Paris 2009

Paris, September 9 – October 14, 2009

Departure from Chapel Hill, Wednesday, September 9, 2009. A summaryof our trip, try not to cry in sympathy. The kennel closes at 2 p.m. in the afternoon so Ramon picked us up at the house at 1:15 p.m., left the dog in Morrisville at 1:40 p.m. and by 2 p.m. we had completed security. The advantage of ordering a wheel chair for Colette is the pusher takes you through the fast line for inspections along with flight crew. I had to be searched more thoroughly because I wearing suspenders that had metal clips and they made the all bells ring. We sat and wanted until boarding time but, in favor of the new terminal, it is relatively quiet but still is populated with CNN.

The flight left approximately on time at 5:15 p.m. and by 6:30 p.m. we were at the Atlanta Terminal. A wheel chair and attendant was waiting for Colette and off we went, several miles from the A concourse to the E concourse, from which our Paris flight would depart. Colette now insists, and rightfully so, on having a wheel chair as she gets too tired running the miles that changing planes now involves. I had to trot to keep up with Colette’s wheel-chair attendant as we eventually made our way to the international concourse several miles away, down elevators into an automated train, up elevators and we eventually arrived.

It was one of the more dismal departure lounges in our experience. No food or drink for sale, nothing, and a nasty carpet that could compete in world class for ugliness. E Concourse, International Departures, was dark and unpopulated except for E -1, where there were signs of life. We sat, and sitting next to us was a delightful German-American lady who lives in New Mexico and raises Alpacas. Eventually we were boarded, and the flight left an hour late, at 9:40 p.m.

We left an hour late from Atlanta at 9:40 p.m., and 20 minutes later we reached cruising altitude and the flight attendants gave up their gossiping we hoped for drink and food. It arrived almost an hour later, about 11 pm, simultaneously. No cocktail hour for the peasants. Just as I tucked into my chicken whatever (don’t look too closely) the captain spoke from the flight deck and advised that do to problems with the electrical system we had to return to Atlanta so eat up drink up so the flight personnel can clean up. As we coasted over what papered to be a large city we were informed it was Charlotte, NC. Several bumps later we were down, and the capital announced that it was not Charlotte but Greenville, SC.

For the next three hours babies screamed, the mid-20 year-old brat two rows behind us proclaimed his superiority, and Colette tried to sleep.

Before deplaning the plan was, as of 3:30 a.m., that Delta will (version 1) repair the present plane in Greenville or (version 2), bring a plane from Atlanta and we will board and – hopefully – take off at 1 pm for Atlanta, and an hour later land there. The grand plan is that we then change equipment with, hopefully our luggage, and leave for Paris arriving there sometime in the middle of the night.

Eventually we left the plane, Colette decided she did not need a wheel chair and later was sorry. We walked what seemed like several miles to the terminal, climbed stairs, walked and walked, went downstairs, and found most of the passengers ahead of us. Eventually I got a wheel chair for Colette and we moved to the head of the line. It was now about 3 a.m. Delta had awakened and called into work as many of its personnel in Greenville/Spartanburg as it could, all 4 of them one of whom took care of us. A very pleasant man but he was not swift on computers. Eventually he pushed Colette another ¼ mile from inside to outside to the bus that was waiting. The people in the bus had been waiting for more than 45 minutes but the driver would not leave until the bus was filled. When we got to the Marriott Hotel (boo!), Colette observed a hidden check-line and I rushed to take advantage of it. As we were leaving Colette observed a slightly stooped, and nicely dress lady with very white hair standing in the longer line for the more vigorous. She directed me to go over to her and take her around the column for faster service, and we left her and went on our way. We found our room, decked out with enough pillows for an expensive whorehouse, and we barely brushed out teeth before falling into bed.

By 9 a.m. that same morning Colette and I were washed, dressed and in the dining room where we again met the same elderly (older than we are) lady again in the buffet lane over the scrambled eggs pan and we suggested she join us for breakfast. During our conversation we learned her parents were French but she was born in New York City in 1921, had been raised in NY, had spent only one year in France as a young girl. She still spoke beautiful French. She had married an American and after his death she had retired to Fort Lauderdale. Her name was Antoinette, and she asked no favors Delta. Happily, for her, as Delta would not have responded. We soon learned that our Delta vouchers were worth only $7 after we had eaten $16+ worth of one scrambled egg and attachments. We left her drinking coffee and we returned to our room and fiddled, I put drops into my eyes (4 days after each injection) slept a little then we went downstairs for an 11 a.m. departure, as instructed. Once again the bus driver waited until the bus was filled and we left for the airport where we found the balance of the 240 passengers.

After more standing in line we were instructed to proceed to our departure gate. I found a wheelchair for Colette and a nice elderly, plantation-trained (nicely subservient) sky cap wheeled Colette to the elevator, then again the ¼ of mile to the end of the terminal where we would wait for the flight. It was then about 12:00 noon. No Delta personnel in sight. Eventually a male person arrived and said the plane was being maintained and would be along soon. At 1:00 p.m. more Delta personnel arrived and spent their free time, of which they had a lot, chatting cheerfully with each other until one made an announcement that we should get in line. No provisions for the lame, elderly and families with small children. Once in line, there we stood, but no activity. At this time, we were promised a voucher for money plus a hot buffet in Atlanta courtesy of Delta Airlines. As our departure from Spartanburg at 1 p.m., then 1:30 p.m. was scrubbed in favor of the later departure at 3 p.m. So there would be no hot buffet. We saw Antoinette again at the airport where we were stood in line waiting to board (standing for 1 ½ hours I add). Then the announcement was made that the plane was being pulled from the maintenance hangar to the departure area. However, the airport terminal was not configured for a 737 so we would have to walk to the plane parked as far away as possible from the terminal..

Greenfield, SC is the US base for Michelin Tires. It is the end of the world for the French who work for Michelin Tires and, believe me, they have our sympathy!

When we arrived in Atlanta and as we pulled up to the gate, E-3, and were informed all we would have to do was cross the aisle and board at E-1. Quite literally we walked from one flight to another. Passengers on our trip destined for Athens, Frankfurt, and other destinations were told to hurry as their flights were being held for them and would the others, Paris bound “us” would please wait. No one really did.

So, we crossed the concourse, checked our tickets at the door, boarded our flight and an hour later, at 6 p.m. not 5 p.m. we were Paris bound. Once again dinner was served with drinks. The wine was served from cardboard boxes. I took pictures and will forward them when I can figure out how to do it on my uncooperative HP. The menu was the same as the preceding evening, a choice of cannelloni topped with tomato sauce or baked chicken with vegetables. I got a Scotch on the ice and glass of red wine out of the cardboard milk container. All very déjà vu.

A great deal more to come including a chapter on what we think of Delta, the red-neck airline with country music and full-time HBO all during flight, the X rated films you always wanted to see. The featured film was “The Girl we left Behind us” or something like that. The girls had pneumatically filled bosoms. This was followed by free, no cost to viewers, featured, first-run films from HBO, all of which featured the same bosoms, no plot and like Colette and I, no one near us wore earphones. The films were shown all night until they were usurped by an eternally long interview by some bespeckled male person of Pace College (Pace College?) of a young man in a suit that Colette recognized as the star in the Harry Potter series. No one in our sightline exhibited any interest. This continued during land and right up to gate but was turned off at this point.

As always there are vignettes of people and places. During the first attempt to cross the Atlantic, Colette and I were seated in row 24 A& B. Highly recommended. Behind us in row 25 A & B were two you male persons fresh in to/out of middle schools that were invisible and inaudible. However in row 26 A & B there was a young man who looked in his early 20’s and blond broad who wished she were 39 again. They compared life stories, most uninteresting. The young male person went to/ or was admitted to, U of VA, clubs, etc we learned all about it, and we heard more than we wanted to about his trip and his successes he had promised himself. I finally could not more take of it and stood up, leaned over and asked him to please not to include us in his conversation. He tried to be cute and he was impervious to my cutting remark.

On the other hand, in seats 25 C, D & E was a young family, he Russian, she American, and the mother-in-law, Russian (speaking no English). They had a darling little baby about 10 months who did not want to travel at her young and tender age and complained in bat-like squeals that would shatter crystal if crystal were present. The parents did their very best and ultimately calmed the poor child down.

September 12, 2009, Saturday. I am inside La Pierre du Marais, a café/bistro across the street from the Hotel de Ville, that faces the Parc du Temple, more detail on that in a minute while I wait for a parade of Peruvian dancers in native dress playing drums, whistles, and sundry musical instruments, pass on the other side of the Rue de Bretagne.

We arrived yesterday morning, Friday, September 11, 2009, at 8:15 a.m. exhausted. 36 hours from Raleigh to Paris! Although the wheel chair for Colette had been ordered well ahead of time, the telex had not received until shortly before the plane landed. Once Colette was in the wheel chair, and her pusher, Levorna (I think) took control, we moved rapidly through at least ¼ mile of Charles de Gaulle, Roissy 3, i.e. the 3rd Air France terminal. Along the great windows overlooking the parking and landing of the airport, up in little elevators, more corridors, a magic train, self-propelled and self-directed, another elevator, larger, then through immigration and down another elevator to wait for luggage that, magically arrived, almost immediately.

Colette had Euros in large denominations so I ran to American Express (our expensive friend) and changed $20 for 10+Euros at $1.61 buys one Euro. Figure that out with the official exchange rate of E 1 = $1.45.

By 9:30 a.m. we were being loaded into a taxi. The ride in was relatively quickly and soon we were at 35, rue de N.D. de Nazareth. I carried the suitcases, one at a time, up half the stairs, then rested, and then continued upward. Colette had opened the door and we were in.

We turned on electricity, gas, water, and we unpacked suitcases in spite of fatigue. Then I put on shoes and walked down the stairs, out through the nasty courtyard on to the street, and half a block to FrancPrix, our poor man’s Harris Teeter, bought elementary supplies, returned, and we lunched, then rested, trembling with fatigue. Later I again shod, and joined Colette for a visit to the neighborhood. On to MonoPrix, a bit more stylish that FrancPrix, for supplies, then I went looking for a take out for dinner. I crossed the Parc du Temple, joined rue de Bretagne, and found the Marché des Garcons Rouges and our Moroccan take-out where, for E 26, I got couscous, sauce, chicken and one merguez. I am afraid to multiply by $1.45 to find the cost in dollars.

Dinner eaten we watch sleepily TV then collapse into bed. I fell into bed, slept, awakened at 1 a.m., the internal clock off, and eventually crawled back into bed and asleep.

This morning we made our way to Marché Aligre by Métro, stopping on the to buy a throw-away telephone for almost E 40 ($60), now if I can just figure out how it works as the instructions are minimal. The market was wonderful, tables of junk for sale, books, clothes everything but a cap I wanted to replace my winter hat I was wearing, then through the interior of market that I never tire of visiting and photographing. I’ll try to send some pictures if and when figure out how to do it on Microsoft Vista. Boo!

Now the good news! I wrote the first half sitting in a bistro, inside because of the glare, watching the world go by on rue de Bretagne. I sent the first section and then checked to see if it had been successfully sent! It had disappeared, but I did find the four messages I had written Thursday morning from Greenville/Spartanburg that had not been sent. I check the WiFi and it was working so I read the NYT thanks to the Mayor of 3rd District of Paris, but my laptop would not send.

I came home and plugged the laptop into recharge the battery and decided to try and see what the WiFi situation was there. Last year there were many WiFi’s but all secure. Now there is both secure and insecure. I do not know if the one I am using is spy ware or not but who cares.

Tomorrow I will try to send pictures.

Sunday, September 13, 2009 I spent a very restless night, physiologically my body clock was still in Chapel Hill and here I am in Paris. From 10 p.m. I tried to sleep, then gave up, and put in an hour or two of worrying, always very constructive. I worried about Obama (I’m vexed with him at the moment), US-Iranian relations, Health Reform, the dollar vs. the Euro and finally fell asleep until Colette awakened at 7:30 a.m., very late for her.

Sunday morning was spent trying to bring order, if only a little bit, into my laptop file, part of the closet that was converted to a desk with electric outlet and shelves that can be folded up and the door closed. This involved, among other things, trying to be neat and orderly and finding places for converters, Dell batteries for the Dell laptop in Raleigh (Jim, take note!). In an apartment this small you live as if on a very small sailing or motorboat and everything must be put away; or you are soon submerged by THINGS. It is easy for Colette, but difficult for me.

Lunch, a nap, and then we decided to get some fresh air and visit our neighborhood. Colette and I walked up to a new grocery store (épicerie in French), very smart, elegantly laid out, all sorts of interesting things, but many of the items carrying the big M of MonoPrix (OnePrice). However it had interesting and original presentations of prepared exotic and ethnic foods from Thailand, India, China, etc.

I left Colette and walked up rue de Turbigo where it joins the rue du Temple and descended the stairs of the Métro and, after only a few moments wait, along came a train. At the second stop, Sébastopol, I made the correspondence and followed the signs to the Métro that would take me to the Place St. Michel, one my favorite places.

The Métro stations are remarkably clean and pleasant, and this line, Orleans-Clignancourt includes two of the oldest stations, Cité and Place St. Michel. These two stations are built inside giant caissons; do I have the right word? Remember the work was begun about 1895 +/- and dug by hand and then pre-assembled caissons were rafted down the Seine, and somehow moved over to the great hole, and sunk in. In order to dig the holes, pipes were laid and refrigerant pumped through. It was not easy.

I’ll send a picture soon. In the Place St. Michel station there are, happily, escalators. In the Ctié station there is an elevator or stairs. Take your choice.

Now take a moment to hate Microsoft VISTA. I can’t find how to number pages, easy in XP. I went to Help, on line, and it is no Help at All!

Up-up-and-up by escalator and at the top I took a picture of the main floor with the ticket booths, and you should be able to see the steel caissons, nicely painted. At the top of the up escalator there is a flight of stairs up to street level. You are now at the beginning of Boulevard St. Michel known as Boul’Miche. This is the heart of medieval Paris, or what is left of it, and further up the street is the University of Paris, la Sorbonne. As you come up street level you are face-to-face with Gibert Jeune, a chain bookstore, of which this is the main one. However, no place for the claustrophobic like me. There are narrow aisles, masses of people, tiny staircases, and lots of books, floors and floors, actually only about 4. And, of course, like most French stores, there are not enough cash registers conveniently located.

The sun had been hidden by clouds, and there was a pleasant breeze, so it the time and temperature was ideal for walking, even though I was buffeted by tourists, and the roar of digital cameras. I crossed the Quai St. Michel, and walked toward the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

Dindin time, and I’ll try to finish tomorrow and send pictures. Really first day in Paris, recovering from 36 hour trip from RDU to Paris.

1st picture, art deco sculpture at 5th floor of apartment building overlooking Parc du Temple, Then pictures of the Park, Rue de Bretagne where we shop, gawk, I spend time with laptop watching world go by for the price of a cup of tea, E 3 x $1.45.

Monday, September 14, 2009 Monday morning and Colette and I were off by Métro to Tajan Commissaires, an auction house to recuperate a small, carved-stone statue of Mary Magdalene. Colette’s father renamed it Sainte Barbe, the patron saint of artillery as he had been in that branch of the French Army in both World Wars. It was part of her father’s collection but it is not convenient to carry around. Colette had commissioned Tajan to sell it, and after two attempts it had not sold and she had to pick it up. It weighs about 100 lbs, and between the little grocery carryall and a sturdy taxi driver, we managed to get it in and out of the cab, then pulled it to the apartment, and we lifted it step-by-step up to our first floor.

The weather is mild and autumnal and this afternoon I took off on foot to visit Gibert Jeune on Blvd. St. Martin that is within walking distance. From the apartment turn left and follow rue de N.D. de Nazareth to rue St. Martin, took pictures of the gates, then turned right on the Blvd. and found Gibert Jeune where, after some searching, found a copy of Proust’s La côté de Guermantes and Elizabeth Spencer’s A Southern Woman, translated into French. Elizabeth, of course, lives in Chapel Hill but is very well considered in French literary circles for her novels and novellas set in the South.

Then on to rue St. Denis, and took more pictures of shop windows of women’s clothes. You will understand when I send them to you. Rue St. Denis is one of the few streets in the Marais, our extended neighborhood, where girls of joy still openly ply their wares. I saw only two today, more attractive than one usually sees, one rather cheerful and marginally overweight, and the other a bit more exotic with a definite Caribbean cast to her features.

Then started the trek home, crossed rue St. Denis, again, on to rue Turbigo, and took a picture of some almost naked window dummies attractively garbed with a sign in the back that read (in French, obviously) “dummies for lingerie.”

I crossed rue de Beaubourg, and followed rue Gravailliers, lined with Chinese shops that seem to import only women’s large and unattractive handbags.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009. Another exciting day in Paris! Last night heavy but short showers, pity the person without an umbrella. The weather holds cool and fresh with spots of sunshine.

The lady contractor, Mme Barba, whom we call when we need work done, promised to be here by 9:30 a.m. to see why one of our living room windows would not open. They have a metal frames in and out so if they are bent windows and doors do not open. We have already been told that a building as old as ours is – the guess is between 18th & 19th centuries - continues to shift with every change in temperature and humidity. Don’t laugh! Our front door is a little less secure than the door of a bank vault but is constructed along the same lines. Metal frame, metal door, and when the door is closed and the key is turned there are metal extensions within the door that go into the exterior metal frame.

In any case, by 10:30 a.m. Colette called Mme Barba’s office, no reply, and then her cell phone and left a message. She returned the call almost immediately and promised to drop by at 2:30 p.m. Colette had a doctor’s appointment at 3:00 p.m. and at 2:40 p.m. no Mme Barba, so Colette left (her doctor’s office is not even a 10 minute walk) she instructed me to sit tight until

3:30 p.m. and if Mme B had not called, telephone her and leave a message and I was free to go out and frolic.

So you see life in Paris is filled with surprises, color and excitement. Free of domestic responsibilities I walked abroad, went to MonoPrix and made the exciting purchase of a fingernail brush, mailed a letter to BB&T (my bank in Chapel Hill), and went looking for the public library to get something read.

The library, now two years in its new home, is very modern, filled with books, of course, magazines, disks, CD’s and computers. However now that the City of Paris has citywide WiFi (marvelous) I no longer have to deal with the French computer keyboard.

When I arrived home Colette had seen the doctor and done some errands. The doctor wanted to know why she had called for an appointment and she explained she had been hospitalized the second week of August for what may have been a minor heart attack and that she wanted to have a resource nearby if she had any problems. He gave her a quick but relatively thorough check up and Colette went cheerily on her way until the physician reminded her she had not paid for the visit. She wrote a check for E 27 an office visit. E 27. X by $1.50 = $40 +/-, can’t do that in the U.S.

September 16, 2009, Wednesday. Look for a picture of a Wallace Fountain, a very rich English initiated the first public potable water program in Paris after the Franco-German war when Paris was surrounded and isolated for several months.

Our corner, we are the second building to the left, with the great doors. It was built sometime during the 18th or 19th century, the plans are no longer in the Paris archives, I went to look! It was built before indoor plumbing so toilets and bathtubs are raised over the pipes, and down pipes are on the outside, like some of the better neighborhoods of London.

The restaurant with the red checked curtains is L'Ami Louis. It is not a bistro as Vanity Fair claims, but a restaurant. President Chirac took Bill Clinton to dinner there and the whole neighborhood was locked up. It has wonderful food, specializing in the southwest of France, high cholesterol, terrines and patés, steaks, and more. Next to it, on the corner, is an Argentinean steak house, very chic and expensive. We now have at least three other would-be first-class restaurants so our neighborhood is coming up in the world.

September 17, 2009, Thursday. The Halles were, for more than 200 years (I'll check my dates later) the center of the wholesale food trade and it was here that Hemingway and his pals topped off an evening with carousing with onion soup and other delicacies like pigs' feet. In 1969 it was torn down and Beauburg Museum was raised, the Forum of the Halles dates from much the same time but is very 'art nouveau.'

St. Eustache is one of the great churches of Paris and I went to see the stone head by Miller, titled 'listening to the heart beat of Paris.' As you can see my new camera is too light sensitive, and the artwork is also a playground.

I heard music so went into St. Eustache and walked into a concert by an all male, senior citizen German choir, wonderful, and not an overweight among them. It included some organ music that was great.

Then underground for the first time to see the Forum that includes a tropical garden, a very large swimming pool, a Métro station serving 3 Métro lines and a suburban rail station. And last the interior of a Métro station with a train arriving and one leaving.

Sunday, September 20, 2009. The speed of life here is almost too much to bear! I just returned from a two-day visit with Colette’s father’s cousin Brigitte, and the trip to and back by train (TGV – Trains of Great Speed) was restful. Brigitte is the niece of the painter Jean Launois. Imagine floating through the countryside at 187.5 miles an hour without a bump and one loud speaking voice reminding passengers if they want to use a cell phone, they should go to the area between cars. He did not add that there are also power plugs for laptops and cell phones, whatever there and in the toilets. Too bad we don’t have real trains in the US.

The trips took 1 hour and 15 minutes and we arrived a few moments late because our platform had to be emptied of an outgoing TGV. When I stepped off the train into the heat of Paris on September 20th I was shocked. Not hot like Arizona, or even North Carolina, but about 90 plus degrees (24 degree Celsius), and this is not usual in northern Europe at this time of year. Last night in my bed in Cousin Brigitte’s house, in the country, far from the paved world of a large city, surrounded by country houses (I’ll send a picture), it was uncomfortably warm and, in the middle of the night, I was attacked by a mosquito.

Here in Paris in our little apartment, no screens on the windows, we are having mosquitoes. This is unheard of here and particularly at this time of year when it should be turning cooler, much cooler.

Colette’s father’s cousin, a distant one at that, was Jean Launois, the artist. Unknown in the US he is aggressively collected by a few people in France and has pictures hung in most of the French museums. I have been (pretentiously) working on a biography for more than 10 years and not making much progress. There is still a lot to be done but either I have the time and not the money, and I can’t bring the Oscar dog person with me to France where the material is. There are two major gaps in my documentation, the French army in Italy during WW I and the details of his life with his wife, Aimée Suarez. If you want to know more go to Internet, type in Jean Launois and read the Wikipedia article that I did several years ago.

If you want to see some of his pictures, Colette’s collection is unusual in that they were done at the Château de Courcelle, Colette’s family’s home, about 1917 just before Jean Launois went into the trench warfare. His regiment was shipped off to Italy shortly thereafter. The 18 months of the French army is Italy is not very well documented and I need a large grant to take me to Italy to do ground research.

Jean Launois married Aimée Suarez, the niece of the well-known French poet. And a few years later they world economy took a bump, and what had been a successful artist became a hungry artist. Aimée’s family lost its money, kept a house near St. Tropez, and it was tough going. Read Wikipedia.

To say that Jean Launois liked ladies would be a mild understatement. All for now, pictures of our visit to the Château de Terre Neuve, Cousin Brigitte’s house (don't confuse one with the other), and the town of Fontenay-le-Comte will follow.

Monday, September 21, 2009. Quiet day at home. Our contractor, Mme Barba, came with a helper to fix the windows in the living room so they will open. Keep in mind this building was built sometime between 1750 and 1850 (we guess) and it shifts, so the casements of the windows loose their geometry while the windows frames do not. It was an interesting operation. Mme Barba’s helper and his electric screwdriver, then file, dismounted, then filed and sent sparks flying, and eventually the windows were back in place and somewhat easier to open.

During the afternoon I struggled with Windows VISTA, it is not easy, to edit some of the material on Jean Launois then, with Colette’s instruction, went to a chain store named Picard that sells only frozen foods. Believe me, the frozen foods in Picard’s make the frozen foods section in Harris Teeter look like the work of an amateur. The problem we have at Picard’s is choosing which goody we will have for dinner. The choices are amazing including, among other things, whole stuffed salmon, any number of French and Italian specialties, French and some Indian. The website is http://www.picard.com/ , then go to Les Entrées­­.

The catalogue is heaven, in color, beautifully photographed. We bring them home and leaf through them, salivating as we go. Colette is going to spend almost a week with her niece in darkest Brittany and I will stay in Paris and most dinners will be from Picard’s.

Tomorrow I will trek to the Bibliothèque Nationale (France's Library of Congress) and try to do some serious work. However getting in this new, major library is not easy. The staff went on strike because of the distances involved in their work. More about it tomorrow.

September 24, 2009, Thursday. Pictures of Colette and the Gare Montparnasse railway station from which Colette left for Brittany to visit her niece, Anne Balcou, for six days.

September 25, 2009, Friday. Before Colette left I promised I would go see our neighborhood doctor if my cough and wheezing were not better. Colette met Dr. Yelloz for the first time a little more than a week ago when, on the advice of her pulmonary surgeon in UNC, she called for a “keep well” appointment. She returned from the appointment satisfied with the visit commenting that his office, which we had seen once before when another physician was holding down while Dr. Yelloz was on vacation, was as merdic (French argot, messy) as ever. Two years ago I had a terrible earache and we called because it was the nearest geographically to us.

His temporary replacement was businesslike and after the second appointment referred me to an ENT specialist the same afternoon. Try that in NYC or even Chapel Hil?. The ENT specialist was the consultant to the opera companies of Paris and had a keyboard in his office! In any case the office of Dr. Yelloz then, as now, would make most American physicians shudder. Bookcases, files and overflowing to the floor, cardboard boxes filled with what appeared to be patient clinical notes, however desk neat, computer and telephone on custom stand next to desk, no office assistant or nurse, drop in and wait your turn.

I telephoned Friday morning at 8:30 a.m., walked up the street to be there at 9:00 a.m. Happily there was an attractive young lady on the sidewalk in front of the double porte-cochere and to the right, in the cut-stone wall, buttons to push but with no names. The young lady showed me the large button to push which buzzed the door within the porte-cochere to open and we both walked under the building to yet more buttons on the wall, where one was labeled Dr. Yelloz, but earned no response. A third person, a sturdy looking man joined us. Then the outside door banged open and an authoritative young man walked in, the sound of his heels ringing in the tunnel, and we watched with amazement as he punched the physician’s button and banged open the door with the heel of his hand, and disappeared into the little lobby and ran up the stairs. The three of us followed suit.

Up one flight of stairs, the young lady leading and we followed her into the doctor’s windowless waiting room, a table with old magazines, and chairs around the wall. NO background music.

Eventually the young man with the authoritative heels banged out, Dr. Yelloz popped his head into the waiting room, and invited the young lady to follow him. About 15 minutes later she left, and the scenario resumed, and he said pleasantly “Mr. Gordon (in French) follow me!”

No social chitchat, and fifteen minutes later I had been thoroughly questioned, lungs listened to, prescriptions written and I was on my way with instructions that if I was not better I was to have x-rays and bring them to him on Monday. Since then with little ambition other to drink water and sleep, and occasionally try to eat. Paris has had to do without me. And, of course, the weather has been perfectly splendid, although warmer than it should be. Normally I would be idling along the Seine, looking at books, taking pictures, and enjoying the air.

However, pursuant to his instructions, if I was not feeling better I should return.

Happily Colette was in Brittany with Anne Balcou, her niece, who is recovering from major cancer surgery and undergoing treatment so Colette was not here to be kept awake by my nocturnal noise associated with bronchitis.

September 27, 2009, Sunday. My friend Irene Fogarty, Irish who now lives and works in Paris after more than several years in NYC, came over to commiserate with me. I will prepare a note on her visit when I can take a picture of her. After she left I prepared dinner (see following email with pictures). The menu was 3 little boiled potatoes (Charlottes, 4 for .43 Euros), one pork chop, .250 grams, E 11.50 a kilo, = E 2.88, green beans, .075 grams @ E 3.90 a kilo = E0.20 cents, and some slightly dried mushrooms Colette had left in the fridge, simmered with shallots, and only one garlic bud. The results were reasonable, but my taste buds did not function appropriately.

October 1, 2009 Thursday, and another beautiful day in Paris where I am more or less confined to our little apartment. Yesterday afternoon I spent several rewarding hours in the Musée des Arts & Métiers, pictures follow, looking at instruments, whole laboratories, and equipment dating from the beginning of time. The exhibit of the original airplane that Blériot built, with help, to make the first flight across the English Channel, is hanging in deconsecrated church. The airplane is soo tiny.

Part of the exhibition was a mock up of the plane with a pilot seat and primitive controls that permitted one person that he was flying and at a time to imagine he was losing altitude over the English Channel, then barely pulling the plane over a village before landing. As the would be pilot, assisted by a very pretty young girl, I managed to avoid crashing into a steeple, a silo, before cutting the motor and making a crash landing, as did Blériot, into a field.

When I returned to the apartment I was wheezing and coughing and making other unpleasant noises so Colette has insisted I stay in for another several days.

The antibiotic I am taking is made by GlaxosSmithKline France and is called Augmentin, 2 tables 500 mg each, three times a day for 7-8 days, until there are no more. It took hold quickly but the bug it is fighting is not giving in easily.

September 28, 2009, Monday morning and, after three days of antibiotics I am again breathing regularly, some of the time, wheezing less, coughing and spitting less, and have partially regained my voice, all the foregoing functions of bronchitis as diagnosed by our neighborhood physician, Dr.Yelloz.

Pictures may follow. Best wishes, Charles

1. September 30, 2009 – October 1, 2009, Monday through Thursday. Hotel de Ville, Paris City Hall, actually reconstructed in mid-19th century it is a gothic wonder (I think?). I have been on a tour of the interior and it is splendid filled with large windows, fantastic, 3-D ceilings, crystal chandeliers, beautiful floors. It formerly had an extensive wine cellar under Mayor Jacques Chirac but when the present mayor, Bernard Delonoe (with an umlaut over the e) became mayor he sold it. Delonoe is the personal enemy of Colette’s brother-in-law, Jean Curtil, because (a) Delanoe is an admitted gay, and (b) he does all sorts of things to make Paris a more livable city. For example, in the summer, he turns the banks of the Seine into a large, sand-filled beach. The sand covers the high-speed express roads and Colette’s b-in-law is against that. Delanoe had trees planted, stanchions put up to inhibit parking on sidewalks, introduced the public bicycles stands, reduced parking places and is now threatening to make Paris a toll city, if you drive you pay. Curtil takes it very personally as if Delanoe did it to annoy him!

2. The sidewalk in front of the Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville, known as the BHV, a large department store across the rue de Rivoli from the Hotel de Ville. It is the prime example of where the sales people give the impression that they have been trained to be nasty, disagreeable, distant, and uncooperative. The outside boutiques line this side of the BHV selling anything from cheap neckties, copying keys, Normand pancakes, jewelry. Even in winter! Just before my bronchitis set in I went to the BHV to buy a cable lock for my laptop as I planned to spend more than a week at the National Library. I got it home and not for the life of me could not make it work. I called the technical assistance number for France and a pleasant person tried to work me through the process and, eventually, abandoned the effort and suggested that I return it to the store where I bought it. I did. I almost did not sleep one night between coughing and spitting and thinking about the oncoming conflict between me and BHV. When I arrived, up five flights of stairs on the escalator, over the corner where the laptop shop is, and a very pleasant, Pilipino-looking sales man, Mr. Adrien, asked if he could help! Amazing. We started the process and eventually he resigned, did not insist that I exchange it, rather gave me a reimbursement slip and off I went. French stores do not like giving reimbursements. I had to go to one station to have it reauthorized and a slip hand-written at great detail then take it, go to another floor, get another slip then go to another office for the actual cash. I do all this with a fixed and, I suspect, a silly smile on my face so when I got out of the store I felt like the smile was fixed permanently.

3.Closer to home an elegantly attired gentleman on a bicycle rented from one of the almost 300 stands, checking a map. Sorry, I had to take it against the light.

3. A city bicycle rental stand. You take a credit card, stick it in the slot, and away you go after checking the tires etc.

4. A gallery near us, large cutouts. Weird.

1. September 30, 2009, Wednesday. The pictures follow separately. Good luck. Rue Turbigo, one of our two pharmacies within close walking distance, from out apartment right on rue Volta, left on rue Vertbois, a long block past the Lycee Turgot to rue Turbigo and turn left. The pharmacy is in the middle of the block.

2. This blankity-blank laptop is up to its old tricks of swallowing messages whole as it just did with two long paragraphs about the pharmacy. The next picture is the Church of St. Elizabeth, of Hungary, I think, the corner stone of which was laid by the Medici Queen of France. I am too lazy to look it up.

3. A new little Fiat, nifty.

4. I took this picture sitting in a new sandwich and wine shop, also coffee and drinks, established on the corner of rue Volta and rue Vertbois, so I go in front of it at least once a day. Two of Paris’ relatively well-known restaurants are here, in the corner the Argentinean steak house (expensive) and just beyond L’Ami Louis that is NOT a bistro in spite of which the American Vogue claims. L’Ami Louis is where Bill Clinton hangs out when he is in Paris. This is an exaggeration. He and Hillary were the guests of the Chirac’s at one point and apparently he has been back. When he or other heads of state dine, the streets are blocked .

5. The proprietor of the sidewalk sandwich shop took this of me. I’ll try to work on his photo skills.

6. Next door to the sandwich shop is a very upscale shop of elegant but exotic dinnerware, not to my taste, and next to it is this little grocery shop. The former manager, a little old man with whom we became friendly, has now retired to Tunisia and we miss his cheerful greetings. Next to it is a restaurant that specializes in Tunisian and Moroccan food and has recently redecorated and now has cloth tablecloth instead of paper. It has retained the bar but has moved from a bistro to a restaurant because now it has fixed hours and, in principal is open from morning to late evening.

7. The sandwich shop without me.

8. Whenever a Jewish holiday comes along rue de N.D. de Nazareth and rue de Vertbois are blocked because a large synagogue is between us and rue de Temple. It is awkward for the wholesale clothes dealers but we love it because there are no traffic jams outside our window,.

9. Our courtyard, nasty.

10. Our courtyard, looking up. There are two other staircases. Our friend from Argentina, the photo director and pal of Sarkozy’s wife, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy (he did the photo shoot of her for the cover of the CD she made recently) lives on the 6th floor. He bought it almost/more than 25 years ago, no elevator. He does all his commutes about Paris on a bicycle and, if it is warm he wears flip-flops. He borrows jewelry, watches, courtière dresses from all the principal designers and carries them about on his bicycle. He is now spending lots of his time in Istanbul for photo shoots.

1. Doing laundry in the nearby coin-operated laundry place. The equipment is Miele front-opening machines that make almost no/no noise. It costs E3.70 for load, then another E2 for dryers. Colette has some pretty weird experiences there. On one occasion lady changed her clothes discretely so she could wash what she was wearing. Yesterday there was a young, very tall Australian and his girl friend, a dark Indian young lady from Singapore. The young lady wanted to learn how to say ‘tea’ in French. Colette explained in French it was ‘thé’ pronounced ‘tay’ and she was delighted with her new language skills. On several times Colette has been there when it was invaded by non-French speaking central Europeans, Russians whom took up the whole place. They did not play music or do sword dances.

The dryers and, to the right, the control board. Put your money in, it makes change if necessary; push the button corresponding to your machine nod away you go. Really exciting. Colette feels she spends most of her free time there.

3 & 4. I: There are two with shouting distance from each other near Place de la République. This is where Colette buys her antique magazines, and I occasionally buy a newspaper. I learned that kiosques carry more than 1,000 titles. I can promise you they range the entire gamut of publishing.

5. L’Ecole Centrale where Colette’s father did his engineering degree.

7. Café Leonard – one side faces rue Turbigo and this side the Ecole Centrale, quieter.

8 & 9. The exterior of the Musée des Arts & Métiers. Great place. The medieval church to the left with the multicolored tile roof is desanctified and is part of the museum. You will see more of it later.

10. Laboratory of Antoine Laurent Lavoisier (1743-1794).

11. Instructor and students.

12. In glass class that reflects making it difficult to admire this wonderful clock of fine wood, parquetry, brass working and enamel, XVIII C.

13. Super calculator, US, 1985, Leonard Cray, 1925-1986.

14. Medieval construction revealed.

15. Vaucanson’s loom for weaving façonnées(I don’t know what that is), 1748. The first loom to use cards for the design, a precursor of computer!

16. A lion wrapped by a snake in a large box, every home should have one. All made of glass by a Mr. René Lambourg who did not have enough to do with his time.

17. & 18. Aeroplane of Clement Ader, 1893-1897.
The balance of the pictures was taken in the deconsecrated church with airplanes, cars hanging here and there.

This is a kiosque that sells publications and daily newspapers in many languages, magazines including the very randy (porno) to weeklies. Once, while poking around, I found a current copy of the American scholarly “Foreign Affairs.”

Fresh chocolate roll and croissant, hot out of the oven from the boulangerie up the street. Colette got the croissant, made with real butter, and I got the chocolate roll also made of puff pastry.
Ecole Central des Arts

I hate VISTA by Microsoft!!!

October 2, 2009, Friday. When I telephoned Dr. Yelloz, whom I saw a week ago, for an appointment, I was informed that he was taking a long week-end and Dr. Llavas was his locum, replacement. No appointment necessary, just drop in between 12:30 p.m. and 17 h and take my turn.

Colette was off to the darkest suburbs to see a college friend for lunch so at 12:00 p.m. I left the apartment to walk up to the doctor’s office where I arrived 10 minutes later. I buzzed myself through the porte-cocheres, into the tunnel where again I buzzed the doctor’s office and hit the door, and the door did not open. After waiting about five minutes I decided that I go to a Viet-namese restaurant and have a soup and return.

Out the door, across rue N.D. de Nazareth, through the temporary railings blocking the street for Friday Jewish services day, when the light permitted (I no longer jay walk, the final ignominy would to be run over by a human-pedaled bicycle), crossed rue Turbigo in front of the Temple Métro station, then to across rue de Temple to the sidewalk, and rue de Turbigo past the Parc du Temple, crossed rue de Bretagne (that ends there and because rue Réaumur, again crossed rue de Temple, and walked a block to rue des Vertus (Street of Virtues), and left and a few steps to my little Vietnamese restaurant where I could have Vietnamese soup. This is available at Sage & Thyme in Chapel Hill but not as good.

This little restaurant is open M-F, 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. I was the second in, the sixth table nearest the kitchen, and an aged Frenchman looking like a former colonialist of Vietnam at the 5th table. The daily special was written on a black board, soup and grilled beef and salad and rice, E 8.50.

I ordered the beef soup (Pho in Vietnamese) and a glass of red wine. For whatever reason I did not have my little Canon to take a picture so you could enjoy the steam rising from the very large bowl in which was hidden, at the bottom, noodles, then some beef and beef balls, lots of chopped green little onions and a luscious odor. Also served, but separate, was a basket filled with bean sprouts, Vietnamese basil and something like parsley. I put several handfuls of the bean sprouts, a little of the basil, stirred with my chopsticks and enjoyed my lunch with my glass of red wine.

It was most welcomed by my bronchial condition and eventually all the noodles, most of the sprouts, the bits of beef, the beef balls and the soup, of course, were consumed. In the meantime there was a steady stream of incoming lunchers, some to stay, and others to pick up take-out orders.

The total bill was E 9, including 15% tip, and I generously left another E 1. I am a big spender.

Then back to the doctor’s office, essentially the same route except I took rue Turbigo back instead of rue de Temple.

I buzzed myself through the porte-cochère into the tunnel, then pushed the doctor’s buzzer and he buzzed back just as I hit the door with palm of my hand, sufficiently strong to almost knock out a person and his female companion who came out just at that moment. They left, I went in, up the worn stairs into the doctor’s office and into the waiting room. No appointment necessary.

Still no camera so I will use words that are for people who cannot read pictures. The waiting room had uncomfortable upright chairs against the wall with the exception of the space occupied by a table with magazines, of course out-of-date. There was another potential patient, a very dark Indian looking like he thought or hoped each breadth would be his last. About 15 minutes later the doctor escorted another patient to the exit door, returned and nodded pleasantly and indicated that the Indian would follow her. They left.

About this time the buzzer sounded, the door into the hall opened, and a very attractive young lady looking very well joined us. A few minutes patient joined the group, this time a middle-age male who also looked very unwell, but not dressed for it. He was wearing blue jean, a sharp looking shirt with French cuffs but no links and a heavy jacket that he dumped on another chair. There was no light-hearted exchange of views.

Silence, welcomed silence, and NO background music. After about 20 minutes footsteps in the corridor, the young lady escorted out and the doctor put her head in the door and smiling looked around indicating the next patient should present him or herself. I stood up and followed her out.

Dr. Yelloz’s office had not changed. I have never known a country practioner in the U.S. but his office invoked the idea of the overworked, underpaid but hopefully appreciated practioner. Dr. Llavas and I introduced ourselves, she looked me up on the computer, and away we went. I learned that Dr. (Madame) LLavas, whose parents were Spanish but she was born and educated in France.

She confirm that Friday morning, without the necessity of advanced medical science and a stethoscope, that the roaring she heard was not an incoming tide but my still encrusted bronchial tubes.

20 minutes later I had written my check, E 22 instead of E 28 as I did not have an appointment, took my oral and written instructions and left.

Down and out, and out to rue Turbigo and down a few doors to the green neon cross indicating a pharmacy. The pharmacist, Thierry Houcdé (Ph.D.), welcomed me by name, and in English. I am encouraging him to speak English and with the frequency of my visits to pick up new prescriptions we are becoming slowly acquainted. Once filled, instructions written on the box, no wasting time on silly printed label and I was ready to leave. However, workmen were doing their thing and had disconnected the telephone lines so the VISA card would not function. I premised to return the following day and pay my just debt.

Sunday, October 4, 2009. I hope I have the date right. Keep in mind that Paris is as far north as Montreal so, like R L Stevenson’s poem we “rise by candle light.” Sunday in Paris does not include a Sunday newspaper and as we cannot have cable TV without paying for it the whole year, the several stations we do receive have animated cartoons and interviews of worthy public personalities who seem to have a lot to say about nothing of great interest, so our Sunday mornings are not exciting. Especially when I am slowly recovering from bronchitis and Colette is taking antibiotics to combat a resurgence of her pulmonary problems.

However, we stumble around, I start the dishwasher, we make the bed, and we take turns showering and dressing. Life in a one-bedroom apartment is intimate and involves some of the same choices and challenges that I imagine you would experience trying to live on a small boat, but without motion sickness.

We were looking forward to a day in the country with Colette’s great-nephew, Antoine and his little boy, Arthur, now almost three years old. Antoine’s companion, Maureen, is a career employee of Disney World, France, more about that later, and is in a two-day training program for rising executives so the work week will be free for normal activities, and we will not see her.

Antoine and Maureen live in a little house, very little, that is part of row development that probably dates back prior to WWI. I imagine there must be more or less 10 or so houses adjoining and the first in the row is very large with a large barn. Colette’s niece, Anne, and her husband, now retired Air France Captain (long distance services) bought two of the village house more than 30 years ago. More recently a little old lady went to her reward and the house next to Anne and Jean-Paul’s house became available, and Anne bought it, converted it to two little, 2-bedroom townhouses. Antoine and Maureen live in one and Julien, the oldest son and brother of the three, lives in the other with his companion, Gwen, and their little girl, Emma, 11 months.

I shall now try to explain why I refer to Antoine’s and Julien’s female partners as companions instead of wives. In France, several years ago, a sensible arrangement was devised to permit couples of same sex to have a joint legal relationship, asa verb, pacté, I think. (Pacte Civil de Solidatarite, PACT). Nous nous sommes pactés! We are joined by a civil act of solidarity. Oh Well, work it out for yourself. But it has resolved one issue that we cannot come to grips with in the US.

It simplifies life, divorce is easier, and it has been adopted readily by the population. Colette’s nephew, more than 50 years old, professor of law, and his companion, are Pacted. But the issue of how to introduce one’s partner has not been resolved and seems to have been reduced to “companion” for simplicity.

Now about Colette’s niece, her husband (from whom she is separated) and their children, Antoine, Julian and Pierre, and Disney World in France.

As noted earlier, when Anne and Jean-Paul were relatively recently married, about 1975 or so, living in an apartment in Paris, planning a family, and Jean-Paul was still a co-pilot for Air France, they decided they wanted to live in the country with easy access to Charles de Gaulle, the airport, not the general, and so they initiated the search for a house. Eventually they found Magny-le-Hongre, a depressed village on the north-east of Paris and an antique dealer who wanted to sell his village row house. It consisted in fact of two houses that he had joined together without the help of an architect so in some respects it is not very rational. However with fires in fireplaces it can be very pleasant.

They settled in and Jean-Paul, with some free time between long-distance flights, decided to go into politics and got himself elected as mayor of the village.

In March 1986, I think, Colette and I and Louise were staying with them when the Paris newspapers announced that Disney World had signed contracts that would lead to the development of a park similar to those in the U.S. and Japan, in an area adjoining Magny-le-Hongre and 4 other adjacent villages. Obviously there was great rejoicing and excitement.

Now, more than 30 years later Magny-le-Hongre is a new suburb of Paris, Disney World has brought development, a railroad station, suburban and high speed trains service and even a boulangerie and a pharmacy and other shops to Magny and now it looks more like a suburb of Los Angeles than of Paris with stone houses, gardens, trees and paved streets plus city water and sanitation.

With this introduction to Magny-le-Hongre, the next step will be some pictures but, unfortunately, not of the little town itself.

Pictures, Sunday, October 4, 2009. At 12:20 p.m., as promised, Jean Curtil, Colette’s brother-in-law, was parked at the curb in his shiny new miniature Citroen when we came downstairs and walked out onto the street. We never thought we would see the day that Jean would drive a little car, after all he has underground parking at his apartment and he really is not a small car sort of person, but there it was, new, dangerously blue and 4-doors and small and comfortable. Now the trick is to get to the highway leading up the Seine and out into the east of Paris. He followed rue de Notre Dame de Nazareth to rue St. Martin then made a right-hand turn on to Blvd. Beauberg just as lady made a left-hand turn into Blvd. Beauberg and cut in front of Jean. The sound of crumpling fenders blended melodiously with words of exclamation from Jean, that I will not repeat. He pulled to the left and parked, and the other car did the same.

However, the lady and the gentlemen behaved graciously and you can see them completing the documentation necessary for insurance. No police were called or needed, and half an hour later we were on our way.

We arrived at Magny about 40 minutes later, and went through the little garage in the rear of Julien’s house. I walked across the grass to the little storage house in the rear to take a picture of the rear terrace, then returned to the terrace to take a picture of the little storage house. Eventually it will be a rental apartment, looks nice.

From the rear terrace you take three steps down into the kitchen. Julien had a skylight put in (The French are great for skylights and they help a lot during the long dark winter). Aside from the appliances, the kitchen is pretty much as it was as a kitchen for a farmhouse.

Antoine’s companion, Maureen, was in training so Julien was father and mother, caretaker and cook for our Sunday lunch. Gwen, Julien’s companion, joined us for aperitif as Julien had taken the baby to go to Brittany to spend the week-end with his mother, Anne, Colette’s niece. Anne is recovering from cancer surgery and is relatively immobile and at home there, in a cottage overlooking the Atlantic.

Apératif was for me, and Julien, red wine, Colette, Jean and Gwen, cold juice. We also enjoyed large shrimps and little ones as well.

It is not a very flattering picture of Antoine, real estate (future) tycoon. He and Maureen have purchased another village house that they are rebuilding from the inside while maintain the original exterior. Julien sent me pictures that I will try to forward.

At table, we have completed the first course. Julien prepared a very tasty dish of monk fish in a Mediterranean sauce rich in tomatoes, onions, some garlic, and red peppers. The subject of conversation during most of the aperitif and luncheon was Villepin vs. Sarkozy, and the nature of the dispute. It is hard to understand in the context of both the French legal system and the charges and countercharges. As near as I can figure out Villepin is charged with “calumnious statements.”

Antoine’s father, Jean-Paul is separated from Colette’s niece, Anne, Jean-Paul Balcou, now retired from Air France, dropped in fromt next door. He is recovering from a nasty case of bronchitis and was not feeling sociable. Desert was the tart in front of Jean-Paul. Very yummy.

Little Arthur (with or without the h, I don’t know) now 3 years old this month, sociable and cheerful, just up from his midday nap.

Returning to Paris in the dreadful late Sunday afternoon traffic, Jean took a short cut from the Seine road to Bastille. This is part of the Paris Opera House at the Bastille. It is about a block long and wide and, for Paris, very contemporary. Colette and I have been there twice for performances and it is striking and comfortable with excellent sound. We heard Renée Fleming singing Manon. Wonderful!

October 12, 2009, Monday. It seems every Monday afternoon, during my after lunch coffee, we have a street serenade. We forced open a window so I could try to take a picture of the three musicians, one play the accordion, one behind the 30 K street sign and thus almost invisible, and the third play the French horn, relatively well. The chap behind the 30 K sign is pulling a battery-powered tape recorded that provides a lot of the music and playing a trumpet. The combination of the live and recorded is creative but is not of concert quality!

We don’t have this in Chapel Hill!

October 14, 2009, Wednesday. Be grateful that I forgot my camera otherwise you would have to enjoy, visually only, our dinners at a not very special bistro on the corner of rue du Temple and rue du Petit Thouars (don’t ask me how to pronounce it, only a native-born French speak can do it.)

After Colette and I moved out of the apartment, walked the walk (out of the apartment onto rue de N.D. de Nazareth, turn right at the corner, turn left onto rue Vertbois, walk the long block to rue de Turbigo, cross the street, and there is the hotel), the hotel (Hotel Paris France), pulling our little wheeled overnight bags after us, we found refuge in our room 46 with a third bed we did not need.

FYI The overnight bags have a special name in French, with or without wheels. It is baise-en-ville. Baiser is one of the many verbs to mean to kiss. Usually on both cheeks, which is actually an embrassade but don’t take my word for it. A baise-en-ville you would think meant “to kiss in town.” But here there is a slight change in definition as well as intention, it now becomes a more intimate exchange of affection which may include kissing on both cheeks. Look for my book-length description of this at some future time. End FYI

Colette, not as near collapse as she should have been after putting 4 loads of dirty clothes through washing and drying at a cost of E5.70 each, was tired. After we settled into our usual room with an eye-level view into the sanctuary of St. Elizabeth’s Church, and leaving my camera and magic notebook behind, I went out for a last walk around the neighborhood to identify a restaurant for dinner.

The perception of how the French eat is quite different from the reality. On occasions that demand conspicuous consumption require a certain level of restaurants, but when fatigued or at home, the level is less demanding. So I did a survey of the restaurants along the rue du Petit Thouars without camera and without notebook. The restaurant I liked best was a bit grubby, included 3 matured-aged women speaking what must have been an obscure Central European language requiring hot tea made in the bazaar fashion. The tea maker was a grubby old French man whose many rich meals were reflected in his waistline. The menu was simple, interesting and at least E 5 less than any other along the street. The other restaurants were very chic, chic, less chic but did not offer the simplicity of choice that Colette and I would prefer.

When at least I returned to the hotel, and Colette decided it was time to find something to eat, we walked the length of rue de Petit Thouars. My choice (I kept to myself) was the La Tour du Temple on the corner of rue de Temple and rue de Petit Thouars. And it was there where we finally sat down after Colette had rejected the more sophisticated choices.

The menu was uncomplicated. Colette ordered roast chicken and I ordered the classic French restaurant meal of the French workingman, steak and French fries and ¼ carafe of red wine from Cahors.

Now I AM Sorry I did not bring my camera. The wine arrived, and it was alright. Then dinner arrived and be grateful I did not have my magic digital camera. Colette’s whole chicken leg was well and thoroughly roasted, with a large helping of freshly done fries with a little green salad on the side. My steak was fine, covered with chopped parsley, and lots of fries, very hot and crisp, with a little green salad on the side. Who, as Porgie said in Gershwin’s Porgy & Bess­, can ask for anything more? The realty was as good as the impression. If I had taken my camera you would be salivating hungrily.

It was one of the better dinners I have had in France in a restaurant. Not spectacular, not great, but very satisfactory.
Perhaps some time we can do it together. I’ll show you the way, and you can pay the check that was not that much, E29 plus Colette insisted on adding E3 to the tip that was 15% of the bill, and the total did include the reduced tax on restaurant meals!