15 May 2016

Editor’s Note: In Vegas this morning. It is a great time to get warm and dry out after 16 consecutive days of rain in DC, smashing records set all the way back in 1873. Check the pictures of the Rockies I got from Flight Level 32. They are on the FB. Ahhhh.

-Vic

Is Paris Burning?

(The complex known as the Hôtel des Invalides was founded in 1671 by Louis XIV, the Sun King. He wanted to provide accommodation for disabled and wounded of his Armee).

27 DEC 1989:

The Blitz assault on the City of Light begins. If the Germans did not burn the city when they had the chance, it felt like the friction of the soles of our shoes would ignite the pavement. We stride out of the hotel and down past L’Opera. I buy the wife some protection against the seasonal chill: a red Sorbonne University sweatshirt. Although they don’t have much of a football program, I understand it is a pretty good school.

South still we proceed through the Place de Concorde; then turn right along the Champs Elysee. The streets are thronged with people. We stop by Le Drugstore and window shop. The sidewalk cafes are elegant. We are walking behind an attractive couple when I see the woman impulsively lean up and give him a kiss.

In turn, my wife and I embrace the spirit of impromptu romance there on the boulevard and we laugh in pure animal joy. It is our first trip to Paris together. There is something in the air in this town. We drop by the Embassy to see if our pal Evan, the Assistant Naval Attaché is in. No dice, says the Marine Guard in the astonishingly lush lobby. “he is on leave until the third of January.”

I leave a message and we marvel at the thicket of the security arrangements. We walk on toward the Arc de Triumph. The place is jammed, but we follow the tunnel under the traffic circle and up the stairs.

The line to climb up to the roof is far too long to ensure with so much to see, so we elect to walk under the Arc itself. Like everything is this city, it is far more than the postcards could ever convey.

Carved in the stone are the statistics for every engagement that Napoleon fought, every armee, grand or small, he lead is carved in the white marble that soars above us. In the middle of the pavement lies the eternal flame to the Unknown of the Great War.

Around it are plaques dedicated to the soldiers of the Indo-Chine, to the establishment of the Republic, and to the veterans of Algeria. I am tremendously moved and

I did not think I would be. I translate in my broken patois for the wife, and we leave in a state of wonder at all the sacrifice of the Republic with the knowledge that the hated Boche have goose-stepped across these stones as well.

Next stop the Tour Eiffel. We walk around the ringed streets that surround the Arc. We need to use a WC, so we stop at a likely public place to avoid the pissoirs on the street. The most inviting one turns out to be a place called the Pub Winston Churchill.

Inside, it is rich wood and dark tapestry-style carpets. Gleaming brass. Heavy glass. Oozing atmosphere. This is the real thing. Walking downstairs to the ‘loo we find another level to the restaurant; this one is composed of small intimate tables and nestled booths. It is so romantic it hurts.

While waiting for my wife, I glance at the menu and prepare to order another beer. When I discover it is 35 francs per ($5.75!) we think better of the matter and stroll on through the city. We cross the Seine and walk holding hands toward the Tour. This too so far exceeds my expectations that I am struck nearly dumb.

This is the apex of a civilization. The ultimate in wrought iron construction, Eiffel must have stood his world on its collective ears, surpassing the massive masonry of the Washington Monument to thrust the industrial age in to the sky.

To those men all things must have seemed possible. The Suez Canal, the sea-level route across Panama, steel rails and steam engines to change the face of the globe…..The Tower is set perfectly as the crowning accomplishment to a long public mall.

Graceful apartment buildings flank the mall and we walk aimless along them, finally checking the map and plotting a course that will take us to the Rue St Germaine (will we find the Bakery that the Shirokiya Department Store in Honolulu bought as the example of the finest white bread on earth?) and on toward the Ile de Cite and the Cathedral de Notre Dame.

Past the broad vista of Les Invalides, past the strange warren of Ministries on the Rue Babylon and finally through the rive gauche student district and back across the Seine to the Cathedral. The vista is extraordinary, at once a broad sweep affixed with jewels.

We check the block in the greatest of the medieval churches and stop for a lager and a white wine in the shade of the two towers. Magnifique!

After, we walk along the church to view the symphony of the flying buttresses that support the stained glass windows of the Nave. Then we head across the river and onto the Boulevard de Rivoli near the Hotel de Cite.
We wander through les Halles and eventually back to Rue Liege and our little hotel.

We buy Beaujolais nouveau and bread and feast in the room. This is the life. Later, not quite ready for sleep, we escape to the nighttime streets and head north and then east toward Montmarte, then south to the Place Pigalle and Moulin Rouge.

We are literally slaying the tourist attractions. But still, every street has something new. They were right when they said that Paris required a minimum four days to see…..or a lifetime.

28 DEC:

Paris encore. Grey and cold today; we couldn’t have done what we did yesterday today; it is far too cold and blustery. We set out for the Louvre; the I.M. Pie pyramid is oddly unsettling there in the courtyard. Perhaps influenced by the weather, the plaza and lobby below are jammed with zillions of people.

All France is on vacation and most of them seem to be here. We wouldn’t have waited except for the fact that we saw Doc McKenna, Skipper Kimmel of the Red Rippers and “Face” Facerelli waiting in line. We wait with them for an hour or more in the cold. My feet start to ache right through the soles of my shoes.

Eventually we gain access and then wander through halls of treasure, still a bit stiff from the exertions of yesterday. We saturate fast on the Egyptians and Greeks and Etruscans and Classical Paintings, both monumental and small.

It is a paralyzing, numbing abundance of riches. This is something that you should do only for an hour or so, and in small doses, since after that the mind can no longer accept the magnificence of what you are seeing.

We realize late in the adventure that we are never going to find the impressionist paintings because they aren’t in the Louvre anymore. They have migrated to a new home in the Musee D’Orsey. Oops!

Lunch later at a wonderful sidewalk cafe with a crazy friendly waitress. We decide to visit a post office (yuck) and the original Bon Marche, the world’s first department store.

We buy a copy of “Babar Goes to America” for the Boys (I will read it in my broken French to them) and tape to remove the inside of Jane’s sweatshirt which has attached itself to the outside of her blouse.

We look for the Ritz hotel but can’t find it. We turn north toward Napoleon’s vast veteran’s hospital of Les Invalides, and try to get into the Tomb, but it is closing. We look in, then we move on in to the raw grey dusk. My wife’s knee succumbs to the ravages of the last twenty miles of unrelenting culture; we find the Metro and train it on home.

More bread and cheese and wine and as usual, we fill up while we are deciding where to go for dinner.

The wife must need some sleep, right? She hasn’t really had a good night’s sleep for three days. She dozes just for a few vodkas and when she awakes, we decide to go out again. After all, how often are you in Paris?

Relaxed, refreshed, we repair to make new friends. We find a wonderful standup bar in the Place de Clichy just up from the hotel and we laugh uproariously with the bartender who buys us a round.

Anyone who said the French were unfriendly must need his head examined. We are truly Big. And truly Ambassadors of Good Will.

29 DEC:

Very large hangovers there in the room at the Hotel de Mornay. My wife turns over in bed and says it is important for us to get moving but it doesn’t look like she is. I venture out into the Wilds of Paris to see if I can find the train station, the reservation and the tickets to go to Cannes in about that order.

Two train stations later, I arrive flawlessly but somewhat disoriented at the Gare de Lyon. I return to the hotel and am greeted as a minor hero…billets in hand, our heroes embark for Cannes on the TGV.

This time we even have seats. It is the 1510 go, we are there an hour early and we have the situation wired as we roar off into the foggy afternoon, breaking out briefly into brilliant sunlight as we emerge from the sprawl of the suburbs.

The train is sprinkled with Yanks from the Forrestal being sucked homeward. We pass the time chatting with the Colliers in the 200km/hr bar car. A bleary change of trains in Marseille and we roll down the coast into Cannes, where we find ourselves in the Residence Mauberg, the bunk-bed hotel. Our third night together and we are sleeping apart! We will fix that in the morning!

30 DEC:

The morning dawns crisp and bottomless blue. We partake of the Continental breakfast in the dining room and then wander down the street to attempt to decrypt the manifold mysteries of a French Laundromat.

There we meet Moose, who has mostly broken the code after depositing his wife Paula at the Beautician. He has a rental car, and by acclamation we decide to head for Monte Carlo as soon as the clothes come out of the drier. Laden with bottles of wine, hunks of cheese, fresh bread and moutarde we are soon rolling out of town en route Nice and points east.

Just past Nice on the beach road we pull over to the side and enjoy the most perfect lunch with the most perfect view. The temperature has risen to shirt sleeve weather and you can see fifty miles down the coast, the azure waters of the Med shimmering.

Back in the car, we roll on along the cliffs to Monaco. We park the car down at the waterfront and wander through the streets. Out of the sun it is much cooler and we are back in our coats as we walk up the long incline to the Casino which overlooks the bay. We stop and gawk; one of the yachts in the basin has a helo deck astern with a Bell Jetranger parked ready to search the tiniest whim of the Master.

We manage to gamble at the Casino, but the enterprise is not without its difficulties. We walk through the grand portal in our coats with cameras dangling. I am just going to run into the slot machine room, drop a franc and consider the block checked. A dark little man in a red coat leaps in front of me and gestures wildly that I may not pass.

We huddle. Moose opines that it may be a dress code; that we should be suitably attired in ties and jackets. My wife suggests that we should check our outer garments.

Paula thinks it may be the cameras that hinder our progress. I take a bold stab at hitting all the bases and hand my coat and camera to my wife and boldly proceed. Losing my franc takes all of about twenty seconds and I am free to rejoin my beloved for more fun things.

We walk all over the city, past the Cafe de Paris, down the backstreets past the little toy church under the wild flyover that links two cliffs into a highway.

We enjoy an aperitif at a little cafe in town and then Moose and I look for a Bureau de Change while Paula and my wife shop their way along the boulevard.

It is Sunday, and money changing is simply not going to happen in Prince Ranier’s haughty domain. At length, thirsts slaked and curiosity fulfilled, we pile back into the car and head back along the Riviera to Cannes.

We now had a double bed at the Bunk Bed Hotel, which on the whole was a wonderful development of which we took immediate advantage.

Later, when we roused, we joined the Moose’s and dined at an exceptionally nice place called the Café Lauderdale. My wife had the spaghetti dans le fruit de mer and I the Carbonara. The wine was excellent, the service attractive (although a bit harried) and the atmosphere superb.

We walked the very rich night streets of Cannes after, through the Carlton Hotel. The were Bentleys and Lamborginis everywhere, including one $100,000 vehicle haphazardly jammed against the curb the way I park my VW.

We enjoyed a nightcap on our balcony and watched the stars wheel majestically against the hills of Supracannes. Magnificent!

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com