One Night In Paris
We didn't mean to, but we arrived in Paris the day before The Pope. So said the taxi driver en route to our hotel from Gare du Nord to explain the nuttier than usual traffic; not that we knew otherwise. He said the city expected up to a million more people, but assured us we'd be spared the influx since the hotel Aunt Fifi recommended was in the Latin Quarter; far from the crowd but close to the train station from which we'd depart in the morning for Marseilles.
The hotel was everything Fifi had promised (Thank you Aunt Fifi!) . Once inside the hotel courtyard, we were immediately induced into serenity. The sole visible employee was an ebullient young man who thrived amidst the throng of English-speaking fogies (us included) who seemed to arrive at the same time. All who were waited were patient, all were kind, and all got personal attention in good time. I imagine the mob of us were soothed by the same gooey "I can't believe this kind of place exists" sense of wonder.
When it came our turn to check-in, the concierge offered to book a dinner reservation, "just 29-seconds away." We took the 7 p.m. slot. Turns out we were first in the door and got to stay as long as we want, unlike in Seattle where diners are expected to "eat it n' beat it."
(For those who don't know, Steve and I both did time in food service industry, but would never call ourselves foodies; we're simply particular about eating in places with good ingredients, fair prices, and efficient coordination between the back and front of the house. So while we steer clear of greasy, grimy dives, we also don't go for swanky, chi-chi joints serving plates of precious high-priced eats that looked too-fussed over.) Steve ordered a bottle of wine and since the menu seemed to feature a lot of stuff that might make my belly ache, he advocated we each get the same four-course menu dégustation. Boy, am I'm glad he talked me into it. After we finished eating, we agreed it might have been one of the best meals of our lives. Judging by the google reviews (which didn't occur to us to check beforehand), we're not alone. So, merci beaucoup to the smart young man who knew who to call to make a memorable night for us.
After dinner, we strolled the neighborhood where the streets and restaurants teemed with people out for their late dinners. My camera captured some urban art, a public bathroom (also a rarity in Seattle), a crumbling old wall on a quiet street, and an author event in a bookstore whose window was full of dog-books (I scooped up three super-cute kids' books I hope to be able to read someday).
The next day, we learned that because of The Pope, all the streets around the area were closed to car traffic, so we schlepped our suitcases down, down, down to another street where we found an excitable Uber driver who raced us through various back roads to the train station like we were all on the lam. But not before a daybreak stroll to see what we'd missed the night before. Then there was the zippy train ride to Marseilles where loitered for hours until our flight to Calvi. For those who care about such things, that last photo out the train window is probably Mont Ventoux .
Next up: hot fun in the September sun ☀️🚴🏼♂️🍻👙🍕
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