We'll Always Have Paris

Bon jour, mes amies,
While shopping as I customarily do on my last full day of a trip, I found myself in Lafayette Maisons next to the Pierre Herme display counter full of macarons and no customers for them.  I did not wish to be rude, so I forced myself to buy a few, and now, since it's rather stormy outside, I am enjoying an afternoon tea.  Fresh macarons are sublime, but I'm not bringing any home because the stale ones are just cookies.  The first one was lemon and olive oil, and I know that sounds weird, but you will just have to come to Paris and try one, won't you.
This morning I finished off the last of that divine butter.  That's another thing I'm leaving behind because I seldom eat butter at home, and now I'm horribly spoiled anyway.  I am thawing the last of the baguette and will polish off the last of my fabulous cheese washed down by the cheap and yet extraordinarily good rose I pulled off the shelves of the grocery store.  I am not the only one who thinks the wine is good by the way.  Other roses just sat there.  My kind had continually to be restocked.
Shall we have a rose macaron? Or rather shall I eat one while you slaver in impotent envy?  It's good.  I like it less than the first one.  It's rather jammy tasting, and I might have been more excited had I not had the rose honey.
I metroed around more than I planned to because of the weather, but I started out this morning walking as I did my first full day here down toward the Seine on the long street that changes its name every few blocks.  I admired the handsome buildings and the bright flower boxes on the wrought iron balconies.  I puzzled, as I always do, at Parisian traffic.  There's a lot of it, mostly cars, but also some bikes and motorcycles.  I guess they don't do lanes in Paris.  The vehicles seem higgledy-piggledy to me, and the angry honking is constant.  Also cars apparently are allowed to stop in the middle of intersections, and a couple of times I have even seen drivers change their minds about turning and back up to go another way in traffic.  Don't be surprised, as I was, to find a motorcycle coming at you on the sidewalk.  I'd be terrified even to take a taxi here!
I believe it's time for a salted caramel macaron.  What do you think?  Mmm.  It has an interesting smokey taste of cooked sugar.  I think I prefer the fruity or citrus ones and the chocolate, but this one was certainly worth trying.
Crazy Guy never reappeared.  I hope that whatever his issue was he has resolved it instead of just finding a new place to be nuts.
Now I have to find places for my things and my purchases in my luggage and tomorrow morning wrestle my now heavier bags onto the metro and RER.  This is no joke either.  There are stairs--a lot of them--and crowds.  But every time I have been on the metro I've seen a lot of people with luggage, and the Parisians are used to the laden traveler.  And once I'm on the RER I can relax unless one of those "entertainers" hops on board.
Merci bien for reading about my trip.  I hope it inspires you to come here.
A bientot.
Update:  Metro and Airport Adventures!  The stairs at the metro station were even worse than I remembered, but I'd started early and took my time and was careful.  I had a valid ticket of course, but when it came time to enter the RER from the metro, I pushed my luggage through first.  Mistake!  The turnstyle wouldn't then let me in.  I tried again and again.  Then a kindly French gentlehomme offered to help by letting me come through with me on his Navigo pass.  He'd seen I had a ticket and wasn't trying to cheat.  A few people do--mostly large, fit young men who vault over the entry.
The same thing happened!  The man bid me crawl under the turn style.  I did and I was launched.  I got the express to Charles de Gaulle and was congratulating myself on missing the "entertainers" when they showed up.  It was a couple of rappers, who'd worked out a way of going from car to car.  People do give these folks money, so it must be worth it.
The airports have gone high tech and self service.  Now I have never before gotten one of those print your own boarding pass thingies to work for me, but this time I not only printed out my boarding pass, I printed out my luggage router tag.  Then I when I arrived at baggage drop off, I successfully scanned both pass and tag and sent my bag off.  Apparently my wonderment and delight were so palpable, an Air France employee got a chuckle out of it.
When I returned to the U.S. there was a machine at passport control, to scan my passport and take my picture.  Only I didn't know where to look so the picture is really weird.  One answers questions and then gets a receipt with the picture on it, which one eventually turns in.  Pretty cool.

Plan B and Plan B Two Point O

Bon jour, mes amis,
Today is the last stage of the Tour de France, and the riders are coming home in the rain.  The "sacred cobbles" of the Champs Elysees are bad enough when dry.  But the winner has been decided and indeed was decided about two weeks ago.  Congratulations to Chris Froome and all, but it was not a thrilling race.
So the plan today was to go to Dijon in Burgundy, which is quite a ways, but just doable as a day trip.  It didn't happen.  I went to the Gare de Lyon in good time, took my number, waited, and arrived at the ticket desk only to find that the train was full in second class, and if I wanted to go to Dijon, I'd have to buy first class tickets.  Uh oh.  But furthermore--no way.  I was bummed, not just because Dijon is a charming town, but because there was something there previously not on exhibit that I really wanted to see.  Oh well.  Next time.
But there I was with my day's plan shattered.  It does happen in travel, so I needed to figure out what to do.  Rather on impulse I decided to go out to see St. Germain-en-Laye.  After all the Gare de Lyon was an RER station, and St. Germain was on RER line A.  I obtained my ticket at one of the machines and proceeded to the platform.  When I realized.  Whoops.  The RER was closed for a good part of its route in town.  The train from this station would just take me a few stops.
But flexibility is the traveler's friend.  I took the metro line one out to La Defense where I picked up the RER again and had a smooth trip out to St. Germain.  There's a handsome chateau there now holding the National Archeology Museum.  I happen to enjoy such things.
Relics from the Neanderthal period and on up are on display.  I especially enjoyed the paleolithic carvings.  Some of the "Venus" figurines were the size of my little finger and yet beautifully carved. The animal statues were also marvelous.  The collection holds a wealth of Celtic ceramics and jewelry as well as swords and tools from everyday life.  The Gallo-Roman displays are especially rich and fascinating.
And when I finished with the museum--well there was the park.  I'd barely scratched the surface on the previous visit, but this time I could do it right.  While there are a few formal parts, most is what the French call garden Anglaise, in other words natural, yet well contrived, plantings of trees and flowers and lots of paths straight and curved and intersecting.  It had begun to rain by then, but I had my umbrella, and the rain fell lightly.  The air freshened and that wonderful planty smell came out.  Everything was so pretty!  I loved the rich and various greens of the trees and the brightness of the flower blossoms.
So even though it was not planned and was a mere plan B, St. Germain was still a satisfying day out.
A demain.
Update:  I am unhappy now.  Usually Citadines is very professional, but today!  I came home to find my room not done.  I asked when it would be done and was told at 4pm--not the fault of the front desk folk who were helpful, but I waited until 5:30. and it was not done so I figured it would not be today and settled in.  So at 6:30 when I was finishing dinner the bell rang for service.  Six-thirty.  Grrr.  I got dressed and went to read in the lobby  Here I am back in my room at 7:15.

A Castle and a Garden

Bon jour, mes amies,
The day began with my pot of strong tea, a lovely croissant, and the divine raw milk butter.  Add to that the occasional drizzle of rose honey on said croissant (buttered) for an experience of such sensuous luxury an inhabitant of Sybaris would faint at the excess.
The weather has turned.  I wore my sweater most of the day.  It did not rain, but the clouds occasionally threatened.  A cold wind blew strongly.  This is more of what I am used to in Europe.
I had a fairly low key day planned.  My first stop was the Chateau de Vincennes, easily reached by metro, but I although I'd seen it from the outside, I'd never gone in--until today.  Like a lot of French castles, Vincennes has been pulled about a bit, but the folks have done a good job of restoration and expansion of the exhibits.  Vincennes was the favored residence of King Charles V who expanded it and had the keep designed to his specifications.  You can enter the courtyard for free, but if you want to see the keep and the royal chapel, you need a ticket.  Now I happen to like climbing around castles even on cold, windy days, and I enjoyed my visit, but little besides bare rooms remain.  Some of the carving the king ordered survived, and placards explain what the king used the rooms for.
In one room a nice young man passed out ipad looking things and when the visitor pointed them at different parts of the room special animations showed what the room would have originally looked like.
Now this was very cool, and revealed the variety of rich colors used in the decoration.  Ceilings were painted, tapestries adored the walls, there was a bright woven rug, and even the furniture was painted.
The visitor can also go out on the walls so see how the king kept his eye on Paris.  I also visited the royal chapel, a gothic gem.
There's a nice gift shop.  These gift shops always have "historic" perfumes, and I always try them. Vincennes appeared to be dedicated to violette.  In fact there was violette everything from candy to soap to a liquor that were I not leaving in a few days would have tempted me sorely.   Think of kir royale de violette.
I metroed off to my next stop, but then I had a problem.  I needed a toilet, and as Europeans never seem to have to go, facilities are rare.  My stop was Cour St. Emilion, a former wine depot turned into a trendy shopping center.  Very nice stores.  No toilets.  The plan was for me to walk from Cour St. Emilion through Parc Bercy to the Bercy metro.  Sometimes, I hoped to myself, parks have toilets.   And fortunately Bercy did.  Free, too.  It was run down, and there was no toilet paper, but that's why I ALWAYS carry one of those small packs of tissue, a practice I cannot recommend too strongly to the traveler.
Relieved I proceeded through pretty Parc Bercy, but at the other end, I seemed to be trapped in some sort of development, and there was no sign of the metro.  My choices seemed to be retrace my steps--or go forward and cross a fun-looking footbridge over the Seine.  So I crossed the river and enjoyed the view.  I was back on the Left Bank but off map at the Biblioteque National.  I had no idea beyond that, but this is Paris, and I kept walking knowing a metro stop would appear as one did and on one of my home lines, too!
I've run out of sun screen, so my final chore was to go to Italie Deux, my handy shopping center to the parapharmacie downstairs near the grocery store and boulangerie.  I fancied trying some French sun screen, which fortunately was on sale, and I believe is the right size for carrying on the plane, too.
A demain.

Fountainbleau

Bon jour, mes amies,
I am settled in or beginning to be after the day's adventures.  Just before coming home I went to buy my weekend croissants and a baguette because I am having cheese for dinner.  At the boulangerie counter I ran into someone who actually spoke less French than I do, something I thought was hardly possible.  She was Irish by the sound of her and had a baby in tow and wanted to sit down and have a snack.  I taught her how to say "sur place" as opposed to "emporter" or take away.  Go moi!
I visited Fountainbleau today, and it is amazing, but I thought it would be an easy day trip, and for a while it was anything but--all due to a series of errors and bad decisions on my part.  My first and fundamental mistake was not looking on line for train info.  I trusted the guidebook, which while not wrong, proved woefully incomplete.  I got to Gare de Lyon all right, but that's where things began to go wrong.  Used to be one could buy a combo ticket for the train, bus, and chateau.  Not any more.  Fountainbleau is in the Ile, so one buys one's ticket downstairs with the RER tix, but as I discovered after wasting a ticket on RER D, the RER does not go that far.  One has to go up stairs to actually find a train.  It look me about forty minutes to figure this out, but then I was on my way.
We arrived at Fountainbleau-Avon.  Here comes the bad decision.   According to the guidebook the chateau is a mere two kilometers away from the station.  I can walk it easily, I surmised--once I knew where to go.  The map was no help, but I overheard a French couple who intended to walk, so I followed them.  The young woman had google maps or some kind of app, but they appeared uncertain.  I accosted a passing French woman to ask.  Her reply.  "Ooh la la!"  Yes.  The French actually say that.  She thought we were nuts, and she had a point, but we all soldiered on and at length and in a round about way arrived at gates.
But not of the chateau.  We had arrived at the park called Le Foret de Fountainbleau, and had to cross it to get to the palace.  This was all right with me because walking in the forest was something I wanted to do.  So I had a nice walk under the trees.
I fetched up at the chateau, snooted around the gardens a bit, then bought my ticket.  It was more crowded than when I had been there last, and it seemed to me that a lot had changed, and more rooms were open.  In contrast to Versailles, Fountainbleau is Renaissance although evidence of the later Louises and Napoleon is also there.  Zowie.  Talk about ornate.  Some of those rooms make Versailles look like an underdecorated shack!  We have a concept in Art History called horror vacui--fear of empty spaces.  Every available surface was covered in decoration, ceilings, walls, furniture, floors.  I marveled at the wall and ceiling frescos and gasped at the wonderful, richly colored tapestries.  Paintings?  Statuary?  Clocks?  Tables?  Chairs?  Whatever you fancy is on offer, and it's all elaborately and luxuriously decorated.
Then I walked around the gardens some more, but the weather turned sultry, and I was tired by then.  When I emerged the folks were dismantling the market.  Now if I had taken the bus, I would have been able to do a quick walk through.  I certainly wasn't going to walk back either!  I caught the bus and then the train, and here I am.
A demain.

A Good Day for Walking

Bon jour, mes amies,
So I staggered off the metro after a day of touristing full of fatigue, but I couldn't go home to the Tour and apertivo until I'd bought some bread, and I wanted Pain Polaine from the grocery store because it's so good at breakfast.  But it was a busy time at the store at that time of day, and in all the checkout lines were people with a lot of stuff.  I got in line, but the customers had problems, and the clerk kept having to call the manager, and then the woman just ahead of me got mad because she was (I gathered because I know the word promo) expecting a special price which wasn't rung up.  More calls to the manager more arguments.  The customer appealed to me--in vain.  I said I was a tourist. Finally it was sorted.
But I'm in Paris after all.  It's all part of the experience.
Today I took the metro to the right bank.  I got off at L'Etoile where the Arc de Triomph is along with about a zillion streets that radiate from it, and I couldn't figure out which one I needed to get to my destination.  I started walking and everything sorted itself out.  I was in the highly elegant 17th arondissment, the territory of at least some of Paris's very wealthy and possibly aristocratic residents and fetched up at Parc Monceau, which is itself very elegant, lovely, and restful.  I strolled a bit and then went to the Musee de Nissim Camondo.
The museum is the home and pet project of Moises de Camondo from a rich Jewish banking family, but named as a memorial for his son who fought and died for France in the First World War.  The surviving members of the family were exterminated in the Second.  Moises de Camondo wished to recreate the life of the ancien regime and commissioned his mansion in the model of the Petite Trinanon and filled it with eighteenth century art treasures.  I am seriously--seriously--thinking of giving up Jacquemart-Andre for this gem.  The fact that one could have access to Parc Monceau from the garden is a selling point, so is the oak paneled library, which is perfect for cozy winter teas.
One of the museum attendants, an older man, i.e. older than me, tried to chat me up.  He asked me where I was from and how long I was in Paris, and did I find Parisians nice.  He ended up by telling me I was "a beautiful ambassador" for my country.  Very gallant, I guess.
I returned to the park to have a snack of nuts I'd packed.  I also had my kindle so I hung out a bit before finding the metro that would take me to the next destination.
I wanted to see the Canal St. Martin, and eventually I did, but at a crucial point I got turned around and ended up walking a long way in the opposite direction.  Fortunately it was cool and breezy--a good day for walking.  I figured out what was wrong and retraced my steps to walk along the canal, but not quite for its whole length.  If you have seen the movie Amelie, you've seen the canal.  Audrey Tatou kneels on one of the bridges and skips stones in the water.
But eventually I turned away from the canal.  Truth to tell I had no idea where I was.  My map was no help, but I picked a likely direction and walked.  Even being lost in Paris is being in Paris, and one will not be seriously lost for long.  Walk and walk some more and you will come to a major street and a metro stop.  And so it happened for me--and it was one of the lines that goes to Place d'Italie, so I didn't have to change.
I have two LaDuree macarons left, which I kept in the refrigerator.  I don't know if they will still have the exquisite delicacy and freshness, but here goes.  First up is rose flavored.  It's a very pretty pink color, but doesn't smell like anything. The cremey crunchiness is there, but not the intense flavor.  I can't blame LaDuree.  The macarons have been in my fridge for a week. It's not bad; it's just not more than two euros a cookie sublime.  I shall try the salted caramel. Yep.  Nice, but not incredible.  Lesson here--don't wait to consume your marcarons.  They don't last.
A demain

A Loop through the Left Bank

Bon jour, mes amies,
Besides the cigarette smoke, the things I deeply dislike about walking around Paris are the beggars, who are everywhere, and the solicitors who like to cluster around metro stops.  Some of the solicitors are scam artists who ask you to sign petitions and then demand donations.  But today it was the French Red Cross.  I dodged most of them and then blew off the one guy by saying firmly in English, "I'm on vacation!"
On the other hand many of the buildings are beautiful, and the tree-lined boulevards are nice.  I love the smell of the bakeries and the perfume.  If you are allergic to perfume, maybe Paris isn't your city unless you can avoid the streets and the metro.  I take opportunities to squirt myself with scent, so I can waft right along.
I did some grocery shopping and visited the fancy cheese shop.  Results later.  If you want to follow my route on the Left Bank Loop, I began at Place d'Italie and walked toward the Seine on Rue des Gobelins, which changes its name to Rue Monge.  I stopped in at the Arena de Lutece--the remains of the Roman Amphitheatre.  Romans despised human sacrifice, but blood and death in the arena was ok. Go figure.  I proceeded down to Boulevard St. Germain and turned left and crossed Boulevard St. Michel and kept going.  Of course all this time I was licking windows, ignoring beggars, and evading solicitors.
I was in the mood for more churches, so I landed at St. Germain des Pres, an abbey church dedicated to the first Bishop of Paris and the only remaining Romanesque church in Paris. When founded it stood in the countryside on the southern bank of the river.  It's a beautiful church with its solid, yet graceful aisles and vaulting, the colored piers and frescoed walls.  It has the dusty old stone smell as well.
Then I walked up to St. Suplice, which once was a tourist mecca for its (spurious) appearance in the Da Vinci Code.  When I walked in I thought that compared to St. Germain this was a big barn of a building.  It's Late Baroque/Neo Classical--magnificent to be sure, but less appealing to me.  I was impressed though that it is a living church.  Mass was being celebrated in one of the chapels off the ambulatory.  If you like the work of Eugene Delacroix, you will find two of his frescoes in the first chapel on the right.  He's not known for religious works, but these paintings seemed pious as well as skilled to me.
My next stop was the Luxembourg Gardens for some refreshing greenery.  The palace now holding government offices was built to please Marie de Medici, Henry IV's queen and it and the enchanting gardens have a definite Italianate flavor.  It's a great place to stroll or relax if you can find a place where people aren't smoking.  There are cafes, a pond where children can rent and sail boats, puppet shows, and the occasional band concert.
There was also, although I didn't realize what the commotion was about until I got home and saw some news, a noisy demonstration by French Farmers and their supporters, but I don't understand the issue.
I walked through the gardens to the very top and then turned left on Boulevard Port Royal where I was accosted.  At first I was annoyed--not again!  But, no, these folk were innocent travelers like myself and needed directions to the Luxembourg.  That I could do.  I whipped out my map and showed them.  And then footsore and weary by then I walked down Port Royal until it ran into Boulevard des Gobelins and turned up hill for home.
I have declared today Norman Heritage Day--only without all that conquering because that's so Eleventh Century, you know.  Instead the focus will be on food and drink.  We Normans love the aperitivo and have our own called Pommeau.  It has a hearty apple flavor as well it might because it's made from both cider and Calvados.  Sip slowly and not too much!  But boy is it tasty.
Now for a tasting of three Norman cheeses--raw cows milk--from the fancy fromageries.  I always trim off the rind, but some people like rind.  I have slices of baguette to serve.  We start with Pont L'Eveque, the mildest as is the custom.  OOH.  It's mild and buttery but with a definite cheese taste but with a creamy texture.  Very nice indeed.  I think I'll have some more.
With the cheese I am drinking Norman cider.  It's corked and bubbly like sparkling wine. It's not at all sweet, but tastes of apples.
We pass on to Camenbert one of the best known of French cheeses and widely available--only much of which is widely available is industrial cheese.  We are getting into stinky territory here.  Camenbert has been described as smelling like the feet of God.  My cheese guy patted it before he sold it to me to make sure it was ripe.  The taste is rich and lovely.  You won't find raw milk Camenbert in the United States, and what a shame because it's fabulous with all that Camenbert flavor but without the ammonia sort of edge.
The last and the strongest is my favorite.  Livarot is the apotheosis of cheese in my view.  It has a definite aroma, the lush, creamy texture, and a complex taste, not really strong, but very distinctive.  One can tell the milk has been worked on so to speak.  But I have never seen Livarot in the United States, and I fear if you do come across it, it will be an inferior version.  En fin.  You'd better come to France.
A demain

Return to Rouen

Bon jour, mes amies,
I knew I had crossed the border from the Ile de France to Normandy when swans appeared in the Seine.  Then the landscape grew subtly more rugged with the occasional cliff of gray stone and the wooded hills and that deep, deep green.  I had a fancy that I was going home--even though, I am a Norman, I am not French.  No, I don't belong here, and I don't speak the language or, for all of my knowledge of history, understand the culture.
This morning I got some money from the ATM which features a rather endearing animation and hopped the metro.  I was squished in--not quite sardine fashion.  I took Line 7 to the closest stop I could get to Gare St. Lazare.  And as usual I came out the wrong exit, and as usual I got turned around, but I managed to get to the station and buy my ticket in time to board the train early and secure a window seat on the upper level.
The train was packed with tourists on their way to visit Claude Monet's gardens at Giverney.  And they are lovely and well worth seeing.  I went I think in 2004 from Rouen, which is a bit closer.  I went early, too, because I knew that coach tours would soon fill the gardens with crowds of people. Back in the day the stop was Vernon, and a shuttle bus picked us up.  Now the train station calls itself Vernon-Giverney, La Gare de L'Impressionisme, and three fourths of the passengers got out.  I wondered how on earth the visitors were going to enjoy the gardens packed with people.
But the rest of us went on to Rouen.  I walked down hill to the historic center using the towers of the cathedral as my guide.  It had been some ten years since I was there last, and things had changed, but I also recognized some areas.  My first stop was the Flamboyant Gothic Cathedral Notre Dame de Rouen, the focal point of the city.
As soon as entered I inhaled the musty scent of old stone.  Claude Monet loved to paint the facade, and if you are here in summer the city sometimes puts on a light show at night of how Monet viewed the facade in different seasons and times of day.  The church is wonderful with soaring vaults although the glass is not Medieval.  I paid my respects at the tomb of Rollo, the first Duke of Normandy.  He thought that receiving lush and fertile land for his folk was a fair exchange for giving up going aviking.
The historic center is largely pedestrianized and is simply beautiful--if you like half timbered buildings or those made of stone and narrow winding streets opening up into what the French call places.  Rouen is a city made for people not cars.  A lot of tourists come here, but the place is set up for its residents and not its visitors although plenty of restaurants and snack bars cater to us as well. Numerous bakeries and candy stores will tempt you.  Unfortunately cheese shops close for most of the afternoon.  I had a wonderful time just wandering around and occasionally poking into shops.  No one was frantic.  The shop keepers were lovely and patient with my extremely limited French.  I gave myself up to the enjoyment of a wonderful place.
Normandy is famous for its cheese.  The climate does not lend itself to wine, but Normans relish cider and other liquors made from apples and pears.  You are going to have to wait until tomorrow for a tasting and discussion of Norman treats.
Crazy Guy has disappeared.  I hope he's somewhere safe and not being crazy.

Visiting the Deceased

Bon jour, mes amies,
We have uncertain weather here in Paris with short periods of rain here and there.  I had my umbrella up for the first time.
As some of you may know the last thing I need is an appetite stimulant, especially on my trips when I walk so much, but I enjoy the custom of aperitivo, and I practice it abroad and often at home.  It's just a nice way to mark the transition into leisure time.  I have been sipping sparkling wine and having some olives and a few nuts as my aperitivo, but today I am being much more indulgent.  More below.
I had some of the rose honey this morning on a piece of toast.  It smells and tastes just like rose flavored honey.  I liked it.  Your milage may vary.
After a futile trip to Rue Mouffetard because I did not know fancy cheese stores were closed Monday, I came back and hopped the metro.  I had a lot of long, boring metro rides, but I must say the destinations were worth it.
My first stop was the basilica of St. Denis.  I emerged from the metro delighted to find that the nasty car park structure had been replaced by a respectable looking shopping center.  Only then some guy accosted me--in French--so I had no idea what he was saying.  When I blew him off, he called me an "Imbecile."  Hey!  I understood that much French.
The story goes that Denis or Dionysus as he was known in the old days was killed for being a Christian during the persecutions by the Roman Empire.  He was beheaded on Martyrs Hill or Montmartre in French, but being a saint he picked up his head and walked off with it--no doubt followed by the astounded spectators--until he reached the site of St. Denis and indicated he wished to be buried there--and so did many of the kings and queens of France.  Seeing the royal tombs is interesting--even Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette ended up there, but St. Denis's other claim to fame is that it introduced the Gothic style of architecture to Christendom.  The basic structure of the church is Romanesque as one can see from the facade, but the Abbot Suger (pronounced Su-jay) adapted the Islamic pointed arch with some innovations of his own, including stained glass to create an instant sensation.  It's well worth the trip out to see--although next month the metro stop will be closed. Entry to the nave of the church is free, but if you want to see royal tombs and the Gothic ambulatory you have to pay.
The next stop was the Cemetery named after Pere LaChaise.  As it happened I'd not been there before, and it was interesting to walk around.  The sister of a friend of mine lies here, but my friend declined to tell me where.  I did not go celebrity grave hunting, but maps of the cemetery are for sale or available on line if you are interested in Chopin, or Oscar Wilde, or Edith Piaf, or Jim Morrison--and a host of others.  One thing that struck me was that many graves and memorials boasted fresh flowers, and these were not for the recently deceased.
What's this business with aperitivo?
Right now I am sipping at a kir, or rather a kir royale, since I made it with sparkling wine, and if you want one in Paris nearly any cafe will do you one for about fifteen euro.  Here's how to do it yourself. Take a small amount--say a tablespoon or so of cassis liquor or syrup, top it off with white wine and a splash of soda.  That was the traditional way that Canon Kir treated the sour white wine of his region.  If you use sparkling wine you don't need the soda.  If you are not bourgeoise like me, you may have red wine and call it a communard.  Most refreshing after a hard day of touristing.
The next part is problematical.  If fois gras offends you, skip the next paragraph.
Because I have some fois gras de canard, which I prefer to goose liver.  These water fowl have an instinct to cram preparing for migration, an instinct humans have exploited as the water fowl store fat in their livers, a taste for which dates back to the Ancient Egyptians.  Humans deliberately overfeed the birds, who are are otherwise better treated than most poultry in the United States--inducing diabetes which grossly (heh) enlarges the animals' livers.  Humans then kill the birds eat the flesh, but reverently savor the liver.  It is served slightly chilled on toast in small amounts because it is rich. Fois gras is commonly served as an appetizer with sweet wine or dry sparkling wine.  I am doing the latter.
So are we back together?  All the contenders are still up and riding in the Tour de France, which is a good thing.  I expected a fiercer contest for the yellow jersey. Maybe it will materialize in the Alps?  But tomorrow is a rest day, so I'll be going farther afield.
A demain.

Provins--the Medieval City of Roses

Bon jour, mes amies,
It rained over night here.  I woke up once to hear the pattering of the rain against my window, and I got up to look out.  Apparently it rained at home as well.  Rain in July!  Lovely here and there.
Although Provins is technically in the Ile de France and reachable by the RER suburban railway, it was a long way there and back, but a very nice day out.  No big sites exist in Provins.  It's just a very pretty and well preserved town--very proud of its heritage.
My only adventure on the way was getting caught in the ticket passage gate thingy.  My ticket was valid just not the right size for that gate.  I managed to get free, but a very nice young man was about to come to my rescue.  The train ride was not especially exciting, and I regretted not packing my kindle also because as late as I got back housekeeping was still doing my room so I had to hang out. The outskirts of Paris--and this is true of many European cities--are frankly ugly, but after a lot of industrial works and Corbusiervilles (By this I mean tall, stark depressing tower flats) one gets to the countryside. It was overcast although it didn't rain but the golden wheat fields really popped against the slate colored sky.  I saw fields of barley and maize, but other crops I couldn't identify.  Some of the towns we stopped in seemed to have sugar refineries--beet sugar as they mostly use in Europe.
I also appreciated the sight of Old Farms--with stone buildings clustered around a courtyard.  They looked like they were more agribusiness at this point rather than family farms, but I liked the idea of the tradition perhaps being carried on.
When we got to Provins, I followed the tourists who seemed to know what they were doing. The lower town is crossed by several pretty little rivers--we'd call them creeks--and also boasts some handsome half timbered buildings along the narrow streets. But the heart of the Medieval city is up hill--of course it is--with stairs and steep streets leading up and up.
As I said there's not a lot there.  A large collegiate church in the Gothic style is worth a quick visit. There's also a small fortress once commanded by the Counts of Champagne but called Caesar's Tower.  I strolled about happily and went into a touristy shop.
Provins is famous for its roses and its honey. Walking into the shop was a mighty heady experience I can tell you what with those combined fragrances.  Anything you can think of that could possibly be made from roses, honey, or both is on offer.  It all looked good, but I didn't want to be hauling a lot back, so besides postcards, I got a small jar of rose honey.  We'll do a tasting soon!
But except for the tourists, Sunday afternoon in Provins was quiet.  Sometimes there are Medieval demonstrations, so if you are interested time your visit.
On the way home about halfway through the trip I had to share my seat row with a guy reeking of cigarette smoke.  Smoking is not allowed on public transportation, thank God, but the addicts puff away on the platforms to the very instant they board.  Ugh!
Crazy guy seems to have taken the weekend off.  Good for him
A demain.

Napoleon's and Josephine's Love Nest

Bon jour, mes amies,
This post ought to subtitled "why I hate taking busses," but that's what I had to do to get out to Malmaison, and I have to admit the delightful destination was worth the pain.  I enjoy Paris, but it gets to the point and will get to the point pretty frequently from now on that I will need a break from the big city.
Malmaison, the counrty retreat of Napoleon and Josephine, is way out in the suburbs.  It does take some getting to and hence it's off most tourists' radar.  I had to ask the gracious ladies at the transport information desk what kinds of tickets I needed, which turned out to be one ticket for metro and RER and one for the bus as the destination is way out in zone three and regular tickets won't work.
I easily rode the metro to the RER connection and was swiftly transported to La Defense.
Now when I was planning my trip I thought I would be staying out there, it being a place I could afford to stay.  La Defense is an ultra modern business district all steel and glass towers and a huge shopping center.  I snooted around for a bit before finding the bus station and what I thought was my bus stop.  This is when my troubles began.  I had checked the bus route and when the bus arrived I was convinced that this was the bus to take, but fortunately one of my fellow passengers asked about Malmaison.  No.  This bus wasn't going that far.  Unfortunately I learned this AFTER I had validated my ticket.  It was now useless.  I had to hunt up a ticket machine that would accept cash.  Finally I found one and got my ticket and hopped the correct bus at last.
Malmaison is done up in the fashionable Neo Classical style of the Early Nineteenth Century with a lot of Roman motifs in the furnishings and decoration.  I was struck by the arm chairs that Nap and Josie bought in their early years.  Some had swan arm rests. Others had eagle arm rests.  Both were attractive and yet looked Really Uncomfortable.  The military side is not lacking either as both Napoleon's and Josephine's bedrooms are done up as tents such as would exist in a field camp. Overall the house is very livable.  I am having a hard time deciding between this one and the Petite Trianon for my country retreat.  One advantage of Malmaison--fewer tourists!  I had the gardens and grounds to myself and very pleasant they are with trees and statues and gardens full of flowers.
Back at La Defense I walked through part of the mall including the Marks and Spencer food store--apparently very popular with the French.  Given that it was a Saturday afternoon, the place over all was crowded, and frankly mostly full of uninteresting chain stores.
It's time for the promised butter face off, which I held this morning during mon petite dejuener, so the results follow.  Both contestants are high end butters--demi sel, i.e. half salted with sea salt and de baratte which means that it is cultured rather like buttermilk as much European butter is.  The difference is two fold.  The supermarket butter is made from pasteurized milk (Hey remember Louis Pasteur!  He has a metro stop named after him) and ordinary sea salt.  The fancy fromagerie butter is made from raw milk and the sea salt comes from the gourmet's favorite Noirmoutier.  I can already see a difference in texture.  The fromagerie butter is softer. Both will be consumed on a piece of croissant and washed down with strong tea.
First the supermarket butter.  It's really good--very salty for "demi" sel.  This is far better than most butters one comes across in the United States.  It's got a lovely, distinct buttery taste.
Having cleansed my palate with some sips of tea, I will proceed to the raw milk butter.  Mmm.  Just as salty, but there is a subtle difference in the richness of the buttery flavor.  I'm giving it to the raw milk butter--but not by much.
A demain

More Wealth, More Art

Bon jour, mes amies.
It was a bit cooler today with a fresh breeze--a good walking day, and yet I am not as young as I used to be, and I do get tired.
After I took the trash out and did my recycling and grocery shopping, I hopped the Metro.  This is my method.  If I can avoid transfers I do.  Guidebooks note the nearest Metro stop for any site, and if I can get there directly then great, but if not I get as close as I can, because walking in Paris is good! So I hopped off line 7 at Pont Mairie and wandered the Marais for a bit looking for the Musee de Cognacq-Jay.  My experience yesterday put me in the mood for more luxurious living by the less than one thousandth of a percent.
Ernest Cognacq, the business tycoon and founder of  La Samaritaine department store married Louise Jay.  Old time Paris watchers will remember La Samaritaine, the Belle Époque center where everyone in Paris shopped until the building was deemed unsafe and the store closed.  Apparently the building has been repaired or retro fitted or whatever and is being repurposed.
M. Cognacq wore his Philistine credentials proudly, but nevertheless he and his wife managed to amass a nice collection.  The museum used to be free, and more fun.  But I enjoyed the furnishings, in particular some lovely tea sets that I intend to shift over to the Jacquemart-Andre for when I move in along with some exquisite marquetry tables, and if I have too many--well then, I'll pass some out, won't I.  Everyone can use a nice little tea table, right?  And how could there be any objections?
I had to dodge around to look at the paintings because a group of women were there making sketches.
Then I moved on to the newly reopened Picasso Museum.  I have mixed feelings about old Pablo.  I appreciate that he continually reinvented himself as an artist with new styles, and I find some of his works powerful and very compelling.  People forget the dude could draw like Raphael were he so minded, but he thought representation played out and turned his considerable skill to other methods. But in other works I can see him just noodling around--or in his later work--run dry and living off his reputation.  I'm afraid I have no taste for his sculpture.  The mansion the museum is housed in is worth seeing on its own account.  It was not crowded when I was there, but it seemed that the staff was braced for an onslaught of tourists.
After that I strolled down to the National Archives and wandered around, but the history museum would not be open until much later, so after enjoying the courtyard and the gardens, I moved on to the Bizarre de Hotel de Ville known as BVH. It is a big department store and more for regular people than Printemps or Galleries LaFayette or Bon Marche across the river.  Oh yes, there are luxury brands and deep pocketed tourists, but also the kind of merchandise I love snooting around in order to get a sense of the similarities and differences of the way of life here compared to my own.  In particular I like looking at kitchen wares.
I came across an offering of products from the United States and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Cans.  Tomato soup.  Beans.  Chips.  Some industrial peanut butter.  I guess for French folk who can't get enough of the ubiquitous McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken.  I hardly live in a tourist area and my local McDonalds is always packed, but so are other French fast food chains.
Yesterday I bought some premium extra V olive oil and today used it to dress some pasta.  Ooh.  Luscious.  And I thought a couple of macarons from Laduree would go down well.  I bit into a chocolate one that was like biting into crisp fudge if you can imagine such a thing with a creamy finish.  Then I had a pistachio.  Now I am not a particular fan of the nuts, but somehow the flavor in the macaron is a transcendently tasty sensation.
A demain

Wealth and Art

Bon jour mes amies,
Whew the heat!  I came home early on account of it and commiserated with a British couple in the lift.  Mr. British Couple was wearing suit and tie, which he pointed out did him no good whatsoever. Even Crazy Guy seems to have taken the day off.  But not me.  Or I least I did not take the whole day off.
I walked around a bit at the morning market and got some cash as I'd spent my euros on macarons. Then I hopped the metro.  Yep.  I wasn't paying attention, so I got on the right line but the wrong direction.  But as I said I feel confident about the metro and I always carry a map, so I looked up at the destinations and where the lines connected and figured out a new route.  I'd planned to walk from the original stop to my destination, and I do not think I had to walk any longer from the alternate stop.
I wanted to visit the Musee Jacquemart-Andre, a place that should be high on any visitor's list.  I paraded down Boulevard de Haussmann.  First let's talk about Baron Haussmann, an Alsatian (borderland of Germany and France in case you were wondering about the name, and he was a Protestant to boot!) who worked for Napoleon III.  Yes.  There were three Napoleons.  Google him. So Nap III noticed the tendency of Parisians to block off their narrow streets when the revolutionary mood took them.  Haussmann redesigned a lot of the city so it looked lovely and so the broad avenues gave the military access--you know--just in case.
It was during this period in the late nineteenth century that wealthy connoisseur Edouard Andre had his portrait painted by the lovely artist Nellie Jacquemart.  Romance ensued, and we are the beneficiaries, mes amies, because although Nellie never painted again (which irritates me), she and her husband collaborated on a fabulous house and marvelous collection.  The grand house--which I have claimed for my own should I ever choose to move to Paris--is an enchantingly lovely urban mansion--all marble, gilt, silk, marquetry, and, most astoundingly, Tieopolo frescos, shifted and repurposed from other villas.  I picked out some delightful little marquetry tables to move to my condo in the unlikely event that the city of Paris resists my move into the house.
Now the rooms and furnishings alone would be enough to make the joint worth visiting.  But . . .
We interrupt this post to note that Crazy Guy is back below dancing and chanting.
Now where was I?  Oh yes.  Edouard and Nellie were COLLECTORS, and boy did they collect, and wow did they have the means to do it.  Nellie loved the art of the Early Renaissance and so Botticelli and Mantegna are in evidence as well as a distinguished set of Rococo works.  There are a lot of paintings and statues that would not disgrace the Louvre.  So next time you are in Paris, don't miss it. The audio guide is free and also they played Late Baroque music.
And another thing.  I lucked into an exhibit of Giotto and followers and Caravaggio and followers that nearly made up for my stupidity over Velasquez.  And should you require refreshment there is a popular salon de tea in which you can dine under another Tieopolo ceiling.
Then I walked back to the Grand Magasins--that's big department stores to you--Printemps and Galeries LaFayette.  Both are beautiful stores and well worth visiting although you may not be able to afford any of the designer goodies on offer.  Both offer tourist discounts in addition to the Value Added Tax waiver that non EU foreigners get, and this is a seriously good deal in case you are tempted by an expensive item.
So as to food.  Cheese.  Le fromage.  I finished off the Valencay finally, and it was so good, so I took a trip to Rue Mouffetard and a fancy cheese shop where the nice young man in charge had a cheese platter in his stock, which means I get to try four cheeses, plus a premium raw milk butter.  These are mostly cow's milk cheeses.  I don't recognize the names, and there is a goat cheese.  I got a baguette--because what's cheese without one?--to have with them.  I first bit into a rich tasting, yet mild, pale yellow number with a thin rind, which I cut off.  The next bite is from something called Brun de Noix, which does have a rather nutty taste, and very pleasant it is.  The third is another pale yellow cheese with a rind, but the taste is subtley different and good!  Is this the goat cheese?  And then a blue cheese--once again rich tasting yet surprisingly mild and not like Rouquefort at all.
I enjoyed all the cheese selections.  But what about the butter?  Divine!  I'll do a comparison of the fancy fromagerie butter and the supermarket butter in couple of days.  The French are into flavored butter, i,e, seaweed, citrus, pepper, and this fromagerie offers a sampler, and yes I was tempted.  But I decided to stay pure.
A demain.

Dans Les Champs

Bon jour, mes amies,
The weather is turning hot for the next few days, so the touristing will be of the non-strenuous variety--like today's.  I thought Crazy Guy had taken the Fete Nationale off from being crazy, but no.  He showed up later and chanted a bit, then fell silent and left.

Oh and stay tuned for the macaron face off!
After taking out the trash, recycling, grocery shopping (because European fridges are minuscule) and renewing my supply of metro tickets, I took off on Line Six which dumped me out at the end of the line at the Arc de Triomphe as always crowded with tourists.  I sauntered away from it down the fabled Champs Elysees.  The boulevard is very wide and choked with traffic, but on either side are equally broad sidewalks and fancy stores.  You will also see chains tucked in amongst the luxury brands even American ones like Gap and Disney.  I nipped into Sephora for a perfume fix.  I like smelling expensive.  I dislike spending the money to do so.  I also snooted around Marks and Spencer, the British chain which has returned successfully to Paris.  Lots of windows.  Lots to lick.
Pil, tell is the truth about French Women.  Are they impossibly chic?
I'm afraid so--with the emphasis on impossibly, meaning that it's either genetic or culturally engrained from earliest days.  And I have tried to figure the look out, mes amies, in order to understand and copy.  I have rarely seen a "dressed up" Parisian.  Casual reigns during summer, and the dress is simple and comfortable.  From my observations, they all wear jewelry no matter what, carry a statement bag, and wear flimsy shoes.  I realize this is not helpful in the least.  They just look very put together.  We tourists look--rather random.
But I had other things in mind besides fashion.  Despite my many trips to Paris I'd never been to the two "palaces" built for the world's fair sort of thing in the late nineteenth century, the same event that produced the Eiffel Tower.  So I had a goal as I strolled and presently I came upon the "palaces" just off the Champs.  I began with the Petite Palais, an ornate and hardy little building holding an artistic exhibition relevant to the History of Paris.  In fact there was more there than I knew, and I realized I had missed out big time all these years.  On offer is a solid collection of paintings, including a Rembrandt, as well as various objects d' art, and a lovely exhibition of Orthodox Christian Icons.  Works from Antiquity (don't miss the black figure vases), the Renaissance and Nineteenth Century are all worth the view.  And it's free and uncrowded, and you are coming to the Champs anyway.  So?
Across the street is the Grand Palais, and, yes, it's much bigger and much grander.  I have been kicking myself for not paying attention to dates.  I missed the Velasquez exhibition.  Le Phooee Enorme!
But I wanted to see the building and cared nothing for the new exhibition so I visited the science museum or Musee de Decoverte as we French say.  I can pretty much read simple French and tried out the interactive exhibits.  I learned that despite my exercise these last two weeks, I have a very rapid heart beat.  There was lots to touch and sniff and observe.  And the building was very grand with a lot of statuary and a dome and mosaics and frescos about industry and science.
And then back up the Champs where I just happened (cough) to run into the original Laduree shop and somehow (coughity cough) found myself in the boutique buying more macarons from a charming young man eager to fulfill my every wish.  And then near the Arc I found myself in the Drugstore Publis--pay no attention to the name it's a collection of luxury eateries and boutiques--standing at the Pierre Herme counter buying--macarons.  I don't know how this could have possibly happened.  Unless--macarons are rapidly becoming as much an obsession as cheese!
So Mesdames et Messieurs, it is time for the Macaron Taste Off.
I am going to try to compensate for the difference between the gracious treatment I received at Laduree even though they were very busy and the off hand treatment I received as the lone customer at Pierre Herme.  The flavors are going to be different.  I could not find exact equivalents, but I'll try to be close. I have dined, so hunger is not a factor.  Shall we begin?
Stop teasing, Pil!  Let's go!
Your wish is my command.  I am beginning with a Pierre Herme lemon and olive oil infusion.  Its scent is divine.  Each cookie costs 2.50 E, and had jolly well better be worth it.  Oooh.  Ummmm.  A soft, yielding almond shell.  This is lovely.  I forgive the off hand young man.
What's next?
Lemon from Laduree.  Scent less divine.  But oh the burst of flavor on the bite.  I would say that Laduree is more delicate than Pierre Herme.  I can't decide. I'd better have a second helping.
This is just an excuse, isn't Pil?
I don't know what you mean--ahem.  I have a sort of vanilla job from Pierre Herme.  Interesting.  A ginger taste to the ganache.  I think the cookie is a bit too soft, but it was in a bag not a box like from Laduree, but that's because I had less cash on me.  It's still wonderful--an incredible taste treat.
And now apricot from Laduree.  The box does make a difference in texture.  To get a small box you must order six macarons, and you can pick the flavors at this shop.  More cookie and jammy apricot ganache.
Well.  I cannot declare a winner. There are different flavors and different textures and both are wonderful.  What I can say without reservation is that when you come to Paris you must try macarons!
A demain

Fete Nationale

Bon jour, mes amies, and a Happy Bastille Day to you!

Vive le Republique!  Now I approve of republics.  It just look France a while (and with apologies to my host country it did take until the middle of the twentieth century) to get it right and reject emperors. On July 14, 1789 the same year the United States gained our lovely Constitution, the people of Paris rose against a symbol of oppression--the fortress Bastille widely believed to hold political prisoners.  The attack was bloody, royalist forces being hampered by royal indecision and incompetence.  Poor old Louis XVI--so well meaning and so unfit to be a leader in a crisis.  I don't hate him with the burning passion that I reserve for Charles I of Britain.  The latter did NOT mean well, but the two men shared an attitude than led to their doom.  Both of them believed that he was the one, the one and only, who mattered and not the people they should have served.
By French law most stores are closed on holidays and Sundays (We French say Dimanche).  We French think leisure is important.  But here's the real French Paradox: some rules are important--those to do with food and interpersonal relationships--and other rules?  Ha ha what rules?  For example, when in France I regularly cross the street against a red light unless a car or bus is coming.  The French (and they are not the only guilty Europeans) litter.  Did you know that in Paris alone 20K tons of cigarette butts--the French word is megots--are discarded annually?  I believe it, too.  Everywhere I got I find discarded butts by the hundreds at least, and Europeans puff away notwithstanding the blunt message on the packages.  Smoking kills!
I decided to give myself an easy and green day.  I feel very confident using the metro--the suburban railway or RER or Transilian not so much.  I did manage to buy my tickets for the RER from the machine rather than face the gang of angry French folk in front of the information desk.  I had an easy trip out by metro and RER to Parc Sceaux.  I had been here before on the last Bastille Day I spent in Paris but I had a longer walk to the park and so was too tired to see much.  Sceaux was the estate to the Colbert Family chief among the servants of Louis XIV.  Most of the buildings of the chateau are gone, but the grounds are extensive and wonderful--the perfect destination for the Fete Nationale.
There are formal gardens, canals, fountains, statutes--the works.  But I took joy in a long woodland walk where the only sound was the breeze in the leaves and birdsong--and oh yeah--the thump of the joggers who shared the paths.  How I loved this!  I felt the soft dirt under my feet and smelled the plants.  Sunlight filtering through the leaves turned greenish.  Some of the park is nature reserve, but it is so large that as long as I walked I hardly encompassed it all.  But a lot of families arrived to enjoy the open space or have a Bastille Day picnic.
So here's my dilemma.  That Valencay goat cheese is Really, and I mean Really Good.  Of course I want some more, but on the other hand I wish to try other cheeses.  So I think I need to go on and try a variety.  I know I'll come back to France, but I don't know when, and I do so love cheese.
Dessert is the last of those wonderful macarons from Laduree.  First the pistachio.  Ahhh!  First crisp and then creamy and the lovely burst of sweet flavor.  The ganache, which I would have thought would take first place is background to the almond cookie.  I mean it's just a little cookie.  But whoa does it deliver the intense pleasure of taste.  The last one I have (for now) is abricot.  It's nice.  Much liking.  I don't know how well these things translate.  You may have to come here to eat them, which would be worth the plane fare, and then you can have cheese, too!
A demain

Chartres: Glory in Glass

Bon jour, mes amies.
When I got back home Crazy Guy was chanting away and panhandling as well, but he's gone now.
Today is a Tour de France rest day, so I could go farther afield, and I decided to out out to Chartres and revisit the cathedral.  What this meant is that I not only left Paris.  I left Greater Paris and the Ile de France.  Chartres, I believe, is in Picardy--although I don't know the name of the modern department it's in.
I looked up trains.  French trains belong to the Society National Chemin de Fer--SNCF, for short and standing for National Society of the Iron Way in literal translation.
I took the metro to Gare Montparnasse.  Well.  This is a bigger and more impressive station than the Hauptbahnhofs that were my mainstays the last two summers.  I easily got a day return ticket to Chartres and had some time to snoot around the station--something I enjoy doing.  I kept an eye on the Departure Board.  When the platform was announced I validated my ticket--Do Not Neglect to Do This!--in one of the numerous yellow "Composte" boxes and hunted up the platform and boarded the train.  Since Chartres was the terminal point, I sat on the upper level of the double decker train.
I'd brought my kindle and read until the train pushed off.  Then I looked out the window at the passing Paris scene.  I cannot say the outer limits of the city are particularly picturesque.  There's a mixture of commercial buildings, more traditional living quarters like apartments from the nineteenth or early twentieth centuries, and nasty-looking Corboursier-style towers.  The Ile de France is densely settled with some empty space, but not much.  I passed junkyards, hypermarches, and a lot of towns.
But then we left the Ile and our train passed through green and gold countryside.  I saw woodland--most of it coppiced for commercial use, but some wild.  I can tell the difference by looking at the height of the trees and undergrowth.  If there is little undergrowth and the height it uniform, it's a coppice.
And naturally I kept my eyeballs busy spying on people's backyards or small houses, or haute bourgeois houses, or the farms, the small towns.  And a small part of France--a singularly beautiful country.  But the sky was overcast.  I wanted sun in order to appreciate my experience to the full.  Fortunately once I arrived the sun peeked out.
The trip to Chartres takes about a hour and a half.  Finding the town center and the Cathedral de Notre Dame is easy.  See the towers?  Go in that direction.
Experts and Aficionados of the High Gothic Style revere Chartres for the purity of its style and decoration--oh--and that Medieval Stained Glass--acres--or rather since we are European--hectares of it.  The nave was under restoration, but visitors could walk the aisles and visit the high altar.  The deal is the giant windows full of exquisite glass and the famous Chartres blue creating a vision of another and far more virtuous, heavenly world.  If you come see if you can take a guided tour by someone able to "read" the windows to you.  They are meant to be read--visual images given to teach a largely illiterate population.  And don't miss the statues on the facade or the western portal!
The town itself is charming and an afternoon suffices to explore it in a leisurely way.  I popped in to a Romanesque chapel of St. Aignan, and passed half timbered buildings and used the Medieval stone bridges over the River Eure.  The town center is largely pedestrianized and offers good shopping.  Of course there are the usual touristy stops.  I even forced myself to buy some post cards.
I was glad to leave the big city for this comparatively peaceful place.
A demain

Art and then More Art

Bon Jour, mes amies.
It's Sunday or as we French say, Dimanche, and I thought it might be nice to have a comparatively easy day.  Shall we start with petite dejuener?  I had croissant, and the French would be horrified by the tea and butter.  Here's how to do it properly.  Have cafe au lait. Take the baguette and dip it in the coffee.  Eat the bread.  Rinse and repeat.  You might also have Venoiserie or a sweet bread like pain au chocolate or a sweet pastry with raisins or other fruit.  I don't like sugar at breakfast--so--not French.
Since it is Sunday I got a latish start.  I began the day by visiting the atm and Mouffetard. I will discuss the purchase later.  After delivering it back home I took the metro having to change to get to Trinite near Monmartre.  No, I am not going to Tourist Trap (of the most unpleasant sort) Monmartre, and this after admitting I love movie Amelie.  Instead I was stalking one of my favorite artists.
This dude, Gustave Moreau, whom you like so much and whose home and studio have been turned into a museum. What's the deal?
He's a late nineteenth century artist classified as a symbolist.  He loved classical and biblical imagery, and I love art that tells a story.  Much of his work is powerful and some is beautiful.  Most is in a sort of Post Impressionist style.  My favorite of his and one of my favorites overall is called Jupiter and Semele.  Googling it won't help that much.  This is a work one must see in person to appreciate.  Now I do not grasp Moreau's personal symbolism, but I do admire the brilliant use of color and the skill and detail he put into this--rather uncharacteristic work.
I wasn't arted out, so I went to the Louvre.  Ha ha!  Naughty Pil gloating over the chumps in a line rivaling or surpassing Versailles.  I didn't have to wait at all.  I sailed in.
Yes, it was crowded especially in the popular galleries for the Major Works.  I escaped to see the Etruscans and early Greek statuary.  I won't detail all I saw, but I covered a lot of ground and occasionally ended up in cooler and less crowded parts of the museum.
On my way to catch the metro home I saw a bewildered looking woman.  Instinct prompted me to ask, "Do you need help Madame?"  She admitted she did, and it was easy to fix.  She did not know where to get her train, and I had just walked by the place.  It feels good to help out fellow travelers, and I have certainly benefited from the kind impulses of strangers.  So pay back.
This morning I hit one of the fancy cheese shops on Rue Mouffetard and bought some goat cheese called Valencay.  Now I like goat cheese, but I got this sort for a typically sappy and Pilish historical reason.  Valencay is the name of an estate owned by one of the most intriguing figures in French History, the Prince de Tallyrand, and I mean this guy knew how to survive and thrive as well as wheel and deal.  The cheese has a grayish rind and is in the shape of a pyramid with its point lopped off.  Considering what I paid for a piece of it, it had better be the best goat cheese ever.  Shall we taste?
What's the verdict, Pil?
Nice.  Interesting.  A mild but complex cheesey taste.  I still like Rocamador better, but I don't regret this purchase at all.
A demain

Versailles

Bon jour, mes amies.
One of the things I come to Europe for is to walk.  But alas I am not getting any younger, and this morning I could barely get out of bed, I was so stiff.  But movement does help and the stiffness did mostly pass.  I'd slept well--probably much better than I would have at home.  My apartment here is darker, quieter, and much cooler!  The forecast looked reasonable.  Ok.  Time to get out of town to a famed garden.
Getting to Versailles is easy, and it is a Very Popular destination.  I took the metro down to where I could connect to the RER, which is Paris's suburban railway and bought I return ticket.  The ride out was boring, but the chateau as the Palace of Versailles is called is about a five minute walk from the station.  Now I have my museum pass, and I knew there was a special line for those of us with tickets.
Yep.  There was and it was Really Long.  I think the deal is that saps without tickets stand in line to buy them and then join this Line Stretching Into Infinity to actually enter.  It look me nearly an hour to get in.  The chateau was PACKED.  Fortunately I'd been here twice before, so I wasn't anticipating a wonderful experience of discovery.  Also most fortunately, I do not suffer from claustrophobia, but if you do--I'd give the palace a miss or come in winter or when it's raining or something.  One problem is that people with their phones, cameras, and ipads felt obliged to take photographs of everything they saw.  Seriously.  Everything.  Whether or not it had significance.
So we shuffled along.
Versailles is magnificent!  Our pal Louis XIV was the original rock star with a gift for charisma and a taste, at least in his youth, for constantly being the center of attention.  He designed Versailles as his showcase, and anyone who was anyone in France in the late seventeenth century just had to orbit Louis's sun.  How much gilt and marble do you want?  Frescoed ceilings? Grand furniture? Versailles will surpass your expectations.
But those are the public, state apartments.  Lesser folk lived lesserly.  Even dukes and princes of the blood put up with small, cold rooms and limited servants in order to bask in Louis's presence. Versailles grand as it undoubtedly is and was also very uncomfortable.  Historians speculate that Louis never enjoyed hot food at his state dinners.
I'd gone through the chateau because I had the museum pass, and I also thought that it was the only way into the gardens, which was my real target.  I mean I like Paris and all, but all the buildings and busy streets wear on me, and I want green and open space.  The museum pass does not cover admission to the gardens, so I had to pay extra, but also the grounds have been reorganized and the Grande and Petite Trianons and Marie Antoinette's play farm or Hameau are no longer part of Versailles, although they are covered by the museum card.  Now had I known this, I would have bagged the chateau and concentrated on what I really wanted to see.
Because if you Have to Live at Versailles, the impulse is to get away at least if one is royalty.  Even Louis XIV got sick of constant attention and created retreats.  In the late eighteenth century the concept of and desire for privacy and less ceremony led Marie Antoinette to retreat to her two Trianons and Hameau.  Given a choice between Versailles and Le Petite Trianon, I would not hesitate for a second.  Sign me up for Trianon, a Rococo gem with a delightful garden.
One issue was the Big Modern Art installation in the main gardens near the Fountain of Apollo.  The artist is well known, but I did not find the piles of dirt and torpedo looking thing appropriate for the setting.  Or the gigantic reflective satellite dish thingy that interrupted the view of the chateau's garden facade.  Why do sponsors think such things in historical sites is a good idea?
When I emerged in the mid afternoon I was horrified to find the crowd and line even longer than it had been when I arrived.  I was also so thirsty despite having packed water and a snack that I had to buy some water at the train station.  The trip back was smooth.
For my petite dejuener I had croissant and butter.  Dinner was some spinach tortellini dressed with olive oil and garlic.  The white wine I got was boring and tasteless despite the AOC.  By the way, my grocery store carries wine for under two euro.  I do not have the nerve to try it.
You disappoint us, Pil.
But at Versailles I encountered a branch of the famed Laduree.  They do pastries and tea in town elegantly like our friends at Angelina, but the current Parisian fad is macarons.  This is NOT the same as American macaroons. Instead it is two delicate shells of almond cookie flavored and sandwiched with ganache.  They are both expensive and fragile.  I got six of various flavors and beautifully packaged for about nine euros.  Shall we have a bite?
Please! 
The almond cookie is soft and disintegrates into creamy texture as one bites.  Bite gently then.  I chose a cookie flavored supposedly with Earl Grey, i.e. bergamot. It is delicious, but I cannot taste any bergamot.  Still.  Delightful.  Shall I have another?
Don't let us stop you!
Raspberry.  The ganache is much more jammy.  I like these.  This is a Paris fad, and you can find macarons of varying quality in nearly every bakery and candy store.  The other big pastry fad is eclairs.  I don't happen to like them.  This may be a good thing because I have passed the stores specializing in them.  You can get an exquisite and very tiny eclair for nine euros.  Bon appetite
A demain

Walking and Modern Art

Bon jour, mes amies,
You know if Crazy Guy wants to hang out below my window--as long as he's quiet--I do not care. The place has some significance for him, which has nothing to do with me as I am certain he does not know I'm here.  He spread some flowers over the grate in the enclosure he likes to frequent.  He has some friends, too, that come to talk to him.  Fine.  Not my business.  Stay quiet, Crazy Guy.
I had some time to kill this morning as the Pompidou Centre opens at 11.  I went out to recycle bottles and toss trash--only to discover that like other Citadines, this one has trash disposal, etc. on each floor.
Then I walked up to Butte de Cailles because I'd noticed a bakery up the street I wanted to try.  Only I forgot which street it was up--typical Pil--and went in a circle--but found it eventually.  I bought fresh croissants for the weekend.  Now, of course, one can go out and actually get them fresh on the day, but I don't like having to get dressed for breakfast.  So said croissants are sitting in my freezer.  The bakery I thought would be cool, featured croissants in a crescent shape, which is a clear sign of--ugh---margarine and its attendant transfat.  The bakery also had croissant de beurre, which I purchased, but I won't be going back there.
I visited the grocery store and as usual got hung up just wandering around looking.  I thought I'd do an experiment by buying the grocery store high-end butter--i.e. everything that Bordier is except pasteurized, and some of the grocery store fancy cheese.  Results later.
Also I'd run out of toilet paper.  Now theoretically one swipes one's magic entry card on the storeroom door and gets what one wants.  Only the storeroom is not stocked regularly, so--no toilet paper.  Getting some--and truly I had none at all left--turned out to be a bigger deal than I anticipated, but one of the managers graciously delivered a roll to my very door.
I also came across an open Post Office and trespassed on the patience of a kindly clerk with my--oh dear, dreadful doesn't even begin to describe French--when I wanted to buy stamps for postcards.  I have said it before.  I'll keep saying it.  The French are lovely to foreigners without attitude.
On the other hand postcards are hideously expensive.  I spent much of the day pricing them because I have obligations to some relatives and non-blog reading friends.
I walked and walked.  I thought it would be fun to stop into Notre Dame de Paris on my way--until I saw the epic line.  Ok.  I'd  like to revisit the cathedral, but I need to get there EARLY.
I crossed the bridge from the Ile de la Cite to Ile St. Louis and mouched around and then sought out the Centre Pompidou.  This was quite a walk, and by the time I got there I was already tired.  Nevertheless, I enjoyed a good dose of Modern Art.  I'll have to go back though.  But I like the Fauvres, especially Matisse and Derain and most of Cubism (although George Braque makes a much better Fauve than Cubist just saying) and I found a lot of the Contemporary installations powerful.
But I am in my sixties, and my feet fail me after three hours, so I went and had some Amorino on Place Beaubourg.  The flavors were caramel sale, amarena, which is cherry and vanilla, and single source chocolate.  I sat on the terrance and did not suffer cigarette smoke and watched Paris walk by.
Now this is my old neighborhood from my last trip, so I decided to visit Rue Montorguil.  The modernist-shopping center-gone-wrong, Les Halles, is thankfully under reconstruction, so I did not bother with it, but enjoyed the pedestrianized streets in the vicinity.  Then it got hot, and my feet gave up, so I got on the metro for home and the Tour de France.
The yellow jersey has brought bad luck so far.  Two of its bearers have crashed out.
So the verdict--grocery store butter from pasteurized milk--I cannot tell the difference in taste.  The raw milk butter has a softer texture I find appealing.  But the grocery store provides fabulous butter.  The grocery store cows milk cheese?  Meh.  Bland.  I need the fancy cheese stores, after all.
A demain.

Haute Chocolate!

Bon jour, mes amies,
As the weather had turned cool for the day, I packed my kindle and ticked off one of my life goals today.  But first.  When I got home the first thing I checked was to see if Crazy Guy was outside my window.  Nope.  C'est bon.
Paris is a walker's city.  On the major streets the sidewalks are very wide and lined with chestnut trees, this time of year in full leaf.  If you start out early enough one catches the alluring aromas of fresh bread from the boulangeries instead of cigarette smoke and car exhaust which will meet you later on.  I got some more cash and then proceeded down toward the Seine, determined to exercise my museum card.
My goal was the ancient heart of Paris, the Ile de la Cite, and the original site of the village of Lutetia founded by the Parisi Tribe, but the site I targeted were rather later than that.  By the time I got to the Palais de Justice where my sites were located, my morning tea had caught up with me.  The Concergerie where I'd hoped to find a toilet was still closed and the line for Sainte Chapelle looked too long.  I back tracked to Boulevard St. Germain.
Now when I stayed in Paris last, I was on the Right Bank, but I regularly crossed the river and then availed myself of the free public toilet just off Boul Mich while blessing the then mayor of Paris Bertrand Delanoe in my heart.  Fortunately I found the facility free.  They are kind of smelly, but they are safe and they get cleaned after each use.  And they are free!
Then back to the Palais de Justice to get in line for Sainte Chapelle to find in my absence the length of the line had tripled and there was a sign explaining that we museum pass holders had to get in it like the other chumps.  Fine.  So I waited.  There's always going to be a line for nearly everything is Paris, and Sainte Chapelle is worth the wait.  One reason the line moves slowly is the security at every site.  You have to open your bags at the very least and often have to walk through a metal detector.
Sainte Chapelle was built by St. Louis--the Twelfth, I think he was as a reliquery for the crown of thorns or at least some thorns purporting to have belonged to it.  It's a small building and quickly fills up.  There are two floors.  The first one is beautiful, but you want to go upstairs to the glorious Rayonnant Gothic chapel with the walls made of stained glass.  The windows honor the saints, the Virgin but were also meant as a visual teaching text to a largely illiterate society.  The pictures can be read, and information placards available in several languages will explain them.  But mostly I reveled in the exquisite colors and celestial light.
The next stop bounces us forward in time several centuries although the Concergerie was part of the Medieval palace complex that included the Louvre.  It's famous for a later use--as a prison during the French Revolution--which had a tendency to devour its own children.  The most famous prisoner was the Queen--Marie Antoinette, and you can visit her cell and see a few belongings she left behind as she was taken to her death.
Well, that was grim.  I crossed the river to the right bank and was right back in my old neighborhood. There was an interval, which I think I'll save for the end of the post, but after that I visited the Museum of Decorative Arts.  This is right next door to the Louvre and is much less crowded and as worth seeing.  On offer is late Medieval and Renaissance wood carving, tapestries, painting and some furniture and ceramics--to start with.  The furniture and other decorative items go forward in time through Rococo and ending with Late Twentieth Century.  As always I especially appreciated the gorgeous period rooms.  Since I was there last the Museum has acquired an incredible collection of Art Nouveau objects.
I took the metro part of the way home, so I could stop at a Greek deli and then I walked the rest of the way, but what you really want to read about is . . .
Angelina!  Ever since I heard of this place I wanted to visit and drink deep of the celebrated Chocolate Chaud Africane.  But it used to close in July!  But now, not only is it open, there are branches.  In fact I could have visited the one in the Jardin d'Aclimation or the one I passed yesterday on my wanderings, but I held out for the original.
There's going to be a line.  The place is Very Popular with Tourists although some French folk were there as well.  It's a lovely room just very crowded and a bit noisy.  It's expensive.  My hot chocolate came in a jug accompanied by a small container of whipped creame.  I also had some sparkling mineral water.  Shall we have a sip?
What they do reportedly is melt a chocolate bar in the milk, but the recipe is secret.  The result is chocolate richness that nearly did me in.  I took small sips, mixed in the creame, and had to resort to the water, so I didn't die of chocolate overload.  I had my kindle, and I read (in tribute) a story by a friend of mine that features the ecstatic consumption of hot chocolate and cream.  Afterwards I apologized to my arteries, but they realized I wasn't all that sincere.  But you wouldn't want to do this too often!
A demain.

A D'ay at the D'Orsay

Bonjour, mes amies!
It rained over night, or as we French say il pluve.  And today proved to be cool and cloudy.  I carried my umbrella on my outing, but I did not need it.
I went out to my grocery store.  I knew what I was going to get, but then--you know--all that lovely food.  It's not that I bought something I didn't need; it's just that I had to wander around and look, and that takes time that I could use seeing less important sights.  For one thing the store was out of that lovely rose I liked--I having pulled the last bot from the shelves a couple of days ago.  I found some wine as cheap and nearly as good.
When I emerged from the shopping mall, I spotted that Crazy Guy.  When I came home I saw his sweat shirt folded over the barrier between the mall and Citadines, but it's gone now, and I have heard no Crazy Guy chanting.
This morning besides getting groceries, I needed more metro tix, and I also figured out my metro/RER route.  I went to the D'Orsay and arrived shortly after it opened.  Now armed with my museum pass I still had to wait about fifteen minutes to get in--which was nothing compared to the hour wait of those chumps (and I mean this word in the kindest, most sympathetic way) who needed to buy tickets.
Unlike the Louvre, the D'Orsay is more of a day's project than a career.  It is mainly Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century art in painting, sculpture, and interior design.  I began at the top with a marvelous exhibit of Impressionists, including such personal favorites as Berte Morisot and Camille Pissaro.  A lot of works by Alfred Sisely appeared as well.  For some reason he's not included with the great Impressionists, but really?--he should be.
The D'Orsay is smaller and more user friendly than the Louvre, and a few hours should suffice to see the entire collection.  I loved a good view of Manet's Dejuener d'l Herbe and Olympia as well as a lot of  Van Goghs, and wonderful works by symbolists such as my pals, Puvis de Chavanne, Odion Redon, and Gustave Moreau.  A lot of Monet and Renoir are on offer as well.
As it was still cool and overcast  I turned myself into Pil La Flaneure and began to stroll.  Paris is--par excellence--a stroller's city.  Just walk.  Walk some more.  I proceeded alone the Seine, but then turned inland when I encountered the Rue de Bac, which I correctly judged to be a great street for licking windows.  Eventually I fetched up at the lux department store, Le Bon Marche (ok it's only a good buy for those folks with LOTS of disposable income), but I went in and snooted around seeing a lot of things I didn't want.  I helped myself to some perfume--blackberry and musc?--by Guerlain, and I smelled rich and interesting for a while.
I also visited Le Grand Epicerie, which is the very high end grocery store associated with Le Bon Marche.  I am simply mesmerized by the foods on offer, but since I was down to my last 20E, I did not purchase anything although I marked some products as worth future consideration.
So this was a very pleasant, non-hurried, low key day.  I am over my jet lag and am enjoying the city mightily.
A demain
Update:  Crazy Guy is back--I suppose I should call me Ce type fou.  He's quieter this time, but the spooky thing is that he has a bot with him, and he and I drink the same kind of wine.  I still want him to go away.