Europe Days 18-22: Paris

Saturday, July 13

I woke up at 3:38 am and was unable to fall back asleep.  Unbeknownst to me, right around that time, Spencer was crawling into bed in his cabin across the hallway after hanging out with his newfound friends.  I got up at around 5:30 am, watched the ship sail in through Venice, had some breakfast, then went back to the room and tried to shower and finish packing quietly, but managed to wake up Jennifer anyway.  Sorry!

Our goal was to leave the ship by 9 am, store our bags, and spend the day in Venice.  As usual, things took a bit longer than usual (blame the long lines in the breakfast buffet as all the cruisers had one last chance for all the food they could eat).  Since we were carrying our bags off the ship, we could leave any time we wanted.  We rolled off and walked over to the Venice bus station, found the place to check our bags, then boarded a vaporetto towards St. Mark’s square. 

Venice is essentially one big tourist trap.  It's kind of like Busch Gardens, only dirtier and not as fun.  Since its fall from power in the 1700s, Venice has done nothing of note, and is slowly decaying while living on tourists.  The line to enter St. Mark’s church snaked through the plaza, but we skipped it by checking our backpack and getting the pass to jump in front.  We stumbled over the rolling floors while gazing at the glittering frescoed ceilings. 

The kids vetoed going through the Doge’s Palace (“no more museums!”), but Kirsten compensated by finding a leather goods store and buying a soft Italian leather purse.  We jostled through the narrow streets, working our way over to Campo Santa Maria Formosa to a place incongruously named Peter Pan's.  It was recommended by Dr. Steves, and indeed the food was good.  Rather than eat in the little place, we carried out our food and ate pizza and kabobs while sitting in the shadow of the church and watching the tourists and pigeons. 

After several wrong turns and dead ends, we found ourselves at the Rialto Bridge.  Spencer declared he was done for the day, and went on a vacation strike by sitting down in the middle of the bridge.  The combination of lack of sleep, searing heat, masses of tourists, and reentry from the cruise had drained his energy and attitude.  He told us to leave him, and he'd meet us back at the bus station, but that didn’t sound like a good idea to me.  The rest of us found a shady spot and waited for him to come around.  By that time, no one was feeling any love for Venice, so we boarded a vaporetto back to the bus station, bought ice creams, and hung out in the shade.  Eventually, we retrieved our bags and boarded the bus for the airport two hours earlier than needed, since we were pretty sure the airport would be cleaner, cooler, and more comfortable than the bus station plaza.  Unfortunately, the A/C didn’t seem to be working well at the airport, but two out of three ain't bad.  We found a table and chairs where we could eat, play cards, and close our eyes. 

We took off from Venice at dusk, and landed in Paris at 10:30 pm, just as night was falling.  Talk about daylight savings!  As we rode into the city in our taxi, we saw fireworks and the Eiffel Tower sparkling, and realized that tomorrow was Bastille Day.  I wondered if any stores or sights would be open.

We were met at our apartment at 11:30 pm by the owner’s babysitter, as the owner was out of town.  Our apartment is on the 6^th floor of a 7 story building, located in the 10^th Arrondisement, near the Gare d’Nord and Gare d’Est train stations.  I'm guessing that the structure predated indoor plumbing and electricity.  We have three bedrooms, a large living area, a large bathroom, and a teensy tiny galley kitchen.  No air conditioning, however, but we can open the windows and catch a nice cross breeze since we are so high.  We were so tired from our day of transitions that we flopped into our beds, windows open to the sound of fireworks.

Sunday, July 14

Today is Bastille Day, France’s version of the 4^th of July.  We slept in, which for me means that I woke up at about 6 am, Jennifer around 8:30, and the kids between 10:30 and 11.  I ventured out at about 7:30 am to explore the neighborhood.  Most of the stores were closed for the national holiday, but I found a hotel for a Paris map, and, more importantly, an open bakery for fresh crossaints for the family.  There was a big parade down the Champs Elysses at 10 am – we couldn’t see it from out apartment, but I saw about 20 different squadrons of French aircraft flying over the route, some streaming the tricolors of the French flag. 

I did some research and found that the Louvre Museum had free admission today, so we walked over to a metro station (there are 5 within a 10 minute walk) and made our way downtown.  Walking into the huge courtyard, we discovered that the admission line was snaking around the pyramid in the bright hot sun and was more than an hour long.  I recalled reading in the Gospel of Steves that there was a lesser-known entrance, so I went scouting and finally found it on the lower level of an air conditioned shopping mall.  I called the rest of the family and they trundled over, and soon we were inside one of the world’s largest museums, along with tens of thousands of others who, like us, wanted to avoid paying the $15 per person entry fee.

The kids had already reached their limit of museums, but were willing to make an allowance to see the painting of the Mona Lisa and carving of the Dying Slave, along with the world’s most famous double amputee (fun fact: the Venus de Milo is a size 14).  We brushed by lots of other stuff, such as the Winged Victory of Samothrace, and occasionally wondered why other paintings were there.  Two hours later we were back outside.  The kids thought that was just the right amount of time, and Jennifer and I simply nodded.   

Kirsten chose a lunch place nearby (Le Fumior), where our typically French speedy service permitted Spencer and me to play a long game of chess.  We didn’t mind relaxing, however – we were in comfortable chairs, they kept bringing reasonably cold water, and the food was good. 

We walked along the Seine, then wound back to the Teulleries Garden, where I played Frisbee with Garrett and Spencer.  We stopped at an ice cream place and found that single cones were about $5 each, and a can of diet coke was about $4.  I told the kids that Paris was called the city of light because it lightened your wallet.  We spent most of the afternoon slowly meandering our way to the Champs de Mars.  Along the way, we found a Starbucks (reliable free toilets!), only to find there was only one potty and a long line.  An hour and several frappes later, we were in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, where the fireworks show would be staged.  We found a place to sit and wait.  There was an orchestra playing nearby, and occasionally an opera singer would kill a cat.  We watched the place fill with more than a million Parisians and tourists, watched several fights break out as latecomers tried to leap over those already sitting, and futilely tried to avoid the wafting clouds of second-hand smoke.  It seems like a lot more people smoke in Paris than in the US.  In the cafes, it seems nearly everyone sitting at the outside tables is smoking.  In theory, France has regulated smoking in restaurants, but there seems to be no enforcement.  Anyway, as dusk fell on the Champs de Mars, the crowds of people who were trying to get somewhere else found there was no way through the masses sitting, and they stood there blocking the view of everyone behind them.  The crowd started chanting in French “sit, sit, sit,” then applauded wildly as people figured out they were the problem, and sheepishly complied.  It was an entertaining way to pass a couple of hours.

At a little past 11 pm, the lights on the Eiffel Tower went black then started blinking, throbbing techno music started pulsing, and the fireworks show started.  It was 35 minutes of constant fireworks – every few seconds, at least 6 or 8 bursts would simultaneously explode.  Garrett was complaining that the Eiffel Tower was partially blocking our view.  I told him to chill out and enjoy the moment – how often would he be able to watch the Paris Bastille Day fireworks live?  The finale had 30+ bursts every few seconds, and ended with my ears throbbing from the techno music, my butt numb and dirty from sitting on the ground for so long, and my legs with pins and needles from being folded up. It was great.

But the best part was yet to come: the ride home.  We all held hands as we snaked through the throngs towards the Ecole Milatare metro stop, only to find that it was closed to prevent overcrowding.  We congaed for another 10 minutes to the next stop and balanced on the platform as the crowds surged in.  The train arrived, and a sea of humanity surged through the doors.  We were wedged in; any closer and we’d need condoms.  It was a sweaty, rocking ride, and every stop, more people would manage to push their way onto the train.  After a half dozen stops of being introduced to someone else’s sweaty armpit, the tide relented, and we could breathe again.  I was reminded of when I lived in NYC in the summer of 1982, and attended an extra innings baseball game at Yankees stadium.  When the game finally ended, everyone surged to the 161^st St. subway.  A post-midnight short train (only 4 cars) arrived, and everyone from Yankee stadium pushed on board.  Even that ride to 125^th Street was not as bad as our Parisian post-fireworks train. 

Monday July 15

Today the kids set the agenda.  Kirsten wanted to go to a street market, and chose the Puces St. Ouen, located just outside the Paris beltway.  We got going at about 10 am, and rode the metro to Porte de Clignancourt.  We spent the next couple of hours browsing through hundreds of stalls of knock-off clothing, strange antiques (quite a few real stuffed animals), and everything else under the sun.  Kirsten got a dress, Spencer got a poster, Jennifer got a magnet, Garrett a blister, and I got sunstroke.  We stopped for lunch at Café Paul Bert, where we were treated to complementary second-hand smoke with an otherwise good lunch. 

Spencer selected the afternoon’s itinerary: Montmartre, where Jennifer also wanted to explore.  We took the metro back down to Chateau Rouge, and walked up the hill towards the Sacre Couer.  Below the white domed church, there was a park where there used to be gypsum mines, which supplied the city with the materials for (you guessed it) Plaster of Paris.  We noticed that all of the grass was surrounded by fences.  Apparently, the grass in parks is for looking at, not for walking on or laying on.  Paris is virtually all apartments and concrete, and the concept of personal yards is a luxury that was reserved for royals, and that died in 1789.  Being Americans, we hopped over the fence anyway and laid on the grass in the shade for an hour or so, recharging our batteries. 

Eventually we stirred ourselves to walk the rest of the way up the hill and look inside the church, which was built only about 140 years ago as an act of penance by the city’s dwindling active Catholics to atone for the ongoing sins of the city.  The surrounding neighborhood showed that it didn’t work: Montmartre was and is the home of starving artists and fools raging against the injustice of the world for not supporting them as they chase their dreams.  We bought ice cream and made our way over to the Dali museum, which was surreal. 

Although there was much more to see in the area, the kids decided that they were done, so we got lost while walking down the hill looking for the Abbess metro station.  We were so desperate, we actually asked directions three different times.  Eventually we found it and went back home to put up our aching feet.  No one felt like going out for dinner, so Jennifer and I went shopping for supplies, ending up with pasta with meat sauce, a green salad, and vegetables.  It’s the first dinner we’ve cooked on our vacation.  We ended the day with some family games. 

Tuesday July 16

Spencer said that he wanted a day off from being a tourist, so he stayed at the apartment, napped, listened to music, and watched a movie on the computer, while the rest of us went out.  We first went to Sainte Chapelle, a church built in the 1240’s to house the (supposed) crown of Jesus.  It’s located within the complex that includes the French Supreme Court, so security is tight.  I walked into the church and thought, wait, this isn’t the right church . . . before I realized we entered in the crypt.  I may be slow, but eventually I’ll figure it out.  We walked up the circular stairs, and as I turned the last corner to enter the main floor, I had one of those rare “wow!” moments.  The narrow, tall chapel has 15 huge stained glass windows, each over 70 feet tall, and radiating light.  The 1100+ panes tell virtually every story from the bible, plus some post-biblical Christian history.  It’s a remarkable visual feast. 

We continued down the island to the Notre Dame, and sat to soak in that famous façade.  Eventually we joined the long line snaking around Point Zero, from which all distances are measured in Paris.  The Romans built a Temple of Jupiter on this spot in 52 BC, and after Rome fell, the Germanic Franks turned the temple into a Christian church.  The line circled around the statue of Charlemagne, the first ruler of the Holy Roman Empire in around 800 AD.  The current church took about 200 years to build, from 1163 to 1345.  We looked up at the 28 kings of Judah, who the peasants in the French Revolution thought were the French kings, and lopped off their heads.  (They were only restored about 40 years ago).  Also during the Revolution, the church was secularized and the altar replaced with a statue representing the divinity of man.  While the church eventually was rededicated, the relationship between the French and Catholicism remains tenuous. 

We eventually made our way inside, and slowly shuffled around the nave, marveling at the huge rose windows and the architectural details.   It struck me once again how these massive buildings that were intended to be spiritual centers now are little more than tourist attractions.  I rarely feel my spirit moved when I walk through those massive cathedrals.  At least the interiors of the French churches are not as junked up with all the frescoes or gilding that we saw in Italy. 

We took one look at the line to go up on the balcony, and said “not today, Zerg.”  Instead, we walked behind the cathedral to the Deportation Memorial, to commemorate the 200,000 French citizens that the Vichy government willingly sent to the concentration camps, where fewer than 3% survived.  The place was a surprisingly small, concrete tomb in the Brutalist style.  A narrow corridor of 200,000 lights represented each person who was sent off.  The sparing pamphlet was strangely written in the passive voice, as if to try to deflect French responsibility for the murder of so many.  The memorial fairly screamed that the French still are in massive denial for their culpability in their part of the Holocaust. 

We walked across the bridge and had a good three course lunch at Café Med, a little creperie.  Across the street was Berthillon, a favorite Parisian ice cream joint, so of course we had to have a sample.  We ambled over to the Left Bank, looked at the booksellers lining the river, and took more pictures of the Notre Dame.  Eventually, we made our way to the Luxembourg Gardens, where we sat on the grass near some cute preschoolers.  In a few minutes, a couple of gendarmes told us to move off the grass – it was forbidden to sit or walk anywhere green, apparently.  They also evicted the preschoolers.  I felt much safer after the little criminals were handcuffed and jailed. 

Garrett and I found a graveled walk where we could toss the Frisbee, and Jennifer and Kirsten found the only patch of grass in the 60 acre park where people could legally step on.  That little patch was wall-to-wall people, and everywhere else was wide open, guarded by Inspector Clouseau and his partners.  This is a strange, strange place.

We rode the RER train back to Gare d’Nord, and walked back to the apartment.  We didn’t feel like cooking for dinner, so I used Yelp to find a nearby well-rated and cheap Kurdish restaurant named Urfa Durum.  We carried our lamb kabobs back to the apartment since the tables outside the restaurant were filled, stopping to get some pastries for dessert.  Yum.  We ended the day with some more family card games, going to bed at around midnight. 

Wednesday July 17

Today has ended up being a free day of sorts.  Jennifer and Kirsten wanted to go see the impressionist paintings at the Orsay and the Orangerie Museums, but Spencer and Garrett didn’t want to go (see "no more museums", above).  I proposed taking them on a Segway tour, but they decided they would rather kick back and do nothing.  I decided to stay with them, since Spencer had told me that he might want to do his own thing, and I didn’t want to leave Garrett by himself.  I bought advance tickets on line for Jennifer (Kirsten was free), but had a difficult time downloading them to PDF form.  I couldn’t get the printer in the apartment to work, so I found an internet café where we could print the tickets, then pointed the girls in the right direction for the metro and went back to the apartment.  I spent the day doing laundry, reading, updating this blog, going grocery shopping, and to a bank ATM to replenish the treasury.  Garrett played his DS, took a long bath, and napped.  Spencer left at around 2:30 to further explore Montmartre, and took a phone with him so he could call to get back into the apartment, since we have only two sets of keys.

Speaking of phones, the two cheap world phones have worked just fine with the £10 Orange SIM cards, but as soon as we left the UK, my iPhone gobbled up the £30 of value on that SIM card.  Contrary to what I was told by both the UK sales guy and the Orange texts, the unlimited internet and data through the end of July was for the UK only, not all of Europe.  As soon as I left the UK, the push email feature of my iPhone used up the value of the card.  It’s taken me a half-dozen calls with Orange for them to acknowledge the problem, and they repeatedly have promised to put the £30 of value back onto the SIM card.  But it hasn’t happened yet, and in the meantime, my iPhone cannot send or receive texts or calls over the cellular system.  This morning I yanked out the Orange SIM card and put my Verizon SIM card back in.  I promptly received texts informing me that I would be charged $1.29/min for cell calls, and more than $20 per mb of data, so I shut the data feature off, and will use the cell only for emergencies.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll see if Orange has kept their promise and restored the value.  Moral of the story:  swapping SIM cards so you have data in Europe at a reasonable cost is not as easy as it should be.