vacation – Diary of Ann Franks

Versailles: More Food and Less Sense

Published on October 29, 2023October 29, 2023 by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

Finally! We were installed into the room we had been clamoring for. Two balconies, no waiting. A view over the park, and below us, the Gordon Ramsey restaurant patio umbrellas were unfurled. I spent the mid-day at the spa, receiving a lovely massage from a young woman who apologetically told me she was from Brazil and trying to learn English but wasn’t very good at it yet. Between my pidgin French (which means I can converse with a pigeon, but not a French person) and my grasp of high school Spanish, we managed to get by pretty well. Smiles and gestures go a long way.) And yes, I know they speak Portuguese in Brazil – but similarities allowed us a few exchanges that made sense. I think.

That evening, the Michelin parade began again. This time, we dined at Le Pincemin, a cozy restaurant on the street level of boulevard du Roi – walking distance from our hotel. We were warmly welcomed – if yet again denied anything resembling an American martini. So, we sipped vodka on ice, munched on to-die-for bread and admired our surroundings.

I think this was my favorite dining experience of the entire trip. The waiter explained everything to us – telling us for instance, where the ingredients of the various dishes came from nearby, since we were avidly interested. I think he was enjoying us too, since he seemed to show up at our table and visit rather than placing plates and running scared.

As we wrapped up our trip through culinary heaven, Xavier Pincemin himself appeared from the kitchen and made his way table-to-table, visiting with guests. We were the last ones on his trip clockwise through the dining room, and he chatted quite some time. It seems he is considering opening a restaurant in the States and while I pressed for Dallas, Robert was sending him to Scottsdale for some reason. Go figure. But he was charming and not in a hurry to get away from us, so it was a nice way to end such a perfect evening.

The following day, we attempted our usual perusal of Versailles to see how things were holding up. Beautifully, as it turns out. We picked the right day, because crowds were somewhat sparse – until they weren’t.

A few of my favorite palace sites –

As the crowds thickened, we ventured outside to walk to The Queen’s Hamlet. Each time, I feel like we see new things. probably just visual overload, as everywhere you look is something interesting. The first image, of a Virginia juniper tree, was already nicknamed “the old tree” on postcards as far back as 1900. The say it was planted by Napolean I during the restoration. A violent storm in 1999 left it in this state, though it somehow continues to survive.

The last two images are of the giant sequoia which was planted in 1870. It is 24 feet in circumference and 124 feet tall.

Marie Antoinette’s Hamlet was charming as ever – although Robert didn’t have his bonding moment with the swans this time.

It was quite warm out – even for people coming from a Texas summer, so we meandered back to our hotel and had a refreshing beverage on the patio before getting cleaned up for our last Michelin dinner at La Table du 11. At this point, since we are nearing the end of our journey, I am just rested enough that I notice things I have merely shrugged off before. For instance, these restaurants in Paris and Versailles provide the most amazing thing, and best idea ever. A little stool for your purse. They’re small, so they don’t get terribly in the way, and they allow you to keep your bag within reach – not hanging on the back of your chair or lying on the ground. I think the concept is genius. Is anyone doing this in the States? (Ignore the fact my travel crossbody bag doesn’t deserve to be off the ground.)

I’m sure chef Jean-Baptiste Lavergne-Morazzani and crew were delighted when we looked at the menu and told the waiter we were not in the mood for another evening of seafood. “Please help,” we begged with puppy dog eyes. Boy, did they deliver the options.

So, another perfectly wonderful meal and a nightcap downstairs at our hotel where we reviewed our plan for our final day in Versailles. Strangely, which would consist of a return to Paris.

One of the items that had never been crossed off our list when visiting Paris was a visit to Montmartre to see Sacré-Cœur Basilica. It is also one of the places I had done the least research about. We took the train rather than hiring a cab, and arrived around lunchtime. We found the funicular tram that carries you to the top of the hill, and regretted it immediately. SO CROWDED AND HOT. To recover, we sat on a short stone wall and stared at what was still a decent climb to get to the basilica. Luckily, at this point we noticed the Little Train of Montmartre and bought a ticket. It took us on a guided tour of the area through streets lined with restaurants, shops, apartments and porn stores. Aha! So this is where Moulin Rouge is, too! Overall, the little town feel I was expecting was not realized. It made us think of Times Square before it was cleaned up and made more family-friendly,

When the train circled back to Sacré-Cœur we stepped off and climbed the steps to enter. Now this was worth the trip. (Although, probably not worth the trip from Versailles.) But still, it was awe-inspiring.

Afterward, we managed to find our way back to Versailles, where Robert finally got his soak in the tub overlooking the garden.

Seriously, that bathroom was worth waiting for.

For dinner, we decided to try a nearby Chinese restaurant that was well within walking distance. We sat outside on the patio and discussed our plans for departure the next morning. It was the perfect no frills end to a pretty frilly trip. After dinner, we walked back down a side street toward our hotel and stopped at the closed gates to the palace, near the Queen’s garden that runs by the Waldorf. While Robert grasped the gate rails and whimpered farewell, I took a photo of the lonely fountain.

Once back at the hotel, we paused to photograph Robert in his usual state of mischief. He couldn’t resist the police car out front, keeping watch over the rugby guests from Wales who were in town competing for the World Cup.

Aside from a very poor decision to try to drink the last of the vodka in our minifridge that resulted in my stepping from the shower at around 1:00 AM to find Robert broadcasting fart noises from his portable speaker over the Gordon Ramsey umbrellas below (which was apparently met with loud giggles from the ladies and gentlemen), our last night was uneventful. Rest assured, I now know he cannot be trusted with sound effects and a speaker. It was pretty funny how pleased he was with himself. Since we didn’t get reprimanded or kicked out, I let it go.

We actually managed to wake up in time for a nice breakfast and coffee on the patio downstairs before jumping in a cab for the airport.

Luckily, this time around, it was a non-stop from De Gualle to Dallas, where the dogs (ours and the grand dogs) were awaiting our arrival.

Versailles of Relief

Published on September 30, 2023 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

Saturday morning, everyone was scheduled to depart. The family was headed to the airport for their flights home, while Robert and I were going to finish packing and grab a cab to Versailles. I had to take a photo as the gang was leaving. My mother-in-law made me think of a mother duck with her little ducklings trailing behind, all in a line.

We had a great cabdriver on the way to Versailles. His name was Karim and he treated us to all sorts of suggestions for outings around Versailles – from a horseback ride through the forest to a drive to Honfleur, a semi-nearby beach town. Didn’t follow through on any of them, but we did consider changing a few of the items on our itinerary.

Here’s where hotel room fun began. We had reservations at the Waldorf Astoria Trianon Palace, where we stayed on our previous two visits. Robert requested a room with a view of the Queen’s garden. While you could see the garden, it was really a view of the swimming pool, with the garden visible if you hoisted yourself over the TV and turned your head to the left, where you could catch a slim peek of green parkland. Robert harrumphed and retreated downstairs where he was told we could change rooms the next day for one with a better view. Relieved of unpacking everything, we relaxed until time for dinner.

Next was a walk up the hill to the Palace for dinner at Ore. We had tickets for Les Grandes Eaux Nocturnes, the nighttime fountain and light show on the grounds. Ore is located in a portion of the palace buildings and like the original palace, we discovered it apparently had no air conditioning, As the day was in the upper 80s, we were both feeling overdressed rather quickly. Robert was thinking he would have to remove his dress shirt and sit there in his undershirt. Luckily, waitstaff kept moving past us rather quickly, creating just enough of a breeze that we made it through the meal without stripping or fainting.

The meal was prix fixe and paired with champagne and several wines. First course was wild mushrooms, grape and sorrel gourmet casserole. Remind me that I should add grapes to more dishes in the future. Next was medallion of monkfish in saffron broth with fennel, then my favorite, chicken and foie gras pithiviers and herb salad. For dessert, roasted figs, blackcurrant, and yogurt ice cream.

Having stuffed ourselves in a very kingly and queenly manner, we walked out toward the fountain show just as the sun was setting.

As usual, the fountains are my favorite thing, and since they aren’t on during the daytime, it’s exciting to see them in their glory at night.

Now, confession here. We didn’t refresh our memory on how this whole fountain and light show is organized, and trying to study a map in the dark by cell phone light was less than perfect. I have some suggestions for the show organizers that involve some lighted pathways with colored lights to indicate where the “in” opening is and where the “out” route lies. However, we saw enough, including the big fire finale before being directed out the Palace gates toward our hotel. Once at the hotel, we retreated to the patio seating/dining area and ordered vodka on the rocks, while I placed the ice pack Robert had retrieved from our room on my very overworked foot. (Foot on the rocks.)

We went a little off script from our itinerary during the remainder of the trip to accommodate my willingness to walk all over God’s (and King Louis’) creation. That walk uphill over cobblestones to the Palace is NOT friendly. One of the first few days we decided we should do the golf cart tour – a wise decision by my husband. We drove the golf cart ourselves, staying within the prescribed pathway – else the cart would stop running. It was helpful in once again acquainting ourselves with the grounds and possible options for getting me to the Trianon Palace, Hamlet and Petite Trianon with as little walking as possible.

Robert is a huge fan of the Palace grounds. He would like to structure our yard after them, but fortunately we don’t have that much acreage or I’d never see him again. I did take a photo of some topiaries I would like him to attempt for us. (That should keep him entertained.) And we ALMOST got the best photo ever. ALMOST. We spotted a lawn mower and I joked he should go over and act like he’s mowing while I get a shot of him with the palace in the background. Everyone who knows him knows that would likely be his dream job. To my horror, he took off like a shot, waving me along to follow him as he tried to find a quick route to the mower. Luckily, before we got too far, a landscaper returned to claim it.

That night we took it easy and ordered room service in our 2nd room at the hotel. Which we were not fans of and had already asked to change a third time the following day. They tried to tell us all the rooms were the same – but we knew better. (At this point they were still very friendly to us but I knew they were getting annoyed.) Somewhere was a room with a view of the garden, and TWO balconies – one off the bedroom, and one off the bath. By golly, we were going to find that room if it drove all of us insane. Because THEN I could finally unpack. But in the meantime, dinner and much needed rest.

Seeing the Sights

Published on September 24, 2023 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

We did something in Paris this time around that we have never done before. We explored fashion. Not shopping, because I despise shopping, but via museums. First was the Palais Galliera, where we wandered through an exhibition titled Fashion on the Move. We spent more time than intended because it was so fascinating. For instance, this was what one wore for cycling around 1900.

My other favorite was a tailored suit. Invented in Great Britain in the 1880s, the suit was very popular. But just before World War One, women began using the tailored suit for recreational activities. You see, women at the time had taken up a form of power walking the French called “footing,” and this was considered the most appropriate clothing for such an activity.

Yep, nothing says, “Let’s go for a workout,” like a nice blue suit.

Next up was La Galerie Dior. This was definitely a hot ticket. The line stretched halfway down the block. Luckily, we had a reservation so were led right in, once Robert was able to locate the electronic confirmation on his phone, which spent much of the time in France being exceedingly unhelpful.

Once inside, we came to a screeching halt. Before us was a towering entry of glowing perfection. Small Dior creations in every color. Everyone had the same reaction – wide eyes and big smiles. Men, women, and children united in fashion euphoria.

Here’s a shot of just a couple of levels.

There was so much to see and so many beautiful things, it was overwhelming. I wanted one of everything.

One of the most interesting things was a brief explanation of the fashion design process. We stood in a room surrounded by white clothes as the young man told us how designs are sketched, then cut into patterns, then something like a white muslin is used to create the form. From there, they try different fabrics and textures to determine what will best suit the vision they have in mind.

The following day was The Louvre. Since it was Robert’s birthday, he got to pick his wing, and he chose his favorite, the Richelieu. We couldn’t resist a silly photo.

(Seems this fellow wanted to borrow Robert’s phone.)

After seeing enough statues to fill a museum (get it?) we wandered by the French Crown jewels on the way out. I didn’t get as many photos of those as I would like because suddenly it was as though every human being in Paris decided to converge on The Louvre and block our view of everything.

At that point, we masked up and headed through the way too crowded museum, making a beeline for the exit, which took a much longer time to locate than one would think. I mean seriously. Those exits are HIDDEN.

The following day, we packed and got into a cab to Versailles where more food awaited, but hopefully a good deal less walking.

France: We Came, We Saw, We Ate

Published on September 17, 2023September 19, 2023 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

One of the things Robert loves most about Paris and Versailles is the challenge of scheduling as many meals as possible at Michelin Star restaurants. What I didn’t realize because I hadn’t exactly studied the itineraries he kept tweaking (Sssshhh, don’t tell him), was that just a few days into the trip I already felt like a goose destined to become fois gras.

The first night everyone was in town we had reservations at Helen (The Cult of Fish). A couple of challenges here. One was that Robert’s mom and I were both craving a nice cocktail before dinner, like an old fashioned or a dirty martini. We were told they had an Aperol spritzer and either a white or red martini. Not interested in the Aperol spritzer for the evening and frightened of what a red or white martini might be, we took a hard pass and moved on to wine. As it turns out, after a quick Google session, the white and red martinis are actually straight vermouth, so I am patting myself on the back for that game-time decision. Second challenge was the menu was not available in English. The waitress did try to talk us through the unfamiliar items but it was a tad stressful. Several of us took the reliable but unimaginative option of the lobster, which was good, but I have to say I missed the usual accompaniments of lemon and warm butter, without which life just isn’t really worth living. So, while the service was superb and the company excellent, I for one walked away a little underwhelmed. I apologize for having no photos of the food to share as I was jetlagged and intimidated.

The following day, lunch reservations for four at restaurant Anne at Le Pavillon de la Reine Hotel were changed to reservations for two due to an outbreak of Covid amongst some family members who had been on a river cruise before meeting us in Paris. Since I knew we also had reservations aboard the dinner cruise, Bateaux Parisiens, I put my sore foot down and refused the three or four course luncheon and opted for a simple gaspacho and a chocolate souffle. The restaurant is in the courtyard of a five-star hotel and named for Anne of Austria, Queen of France in the 17th century who lived in the wing separating the residence from the Place des Vosges – the oldest square in Paris.

The host operates out of this beautiful basket as hotel guests pass back and forth from the square.

I cannot tell you how sad I am that I have no photos of the gaspacho, but who expected gaspacho to put on a show? The chilled tomato soup held a bright yellow ball of melon – like tennis ball sized ball. From what I could make out of the instructions given, it was frozen and when they poured something else delicious into my bowl I was to “Wait and eat it slowly”?? I found out what they meant when the ball cracked and started to dissolve. it was hollow inside but for some dainty croutons. It was refreshing and just perfect for a light lunch.

Next up, the river cruise, and sadly, still down two of our tribe. We were led to a long table at the very bow of the boat with a view uninterrupted by other diners. The dinner lasts a couple of hours+ as you float up and down the Seine, with the waitstaff racing from table to table delivering food and drinks and tidbits about the sights as they pass. “That is the Louvre!” they point as they deliver more bread rolls.

Although obviously not a Michelin restaurant, the food was quite good.

I enjoyed a plethora of things I should be ashamed to be eating if I want to be politically correct, but when in France… so I had the fois gras, the veal, cheeses and the peach cake with raspberry coulis. And look! I actually stopped stuffing my face long enough to snap a photo or two.

The following day we had lunch scheduled at Le Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower. You may (or may not) recall Robert and I have eaten there each time we’ve been to Paris. The first time it was Michelin two star. The following time, it had lost a star and we were definitely unimpressed with the service. I believe in my previous blog about it I referred to the meal as a “hostage situation.”

I am delighted to report that not only was the food spectacular, but the service was the most enjoyable we’d yet to encounter. The staff was friendly and funny. (Whether they meant to be humorous or not is beside the point.) Our waiter asked if we have a champagne we prefer, and after freezing up for a moment thinking of the brands we slip into orange juice on a Sunday morning, we blurted “Veuve Cliquot?” To which he responded with a shrug, “Well, if you like champagne you get at a petrol station.” Ouch. Just ouch.

I believe we did a 5-course tasting menu… or maybe not. I’m telling you, it is all a blur. But it was a work of art that involved a pre-amuse-bouche, an amuse-bouche, crab, langoustine, a risotto, a pre-dessert and an apricot dessert (or chocolate if you hadn’t already had a souffle the previous day). Don’t ask which image is which as I have maybe not taken one at the beginning?? I need a keeper.

And there you have it food-wise, at least for the Paris.

We did go to a favorite of Robert’s discovered via watching Anthony Bourdain, but I am sad to say it was really not good this time around. This was doubly depressing because it was his birthday and his chosen destination.

Next up… Paris sights, then we head to Versailles where there was, of course, more food and more to see.

DAY THREE: DOES THIS BUS GO TO THE CEMETERY?

Published on September 25, 2016July 1, 2025 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

Have I mentioned my husband planned our trip and each day before we left the hotel, in addition to patching my heels with moleskin, I was asked, “Do you have the itinerary?”

Today’s itinerary would take us on the ten cent tour of Paris via bus 69. Bus 69 has no A/C and we still opted to take it, because Rick Steves said it’s an inexpensive way to see a lot of tourist destinations without taking cabs or the metro. Rick is made of sterner stuff than I, that’s for sure.

I was seriously miserable and frantically fanning myself with the itinerary. (What do ya’ know? It IS totally useful!) We’d almost get moving fast enough to feel a breeze through the barely open windows when the bus stopped again to do what buses do – let people off and on.

I will admit, driving through the narrow streets of the little neighborhoods was a different perspective than I’d experienced in the past via cabs. Unfortunately, I think our tour was less successful than Rick’s because we didn’t know where we were exactly and were having to refer to the book (via smart phone) to determine if we were passing anything of interest or not.

Robert took pity on me in the early afternoon and we hopped off to eat at a cafe on a busy street. When in doubt – feed and drink Ann. That’s our motto. Cafe D’arsenal was exactly what I needed. We took our time, ate croque monsieur and had a glass of rosé while watching the world go by on a lazy Friday.

Oops. Wait. Remember the yellow jacket from Day One? It found me again. Landing all over my plate and wine glass. Lazy time = over. We jumped back on the bus to reach our destination – Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

We fumbled with the trusty (cough) Rick Steves app after entering the cemetery. Quite a few other people were there obviously looking for Jim Morrison. I was so distracted by everything else I saw, namely tombs, open tombs, collapsed tombs, tombs with open doors, tomb doors with so many cobwebs I didn’t stop having invisible spider heeby-jeebies for the next 6 hours – I didn’t care if we found Jim or not. I was more concerned about what might find us. Why were all these open? Had the inhabitants flown the coop? Robert and I couldn’t resist edging close to a large crack in one concrete structure and peering into it to see if there was anything to see. There wasn’t. Probably all for the best, as I would definitely not have been able to outrun anyone that day.

(Jim Morrison)

We made our way over to say hello to Oscar Wilde. I was sad to see they’d enclosed his tomb and cleaned the lipstick kisses off of it. (Although I’m sure the family having to pay to have it cleaned all the time was probably a pain.)

Back on the bus – and to our new favorite cafe – D’aresenal. It was nearly 5:00 on Friday evening so we made ourselves comfortable and had another glass of rosé. Or two. Then, for some reason, possibly because we scrunched together to open up an additional table for the host, he brought us our check and another glass each. Hiccup.

At this point we decided we were too worn out to go to the Louvre (which was open until 9:45 that night and the next item on the itinerary) and decided we’d better just get some dinner. We entered Chez Denise – a loud, crowded restaurant and bar and were squeezed in at the end of a long table. Here we experienced our first truly French waiter. We also learned that, unlike in the states, the customer DOES NOT always know best. Robert ordered beef jowl and I ordered cod. I took one bite of that cod and pushed the plate away. It was what I technically call, “Icky.” When the waiter eventually ran out of other people to serve, he returned and looked at my full plate with one raised eyebrow. Robert told him it wasn’t fresh.

The waiter said, “Yes. It’s fresh.”

“No. It is not,” Robert chuckled a bit.

“Yes it is,” Monsieur Waiter snapped. “Where are you from?”

“Texas,” Robert responded. I knew we’d just lost.

“Texas. Harrumph.”

Told you.

He whisked the plated fish away, still proclaiming its freshness. When our l’addition arrived the full price of the week-old cod was proudly displayed. He’s lucky I’d had those three glasses of relaxing, mellow rosé before coming to dinner. And those two glasses with dinner. I’m surprised I didn’t hug him. That would’ve been the final insult, I’m sure.

Day 4 (when Amy (the Countess Magnificent-Joy) & Dave join us for fun and games) AND possibly Day 5 up next!

DAY TWO: PRISONERS AT LE JULES VERNE

Published on September 17, 2016April 30, 2022 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

In honor of Robert’s birthday – we overslept – surprise! Then we got carried away at the breakfast buffet in the hotel and ate too much before heading out to locate the Eiffel Tower, where we had a 1:00 lunch reservation at Le Jules Verne. We’d been to Le Jules Verne during our previous trip four years ago and it had been a highlight of the trip. At that time it was a two star Michelin restaurant. During our absence they lost a star. We would soon know why.

Video ascending the Eiffel Tower.

The service and food were impeccable. I totally won the order war. Robert requested guinea fowl and I ordered lamb.

It looked as though we were going to have another perfect experience – until something happened. I can only assume the manager who had been present throughout the early part of our meal waved goodbye to his staff and left for the day because they suddenly forgot they were waiting on us, and instead every table in the restaurant was waiting on them.

Waiting for a refill of water. A refill of wine. A check. Anything.

We are familiar with lengthy meals and taking our time, but truly, service (or lack thereof) was obviously how they’d lost that star. The staff hovered between the dining rooms, chatting with each other and ignoring their tables. It was a sour note on what had been such a promising start. A chorus of “l’addition!” rang out when one of the wait staff mistakenly wandered back into the dining room.

Once we paid the bill – or “ransom” as I called it, we descended and walked through the Champ de Mars toward the Musée de l’Armée.

If you have a chance to visit the Musee de l’Armée and it is more than 80 degrees outside, DON’T GO. Not kidding.

The museum itself is fascinating, especially the medieval weaponry and armor as far as I’m concerned, but we began to realize as we made our way chronologically through the various sections, that air conditioning was non-existent. There are no words for how miserable we were. Wait. Yes there are: Hot, sticky, sweaty, Sweet baby Jesus…

Much like the Germans, we rushed into WWI haphazardly and made straight for WWII heated, offended and destined for disappointment.

Eventually, we gave up trying to soak up the history and dragged ourselves toward the exit. The last stop of the day was the Dome de Invalides, where we sought Napolean’s tomb. Here is where my ignorance knew no bounds. We approached an archway to our right, where I began snapping photos of what I thought was the little guy’s tomb. It was impressive indeed.

Then we realized it wasn’t his. This is one of those times the ability to read French would be really handy. We noticed a good deal of people looking over a railing in the center of the room and made our way over. What did we see? A freaking ridiculously oversized “tomb.” Seriously. Talk about compensating!

Note: Napolean lies within six separate coffins. They are made of iron, mahogany, two of lead, ebony, and an outer one of red porphyry. Don’t ask me why.

After fooling around and taking photos of Robert with the gargantuan repository of Monsieur Bonaparte, we caught a cab back to the hotel, cleaned up, and strolled to a quaint neighborhood café near the market, L’Atelier Du Marché.

Here, we were having a lovely evening when in came a pack of screeching American women. Approximately six of them came in sounding like twice as many. The table behind us, with two men and a woman (all French) turned annoyed eyes on the group and one issued a few sharp, “shhh, shhhh, shhhhh” reprimand. Surprise! They didn’t hear – or care. We went from being able to talk quietly to each other over a relaxed meal to discussing how best to shut them up without bloodshed. We felt it necessary to apologize to the owner and our server on behalf of all Americans. They kindly accepted and assured us most guests were NOT like the ones that were currently spoiling everyone’s evening.

As we exited, Robert stopped at their table and stood staring at them all, shaking his head. I’m sure they missed the subtle hint that they were rude hyenas.

Most rude hyenas do.

Day 3 to come!

ADVENTURES IN FRANCE AGAIN. FINALLY. XO

Published on September 10, 2016October 26, 2022 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

I’m going to try to blog each day of the trip to Paris and Versailles for my own sake as much as hopefully someone’s reading pleasure or at the very least, travel-tip assist. Let’s see if I can remember each day over the next week or two it will take me to think back and record. Ha! This should be interesting.

After planning for months and months (and years) by my husband Robert, we set out for our second trip to Paris and Versailles. The first leg was a flight from DFW to Chicago; the second, Chicago to Paris. Unlike our first trip four years ago, I found I had no time on the plane for blogging or reading. I have no idea what I did to take up all that time – unless it was eating. And drinking. And that five hour nap. Next thing I knew I was awakened by an announcement that we were less than 90 minutes away from landing. I quickly assessed my priorities and decided watching Pride & Prejudice and Zombies was numero uno.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t made it through more than maybe 45 minutes before I had to shut down and start actually trying to refresh myself in the horrible airplane bathroom. Side note: On the way home I’ve decided I’ll use bottled water to put my contacts in and will brush my teeth at my seat rather than enter that domain again. Seriously. Can a flight attendant put on a plastic glove and maybe just shove all the paper towels that are pouring out of the swinging trash door down into the trash for us all? Take a stick to it, I don’t care. I just know I’m not touching any of it. But I’m not being paid to ensure people’s comfort and well-being like a flight attendant might be. With regard to the lavatories, they’re more bystander than attendant.

Anywho…

From Charles de Gualle Airport we cabbed it to the Renaissance Arc de Triomphe Hotel. Our home for the next 5 nights. The lobby was too trendy for words, with uncomfortable looking chairs made from grocery carts. Or made to look like grocery carts. Because (Heads up!) grocery carts are totally hip. You heard it here first.

The equally trendy and attractive staff was friendly and polite, speaking enough English and us enough French to get by nicely. That means they were fluent and we were capable of saying yes, no and thank you, all with equal enthusiasm. We also seemed to acquire French accents when speaking English. “A” for effort, I suppose. By the end of the trip we were holding conversations with wait staff and salespeople in which we slipped in and out of saying “oui” and “yes” as though we were so bi-lingual we just never knew in what language we might speak. When all else failed, the poorly performed French accent, like Inspector Clouseau, served just as well. (We’re delusional.)
When the room was ready we put a few things up and walked down the Champs Elysees to Tuileries Garden. By the time we got there I had a blister on the back of each heel. So much for the walking boots. We made the decision I needed enough wine to forget the blisters. Now I know why I’ve worn the brown boots, not the black boots around Cardiff, London, Paris and Versailles over the past 5 years. Madden Girl boots. They were my best travel purchase ever.

We decided to try to numb my heel, or my self pity, with wine and cheese, so we sat in the garden and ate charcuterie at Cafe des Marronniers until we were delirious. Here began my ongoing relationship with a yellow jacket that stalked me the rest of our time in Paris and on to Versailles. But that’s another story.

As my heel was feeling a tad better and the yellow jacket was becoming more aggressive, we shuffled on to Musee de l’Orangerie because – Monet. The moment I walked into the first cycle of Water Lilies, I welled up. Like four years ago, I tried to get as close as my father would to examine every stroke. Which is why I was reprimanded by the guard. I responded with an enthusiastic, “Merci!”

After cabbing it back to the hotel, Robert went to Nicolas (the nearby wine store) while I put my feet up. We had dinner on the balcony looking at the Eiffel Tower and the Arc. (We’re on a first name basis now, the Arc de Triomphe and I.)

Robert can book an amazing hotel room. It’s his super power.

We toasted the first day of our vacation and then…

We slept. Soundly. After all, tomorrow’s itinerary was waiting. The Eiffel Tower and Le Jules Verne for lunch…

LONDON DAY SEVEN: THE DISAPPEARING POST

Published on September 4, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

Oh my GOODNESS! I was just glancing back through the London posts to try to remember what we did when. There is NO POST FOR DAY SEVEN! WTF?? I KNOW I wrote about Day 7. It was all about Hampton Court. The all day adventure. Then, the return to the pub (our home away from home) and the late night stroll to Westminster Bridge. This is totally ringing a bell for me, but I see no trace of it on the iPad, or on my laptop. If you read it and it somehow became deleted, then please ignore. Then again, this version may be vastly different from the original. After all, it’s been weeks since we did whatever it was we did.

Let’s see. Since we were obviously on the Royal Tour, what with all the castles we’d been in, we HAD to hit Hampton Court. Plus, it’s where Henry VIII lived and where he ordered Catherine Howard’s head to be removed from her body. Like those Barbie doll heads little girls have that you can apply make-up and hairstyles to.

Anywhoo, this was about a 45 minute trip to Hampton Court via Tube and train. We had NO IDEA Hampton Court was as large as it was. OR that it had way too many people living in it at different times. Thomas Wolsey, Henry VIII, William and Mary… There would have been plenty of room for all of them at once, really. The tour was possibly my favorite. No doubt due to Henry. Being in his chapel and knowing that people still worship there today was mind-blowing. Seeing the painting of his family I’d only seen in books was pretty amazing as well. Although if I had been his current wife at the time (which I THINK was Catherine?) I’d have been pretty ticked off that he put his late wife in the painting instead of me.)

Throughout the tour, in my head, I kept saying, “Henry? Henry? Are you here? Come on, just one little sign. Pretty please?” He is obviously STILL not an accommodating monarch. I had zero goosebumps or shadow visions.

The gardens were gorgeous as well, but my feet weighed about 20 pounds each so I shuffled more than sauntered. Too late, we saw a horse-drawn carriage circling ahead of us as it took the SMART people on a tour of the garden.

In the evening, we became desperate and daring as time was running out. Sandy wanted photos of Westminster Abbey at night and had convinced me that a ride on the Eye might be the perfect ending to Day 7. One out of two. She took some beautiful shots of Westminster from across the bridge. I took some iPhone images so as to not feel left out.

We approached the EYE after that, but it was not accepting riders. It must have been under repair because lots of men were standing around looking at it and scratching their chins. Hey, I may be from out-of-town, but I know what it looks like when a man is hard at work. No matter where he’s from.

And thus ended Day 7. At least, as far as I can remember. I’m sure it also involved a glass of wine, a struggle with the iPad and a feeble attempt to stream photos from my iPhone to the iPad.

Someday I’ll figure out all this technology that is supposed to save us so much time but keeps me awake until after midnight while on vacation. (And then loses my post somehow.)

Now, back to real life and temperatures of 105 degrees.

LONDON DAY EIGHT: THE SHOPPING CURSE

Published on August 16, 2013August 16, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

On our last day, we really felt the pressure to accomplish some of the things we hadn’t yet. Therefore, we set off to the Borough Market, which was closed the first time we tried, in order to get the infamous grilled cheese sandwich.

And oh, what a sandwich it was. The cook dumped in mounds of cheese into a container, then would take the bread and scoop huge amounts onto it, and press it in a panini type grill. At one point, he would add the combination of red onion and leeks. He eventually wrapped it in tissue paper and handed to us, as our eyes bulged from their sockets. Heart attack on bread.

We had to take pictures, because that’s the kind of dorks we are. Plus, we wanted to make everyone crave our sandwiches. Success.

We browsed the market, which is amazing. It’s crowded, but smells and tastes like heaven.

Luckily, Sandy spotted a Prosecco booth and I was able to take a bubblicious time out.

Afterward, we hopped on the Tube and arrived at Selfridge’s. Because we like the TV Show, and Jeremy Piven. After purchasing some surprises for my husband, we hopped back on the subway for Harrod’s. There we purchased more surprises and fought through crowds that make the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade look tame. These excursions cost me dearly. Not financially, but mentally. I despise crowds AND shopping, so it was the perfect storm for me to totally lose it. Somehow, I managed to not freak out and Sandy realized the imperative was to get me to the hotel for a drink to calm my nerves. Sandy is very smart.

After a small glass of wine, we decided to knock out one more item on the to-do list and hit Trafalgar Square. Guess what? A million people were there.

I became punch drunk and decided you all needed this joke.

Guess what?

Chicken butt.

Sorry.

We ate a scrumptious dinner and retired to our rooms where we began packing for our return trip. Our greatest regret is that we never made it into a museum. Sandy wanted to see the Rosetta Stone. I guess another trip is in the future, with less of the Royal Tour, as Sandy calls it, and more theatre and museums.

We shall return.

Thanks, London. It was incredible!

P.S. We overheard two different women today shout, “S#!t!!” And neither of them was me!!!

Win.

See y’all soon!

LONDON DAY FOUR: MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR

Published on August 12, 2013August 13, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

Exhaustion hit last night, so when some sort of alarm went off at 1:45 AM that quickly turned off again, I couldn’t be bothered. Like a cat in a bath, Sandy instantly levitated from the bed, evidently concerned about fire or some such and kept talking to me and waking me back up until I asked her to look out the window and see if people were exiting the hotel. When she reported in the negative I sank back to unconsciousness without a worry. Today we discovered an alarm in the kitchen went off, but all was fine. Which is good, because I wasn’t going ANYWHERE at 1:45 AM. Somehow in the hub-bub, our clock alarm became unset, so, had we not ordered a breakfast delivery for 7:45, we would not have awoken until the call from our delightful tour guide, Jannine.

Breaking all records for showering, make-up and hair styling, Sandy and I staggered into the back seat of the van and fell prey to the soothing tones of what can best be described as a blonde Emma Thompson. I could swear our guide sounded just like her in “Love Actually.” I just hope she introduces us to her brother, the Hugh Grant look-alike.

Our tour today was laid out in a sort of triangle. We headed for the first stop, Avebury. The village of Avebury has a ring of standing stones running right through it. Many are missing, but small pedestal type rocks mark the places where they are missing. Here, unlike Stonehenge, we are able to touch the stones. A large ditch surrounds the inner circle. These are Neolithic ruins, and the process for raising them involved a great deal of ingenuity. Also unlike Stonehenge, these stones are not shaped to specifics. They are more organic looking, as if boulders rose to stand at attention. One third of their length is buried in the ground.

As we left the field and made our way out the gate, Sandy took a misstep. By the time I whipped around, it appeared she had tumbled head over arse down the three stone steps. I have since been informed she merely SLID. There was no flipping involved. Although slightly damaged, she bounced to her feet and carried on. Bully for Sandy! I could not have recovered with quite the aplomb.

Next stop was Glastonbury, reputed burial ground of King Arthur and Guinevere. On the way there, Jannine pointed out the hedgerows lining either side of the road and told us many are being destroyed to take advantage of as much planting field as possible. There is actually a group now named “Save the Hedgerows.” I envisioned Hugh Grant earnestly speaking to me on the telly saying, “Join me and Save the Hedgerows.” I’m in, Hugh, I’m in.

At Glastonbury we visited the thorn tree, reputedly from the crucifixion of Christ that Joseph of Aramathea planted when he stuck his staff in the ground. (Joseph was an uncle of Jesus’ and helped him carry the cross.) According to legend, the tree weeps blood at Christmas. This is confirmed by a friend of our tour guide, who claims to have a cutting. How said cutting was acquired has not been answered.

We also saw the spot where the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere were found. The woman had long flaxen hair, but when the priests touched it, it turned to dust. They moved the remains to another spot near the high alter, where a marker sits today.

Next, we ventured on to Stonehenge. Approximately a jillion people were in line. Buses unloaded hordes of Japanese tourists and elderlies. Jannine skipped ahead to speak with the ticket agents, purchased two passes for Sandy and me, and we happily pushed our ways through the jumble to enter the walkway that leads to the stones, no doubt cutting half an hour off our time.

Awesome is the only word to describe this mystery. TV, movies and photos do not reveal the amazing sensation of being in the presence of the stones. Every angle reveals a new perspective that must be photographed. The stones are aligned so on the day of the summer solstice and winter solstice, the sun is perfectly aligned with the structure. Jannine said the people who constructed it must have watched for two years. They are fitted together like giant Legos, with knobs on the standing stones allowing the cup of the top stones to seat. Also, the stones used were not from this area. each portion of England has very distinct strata layers and within a fifty mile radius, you could have villages and fences made of gray stone, cream colored stone, chalk, etc. These stones, which weighed tons, came from Wales and another location approximately 50 miles from the site. Why haul stone from such a distance when they could use local stone? Who knows. However, you can tell why people are not allowed to tough them anymore. The green lichen are visible on the upper most part of the stones, but are non-existent on the lower 2/3rd.

After snapping a ridiculous amount of photos and remarking on the way the clouds in England make us strangely happy, we left for the hotel. Our assumption about the clouds is that we see so few in Texas in Summer they seem romantic and mystical now.

To entertain us on the way back, I asked about tourist behavior. Having experienced a number of obnoxious tourists at the site, I tried to get our guide to reveal the worst country of origin in her experience. As I determined, Germans are among them, as are the Italians.

Told ya’ so.

Tomorrow we go to “Buck House,” Buckingham Palace, and on the The Globe to see The Tempest. I look forward to viewing a play by Shakespeare in the exact manner Elizabeth I would have viewed it. Unless I fall asleep, which is possible.

By the way, if you visit, make sure you get a blue badge guide. They are certified by the government. Apparently around 1,000 apply each year and they are weeded down to 200, many of whom speak multiple languages. They are graded on knowledge, entertainment, and presentation ability. It is well worth it to get a good one and maximize your experience. Sandy and I were lucky enough to be able to book ours for a private tour, but group tours are available as well.