Editor’s Note: The Las Vegas Bucket List is about complete, including some outdoor pizza grilling at Mike and Paula’s house last night under the stars. It is back to the grindstone via seat 10F again this afternoon, though on the whole, I think I would rather stay. I won’t dwell on that as I scurry about charging all the sundry devices we require to get through a busy travel day, and am sending happy thoughts to the Gods of Commercial Aviation. What a wonderful excursion to see great pals, and meet some new ones. Which brings to mind this anecdote about departures in other decades. If you are having lunch at Le Vesuvio, make sure you check the bill.

-Vic

01 January 1990

Le Vesuvio

Later, we decide to walk the sun-drenched streets of Cannes and grab a bite to eat at a sidewalk café and watch the world go by. It is a very nice pasta luncheon. The people coming and going created a certain romantic presence; matter of fact, the big Benz’s and Rolls sort of lent some atmosphere, too.

The Waiter attempted to overcharge us. My wife went into full attack mode and
beat him down. Her finest moment in her (successful) campaign to redress the gross error came when the Waiter justified the overcharge on the basis that they had no spaghetti and she was charged instead for the substitution of fettuccine.

She withered the man by stating with cold logic: “You brought me spaghetti. I ate spaghetti. You charge me for Spaghetti.” She won, naturally. Avery later remarked succinctly that “The Vesuvio Restaurant had never in living memory made a mistake in favor of a customer.

We stopped by Avery’s to pick up the bags we had stored for the day, when she begins the campaign to get us to stay for the absolute last party of the holidays. It is not until she reads our tickets and tells us that it is not only the slow train to Paris, but we will be sitting upright all night that we agree to stay and volunteer to man the kitchen shift for the party.

This party features Admiral Sweetpea and dozens of local heroes. It is absolutely the last party of the Holidays, since the next day is a working day. We hoot and holler and Sweetpea is the life of the party. We feast on pate and salad and more fresh bread. Later, Avery dispatches me to the wine cellar to get reinforcements. No one is quite ready to give up on this holiday season yet. Finally, when the last guest has gone Jane and I snuggled in the double bed in the garret that Avery has transformed the dormitory upstairs into a love nest. This is much better than sleeping with Lutt-man.

02 January 1990.

The day begins with Jane nearly dragged to her death in a quickly closing train door. This is followed by an exceptionally Slow Train to Paris, during which we share the journey with Mrs. Hoff Lewis and her little girl, who are following the Fleet.

It is a loooong Trip. We arrive Paris Gare de Lyon at 2000. Not too late, but it is a weird ride through the Metro to Montemarte with strange characters following us. We are clearly targets crying out to be zapped. I don’t think I like the Metro late at night with five bags…..I think it would slow me down….we walk up the hill and find the Hotel Tim is just what we wanted.

They have a room available on the fifth floor, halfway up the hill, with a grand and glorious view of the entire Cite du Luxe. We can see the Opera and the Arc de Triomphe and the Tower all lit up in the night and the crazy quilt of tiled roofs. We have a late supper in Montemarte. It is tres fantastique.

03 January.

More adventures on the streets of Paris. We hit the USO off the Champs Elyse and then crash on to the Musee D’orsey for impressionist art and then Les Invalides for dead legends and liberate the bar at the George V Hotel, just like Papa Hemingway did in 1944 after being immersed with Foch and Bonaparte, a sort of greatest hits of French martial arts. Wow.

We eat too much bread and cheese at dinner and go out just for a couple beers. Or so. We wind up at a bar near Sacre Coeur. There we meet a French drunk, one whose poorer habits were worn as fresh scars across his face.

We shift bistros for storm avoidance and have a rollicking talk with an Artist from Okinawa (capital ‘A’ Artiste) who works the portrait circuit out on the square. It is a thoroughly wonderful time. The bartender is a loon, but in a delightfully Gallic manner.

It is a good thing we don’t know the wife’s return flight has been the target of a threat to blow it up. The tears at the airport can wait until tomorrow.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com