law. I try to catch up on some sleep.

I have little trouble with the rest of the "Jet Blue" part of the trip. I find myself sitting next to a woman who was a French major in college and lived in Paris for a few years. And this isn't even the part of the trip that continues to Europe. We spend some time with her coaching me how to pronounce some of the phrases in my Lonely Planet book. After a while, we're both tired and go to sleep.

Back in New York City.

We arrive a bit early at JFK, which allows me to explore a little. I could not remember the subway system well enough to be sure what subway to take. I lived in NYC for 4 years but that was 22 years ago and the last time I was there was last year. Checking at the airport's information counter I asked about buying a subway map. They gave me one for free. And they were polite and courteous. Well, that's new. (No complaints). The last time I was here I made a mistake and spent much more time in the subway than necessary. I remembered the mistake but little else. A minute with the map and I was ready to Brave the Air Train.

On the Air Train, I determine which terminal Iberia Airlines uses by taking the long way on the Air Train. I left the Air Train at Iberia's terminal and even walked from the Air Train to the Check-in counter, just to be sure I can do it again in a couple of days without confusion. My friend Alex will not be home from work until about 6:30 p.m. anyway, so no hurry.

Hong Kong vs. NYC: HK wins.

At the exit from the Air Train I face a torture I call "The Gates of Hell." What we will laughingly call the "connection" between the Air Train and the NYC subway system/LIRR has turnstiles unlike any other in the world. Their design differs entirely from that of the NYC subway system (right down to the orientation of the Metro card when you put it in the slot), they have no clarity as to which slot controls which turnstile (the one of the left of the slot or the one on the right - you have a 50-50 chance), and they give off this horrible high-pitched mechanical scream whether you get it right or wrong. The whole process is such a confused and painful mess that the city has hired people whose job it is to explain to travelers how to use both the turnstiles and the "automatic" Metro card vending machines (hint to transit designers: if you have to hire people to explain it, that kinda makes it *not* automated). I've passed through the "Gates of Hell" before and would have prepared myself with earplugs but, oops, *that's" what I forgot when I packed. This time I have the good fortune to have some relatively good "explainers" on duty that day and they get me through the screaming machine gauntlet after only a few minutes (but due to my hypersensitivity to high-pitched loud noises, it felt like an eternity). As I trundle my wheely away from the pain-making machines  I fantasize about their designers tied to chairs in hell, forced forever to listen to the sound of the Air Train turnstiles at JFK.  I feel a bit happier.

I remember how in Hong Kong everything worked with an "Octopus card" which operated the same way with all turnstile machines and all the "re-fill" machines. And no mechanical screaming. It can't be *that* hard to make it work in the U.S.

On the subway, my trip to Alex's apartment in Astoria was easier this time (vs. last year) because I used the E Train instead of the Long Island Rail Road. But I missed the Jackson Heights station because they called it "Roosevelt Avenue." I had a miserable time on an overheated 'V' train.  After I finally reach the right stop I manage to wrestle my luggage through the exit turnstile without hurting myself (this time). But once out on the street I knew where I was but had no idea which direction to go. I picked one (the wrong way, as usual) then turned around. At the next corner I saw some familiar landmarks and proceeded without any more difficulty to Alex's place.

I show up early and luckily his building's outer door has not closed properly. I lean my luggage against the wall outside his door, take out my book (actually my boss' book she lent me "A Traveler's history of Paris") and read contentedly until Alex calls on my cell. There's only a slight delay but I don't mind at all. I am warm and comfortable and indoors. I have one full day in NYC on the 21st and then it's off to Europe on the 23rd. I had planned my trip to take place in stages. Instead of going to Paris from San Francisco, I spend a few days in NYC in each direction, recovering from jet lag as I go.

Once inside Alex's apartment I unpack enough to see that I made a big mistake when I printed out the various e-mail messages and web print outs (which I compiled in a binding to use as a "trip book"). I printed the "wrong" e-mail from my neighbor, with whom I had arranged to meet in Paris. This message had his U.S. phone number and not his overseas one. I realized I had to find an internet cafe or other access to my e-mail account before I left or I would not be able to contact him. I was conveying his absentee ballot for the Presidential election and thus it was very important that we meet in Paris soon after I arrived.

Tuesday October 21, 2008.

I read in my travel journal what I wrote while sitting in a Japanese restaurant in Astoria about my day ahead. Find secure internet access, check my e-mail, obtain the right message with David's Paris phone number, and then maybe visit the MOMA afterwards. What naive optimism.

The branch of the New York Public Library across the street from the MOMA I discovered was closed for renovations. And here my troubles began. It's a bit of a vicious circle: the use of cell phones, test messaging and the web has resulted in all but and handful of public telephones (and the phone books that accompany them) disappearing from most of NYC. How can I use the web to find something if I can't find a place with web access? The closest branch of the NYPL system I can think of is at Lincoln Center. Off I go.

But when I arrive at Lincoln Center, I see an enormous amount of construction going on around it, those big temporary wooden walls, and no clear path to the library. After examining a map on one of the temporary walls (and the map *not* graffittied over, for once) I figured out the path to take. Once I arrive, it only takes me a few minutes to find the public internet terminals. I sign up for one of the 10-minute ones. But while I am trying to type my password there's this woman standing at the terminal next to mine, with her back turned to it, for no apparent reason, and in a position to see my keystrokes. My paranoia level rises. After I finish writing down David's Paris number the woman is no where in sight. I start to leave the library but then panic, wondering if I am going to have my account hacked. I e-mailed some of my credit card information when I made reservations for some of  the hotels I will stay in. Those messages are in my account, still. I double back and ask to log on again but the young man at the counter says we're only allowed internet access once a day. But he turns out to be very nice about it after I explain to him about the mystery woman. He relents, advising me that if that ever happens again I should tell him. Only after I go back in and change my password do I see, when I'm walking out again, that the mystery woman is sitting at one of the 30 minute internet terminals. I don't know how I missed her before. And besides, why would someone trolling for identities to steal internet accounts to hack do so at the Public Library? I feel a bit foolish, but I am OK. I have everything I need for my trip.

I still have time to visit the MOMA. After I walk all the way back to where I started I find out that the MOMA is closed on Tuesdays. I did not think to check when I was across the street before. Well, at least I had a nice long walk.  Except for the panic and confusion, a good day. And I must admit, the panic and confusion I pretty much inflicted upon myself.

Next, on to Europe.

Part 2, Arrival

Wednesday, Oct. 22, 2008.

I am still feeling a little grumpy over my long and somewhat pointless walk back and forth between the MOMA and Lincoln center yesterday. I did not have the time or energy to meet anyone else I know in NYC, but then I anticipated that might happen. Another vacation another time.

I had enough time to obtain some "airplane food" as I am not sure that Iberia will have assimilated the concept of vegetarian food. I like to have my own anyway.

I was glad that I had scouted JFK before, when I landed on Monday. The departures monitor does not show my flight (I arrived a bit too early). It's just as well that I arrived too early as I stood in the line for Cathay Pacific for about 10 minutes before some helpful person asked me what I was waiting for, then directed me to the right place.

Boarding the flight proved relatively painless, but then we spent an hour on the tarmac. Normally I don't concern myself too much with delays like that (it's not at all like horror stories I've heard of people trapped on airplanes on the runway for many hours and unable to escape). I am a little worried about making my connection to Paris later on.  I skipped the first meal they served, preferring what I bought for myself in Astoria earlier.  I have to good fortune to have a more-or-less quiet person in the seat next to me and a window seat that allows me to get some sleep without anyone brushing past me. My friend Alan once gave me a very comfortable "blindfold" like thing which, miracle of miracles I haven't lost over the years, and that helps too. Oddly, one of the most vivid memories I have of the flight over the Atlantic was waking up to the sound of gentle rainfall inside the airplane. The other passengers peeling off the aluminum covers of the second meal, all at once, sounded like rain to my ears.  The second meal has a "pasta" choice, I'm hungry, so I take a chance. Revolting. But I find some bits I can eat, such as the dinner roll and the salad.

I asked one of the flight attendants about my connecting flight. She assured me that we made up the lost time from the departure along the way and will land on schedule.

Thursday, Oct. 23, 2008.

Madrid's airport is one of those "works in theory" sort of places.  To be fair, I navigated from my arrival gate to my connecting flight to Paris. But what a long strange trip it was. My boarding pass for the Paris flight listed the gate number as "H."  Had it been "K." then Madrid's airport would have then provided the "full Kafka" experience.  Mysterious signs pointed to "H," "J," and "K" (yes, there was a "K," it just wasn't my gate). After each letter appeared a time estimate in minutes.  Following the signs, in the early morning (local time, never-mind my body's time, which was half past hopelessly disoriented) with equally confused passengers (not that I could ask most of them, I do not speak French or Spanish and they did not speak English), led us all to a train. I stepped in without any idea of whether it was the "right" train (or whether there was a "wrong" one to take?). The letters did not correspond to stops, as I thought they would. We arrived at another terminal where there was an immigration station. I found surprising that the young man at the booth who stamped my passport did not ask me any questions. Not complaining. My confusion increased after I left passport control and found that this new and different terminal had many more gates than "H," "J," and "K." The letters were only the first part of the gate numbers. I found an information desk and begged for clarification. I had only to check the departure monitors to see which specific "H" gate I needed to find. I did as instructed and found my connecting flight in plenty of time. Along the way I discovered that the The airport in Spain keeps the smokers in a kind of glass pen. From the right angle they look like animals in a zoo. Homo Fumarius Nicotinus.  Works for me.

I have flown over green areas before. I never realized how familiar flying over the "boxy states" in the U.S. looked until I sat at my window seat during my flight from Madrid to Paris. Much of France (as I saw from the airplane) had more rivers and far more trees than I had expected. It did look oddly familiar in that I had spent many hours in my youth pouring over maps of Europe and European countries. The airplane circled broadly around Paris (I could not find the Eiffel tower from the plane, but I did recognize the Palace at Versailles). I was a bit surprised at myself that I recognized the Palace at Versailles. A French student worker at my library told the story of how the Queen did not like the new palace because she did not have a view. So the King had the forest surrounding the palace clear cut for nearly 100 meters at the corner where the Queen had her apartment. I recall Melonnie saying "those French girls - I tell 'ya."  It took that additional visual cue of the clearcut swath at one corner for me to realize I was looking at Versailles.

I found myself so impressed by how well the French organized the taxi stand at Orly that I drew a diagram of it in my travel journal. Instead of a line along the curb that one sees at airports all over the U.S. (and maybe other places?) the taxis pulled into "stalls" - these were "parking places" painted on the road with a pedestrian crosswalk at the far end. One could then stand on either side of the cab as needed to load one's baggage or oneself in the car without worrying about the "traffic side" of the car, as there was none. Once loaded, the cab would continue in the same direction it was already facing, leaving the space for the next empty cab. (Have you ever had the experience of walking to a cab waiting along the curb, then having to double-back the way you came when the cab pulled up into the front of the "line" at a taxi stand? Then you argue with the person who reaches it first despite the fact you were ahead of them in line? This doesn't happen at Orly).

My cab driver from the airport was a woman with a little dog in the cab with her. She had the front passenger side all decked out with a doggie bed, equipped with chew toys and a little bowl for his kibble. He barked at motorcyclists. He was so cute when she drove past me to the stall and the dog stood with his paws at the bottom of the passenger side window, checking me out. I had written down the French for my destination. Although I tried to say it, she motioned with her hands to see what I was reading from. After politely correcting my pronunciation, she input the address into her GPS.

Part 3, Introducing Monsieur Grumpy

October 23, 2008, a little after 11 a.m. in Paris

My cab ride into Paris was a hoot. The little dog quietly amused himself by nibbling on his kibble and receiving the occasional scratch behind the ears from the driver. I looked at as much as I could from the windows. I could not tell we had crossed the Seine until we were on the other side already. You can not possibly appreciate much of Paris from looking out a car window but I took in as much as I could. I examined the other cars as much as I did the buildings and streets. There were no SUVs or wagons or even any vans that I can recall. Not until we come close to the hotel do I see lots of pedestrians on the sidewalk or notice the traffic lights are all set very low and on poles at the sidewalk (not suspended across like in most of the U.S.). The GPS guided the driver to the tiny, short street where my hotel is supposed to be but then I have a brief moment of panic when neither of us can find it. But the hotel lacks any sort of ornate front - it's in a funky old building with an entrance positioned oddly at a corner and the main window facing away from the street in its address. The little intersection is one of those odd sort of triangular accidental plazas that form when a city does not grow in a planned manner. When I paid the driver I needed her help sorting out the money. Following my friends advice about tips (from before the trip) I managed to give the right amount (judging by the driver's reaction). Her dog watched me from his window until the cab disappeared from sight.

The guy at the hotel spoke English and was very nice. I arrived a bit before check-in time so he offered to let me drop off my luggage and come back after walking around a bit. My practice in a strange place is to walk in widening circles. This time it did not work out that way. I walked along a street called rue de Oberkampf, a strangely Germanic name for a street in Paris. I see mostly the sort of shops and stores as a local would want/need (no purely tourist crud). I also found, of all things, a store selling Japanese Manga. Oberkampf leads me to a wide, multi-lane Ave. Voltaire (gotta love a place that names the big streets after its authors). Not seeing anything of immediate interest, I work my way back, using my little laminated Paris Artwise map, to the intersection where I find the closest Metro station. This is also where I have been told I can find an internet cafe.

A Manga bookstore in Paris

After a short search in the intersection of 4 streets going in all different odd directions, I find a small storefront which has enough signs outside it which along with my very limited French tells me this is the place. I stand outside it dumbfounded, unable to figure out if it's open or closed or how to get into the place if it is open.  Another tourist, who speaks to me in American accented English asks me the same questions that I'm thinking (why does he think *I'll* know and if he thinks I'm French why does he think I'll speak English?). Anyway, I grab what looks like a handle and pull. nothing. Push and we're in. A somewhat overweight middle-aged French guy sits at a desk in a very crowded alcove in front of a narrow doorway leading to a row of 4 PCs. I ask only "Internet" and he points through the door. The other tourist and I go in.

When I sat down at the keyboard I discovered, much to my surprise and chagrin that they had the letters arranged very differently than Qwerty or even Dvorak. When I could not figure out how to make it type the '@' I let out a cry of dismay so loud that the cafe guy came back to see what my problem was. I gestured at the keyboard and said something about how different it was (like he could do anything about it).

The guy in this internet cafe said politely "I'm sorry Monsieur, you are in France." Like the buildings didn't tip me off, they had to throw in different keyboards. He does show me how to make it type an @ sign before he returns to his alcove. I wonder, what exactly did he mean by that? That he was sorry I was experiencing some difficulty or was he was sorry that *I* was in France? Anyway, after I teach the other tourist how to do the @ sign I type a quick message to my friend in Europe. Paying for the session was amusing. I tried practicing my best try at "how much does it cost" in French. The cafe guy replies in French. I do not understand him. He holds up his index finger: "one Euro." He appears a bit amused by me. I would visit him nearly each day while in Paris and every time he saw me he had a look on his face like I was making him suffer. But he was always very courteous and polite to me. I came to call him "Monsieur Grumpy" in my travel journal.

I returned to the Hotel at check-in time and received a key attached to a giant piece of some sort of metal machine part. Nice way to keep you from losing your key. The stairs were narrow and the hallways narrower. I did not know how to work the lights yet so I had to find my way in the dark (no windows). I used a pen with a kind of light gimmick I obtained from a vendor table at a conference who knows when in order to see my room number and locate the keyhole. Later I would see the light switch at the entrance to a given hallway off the stairway landing on each floor. Like book stacks in some large libraries the lights in the hotel's hallways work on a timer. Later I also found a switch outside the door to my room. It does not look like a light switch in the U.S. The light switches in Europe (at least France, Luxembourg and Spain) were 3 inch square plastic panels inset into a narrow frame, pivoting on a horizontal axis in the mid point and activated by pressing the top or bottom half, causing it to pivot about a half inch or so.

This building had been something else some century or two before. The rooms were dry-walled in place and mine lacked a closet. A wooden sort of inside-out sheffrobe, consisting of a horizontal pole above a knee-high platform, served as a place for me to hang my clothes and place my luggage. The bed occupied at least half the area of the room, leaving space only for the imitation of a closet, a small desk and the open floor space to navigate from one to the other and to the bathroom.

The bathroom. Enough space to move about but the shower has about half the space of the average U.S. old-style phone booth (not kidding nor hyperbole). I fit into the shower easily enough but I know some people who could not. My favorite part of the bathroom was the plumbing. The toilet paper roll hung not from a roller fitted to the wall for that purpose but from a dead-ended bit of pipe which was part of the bizarre tangle of metal which emerged from a seemingly random part the wall then twisting around in various directions as if looking for the toilet and failing to find it for a while. The bit of pipe which holds the toilet paper roll at some time in the past had been a length of pipe which split off from the main line. Back in the day it probably led to something else not there anymore then somebody capped it off instead of removing the whole mess to replace it with pipes that proceeded directly to their destination. Generations of avant-garde thinkers, masquerading as plumbers, constructed an accidental work of modern art, right here in my cheap hotel room. Welcome to Paris.

Part 4, Introducing the European telephone system

When last I left this travelogue I was in my hotel room in which despite the room's tiny size the plumbing still managed to get lost on its way to the toilet.

Once back in the room, I immediately went to bed and slept, on and off, until 1st light the next day. Another reason the hotel is very inexpensive: every time someone flushes a toilet it sounds like it's raining in my bathroom. I suppose I treat my downstairs neighbors to the same experience.  I came to find the sound relaxing, as I do real rain. Somehow I did manage to get quite a lot of sleep that day/night. The morning sunrise woke me. It was Friday Oct 24th.

My first order of business was breakfast. The day before, during my brief excursion on Oberkampf, I found a restaurant with a sign in French which my phrase book told me meant "Breakfast." Much to my surprise, I had studied enough from my phrase book that I could make myself understood and understand the French waiter well enough. Every day I was in France started with the same continental breakfast: tea, orange juice and a croissant. Still feeling a little embarrassed by my encounter with Monsieur Grumpy,  I handled the money carefully and had calculated the tip in my head well in advance. In France the tip is figured into the bill, so you only leave a small, token amount.

My next task: obtain train tickets to Luxembourg and then from Luxembourg to Nimes. Following my trusty Artwise map of Paris I headed southeast to the "Gare de Lyon" train station. Along the way I came upon a very old church, which I later determined had been built in the late medieval period. Just walking along, minding my own business and then *surprise* medieval architecture. French children just grow up with this all around them.

I had a scare when I tried to buy train tickets at the Gare de Lyon. After taking some time with me to work out my itinerary, the ticket seller tried my credit card twice and it failed both times. I found an ATM and thus could pay in cash, but I could not pay cash for the whole vacation. I returned to my hotel and asked the desk guy to run my card to pay for the room. No problem. It was only the Gare de Lyon. This would cause some confusion later at check-out time, but it all worked out well in the end.

My next mission was lunch and a phone card. I needed to call my neighbor from my building in San Francisco to arrange to give him his absentee ballot and also to contact friends of friends to arrange to visit them.  As I walked along one of the main thoroughfares I spotted a mobile phone store. Probably not the place, but I had to start someplace. The young man behind the counter said "non" to my request in (recited from my phrasebook) but then attempted to communicate further with pantomime and French I could not understand, to tell me where I *could* buy a phone card. I watched the show for a while. When he made a gesture with his hands like smoking I wondered if he meant that he would tell me if I gave him a cigarette. Then he said something to the effect of "tobacco" which meant a tobaccanist's shop. Then I understood.

I proceeded to the street on which he told me I would find someone who would sell me a phone card. I walked past the store with the "Tabac" sign (somehow it just did not register) and asked in an internet cafe a few doors down (hoping to find someone who spoke English there). After they re-directed me to what I missed, viola! I had a phone card. Next step, find a public telephone. I kinda sorta noticed these glass booth-like things on the street but not until I saw someone inside one talking on the telephone did it hit me that these were phone booths. My brain failed to "see" what was obvious and right in front of me, probably due to it not being what I expected to see.

Using the telephone and phone card proved challenging. I had a phone card, a (I thought) functioning telephone, and a phone number. Put them all together and I get an error message in a recorded voice speaking French I do not understand. I wandered around trying to see if the phones were at fault - I tried several. Same result, or worse, odd sounds from the receiver. What I failed to realize at the time was that once, by accident, I dialed the number correctly but the "ring" sound in Europe is so different that I thought it was another error tone. Oops.

Here's how I went wrong. All the phone numbers my friend and neighbor gave me looked something like this (not an actual phone number): +36 6 1234 5678. The "+36" is the country code (France), the first digit, "6" means it's a cell phone number, the remaining 8 digits is the number itself. I needed to substitute a zero for "+36" to make the phone card work with the telephone. After I figured this out then dialed the zero first on purpose, I waited, despite the odd sounds coming out of the receiver, until my neighbor answered. Hallelujah! I arrange to meet him on the Champs Elysees later.

For lunch I tried a crepe from one of those tiny places without seating that's just a grill and the ingredients and the person who makes the crepes. I ate a wonderful cheese and mushroom one as I walked around looking for a telephone. This crepe did not resemble any of the ones I have had in the U.S. I can not tell what exactly made it so much better. Not questioning a good thing.

For my afternoon tourist excursion I chose to go look for the Eiffel tower. Easier said than done (I have an appallingly bad sense of direction and have been know to get lost despite having a map and copious directions). I first found the "military school" (Ecole Militaire (sp.?)). From there I could not find the Eiffel tower. Yikes. How do you miss something that bloody big? Wandering around a bit, I finally looked in the right direction from the right spot and saw the top of the tower above the roof-line. With that sighting to guide me, I quickly found my way to a public park between the Military School and the tower. According to a book my Library Director lent me for the trip, the first battle for control of Paris in recorded history took place on the spot where they built the Military school and on its former parade ground "Champs du Mars" - the park. You have likely seen photographs of the Eiffel tower with rows of trees in the foreground. The rows of trees would be the park.

Those who are not history nuts may not understand the excitement of walking through a place where some great or ancient historical event took place. "Walking in the footsteps of Legions," corny as it sounds, that was what was going through my head as I proceeded towards the Eiffel tower. The Romans fought a Celtic tribe, the Parisee, where I walked, over 2000 years ago. I realize it did not look at all as it does now. But I still felt a "sense of place" there. A bit delusional, but it's my vacation and I can be as delusional as I like. The tower itself was far too crowded for me to try to enter. But it I did not find that as important as other "tourist stuff," so I did not feel disappointed.

After I had coffee with my neighbor and handed him his ballot, I walked around Paris at sunset. I found a restaurant with menus in various languages, including English. My first dinner in Paris was "cod brandade." Codfish baked in mashed potatoes and herbs. I never had anything like it before. The herbs must have been fresh (not dried). The fish seemed to melt into the potatoes.  I had not yet learned that in France when you sit down to dinner you "own" the table for as long as you like. No one tried to rush you and the waiter never offers or asks if you want the check. The customer has to ask for the check when he's good and ready. I write in my travel journal for a only a short time before I ask for the check. Later on, when I came to feel more comfortable with remaining at a table after I finish my meal, I spent more time writing before asking for the check.

I finally have a CD of my vacation pictures. The next installment will be illustrated. -- Steven.

Part 5, Medieval churches day

On Saturday, October 25th I had my first full "tourist" day. The errands I performed on Friday completed, my arrangements to meet friends of friends on Sunday in limbo (call back on Sunday), I had the whole day to do with as I pleased.

In my travel journal I wrote for this day that I was dead tired, having walked almost continuously from 8:30 a.m. to almost 7 p.m. On my way to the Metro station I thought I would pick up a cheap watch, as my usual time-keeping device - my cell phone - I left behind in NYC. Just as I found a cheap tourist crap selling place it was swamped by a swarm of French teenagers coming the other way. Instead of trying to elbow my way through I decided that a cheap watch was not worth the bother. They looked like OK kids, but just too many of them and a little too obnoxious.

That said, and I mention this mostly as an aside, I found that the teenagers I encountered in France and Luxembourg looked decidedly different than American teenagers. The European ones had a more child-like demeanor. And I say that in a good way. American teenagers, even in mellow San Francisco, I find have a hardness and an anger to them that radiates like a force-field. While in Europe I never had the feeling that I might encounter, with or without warning, that a teenager would direct any aggression or insult towards me. I have that feeling and its occasional realization in the U.S. I have no great wisdom of insightful comment to offer. I have not a clue what may lie behind the difference. I only noticed it. (To be fair, Paris, Nimes and Luxembourg are pretty sheltered places, and my experience of these places of very short duration). Also, French people (teenagers included) read. Not just magazines or newspapers, but literature. On nearly every occasion when I sat next to a young person on his/her own on the Metro or a train I noticed them reading a book. A real book not a pop culture book like Anne Rice or the latest John Grisham best-seller. I recall two that I could figure out: "A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" by Solzhenitsin (in French translation) and "The Stranger" by Camus (in French, obviously). If I ever saw anyone in the U.S. reading literature in public it happened so long ago I have forgotten.

My first destination was Notre Dame. I managed to find the right transfers in the Metro. (A miracle, by the way). I walked the length of the Isle de le Cite along the right bank (?) until I reached a bridge. I managed to work my way through the crowd to the entrance. The line to go inside looked way too long for me. I treated myself to a leisurely morning, spending much of it walking rather than riding the Metro. I would try again early Sunday and see if I could attend a Mass. Instead of fighting the crowd I continued walking to the other bank. Along the Seine I found a view of the Cathedral from the top of the landing of stairs leading to the barges on the river. After looking at the building for a time I turned and saw another tourist trying to take a picture and noticed I was in his frame. I quickly walked around to his side to give him a better picture. After he took his picture and started walking away he called out "Spasibo" over his shoulder ("thank you" in Russian). He did not look surprised when I answered with "you're welcome" in Russian. I sometimes wonder if tourists sometimes out-number the Parisians. Well, then it was my turn. I used my phrase book French and hand gestures to ask a nice French couple if one of them would take my picture with Notre Dame in the Background. The woman took probably the best picture of me this trip. (Follows or attached).

I strolled back to the Isle de la Cite looking for Sainte Chapelle: A smaller medieval church near Notre Dame and not as easily seen from the river. The French built another building around Sainte Chapelle. The main interest in this building is the interior. It was well worth the effort to find it. At first I felt a bit disappointed. The lower chamber looked like the sort of tourist trap that one finds in the U.S. Like the "Old West town" where the exteriors look superficially like the 19th century ones but inside they sell t-shirts with "greatest grandma" or other pithy sayings and frozen yogurts. As soon as I entered I saw a row of stalls selling souvenir crap taking up the left-hand one third of the floor space. I immediately thought to myself "this can't be it." A quick look over my shoulder and I spotted a narrow spiral staircase. One for going to the upper chamber and the other served as the "down" staircase. The narrow passage briefly reminded me of the "American tourist" scene from the movie In Bruges. Lucky for me I was not a *%#@ing elephant.

The interior of the upper chamber had startlingly beautiful stained glass windows and medieval statues. About 30 or so huge stain glass windows with scores of miniature 'scenes' from the bible form a broad oval around a central open space. Surrounding the chamber installed in the walls just below the windows you see about a dozen statues. The program explains the history of the place and indicates which of the statues are original to the building (as opposed to the ones restored during the Renaissance or 18th century). Looking at the gilt work I realized suddenly that it was gold, probably solid gold. Sadly my disposable camera lacked a flash. I took one picture which failed to amount to much. Later in the day I stumbled upon St. Severin's. This church had been expanded from its original medieval smaller size. The Commune of 1870 trashed most churches (they were associated with established power). The restoration included seven new stained glass windows created in 1970 with a modern art abstraction of biblical themes. The building was a kind of miniature version of Notre Dame but not as crowded and easier to take in.

The vegetarian restaurant that had the best rating from the "Happy cows" web site happened to be on the same street and block as the tea shop "Marriage Freres." Now, I've had vegetarian imitations of carnivorous food before, but never this good. I had a "beef" with mushroom sauce to die for, although it certainly did not taste like beef. The steamed potatoes were heaven too, mostly owing to the sprinkling of fresh herbs.  Marriage Freres, the tea shop a friend had recommended had every kind of tea you ever heard of plus twice as many more that you hadn't. The only glitch was that the place was packed. I enjoyed the aroma of the teas for as long as I could stand the crowd.

After leaving the tea shop I headed to the Pompidou Center (although I did not go in - too crowded). In a park near the Center I held my laughter in check and my camera steady enough to take a picture of a group of cops on roller blades. There's something you don't see in the U.S. I managed to crop this picture down to its essentials (below or attached):

Cops on roller blades near the Pompidou Center

Also outside the Pompidou Center I saw a huge "fountain" pool with various moving metal contraptions spraying water. A written description can not do it justice. It was great for kids as the designer(s) showed a great sense of fun. This was one of the first places I found a lot of "non-tourists" as the Parisians and their children were all around this big rectangular pool full of odd looking metal sculptures.

I will leave this at about the halfway point Saturday. Next: Steven meets the Big Giant Heads (and thankfully neither of them is or resembles William Shatner).

Part 6, The Big Giant Heads

The order in which I visited the places in Paris, even the ones that made the biggest impression on me, remain a bit muddled. I *think* I visited the Luxembourg Gardens before Les Halles. But my travel journal recorded (days later) the other way around. Not that it matters much. Just strange is all.

Walking around the area of the Pompidou center I wandered through some narrow streets, finding so many beautiful looking buildings that I had to restrain myself from taking so many pictures that I would run out of film before I came upon something I *really* wanted to photograph. I found a small park next to "Les Halles" called "Fontaine des Innocents." Roughly in the center of in a curving plaza with cobblestones arranged with a dark/light colored spiral pattern I found a sculpture: a big giant head. To save on bandwidth I cropped the picture, leaving in only one person for perspective.

Big Giant Head statue at Fontaine des Innocents

It is a truly giant head. And not the only one. (BTW, the cobblestone plaza with its undulating pattern I found quite relaxing and I sat there resting for a while. If anyone is interested in seeing the larger, un-cropped, picture, please let me know. It's one of the better ones that I took myself).

As the afternoon passed, I realized that I was on the same side of the river as and actually quite close to my hotel and the Pere Lachaise cemetery. I took the Metro to the right station (it's relatively easy when you have a good map, and my Library Director lent me a really good one before I left). There are only a handful of the original Art Nouveau Metro station entrances left. The one for Pere Lachaise looked gorgeous, but the light was failing by the time I was there.  It's also in a tricky location in terms of natural light. You have to be there at the right time of day or forget about a picture (darn). Walking around the neighborhood looking for the entrance to the cemetery I noticed a strange sense of familiarity. I overheard the people around me speaking. It's a neighborhood with a wide variety of residents, many of them from Francophone Africa. The University where I work has had, now and over the years, many foreign students, including ones from Africa. I could not possibly tell you sound by sound, consonant by vowel, how African accented French sounds and how it differs from Parisian French, but something in my head does recognize the difference.

Although I realize it sounds morbid to visit a cemetery on a vacation, the Pere Lachaise cemetery is one of the best free art museums in the world. Not only are there many famous people buried there (don't ask me about Jim Morrison, I was never a "Doors" fan and I did not go anywhere near where he's planted).

Despite the failing light and the intermittent drizzle and clouds, I did take some nice photographs. I do not want to take up lots of bandwidth with them here. I will try joining Picassa or some other photo sharing service sometime. I found Chopin's grave had the most flowers and showed signs of numerous people over the years making an effort to maintain it.

Chopin's grave at Pere Lachaise cemetery  

The other person's grave I wanted to visit was Oscar Wilde. Anyone whose last words were "Either this wallpaper goes or I do," has to have something on his grave worth seeing. The white marble marker stood about 8 or 9 feet tall, with an abstract angel frieze carved at the top.  The front had numerous lipstick "kisses" at mouth level and a sign explaining in various languages admonishing the reader not to vandalize the grave as it was a French national landmark.  Unfortunately there were three drunken and somewhat obnoxious teenagers sitting in front of it and I could not get a good picture of it without idiots in the frame. But I wrote down part of an inscription that appeared on the back. Along with a summary of his life and works appears this verse:

And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long broken urn
for his mourners will be outcast men
and outcasts always mourn

At one of the entrances I consulted the map/guide and thought maybe to try to find another person. But the guard very politely informed me that the cemetery was closing. On to dinner. I did not find a place that had a menu I could figure out or when I could, food I felt like eating.  I bought a fish-burger and fries at a stand on Oberkampf. When the young woman asked about the size of the fries order I said "Gran." Oops. A large order of fries turned out to be *way* more than I expected. I took my food back to my hotel and ate it there.

At Notre Dame on Sunday I had made an effort to get up early and get my butt in gear. The line to enter looked about half as long as the day before. I had "dressed for church" as they say in the U.S.: I had a jacket and tie. I was probably the only person in the entire huge building wearing a tie. Oops. I wandered with the overall flow of people. I quickly noticed I sign that read (in multiple languages) that the "visitors" should keep to the periphery and those attending the mass could enter the central area where they had numerous pews. I ambled quietly into the "mass" area, wondering what might happen if I "got busted" (as an unbeliever). But I observed the ushers, some old French guys, only shooed away tacky, tactless tourists who stepped into the "mass zone" to snap pictures. A sign at the entrance read in a half dozen languages that flashing cameras were not permitted. I sat by myself and no one questioned my presence. The service included a lot of singing and organ music. Unlike most church services I have attended in the U.S. the French here knew how to sing and the organist really knew his (or her, I couldn't see) business. At one point there was this very intense organ solo during an interlude after the Agnus Dei. It was in a minor key, very intricate counterpoint and reminded me of the organ music in "Carnival of Souls" that got the organist kicked out of a Baptist Church in the deep South. Generally the tourists circulated counter-clockwise around the periphery and only got in the way of the service when the Priests came through with their procession, including the guy swinging the incense censor. I remember thinking the guy could hurt someone with that thing if he really felt pissed off about all the cameras flashing in his face. It's a good thing I did not become a priest - I could not resist the temptation to knock a camera out of some tourists hands with that incense censor. After I left the mass I circumnavigated the cathedral and looked into all the little nooks and chapels along the way.

After the mass I wandered over to the arena. I did not know until I read about it a couple of weeks before my trip that Paris has Roman ruins. The arena was once huge, but the remnants of it have only a few rows of "seats" and not in a complete oval. There were some actors and singers preparing for a performance (free music theater). Since I was hungry and wanted to visit the Luxembourg Gardens I took a few pictures, sat in the stands, then left in the direction of the Gardens.

Paris Arena with original seating at left

Along the way I found a cafe with a nice look to it. I ordered a "Croque madam" and said in my best, phrasebook French, "no ham, no meat." Perhaps to make up for the lack of meat they served me two open faced sandwiches with a fried egg on top of each one. I had not realized how much walking I had done and nearly inhaled the two sandwiches. Fortified with a nice lunch, I found an entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens near the French Senate building. It's a stately and ornate granite 3 story building that goes on for at least 200 yards. Attractive enough architecturally, but rather imposing. Then, as I reached the far corner of the building, I saw a view of the garden that caused me to stop dead in my tracks. It was like Dorothy seeing the Emerald City. Flowers, two huge circular pools filled with toy sailboats, and in the distance, a statue of, you guessed it, a big giant head.

Big Giant Head statue at the Luxembourg Garden

The Luxembourg Garden has statues of all different kinds. It also has a puppet theater (which I did not attend) a large grove of shady trees (I did not identify the species) and flower beds everywhere. I sat and relaxed for the better part of an hour. The atmosphere remained very low-key and I noticed everyone appeared to be having a nice day (including the armed soldiers on patrol - the Senate building requires some security presence I suppose).

After my rest I walked to the area of the Sorbonne where I saw this big blue and white statue of a man sitting lotus-position and bent over. I did not take a picture although in my time in Paris I walked passed that statue many times. It was always mobbed, mostly by children. It was obviously designed to be irresistible to children as they loved to climb up the long slope of its back or hide in the recess of its crossed legs. I could never get a shot of anything but the crowd around it.

My next stop was the Cluny museum of medieval art. Here I saw the statues that had been removed from Sainte Chapelle. The building itself started as a Roman bath with additional rooms and stories build on it over the centuries. I saw several doors (huge dark wooden ones) with intricate carvings on them which you might miss, mistaking them for plain vanilla doors, if you did not look carefully. Looking over my travel journal, I see that I did not write anything down about the Cluny other than the fact that I visited it. This does not mean I did not enjoy the place, only that the trip overall had me tired enough that I could not write as much as I would have liked. I do remember, in addition to the statues and the doors, that some Celtic carvings and jewelry, in very good condition, was on display along with the Frankish and other medieval artwork. I quickly tired of the "portable docent" - what I call the recorded "tour" that they give you when you enter some museums. They make me feel too much like a robot obeying commands to go here or there and I suspect that someday, somebody with a twisted sense of humor who records these tours will have tourists doing the hokey-pokey, recording the hapless saps with hidden cameras then putting it on the internet.

My day ended with a visit to friends of friends living in Paris: a very nice multi-lingual couple, Siegfried and Ladka, with a very cute 3 year old son, Sasha. When receiving and following directions I realized that the Metro stations had their exists numbered. If you take note of a given exit's number and give it to someone who does not know the system it becomes possible to meet at a given entrance/exit without ambiguity of confusion. Despite this, my "I'm not from around here" insecurity made me ask the man who walked up to me whether he was Siegfried. He replied, without missing a beat, "No, I'm some other guy ... of course I'm Siegfried." When traveling, even in a crowded city, you can start to feel very isolated without someone to speak to in your own language. And as much as I've studied foreign languages, I have seldom had the fluency in a language other than English for a sustained conversation. I had a very enjoyable 2-3 hours Sunday evening. The most interesting insight for me was Siegfried's interpretation of Kafka. According to Siegfried, Kafka's friends used to laugh themselves silly reading his manuscripts. The English/American translations make Kafka's writings inhabit a very much more dark place than his original German would. One of Kafka's friends who lived to the mid-20th century remarked that the 3 bureaucrats that the surveyor has to deal with in "The Castle" would, in a movie version, best be portrayed by the Marx Brothers. I'm going to keep an eye out for when Siegfried finishes his translation of Kafka. That should be an interesting read.

Pt. 7, Museums and music

On Sunday I saw a flier for a cello recital while on my way to the Luxembourg Gardens: one of the Bach Cello Suites. On Monday morning the Louvre was too crowded by 9:30. My plan to arrive by opening, 8:30, failed. I stated breakfast just early enough but could not bring myself to rush through it. I like my morning tea too much. The cafe by the Parmentier metro station gave me tea bags made of gauze, rather than paper. The weather changed drastically. It rained all Sunday night but by Monday morning it had finished and looked relatively clear.  Monday the D'Orsey is closed, which explained the huge line outside the Louvre. I had also heard that if the Louvre is crowded it tends to make for a difficult experience, and my main interest is in the Impressionists at the D'Orsey anyway. After I decided against entering the Louvre I took the last picture in my disposable camera. Then I started searching the neighborhood for a "Monoprix."  

My neighbor David told me about the "rules" governing French retail. Certain kinds of stores were allowed to sell certain kinds of products. Some stores could sell only a limited selection of certain kinds of products but a wider variety of others. You pretty much have to ask someone who knows the rules in order to know where to look for what you want. The closest the French have to an American type "Department Store" is a "Monoprix." And why can't you buy a disposable camera anywhere else? Don't ask, it's Chinatown Paris. Anyway, it keeps Walmart out, so the practice has some redeeming value. 

On the way back to the Tuileries with my new disposable camera I stumbled upon what I am pretty sure are the colonnades where Cary Grant and Walter Mathau had their gunfight in "Charades." I'll have to rent that movie again some time.

I spent most of the morning exploring the Tuileries Gardens. I found a Monoprix but not a 1 hour photo, nor a crepes place. I gave up so that I would not lose the light to photograph the exterior of the Louvre and the Gardens.  But the light sucked, with dark shadows near the building but intermittently bright light shining on the maze and statues. Only a small handful of my pictures came out well. Still hungry, I noticed a guy eating a chocolate covered waffle. Judging by how little of it he had eaten I guessed that the source was not far away. When I took a sort of rising overlook to have a better look at the Egyptian obelisk, I saw the crepes and waffle stand. Mid-morning snack: acquired! (I went for a chocolate waffle, as I already had a crepe over the weekend and the waffles looked too good to miss). 

After I finished my waffle I headed for the Picasso museum. I took a few wrong turns, (it's in a warren of narrow streets) but found it pretty quickly anyway. I then doubled back to a Brasserie that I spotted in my wrong turn adventures to eat lunch. A tuna sandwich here contains no mayonnaise: just a 14" baggette cut in half crosswise, then each piece sliced lengthwise and filled with tuna, lettuce, tomato, some shredded carrots and cucumber. No condiments needed because the vegetables were fresh and actually had flavor to them. I had forgotten how fresh vegetables that have not had the flavor genetically engineered out of them to survive longer in transit and on the shelf tasted.   

The Picasso museum had a good number of pieces that influenced Picasso, including Cezzanne, Matisse, as well as native Pacific Island and African masks.    The order of the exhibit I found helpful. It started out with other artists who influenced him and then proceeded more-or-less chronologically through his career, allowing you to see the development. 

Behind the Picasso Museum

After the Picasso Museum I found a brasserie that served a kind of "Croque" that I could eat. My phrase book French by this time enabled me to ask them to leave off the ham without difficulty. 

The recital was supposed to take place at a church called St. Ephrem in the 5eme, behind the Sorbonne. While searching for this church it started raining. I took cover in a Russian bookstore. One of the staff asked me in French what I guess was "may I help you." I answered in Russian asking if she understood Russian. No, she did not. Oh well, the one foreign language I *can* speak somewhat passably and no one in a Russian bookstore to talk to in Russian.  After some searching I did find St. Ephrem but soon realized that I arrived way too early. But no harm done, as the interior of the church had numerous pieces or artwork to admire and I had a chance to catch up with my travel journal. Before the concert I found a great brasserie in this neighborhood that served a vegetarian croque: red and green peppers, grilled and then baked under gruyere on bread. I did not take note of the name but I'm sure I can find it again, if it's still there, even years from now. 

The concert proved a bit mediocre. The cellist was a conservatory student, with great technical ability but still needs a few more live performances to work out the expressiveness. He sounded better when I overheard him warming up before the concert. But the evening still passed pleasantly. The church interior consisted of a really tiny alter and congregation area, on the same level and generally oval rather than rectangular. The art looked late Renaissance to 18th century and the acoustics were wonderful. During intermission a woman sitting next to me asked me a question in French. I was writing in my travel journal. When I answered in badly mangled French that I did not understand French, she switched to English. 

She wondered if I were a music critic, because she saw me writing in my travel journal. It turned out she's Australian named Louise and has been living and working in Europe for the past few years. She created this musical theater act which she does for school children in Ireland. Taking a break from that, she came to visit Paris for a week. We met for a little something to eat after the concert where we agreed to meet again the next day and visit some museums together. During the conversation I did manage to place my foot firmly in my mouth. While talking about music we did and did not like I mentioned my intense dislike for the accordion. My brother used this instrument as a ruthless tool in his teenage rebellion. Our mother was a piano teacher with frustrated ambitions of classical music stardom. The only thing worse would have been a banjo, and I suspect had one been cheaply available in town I would have been spared the embarrassment of discovering that Louise played the accordion, as one of the characters she portrayed in her musical review show for the Irish kiddies. Oops. 

Tuesday started out well, but upon arrival at the D'Orsey my morning turned out not badly, but also not so well either. I had forgotten a friend's warning that Tuesday is not a good day to visit the D'Orsey - The Louvre is closed Tuesdays, thus making the crowd at the D'Orsey much larger. I arrived later than I planned (again, not wanting to rush breakfast). It was so cold that my hands were shaking while I tried to catch up with my travel writing while I waited for a long time before the line outside crawled to the entrance. I did remember what my library director told me - I walked immediately to the back to find the staircase leading to the top floor. The Impressionists' exhibit starts in the top rear and progresses chronologically from there. This also helped me avoid the crowd. The exhibits upstairs started out with an artist I had not known or had forgotten (sadly, I did not note the name and have already forgotten again). The paintings showed European artists coming out of the dark of Rembrandt. From salon to salon it progressed: Renoir, Sisley, Cezzanne, Monet, and then Van Gogh. The most intense of Van Gogh's self-portraits, the blue-green one with the swirling background, I think it was his last self-portrait. It had a big crowd of Germans (big: number *and* size) who were taking a package tour surrounding it, but I managed to have a clear view of it for about a minute. Later, I found my favorite Monet (after the "Waterlillies" of course): the one of his cathedral paintings in early morning light and fog. I asked a very nice, polite French guy to take my picture next to it. By accident of the shortcomings of disposable cameras together with the light inside the gallery, the picture developed resembled the cathedral painting in its overall effect. I could never have done something like this on purpose:  

I took a break, going to the museum cafe on the top floor. My notes here are a bit sketchy. I mentioned the family at the table near mine and the wild 3-year old girl who broke loose. Her older sister/cousin (not sure) caught up with her when the little tornado stopped to eye my apple-tort covetously. I guarded it with equal covetousness. In Europe, an apple-tort is no joke (they taste ten times better than any sort of apple pastry in the U.S.). 

Back to the gallery, I found impressionists I never heard of before. Odilon Redon's painting hung behind glass in a darkened salon. His work showed cross-over between impressionistic and more naturalistic work. There were more, but unfortunately, the crowd grew too large and my claustrophobia kicked in.  I decided to return again on Wednesday. I also had to go to meet Louise for lunch near the Bastille. 

Louise and I found a nice vegetarian restaurant specializing in North African dishes. I had a kind of variety plate with couscous, brown rice and several different steamed vegetables in a delicious sauce/dressing made from sesame. On the way to "Les Voges" we (mostly me) had a bit a trouble finding Victor Hugo's house. It turns out he *lived* in one of the townhouses of Les Voges. In addition to many pieces of beautiful dark wood furniture (including a writing desk that folded up against the wall) and china he had owned, we saw some of the pages from his early drafts of "Les Miserables," mounted on the walls. If I had understood French I would likely have obtained more from the display of various drafts of "Les Miserable." I noticed that he wrote his first draft only on the right-side of the page, saving the left for notes on the next re-write and additional sentences, etc. I wished I thought of that when I wrote my early drafts of my college papers by hand. 

The last museum of the day, Carnavelet (sp.?) had exhibits by and explaining the history of Paris. In some small respect I felt a bit disappointed, as most of the exhibits were paintings *of* Paris without much context or explanation - not much of a history museum. Carnavelet did have some interesting artifacts. One artifact that had both of us puzzled was a weird sort of ornate commode-like seat. An English-speaking museum person explained that it was as 19th century chair designed for a woman wearing a dress with a "bussle" on the back. The oddly placed hole in the "chair" would allow a woman to sit, although not too comfortably, without crushing the bussle against her lower back. The other memorable exhibit was the model of the Bastille. The  tourist books call the Bastille "the most famous tourist attraction that does not exist." The revolutionaries blew it up. When I friend asked me after I returned from Europe if I saw the Bastille I answered, "Yes, it's about two feet high" : The model of the Bastille in Musee Carnavalet.

Louise and I parted company in the Metro station after we had some expresso and pastries at a cafe nearby. We made no plans to keep in touch. She was a good "museum buddy" and I'm glad we ran into each other.  

I decided to try the "moul frit" at a restaurant near Pere Lachaise for dinner. In France this is not just a plate of mussels. This is a bucket of mussels - at least a half gallon. The order of fries - big thick, not quite "steak fries" - turned out to be generous as well. I enjoyed a nice leisurely walk back along Avenue de la Republique, back to the neighborhood of my hotel. I stopped by the internet cafe to make contact with my neighbor from San Francisco, to confirm plans we made to meet again the next day. Mousier Grumpy looked happier than I ever imagined possible. I noticed a very young woman, possibly a teenager, standing in front of his desk and speaking to him very animatedly. She said a very enthusiastic "bon jour" to me as I entered and echoed his "Au Revoir" with equal enthusiasm when I left. She continued to speak to Mousier Grumpy nearly non-stop as I sat a PC in the back room.  The dynamic between them suggested father/daughter to me. She said something that cracked up the French guy sitting next to me. He looked at me to join in but all I could do was smile, nod and shrug, as I did not want to appear impolite. I guess a father of a teenager will be happy that she even wants to talk to him. 

Next: my last day in Paris, a better visit to the D'Orsey, more interesting people, night on the Seine.