Ach! The Arc!

We trudged up the steps from the Metro to the street and whoop, there it was! The Arc de Trumphe! Napolean's arch of victory! I could just imagine, that little guy with the big war horse and his hand slipped between the buttons of his waistcoat marching his men through this magnificent monument after 123 victorious campaigns! It stands in the radius of traffic. The steady surge motorcades round and round restrict all but dare devils to willing to risk crossing the streets to actually stand beneath the arch. But we got our pictures!

Tromping the Champs Elysees

( photo by Anna Thoreson)

I dreamed I shopped in Paris! Oh wait. It wasn't a dream. I did shop in Paris! After the Eiffel tower we mosied passed the exclusive shops and stores on Champs Elysees: big names, big bucks, no bargins there. We did find a shop or two with reasonable prices. I saw a skirt I liked but unfortuneately (or fortuneately for the pocketbook) I'm not a size 6.
Nonetheless, we much enjoyed seeing the fashions, browsing the storewindows, oohing and ooh-la-la-ing all wares and whatnots of Parisian merchandizing!
Of course Anna had to check out the windows of a major jewler! Myself, I was taken by the extravagent furnishings like an all glass diningroom table, with blown glass legs, accompanied by zebra high back chairs. The horse statue in the corner didn't escape my notice either.

When I oggled the very modern handsome white leather davenport, one of my daughters said to me, "But Mom, it's so modern. I didn't think you liked anything that was modern." Well, even though it wouldn't go well with the decor in the cave, I'm not that much of a neanderthol that I can't appreciate style of all eras! Did I ever say that antiques were the only lovely and worthwile home furnishings? Je si ne pense pas !( I don't think so!)
Some of the stores windows were gayly hand painted. Anna took note of the artwork for scrapbooking purposes, I suppose.
The rest of the day we wandered about the streets of Paris taking in every turn and twist of quaint and seemingly quiet neighborhoods.
The hot chocolate's boost of the lite breakfast that morning was wearing off. So we grabbed a bite eat. then hopped on the Metro that hummed and halted every stop until we were reunited with Richard Lenoir. Exhausted and happy, we three agreed that if we had to go back home the next day, we would be content for all we had seen that day. But, we still had six days and a lot more of Paris to explore!

Artists weren't the only locals we rubbed elbows with on our way to the Eiffle Tower. We knew there was unrest in the suburbs, but had no idea of what was brewing in the City of Lights itself. My first impression of Paris and its inhabitants was that it was an edgey city. It seemed very tense. It was striking to me that everyone, except maybe the younger children, everyone wore dark coats: black or grey or navy. The only color worn was in a scarf - and they all wore scarves - cleverly arranged in "hangman's noose" fashion. It looked smart. And I imagine it is to impress the observer with sophistication. But taken all together, they looked like a city in mourning.
Even when a bevy of white lab-coated demonstrators passed us, we still didn't get it.
The armed soldiers patroling the Eiffel Tower were a grim reminder that we live in the days of constant terrorist threat.
Still, that first day, and for several days after, we roamed the city completely oblivious of the powder keg that was about to explode! (photos by Charlotte Chan)



But once we were at the Eiffle, we were so swept by its very presence, we had a photo frezny! I was absolutely intrigued how something made of iron girders could loom so gracefully against the sky and the landscape. We went up to the second level for pictures, lunch, and a postcard writting sesson. We met a mother with her boys traveling with family, on their way to meet Mickey Mouse. That was the Paris I had hoped to see, to visit with the people and experience life in a culture older, and decidely different than our own.
Imagine all the famous people who have visited this place. I was taken by the small framed poster commemorating Lindeberg's flight. He and so many other reknown individuals have come to this epidomy of Parisian life and culture.
As you approach the Eiffel tower you are met by a momumental glass wall upon which is written Peace in every known language. By meeting the people, visiting with them in their own language - my fumbling French, perhaps in some small way, I could offer my part to make for peace.

Travelling Companions

These are my two traveling companions. Aside from the family resemblance, they are as different as East from West. And I couldn't have gone to Paris without them. Anna mapped our path and Charlotte watched my step. It took all three of us to move my luggage up and down countless stairs. (By the way, Paris is NOT handicap accessible.) The girls would go ahead of me down or up the steps, one would stay with the suitcases while the other came back for mine. They got their work out for sure on this trip. And because they are both very different, both loving, and very loved, we went places and saw things I on my own probably would not have elected to do.
But we were all in agreement that the first site to see was the Eiffel (see entry for Tues March 28th: Eiffel is an Eye-ful). Under Anna's direction we picked our way through
the Metro and streets until the Eiffle came plainly into view. On our way we stopped to admire the handiwork of a painter. Anna particularly like the Eiffel in blue. "Combien?", "How much?" I asked. "Soisantes Euros.." Sixty dollars. Now I'm a soft touch for a hungry artist...especially the tall ones with the wavey dark hair and blue eyes, but I learned my lesson with the Dish Net sales guy... no more impulse buying for me! Seeing the pupils tighten in my eyes, the painter offered, "Cinqante Euros." Fifty Euros. Ok. now I've done this before. I have haggeled with an Arab Baptist in Bethlehem over a silver cross and won the it for half the original cost...and he threw in the box chain to boot! Then Charlotte piped up, "Oh Mom, we could do this. If I pay half and you pay half." The painter plodded, "How much will you give for it?" Already my mind had done the math, at half I'd go 40 Euros and no more. After all, this was our first day and we had a whole week of unkown expeditures ahead of us. The painter flashed the canvass again. I could see the light in Anna's eyes, and Charlotte already to dive into her purse. "Forty Euros," he said as though he were selling his grandmother to the Gypsies. But he was very pleasant about it and with as much relief and satisfaction, Charlotte and I bought the painting as a keepsake for Anna who tenderly rolled it up with joy and appreciation. Of all the photos we took, I only regret not getting one of our nameless artist.

Going Postal in Paris

Ok. I confess. I am a shameless TOURIST! I have Mickey Mouse Ears from Disney World, Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox salt and pepper shakers from Bemidji Minnesota, and somewhere I'm sure I still have a penant that hails the Illinois Tollway. So what do I do my first day in Paris? Load up on postcards, of course. I figure, "Well, if I mail them today they might get to the States before I get back home." ( I was home three days before John and Drew got theirs!) Then I had to load up on postage - 55 Euro cents an lick and each postcard required two stamps! I left the souvenir store with 30 Euros of postcards and postage! (Thats 36 yankee bucks!)
So, what can you write on a postcard the first morning you are in Paris other than, "Hey, I'm in Paris!" Actually, bu the time this picture was taken at the souvenir shop, we had already seen quite a little before lunch! It was Sunday morning. We were walking along Richard Lenoir to catch a metro to the Eiffle Tower and decided to first see what was along the boulevard. That's when we discovered Le Marcher; an open-air market stretched over many blocks - clear to the Bastille Square. Now I am not one to shop on Sunday, but this I had to see, experience, and photo journal. It was blocks and blocks of canopied venders selling everything from fish to fruit, purses, posies, souvenirs

rotissary chicken, candles, jewlery, skirts, hardware, scarves. The color, the smells, the local flavor of Sunday Market was all a part of the Paris Experience I would have never wanted to miss. The flowers!




(photos by Charlotte)

It was probably the brightest day we had in Paris. Walking in the brisk morning air among the people at market was delightful march to the music of a live band gathered at the base of the monument marking the most visited non-site in Paris: the place where the Bastille once stood!
The girls and I were enjoying the lively music when a very stange looking weaving man wafting of alcohol waltzed up to me sputtering something in French. I could not understand him and before I knew it he was in my face poking my shoulder. I clutched my purse and tried to back away, but bumped into people in the crowd. In a moment Anna and Charlotte had saddled up to me grabbed my elbows on either side swiftly guided me out of the crowd. The intruder followed us but we were able to escape his drunken chase.
When we finally sat down on a bench for our light supplementary breakfast of oranges and bottled water, I checked my purse. He had gotten in it, but the only thing missing was a breakfast bar. Had it not been for the girls timely intervention, he would have had my wallet! So what should I write on my postcards? "Dear Mother and Dad, Here I am in Paris at the open air market. Got accosted by a street crazy. Having a wonderful time..." I think not. So we hopped a Metro and headed for the Eiffel Tower. Anna and Char said, "Leave it to Mom to get mugged on the first day in Paris." Sitting there in the market place, munching on a marvelously sweet orange, mulling over the episode, a curious thought came to me..."Well if I had to get accosted in the streets of Paris, I'm glad it happened the first day. Got it over with. Been there. done that, and I even got a T shirt.

Musings on the Metro, Richard Lenoir, and the Hostel we called "Home"

Here we are
At the Metro with Richard Lenoir:
No matter where in Paree we roam
Richard and the Metro got us home.

Richard Lenoir was the name of the station that was, to quote Rich Stevens, "50 meters ahead and turn left at the light" from the front door of our humble abode: a hostel we called home. The Metro is like any other subway: underground, dirty, noisy, smelly, and absolutely a God-send for getting around in the city. (photo by Anna Thoreson) (personal portfolio) ( photo by Anna Thoreson)
The Metro is unlike any other subway: mosaics and reproductions of the masters on the walls sandwiched between grafitti and lewd billboards that would pass for porn in the States, and live music of every kind of genre from calypso to classical - even music from Schindler's list...but that is another blog entry. During rush hour it is a sardine can on roller skates. A week's pass
(16 Euros - under $20) assures seven days of mobility in the city with endless entertainment opportunities like free stare down contests with the commuters, and front row stadium seating at student demonstrations. (That too is another blog entry yet to come.) The Metro courses through the underground of Paris and skirts with the RER to service the outlining suburbs. It keeps Paris light on its feet...and boy, were we on our feet for blocks, and blocks, miles! (photo courtesy of Charlotte Chan)
The Metro is stage to the would be performer, podium to the impassioned demonstrator, and home to the unfortuneate. (\

Home for almost a week was a youth hostel known as Saint Sebastian. Now most people of my age would flinch at the thought of attempting a nights sleep after a long day of touristing in a hotel accomodation bouyed by the rantings and brawling of men and women in the prime of their youth. And I would sympathize with them, heartily. However, it was invigerating to hear the patter of Nikes stomping on the stairs, the chirpy yips and giggles of high girlish voices playing pranks on their macho counterparts...at 11 PM. midnight, 1:00 AM, till dawn. For several days and nights the youth hostel was flooded with youth who would, unbeknowns to us at the time, later that week become hostile. But that too is for another blog entry. Suffice it to say, we were comfortable in our dorm like quarters; a room roughly 10 x 12 ft. that once had been two smaller rooms, furnished with three cot-like beds, warm blankets, and a bath so private, only one person could be in it at a time!
(Photo by Charlotte Chan)
But after a full day of touring what more did we need than a place to shower, munch on fresh bread and quiche, then crash?
In a clean neighborhood, it was a great place to hang out.



Besides, this room came with added amenities of open

air refridgeration for our fresh fruit and bottled water!


And every morning there was the complementery petite dejuner..very petite dejuner of coffee, hot chocolate, or tea, chocolate bread and french bread with strawberry jam. And so, that is how we passed the nights and early mornings in Paris...well, most nights, but that is another blog entry!Bon Nuit mes amis chers!

Paris a la carte

Our phones and internet were down for the last four days. Sorry my tale was interrupted. This time I'll start from the beginning. Over a year ago Charlotte (the one on the right) decided she wanted to give Anna (the one on the left) something really nice. "What are you wanting to give her?" I (the one in the middle) asked. And without hesitation, Charlotte replied, "A trip to Paris" That is really nice. And then Charlotte said, "I wish you could come Mom, but I can't afford to send you too!" To which I replied, "Let me pray about it, and if the Lord provides, I'll go with." To which the Lord replied and provided! So Char was the inspiration. It was to be a "no tours - no schedules - hang out - see sights -week long trip in Paris. March 17 we boarded BMI flight non stop Chicago to Manchester England. (Before this trip did I know of such a place called Manchester? I had never heard of BMI).
This was Anna's first International airplane ride! On the three hour road trip from Champaigne to O'Hare airport, Anna confessed that she couldn't get the tune out of her head "I'm leaving on a jet plane.." (I brushed up on so much French that when the canned music at work played "Look what the've done to my song, Ma", what I heard was Ils sont changer ma chanson, ma) The novelty of music, movies, video games on board the jumbo jet paled in comparison to the tastey meals served in compact dishes on neat little trays topped off with Ben and Jerry's chocolate ice cream and a Kit Kat bar..Gotta love the Brits!

Charlotte took with her all the comforts of home: her favorite pillow. I brought a WalMart U shaped flight pillow which looked like a good idea until I was in my seat on the plane and inflated the thing! It's a whoopie cushion for your cranium! Even the ear plugs which came with it were well nigh useless. Anna gave me the extra pair of ear plugs she had along, about the size of transisters (from a radio of the sixties) and the consistancy of marshmellows, They worked so well that I couldn't hear passengers laughing about my flight pillow.
(photos courtesy of Anna)


There was a brief layover in Manchester, then we were in the air again skipping the English puddle to the shores of France (that took a lot of Gaul...a little joke there). When we landed in Paris (General De Gaulle International Airport) all our luggage came through, but we lost eight hours.

Once in the French airport (I thought it was a cute place, but no, it was terminal) Anna got busy deciphering our transportation mode and route to our hotel. She had purchased and studied a guidebook authored by Rick Stevens who, on more than one occasion, was our hero. She narrated his take on every museum and sight we visited. He was our constant companion. With good old Rick at hand and Anna in the lead, I never had to say, Pardon, monsieur, nous sommes egare! "Pardon sir, we are lost!"
Rick never lied and Anna didn't steer us wrong. Because when you're a foreigner in a strange land as pricey as Paris a bum steer still means high steaks.. (corny-fed humor, I know. I live in Iowa, what can I say...) [Anna and Rick: photo courtesy of Charlotte]

My next blog: Musings on the Metro, Richard Lenoir, and the Hostel we called 'home'.