Monthly Archives: March 2011

The third part of the EPIC Paris travelogue commences here. I can’t seem to make them shorter, and I apologize. Maybe I can highlight essential areas, so that people can skim?

Day Three was Monday. As before, we ate breakfast at the hotel. We left pretty early, as we thought that Monday was probably the best chance for clear skies (it was), and we were heading for the top of the Eiffel Tower. We took the Métro to the Trocadéro stop, and walked DOWN the hill, this time, toward the Tower.

Sidenote:  Eli made a few wry comments about the gilded statues that line the terrace of the Rights of Man as we walked by; he wanted to know why some of them, like so many of the statues we were seeing in Paris, were naked. I told him that for many sculptors, the perfection of the human form is a representation of truth, and that adding clothes and decoration was obscuring or hiding the truth. He said, “Hunh. They make me uncomfortable.” I was a little surprised, an asked him if ALL nude statues made him uncomfortable, or just these, and he said, “Eh… mostly these.” I am still not sure what it was about the nudes among these eight that got to him… maybe being naked AND gold? The strange (to my eye) 1930’s naturalism of some of them? He later told me, as we walked by a rather hideous piece of public art, “You know, I like your sculptures better than this.” Which made me feel very good– and then immediately wonder what his response would be if I sculpted a nude.

One Of The Gilded Statues. This One Sheepishly Wearing Her Robe.

The children had been impressed with the beauty of the Eiffel Tower at night, but were totally blown away by the scale of it as we approached in the daylight. The ride to the top was made difficult only by a) the need to switch elevators, as the path between the lifts was obscured by construction b) the incredible COLD as you moved up into the unobstructed wind and c) having to fold and carry the bloody stroller. I love the convenience of pushing our BOB, but hate the fact that it folds to a size and shape only slightly more manageable than when extended– and that when folded, you can’t STAND IT UP or LEAN IT on anything. NOT handy. We made it to the top, regardless. The kids were fascinated, and struck with how big the Arc de Triomphe is, even at so great a distance. We descended, and walked down to the Seine to take the BatoBus.

We will have to try taking the BatoBus again in the summertime. We can only assume that it’s schedule becomes a trifle more frequent then– as it was, we waited for a good while before boarding, and then realized it was going to take 70+ minutes to get from the Eiffel Tower to The Louvre, our planned destination. We compromised by getting off the boat early, at Saint-Germain-des-Pres, and walking across the Seine via the Pont des Arts, an activity which we had wanted to do anyway. We were shocked at the number of padlocks on the bridge. Evidently, the idea is that a couple would engrave or write their names or initials on a padlock, attach it to the meshing of the side panels of the bridge, and throw the key into the river below. A very romantic idea. We were discussing the elaborate engraving on one, when Eli asked us “why would you want to be buried with a lock?” We were as confused as he was. When we asked him to explain, he said that he has heard us talking about “padlocks being in graves.” This, at least, can be written off to his having  mis-heard us– as opposed to his comment, “You know how they say France is the land on stinky cheese? Why do you think they call it stinky cheese?”

As mentioned before, Eli is a sweet boy, with a pleasant disposition.

Look At Those Locks! And Somehow One With Our Names On It...

We had decided to go in to Angelina’s before visiting The Louvre— we had been told that “The hot chocolate at Angelina’s is legendary (and somewhat touristy), but an experience…” SO, the plan was simple; snack, then art. However. Given that a) the baby hadn’t eaten since before the Eiffel Tower b)The BatoBus had dropped us off east of The Louvre, and on the wrong side of the river c) Angelina’s is halfway down the Tuileries garden, to the WEST of The Louvre and d) the older kids weren’t very keen walking quickly in the cold, we soon hit a kind of crisis– an episode akin to that described previously in the Bataan Death March post. This involved Lana half-jogging through the streets between us and Angelina’s pushing a screaming baby, whilst I galumphed behind her with Finley on my shoulders (alternately complaining about being tired, thirsty, hungry, and cold), and poor Eli scampered along as best he could in the rear. We came to a screeching halt in front of Angelina’s (which was totally beautiful, by the way), snatched the squalling baby from the stroller, and quickly quieted her (in an attempt to gull the staff into thinking we were a quiet and sedate family, who wouldn’t cause the establishment any trouble). We needn’t have worried. When we walked in, the host sized us up, and graciously offered us a secluded spot on the upper floor, in a beautiful salon with a great view of the street. They were astonishingly cool. The server came, played with the kids, took our order, and smiled and laughed the whole time. As I have said before (and maybe traveling with kids is the key), we NEVER saw an example of a rude French waiter/server/etc. SO… we ordered the hot chocolate. And a cheese plate, some macarons, and two other desserts which all turned out to be stellar– but the real story is the chocolate. It comes in small pitchers, and seems to literally be hot, melted, incredible chocolate. Nothing else in the pitcher, I’m pretty sure. You get a rammikin of whipped cream to dilute the chocolate to the milky-ness that you specify– it is insane. I quote the adult child of a travel writer who first visited Angelina’s when he was eight: “It is the epitome of a chocoholic’s euphoria, and is a taste that would even have Willy Wonka asking for seconds.”

I Know It Looks Like All The Food Is Sitting In Front Of Me, But...

We followed this epicurean feast (a dinner of desserts?) with a slow roll through The Louvre. Eli and Finley saw the Mona Lisa first hand– Lana had been very keen on them seeing what all the mystery and interest was about, and I think they were affected… the sheer size of the crowd there to look at it certainly affected me! Eli wanted to see sculpture, so we wandered through several floors of old and new-ish statuary; there was an exhibition of Tony Cragg’s stuff, which Eli got pretty interested in. After museum-whiteout set in (which did not take over long, given our chocolate consumption), we headed out of The Louvre and on to Le Fumoir, following a friend’s advice– “a lovely cafe/bar called Le Fumoir right in the 1st arrondisement, which is useful to know about. A bit swanky, but I’m sure kids would be fine, and it’s close to the Louvre and so on.” It was beautiful, and a bit swanky, and the kids WERE fine– even after Finley shattered a wineglass at the table. On accident. She wasn’t demanding more wine (that will undoubtedly happen on the return visit, regardless of her age at that point), and they were very gracious, and seemed to be content with us holding down the table ’til closing, but we still decided to make our exit.

We hit the BatoBus again. (Had to make the investment in the “hop on, hop off” tickets worthwhile!) We went a single stop– from The Louvre to the Champs-Élysées— and “hopped off” in order to make our way up the street to Guerlain, a parfumerie that was supposed to represent what storefronts on the Champs-Élysées were like ‘back in the day.’ We were not disappointed. We were taken upstairs (oooh, the exclusivity!) by the concierge in a hidden lift, and Lana walked through the “scenting floor” whilst the kids and I sat in a little secondary salon & colored. (We were informed that it “would not be healthy” for the children to walk around on the scenting floor– that the concentration of smells “could do some damage to them.” This made me think of a Saturday-morning-cartoon bad guy using his Devices Of Evil Smells to hold a city hostage… but we took their advice gladly, anyway.) The store was very cosmopolitan, at least to my eyes, with pretty expanses of small gilded tiles and beautiful art-nouveau ironwork downstairs, and Lana walked away with an absolutely incredible scent, one that is (supposedly) exclusive to Paris. Going to a parfumerie like this was something that we had often discussed when talking about visiting Paris, and it was très cool to finally have the vision realized.

We returned to the hotel (smelling awesome), and decided to have dinner in the room. Take-away does not seem to be as common in Paris (or, at least, we didn’t know the methods that people used to describe it and/or order it!) We found a place called Thai Siam that was nearby, and perused the menu online– using the babelfish translator made for some exciting menu items, such as:

Khao Phat– 5,35 €
Rice jumped to the shrimps or tiny chicken or smallest ox (with the choice).

Phao Seyou Will Trai– 7,50 €
Noodles jumped to the inhabitant of Thailand, with all the shrimps, the squids, some chicken and tray of broccolis.

Kob Phat Bia Kaphrao– 12,10 €
Thighs of frogs and can jumped to the basil.
(thighs of frogs, basil, sweet peppers, carton of condiments).

Tom Yam Kung (Read Kai)– 6,90 €
Prickly shrimp soup (or shortest chicken) to your early inhabitant of Thailand.
(the shrimps or the chicken, bring youngest mushrooms, young but tearful ears of corn, and the cutting of lemongrass).

We attempted to call and order– no go, sadly,  even as I tried my hardest to ask for all the “inhabitants of Thailand,” “smallest oxen,” and “thighs of frogs jumped to the basil” that I could get. I walked to the restaurant, whilst Lana bravely forged ahead with plans to bathe all three children. The meal was ordered with little difficulty in the restaurant (I could point to the menu), came quickly, and returned to the room hot. It was a fine dinner. We had so many incredible meals, one had to be the nadir, and this was it. All the shortest chicken in the world (with the choice) couldn’t compete with our other meals. What can you do? We went to bed.

And I’ll tell you what I can do– stop boring you with this entry. We’ve made it over the hump with this one– only two days of maundering prose left. And then we’ll post some more of Eli’s papers.

The second part of the EPIC Paris travelogue commences here. (Also, as an added bonus for those who need a review after being away from the story for a day, I went through and added some images to yesterday’s post.) I really am going to try and channel my verbosity into another, more positive vector, because otherwise our five day trip to Paris is going to somehow occupy a month of time in the retelling. Not right. Given that Part One covered Saturday, this post will commence with Sunday morning. Or, perhaps, a bit earlier…

We woke up for breakfast at approximately 2:30am– or, more to the point, Sawyer woke up around 2:30, and decided to entertain the suite with a medley of songs of pain and (teething) suffering for several hours. This was when our love for our Hotel began to bloom, as we were not summarily escorted into the street for an airport-landing-strip-level sound disturbance. Sawyer finally thought her point was made at about 5:30, so we decided to ruminate on her thesis of pain for a few hours before going down to have our petit dejeuner (breakfast) in the hotel breakfast room. We enjoyed this experience enough that we decided to repeat it each morning– there was an additional cost of 12€ per adult’s breakfast, but that seemed competitive, and the food was fresh & good: bread, meat, cheese, cereals, juices, coffee or hot chocolate, and a selection of small sweet breads (pain au chocolate, etc.). We felt more human after an injection of caffeine, and the kids (who SOMEHOW had missed the three hours of baby pain) were happy to get started on the day. We left, and took the Métro to the Luxembourg Gardens.

I should refer, at this point, to my long-winded post concerning Strollers & The Tube; taking the Métro was far easier culturally, but somewhat harder physically. It is far simpler to get a stroller into the Métro cars than into a Tube car, and once you are aboard, the doors open consistently on one side (as opposed to the random platforming on The Tube lines), so riding once aboard is generally easier. (There are several varieties of Métro car in service, BTW, all of which were FASCINATING to Eli– as in, we had to compulsively look them up individually on the computer. THAT kind of fascinating.) However, getting to the platform itself can be somewhat daunting. There are fewer escalators (at least on the lines we took– the 1, 4, 6, 9, and 10) than there are in the Tube system. And there are hella steps, ohmigod. Given all the mileage of the pedestrian tunnels of the Métro, you wonder how there can be room for those famous Paris catacombs, let alone BASEMENTS under buildings. I mentioned, I think, in Strollers & The Tube that there are a surprising number of people in London who anonymously appear with a ready hand when they see you struggling with a baby buggy on the steps, which is awesome, and happens even MORE frequently in Paris– and on this trip, we were traveling as a unit, so Lana and I were able to do our own double-teaming– but no matter how many helpful strangers there are, the number of steps does not diminish. Also, some of the automatic entrance/exit gates tried to munch Lana and I. However, any discomforts were compensated for by the incredible interest the French seem to have in children and babies. The kids had many MANY people willing to pull faces or otherwise interact with them on the trains; we emphasized this positive experience by trying not to travel at commuter-heavy times, so that the expansive mass of our family was not (literally) pressing itself on the French general public. All in all, a significantly more pleasant experience than traveling in The Tube with children.

The children’s play area at the Luxembourg Gardens (which was our first stop within the rather large grounds) is pretty incredible. It was huge, with a variety of equipment for all ages & sizes, and kept the kids running from one thing to the next. It cost 1.50€ for each adult, and 2.50€ for each child; this seemed worthwhile, especially when you factored in access to clean toilets (access to which elsewhere in the Garden cost about 1.50€).

Yes, We Had To Stop Lana From Playing On The Equipment.

After the enclosed children’s area, Finley desperately wanted to go on a nearby carousel. Eli & Finley rode, with Finley on the outside so that she could “joust” for the rings. I include a video of Finley successfully getting a brass ring here:

Then, after all the jousting, folks were hungry. We had crêpes beurre sucre (crêpes with butter and sugar) from the cafe stand next to the Marionette Theatre– delicious. It will be important to future family re-tellings of this story that, at this point, Finley said (rather adamantly, and WAY TOO PIERCINGLY) that she did NOT like crêpes— which (of course) changed in the course of this trip. We walked out of the Garden going south (toward the Paris Observatory), and walked to the Fondation Cartier, a permanent exhibition space founded by… you guessed it, Cartier… currently featuring a retrospective exhibit of one of my favorite graphic artists, Moebius. Sawyer’s reception of the exhibit may have been influenced by her reduced sleep, teething, or (perhaps) by her age. She was unimpressed. Eli was well into it, especially the 3D movie that was part of the exhibition (it was pretty awesome); Finley’s interest waxed & waned; Lana did well as the partner-who-suffers-through-the-other-person’s-slightly-ridiculous-interests… and hey, maybe I will end up returning the favor when we head to Dickens World (although I AM actually looking forward to that– don’t tell her). For the comics-informed readership, I will say that the collection was awesome, and seeing some of the original sketchbooks for Arzach (written, it would seem, in a large Moleskine?), Silver Surfer: Parable, and (my favorite) Major Grubert of The Airtight Garage was really cool. From there, we walked/dragged/carried each other (Finley was tired) back to the hotel. Lana held the kids down and/or together, whilst I headed out to find some bread & cheese for a late lunch.

This was a little more difficult than it initially seemed. I found a wonderful boulangerie right off the bat– which went by the unlikely name of “Passion Forest“– but I was unable to find any cheese for purchase. This is because Paris closes much of itself down on Sunday, which seems like a fine, quirkily “European” idea, until you can’t find any cheese. I WAS able to find something else, though. I bought Lana (and the rest of us, really) some of the most beautiful marzipan fruits I have ever seen.

Yes, She Was Made To Share.

The shop was called Desgranges, and was beautiful (both the contents AND the shop itself– the shop looked like a Tiffany box full of candy jewels). Candies and sweets of every size and description. Chocolates. Tarts. Huge meringues I could have dropped an engine in & driven home. Oh, yes– and macarons, in every color and flavour. I also brought a dozen of THOSE bad boys home. (Sadly, they suffered a little at the hands of our children before being consumed; one was trod upon, and another …ahem… farted upon. Accidentally. I will only tantalize you with that tidbit, and not launch into the whole gnarly story.) So that constituted a late lunch. We tried to cajole/force/demand that the kids nap for a little while, as their various behaviours were becoming… excessive. That sort of worked; after an hour or so we decided they would be able (probably) to keep it together through dinner.

For dinner, we went to Le Brasier. We went entirely on the recommendation of the desk clerk at the hotel; I wish we had gotten his name, as he went out of his way to help us & gave great advice. He had described it as being “very traditional,” which it was. The interior had rustic elements with fun, dated colours and seemed perfect. Each table had a small electric grill set into the surface of the tabletop at either end (necessitating Sawyer’s placement in the middle of the table, for once, and some terribly serious instruction to the children); on these grills were set two of the house specialties– fondue savoyardes (bread dipped in hot cheese) and fondue bourguignonne (meat dipped in hot oil). This was fantastic. Not just super tasty– the fact that we got food at all was fantastic. Lana had taken French in High School & College, and I had taken it in College as well; regardless of our academic achievements, our conversational skills were, how you say, lacking? The incredibly polite and humorous had limited English, and was trying to confirm my badly butchered order for the children (he had gotten the adult orders before, assisted by us pointing directly at the items on the menu)– I was asking for “pain au beurre pour les enfants, s’il vous plait” (my attempt at “bread with butter for the kids, if you please”) and he was looking stupefied. He said with a half-grin, “A bull?” I shook my head no. The grin grew. “A, how you say, umbrella?” Again, I shook my head, smiling myself. Lana was so stunned / entertained by the mistranslation that she couldn’t try and elucidate on my behalf. I took a crayon and scrap of paper from the kids, and wrote my pidgin phrase out. He smiled deeply, and said, “Ah. Your French is very good. But not for speaking.” The meal was delicious, and the kids thoroughly enjoyed their bull and umbrella (by which I mean bread), along with servings of our meat & cheese. (We did not bother dipping Sawyer’s Cheerios or disgustingly-gnawed hunks of bread in anything– she is less “adventurous” than the other two.)

Sawyer Being Told She Cannot Have The Mousse.

And then we retired to the hotel. End of Day Two. Looking at the length here, I believe I will save Day Three for another post. I am not doing well on the “brevity” tip.