vacation – Page 2 – Diary of Ann Franks

LONDON DAY TWO: THE TOWER

Published on August 9, 2013August 11, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

Sandy and I were tired enough last night to go to sleep in a room that was approximately 80 degrees last night. Not exaggerating. Dave and Amy were expected by 9:30 AM to join us on a trip to The Tower. They were also responsible for deciding what sort of Tube tickets we needed for the week. After purchasing a 6 day Oyster card we made our way to The Tower, where much to our admiration of Rick Steves there was not a line to enter. Apparently being first or last to enter is the primo goal. Amy was in charge of the map, and our first destination was the Tower Jewels. Unfortunately, no cameras were allowed, so I have no photos of the crowns,p acceptors, swords and orbs that had us bouncing up and down on or toes and Dave requesting that Amy not hold up her engagement ring/ wedding and to make a comparison. This was sage advice as some of the stones were 150 carats. What we wanted to know sort was how much some of these items weighed. We finally came across a plaque that told us one of the crowns weighed 5 lbs.

After our first trek down the living sidewalk past the jewels, Amy pulled aside a Beefeater who explained which crowns were used for what to this day and which crowns Charles and Camilla would wear. We were relieved to hear the crown for the Princess of Wales was actually kept in Wales, and that out of respect, Camilla would not wear it. After breathing a sigh of relief, we made the circle and went past the jewels again as Amy recited all her new found information.

We visited the Torture chamber, the Salt Tower and the gift shop, of course. Amy was a game hostess and posed for us in several of the displays.

We hopped onto the tail end of a Beefeater tour and entered the chapel, where seated on the pews, we heard the tragic stories of Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, and Catherine Howard, all of whom were beheaded and buried under the alter of the chapel. Once back outside, I approached the green, where the executions took place, and photographed the memorial. By some miracle, everyone moved out of my way and I snapped a shot, but you’ll notice a pair of pink tennis shoes in the frame. I prefer to think that was a playful symbol of Lady Jane, executed at age 16 and Queen for 9 days.

We skipped the White Tower in lieu of a cheeseburger along the South Bank, but will definitely try to return later this week.

After lunch, we made our way across Tower Bridge and back the The Tube to locate Fortnum & Mason, where we had reservations for tea, thanks to Amy. We shopped a bit and picked up some souvenirs, tried on some fascinators, and then went to tea, realizing we should not have eaten so much at lunch.

Tea lasted about 2.5 hours. The host became our friend the moment the cameras came out to photograph everything. “Is this your first visit here?” Christopher asked. “What gave us away?” The camera laden Amy and Sandy asked.

After tea, we walked through St. James park back to the hotel for a quick refresher and on to the local pub. (Many of which were closed on Saturday night because we are in somewhat of a diplomatic district.)

We finally found The Sanctuary open and piled into a booth to enjoy a pint or two before returning to the hotel it’s a promise to meet in the owning, but it too early. We have plans to find the Borough market and attain cheese sandwiches by noon. A worthy goal, in my mind.

While we were gone, housekeeping noticed the sweltering condition of our room, which led me to believe I was having constant hot flashes. The situation has been corrected and we now sleep in a refrigerator. Sandy says she will not adjust the thermostat, even if she has to buy a cost and hat. Freezing is preferred to our humid sleep of last night.

Thanks to our companions today, it feels as though we are quite at home here. Instead of a frustrating day of finding our way around, it was quite leisurely and the company was just what one would wish. We are quite lucky, I dare say, to have Amy and Dave willing accomplices to our escape.

ESTROPACOLYPSE vs. LONDON

Published on July 23, 2013July 23, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

I am rapidly approaching full panic mode. Sandy and I leave for London in 16 days. 16.

That’s barely enough time for the two panic attacks I’m anticipating.

And just to add to the fun and excitement, I am, of course, undergoing yet another ailment of some sort. (As soon as one thing gets fixed, another falls apart.)

I call it estropacolypse.

Without TMI, I have been on estrogen replacement for a few years and apparently my body has decided it no longer wants to absorb it. Therefore, I had a huge amount of estrogen floating in my blood stream just hanging out and doing nothing for me at all. Kind of like Anne Hathaway.

Unless you count the headaches, trouble sleeping, teeth grinding, hot flashes and emotional rollercoaster. And by a “huge amount” I mean more than a pregnant woman has in her first trimester. Woo hoo! Good times.

Now the level is back to almost nil and we have started a gel application instead of a pill. I have no idea what the blood count is, but I am not feeling particularly splendid. More blood work is in the works.

At this point, if I get to London and don’t have hot flashes or want to strangle people who get in my way any more than I’m usually tempted to do, we’ll call it a win. Otherwise, we may have an international incident on our hands.

Meanwhile, Sandy has been booking even more London entertainment. We are now attending the Harry Potter Tour at the Warner Bros. Studio, London. Not on my original plan, but once it was proposed I couldn’t say no. Now we’ve even convinced our London cohorts, Dave and Amy, to go with us. (You’ll remember Dave and Amy from “A Joy-ous Occasion“)

According to the website, these are some of the things we’ll do:

• Step inside and discover the actual Great Hall.
Yes, please.

• Explore Dumbledore’s office and discover never-before-seen treasures.
NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN TREASURES. Right on.

• Step onto the famous cobbles of Diagon Alley, featuring the shop fronts of Ollivander’s wand shop, Flourish and Blotts, the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Gringott’s Wizarding Bank and Eeylop’s Owl Emporium.
YES! I am coming home with an OWL, people!

Because that would be the greatest souvenir ever.

Except for maybe a falcon.

Or a dragon.

Hey, I may have trouble regulating my internal temperature gauge, but I’m still just an overgrown kid.

An overgrown kid with an OWL.

BOO-YAH.

LONDON, HERE WE COME!

Published on July 8, 2013July 8, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

It’s the time of year again when our hearts long for far away places. Places where no one expects us to work. Places where the only question someone asks us is, “Straight up or on the rocks?”

My friend Sandy and I are dragging ourselves to the finish line of what will be approximately 8 straight months of work without a vacation in order to experience 10 days of vacation in London. At this point, it can’t come fast enough. In my excitement, I may just kiss the terrazzo floor of terminal D at DFW Airport good bye.

Heck, who am I kidding? I could be headed on a bus tour of drainage ditches and I’d be happily waving goodbye.

Luckily, London is WAY better than what I would settle for.

As we approach the 4 week countdown, I start to wonder what I’m going to wear and how much to pack. Then, I promise myself I won’t overpack again this year. I will be smart. I will be savvy.

I will be standing in the rain wondering why I didn’t bring a raincoat. (Hello? It’s England.)

Anyway, we have devised what equates to a brilliant plan of action. And by WE, I mean Sandy. I am the one who pays scandalously little attention to the planning portion, then shows up and is surprised by what we’re doing, or irritated that it’s on the agenda for 7 AM. It’s called passive aggressive tourism. Luckily, Sandy knows if she just hands me a glass of wine, I’ll recover instantly and tag merrily along. After all, her plans are typically without flaw. Except that ONE TIME IN WALES WHEN SHE DIDN’T LET ME EAT UNTIL 3:00 IN THE AFTERNOON. But I’m over that and I trust her completely. (Note to self: pack peanut butter crackers.)

We (Sandy) have some tours scheduled via guide. Other sites we will venture to on our own. As we tend to do, we also have set aside time to do absolutely nothing but wander about. We are hoping to be able to worm our way around the crowds of August, which are infamous. Knowing our luck, things could go either way. It will either be a case of perfect timing and we will slip in and out of the palaces and museums like a couple of crocs through the Everglades, or we will spend each day elbow to elbow with that most dreaded of living creatures – the tourist. (Nevermind that we’re tourists too. We prefer to consider ourselves favored and charming guests.) That’s why we intend to enter each palace with a royal wave and perhaps a “Ta Dah!”

There are (of course) plans afoot to attend a performance at the Globe. I believe the official “stalking of the actors” occurs immediately afterward at The Swan.

Also on the agenda are visits to Avebury, Glastonbury and Stonehenge, which should do much to slake our mystical and Arthurian thirsts. Hampton Court, The Tower, Kensington, etc. will be must-sees as well. I will NOT be happy unless I see a ghost of either Henry VIII or Katherine Parr. Preferably both. Together. Chasing each other through the halls.

Over the next few weeks I’ll be delving into the tours planned and other attractions in a bit more detail. That way I may actually KNOW what I’m in for, rather than guessing.

Until then, another day, another few inches toward the finish line.

FRANCE FINIS

Published on September 16, 2012September 16, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

We made it through Versailles on the morning of Day 9. The crowds were little better. This time we did find a much shorter audio guide line, so grabbed the little phone-type device and headed into the clump of people in the history of Versailles rooms. We quickly figured out that if you waited until the audio device recording for each room stopped and you let the crowd move on en masse, you could time your viewings of each room between the group ahead and the group behind, thus minimizing the “herd” sensation. This time I took only a couple of photos and concentrated on the history.

Somehow, almost as we were exiting, we came upon another area of rooms we had not viewed before. They seemed to be a bit off the main path and not clearly marked, so they were much less crowded. We still are unable to get past the size of the palace, and can’t keep from wondering what people DID there all day. Roam around the hundreds of rooms? Stroll the gardens? Write letters? Eat? I would have put on roller skates and gone sailing down the vast corridors, around and around until I was hopelessly lost.

With a final goodbye to the palace, we tripped down the hill and back to the hotel to collect our luggage and check out. At this point, we were headed back to Paris, to Charles Gaulles Airport where we were booked at a hotel for the evening, in hopes of boarding our 8:00 a.m. flight to Frankfurt, then home. We were a little concerned because Lufthansa had already held two days of strikes, and was planning a third for Friday. Our departure was set for Thursday, and Robert prepared me for a potential “surprise” strike day that might mean we were trapped in Paris or Frankfurt. Plus, we were using “miles” for our business class seating which meant we could be bumped to make room for someone else if they decided to evacuate before the planned strike occurred the following day.

Luck was with us, and our flight crew had a good laugh at us when Robert greeted them with a relieved, “Boy, are we glad to see you.”

“You were expecting someone else?” the male flight attendant asked.

We explained our concern and they were all too happy to assure us we would make it home today. They were going from Frankfurt on to Latvia and had plans to spend the next 24 hours there.

Without incident, we made our way through “customs” at Frankfurt and on to our D/FW flight. Lufthansa flight attendants are the absolute best. They were friendly, helpful, friendly… they seemed to enjoy their work and took pains to make us comfortable. At one point I was feeling a bit blue, as you tend to at the end of a vacation when returning to the real world. On one hand you miss home and your family and friends, but on the other, you have had a wonderful experience and are sad to have it end.

Plus, the white wines I had been offered with my in flight “lunch” were AWFUL. I was sinking into a pit of despair, knowing I was at the tail end of my French adventure and was now trapped for my 10 final hours with mediocre to poor wine (as far as my taste buds ran) when the flight attendant told me he happened to have a bottle of something different. (They were transitioning and often change the white wines out after a few flights, I suppose.) He poured me a glass of Chateau de Rully Premier Cru, 2007. As he passed it by Robert, my nose began a happy dance. It was exactly what the doctor ordered. Creamy, smooth, vanilla and toast… Heaven. I must have looked absolutely transported, because when next the flight attendant passed, Robert’s overhead bag was open on the seat and my new best friend slipped a bottle into it and winked at us.

As Robert drifted in and out of sleep and I watched Hysteria, Big Bang Theory, Sex and the City, some terrible show called Enlightened, and The Avengers, we would chat a bit about the trip. Some thoughts on France:

1. We both agreed, when sitting in the crowded brasseries or restaurants, you are in such close proximity to your table-neighbors that you can hear every word of their conversations. Sitting between two such tables of people rattling on in French gives you the feeling you’ve just been dropped into the middle of a foreign film. I kept looking for subtitles to go along with the drama or laughter I heard on either side. Whether they left first, or we did, it felt as though we were walking out in the middle of a movie, or it was walking out on us – and we would never know how it turned out.

2. France (Paris and Versailles, at least, in my experience) is no place to be physically challenged. We stumbled up and down cobblestone hills, dusty streets with steep curbs, construction zones, narrow walkways wide enough for only single file, metro stations with stairs that I swear were put there for no reason whatsoever. We climbed monuments and up and down steps at museums. Some of these places had elevators – most of which were out-of-order. At one point I turned to Robert and said, I’m glad we did this now, because I don’t see me surviving all this if we’d waited another 10 – 15 years. If I did make it through the trip at that point, once home, I’d be bed ridden for two weeks.

3. No offense, but the wayfinding signage in France is a disaster. I don’t know how to explain it, except to say there is no reason why two adults who are somewhat intelligent cannot find their way to an airport gate or out of a metro station. An arrow pointing diagonally upward and to the right should mean you veer to the right or that you go upstairs and to the right. Such is not the case. An arrow pointing to the right at a 45 degree angle should mean turn right, not “go upstairs here.” I felt like a mouse in a maze.

4. The euro is pretty money.

5. We debated for about five days whether we loved the European license plates or thought they were silly. We settled on silly. (We were fooled briefly because they were European, which made us assume they were cool.)

6. I don’t understand how they can wedge their tiny cars into tinier parking spots (and I heard more than a few crunches as people’s bumpers met with others’) and yet have no dents in their vehicles. I swear there is no way you could get a car out of a space without hitting the cars both in front and in back of you. All I could picture was the scene from the Austin Powers movie when he’s trying to turn the golf cart around. Yet, when standing at the traffic circles, I never saw a single dented car. I see them everywhere here. Maybe there’s a government program in France that fixes dents?

I think that’s about it for the France diaries. We got home safely to a very happy dog, did laundry for three days and have since satisfied our cravings for hamburgers, Mexican food and Chinese food. I miss my morning croissant and cheese, and have returned to being a coffee drinker, rather than enjoying a less aggressive English Breakfast tea.

Au revoir, Paris and Versailles! We’ll always have these memories. And photos.

VERSAILLES VIA GOLF CART (VERSAILLES, DAY SEVEN)

Published on September 9, 2012September 9, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

Monday’s lunch was at Sister’s Cafe – with a good old-fashioned American cheeseburger and side order of hash browns. Since the bacon was floppy (just the way I like it), Robert donated his to me. A soda here ran 6 euros, while Heineken was 2,9. Heineken won. Meanwhile, the lower right hand corner of the menu announced a new drink! Mimosa! “What is it?” the menu asked. “Why, it’s champagne and orange juice, just like in Miami!” Miami? Miami appears to be acceptable to the French.

Afterward, we strolled uphill to the Chateau de Versailles. The Chateau is closed on Mondays, but the grounds surrounding it, the Grand Trianon and Petit Trianon were wide open, so we did what any sane person would do. We rented a golf cart. Our feet thanked us. “Merci beaucoup!” they cried.

A cart runs 30 euro per hour. They give you a map with the path clearly marked with giant red dashes that takes you to the Petit and the Grand Trianon, then back to Versailles’ gardens. As you drive, the cart’s audio system plays orchestral music and a narrator describes your surroundings. Apparently, the correct narrative is triggered as you pass certain points along the path. A short link follows. No judging. It’s hard to video while bouncing along cobblestones in a cart.

Grand Trianon

FYI, the nice narrator also tells you when your cart has left the prescribed path and shuts the cart’s forward motion down. This way, everyone within a two-mile radius is sure to be notified of your transgression as you put the cart into reverse, which results in incessant and very loud beeping.

It also results in a husband who glares at you and asks, “Really? Your sense of direction is so bad you can’t even follow the GIANT RED DASHES on the map that tell us where to go?”

I defended myself valiantly until the third time the cart shut down, at which point I could only shrug and say, “C’est la vie!” This is best done while flashing a winning smile at the perturbed husband.

Despite the hour-long time frame, we still made it back a few minutes late (probably due to the navigational challenges), but they took pity on us and didn’t charge for an additional 15 minutes, as we had been warned they might.

We walked from the cart return through town to the grocery store to purchase breakfast and lunch items for the next two days. Breakfast at the hotel was going to run 34 euros a day. I cannot possibly eat 34 euros worth of breakfast. The supermarket was two levels, the lower being maintained at meat locker temperature. We purchased bread, cheeses, luncheon meat and some fruit, then took the rear stairs back up to the second (street) level for wine, a knife for the cheese, and to check out.

Here is where yet another incident proves I am not mentally on the ball. Having realized I needed croissants for breakfast, I set two bottles of wine down next to Robert and went back below-grade to the bread aisle. Mission accomplished, we checked out and grabbed our bags to head back to the hotel. Luckily, we hadn’t gotten but a few steps from the store when I realized the bags felt light.

“Where’s the wine? Do you have it?” I turned to Mr. Know-it-all.

“No.”

They were sitting right where I left them – on a box in the aisle where Robert had waited for me as I sought croissants.

Hey. at least we didn’t get back to the hotel before I realized the error.

I’m hoping the brain has had a lovely vacation and is now ready to return to work, where it will be lively and sharp. I wouldn’t bet on it, though.

Back at the Hotel Trianon, we sipped whiskey on the terrace, watched the Trianon sheep graze in the King’s garden and listened to screaming French children on the walkways below. MaMA, MaMA, MaMA!!

Robert made me take this picture. Really.

THE TRIANON TALES (DAY SIX, VERSAILLES)

Published on September 9, 2012September 9, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

I’m beginning to see a trend as I transcribe the travel diaries. I now understand why our days passed so quickly while away. I don’t think we ever really got moving until 11:00-ish. When I think back on the trip to Wales last year and jolting awake at 6:30 or 7:00 a.m. to the Tower Bells setting on my phone so we could catch an 8:00 train to our day’s destination, I shudder. I’m grateful, but I shudder.

So basically, Lady and Sir Lounge-about slothily got dressed and headed out the door of the hotel at a dead crawl. Hotel Trianon was situated just outside the Neptune Gates and near the Queen’s Gate. You could pass through either of these and be on the palace grounds. Being the first Sunday of the month, the gates and palaces were open to the public at no charge.

Knowing this, we decided we’d better be the first in line at Petit Trianon, Marie Antoinette’s estate, which opened at noon.

A brief history refresher: Louis XIV moved his main residence to Versailles from Paris. There, upon her marriage to a young Louis XVI, Marie-Antoinette (beginning at age 15) resided during her first years in France. Louis XV had commissioned the building of Petit Trianon as a love nest for his mistress, Madame de Pompadour. Unfortunately, Madame de P. passed away before the completion of the project. However, Madame Du Barry was only too happy to take her place, and was the first occupant of the beautiful little residence. After Louis XV passed, Madame D. basically had to clear out in a hurry, as she was universally despised.

Instead of following in his father’s footsteps, the new King Louis XVI decided to break with tradition and give the Petit Trianon to his WIFE (of all crazy things). Marie- Antoinette spent the years 1777-1789 playing house there – barely spending any time at Versailles. She also spent close to 2 million livres on the house, property, furnishings and the little Hamlet she had constructed so she could enjoy a walk into her tiny town and visit the “fake” (hired) townsfolk without getting her hands dirty.

I can see why she loved this house so much. It is feminine, not flashy or overdone, and the grounds are beautiful. Compared to the Grand Trianon and the Chateau at Versailles, this is Goldilocks’ “just right.”

Dining Room fireplace

Music and Game Room

Gardens

Leaving the Petit behind, we wandered through the grounds to the Queen’s Hamlet. It boggled the mind. A picturesque mini-village.

Yes, Robert had a swan eating out of his hand. And if you look closely, underneath those ducks, are about a million catfish. Someone needs to get a fishing pole and get cracking. Those ponds at the Hamlet are a bit crowded.

The Hamlet includes crops and vineyards.

If I ever disappear, I’ve gone to live in this little cottage.

Passing through the Hamlet, we moved on to the Grand Trianon, which was built by Louis XIV as a retreat – where he could get away from all the formality of court. And what says informal more than a pink marble palace with a backyard full of thousands of plants in pots that are to be changed out daily?

Napoleon organized its restoration and stayed often with his wife, the Empress Marie-Louise. (Who just happened to be the grand-niece of Marie-Antoinette.)

Next stop? We decided to rest our feet and return to the hotel to check out the indoor pool. The thought of being relatively weightless was too appealing to deny. This was one of those moments when you wish you had listened more carefully to the hotel staff when they attempted to introduce you to the hotel amenities. I recalled something about a route to the pool – I thought – but couldn’t pin it down in my tired head. Thus, Robert and I took the elevator we normally take – wearing our swimsuits (him in a t-shirt and me in a cover up) and our complimentary hotel slippers. Imagine our surprise when the elevator did not have a button for the -1 floor, on which we knew the pool to be located.

Instead, the door opened on the Lobby level and out we went, already embarrassed. The concierge was quite surprised to see us thusly attired, as were the dozen or so individuals we passed as we took the walk of shame past Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant and the hotel bar. Oh, and the individuals having afternoon tea. Our concierge COULD have instructed us to return to the 3rd floor and walk down the empty hall to the elevator that goes to -1, but he didn’t. The fink.

We also discovered that wearing the complimentary hotel robe would have made us a little less conspicuous. Not through the lobby, but just in general.

The pool was lovely. I did not take a camera for what should be obvious reasons. You’ll just have to trust me on this. Lots of geometric tiles, a glass roof and soothing (if cool) water. By the time we had floated around for 30 minutes or so, we felt worlds better and headed into the dry sauna to complete our recuperation. Heaven. For the first time in days my feet and legs didn’t ache.

Feeling rejuvenated, we made our way toward the “back” elevator which had a sign on it that said “Out of Order.” We would need to climb two flights of stairs to get to the next elevator option and to our room. Our relaxed muscles lasted approximately 5 minutes.

We traipsed into the town square to have dinner at Le Boeuf à La Mode. For some reason, Robert ordered the marrowbone appetizer. I ordered (don’t hurt me) slices of semi-cooked foie gras. I think Robert expected something like you see Anthony Bourdain enjoy. Like this:

Instead he got what look like 3 femur halves that would have made Hannibal Lecter salivate. About 6 inches long, with gelatinous ickiness inside. Robert gave it a valiant effort, but I think finished only one before reality set in (and a certain pallor).

As for my foie gras, it resembled what it actually was, which caused me no undue amount of distress. Sitting at the table that evening, in the soft Versailles night air, I looked at the contents of our plates and very nearly became a vegetarian.

Thank goodness no animals were harmed in the making of the vin blanc.

ARTS AND CRAFTINESS (PARIS, DAY FOUR)

Published on September 8, 2012August 26, 2016 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

Day four was on the itinerary as Museum Day. However, due to a little over-imbibing, we cut ourselves a break and did not set the alarm for quite as early as we’d originally intended. Sore from walking on cobblestones and up and down spiral staircases, tired and hungry, we grabbed a croissant each from the “courtesy lounge” and slowly made our way to the metro so we could be rejected by the turnstile once again.

I am making an effort today to SPEAK UP, as I have been informed that I have been whispering since we arrived in Paris. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to be instantly recognized as a tourist, because I feel as though I’m in a museum even though I’m outside walking around city streets, or because the rhythm of the voices around me is so beautiful I feel as though I’d instantly ruin everything. Like a banjo suddenly taking part in a symphony.

First stop for today, the Louvre.

We stood in the plaza admiring the fountains and the glass pyramid; the building itself was enough to make me giddy. I had somehow forgotten that the Louvre was originally the palace until Louis XIV moved the royal residence to Versailles.

Amazingly, thanks in part to the museum passes, entrance was a breeze. So much so that we found ourselves in the Richelieu section (the French collections) without so much as a map. Retracing our steps, a map was acquired and we began again.

I had very definite plans for the works I wanted to see. The Richelieu wing was not a priority. However, every time we turned a corner there was something else I couldn’t resist examining. I suddenly understood why people can spend DAYS here. Robert was in heaven.

I was on a mission to see the Denon and Sully wings containing Greek, Etruscan and Roman Antiquities. We found Winged Victory of Samothrace, Venus de Milo, and the Mona Lisa. Winged Victory was particularly poignant because (don’t laugh) I LOVE the scene in Funny Face when Audrey Hepburn is modeling a gown and comes floating down the steps with the statue in the background. As I stood at the bottom of the steps looking upward at Winged Victory, all I could hear was Audrey saying, “Take the picture! Take the picture!”

It was even more interesting to me because I had recently learned the statue had been missing part of one wing and ALL of the other. They made a cast of the existing wing and added it. You could see this clearly from the back of the statue, which I studied in detail, partially because it’s interesting, and partially to mess with people trying to photograph the statue by being the one weird person standing BEHIND it. A lot of people went home that day with me behind Winged Victory. Score. However, I was too distracted by my mischievous intentions to actually photograph the “patch job.” Sorry!

After four hours of wandering about – and getting somehow trapped in the medieval portion of the Louvre in the basement, we made our way to the Musee d’Orsay.

The d’Orsay is housed in a former railway station, the Gare d’Orsay. I LOVED this building. Who wouldn’t love being surrounded by some of the greatest examples of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings? It was virtually every work I had studied in Art History, only much more interesting without the constant droning of the professor as he clicked through each slide. DaVinci? Check. Lautrec? Check. Monet? Manet? Renoir? Check, check and check.

Basically what I call a successful outing. Afterwards, we crossed the Seine hoping to locate the ever elusive, yet highly desirable metro station that simply HAD to exist somewhere at the Plaza de la Concorde. Crossing the bridge, we noted padlocks all up and down the railings. A couple sat huddled together on a bench, writing something on a newly purchased lock. Apparently, couples are encouraged (not by the Parisians, who are highly annoyed by this practice, but by the padlock vendors who line the bridge) to write their initials on the padlock, attach it to the bridge, then throw the key into the Seine to “lock up their love forever.” How romantic. What says “I love you” more than a padlock without a key?

Anyway, we found the super secret entry to the metro at Concorde, returned to the hotel, took a hot bath and went out for pizza. Yes, pizza. I can’t really exist without it for more than a week. What I don’t understand is how someone can consider egg an appropriate topping.

DINING AND BOATS (PARIS, DAY THREE)

Published on September 8, 2012December 4, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

Day three found us preparing for our much-anticipated lunch at the Eiffel Tower (La Tour Eiffel). Robert made reservations in advance for Le Jules Verne restaurant, which sits 125 meters high in the Tower – or about a third of the way up. Several benefits here. One, it’s a Michelin 2 star rated restaurant. Two, lunch is less expensive than dinner, and three, you can enjoy the view without waiting in line for hours, or paying the extra ticket fee.

The restaurant entrance is to one side, and private. You are escorted up the elevator by an attendant who deposits you in the lap of luxury. We were one of the first seated, and as we made our way down the line of wait staff, we were greeted by neatly dressed men and women who welcomed us with “Bon jour madame, monsieur.” I felt as though I were in a receiving line to meet the Queen. Once in the dining area we tried in vain to resist the urge to gape.

We maintained our dignity just long enough to agree to an aperitif when we couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I wanted to photograph everything. The tables, the place settings, the view… it was ridiculous. With champagne in hand I looked across the table at Robert and saw a look on his face I don’t know that I have ever seen. For a moment I thought he might well up with tears. Which of course made me well up with tears. (Perhaps we are way too affected by dining experiences and amazing views.) I think day three, at such a location, jolted us into the reality that we were in Paris. France. Finally. Again I wondered how I would ever convince Robert to return home.

Of course, we were not too intimidated by the surroundings to include the lovely Flat Marketing team.

At which point we became the giddy American tourists again.

We selected from a prix fixe menu, and each item arriving at the table was more creatively arranged than the last. It was almost a crime to destroy them by taking a bite.

This was even prettier but I had to re-create it when Robert nearly throttled me for removing a piece of the “country toast” before snapping a photo.

Afterward, we stepped out to the second level viewing area. It was getting cooler and the wind was whipping up. Security was watching so closely one came up and told me to close the flap of my purse, which I had open right in front of me (between myself and the railing) while I snapped a picture. I became instantly paranoid, which is probably a good thing.

To walk off the rich lunch, we strolled along the Seine until it began to rain and we had to seek shelter next to a food vendor’s shop. Although it didn’t last long, we were now damp and cold, so we made our way back to the metro (which was still giving us fits with the passes) and returned to the hotel to get ready for our dinner cruise with Bateaux Parisiens. This trip is all about the food, apparently.

We splurged because I was wearing ridiculously high heels and took a cab directly to the river to board the boat for an 8:00 departure. What ensued can only be described as a romantic food and drink fest. I think we had two bottles of wine. (Hey, they came with the dinner, basically. One red and one white. Plus an aperitif to start.) Champagne, anyone? Why yes, thank you.

If you go to Paris, you MUST do this cruise. The food was excellent (from what I remember), and you see beautiful sites, all lit up along the river. People dancing on the banks, other boats passing by… it was an event to remember. Unfortunately, I did have one of those directionally challenged moments while on board. If Robert had his own blog, it would no doubt focus on, nay, LAMENT my total inability to recognize anywhere I am or from where I’ve come. Seriously. Every day we took the same route to the metro, and every day on the way back to the hotel I would have SWORN we had taken a wrong turn. Nothing looked familiar.

Anyway, at one point, I excused myself to powder my nose, which involved going below deck. Upon resurfacing, I headed toward the left (port) side of the boat and got to the very bow without having seen our table, or my husband. I circled back on the starboard side, by which time, considering the small size of the boat, I had drawn attention from the wait staff. I informed the only one brave enough to ask that I had lost my husband. I am also ashamed to say I asked if there was another level to the boat, which is really sad because I had been sitting under the lovely glass top looking out all evening.

The waiter asked what side of the boat I’d been sitting on. I told him the left. He pointed and sent me on my way. Lo and behold, there was Robert sitting at a table wondering what had happened to me. I swear he ducked under the table when I passed just to mess with my head.

Regardless of my lack of an internal compass, we had a lovely evening and returned via cab to the hotel with only one near altercation. There was quite a bit of taxi cab line-crashing going on that evening and I may or may not have been quietly threatening to punch someone in the face if they stole my cab one more time when out of the blue came what appeared to be a homeless, drunk, French Santa Claus. He and Robert immediately took charge of the situation, bringing order to the chaos. Another international incident was averted, and Homeless Santa was tipped a euro as he opened the door to our chariot.

DEATH AND THE METRO (PARIS, DAY TWO)

Published on September 7, 2012September 7, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

Day two began a bit late. We had reservations at Cafe Le Procope, in the 6th arrondissement, the oldest restaurant of Paris in continuous operation. It opened in 1686 and has served the likes of Voltaire, Rousseau, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, George Sand, Victor Hugo, and Oscar Wilde.

Robert was adventurous and ordered ox cheek. I had chicken, which is what I am when it comes to eating anything referred to as “cheek.”

To get there, we used our five-day metro passes for the first time. We were a little navigationally challenged, but arrived within ten minutes of our reservation, so chalked it up as a success. Afterword, we returned to the metro to make our way to the catacombs for the afternoon tour. Here, we hit a slight snag. The passes would not work. This was realized as I hit the turnstile at full gait only to be clipped in the hips and knocked backward. After multiple attempts, and getting pushed aside by a dozen other passengers who had no problem with the turnstile (and who did not offer to help the very confused and increasingly agitated Americans), we took desperate measures. We jumped.

I am not as spry as I once was, but managed to clamor over the turnstile only to come up short against the gate. I stood in the small space between the two, realizing there was no way I would be able to launch myself over it, and dreading the arrival of a new group of Parisians who would no doubt roll their eyes heavenward at the ridiculous American. I inhaled and forced my way between the gate and railing, just barely squeezing through.

Meanwhile, Robert took to climbing the turnstile AND the gate, which put him about five feet in the air. (He’s pretty darn limber, and ticked off at this point.) He landed remarkably well – after a slight smash against the low ceiling. With much grumbling, we boarded and I began a tirade in my head against the people who sold us the passes, the lack of assistance available, and the French in general. As we passed the Franklin D. Roosevelt stop I glared at everyone around me and fought the urge to shout, “That’s right. Franklin D. Roosevelt, people. You’re welcome.” (Jet lag does not do nice things to me.)

We made our way to the catacombs without my causing an international incident and waited an hour in line. Two words for the catacombs. Creepy. Amazing.

Somehow unexpected were the 132-spiral stairs leading to our destination. I couldn’t resist taking a shot of the exit or “sortie” sign, because it looks like someone running away. Considering our spooky location, it seemed appropriate.

I’m including a couple of images from the ossuary, although somewhat dark. Robert had a small flashlight with him, because he still had a brain, unlike me, so the illumination helped.

I had one creepy experience as we approached the stairs to climb back up to street level. They say when something supernatural touches you it can feel like a cobweb on your skin. After following what had to be hundreds of people through the catacombs that day, I felt a cobweb brush across my cheek. I stopped and looked up to see if water was dripping from the ceiling, or if there actually WAS a cobweb. Robert used his flashlight and inspected the ceiling but we saw nothing. Moving on, I experienced the sensation of my hair being touched. Could just be my overactive imagination, but I prefer to think someone was telling me goodbye.

We fought with the metro a bit more and eventually arrived at Notre-Dame Cathedral. Tourist mecca.

We decided to pass on battling the throngs (I know. I know. Unbelievable, right?) and instead admired it from afar and drifted over to Shakespeare and Company so I could purchase a book and get the inside page stamped.

(I was actually happier than I look. The crowds were getting to me.)

We moved through the square and on to Sainte-Chapelle. Here we learned our 6-day museum passes were actually 2-day museum passes. The kind man taking tickets took pity when he saw my devastated expression and motioned us on, without charging. (Once you use the ticket, the clock starts, as it were. Since it was the end of the day and we needed to exchange the passes for the correct ones, this was most generous.) We walked into the lower chapel prepared to be awed. I thought Robert was going to curse. It was less than we had expected from all the hype. Puzzled, we made our way toward the exit, only to find the stairwell that led us up to the royal chapel, where we were appropriately struck dumb.

Some portions are being restored, and were covered, but for the rest, I can see why it’s considered one of the most extensive collections of 13th century stained glass in the world.

Suitably impressed and exhausted, we returned to the hotel, ordered room service and collapsed. Tomorrow, the Eiffel Tower!

BON JOUR-NEY (PARIS, DAY ONE)

Published on August 28, 2012August 26, 2016 by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

First, I better find a job that pays more or win the lottery because I will never be squished into a seat again that doesn’t have at least this much leg room. Especially for an almost 10 hour flight.

The problem with purchasing from Duty Free at your airport of departure is that they deliver it to you on the plane, therefore you haven’t been lugging it around, growing accustomed to the weight. We bought a bottle of Absolut and two bottles of Sonoma Cutrer to keep in our hotel room refrigerator. That way, we wouldn’t have to spend 15 euros per glass if we wanted a night-cap. Great plan. Bad follow through. Had we been lugging it around, we’d have noticed leaving the plane that we felt lighter, but such was not the case. We were making our way toward the Customs desk in Frankfurt (our layover stop) when I asked Robert, “Do you have the wine?”

He froze. “No.”

“You’re joking, right?” I said.

“No.”

When asked about retrieving it, we were told we’d have to leave the security area and speak to someone about it. We decided to send a nice email upon our arrival in Paris and try to forget it.

We moved dejectedly on to the Lufthansa lounge in Frankfurt, which we noted was possibly the least attractive airport ever. I apologize, but seriously. The overhead lighting looked like something the Gestapo used when pursuing the Von Trapp family. We couldn’t decide if it was industrialist, under construction, or just horrible.

We boarded our flight to Paris an hour later. I had three goals in mind for this short, one hour flight:

Have a glass of champagne, finish reading, Shadow of Night, and DON’T FORGET THE BOTTLE OF VODKA UPON EXITING. Yes, we bought another bottle from Duty Free. Call us hopeless optimists.

We checked into the hotel and went to our room, which had a view from the terrace of the Eiffel Tower.

Robert (Drill Sargeant Franks) decided we should take a walk to get our bearings, so he marched me out the door, down the Champs-Élysées all the way to the Tuileries Garden and Place de la Concorde.

That evening we had reservations at Robert’s restaurant of choice – Robert et Louise in the 3rd arrondissement. If you look up “hole in the wall” in the dictionary, this place is what you’ll find pictured. He’d seen it on Anthony Bourdain’s show and HAD to go. Getting there was an eye-opening experience. I have never seen traffic like in Paris. It makes New York City taxi drivers look like a bunch of little old ladies out for a Sunday cruise. Motor scooters create their own lanes, weaving in and out of cars, cutting it so close I shut my eyes several times in anticipation of the impending “thump-thump” as we ran one over. We are talking mere inches between human beings and vehicles.

We were greeted warmly by Robert, then led down a tiny, narrow flight of stairs to the lowest floor, where small tables and a bar were crowded into the space. We shared a rib eye for two, not realizing that medium rare would be rare in French cuisine. I think I’d heard before that our medium is their rare, but forgot. The meat was still cooked fine for me, but my Robert prefers the cow on his plate to not still be “mooing.” And when I say plate, what I really mean is a wooden cutting board that would NEVER in a million years pass health department inspection in the US. I had to concentrate really hard on not thinking about the potential germs and bacteria on that piece of wood that looked as old as the building itself. The rib eye was incredible.

(My Robert.)

We asked our host where to find a cab back to the hotel and he happily pointed us up the road saying, “Walk five minutes that way. If you don’t see a cab, turn left and walk five minutes that way. If you don’t see a cab, turn right and walk another five minutes that way…”

Sighing, I looked down at my heels, then at my husband, then at the cobble stone street that awaited. We eventually did find a cab – somewhere past that last 5 minute stroll. In the middle we passed a number of restaurants or clubs, with people pouring out into the streets laughing and drinking and smoking.

A chorus of French accents washed over us as we held hands and tried to not gawk at each passing scene. Our ears were just beginning to acclimate to the rhythms of the conversations we’d be hearing for the next 9 days. My Robert’s grin told me I’d be lucky to pry him out of France at the end of that time.

Back at the hotel, we (of course) had some vodka on our terrace and discovered this projected video show in the hotel courtyard. Pretty impressive, and it drove home the realization we were going to be discovering all kinds of unexpected visual delights throughout our stay.