Aprilbaby's California Life

Magical Parisian Mystery Tour

Gliding on the Seine, just below the sparkling Eiffel Tower, happily woozy on Champagne and tender, subtly cinnamon-flavored duck, was already more than I imagined. But to finish the night, below deck, sipping Moroccan tea and listening to hypnotic Indian fusion music… just confirmed that the best experiences are often unexpected.

Each day in Paris, I was so intensely focused on soaking in the city and people who once walked the rues and ponts – standing in front of Ernest Hemingway’s first apartment in Paris, sitting at a café in Place de la Contrescarpe where he sat and drank at the long gone Café des Amateurs, walking his usual route to Gertrude Stein’s apartment at 27 Rue de Fleurus, through the Luxembourg gardens, where he was so hungry he plucked rhubarb and the occasional pigeon to eat – that I didn’t think ahead to the evening my mom and Bill had planned for us… something about a dinner cruise, was all I knew.

It would be our last real night in Paris, the dinner cruise.  While I say I had no expectations, I think I expected one of those white, modern boats I’d seen along the Seine – not much different than one I got too drunk and sick on a San Francisco booze cruise back in the ’80s. Touristy, but fine for sipping a cocktail and watching the view.

After getting off the Metro at the Louvre-Rivoli stop, we (my family and I) walked on a bridge, headed toward our dinner cruise boat on the Seine. When I spotted the boat we'd be boarding for dinner: Le Calife, I was happily surprised.  Warm wooded, lanterns hanging on the outside, red-clothed tables… like something from another era.

We ordered dinner and drinks, as the sun went from late-afternoon golden, to pink and purple, then black. The historic architecture slid by, then glowed in warm light, as Le Calife glided down the Seine.

We finished our dinner - the best meal I had in Paris: tender duck on mashed potatoes glazed with a sweet and savory cinnamon-scented sauce.  A waitress brought desserts to my sister Denise and her husband Mick, topped with sparklers, as the entire boat wished them happy birthdays (both born this month, August).  What a birthday celebration! It couldn't be better. I thought.

Then, the golden-lit Eiffel Tower grew as we neared it, and the iconic structure began to sparkle, as it does every hour in the evening.  We glided nearer and nearer. The boat reached just below the tower’s legs. As if staged, the moon peeked from the center of the Eiffel Tower. Incredible.

Afterward, mom’s friend, the woman in charge of the dinner cruise recipes and ex-wife of the captain, introduced us to the Captain and Le Calife owner: Nicolas Gailledrat.  My husband Ian, a musician/recording console designer, was surprised to see Nicolas has a recording studio on the boat (below deck).  Nicolas began to tell Ian how he once ran a jazz club on Le Calife, and recorded many artists; one of the musicians was John McLaughlin and his Indian-American fusion band Shakti.

Next thing I know, we’re seated below deck on Le Calife, sipping Moroccan spearmint tea, watching and listening to a video of Shakti's exotic music - rhythmic, hypnotic, sitar-style guitar and thumping tablas.  So mesmerized, I said “That tabla player ( Zakir Hussain) is like the Jimmy Page of Tabla.”

No, it was not what I expected when mom said, “We’re going on a dinner cruise.” Screw expectations. Some experiences are heightened when they're unexpected. For me, life needs more mystery.

 

Two Weeks in Paris: `A la Bastille!

(Our apartment, the two top right windows below text on the photo)

Thanks to mom and Bill for an amazing two weeks in Paris, and for putting us in the most wonderful apartment in the 12^th arrondissement (near the Bastille). Below, the beginning of our Paris experience and details about the apartment.

Rental details about the apartment, here.

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“`A la Bastille, s’il vous plait,” is what the slip of paper my mom typed out had said, so that I could hand it to a taxi driver once my husband Ian and I arrived at Charles De Gaulle Airport. Before my brain became numb by jet lag, I planned on saying the french phrase myself. Instead, I handed the paper to a taxi driver and mumbled. 

The driver sped off, sliding from lane to lane and riding the bumpers of tiny European cars along the highway, taking us to our destination: Café Français in Paris. There, my mom, Bill (mom’s husband & my father part deux, aka stepfather), my sister Denise, her husband Mick and our daughter Lauren would be waiting.  The café is just steps away from where Mom and Bill’s beautiful boat is docked in the Bastilles’ Port de l’Arsenal.

Paris! We arrived. 

As the taxi swerved and darted through the narrow streets, I tried to take it all in – a blur of boulangeries, outdoor cafes, and a stunning amount of pharmacies… My brain, jostled from the taxi’s driving and slowed by jet lag, took it all in. Suddenly, we lurched to a stop.

Doors flung open. The smell! Paris – diesel, warm bread, coffee, and cigarette smoke tangled with that familiar mist of expensive perfume. Standing there at the curb, Mom, Bill, and my daughter (who arrived a week before us), walked quickly toward us, and behind her, my sister and Mick – smiling, arms open.

In minutes our group walked down the stairs to their boat. Mom fed us brie, baguettes and other Parisian goodies out on their boat’s deck. I ate and tried to digest that we were really there, as the sun bounced off the water surrounding us.  There we sat with my sister and her husband, whom I hadn’t seen in years… in Paris. I tried to remember every moment, knowing these two weeks would slide by too quickly. (Photo: Mom's boat deck in the evening)

Then, mom and Bill walked our group over to the apartment, just down the street on Boulevard de la Bastille. All I knew is that Ian and I would share it with Denise and Mick.  Would each couple have our own rooms? I hoped. Would it be dark? I hoped not. Would it be small and cramped? I didn’t know. None of us knew what to expect.  I was just happy to be in Paris with my family.

After some jet lagged hyperventilating, on my part, due to the claustrophobic rectangular box, otherwise known as a Paris elevator, we’d need to squeeze (two by two) into to arrive at our sixth floor, we walked into the apartment my mother and Bill had chosen and rented for us.

Sun poured across the warm-hued hardwood floors, and two living room windows, draped as if from a Madeline storybook in pink and brown, revealed a stunning view: the Eiffel tower and Notredame straight ahead, out in the distance, with the Seine to the left and the sparking canal of the Port de l’Arsenal, dotted with boats, just below. Each one of us ran to the windows and gasped. 

      


As my sister would later say, we were like those twenty-somethings on MTV’s “Real World” who scurry around their glamorous new pad in awe.  We walked around the apartment, picking out our bedrooms, giddy that there were not only two bathrooms, but a third just outside the front door. The main bathroom had sun pouring through a skylight.  Our bedrooms had views of beautiful buildings and a clock tower.

Views!!

(View of Eiffel tower from the living room window and, to the right, the Bastille and Port de l'Arsenal.)

Below our bedroom window, just to the left, is the outdoor plaza of an art gallery, La Maison Rouge. Mom told Ian and me weeks before that the gallery had an exhibit of artists from Winnipeg, Canada, called “My Winnipeg.” Ian’s from Winnipeg. We would later go there and see a photo of our friend, singer Burton Cummings of The Guess Who from Winnipeg, on the gallery's wall. I saw Burton's smiling face staring at me, did a double-take, and elbowed Ian. He gasped, "What?! You mean we've been sleeping, in Paris, right above Burton's face?" Weird.

Wow… If our apartment seemed perfect then, the following days would reveal, even more, that Mom and Bill couldn’t have found a better place. The location and view (At night, on the hour, the Eiffel Tower sparkles) could not have been better.

The apartment is walking distance from literary haunts of Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway, to name just a few late writers who lived, wrote and played along with artists like Picasso on the Left Bank. Also within walking distance: Ile Saint-Louis, Notre Dame, ancient Roman road Rue Mouffetard (now alive with cafes and shops) and Place de la Contrescarpe (in Hemingway’s old Neighborhood); medieval Roman ruins of the Cluny and Arenes de Lutece; lush and colorful Jardin des Plantes; the plethora of cafes in the less touristy Marais; clubs and cafés on Rue de la Roquette and Rue de Lappe in the Bastille; the haunting and ancient cemetery Pere la Chaise; outdoor markets (Bastille and Aligre), and the summer Plages along the Seine (Yes, a beach on the Seine: sand castles, boule, lawn chairs, music, a swimming pool, food and drinks).

When we wanted to explore beyond this incredible area, we simply hopped on the Metro (Bastille Metro line 1, not many blocks away to our right, and Quai de la Rapée Metro line 5, just across from the apartment’s entrance).

Now that I'm home, there's so much I miss. I miss walking across the bridge to visit my mom and Bill on their beautiful boat; buying quiche Lorraine at the boulangerie around the corner; watching children run through the flowers and sprinklers at the Jardin des Plantes; ogling a stunning red gown in a boutique window in the Montparnasse, and then, looking over my shoulder to catch a nun stop to see what I was gasping at, only to watch a wide smile light her face in pleasure at the dress' beauty.

I miss walking out the apartment door, never knowing what we would discover: the home where French philosopher René Descartes died, near Place de la Contrescarpe; the building where the principles of gas and lighting were discovered (theorized, yes - though never actually put into reality); Gertrude Stein's former apartment where Hemingway and Picasso liked to visit; rich hot chocolate, quiche with caraway seeds, grilled toast with leeks and bubbling cantral cheese... and discovering that saying "bonjour" instead of thank you or goodbye makes even the most straight-faced Parisian laugh - with pity? Maybe. Probably...

But those two weeks in Paris went by in a blur, just as I knew they would.

*Next, I’ll write about all that we discovered and experiences that can not be missed, i.e. one of the most memorable dinners of my life; literary walks, favorite museums, neighborhoods I enjoyed most and why.

Until then, here are two slide shows I created from our Paris trip: Two Weeks in Paris & Two Weeks in Paris, Part Deux

Au Revoir!

Lost in Paris - October 2000

Part II - inspired by the film "Paris je t'aime."

"Lost in Paris"

Our time in Paris spun by in a blur – My husband broke a chair and fell on the floor in a restaurant; we limped through the endless halls of the Louvre, where we just barely saw Mona Lisa’s left eye over the shoulders of large German tourists; an American couple asked me in broken French, somehow mistaking me for a Parisian, to take their photo – and I never revealed I was just another American tourist as I let them struggle to explain how to use their camera in French; an almost seven-foot-tall African-French man - a brilliant contrast, dressed in a fringed white-leather cowboy outfit and Stetson hat - took me by my arm and spun me around the dance floor of an Irish pub (a few doors down from the Moulin Rouge) in Montmarte… until I tore myself away, spinning and queasy.  But now we were scheduled to travel by TGV (the high speed train) into the French Alps.

The morning we were to depart from the Gare de Lyon (a train station) in Paris, the sky was black and rain poured down sideways. At just before eight that morning, I reminded the woman at our hotel’s front desk that I had requested a taxi the evening before to get us to the train station by nine a.m.

"There are no taxis available," she said without even looking up from the fashion magazine she was reading.

“But, but...we have all these heavy bags. Where’ll we go? What’ll we do?” I pleaded in my best Scarlett O’hara impersonation, except without the southern lilt and with a lot more desperation.

“Walk. Of course,” she said, flipping a glossy magazine page, not at all concerned with our problem.

My knees buckled under the weight of her words. Then, with no time to think, Ian and I looked at each other.  I pulled my fuzzy hat over my eyes.  We grabbed our luggage and dashed into the drenched streets. (Photo  below is blurry because I took it while running in the rain.)

He ran ahead.  I hobbled behind, pulling my bulging suitcases - one of which had wheels, but due to my spastic running, bounced along behind me. "Keep up!" Ian shouted, as if I wasn't trying.

That’s when my luggage unzipped and my shoes started falling out.  Parisians passing by bent over to help me pick them up. 

“Merci!  Merci!” I called out to all the kind people who stopped to hand me shoes, as I continued to run forward.

We ran and ran. The rain poured and poured. We continued quite a few blocks before deciding to get out of the rain and go underground in one of the metro stations.  We panted and darted through crowds of quiet Parisians on their way to work.

“Ian, do you even know where Gare de Lyon is?” I yelled from behind, thinking it was a good question considering he was running as if he knew.

“I... Don’t... Know!” he yelled, but continued running as if he did.

And since I had no better ideas, I followed.

Then a savior silently appeared: A French man in a trench coat with white hair and a trimmed mustache, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a copy of Le Monde under the other arm.  With a tip of his head, without saying a word, he motioned for us to follow him. We did - in and out of metro tunnels. Up stairs. Down ramps.  Through more tunnels. Each time he changed direction he looked back and gestured with another tip of his head. This went on for about five minutes until he then found a woman who could speak English.  He asked her to explain to us how to cross the bridge to get to Gare de Lyon. Then, just as silently as he appeared he disappeared. We never got a chance to properly thank him.

Eventually, we pulled our bulging suitcases up to the crest of the bridge, where we finally viewed the Gare de Lyon - which, right then, was the most beautiful sight in all of Paris.

With only minutes to spare, we boarded the train - soaking wet and out of breath – toward the medieval town of Annecy, to cause more havoc on unsuspecting French citizens and their furniture.(Photos below: beautiful Annecy in the French Alps.)

Here's a new film from my mother - who lives on a barge in Paris - and is now calling herself Cecil B. De Nancy

La Première Nuit: October 2000

*After watching the film "Paris, je t'aime", a series of short stories set in Paris, I thought I would do something similar regarding my last trip to Paris.  So I've separated some of the goofy little experiences we had in France into short stories.  I call my series "Two Idiotic Californians in France." 

Here's my first story:

                                              "La Premiere Nuit"

It’s our first night in Paris, and my husband, Ian, and I are so jet-lagged we can barely speak.  My eyes feel so heavy they hurt and my senses seem to blur.  But I try to take it all in.  The air smells of cigarette smoke, expensive perfume and diesel.  The cobblestone street shimmers under a glow of orange, green and purple neon from the signs lining the Rue de Lappe.  Music pulses from nightclubs lining the alley.  An ambulance siren bleats in the background like a strange goose. Parisians walk by swathed in scarves – twisted, rolled, tucked.  They look so stylish.  I feel dopey and scarfless.

My mother and her husband live in France.  Our daughter, Lauren, will be staying with them.  We’re all walking to dinner.  Following my mother’s lead, we duck into a restaurant.

It’s dimly lit and decorated in deep red with gold damask drapes and chairs. The seated patrons lean over flickering candle light and speak to each other in hushed voices. I look around the room, as we’re about to be seated at our table, and marvel at the sophisticated manner in which the people all around me conducted themselves. So much quieter, I think, than in most American restaurants.

Little do I know, in mere seconds, the ambiance will change completely.

Ian sits in one of the beautiful damask covered chairs.  Crack!  It breaks beneath him.  His arms fly back and seem to make a ripple in the air, like he’s back paddling.  The seconds seem to stretch and move in slow motion. I watch as my husband falls slowly toward the floor.  As if floating, his derrière and feet appear to hang in the air.

The crowd of candle-lit faces of the Parisian patrons – mouths opened wide in laughter – look like they stepped out of a Toulouse Lautrec painting, as if they’re in the audience of the Moulin Rouge, gasping at the height at which the can-can girls can kick. But, no! They’re gasping at the sight before them: The man in the air. Their under-lit faces smear together as if Toulouse’s oils were still wet. Finally, Ian lands with a thud on the pretty Persian rug.  And there he seems to stay for an eternity.

Every sophisticated Parisian in the restaurant turns in his direction. They point. They laugh - hardy, knee slapping laughs - as if Ian’s their personal Jerry Lewis.

I think about all my French etiquette books I read before arriving in Paris.  They all warned about seeming too “American” – no sweat pants or running shoes; no barking orders in English, and, definitely no smiling idiotically at everything - all in the name of fitting in.  Basically, don’t be an American! 

Yet, here we are in Paris and these French people seem to love my Husband (Okay, so he’s Canadian).   But they don’t know that.  So I think, “The French do love Americans.  Yes, they do… to laugh at!”

As a polite Canadian with an American spirit, Ian just brushes himself off, laughs and sits in a new chair.  Our waiter treats us to a bottle of desperately needed wine. 

My mom lifts her glass, “À votre santé!”

“To our health? Yes,” I think, “with three weeks left in France, we’re going to need it."

Here's a movie my mother made of a recent cruise down the Seine.