Paris Is Always a Good Idea, Part IV

We are sitting outside the La Maison Rose, the Montmartre bistro located just north of the Place du Tertre, taking a break from the steep climb that brought us to its summit and to the Sacre-Coeur Basilica.  Our waitress, a smiling, short-haired French girl, brings us four large glasses of Saint Omer, a sweet tasting beer that slides down easily.

To my right sit Liz, Kevin and Eric, who are together for the first time since they huddled around their dying mother in a hospice room in Iowa two years ago.  Our meeting today is a much happier affair, and it is great to see them laughing, messing with each other's hair and telling childhood stories.    Our hope that Kevin would find time to join us in Paris came true -- so far we have spent time at the Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower and Bastille Day fireworks.  We decide that tomorrow will be spent at the palace grounds of Versailles before Kevin flies back to work.

 

So today we are spending the afternoon on Montmartre -- a 427 foot high hill in northern Paris -- exploring the historic neighborhood of artists Salvador Dali, Claude Monet, Pablo Picasso and Vincent van Gogh.

This hilly neighborhood offers some of the most picturesque views of Paris I have seen so far.  The steep streets that wind their way to the top feature artist shops, colorful cafes and historic locations like Moulin de la Galette (one of the original windmills still found on the hill), the stairs of the Rue Foyatier, Bateau Lavoire (Picasso's art studio) and Place du Tertre which is a beautiful square where artists gather to draw and paint under the watchful eye of the awe-inspiring Basilica Sacre-Coeur.  Red, blue and white umbrellas shade the artists as they sketch portraits of wandering tourists.  The cobbled stone streets lead to restaurants where waiters -- wearing black aprons over white shirts -- eagerly invite you in for an afternoon beverage.

Montmartre means "mountain of the martyr" and is named after the martyrdom of bishop Saint Denis who was decapitated by pagan priests atop the hill in 250 AD (the French have a thing about losing their heads). It is said that he picked up his head and continued for 6 miles from the summit of the hill, preaching his sermon the entire way.

During the nineteenth century, Napoleon III gave much of the prime land in proper Paris to his wealthy friends, so that meant the citizens (who were moved out) settled here on the outskirts of town where they quickly established their own rural existence without the rules and regulations of Paris.

As a result, Montmartre quickly became a popular place to drink and be entertained, which led to the establishment of nightclubs like Moulin Rouge and Le Chat Noir.  It was also during  the late 1800s that avant-garde artists began calling Montmartre home.  Pissarro, Degas, Renoir, and Picasso -- who at the time were penniless -- were some of the earliest artists to live in the area.

On par with the twisting and narrow streets is the Basilica Sacre-Coeur, which was built between 1875 and 1914.  The basilica is designed in a Roman-Byzantine style which is in contrast to many other buildings throughout Paris, which were mostly built in a Romanesque style.  Its white travertine stone is interesting because it will exude calcite when it rains.  This reaction is like a bleacher, which ensures that the basilica always remains white.

A highlight of our visit to the basilica is a climb up 300 narrow steps (can you confirm that Colin?) to the top where we look out over the city of Paris.  I am still amazed at how dense and closely constructed the buildings are.  From this height, Paris looks nothing like the city below, with its charming shops and cafes.  Nonetheless, the view -- at 272 feet -- is spectacular with the Eifel Tower in the hazy distance.  We shout down to Liz and Sharon, but the height is too much and our voices get carried across Paris like fog on a cool evening.  As badly as I want Liz up here with me, I don't think she would feel too good about the tight squeeze up the spiral staircase or the dizzying view before me.



"Laisse-moi seule!"  (Leave me alone!)

It is six o'clock in the morning, and the shout can be heard even from the fourth floor of our apartment.  Moments later we hear it again -- "Laisse-moi seule!"  This time with more force and a promise that a punch to the face is not far behind.

Liz and I step to the window and look down on a young couple who are on a bridge walking over the River Seine.  She is wearing a nice dress and high heels, while he has his dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck.  Despite the early morning, it looks like they are just returning from a late night on their way home.

"Wow -- what is she so mad about?" I ask as we watch them stop directly below our window. 

With a push she continues down the river as her partner struggles to stay close.  "Degage!"  She yells again and throws a punch that hits him in the chest.  Having received the message, he wanders to the other side of the street and continues to mirror her step by step.

How appropriate, I think as we turn our back to the window and continue packing our bags.  It's almost like Paris is sending me a message that it is time to leave.  I have been here long enough that I am comfortable walking the streets and no longer feel like I am a stranger in a strange place.  But like all good things, my time has come to leave the excitement of Paris -- with it's historic sites, wonderful cafes and interesting people. 

 

I will miss our end-of-day visits to Berthillon for ice cream, stepping out onto the balcony of the Palais Garnier, the wonderful risotto with scallops at Le Temps De Cerises, and how it stays light until almost eleven each night.  I will close my eyes while in my bed in La Crosse and listen for the boisterous river boats floating by our window -- and miss them.

In some ways, I'm looking forward to returning home.  Away from the constant buzz of traffic, the  thump! thump! of late night music and laughter.  They can have the Metro.  I am not going to miss washing my clothes in a hybrid washing/drying machine that never does what I want.  Nor will I miss climbing these 100 twisting steps that never get easier.

But the good outweighs the bad by a lot.   

I realize that spending time in Paris -- and by osmosis, Europe -- has made me appreciate how different we are as Americans than the rest of the world.   We pride ourselves on being free, and yet it seems so much more relaxed and less restrictive over here.  The French appear less interested in news, politics and money; they enjoy coming in late to work and think nothing about taking the day off if they were out too late the night before.  I am jealous that the French turn off the television and come down to the River Seine with a bottle of wine and some cheese and watch the sun set behind Notre Dame.  

I'm sure I'm romanticizing life in Paris, but I don't care.  This city does that to you.

As I finish packing my suitcase and prepare to leave, I catch a glimpse of a painting on the wall that shows two lovers standing in the rain at the base of the Eiffel Tower.  I have heard Paris called the city of lovers and light.  Having spent just seven days in this beautiful city, it is a little easier to understand why.  

Audrey Hepburn once said "Paris is always a good idea."  For many years that has been a very popular movie phrase when talking about this city.  She is also known for saying that if her world were to end today, she would look back on all the pleasures and excitements -- not the sadness, but the joy of everything else.  In looking back on our short time here in Paris, I can't agree with her more.  I will never forget our time together for one week in July of 2014.

Au Revoir, Paris!

Paris Is Always A Good Idea, Part III

I swing my leg through the bike's middle frame, lay it on the ground and walk over to the edge of the Grand Canal . 

Three hundred years before, this beech tree-lined canal would be the site of royal fireworks or the starting point of a real theater set. Unbelievably, these waters were used for battle preparation using a three-masted ship and galley.  Couples in gondolas would also pole along these waters accompanied by barges with orchestras playing celebratory Italian songs.  Originally, gondoliers -- imported with their boats from Venice -- lived across from me in a little settlement next to the canal.  Today, the canal sadly only reflects trees and blue skies, and the occasional rented rowboat. 




We are enjoying our bicycle ride through the grounds of the Chateau de Versailles, which is one of the world's most beautiful examples of French architecture and art.  Located 12 miles outside of Paris, the site began as Louis XIII's hunting lodge before his son Louis XIV transformed it and expanded it , moving the court and government  from Paris to Versailles in 1682.

As our biking group digs into our lunch, I hear our guide Rick tell us the cross-shaped canal is one mile long and ten feet deep (an accomplishment that took 10,000 workers and 10 years to complete).  To my right, the canal intersects the Petit Canal which vanishes around the corner.  To my left is the meticulously manicured lawns, parterres of flowers and sculptures with fountains leading up to the Chateau.

Much like the aristocracy of centuries ago, we sit comfortably eating peaches, strawberries, olives, some foie gras spread on a baguette and wine.  The only thing missing is someone keeping us cool with fans (although Liz has her handy-dandy fan at hand). 

It gives me a moment to reflect on the events of the morning -- including the ride by train from Paris to Versailles, riding through the surrounding town of Versailles using the "hand of power" and "finger of waggle" to stop oncoming traffic, seeing the golden Royal gate with its 100,000 gold leaves, and finally stopping at the Trianon Palaces and Domaine de Marie-Antoinette which features 12 thatched-roof buildings fronting its own lake.

While much has been said about the Chateau, Eric's idea of taking bikes has given us time to get a different perspective of the grounds surrounding the palace.  The stories by our Fat Tire bike guide (and part time movie director) keep us laughing while we learn more about the 100 year-reign of French monarchy -- Louis XIII, Louis XIV and Louis XV and finally Louis XVI.  Jacqueline and Colin, who act out the reign of two of the kings, discover that history can be fun -- as long as you don't lose your head over it. 

Of the four French Kings, Louis XIV is easily the greatest.  "The Sun King" ranks as one of the most remarkable monarchs in recorded history.  Crowned as king at the age of 4, he reigned for 72 years -- 54 of them where he personally controlled all aspects of the French government.  He ruled at a time of "ancient regime" -- when society consisted of rulers and the ruled, and when you were born to be rich or to be poor.  Versailles was where the rich ruled, in remarkable fashion.

King Louis XIV called himself the sun king because he actually believed that he gave warmth and life to all that he touched.  He was also thought of as the god Apollo --the Greek god of the sun.  Versailles was his personal attempt to create a temple to the god Apollo. And based on the amount of money spent on this "temple," -- at one point four times the GDP of the entire country -- I must say he succeeded in glorious fashion!

Having finished our lunch, our guide tells us to retrieve our bicycles and we head toward Sailor's Gate, past the Apollo Basin, the Lake of the Swiss Guards and back to the central courtyard where we began our day.  From here it will be on foot through the Royal Courtyard and Chateau.

It is very difficult standing here, surrounded by all of this excess -- to think of the people who were kept under the royal thumb while more and more money was spent on its expansion.  The idyllic gardens, lakes and royal residences could not have even been a thought to those living and dying in Paris.  Needless to say, as the reign of Louis XV -- and later Louis XVI -- came to an abrupt end, the people let it be known that such opulence would not be tolerated ever again.




Getting around Paris -- to say the least -- is worrisome.  I suppose it's true anyplace where you don't know where you are going. 

At the moment, Liz, Sean and I are taking a three-wheeled bike taxi from the Musee du Louvre to our apartment on lle Saint Louis.  After being on our feet for the last eight hours, we are in no condition to walk even another few steps.  So despite the number of passengers, we have been told by our bicyclist that he can easily pull three people.  "I am a strong cyclist," he says in a Bulgarian accent, as we squeeze our tired bodies into the small, enclosed bicycle saddle.

Remembering our taxi ride from the airport, I am not as surprised when our bicycle surges forward into traffic, oblivious to the flash of cars, trucks and the occasional tuk tuk.  I cannot make much sense of traffic lanes other than to recognize that our driver is staying on the right side of the road -- cars and motor cycles continue to pass without giving us a second thought.

What is surprising is the effortlessness of our driver, who is pulling between 500 and 600 pounds while in a reclined position.  I'm impressed until he tells us that there is a motor on the back of the bike that will kick in when he takes off from a traffic stop or going uphill.

Our route back to the island takes us down Rue de Rivoli past the wonderful Comedie Francaise, the Palais Royal, Saint Germain L'Auxerrois and the remains of Tour St. Jacques.  As it is late afternoon, the city is buzzing with excitement and anticipation of a warm summer evening.  People are either finding shade along tree-lined boulevards or catching a quick bite in a small sidewalk café.

I'm still impressed with our driver's ability to maneuver through traffic while listening to rock and roll songs blasting from a radio hanging from a bar overhead.  Between songs, he is telling us that he will be going back to his home to finish engineering school at the end of summer.  "Not an easy way to make money!" I tell Sean as we pass a long row of department stores topped by apartments located above.  As we turn down the busy Boulevard de Sebasloppl,  I am surprised to see our first glimpse of a McDonald's, Starbucks and GAP.

At last, we arrive at the River Seine and we make a plea for the driver to let us out.  Our squished bodies have had enough and we are in familiar surroundings, so we pay the driver $20 Euros and cross the Pont au Change Bridge toward Ile de la Cite.  Rest, relaxation and Berthillon ice cream are within sight!

Welcome to my nightmare!

Two days later, I am watching an old man on the Metropolitain, Paris' underground subway system.  Of all the ways to get around Paris - compared to the RER speed trains (which takes us to Versailles), and a river boat called Batobus (which we take regularly to different locations on the Seine River) -- the Metropolitain is the most confusing.

Despite some experience with the subway systems in Washington D. C., Montreal and St. Louis, I cannot wrap my head around the confusing tunnel system of trains that feature 303 stations and 62 transfer stations.  Much of my confusion comes from walking five -- sometimes fifteen! -- minutes through twisting underground tunnels to the next station.  Intersecting tunnels, like the spokes of a wheel, head off into different directions, only to intersect with another spoke only 100 meters away.

Interestingly, these underground tunnels and concourses are still decorated in the art nouveau style that was popular during the Metro's opening in 1900.  Tunnels walls and ceiling are lined by small white earthenware tiles, chosen because of the poor lighting originally found in the early twentieth century.  Walls are covered by advertising, with posters announcing the opening of the new Transformers IV movie and a David Bowie exhibition at the Cite de la Musique.  At a few intersections, I encounter what looks like a small village consisting of newsstands and a market selling a variety of fruit and vegetables.

Speaking of underground tunnels, it is well known that another city exists beneath the streets of Paris.  Known as  the Catacombs de Paris, they form a labyrinth beneath the very heart of Paris.  Many of these tunnels were created in the galleries of the former quarries whose stone was used to build the city above.  Located below the Metropolitain, these ossuaries contain the remains of six million Parisians, transferred between the late-18th and mid-19th centuries as graveyards were being closed above ground because of the risk they posed to public health.

But as I was saying --

I am standing on the Metro train watching an older French man play an accordion.  He is a well-dressed man, wearing grey slacks with a blue and black striped shirt.  I don't know if this is a regular occurrence on the Metro -- perhaps in an effort to relax passengers, the city has hired him to entertain during certain hours.  I'm enjoying this little piece of old French cointe until he finishes, smiles and comes around asking for money.  So much for being hired by the Metro.

Disappointed, I turn my face to look at a train car filled with passengers returning from work.  Many of them share a vacant look on their faces as if they have been infected by the body next to them with some soul-sucking virus.  It's like I'm watching the 2014 remake of the Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  I adjust my grip on the pole as a sharp turn on the tracks shifts my body weight to the left then right.  To my side, I see Colin firmly attached to Sean's waist -- I wonder what his young mind is thinking as ghostly images of graffiti and patches of darkness flash by the train's dirty windows. 

Finally, the train slows and I see a blue and white sign that reads Cluny La Sorbonne.  It vanishes as quickly as it appeared.  In mass, we exit the train and check to make sure everyone is still with us. Eric, Kevin, Sharon, Liz, Jacqueline and the hybrid Sean/Colin.  Check!  Wallets, backpacks and purses are still in place, meaning the pickpockets have been foiled again. With a rush of air, the train departs -- taking its collection of zombie passengers with it.  As we exit into the sunlight of Quai De La Tornelle, my spirit is renewed with the sounds and beauty of the River Seine and old city Paris. 

Indeed it is always a good idea to visit Paris, but it is best to travel above ground.

Continued,

Paris Is Always A Good Idea, Part II

My stomach drops like a bomb on Paris during World War I as I realize my camera does not work.

Sean is standing in the Cour Carree courtyard of one of the most famous museums in the world -- the Musee du Louvre -- and my camera 's battery decides to die!  Damn it to hell -- if only the mail had delivered my back-up battery a day earlier! 

A few days before, as we waited in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for our flight to France, I checked my Amazon.com order and discovered that they had attempted to delivered it to our house at 9 that morning -- mere hours after we had left.  A lot of good that would do since I needed it for the trip.  I tried to tell myself everything would be ok if I kept my existing battery fully charged.  Liz, always so full of wisdom said, "Maybe that will teach you to order these things sooner than a few days before you need it."  My mumbled reply would only encourage more wisdom, so I licked my wounds and kept my mouth shut.

 

Two days later, as my battery dies on the threshold of the Louvre, Liz's words echo in my mind again.

As Sean disappears through the arch into another area leading to the museum's main courtyard and entrance, I remind myself to keep my mouth shut again -- this time because it is hanging open in amazement at the massive, yet beautiful building before me.  Its symmetrical design with vertical pilasters and colonnades resembles a majestic palace infused with decorative Greek gods and statues of important French figures.

As I rush forward to find Eric, Sharon, Sean and Liz, I enter the museum's main courtyard which is dominated by the Louvre's famous glass pyramid.   To my left and right (as well as behind me) stretch the Denon, Richelieu and Sully wings of the museum with more pilasters and colonnades topped by black steep boxy mansard roofs.  Fountains adorn the courtyard, with people standing nearby snapping pictures.  Damn the U.S. Postal Service!

In the distance I can see Jardin des Tuileries with its geometrical gardens, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel and a picturesque Ferris wheel.  Blue skies have finally returned after this morning's rain.  It's a glorious view, one that French rulers like King Louis XIV would see every day before this palace was moved to Versailles.

A braid of people snake through the courtyard, waiting to enter the museum and get out of the day's heat.  Thanks to our museum passes, we are able to skip the wait and enter through doors which are integrated into the pyramid's glass walls.  I am excited as we descend the staircase that will take us into the museum's galleries and exhibits.  After so many years, I am about to see great works of classical art like Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory of Samothrace.  And famous paintings like Da Vinci's Mona Lisa and Rembrandt's The Supper at Emmaus.   

It is just the beginning of a week filled with great museums like the Louvre, Musee d'Orsay,  the Petit Palais Musee des Beaux Arts and of course, the Fragonard Musee du Parfum.  Ok, maybe the last one isn't on the list of Paris' greatest museums, but rest assured Eric, Sean and I won't forget our tour guide anytime soon.




The architecture in Paris is so opulent that it stops you in your tracks -- often right in the middle of the road.   Which, given the way people drive in Paris, is not a good idea.  The city's museums, hotels and gardens feature such an abundance of riches that it amazes you when you come across another structure that's even more decadent.

I've spent the morning on my own following the River Seine on my way to the Eiffel Tower.  Along the way, I see Gothic architecture represented in Notre-Dame and Sainte Chapelle, the royalty of la Consiergerie (the prison where Marie Antoinette lost her head), and the renovated train station called Musee d'Orsay with its beautiful twin clocks. 

Even bridges are adorned with gold -- like the Pont Alexandre III, a beaux-arts style bridge with its exuberant lamps, cherubs, nymphs and winged horses on either end.  It practically puts the Eiffel Tower to shame. 

Don't get me wrong, the Eiffel Tower is awesome.  Next to the Mona Lisa, is there anything that says Paris like the Eiffel Tower?  It's size dominates the skyline as I walk along the river, passing newsstands selling everything from newspapers, magazines, posters, old books and artwork.  I pass people selling various-sized Eiffel Towers and small crowds of people playing a game where you try to guess the location of a disappearing ball.

But compared to the collection of museums and hotels that I passed on the way, the Eiffel Tower is simple -- almost mundane.  It's best features appear at night, when the tower is lit with alternating colors that can be seen from miles away.

It reminds me of Disneyland.  If you've ever been to the Epcot Center in Florida, you may remember its World Showcase featuring little villages from different parts of the world.  In "Impressions of France" you will find a little French village that looks just like parts of Paris.  You know you're looking at something that looks like it's centuries old, but it was really made in 1998.  At the time, I thought it was pretty cool.  Today, standing in Paris -- doing my Mary Tyler Moore impression -- I look all around me and see streets filled with Disney impressions.   The difference is, here the buildings really are four hundred to eight hundred years old.





 

Speaking of impressions, everyone should add sitting at a Paris café to their bucket list.  You can't walk more than a few blocks before you run into one.

Sidewalk brasserie-style cafes are the epitome of what it means to be French.  With their colorful awnings -- highlighted with red, yellow and purple flowers -- they add instant appeal to every corner. 

A typical café will have small tables under an umbrella for shade, with chairs facing the street so you can watch people walking past.  These tables are so close that you think you must know the people next to you.  If you're lucky, the sound of classical music from a school across the street or someone playing the accordion will reach your ears when there's no traffic driving by.

On the day we asked Sean if he wanted to join us in Paris, you could tell his first thought was:   sitting at a café, sipping on a beverage and reading a newspaper?  Yeah, I could do that.  He didn't even have to open his mouth -- the answer was written all over his face.

Today we are sitting at a quiet café for a breakfast of freshly baked croissants with jam, a pain au chocolat, some sliced fruit, yoghurt and a cup of hot chocolate.

Sitting outside, with the morning sun highlighting the dome of a gothic church across the street, I am able to see a delivery truck delivering fresh fruit, the ever-present moped buzzing by and a few people walking to work after last night's Bastille Day fireworks at the Eiffel Tower.  Next door is a market where you could buy fresh vegetables and fruit.  Next to that is a butcher shop, and next to that a bakery.  You get the idea.  In Paris it seems like everything you need is within reach of a café.  Sit long enough and you'll find what you're looking for just a few steps away.

That reminds me... did anyone see an ice cream shop?  There must be one around here somewhere -- it is summer.  And we are in Paris.

To be continued,

Paris Is Always A Good Idea, Part 1

Despite the rain, I force my eyes to look up toward the upper reaches of the cathedral.  Through the drizzle, I can see the transept and spire dominating the verdigris copper statues of the twelve apostles.  With today's weather, I can easily imagine the spire being a true "spiritual lightning rod" protecting everyone inside from the storm. 

 

Facing the cathedral's West façade, dominated by its two large towers, I am greeted with the ringing of the 13-ton, bourdon bell known as Emmanuel.  It's a magnificent sound -- filling the surrounding buildings, alleys and cafes, forcing its way into the gutters and catacombs beneath Paris -- one that is accompanied by the remaining four bells ringing from the cathedral's South Tower. 

I wonder how many storms, much worse than this one -- this building has weathered.  During the radical upheaval of the French Revolution in 1793, its walls were assaulted by common Parisians determined to tear down religious and political  hierarchies.  And yet it survived and was rebuilt in the years that followed.

As the rain continues, I see water exiting from the stone mouth of a hideous gargoyle, as though it is vomiting anything sent from the heavens above.

I feel sorry for Eric, standing to my side who is the only one in our group without an umbrella.  A jacket and baseball cap, pulled low over his eyes, is his only protection from the drenching rain.  Even Jacqueline and Colin seem tickled that they have umbrellas, but dad does not.  Elsewhere, multi-colored umbrellas -- muted by the morning's grey skies -- dot the long line of people waiting to enter the cathedral's massive wooden doors.  Many of them are waiting for Sunday Mass -- the rest of us will have to settle for the rain to wash away our sins.

For the first time since our arrival, I look down.  My feet are standing in a puddle of water, soaking my shoes and socks -- but I barely notice.  Standing before  the entrance to this eight hundred-year-old architectural marvel known as the Cathedrale Notre-Dame De Paris, I am reminded of how small and insignificant my time on this planet has been. 

It will not be the last time I feel that way.



We are in Paris, France for a week, joining Liz's brother and family from Chicago.  Just saying something like that -- in Paris, France -- takes some getting used to.  Adjusting to a different time zone, foreign language and new surroundings will take more time than we will have on vacation.  But that doesn't mean we won't try.

Our arrival at the Charles De Gaulle Airport is uneventful, but without a cell phone to call Eric or Sharon we are left wondering how we are going to find them among Europe's second most busy -- and the world's seventh most busy -- airport.  Fortunately, we are able to find the correct terminal and arrival gate after dashing through a sea of foreign speaking travelers.

How utterly confused I feel as we rush from one screen to another searching for an incoming flight from Chicago.  The gentle chimes of the airport's overhead speaker system is doing little to settle our nerves.  We discover that the Ogden flight will be delayed by a couple of hours, so we need to find our taxi ride to the apartment on our own. Fortunately, Liz has a packet of information and a phone number to call.  With the assistance of help from the informations su l'aeroport, we are soon face to face with our smiling escort, holding a sign that reads OGDEN.

Ten minutes later -- exhausted from our overnight (and sleepless) flight -- I am left speechless as our taxi zips between speeding cars, buses, motorcycles and fearless pedestrians.  I still can't believe we are in Paris!  While Liz and Enzo talk about family and his growing taxi business, I look out the van's dirty window at a world that is as foreign to me as the language being used by our taxi driver.  A quick look at the speedometer tells me we are maneuvering through traffic at speeds of 130 kph (80 miles an hour).  As we approach a four lane, traffic junction, we slow, then suddenly stop waiting for traffic from the right to merge.  Enzo beeps his horn at the car ahead and -- muttering something insulting in French -- we're off again.

Three bouchons (traffic jams) and forty-five breathless minutes later, we are on the Ile Saint Louis, standing before our temporary home away from home --  Bour 55, 5 Quai de Bourbon -- Paris.

Ile Saint Louis is one of two natural islands in the middle of historic Paris.  It is a small island connected to the rest of Paris by four bridges to both banks of the River Seine.  While much of Paris has modernized over the years, Ile Saint Louis remains romantically frozen in the 17th century when Ernest Hemingway rented a room here.  I can tell immediately that it will provide an oasis of calm in an otherwise busy part of the city.  As we look out of the large open windows onto the gentle flow of the river, I am already forgetting our ride from the airport.

Our townhouse is typical of the beautiful 4- and 5-storied French architecture that is common through out the island.  Dwellings are oriented towards the outside, rather than towards an inner courtyard, with large open windows and balconies looking out to river views.  As I would find out later, we are surrounded by narrow one-way streets with several restaurants, markets, bakeries, fromageries, toy shops (puppets!), cafes and ice cream parlors at street level, as well as one large church.  It will not take us long to visit Berthillon, with its primary ice cream store on the island.  Within two blocks are three or four additional shops, each with their own unique flavors of ice cream.  We all agree -- it's some of the best in Paris!



 

At the moment, I am just standing in the living room of our townhouse.  Too tired to move.  That's because to get to our apartment within the townhouse, we must open three locked doors and climb more than 100 steps to the main living room.

The charm of the old building can be found in its unique characteristics and solid construction. But these steps are a killer!  In addition, we have three large suitcases that need to be brought up.  Our Parisian "greeter" invites us to use a small (Liz will tell you very small) elevator on the second floor.  It's big enough for one person and a suitcase.  You slide the door open, step into its cramped space, shut the grill, push the up button, and ... pray.  Miraculously, a few minutes later it opens on the fourth floor just like he said.

Despite the steep stairs, we use the elevator only to bring the suitcases up on the first day, and down on the last.

Much to our surprise, we are told that there a no bugs to worry about ("too cold!"), so we throw open four large windows to let the sounds of Ile Saint Louis wash over the apartment.  With no screens on the windows, we can look straight down to the narrow street below and the River Seine, which is flowing right to left.  It is a beautiful view -- either sitting in a chair or perched on the ledge -- and one that we will cherish in the days and nights ahead as we are reminded that Paris in the summer is always a good idea.

To be continued,