Au Revoir Paris, For Now

As much as I love Paris, I must admit that my heart belongs to the French countryside. So, looking at Paris in the rearview mirror wasn’t as difficult as I’d imagined. (Please forgive me, mon cher Paris!) Knowing we’ll be back in April for the marathon and again for a final week to finish our year certainly helped soften the blow of our departure. For now, though, it’s time to hit the road, head south and reflect on the deeply felt pleasures of our month in Paris. We’ll have plenty of car time over the next few days as we make our way towards the vineyards of Sancerre, the castles of the Dordogne and the desolate beauty of the Lot to reminisce about our favorite Parisian delights.

There’s something about Paris that allows all who visit to make the city their own and believe that she exists just for them. Is it the art, the flowers, the food, the fashion? Or perhaps it’s the bridges, the boulevards, the parks and the wine? Or maybe it’s the flowers, the lights, la Tour Eiffel and le Seine? Lovers who have come to Paris for time immemorial believe it enchanted for them and only them; her special magic is theirs and casts a spell of romance on them alone. And of course, it’s the same with us. Paris is ours and no one else could possibly experience her as we do. And we’re right, of course. Paris is ours and will always be ours. She makes us believe in the monogamous love between a city and a couple, just as she does all the other lovers who have strolled her boulevards, crossed her bridges and sipped her wine.

Paris was everything we’d dreamed and more. There were so many lovely new surprises that triggered dropped jaws and “Mon Dieu,” yet our familiar favorites made us so very happy. We managed to eat at most of the places and visit the majority of parks and addresses on our list (they’re now all highlighted in bright yellow on our Excel spreadsheet). As to the dozen or so items we didn’t get to on this visit? Well, I’ve simply added an “x” before the arrondissement, hit sort and voilà -- a lovely little file in neighborhood order of where to go when we come back. In the meantime, thousands of other couples will have made the city of light their own, but “our” Paris will still be there, waiting for our return.

Les Restos de Paris

“I drink champagne when I’m happy and when I’m sad. Sometimes I drink it when I’m alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I’m not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it – unless I’m thirsty.”  Lilly Bollinger

While I do love une coupe de champagne, and have had a few since we’ve arrived in Paris, the same can be said for un verre de vin. We’ve managed to say no to wine when we eat in our little studio, but every time we’ve gone out for dinner, it’s been too difficult to resist at least a small pichet de vin (and so we haven’t!). Maybe it’s a social thing? When we’re in the company of others, a glass of wine seems a must. I waxed poetic about our lunch at Le Grand Véfour but haven’t written in much detail about our other dining experiences at restaurants (les restos for short) – and there have been plenty.

On Friday, October 7, we celebrated our first month abroad with a dinner cruise on the Seine. Yes, they’re touristy, and yes, they’re expensive, but the food and wine are excellent and what is more beautiful and romantic than sipping a glass of champagne while gliding along the Seine, watching the lights of Paris go by? We’ve had multiple dinners in past years, including once with both Chris and Caroline, on the Bateaux Mouches, but decided to try the Bateaux Parisiens this time, a smaller, more intimate cruise line. We definitely made the right choice. The lighting was low and romantic (Joe even responded to my forlorn face when we were seated and switched our white lamp with the ginger one from the vacant table next door, thereby assuring an evening bathed in soft ochre light). The food, the jazzy live music, the city of light, and of course, the company, made for a perfect evening.

A note about restaurant lighting: as Caroline and I have agreed (we pretty much have identical tastes when it comes to dining out), if a restaurant doesn’t have just the right soft, romantic lighting, even if the food and service are perfect, it’s not going to score a perfect 10 in our book. And there are a surprising number of lit-like-a-hospital restaurants in Paris. I read that the bright light craze is fueled by a desire to look “modern,” but I’ll take old-fashioned dim any day. When I was a growing up, my grandfather Darby often took us out to dinner and what ranked first on his scale of restaurant standards was high quality food and plenty of it. And by high quality food, he meant roast beef, steak, shrimp and lobster, all accompanied by big salads and lots of starch. The ambience was of little consequence as long as our plates were full. Common criteria for those who grappled with the Depression? Perhaps. For me, however, it’s the other way around. Don’t get me wrong: I’m a foodie with the best of them, but a beautifully appointed room, warm lighting and soft music will get me every time. Such an establishment has already gone a long way towards scoring well on my report card, even before the food makes an appearance.

Getting back to my restaurant log, some of our most memorable meals have been:

·      Our very first dinner at Cafe Hugo on the Place des Vosges. Is there a meal more welcomed and delicious than the first after an exhausting overnight flight across the pond, no breakfast or lunch, and an all-afternoon nap? As Joe likes to say, “No one does simple salads better than the French,” and indeed, our first food in France, simple salades vertes with just enough creamy vinaigrette dressing were just right. Our plats of salmon and chicken with their respective sauces also fit the bill. The evening also confirmed that we were indeed in France, land of les Gauloises and les Gitanes, as all but us under the cafe awning were smoking. We resolved to eat inside more often. While smoking is still legal at outdoor tables, it is no longer allowed inside restaurants.

·      Le Procope. One of the oldest restaurants in Paris (it opened in the late 1600s), Le Procope is in the 6^th, just south of the Boulevard St. Germain. It serves delicious prix fixe meals and the ambiance is warm and the sense of history authentic. The brass nameplate behind our banquette indicated that we were at Diderot’s table.

·      Au Bon Saint Pourçain. Recommended by several travel writers, although in few guidebooks, this quaint, inexpensive, neighborhood restaurant is on the rue Servandoni, tucked beside the Église Saint-Sulpice. We stopped by one afternoon to make a reservation for that evening and were greeted by a scowling gentleman with a big, black, bushy uni-brow sitting on a chair, holding court outside the front door. “Je voudrais faire une reservation pour ce soir” I stated. He asked me at what time and for how many people and then simply affirmed, “Bon.” He didn’t write anything down, nor did he even ask our name. He declared it: we were all set. When we arrived that evening, there he was again, greeting us with a frown and handing us over to the young waitress (a granddaughter, perhaps?). As we enjoyed our straightforward, traditional French cuisine (boeuf aux olives for both of us), along with a bottle of Au Bon Pourcain’s private label wine (all you’re asked is white or red) that evening, we admired the pen-and-ink portraits of the gentleman that included his distinctive eyebrow, hung on the wall and graced the restaurant’s postcards. This family-run resto will definitely stay on our must-go-back-to list.

·      L’Atlas. Just like New York, Paris has an amazing number of ethnic restaurants. Anticipating our visit to Morocco late next month, we decided to try a North African restaurant we’d read about for a tagine (a traditional meat stew with lots of vegetables) and couscous. While the authentic decor, food and service were excellent at L’Atlas, the fluorescent lighting took away from the experience. We’re hoping we’ll find dimmer, more romantic lighting when we reach Morocco itself.

·      La Coupole. Although this expansive Montparnasse standard and 1920s expat hangout resembled a Manhattan cafeteria when we arrive one evening unfashionably early at 7:15, its personality changed completely in a matter of minutes. What was at first an impersonal and hollow hall with its bright lights and high ceilings, swiftly filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of wine glasses. It was rush hour at La Coupole as diners filed in and filled the seats. By 7:40, the place was full and our initial hesitation about choosing this famous bistro disappeared as we joined the buzz of conversation. The food was terrific and we continued to marvel at the speed with which patrons arrived.

·      L’As du Falafel. When Caroline studied in Paris two summers ago, the University of Arizona program was located in the Marais. Back then, she told us that one of her and her classmates’ favorite haunts for lunch was L’As du Falafel on the rue des Rosiers in the old Jewish neighborhood. Caroline is a falafel connoisseur and if she suggested it, we knew it would be good. On one of our trips to this ancient quarter, we sought out her recommendation. For a mere 5 euros, we had a warm, fresh-baked pita stuffed with falafel, shaved cabbage, grilled eggplant, chopped tomatoes and tahini sauce. It’s definitely one of the best budget meals in the city and we returned before leaving Paris.

·      Chez Louisette. Our one visit to this bizarre saloon will definitely be our last, but we’re happy for the experience. What a strange place from another time! Our stomachs were growling fiercely and we were in desperate need of an escape from the maze of the Paris flea market, Le Marché aux Puces. There were too many aggressive hawkers selling too much junk and we weren’t enjoying our visit at all, so we followed the music and ducked into this red-checkered tablecloth joint down a narrow alley on the edge of the market. A mix of sideshow and frat party, Chez Louisette featured a man on the accordion and a woman in her 70s belting out Edith Piaf standards up on a raised platform. Green, red and gold tinsel hung unevenly from the ceiling over long tables set for communal meals. The carnival effect was amusing for a while (I actually did enjoy her rendition of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien). However, the food was mediocre, the subsequent singers were not as good as “Edith” and when the hat was passed after every three songs, we’d had enough. I was never a huge fan of the circus – it always seemed a little sad – and this place was a little too much “circus” for me.

·      Relais de Venise. Just down the boulevard from the busy Porte Maillot is a steak/frites restaurant with a winning formula. It’s so perfect, in fact, that I’m sure it’s the inspiration for Cleveland Park’s relatively new Medium Rare bistro in in Washington, DC. The Relais serves one thing, salad/steak/frites and all you get to choose is your wine, how your steak is cooked and if you want dessert. How the two eateries operate is identical: no reservations (the line forms outside the door); you’re served a simple salad (in DC the lettuce is topped with tomatoes and in Paris with finely minced walnuts); the steak is sliced and comes with a “secret sauce” -- of course, the one in Paris was slightly better – a delicious green herb concoction reeking with garlic; the frites are shoestring and salty; you’re served one portion from a metal tray and then get seconds once you’ve cleared your plate. The Relais de Venise was packed at 7:30 on the Wednesday of our visit (extremely early for a dinner crowd in France). We waited outside for about 30 minutes with the locals until a table for two freed up. Elbow to elbow with the other diners, we enjoyed our classic steak/frites and delighted in being part of the theater.

·      Café Laurent. I wish that we had known about this lovely jazz bar when we came to France in the summer of 2003 with my Mom and Dad. They would have loved it, although I’m not sure my Dad would have like the fact that he couldn’t get a good American martini (if you order a martini in France, they bring you a Martini & Rossi) or the 14 euro price of a French coffee (it’s simply too delicious to even try to describe the taste of its perfect blend of coffee, Grand Marnier and whipped cream). But for the price of an expensive drink, you get a long, lovely evening of sophisticated music and perfect tawny lighting(!) on a comfortable banquette in a lively quartier of Paris. Pas très cher, all considered. The cafe is in the gorgeous and classy but low-key boutique Hotel d’Aubusson at 33 rue Dauphine in Saint Germain. Christian Bernard is at the piano and the way he hunches over the piano to coax his expressive, jazzy style from the keys made us think of Schroeder, of Peanuts fame. Each night he plays with different “invited musician friends,” but he is what makes the music special. We wished we’d discovered this comfortable cafe earlier in our month; we made it there twice but we would have become regulars.

·      Carmine’s. We all yearn for familiarity even when we’re home and it becomes even more essential when we’re abroad. Our favorite neighborhood restaurant at home was Renato’s in downtown Potomac, MD, and we went there every Friday for take-out eggplant parmesan and about once a month for a dinner out. It’s the Cheers effect: everyone knew our names at Renato’s and they made us feel at home. And while not everyone there knew our names, Carmine’s became our Friday night go-to resto, the warm, friendly French-Italian bistro on the corner of the rue de Suffren and la place Joffre. It was easy and familiar and they make Paris’s best pizzas.

We’ve relished eating out in Paris but the food and the wines and the restaurants of the southwest beckon. While we’ll no longer be in Paris, there will certainly continue to be many verres de vin and coupes de champagne in our future.

Golden Rings and Other Scams

Joe and I pride ourselves on not falling for scams when abroad. But it’s one thing to read about what to avoid in guidebooks and on blogs, and yet another to experience it first-hand. The other day we were walking along the river, admiring the sweep of the Seine and the beauty of the tropical greenery of the Musée Branly. Out-of-the-blue, a clean-cut young man swooped down in front of us and then popped back up with a shiny gold ring in his hand. “C’est a vous Madame/Monsieur?” he asked. I firmly replied, “non,” it was not ours and without even looking at him, we purposefully walked on. He’d tried his ruse just as we’d read to expect. Had we been unaware and hesitated for even a moment about the 10-cent brass ring he presented, he would have told us that the ring he’d found on the path was not his, and that he couldn’t possibly keep it for himself. When we finally relented and took the ring, he would have told us that he’d just lost his job/was having trouble feeding his new baby/had sick parents who were in trouble – just fill in the blank – in the hope that we’d pass along a few euros. The next day I was running on the opposite bank of the Seine and just as I passed by, a ruddy-faced, babushka-wearing peasant woman tried the same scam on a Scandinavian-accented English-speaking couple pushing a stroller. I would have intervened, but they appeared not to be falling for the golden ring trick either.

And then there are the teenaged Romanian gypsy “deaf-mute” girls scurrying around the Champ de Mars and near La Place de la Concorde looking for victims. I recently walked behind a bevy of them, dressed as typical teens but with cardboard clipboards and pens in hand, as they chatted effusively and made their way under La Tour Eiffel. At the wave of some invisible hand, they scattered. Approaching unsuspecting tourists, they shook their heads, repeatedly passing their fingers in front of their mouths and ears, indicating that they could neither hear nor speak. It appeared to me that their communication faculties were in perfect order as I’d followed them across the Pont d’Iéna to their champs of battle. They each carry a petition asking anyone who takes the time to read it to sign in support of help for their deaf/mute lot. And once you stop, take pity and add your signature to their appeal (which actually cites the names of legitimate charity groups), they grab your sleeve and pester you until you relent, giving them their “minimum 5 euro donation.” Periodically, the three-soldier, machine gun wielding French army teams in burgundy berets that patrol the major Parisian sights appear from around a corner and the teens instantly fold their clipboards and scatter like mice. What amazes me is that people actually fall for this stunt and give these girls money. Doesn’t the fact that their clipboards are ragged pieces of cardboard tip them off?

Not quite to the same degree, but cons nevertheless, are the waiters who attempt to get you to add tips on top of tips. By law, all eating establishment bills include a service charge for les serveurs so it is not necessary to leave anything in addition. If you pay with cash, it’s customary to leave any loose coins you may have received as change, but I have yet to see a French person who pays with a credit card, in cafes and fine restaurants alike, leave an additional tip in cash. French restaurant credit card slips don’t include a space for a tip so it’s not even possible to add one on your own. We did, however, have a waiter on the touristy Place du Tertre on Montmartre, try to give himself an extra tip. Our bill for dinner was something like 79 euros and Joe handed over his Amex to pay. The waiter came over with his handy-dandy, hand-held credit card machine and asked, “quatre-vingts cinq (85), OK?” “Non,” Joe replied nicely, and pointed to the 79 figure on the bill. No harm, no foul. Joe signed, the waiter smiled and we were on our way. We’ve also had one waiter and one waitress tell us that service was included on our bill but not the tip. I’m just happy we understand what that actually means: the tip is included but not an extra tip. Leaving some loose change here and there is hardly a problem, but a year’s worth of double-tipping would do some real damage to our budget.

Paris as Pygmalion

There’s woman in our neighborhood who looks like a birthday cake. The first time I saw her, she was sitting at an outside table at the corner brasserie with a double-decker platter of shellfish in front of her. She was all by herself, but appeared to be having a lovely time. I was running a routine errand at the local Monoprix (I take that back -- is any errand in Paris simply routine?), and as I rounded the corner of the brasserie’s terrace a splash of color caught my eye. Was I seeing straight? There, amidst the blacks and grays and browns of the café crowd, was a woman bedecked in Lilly Pulitzer frosting colors of candy pink and lime green and canary yellow. I turned back, retraced my steps and slowly came back around the corner a second time. I wanted to be sure to capture all the details so I could share every one of them with Joe. Was this confectionary vision really sitting at our corner café? Decades beyond “a certain age,” she sat straight and dignified and I could tell, even seated, that she carried herself regally. On her head was piled a multi-layered hat of no fewer than half a dozen floppy fabric brims, each just a bit smaller than the one underneath, giving the effect of a multi-tiered birthday cake. On the Mad Hatter’s arms were numerous wooden bracelets of varying thickness, and from her ears dangled intertwining loops, all painted with flowers in colors that matched her chapeau. The table concealed what she wore below the waist but around her shoulders was a satin cape-of-many-colors, and around her neck a scarf (what else?), all vivid and floral and dazzling. As if the candy colors were not brilliant enough, her hat and her cape were festooned with silk flowers and ribbons, all adding to the birthday cake effect. My gaze finally made it to her face, much of it hidden by the brims of her hat, but her infinite deep wrinkles were in full maquillage, including rouge on her cheeks and bright pink on her lips, which she was careful not to smudge as she delicately slurped back an oyster.

I continued my trip in search of yogurt and coffee but couldn’t get this woman out of my head. She was still in her seat, enjoying her seafood, as I made my way home that afternoon. I wondered if Joe would believe my description or would he think I was making it up, exaggerating what I’d seen for the sake of a story?

Two days later as we headed home from La Motte-Piquet metro stop, there she was, slowly crossing the street in multi-colored sartorial splendor. Her birthday cake hat was again what first caught my eye. “There she is!” I exclaimed. “You see, she really does exist!” This time I could see her fully upright, all the way down to her painfully thin legs in her bright pink tights and lace-up mauve shoes. She was maudlin and magnificent and melancholy – all at once. Who was this woman and what went through her mind as she prepared herself to go out into the world each morning? Did she see her confectionary costume the way others did and giggle just a little?

I’ve concluded that our colorful neighbor in pink and green loves what she sees in the mirror. If not, how would she move with such grace and carry herself so proudly? Despite the stares and whispers as she passes by, she believes she is beautiful and struts her stuff with aplomb. Perhaps Paris has a Pygmalion effect on all who are fortunate enough to visit her. She believes we’re beautiful, charming and confident and so we live up to her every expectation.

Paris is Burning

Although the first several days after arriving in Paris were cold, gloomy and damp, they were perfect for catching up on sleep and warding off jet lag. For the past three weeks, however, it’s been a glorious Indian summer: clear, blue skies, no humidity and getting progressively warmer. Temperatures have broken through the 80-degree mark multiple times and the last gasp of summer is winning the weather battle for now. We’re close to experiencing the canicule (one of my favorite French words, meaning heat wave) because even the evenings provide little relief from the heat. Don’t let anyone tell you that Parisians don’t wear shorts. When it’s hot, they do indeed and the shorter the better. No, they don’t wear them with sneakers or Birkenstocks (those are the Americans and the Germans), but they do wear them with strappy, healed sandals and stilettos. And no matter the temperature, they sport scarves: striped and solid, bulky and delicate, muslin and wool (only men and women over 70 wear scarves of the silky Hermès variety). Most scarves are tied in a Parisian knot (fold it in half across the middle, drape it around your neck, insert the loose ends through the loop hanging in front and pull them through), although we've seen many more than on past trips of the loopped-multiple-times-around-the-neck-with-just-a-bit-of-a-loose-tail-hanging-down-in-front type. Over the past few sweltering days, many Parisians have kept their scarves in their armoires, but there are still the die-hards who continue to wrap their necks despite the temperature. Are French necklines more susceptible to the cold than the rest of the world’s? Or is it a corporate plot by the Paris scarf purveyors that has convinced the citizenry that they must cover their necks?

Since we’re now into October, I must admit that I’m longing for fall color and except for some luminous yellow poplars at Versailles, there is only brown to be witnessed. The French term for autumn foliage is les feuilles mortes, literally dead leaves, and I can see that it’s an apt expression of what we’re seeing in Paris. From green to gone appears to be the life cycle of Parisian leaves. The city of light has many splendors, but autumn color is not among them. I do recall some semblance of New England glory the fall I spent in Tours, but there’s no evidence of this in Paris. We’ll soon be deep into the countryside down in the Dordogne, Lot and Aude departments and we’re hoping to find some fall color once we’ve left the city. The flowers are fading quickly, their early brown spots exacerbated by the heat and the pink and purple dahlias have lost their crisp edges. I recently ran by the Tuileries flowerbeds whose brilliance we sat next to only last week and they’ve have already faded several shades, the lines among the colors blurred.

We took advantage of the beautiful weather and headed to the Bois de Boulogne over the weekend for a run. On previous trips we’d only walked along the border of the huge park on the western limit of Paris but we read that it is a great spot for runners so we decided to explore. Completely unlike what I expected, the park is covered with thickets of trees except for two lovely lakes and two giant hippodromes. I would have been better prepared about what to expect had I paid attention to the first part of its name: bois, meaning woods. I was looking forward to expansive green vistas and at least a few flowers since the Bois de Boulogne is described by some guidebooks as “one of the most spectacular parks in Europe.” While it is large, it’s definitely not my favorite park in Paris (I’ll take Les Buttes Chaumont, Le Jardin de Luxembourg or the Parc Monceau any day). I have to admit, however, that it was terrific for running. Hundreds of chalky, limestone sand paths criss-cross the woods and the circuit of the lakes was wonderful since the people-watching distracted me from the pains in my thighs. As on the city streets, you can immediately distinguish the French – the men wear running shorts à la Bill Clinton (the short kind he wore before his handlers convinced him they weren’t presidential) and the women wear long black leggings (they're fine with exposing their long bare legs in micro-minis on the Boulevard St. Germain, but certainly not while running in public -- mon Dieu!). Neither the men nor the women wear what we would call “proper running shoes.” Their footwear consists of Puma-like flats that appear to provide little cushion or support. Joe and I both did eight miles through the park, each taking our own route since my pace, compared to his, is anemic. That day the temperature reached a sizzling 88 degrees and we sat for a long time on a park bench trading stories of our individual courses and sucking back multiple cold water bottles. Parisians were out in droves and we watched walkers and runners pass by as we cooled down. Families with babies in poussettes, lovers with arms entwined and hands in each other's back pockets and groups of young-people-sweating-in-scarves leisurely ambled by. Parisians have perfected the art of strolling and try as we might, we still have to work very hard to deliberately walk so slowly.

Lower, seasonal temperatures in the 60s are predicted for the end of the week and we’ll welcome the change in weather. Surely the investors in scarf futures want cooler temperatures to prevail and I’m looking forward to wearing the two new scarves Joe bought me at the Boulevard Raspail's open-air market yesterday. Although he drew the line at getting a scarf for himself, we’re doing our best to be Parisian.

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

I attempted to use the second combination appliance in our studio last week. We were out all day and decided to have a light dinner of bread and cheese at home. There are no preservatives in French baguettes so they go stale very quickly but are delicious when toasted. After our experience with our washer/dryer hybrid, we were hesitant to use the microwave/toaster combo. (Any piece of clothing whose light color we have any hope of preserving, we now wash by hand in the kitchen sink.) But being the brave couple we are, and with one of us the bearer of a master’s degree in engineering, we figured that our dual-purpose oven was at least worth a try.

The oven has three settings: microwave, broil and grill. I experimented with broil and it worked just fine. My trial baguette toasted to a perfect golden brown but the process took almost 10 minutes. It seems that the grill setting, which provides heat only from above, is somewhat anemic. So, I added two more slices of baguette, switched the setting to grill -- which heats from above AND below -- decreased the timer to three minutes and hit start. With heat now coming from both directions, surely it would take less time to turn our bread to toast. I turned my attention to unwrapping the cheese and putting the butter on a plate. After about a minute and a half, something was going terribly wrong. Clouds of smoke started billowing from the oven, and I don’t mean just delicate wisps. Joe jumped up to open our solitary window as I yanked open the oven door. I should have left it closed. Our baguettes had turned into charcoal briquettes in the space of 90 seconds and were spewing more smoke than our eyes and our studio could handle. What is it with these combo appliances? The clothes washer boils water and the toaster oven goes from zero to 750 degrees instantly! When I was a student in the Loire Valley, I owned nothing electrical of substance. I lived in a bedroom with a small bathroom and the only thing I owned with a plug was an electric coil to boil water for coffee: I had no hairdryer, no combo washer/dryer and certainly no microwave/toaster.

About 10 minutes after the conflagration subsided and we’d fanned most of the smoke out the window and into the hallway, the older woman who lives above us knocked loudly on our door. “Tout va bien?” she inquired with some urgency, and continued to ask in French if we’d had a fire; “Il y a de la fumée!” she exclaimed. “Non, Madame, tout va bien ici.” “Everything’s fine here,” I responded calmly, too embarrassed to admit our guilt.

A few days later I suggested to Joe that we try cooking dinner at home. He gave me a look that clearly communicated, “Are you nuts?” And he was right. If I’d tried to make soup that evening, the stovetop we have yet to turn on would have overheated, the lentils, leeks and peas I was sautéing would have exploded and our upstairs neighbor would again be knocking on our door. This time, however, hiding my guilt would not be an option as légumes dripped from the ceiling.

This Ain’t Boot Camp

We’ve been doing a good job of following a leisurely pace here in Paris, knowing we’re lucky enough to have lots of time to explore. We channel the spirit of my sister-in-law, Laura, as we plan our time. Several days into her postnuptial trip with my brother, Rich, Laura stopped, put her foot down mid-sprint along the Seine and folded her arms defiantly. “Slow down! I did NOT sign up for honeymoon boot camp,” she commanded as my well-meaning brother dragged her across the capitals of Europe. We keep Laura’s mandate in mind and limit ourselves to just a couple of things on our to-see list for each day.

Neither of us misses the nonstop, frenetic, must-get-out-of-bed-in-the-morning pace of full-time work. But after too many days of doing the grasse matinée thing and sleeping ‘til lunchtime, we’ve decided to put ourselves on some kind of schedule. It is so incredibly easy to just stay in bed and sleep – especially when there is little natural light in our studio to help waken us. We’ve determined that consistently sleeping in leads to lethargy and so we’ve added some discipline to our days. The alarm goes off at 7, we’re out of bed by 7:30, tune into France Vingt-Quatre for the news, have our breakfast while catching up on world events, emails and apartment chores and then head out the door by 10:30. Some structure is a kindly and necessary partner when unlimited time is yours.

Joe and I have settled nicely into the roles with which we’re most comfortable: I do the bookkeeping and he handles the electronics; I’m in charge of maps and navigation and he gets us on the right bus and metro; I do the communicating with the locals and he keeps us current via the New York Times; I do the dishes and he sweeps the floors. Doing what we’re good at complements our daily routine and adds to our contentment.

We’ve all heard that electronic spreadsheets were the killer application that launched the personal computer revolution. But I suspect the creators of VisiCalc did not envisage their excellent app as a tremendous travel tool. I’ve mentioned before that I tend to think in spreadsheets. (Confession: I occasionally suffer from obsessive-compulsive tendencies and as my friend Davida has noted, OCD never goes on vacation.) Joe and I created an Excel list compiled from our trusty Frommer’s guide, years of newspaper and magazine clippings, Internet sites, recommendations from friends and anecdotes from strangers, of all the things we’d like to see and all the restaurants we want to try in Paris. I then added the number of the corresponding arrondissement to the to-do/see/eat/drink list in a separate column, sorted the list by the neighborhood number and voilà! -- a perfectly organized roadmap for our jaunts in Paris. All our destinations in the 4^th -- the Marais quarter – are now grouped together (the Musée Carnavelet on the history of Paris, Victor Hugo’s Home, the Mariage Frères Maison de Thé and L’As du Falafel), so we can very easily map our route for the day. It’s much like the system I used to work a tradeshow: I listed all the companies I wanted to see, added their booth numbers from the show directory, hit sort and then started walking up and down the aisles numerically, checking off each exhibitor as I visited. It helps that Paris has a numerical quartier system that lends itself to spreadsheets, but I’m sure we’ll use the same system for future cities. We’ll just substitute the names of neighborhoods for numbers and let Excel suggest our itinerary. There’s little more satisfying to me than the discovery of a timesaving system, especially when it helps me see and do more in Paris. But this is definitely not Gap Year Boot Camp. Our arrondissement spreadsheets are friendly guides that let us wander more efficiently but don’t dictate our pace.

Parisian Arrondissements 101: Never having been a resident of Paris before, I was not an expert on the Parisian neighborhood numbering system when we arrived. Those I know who have lived here refer to the arrondissement numbers with ease: “That museum’s in the 5^th; I lived in the 9^th; my favorite cafe is in the 11^th.” One of my goals for our stay in Paris is to increase my fluency in the arrandissement vernacular. I’m proud to say I’m much better now than when we arrived and I’ve picked up some helpful hints along the way:

• The 20 arrondissements are arranged in a spiral circle -- think  escargot shell -- with the Louvre and Palais Royals in the 1^st in the center.
• Those in the know refer to the arrondissement by number only; you simply say “I live in the 7^th,” never, “I live in the 7^th arrondissement.”
• The first two numbers in a city’s ZIP code indicate in which of the 96 continental departments of France, numbered more or less alphabetically, it is located. The last two numbers signal a location’s arrondissement. Example: our apartment’s address is 49, avenue de Suffren, 75007 Paris. Paris is number 75 on the list of departments and we are in the 7^th arrondissement (oops, I mean we’re simply in the 7^th). It’s all so French, that is to say, logical.
• Each arrondissement actually has it’s own governing body with its own Hôtel de Ville (city hall) and mayor. Of course, the city of Paris overall has its own Hôtel de Ville and mayor as well, but from what I’ve read, each of the local leaders has significant power over what takes place in his or her neighborhood.
• And finally, most of the lovely deep blue and green painted street signs affixed to the corner of buildings wherever streets intersect, list the arrondissement in which you find yourself.