Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Normandy and Paris, France

Our final morning in Normandy was spent in a most relaxed kind of fashion. Poor Jean had enjoyed the tandoori chicken so much at the barbecue that he had set up that he had overeaten, awoke feeling unwell and needed a visit to the doctor. This kept Jacques busy and left us to spend the morning as we wished. As for me, well, I awoke with a splendid black eye (just as the doctor had predicted) but, thankfully, felt none the worse for my toss of the previous evening. I did not even have a headache so avoided the need for painkillers after all.

After a continental breakfast, Llew and I decided to explore the lovely homestead on foot upon which our friends live. But while Llew got ready, I got back on a bicycle and pedalled around the property just to remove any fears of biking. I asked Marius who was also on his bicycle or “velo” as it is called here, if he wanted to join us on a promenade around the fields and he jumped at the idea.

Like the Pied Piper, Llew and I were then followed not only by Marius but by little 2-year old Julia (who came with her couverture or security blanket and Dodo, her rag doll) and Misti, the resident kitten! So it was a strange group that walked through the knee-high grass and, seriously, were it not for the fact that I did not have a meringue (as Coco Chanel described the elaborate Victorian hats that were fashionable in her time) on my head or a frill-fringed parasol in my hand, you could easily have mistaken us for the folks in Monet’s paintings featuring the red poppies in the fields of Argenteuil. It was just perfect, just delightful, this mid-morning ramble in the meadows with the children and the kitten for company. We walked on for at least an hour in the most appealing temperature. When the shrubs became too thorny, Julia begged to be carried and Llew lifted her tenderly in his arms and took her over the worst of the nettles. Marius was a most caring and attentive older brother as he comforted her for she suddenly expressed a need to get back to the house and to her older cousin Florine who was babysitting her.

By the time we returned from our walk, having encircled a good part of the property, Jacques had returned from the doctor. We sat reading for a bit while Florine prepared a very simple lunch for us–mackerels in mustard sauce, a fresh lettuce salad, cheese and baguettes and with this meal consumed, it was time for us to take our leave of our guests. Florence had returned home too to bid us goodbye, Jean had been pronounced okay by the doctor and Jacques drove us to the railway station at Lison with a great weight lifted off his mind.

Our train turned out to be a half hour late which left us time to sit on the platform and people watch. Jacques was good company as we waited, but then soon enough, along came the train and off to Paris we went arriving at 5. 45 pm at Gare Saint Lazare.

We had promised the Andersons that we would cook them an entire Indian dinner as they are great big fans of Indian cuisine. Llew and I stopped at the apartment to stash our bags and discovered that Jack had purchased all the ingredients we needed. I decided to make a Chicken in Green Coconut Milk Curry and those ingredients which were not at home were easily obtained on a quick shopping spree at Monoprix.

Julia and Llew were wonderful sous-chefs as I got cracking on our meal, cooking, in addition to the chicken, a pilau and my mother’s Cucumber Coconut Salad. Julia also assisted us in finding the bits of equipment we needed and the variety of condiments that are called for in Indian cuisine. By the time Jack walked in, about an hour later, dinner was almost ready. We sipped a glass of Bordeaux each and nibbled on a few nuts. But then dinner was plated and served by me and Llew and I sat back and enjoyed the steady steam of compliments that came our way. It had been a team effort that had paid off very well indeed. Everyone enjoyed the chicken curry and for dessert, we ate one of the very healthy fruit salads which are Jack’s specialty.

An Evening at the Lido:
By 9.00 pm, Llew and I changed and were ready to leave for our evening out at the Lido, one of Paris’ most famous night clubs. I had booked tickets online for the 9. 30 pm revue or show and we were very pleased to discover that the Lido was only a ten minute walk from our apartment. Night had fallen over Paris and the night owls were out in great numbers taking the air on the Champs Elysses, chomping away at dinner or sipping after-dinner coffee on the pavement cafes and posing for pictures by the massive billboards that line the boulevarde.

It wasn’t long before we were at the Lido and being led to our seats by a smartly attired waiter who also brought us the drinks menu. We were seated in an exclusive little banquette from where we had a very good view of the stage. It was only a few minutes later that the show began with all the pomp, splendor and pageantry that have come to characterize such entertainment. Indeed the costumes and sets were simply sumptuous and the quality of the singing and dancing rather good. We were taken around the world in an hour and a half, as the dancers made frequent costume changes transporting us to Thailand and India and to the cabaret nightclubs of Berlin as seen in the film and stage version of Cabaret. It was all very classy and very elegant indeed and as folks sipped their Dom Perignon champagne from crystal flutes and nibbled at their cheese platters, the lights dipped and dimmed and we lost ourselves in the spectacle which was magnificent.

But then it was all over and since the night was still young and the light clear and beckoning, we decided to take a walk in the moonlight to the Arc de Triomphe which was only five minutes away. There we enjoyed the superbly illuminated monument that looks so different by day and so magical by night. Of course, we took more pictures, then strolled along the Champs Elysses and soon made our way home.

It was well past midnight when we got back to our apartment and slept soundly as we anticipated our very last full day in Paris.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Normandy, France

Today was a day for relaxation—or so we thought! Since we had no particular agenda, Jacques thought we ought to take it easy and see some aspects of his French country lifestyle that we might find both curious and fascinating. We were game, and placing ourselves in his hands, set out to enjoy a day of his making.

We started off with the kids, of course, who joined us at breakfast—a very casual affair with baguettes and jam and good Normandy butter and cups of rich French roasted coffee. The country air had enhanced our appetites and we decided to indulge fully. I loved chatting in French with little Marius who could only say one word in English (“Yes”) and ending up responding to all my questions with that monosyllable!

After showering and dressing, Llew and I joined Jacques in his car to travel to our first stop—Florence’s office in Marigny, merely five minutes away, where she runs her architectural business with an all-female team. It was great to see her in her professional milieu with the various maquettes of her current projects spread out all around her. We spent a while examining the work in which she is currently engaged, then set off to visit Place Westport in Marigny which is named for the town that is just next door to our own in Connecticut. Westport played a major role after World War II in the rehabilitation of Marigny by raising funds to rebuild it. In recognition of its effort, the square has been named after Westport and there is a plaque in the center that recalls this extraordinary trans-continental bonding.

Next, we headed towards the German military cemetery not too far away as Jacques wanted to show us that despite the fact that the French and the Germans were bitter enemies during the War, post-War efforts of cooperation and friendship have resulted in the care and maintenance of this German cemetery on French soil. The cemetery is beautifully designed and, rather like its American counterpart, a place of serenity and comfort. About 3,000 German soldiers lie buried in this part of Normandy, their names marked in the ground with small grey stone plaques. The remarkable design of this place is enhanced by the three stone crosses that punctuate the vast grounds at regular intervals. What was also remarkable about this place is that, unlike the American cemetery, there was not a soul in sight. Indeed, it was entirely empty though when I had spoken to Valerie, Florence’s sister, who works in the office attached to the cemetery, she had informed me that hundreds of Germans visit it, especially those on vacation in France.

Our next point of interest was Saint Lo, the small French town that was once liberated by American military man Howie who is well remembered in the Mairie (Mayor’s Office) with a special exhibit on his contribution to the war effort.

Jacques had some work at the Mairie after which we went to a small restaurant to grab a bite. With large baguette sandwiches and wonderful cider, we enjoyed our meal and set out for yet another excursion—this time to the home of Jacques’ sister Helene which happened to be designed and constructed by Florence and her creative office team. Helene herself was at her beach side home and we were, therefore, unable to enter Florence’s creation—but we did admire it from the outside. It was wonderful to see how proud Jacques is of his wife’s handiwork and how supportive he is of her endeavors.

It was at Jacques’ suggestion that we arrived home by car only to set out again, this time on bicycles to see Jacques’ brother Henri’s farm that was about a half hour’s bike ride away. Llew, Jacques, Jean, Marius and I set out and what a lovely ride it was—we went past miles of golden fields that lay slumbering in the late evening sunshine. Cows watched us warily from the meadows as we pedaled past and Llew had a fright, at one stage, when a dog bounded out of a farmhouse and nipped at his ankles nearly knocking him off his bicycle. As Llew put it, “The last thing I wanted was to be bitten by a dog in France!” Again, little did Llew know what awaited me at the end of the evening!

Well, it was great to see Henri and to meet his wife Marie-Laurent who invited us into her lovely ivy-draped farmhouse which had been built by Jacques’ father and was the home in which he was born. We sat down to cool glasses of orange juice and cheesy nibbles and later watched the cows being milked by machine (though not computerized) under the supervision of Henri’s oldest son Paul. Marius and Jean were thrilled to be a part of the operation and we saw them ushering the cows into their stalls together with Paul. Truly, it was an enlightening experience for us city folk—to see the rural lifestyle of these French dairy farmers. They are marvelous sons of the soil who by no means lack poise or sophistication for all their country ways—indeed they use modern means of marketing to get their wares to the consumer and are always considering means by which their output and their income can be increased. So they are, in the final analysis, savvy businessmen who run rustic operations with the assistance of every one of their children.

It was on our ride back to Jacques’ place for which Jean had left earlier to set up the fire for a barbecue that Jacques and Florence had planned for us for the evening that I had my little mishap. While cycling downhill, with the wind whipping at my ears, I found it tugging at my baseball cap that was on my head. Since my cap threatened to fly off, I tried to keep it on my head and apply my brakes at the same time. Being that I was on a slope, I ought to have applied my brakes slowly…but the flying cap caused me to lose control of my bike and, next thing you know, there I was falling flat on the ground and knocking my head against the ground. My glasses flew off, my trunk twisted and it was all I could do to scramble up while Llew (who was right behind me on his own bike) rushed to help me out. Well, there was I, an untidy heap, certain that I had hurt my dignity more than any part of my body! I told them that I was quite okay, but Jacques insisted on biking back home, bringing his car to take me back as well as one of the boys to take my bike home.

It was not long before I had an ice pack applied to my head (brought to me by Jacques) and Llew’s hand pressing down to keep the swelling at bay. Seated around the barbecue table, the aroma of grilled meats wafted to my nostrils and I ate hungrily—there were merguez and other sausages and the wonderful Tandoori chicken that Llew had marinaded with the ingredients that we had purchased earlier in the afternoon from local supermarkets. The meal was delicious and preceded by Pommeau, the French liqueur that is a combination of calvados (apple brandy) and cider. It was great. I had taken a pill to keep down the pain in my head and so decided to stay away from alcohol. However, it was towards the end of our meal, that I felt uneasy and decided it would be best to get to a hospital and have a doctor assure me that the bruise on my head was no cause for concern and that there was no internal bleeding.

Well, after the cheese course, off we went to the hospital at Saint Lo, that was founded by an American called Paul Nelson just after the War when attempts were made to rebuild the SainteLo community. There was no one in the Emergency Room when we arrived but within minutes the place sprang to life as the nurses and paramedical staff got to work obtaining details and insurance information from me. It was not long before Doctor Patrick Minville came to my assistance and there I was, having to explain what had happened in French. I have to say that I was most embarrassed but when I informed him that my French friend Jacques was waiting outside and would be able to explain more about my accident in better French, he assured me that he had understood every word I said and that I had done just fine. I have to say that I was very proud of my linguistic abilities indeed.

Not long after carrying out preliminary examinations, Dr. Minville told me that everything looked good prima facie, but that he wished me to have some X-rays done to make sure there was no internal damage. About 10 minutes later, I was in the Radiography Department and X-rays were conducted by another paramedical man who directed me most politely, in broken English, to do his bidding. About another half hour later, after my pictures had been obtained and studied, Dr. Minville returned to tell me that all was well and that there was no cause for concern. He told me to expect a bad bruise upon awakening—a bruise that would change color with each passing day. He prescribed paracetemol for the pain and told me to return home and get a good night’s rest for all was well.

It was a great relief for me and for everyone else to know that there would be no serious repercussions from my fall. Jacaques, Llew and I returned to the farmhouse just after midnight and hoped that this would be the last of the many adventures that this trip seemed determined to offer us.

Sunday, July 26, 2009
Paris and Normandy

By the time we set out to explore Paris, Jack had ensured that we ate a really great huge homemade breakfast. There was oatmeal made from scratch in milk, jazzed up with giant raisins and loads of cinnamon which made it really yummy. Large quarters of cantaloupe, plums and white peaches were placed at our seats and there was yogurt all washed down with excellent Harrods tea. Indeed, it was a meal that would keep us going for hours, we knew, as we left our apartment for a day of sight seeing.

And when we reached the Champs Elysses, well, guess what? There we were right in the midst of the Tour de France, the famous French cross-country bicycle race that ends at the Champs Elysses with the riders making nine rounds of the famous boulevarde to the wild cheering of the fans. Such an opportunity to take in such a famed sporting event could not, of course, on any account, be missed. And so we resolved to return at 4.00 pm when it was expected that the first “sprinters’ would reach the area. Oh how exciting and how unexpected I thought that we should have the chance to stand and cheer in the midst of folks whom we usually see on TV at the tail end of this great event!

Seeing the Tour Effiel Up Close and Personal:
Well, I guess you cannot leave Paris without seeing the Tour Effiel and even though we have seen it from many angles and in many parts of Paris, this was really the first time I went and stood right beneath it. Llew has actually been up the tower but in the years gone by (first while a grad student back packing around Europe when I could not afford the excursion to the top and later when I could not afford the time as there were so many other things I wanted to see in Paris), I never did get down to riding those elevators that take visitors to the top for stunning 360 degree views of Paris.

However, it was fabulous just to be able to stand by the very foundations of the tower and to receive the marvelous first view of it as our metro train took us on a bridge over the river Seine.The long lines (an hour’s wait) deterred me once again, so I never did get to the top. We took the mandatory photographs instead and then made our way across the Pont d’Ilena towards the Palais de Chaillot for some more pictures of the Tower. Now this was a first time excursion for Llew who had never been to the Palais de Chaillot or seen the tower from this really great vantage point.

It was while we joined the throngs of first time tourists eager to have their picture taken that we were approached by a young couple from Texas who asked us to take their picture. They so loved the picture I took that they asked if I could take another—this time of the two of them kissing in front of the Effiel! Of curse, I said, and posed them in such a way that their faces were placed just at the bottom rung of the tower. And, as so often happens, they then turned to ask if we’d like to have our picture taken by them and of course, we said yes, and so they asked Llew, if he’d like to have a picture “kissing”! And, of course, Llew said, “Sure”! So, next thing I knew, there was I being posed against the tower locking lips with my darling husband and thinking how lucky I was to be in this city with the one I love!

Then, it was time to walk towards Rue de Passy towards the campus of New York University in Paris that I so wanted to visit before I left the city. It was quite a steep uphill climb towards the location but in about fifteen minutes, we got there and standing outside Number 56 wondered why there was no signboard or indication of any kind that the campus of NYU was located at that spot. Did I have the wrong address, I wondered, as I looked about me. Being a Sunday, however, the place was deserted. It appears (as Jack informed us later) that there was a bell that, if rung, would have admitted us into the quadrangle inside where the office and classrooms are located. Well, it was a pity we did not know this but at least I did get to see the exact location at which this campus is based—good to know in case I ever get posted to teach in Paris!

Lunch at Montmartre:
Our next stop was the lovely mountain top called La Butte Montmartre on which stands the white marble edifice with the many domes of the Church of the Sacre Coeur (Sacred Heart). Once can arrive here through the metro stops of Abbess or Anvers and then take the funicular train to the summit. We chose, instead, to scale its heights on foot and, in doing so, treat ourselves to the joys of watching the city of Paris unfold itself at our feet.

At various points on our ascent, we stopped to catch our breath and take pictures of the rooftops of the city. The day was lovely with bright sunshine illuminating the various attractions of the area including the white domes of the church that gleamed. People were sprinkled all over the green lawns and gardens that surround the church. Since it was a Sunday, we had hoped to catch Mass at Sacre Coeur, but all we could manage was a visit as the masses had finished for the day. Still, it was wonderful to encircle this very beautiful church with its Byzantine like mosaics (including the large central one of Christ).

When we had accomplished this intention, we walked behind the church towards one of the most famous squares in Paris, the Place du Tertre which is usually filled with amateur artists who provide sketches of the visitors for a few sou.

The Place du Tertre was also packed as it happened to be lunch time and the many bistros and brasseries that line the four sides of the square were doing roaring business. We decided to stop and have lunch here ourselves and selected Chez Mere Catherine which is the oldest of the bistros. Seated beneath a red, white and blue umbrella (for Paris is still celebrating Bastille Day), we decided to have the Formule, i.e. the prix fixe menu that included one appetizer, an entrée and a dessert. Llew chose the Mixed Salad while I went for the Quiche Lorraine. For his main, Llew chose the Roast Chicken, while I went for the Moules Frites (mussels with fries) and for dessert, Llew had the ice-cream while I had the Crème Caramel. At 16 euros per head for the package, I have to say the quality was rather disappointing. My quiche was burned at the bottom and I had to send it back. The replacement slice was half the size of the original (were they trying to get rid of the burnt one by serving double the size of the normal portions?). I have eaten far better Moules at Leon de Bruxelles and the crème caramel, well, I am pretty certain that I can make a better version myself! So our Parisian lunch was a bummer and I have to wonder why we chose such a touristy part in which to eat our meal. Had we chosen a small bistro in an unfrequented area, no doubt we’d have had a better repast.

Witnessing the Tour de France:
It was time to return to the Champs Elysses to take in the last of the Tour de France and, when we arrived there just past 4.00pm, we found that the first riders had already arrived and taken their preliminary round of the boulevarde to the mad cheering of the crowd. Jack had suggested we take a ladder or at least a step stool down to the boulevarde and that was exactly what we did! So with the stool positioned in the midst of the crowd and with Jack joining us, both Llew and I were able to get great views of the finalists as they pedaled away around the route (as well as a few good pictures). Of course, we were thrilled to see the legendary American Lance Armstrong among the finalists and though he did not win the race, he made it in quite a respectable third place. This was another high point of our travels and we are so glad we managed to get this treat in as well.

Off to Normandy:
There was enough time for us to get back home, pick up our backpacks and head off to the Gare St. Lazare where we had made train bookings for our journey to Normandy where we would spend the next few days. Our train was scheduled to leave at 7. 10 pm and taking the metro there, we arrived on time for the two and a half hour run into Normandy.

At the station at Lison in Normandy, our friend Jacques awaited us with his 7-year old adorable son Marius whom we were meeting for the first time. Though we reached there at about 10. 00 pm, there was still enough light left for us to see the passing fields and farms and the small town of Saint Lo before we arrived at Quibou, the little village in which our friends live on a sprawling 8 acre farm. We arrived there at about 10. 45 pm, hooked up with Jacques’ wife Florence and their other kids, son Jean and baby daughter Julia and as we enjoyed an affectionate reunion and a glass of wine, our hosts busied themselves getting our dinner organized.

We partook of good French baguettes served with jambon fumee (for our friend Jacques runs a business in traditional Normandy smoked hams called Jambons d’Antan). With deli meats and a salad, and a platter of French cheese, we had a very homely meal and then, without more ado, made our way up to our room eager to explore our surroundings the next morning in stronger light.

Saturday, July 25, 2009
Paris

For lovers, like myself, of antiques and brochante (the French word for bric a brac), I guess no visit to Paris would be complete without a forage through one of the many marches de puces (flea markets) for which the city is renowned. So, awaking on a Saturday morning, I decided that we should go to the one at Clignancourt, perhaps the best-known flea market in the world. Again, I have heard and read about this wonderful place for years and had always wanted to go to it “on my next visit to Paris”. So, since we were here, hell why not, I thought. The best part of having Llew as a travel companion is that he is generally game to do such half-brained things like this with me and so off we went after Jack insisted we eat breakfast at home: toast with fruit and tea (I had taken them a variety of teas in Harrods’ signature wooden box and we enjoyed one of these).

How very mistaken I was! When we arrived at Clignancourt, after a ride in the Tube that involves two changes, I found it to be very different from what I had imagined. In fact, I had thought it would be something along the lines of the Bermondsey Antiques Market in London: a number of dealers setting up their wares on make-shift carts—all very casual, very friendly. Well, this Paris place was nothing like that at all.

This market is made up of several separate marches (each specializing in a different category of item—such as antiques, vintage clothing, etc.). I headed for the Marche Biron and then to the Marche Serpette, both of which were located at the very end of the road from which we had approached via the metro station. These were a series of upscale shops, I mean regular shops—there was nothing make-shift about these. The wares inside were equally upscale and I could see nothing that I could wrap up in a bag and take home in a suitcase! The furniture varying from Louis Quinze to Beidemeir and Art Deco were the sort of solid buys that could only go overseas in a container! While there were some shops with silver and art glass and French porcelain, these were rare, in the most perfect condition and, therefore, very expensive. Still, I have to say despite the fact that I could tell within fifteen minutes that I was unlikely to go home with a souvenir of my visit to the marche de puces, it was a very interesting visit and I am glad I went.

Both en route to the Metro and leading away from these permanent markets, are loads of stalls run by black African immigrants from countries like Senegal and Cote d’Ivoire selling all manner of clothing imaginable from cheap T-shirts to American military uniforms! Being ravenous and with the sun stating that it was almost noon, Llew and I found a lovely Creperie that sold the most marvelous jambon and fromage stuffed crepes which we ordered and then watched fascinated as the expert chef swirled his little baton around his flat pan to make the delicious meal. This was swaddled in a paper cone and handed to us and filled us up very well indeed for the next few hours.

We returned home to the Champs Elysses as Llew had promised Jack that he would cook him his magret de canard in a typically Indian way, using a variety of Indian spices. The Andersons love Indian food and Llew found the recipe he usually uses for his Thanksgiving turkey from my website. So we bought ourselves a few ingredients from Monoprix (as Jack has a well-stocked spice pantry) and went back home to make the yogurt-based marinade in which to bathe the breasts of duck for a few hours for our dinner later than evening. Julia had left to spend the weekend in Normandy which left just Jack and us for dinner.

Two Famous Parisian Churches– Sainte Suplice and Sainte Chapelle:
Having accomplished that task, it was time for us to take in the sights of the city and we headed to the center of town to see the Church of Saint Suplice that was made famous by Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code. Again, I have to say that in my ignorance, I expected it to be a church in which the Pink Rose Line actually could be discerned, even if faintly, on its flagstones! Well, call me crazy, but there was nothing to distinguish the Church of Sainte Suplice from any of the other many European churches I have seen in the past one year.

Well, perhaps the Rose Line does exist in the church but there was no one to point it out, or explain anything about it nor was there any literature available at the entrance of the church in English that might have led us to it. At the end of the day what I got out of our visit to this church was an opportunity to see two marvelous frescoes at the entrance in the Chapel of the Angels done by Eugene Delacroix. The rest of the church is notable for its beautiful sculptural statues of saints that are to be found in the chapels and the May Day paintings that were gifted to the church on May 1st each year.

Well, it was only a short walk along the lovely streets of Paris towards the Church of Sainte Chapelle and we made that our next destination. En route, we passed by the BGV Home Store at the Hotel de Ville where we bought one of the very unique can openers we saw Jack use at home. Not only does it open cans easily and effectively without leaving a jagged edge but it opens them in such a way that the top becomes a lid that can be re-used so as to almost hermetically seal the can again. I marveled at the ingenuity of this design and decided to go out and buy one for our home too.

At the Church of Sainte Chapelle, we were put through a thorough security search as this building stands within the precincts of the Palais Royale, part of the administrative heart of the modern city. It’s spire can be seen reaching out towards the clouds, not too far from the Church of Notre Dame as Sainte Chapelle also stands on the Ile de la Cite. It was a private chapel constructed by Louis IX to house the sacred relics that he acquired from Constantinople such as the thorns from Christ’s Crown and a piece of the True Cross. This acquisition placed Paris on par with Constantinople as one of the most important centers of Christian pilgrimage in the medieval world and the high altar that was created to house the relics included a grant old chest that can still be seen on it though the relics themselves have been moved to the Treasury in the Church of Notre Dame. It is a very tiny but most exquisite space and there is nothing in it that I had seen in any other church anywhere else. There is a hefty entrance fee (8 euros) to see this place but believe me, it is worth ever cent.

You enter the church through a lower level that is itself quite beautiful. This portion was meant only for the worship of the servants of the palace and the common people. Constructed in a form of Gothic style that is highly decorative (called royannte), the fan vaulting is the most distinctive part of this church, but it is the vivid decoration that most singles it out. The left sidewall is decorated with a fresco of the Annunciation that is reputedly the oldest wall painting in Paris. A marble statue of Louis IX graces the far end of the church that is surrounded by columns each separated by a pictorial depiction of a saint whose halo is studded with glass and semi-precious stones.

And this is only the bottom half. Climb the rather plain and very narrow spiral staircase at the back of the church and you ascend, it would seem, to Heaven, Indeed, it was not for nothing that the common folk called this church a Stairway to Heaven. When new, it must have quite dazzled the beholder for at this point in time its effect is still quite mesmerizing indeed. The entire church is surrounded by stained glass windows each depicting a separate book of the Old Testament, each panel separated by columns upon whose plinths stand depictions of the twelve apostles, all executed in elaborate style with vivid paint and lavish gilding. The high point in this from of decoration is reached at the altar where the wooden carved angels, again painted vividly and finished in gold leaf, form an arch to lead the eye towards the chest that once contained the relics. It is difficult for the eye to decide where exactly it should rest in this amazing receptacle of Gothic design and I have to say that Llew and I felt quite overwhelmed by what we saw. Never having seen the Church of Sainte Chappelle before, we felt fortunate that we had included it on our itinerary during this visit for it was certainly one of the high points of our visit to Paris.

Once out of the church and while walking past the bridges that line the Seine, we found a Hagen Daz ice-cream parlor. Quite exhausted by our sightseeing, we settled down to a massive sundae each and gosh, were we glad for our sugar high! It gave us the energy to continue on our rambles for truly Paris can best be seen on one’s own two feet. When one has seen the churches and the palaces and the museums, there is still plenty of street side enticement to draw one ever further into the heart of this architecturally perfect city whether it be a design store featuring the newest trend in faucets or yet another bistro whose menu boasts the country’s best known culinary delights such as steak hache or Coquilles St. Jacques.

We returned to our digs at the Champs Elysses, surprised again to find that it is only tourists today who seem to inhabit the area. In the many café trottoirs that line the street and the power house megastores that proclaimed the recent death of Michael Jackson by announcing new albums and books, there was a great deal to take in. But we were tired and though the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak, and we had to return to the Andersons so that Llew could cook his Duck Dinner. Indeed, our duck breasts had marinaded beautifully and with the oven pre-heating, Llew set to work. It was just scrumptious and the three of us enjoyed it very much indeed as we ate a salad for starters and finished off with one of Jack’s signature fruit salads with raspberry sorbet that received a huge kick by the generous addition of a cup of Bordeaux which made a lovely sauce as it melded with the melting sorbet! Jack even sprinkled some coconut over the concoction to make it more tropical.

And on that lovely gastronomic note, we called it a day, having enjoyed another evening of food and conversation with our compelling and very generous host.

Thursday, July 23, 2o09
Paris

The Eurostar ate the miles in a jiffy and bridged the gap across the English Channel before we could quite say Bonjour! But for the fact that our ears popped as we descended beneath the water several hundreds of miles beneath the surface, there was no way to record the speed and the depth at which we traveled through this Chunnel—a first-time experience for Llew and a second for me—the trip to Brussels in Belgium, a few months ago, had been my first time aboard this unique vehicle.

Again, the early hour of the morning made us want to doze off but despite our light breakfasts of almond croissants and pain du chocolat with coffee, courtesy of Paul’s Patisserie at St. Pancras International, we could not really snatch any sleep at all. Next thing we knew, we were pulling into the Gare du Nord in Paris and watching the capital of France whoosh past us.

Though it was a trifle overwhelming, what with the crowds and the noise, we did find our way towards the metro easily enough where we bought a carnet de billets (10 tickets in all) and headed towards the Number 4 line towards Chatelet where we needed to change to the Number 1 line for the Champs Elysses where we would be staying for the next few days. Yes, as hard as it might be to believe, Llew and I would be parked just off one of the world’s best-known boulevards right in the heart of one of the world’s most exciting cities. I have to say that the trains looked extremely crummy after London’s posher underground versions and I also have to say that I realized what a long time had elapsed since the two of us had seen Paris at such close quarters. Indeed, it was fifteen years ago that we had last been to Paris (at which time, too, we had made a detour to spend a few days with friends in Normandy).

Once on the surface again, we were jostled about by the hurrying hordes on the Champs-Elysses as we tried to find our way towards Monoprix and the Rue de la Boetie where our friends, the Andersons, lived in a grand fin de siecle building complete with massive iron grilled gates, spacious internal quadrangles and marble floors and walls that gleamed as we entered the miniscule lift that took us towards the top. It was all very olde-worlde and very gracious and my heart skipped a beat when I realized that I would be spending a few days here, in this most romantic of European cities. It wasn’t long before we were ringing the bell and having the massive wooden doors opened to us by my friend Julia who welcomed us warmly and ushered us into our new digs and showed us to our room.

We did not spend too long chatting, though we did succumb to the charm of the moment and enjoyed a cup of French roast coffee and toast with confiture d’abricots in the lovely white kitchen whose picture window overlooked the slate rooftops directly ahead of us. Then, we were consulting maps and making plans to spend the day in one of our favorite places in the world, the Musee d’Orsay whose collection of French Impressionist Paintings makes it one of the world’s most beloved repositories of artwork.

Back at the Musee d’Orsay:
Julia, who would be leaving for a few days in Normandy, decided to accompany us to the Musee d’Orsay, never having been there before. We took the metro again, glad to be in her capable hands. As a veteran Parisienne herself, she knows the city intimately and took us adroitly through its crowded streets heaped with the enticements of shops selling alluring merchandise and restaurants whose menus had me salivating. We chatted non-stop along the way and soon found ourselves in the quadrangle where we joined the lines that snaked into the museum. I did attempt to use my Met ID card to be allowed free entry but found that it was not honored here, much to my amazement. However, I was able to circumvent the long line and purchase tickets for the three of us without having to wait in the unending line.

For the next few hours, Llew and I lost ourselves in an appreciation of one of our favorite epochs and areas of art history—France during the fifty years that spanned the last quarter of the 19th century and the first quarter of the 20th. The exhibition goes chronologically from the Pre-Impressionists whose works followed the dictates of the Neo-Classical age that preceded it with its emphasis on balance, symmetry, photographic realism and an attempt to reproduce life through art to the iconoclasts who dared to break the mold and produce mere representations of reality. Indeed as the word ‘Impressionism’ became a matter of standard usage for the experiments with light and color and line that characterized the works of Monet, Manet, Degas, Gaugin, Pisarro, Sisley, Morrisot and, of course, that greatest of Modernists Cezanne himself, the movement gained ground and revolutionized Art History. In the subjects and themes that this group selected (based largely on their lived experience in Paris and its suburbs such as Argenteuil and Pointoise), they presented an era with a grace and charm that is synonymous with such paintings as Renoir’s Le Moulin de la Galette, Monet’s water-lilies at his garden in Giverny, Cezanne’s still lives in which apples and oranges surpass their ability to egg the viewer into tasting them and admiring their artful contours instead. It was these and so many such works over which we lingered as we took in the deft brush stokes laden with paint and creativity as seen in canvasses produced by artists as varied as Seurat and Corot, Courbet to Van Gogh. From floor to floor we went, pausing only to purchase a much-needed sandwich lunch in the cafeteria that overlooked the wonderful sculpture terrace where works by Rodin sat cheek by jowl with those by Bartholdi and Daumier.

Julia said goodbye to us about two hours later leaving Llew and me with more time to take in the museum’s highlights at our leisure. But by about 4 pm, we were all cultured out, as it were and ready to pause for a very long time to enjoy the gourmet treats of France in the many salons du the that dot the city. In fact, since I had promised Julia that I would treat her to tea in Laduree, one of the city’s best-reputed tea rooms, we made plans to meet there again at 5 pm. This left Llew and me time to discover a bit of Paris on foot before we took the metro back to the Champs Elysses.

Tea for Three at Laduree:
It was in the green and gold interior of Laduree that we finally took a breather. For it was here that we reconnected with Julia as we perused the extensive menu and took in the stylishness of the space we occupied and the companions with whom we rubbed shoulders. I had heard about Laduree at least ten years ago when I first began to read about its traditions and its history in the many home magazines to which I have subscriptions (such as Victoria and The English Home). Laduree is renowned for its macarons, those light as air sandwich cookies in varied flavors that burst upon the tongue. Since we could not leave Laduree without tasting them in the very place in which they were created, we ordered a mixed plates of macarons with our Special Laduree Melange Blend of tea and the mouth watering pastries that have earned it a place on every notable patisserie list in the world.

At Julia’s suggestion, we ordered the house specialty, the Isphahan, a concoction of rose petals and raspberries but, alas, the confection is so popular that they were out of them by the time we ordered our treats. Instead, at the suggestion of the waitress, we ordered the Gateau Honore St. Jacques which turned out to be a very close relative of the Isphahan and as we savored our tea time delights, I realized why this place is so popular and so pricey! My Laduree Melange tea blend was quite outstanding indeed, the tea flavored subtly with hints of almond and cinnamon. Enjoyed with honey and lemon, it was quite the most wonderful part of my evening. Indeed, it was so good that I bought a tin of it to take home to Connecticut where I shall, no doubt, reproduce the charm of the evening as I sit and sip its delights.

Dinner Chez Anderson:
But little did we know that another treat awaited us at dinner when we connected with Julia’s dad Jack, a tax lawyer, who returned from his busy day at work to keep us entertained over a meal that was painstakingly created by Julia from recipes derived from the internet. She served us a courgette bake that was served with a sauce of sweet red peppers and tomatoes and with really tasty smoked ham and some bread, we had ourselves a truly memorable French meal. Sitting companionably in the kitchen with these Franco-Americans, we felt as if we had spent an entire lifetime in Paris. With the box of Laduree macarons that we brought home for dessert, we wound up our meal at home very nicely and looked forward to a very long night’s rest in our room with its own French windows that opened up to a little balcony that overlooked a charming courtyard and the abundant branches of old oak trees.

Indeed, Llew and I did turn in early and slept the sleep of the dead as we looked forward to our next day in this most romantic of cities.