A little sexy rock to set the mood for this Musical Monday
A Little Kiss of Paradise
Since my next trip is to Hawaii, I wanted to relate a little story to you. Several years ago, when I’d just started a new job, I decided to go to Hawaii. For one reason, it was because it was over a holiday. For the second reason, once my mind is made up, nothing can hold me back! The holiday was Thanksgiving. Our office got out early on Wednesday, so I was on my way to the airport. It seems that my flight got into Honolulu in the late afternoon. I was staying at the Outrigger Reef on the Beach. I had a nice huge room to myself and, yes, it’s right on the beach. At that time, I was into collecting the works of Kim Taylor Reece and Randy Jay Braun; both are photographers who specialize in photos of hula dancers. On the ground floor of my hotel was a store specializing in prints and posters, many of them by those two photographers. When I stopped by to check out their inventory, the salesman was not only friendly and helpful, but he had a dazzling smile and was very attractive. For a moment, I thought he might be flirting with me. Then again, I thought to myself, this is Hawaii, where everyone is extremely friendly and nice; I must be imagining things. I didn’t buy anything that day; just wanted to see what was available and save my shopping for the final day.
The next day was Thanksgiving. To be honest, I don’t really recall what my day entailed. I had my Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant on the hotel grounds; nothing special. I’m almost positive that part of my afternoon was spent drinking at the Mai Tai Bar at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. I may have run around taking photos of landmarks and doing a little window shopping.
Friday was my last day in paradise. Yes, you heard me – I only went to Hawaii for TWO nights! My flight was a red eye, though, which gave me the entire day to run around. All I know is that I went back to the store with the prints towards the end of the afternoon to make my decision on which ones I wanted. The same cute salesman was there. He asked where I’d been the previous day. He had a turkey sandwich for me from Thanksgiving! What kind of person does that?! That was so sweet! That would never happen to me in San Francisco or Los Angeles (or probably most anywhere else). If my recollection is correct, he alluded to the fact that he’d wanted to see me the day before. I explained that I hadn’t been sure if he was flirting with me or he was simply being extra nice. “I was flirting with you!!!” he said. That certainly made my day! He was getting off work shortly, so we decided to have drinks together somewhere in the hotel. Maybe it was Shorebird; don’t quite remember. Actually, we had quite a few drinks together. He’s the person who introduced me to Surfers on Acid, as well as to Italian Surfers on Acid (though for the life of me, I can’t remember what are in those!). He was disappointed to hear that my flight out was that night; I was disappointed to hear that he had to leave to go to another job! He tried to talk me into taking a flight on another day. There wasn’t anything available, though. I’d already tried that with the airlines earlier; they assured me that there were no available seats on an outbound flight until Monday. If I missed all or part of Monday, that wouldn’t go over well with my boss at my new job! I tried to talk him into not going to his second job, but he insisted that he had to. So much for all of that flirting and anticipation… Before we parted, we did manage to share a kiss. It was quite a kiss, too. This may seem strange to you, but when he kissed me, my heart was pounding and all these visions of old Hawaii ran through my head. I’d never felt quite like that before. It was blood to blood, or more specifically, Polynesian/Pacific Islander blood to Polynesian/Pacific Islander blood. Now I’ve certainly been kissed by Polynesian men before, but this one was special. I never forgot that kiss or that feeling; always wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten on that plane or if he hadn’t gone off to that second job. Although we never saw each other again (but kept in touch for a little while), I think about him every so often… always with a smile and much aloha.
Back to the City Different
My plans are set – the ticket is bought, the casita is reserved and the deposit is paid. I’m FINALLY going to go to Indian Market in Santa Fe, New Mexico this year!!! My two previous trips to Santa Fe were in the winter. While it’s still lovely then, I’m looking forward to seeing it in warm, or dare I say hot, weather!
When I was trying to find a place to stay there, other than the overpriced hotels, the owners kept informing me that Indian Market is their busiest weekend of the year, so they always raise their prices. Yes, I’m well aware of that. I wasn’t expecting to find anything for $50/night, but I was hoping NOT to pay $250/night plus tax, either! Apparently, 90,000 people attended Indian Market last year, so it’s best to reserve everything as far in advance in possible.
I do have a thing for Native American Indian jewelry. All of my best stuff IS from Santa Fe. I can only imagine what incredible jewelry they’ll have that weekend, though I’m sure it will cost a pretty penny.
Plus, there’s the food. I love green chile (and like red chile as well). I also like spicy and am a particular fan of enchiladas. I’ll probably eat green chile enchiladas at least once per day!
If everything goes well, my favorite partner in crime from my bad, bad, wild, wild days in Los Angeles will be joining me! If she’s reading this right now (and we know she is), she better be marking her calendar for August 16th!
Categories: Travel
Tags: Indian Market, jewelry, Native American Indian, New Mexico, Santa Fe
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Date Number Two With Guy Number One
You remember the first guy from the on-line dating website, right? Well, T. has been texting me every so often telling me to let him know if I wanted to grab a drink together or if I wanted to go for a walk with his dog and him. He even texted me when I was in the Seattle airport waiting to meet my cousin and my uncle.
Monday at work was slightly stressful for me. I wanted (i.e. needed) a drink of the alcoholic variety! I asked someone in the office if they’d like to go for drinks, but they couldn’t as they had to pick up their kids from school. I was going to ask another friend, but knew already that they have time limit of an hour after work to do something in and that’s it, due to obligations. So I texted T. to see if he wanted to get a drink together. Even he was unable to on Monday, but suggested Tuesday night instead. I went home on Monday with all kinds of plans to be semi-productive, but pretty much laid on my bed, took a nap and surfed the web instead.
When Tuesday came around, we agreed to meet at my neighborhood French wine bar. He said that he’d only been in there once for a single glass of wine, but hadn’t stayed long. I arrived before T. and was chatting with one of the bartenders when another French friend that I hadn’t seen in about a year approached me. He and I were engaged in a long conversation when T. suddenly showed up and stood next to me. He said that he didn’t want to interrupt the conversation. I introduced T. to my friend, who had to leave, anyway. T. had already put his coat at a table, but mine was already sitting on the back of a bar stool. He asked which I preferred; I said that I prefer to sit at the bar whenever possible. He had a flight of reds; I had a flight of champagne. He also ordered some mushroom flatbread and olives, which he ate most of, since I wasn’t particularly hungry. He then had another flight of reds and I had a single glass of something red that the bartender said had a barnyard smell. Even with my congestion, the odor of hay and manure came through to me! I decided to hazard a taste, anyway. Once I got past the smell, I really liked it. After that, we moved on to a little dive bar down the street and drank a couple of beers apiece.
As for the conversation, he asked me about Paris, a place he’s never been. He told me that he’s visiting a friend in Phoenix this weekend, then will probably go visit his brother in Hawaii in June or July; his brother recently moved there. I asked him about his last real relationship. I believe that it was someone he’d met on-line, then they ended up moving in together for 2 or 3 years. As to why it ended, he didn’t say. He commented that he thinks San Francisco has one of the best music scenes around, as well as some of the best food. I tend to disagree with him about the music scene. I said that if he’s talking about what famous acts play here, well, they play every major city around the world. Yet if he’s talking about the LOCAL live music, I seriously have to disagree with him about there being any massive talent here! I agreed with him on the food, as far as high end restaurants. I once again disagreed when it comes to casual ethnic foods. I believe that Los Angeles has San Francisco beat hands down for authentic Thai, Chinese and Mexican. My ex-roommate, who’s Japanese and from SoCal, said the same thing about Japanese food. I also think that, in many respects, Hawaii has better Asian food and seafood. I honestly don’t remember what else we talked about; I’d been drinking and was not paying THAT much attention! In other words, I was NOT hanging on every word he said.
Let’s skip to the physical part of it. At the French wine bar, T. was giving me lots of little hugs. I have no idea why ’cause it was annoying as hell. By the time we got to the dive bar, he was resting his hand on my leg. He also grabbed my hand and started tracing circles in my palm. Honestly, my first reaction was to pull away immediately, but I didn’t want to offend him. I think he was hoping that I would be a little more physical with him, but he was getting nothing from me. I just kept talking, as if oblivious to the fact that he was getting a little too close and in my personal space. If I was attracted to him in that way, it wouldn’t have annoyed me. As it was, I wanted to run back to my apartment screaming at the top of my lungs “A boy touched me and boys have cooties!’ (Not really that bad, but damn close.)
It’s not as if T. is an unattractive ogre. When I saw him again at the wine bar, I said to myself “He’s an attractive enough man for his age.” The mere fact that I had to throw “for his age” in there must mean that he seems old to me or that I feel there’s a better match out there for me. He’s a perfectly nice man… who would probably bore the hell out of me inside of a couple of weeks, if not sooner. I like ’em a little wild, a little unpredictable, a little sexy, a little crazy. He’s none of those things, in my opinion. More importantly, if I can’t imagine kissing a guy, I certainly can’t imagine anything else happening, much less being in an actual relationship. I spent the rest of the evening wondering if he would try to kiss me and dreading the mere thought. He insisted on walking me all the way to my front door, though I told him that I was perfectly safe. It IS my neighborhood, after all. If I’ve been able to stagger home drunk or sick with the flu at ungodly hours, then his company, though chivalrous, wasn’t necessary. Lucky for him, he did NOT try to kiss me at the front door. In that respect, a potentially very awkward scene was avoided. I certainly wasn’t sending those vibes out, but men often try to ignore that gut feeling and go for the gusto! He mentioned that we should have dinner together when he returns from Phoenix. I didn’t really respond to the part about us having dinner together; may have said that I like the restaurant he suggested! Somewhere in the evening’s conversation, I vaguely remember him asking something like “Well, what about you and me?” I think I talked about my favorite music and continued to drink!
Honestly, I don’t plan to go out with him again. I can now definitively say that I’m not attracted to him in that way. More than likely, he’ll text me when he returns. More than likely, my return text will thank him for the offer of dinner, explain that I don’t like to lead men on and say that there’s no chemistry for me. We can be friends who hang out together on occasion, but most guys don’t want to be friends when they feel they’ve been shot down. Sorry, but I want to feel butterflies when a guy likes me and vice versa. I felt nothing in two dates.
Now I have two more dates set up this week. Both guys want to do something in the Mission. A little secret – most of the time, I hate the Mission. But I’m willing to meet them halfway, so to speak, and try to put forth a little effort. I’ll put on something appropriately grungy and mentally go to my “happy” place!
Le Fin
Why is it that vacations always end far too soon, whether they’re one week or one month? There’s never enough time to do everything that you intended, no matter how well you’ve planned! With that being said, yes, my week in Paris went by much more quickly than I’d anticipated.
During my time in Paris, I’d been buying carnets of 10 tickets at once for the Metro from the machines using my ATM card. On Tuesday night, my last ticket of that carnet was used going to see “How to Become Parisian in an Hour.” After dinner at Chartier, I tried to purchase another carnet from the machine, but it wouldn’t work. I wasn’t sure whether there was something wrong with my card or whether the machine simply wasn’t taking cards at the moment. While I was searching for change, a group of 6 Americans walked up to the machine. They weren’t sure how to use the machine at all, so I showed them. They tried to pay with a card as well, but it still wouldn’t work. They scrounged together enough change for all of their tickets, which the machine happily took. As I was counting my change, one of the men offered to buy the Metro ticket for me; he didn’t want to leave me stranded. I had enough change in the end, but really appreciated his offer.
I awoke to my beamed ceiling on Wednesday morning realizing that it was my last full day in Paris. What to do? What to do? Should I go see new things, revisit old things, concentrate on taking photos, do some shopping or relax? I kind of ended up doing a combination of all of them, with the exception of seeing new things.
My first stop was another branch of that shirt store. When I asked the salesman where the “fin de serie” (i.e. sale) shirts were for the women, he said that they didn’t have any; they only had “fin de serie” shirts for men. That disheartened me a bit, but I only wanted one shirt, anyway. While searching through the women’s shirts for something unique, he suddenly said to me not to look at the regular price, but to look at the sale price (for the men). I thought he’d said they didn’t have any sale shirts for women! For any of you who know me, it really doesn’t matter. When I want something, I want it; there’s no beating around the bush. I chose a lavender-ish women’s shirt with a contrasting fabric of – get this – cassettes! You know, like those old Maxell cassettes! When the salesman rang it up, he gave me the sale price. It remains a mystery as to whether he was confused, I was confused or whether he’d just decided to give me the sale price to be nice!
On my way to the Metro stop, I happened upon Mariage Freres on rue du Bourg-Tibourg. I’d been in that store back in 2006, but hadn’t been able to remember where the street was on this trip. It was kind of a stroke of luck! Mariage Freres makes the most incredible, but pricey, teas. You could spend hours in there sniffing away! The salesmen were very nice; they assured me that I could take the teas on the plane – that they didn’t have to be purchased at the airport. I decided on the “Lily Muguet” (lily-of-the-valley) green tea; they had a white one as well, but I preferred the green one. Then my dilemma was between one called “Year of the Serpent” and “Plein Lune.” “Year of the Serpent” is a green tea with anise, mint, rose and Goji berries. “Plein Lune” is a black tea with almond, honey, fruit and spices. Of course, the salesman tried to convince me to get both! I was leaning towards the “Year of the Serpent” because it was more of a special tea, not one that they usually have. “Plein Lune” is nearly always available; even the saleman said that that would be the one that could be found in the United States more easily than the other. So “Year of the Serpent” it was.
My next stop was to see L’arc de Triomphe. My last visit to the Champs-Elysees was probably in 1993; just doesn’t interest me that much. I managed to come up directly by L’arc de Triomphe, though, which was convenient to snap some photos quickly and go. I took a few photos, asked an Eastern European guy if he’d take a few of me, took a few of him and was on my way.
That brings me to another little rant of mine. Why is is that, when you’re on vacation alone, it’s so difficult to find someone that knows how to operate a camera? Everyone HAS a camera, so why can’t they operate YOURS?! Whenever people take my picture, it’s usually out of focus, too far away to even recognize it as being me or they’v managed to cut part of my head off! This time was particularly frustrating. When I was over by La Fontaine Medici, a Spanish guy said that he’d taken 5 photos of me. Since he had a nice camera, I trusted him as far as knowing how to use mine. Yet when I checked the photos after he left, there wasn’t even a single one of me! The day I went to see La Tour Eiffel, a Japanese girl supposedly took 2 photos of me. Once again, when I checked, there were NO photos! Apparently, you need to explain to everyone how to use your camera, but don’t they all basically work the same these days? Don’t you hold the button down partially to focus, then push it ALL THE WAY DOWN to take the picture?! Ok, back to our regularly scheduled programming!
After the L’arc de Triomphe, I headed to the Les Halles area. I took pictures at the Georges Pompidou Centre, which the French often call “Beauborg.” On my first visit in 1991, there used to be a mechanical clock around there that fought a rooster and various other things every 30 minutes. The clock didn’t seem to be there any more, though. Since it was lunch time, I stopped in at Le Parvis for steak frites.
Then it was off to the neighborhood of St. Germain des Pres. I’ve stayed there at the Hotel Au Manoir a couple of times, which is right next to Brasserie Lipp, as well as across the street from Cafe de Flore and Les Deux Magots. I took some photos outside and inside Saint-Sulpice, one of my favorite churches, for some reason. I recognized it immediately in “The Da Vinci Code!” Then I finally made it to Laduree for macarons. My macaron choices were rose petal, lavender, pistachio, orange flower and a new flavor, Marie Antoinette. I also spied a rose framboise (raspberry) religeuse that looked too delicious to pass up. As I was heading out, another customer mentioned that their teas were good, which jogged my memory. Not only do I like their teas, but am a little obsessed with that blue-green canister that they come in. I turned around and asked to look at two of their teas, the Cherie (chocolate, vanilla and caramel) and the Violette (violet). The Cherie appealed to me a little bit more.
By then, it was time for a shopping break at the very touristic Les Deux Magots. The staff there was EXCRUCIATINGLY nice! (Based on this trip’s experience most of all, I don’t understand how people say that French waiters and salespeople are rude in this day and age.) My choices were le chocolat a l’ancienne (i.e. hot chocolate) and gateau au chocolat (chocolate cake). The waiter smiled “It’s really time for chocolate, huh?” They were both really good; the hot chocolate was about half the price of that at Cafe Florian in Venice, too!
I wandered about a little more and found my favorite Italian restaurant (Marco Polo) and the Souleiado shop where I’d bought a shirt for Laurent. My shopping was done for the day, though, and time was of the essence. Of course, my end of shopping coincided pretty much with rush hour, so the Metro was a zoo.
Back at the apartment, I dropped off my purchases, cleaned up a bit, changed clothes and headed back out. I thought about having dinner at Pharmacie in my own arrondissement, at La Tartine in the 4th or somewhere in Le Quartier Latin. Le Quartier Latin won out because it’s more lively. The restaurant I settled on was called Le Latin Saint Jacques. I had the prix fixe menu which featured an entree (chevre roti sur salade) and a plat (poulet roquefort en papillote), along with a glass of Brouilly. I ate slowly, taking my time, although I knew that my things still had to be packed and the shuttle was scheduled to pick me up at 6:30 a.m. I decided to forego the Metro again just to take that last evening walk through Paris. It was a beautiful night, but then, it always seems like a beautiful night in Paris to me.
It never ceases to amaze me how I manage to stuff everything into my suitcase and carry-ons. When I looked at everything spread out all over the apartment, it seemed like an impossibility. As usual, I made it happen and was in bed by 12:45 a.m.
I was up at 5:00 a.m., showered, rechecked everything, emptied the trash and tried to lug my suitcase down those narrow circular stairs as quietly as possible. I was waiting by the inner door at 6:20 a.m. Super Shuttle kept calling. Even though my phone never rang, it kept showing that I’d received calls. Of course, thanks to Verizon and their wonderful international calling plan, I was unable to return any calls. Around 6:40 a.m., Super Shuttle sent me a message via Skype saying that they would be at least half an hour late. Naturally, I was unable to respond to that, either. Instead, I was opening the door every few minutes to check. Besides, it’s easy to hear if a van pulls up on that small street. By 7:30 a.m., there was no sign of a shuttle and I was beginning to panic. About that time, a Filipino woman walked in the front door and looked at the mail boxes. I’d put the apartment keys on the outside of the mail box; didn’t want to put them inside the mail box until I was sure that someone was picking me up and I wouldn’t be needing them any more. When she looked at the keys, I asked her if she worked for the woman I’d rented the apartment from, which she did. She said that she’d be upstairs if I needed anything. In the meantime, I was able to call Super Shuttle IN THE U.S.!!! I asked them if they could check what was going on with Super Shuttle in Paris and explained my situation. To make a long story short, they put me on hold for quite awhile. They were unable to reach Super Shuttle in Paris themselves, but said that, according to their records, Super Shuttle had showed up for me at 7:01 a.m., but left because I wasn’t there and they were unable to contact me. (Once again, THANKS, Verizon!) The woman was very apologetic and said that she would try to get my money refunded. Of course, by now it’s after 8:00 a.m. I ran upstairs to the apartment and asked Tess if she could call a cab for me. She called the owner who gave me numbers of cab companies; she assured me that cabs in Paris take credit cards. I thought Tess would be able to call a cab for me from her phone, but… she informed me that she couldn’t speak French! I’m okay with my French, as long as I get a live person. If I get any kind of a recording, though, I’m lost! So we called the owner back, who called a cab for me herself. I dashed downstairs to wait. The cab was there around 8:30 a.m. The cab driver spoke no English. He asked me what time my flight was. When I said that my international flight was at 10:30 a.m., he looked at his watch and exclaimed “Oh la la!” Exactly! He said that a road was closed and there were accidents. I tried to tell him that I trusted him to get me there as quickly as possible. We arrived at CDG at 9:40 a.m. He jumped out of the car, grabbed my bags, ran them over to the curb and wished me “Bonne chance!” Talk about stress! By the time I checked in, checked my suitcase, went through the passport control, went through security and RAN all the way to the gate, it was 10:30 a.m. ON THE DOT! I ran to the counter with a look of resignation and asked “Did my flight just leave?” The agent said that it was delayed, but they hadn’t yet made an announcement. I was relieved, but also kind of pissed off that they hadn’t bothered to update the monitor! Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had to rush like a maniac through the airport for nothing! In the meantime, I kicked back and scarfed down a few macarons. The flight didn’t leave till 11:45 a.m.
The flight en route to Seattle wasn’t full. I was sitting on the left side in a space with two seats; me by the window, of course. The girl next to me eventually moved to the row in front of us since no one was sitting there. I ate my lunch – chicken – and settled back to watch “Pitch Perfect.” It was amusing. I was searching for another movie to watch when I suddenly had horrible stomach cramps. It was about 2 1/2 hours into the flight. That’s when I realized that it was… FOOD POISONING!!! For the next 4 hours, I pretty much occupied the back bathroom. Believe me, it wasn’t pretty. When I wasn’t being sick and crying in the bathroom, I was laid out in the middle row in the back (since they were empty) moaning and writhing, having chills and wishing that someone would put me out of my misery. The young French flight attendant said that he was sorry I wasn’t feeling well. He said that the only thing he could offer me was lemon or lime slices, as they would make my stomach feel better. The lime slices actually did offer a little bit of a relief. Even so, it was at least 4 hours of pure Hell! When it was over, I stumbled back to my seat, bundled up and fell asleep for a few hours. I woke up long enough to watch most of “Cloud Atlas” before we landed.
My cousin, Donna, and Uncle Donald were meeting me at the Seattle airport, since my layover was so long. We hadn’t seen each other since the early 90’s! I was tore up from the floor up, though, so had to completely revamp myself as much as possible in the ladies’ room. I washed my face, reapplied make-up, did my hair, changed my shirt, etc. We had a pleasant visit before my flight out at 8:50 p.m. I got back to my apartment in San Francisco after midnight.
So there you have it… Paris in a nutshell! Hope you enjoyed the journey and (lucky for you) didn’t have to go through the food poisoning ordeal personally!
(If there’s a lesson to be learned here, it’s “Do NOT rely on Verizon for international dialing that actually works!”)
Categories: Food/Restaurants, Travel
Tags: cameras, food poisoning, France, L'arc de Triomphe, Laduree, Le Parvis, Le Quartier Latin, Les Halles, Mariage Freres, Paris, Saint-Sulpice, Super Shuttle
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Plus Paris
On Monday night I ended up having dinner at a rustic little restaurant called Les Bougresses. It’s basically across the street from the hotel that I stayed at in the 4th arrondissement the last 2 trips, yet I never recall it being there. The place was small, but warm, with one waiter who greeted everyone as they walked through the door. He hung up my coat and scarf, as well as putting my umbrella in a safe place. He spoke to me mainly in French; must be because he knew I could understand basic French, as long as it’s spoken slowly! I looked at the prix fixe menu for 24E. My only question was what the entree du moment was. He explained that it was snails, which I decided to pass on. My choices were soupe a l’oignan, ravioles du royan and creme brulee, with a small bottle of San Pellegrino and a couple glasses of their house red wine (some Costieres de Nimes). The food was good, but the service was excellent. The waiter was one of those guys with a shaved head and tattoos, but he was animated and friendly with everyone. When I arrived for dinner, there were 4 other tables being attended to. By the time I left, there were an additional 4 tables, with only him taking care of everyone. Upon leaving, I grabbed my scarf and attempted to get my coat. Unfortunately, it was hung up a bit too high for me; that’s the problem with being short! The waiter noticed right away and kept telling me “No! No! I will get it for you!” He wrapped me up in my coat and scarf, then sent me on my way.
In the midst of dinner, it had begun to snow. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that cold, though. Rather than take the Metro, I relished my walk back to the 3rd arrondissement. The streets were nearly deserted, so it was almost like having the entire city to myself.
On Tuesday when I awoke, I checked out my window immediately. Yes, there was snow on the ground and it was still snowing. In fact, it ended up snowing all day and all night. I really didn’t mind, though. I barricaded myself against the cold with my wool coat, scarf, leather gloves and Sam Edelman “mukluks,” which were perfect for the snow. My Parisian umbrella (bought in New Orleans) kept the snow flurries from my eyes. The only thing I lacked was a hat. And to think, I have about 30 hats in San Francisco, but neglected to bring a single one!
My original plans for yesterday were to go to Versailles. Once the snow commenced, plans changed. I contacted my ex-roommate, Franck, to see if he was available that afternoon, which he was. In the morning, I contented myself by doing a little window shopping (or “faire du leche vitrine,” as the French call it). As I was peering through the window of a shirt shop, the proprietor opened the door (she was just opening for the day) and invited me in, saying something to the effect that it was much nicer inside than outside. I walked inside and was amazed at the beautiful shirts they had for men, women and children. Years ago in Italy, I remember buying a beautiful blue shirt for Laurent that had contrasting fabric with a pattern on both the outside of the cuffs and the neck. Most of the shirts in this store were the opposite. They had hundreds of choices of bright (and more subtle) fabrics with contrasting fabric on the INSIDE of the cuffs and INSIDE of the neck/collar. Even though the woman spoke less English than I spoke French, she was incredibly kind, letting me look and look and look, change my mind over and over, and try on at least 4 shirts. Luckily, several were on sale because they were the “fin de serie.” They still weren’t exactly cheap, but they’re truly beautiful shirts. Obvously, I gave her a great first sale of the day!
After dropping off my purchases back at the apartment, I headed off to Buttes Chaumont to see Franck. It was a comedy of errors of sorts. Once I exited the Metro, I was immediately on the right street. In my old age, my memory seems to fail me. I couldn’t remember if he’d said the address was 40 or 50. I tried to look up the message he’d sent me via Facebook on my cell phone, but it wouldn’t come up. I decided to go with 40. It seems that many French apartment buildings do NOT have names and apartment numbers at the front door, nor do they have a general intercom. I saw merely a keypad. While my nose was pressed up against the glass trying to get a better view of the lobby, a woman was getting ready to leave the building. She let me in the building, saying that it was too cold for me to be outside. Inside the lobby, I went to the names, but didn’t see his name listed. Around that time, my cell phone began to ring. Of course, I couldn’t answer it in time. I recognized the number as Franck’s, though, and tried to call it back. Someone had already explained to me that there were 3 possible ways to dial inside France from an outside phone – with the 011, with 00 but NO 0 before the 6, or with 06. My call to him finally went through by dialing the 06. Luckily, he answered and asked where I was. I explained that I was in the lobby of 40, but he said that he lived at 50! As I ran down the block to his building, he gave me the code to get into the lobby. I entered his building and took the elevator to the 8th floor.
Franck lives in a beautiful condo with a spectacular view of Buttes Chaumont from his living room window. He asked me if I’d ever been to that park before. I hadn’t, but had always been told what a beautiful park it is. The view in the winter was quite nice, so I can only imagine how gorgeous it is in spring and summer. We spent a couple of hours catching up on our lives, then agreed to meet later that night. I was going to see the comedy “How To Become Parisian In An Hour” by Olivier Giraud at the Theatres de Nouvetes on Boulevard Poissonier at 7:00 p.m. Franck said he would meet me outside the theater at 8:15 p.m., then we’d have dinner somewhere.
The theater was easy to find. The place was full for the 7:00 p.m. show, although they started at least 10 minutes late. Olivier Giraud is a Frenchman who lived in Miami for several years. His comedic experience is about the cultural differences between Parisians and the rest of the world! It was quite amusing and had a bit of audience participation, but I didn’t find it laugh-out-loud funny. Even so, I really liked his personality. Obviously, the show ran longer than 8:00 p.m., beings it started late. Then they ushered everyone out the back door rather than the front of the theater. That took awhile as well because several people were having their picture taken with Monsieur Giraud. I looked for Franck at the back of the theater, then went around to the front. I called him a few times, but the calls went to his voice mail. After waiting about 20 minutes, during which time it continued to snow, I decided go ahead and find something to eat. My cell phone was on the entire time, but it never rang once or indicated that there were any messages. Damn Verizon and their international calling!
Dinner was around the corner at a place called Chartier, which had been recommended by someone else. The restaurant had beautiful old school-type decor, was cheap and was very, very busy. They seat you wherever there’s room. I was seated at a table for 4 with 2 Frenchmen. While the 3 of us were eating, another Frenchman was seated with us. The other man ate quickly and left. I simply ate vegetable soup and spaghetti Bolognese. The waiter asked if I wanted dessert. They were out of the two things I was considering, so he suggested the coupe de marron. I didn’t care for it, though. The waiter noticed right away and suggested that I try something else at no charge. I asked the other 2 Frenchmen what they were having. They were having vanilla ice cream on a choux pastry drizzled with chocolate. I ordered the same; it was so much better than the coupe de marron! Since I was drinking a small bottle of Cotes du Rhone, I offered some to both of them. One accepted, but the other didn’t drink. They offered to buy some tea for me, but I’d already had far too many liquids, so politely declined. My concensus of the food at Chartier is that everything was ok; nothing stood out. The service was quick and friendly, though.
Categories: Food/Restaurants, Travel
Tags: Buttes Chaumont, Chartier, France, French, How To Become Parisian in an Hour, Les Bougresses, Olivier Giraud, Paris, snow, Versailles
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The Truth Is…
I was always meant for Paris and Paris was always meant for me. I tried to tell myself that Italy better suited me. I even tried to find my spirituality in Bali. Now that I’m here again, I realize that Paris is my one true love. She’s neither broken my spirit or my heart, and has left me with no bad memories; I’ll never deny her again.
Oh La La! It’s Musical Monday (at least, in Paris, it is)
Let’s keep going with the French theme, shall we? Now I know that Madeline Peyroux has her version, but I love this one by DeeDee Bridgewater.
Categories: Music
Tags: DeeDee Bridgewater, French, J'ai Deux Amours, music, Paris, song
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