Paris Vacation 2018, part 2

Paris Vacation 2018, part 2

There was a lot to do once we were off the plane at Charles de Gaulle. We started off with the two most questionable financial moves of the trip—the museum pass, which we didn’t use enough to justify (more on that later), and the currency exchange, which had a huge fee and wasn’t particularly competitive with some of the other exchanges we saw outside the airport. Then we collected our luggage, bought train tickets, and wandered around looking for signs to the RER B. (The main railroad into Paris)

The train was full and not air-conditioned. We changed trains at the Gare du Nord and were excited to see the Richard Lenoir stop on the Metro Line 5. As we climbed the stairs out of the metro station we were fully in view of number 52, our home for the next week and a half. Richard Lenoir is one the grand boulevards…two one way streets separated by wide well-developed park area full of playgrounds and markets that took up far more space than the traffic lanes of the boulevard itself, or the bicycle lanes on the outer edge.

This moment was also when our adventure without cellular service began. Our cellphones were pretty much useless for most of the time we were in Paris except, critically, Google Maps. You can download a map for offline access ahead of time, and though it doesn’t retain many of the features of an online map, the GPS can tell even without wifi or cell service where you are and which direction you’re heading. It was wonderful to be without a phone (except in our apartment, which had wifi) all week. But it would have been a lot harder to do almost everything we did without Google Maps.

J: Can’t recommend it enough.

Number 52 Richard Lenoir is a complex of several apartment buildings with a courtyard in between which you enter via an enormous old wooden door and marble floored colonnade. You entered a code at the street (C.J. Spiller-Phil Hansen) to enter the courtyard, and then there was another code (Terrence McGee-LeSean McCoy) to get into Batiment B. Then we took an elevator so tiny you could barely fit two people in it even without luggage up to the sixth floor, a dark and windowless corridor, somewhere along which we’d paid almost a thousand dollars six months prior for a room that we’d only seen in pictures.

The pictures were accurate. It was tiny, but it was everything we needed…clean, elegant (in a modern way), and with a beautiful view of the courtyard and the surrounding buildings from the little balcony. It was just a studio, with a double bed at one end and a little table and chairs at the other. There was a kitchen and a bathroom, and the balcony had two wicker chairs and a wicker table, three window boxes, and several bees. (We never got stung, but there were bees everywhere in Paris. They were particularly curious about whatever patisseries we visited)

It was close to 6 PM in Paris by the time we were actually in the apartment, and we’d both been awake for at least 30 of the previous 36 hours. I stepped out in search of a grocery store and picked up some eggs, bread, wine, cheese, and the best pear I’ve ever had at a grocery store a few blocks down. Julie made her first cup of Nespresso.

The basic unit of European coffee is the espresso shot. If you want something more substantial than that, you can have your espresso “allongee.” This has as much umph as a standard cup of American coffee, but is about a quarter of the size and comes out of the espresso machine all frothy-looking. I was ready for an American cup of coffee by the time we came home—it’s nice to sit and work on something that will take 20 minutes when you’re reading the paper in the morning—but we got by just fine with our allongees and Nespresso machine (which basically takes something like K-Cups) while we were there. We didn’t have a bad cup of coffee while we were there, but we never really had a great cup of coffee either. The Nespresso machine was pretty universal.

The coffee didn’t keep either of us awake. We had little dinner on the balcony of bread and goat cheese, hummus, and a pear.

J: That was one of the most romantic moments for me—sitting down on that balcony, which I’d dreamed of for half a year, and knowing all there was yet to come. Compare that to our honeymoon, when we were exhausted, jobless, and poor.

I don’t remember anything about that night beyond falling asleep very early, and waking up again very early—close to 5.

Julie, who had a gift for sleep in the face of all obstacles even before she was Owen’s mother, slept in later. We had the first of many omelette breakfasts a little after 7, and then went out for our first day of exploring.

We discovered that Paris also has a gift for drowsing through the morning. Most shops don’t open until 10 at the earliest, and 11 is the norm. Since August is a nearly universal vacation time in France we couldn’t tell how many of these closed up shop fronts were going to be shut down the entire time we were there, and how many just weren’t going to open at 8 AM.

Richard Lenoir has a marche volante, a “flying market.” Every Thursday and Sunday morning the whole “park” in the median is filled with vendors, produce stands, souvenir shops, fishmongers, baked goods, cheeses, and street food from our intersection all the way down to the Bastille. This was up and running by the time we left our apartment, and we gawked at the produce as we walked south. Every vendor was meticulous about a beautiful presentation of their goods. We made a note to come back and explore much more thoroughly later.

The Place de la Bastille was the big landmark closest to us. The Bastille was the (no longer standing) fortress that was stormed at the beginning of the French Revolution, and the site where it stood is now an enormous cobbled traffic circle with an opera house on one side and the Canal de l’Arsenal on the other, which is an entry onto the Seine.

J: I always knew the Bastille from the huge golden statue in the middle of the circle.

We followed the canal down to the Seine and walked along the river bank (and you can go RIGHT up to the river bank) up towards the islands past morning joggers. I was taking care of directions and was reading signs and trying to translate the snatches of conversation I heard on the fly. Julie was much more tuned into picking up the customs and the flavors of the city—how people dressed, protocol with traffic signs and lights, exchanges of pleasantries. We were trying not to look too obviously out of place, and I don’t know that we were entirely successful. There was a lot to take in.

We crossed from the right bank onto the Ile de St. Louis and scouted out some potential ice cream shops that we never ended up visiting, then crossed another bridge onto the Ile de la Cite and saw Notre Dame. Notre Dame was breathtaking. It’s the historical center of Paris, you understand why when you see it. It felt busy there at 9 AM, but that was easily the emptiest visit out of the three times we went by. We went back to front and looked for the “bored” gargoyle once we were in the main court, then admired the Kings of Judah and headless St. Denis.

Every time we face timed with Owen he asked what animals we’d seen. I don’t know where he thought we were—maybe on a safari or visiting a place with lots of zoos, but it was always a little disappointing when we could only say “dogs and pigeons.” We did have a good answer on the first day, though, because we saw a lobster carved into the stone façade of Notre Dame.

From Notre Dame we crossed back over to the Right Bank and past the Hotel de Ville in search of espresso.

J: This is where things got martially testy.

I had a theory about how to buy espresso in Paris. Or rather, how to choose a place to buy espresso in Paris. Because if you stand at any point in the city and look around, you can see five places to get something to eat and/or drink. At least. So, my guidelines were—

J: Unvoiced guidelines. I didn’t know about these the first day.

Number one, avoid places in immediate vicinity of the tourist traps. Number two, avoid places with big English language signs out front. Number three, listen to the music that they’re playing. Gentle jazz is better than American pop music. Number four (this was the most important one), a cup of espresso should probably cost about 2 euro. Look for the espresso on the menu to gauge whether the rest of the menu is affordable.

J: I just needed a cup of coffee. We’d been walking for a long time. There were plenty of places that served coffee, best as my eye could see. We kept walking by them, and I’d see another, and I’d think “this is the place,” and then we’d walk by it. And I couldn’t tell what Roy was thinking because he hadn’t shared his list of arbitrary rules yet. I also spoke no French, whereas he’d been studying for over a year, so I was waiting for him to initiate any verbal exchanges made at a restaurant. So we walked, and walked, and walked…

I stand by guidelines. They were entirely correct, as far as our dining experiences went, except that I eventually needed to account for some inflation regarding the espresso. Apparently my 2 euro guideline was a little outdated. 2,50 is right on the banana, if you happen to be going to Europe in the immediate future. (Before the banana inflates again)

Eventually we found a place—Camille’s. We had some perfectly lovely 2,50 euro espresso out on the street with some croissant and baguette. (And a bee who was terribly interested in the strawberry jam for the baguette.) And Julie had her coffee, and was not nearly so hangry as she had been earlier.

Paris Vacation 2018 Part 1

Paris Vacation 2018

J: I like that this blog has a year on it. It implies that there’s going to be another Paris vacation in the future. That’s important to me.

There was almost a disaster at the beginning. On the morning of the 14^th we were basically just looking for a way to make the hours pass faster so that we could leave for our 10:30 (PM) flight—a Lufthansa connection to Munich, followed by a short flight to Charles de Gaulle which would put us into Paris early afternoon on the 15^th.

I practiced for a bit, trying not dread how out of shape I’d be when I picked up the trumpet again after 10 days off. We played the kids, who were sharing in our excitement for the flight, except for Felix, who was sweetly oblivious. 

And then at 11:30 a notification popped into both of our phone screens: Your Flight has been delayed.

I was already a little nervous about the tight transfer window in Munich. 

Nearly two hours is plenty for a domestic transfer, but when you’re traveling internationally you have to do a passport check again, another security check, and sometimes get your luggage. And there’s no saying how long you might be waiting in line for some bus or airport train if you have to change terminals.

At first the delay was only for a half an hour. But then there was an update, and now our flight wasn’t scheduled to get in until 3:10 Munich time. And our connection was supposed to depart at 3:15. There was no way we were going to make it. This time a notification about the EU bill of passenger rights came in along with the message. The European Union loves its lists of rights, and the ones for delayed air travelers are particularly generous. You’re entitled to compensation and victuals if your flight is delayed even a little bit. If your flight is delayed for more than two hours (as it looked like ours was going to be) then you are eligible for a 600 euro payout. (Each.)

So I called a Lufthansa agent and asked about what we ought to do. He was very kind, and a little hard to understand. He wanted to rebook us, but said the next flight wouldn’t leave D.C. until the 15^th. I asked about keeping our original flight out of D.C. and just getting a later flight from Munich to Paris on the 15^th, and I could see several options on the website—but he said it wasn’t possible to rebook us on any of those. They were all completely full.

This turned out to be nonsense, but we were afraid of getting stuck in Munich with nowhere to stay and no way to get to Paris if we didn’t take the sure thing on the next day—and the phone agent assured us we would be generously compensated for the delay. So we grudgingly agreed to give up a day of vacation for a nice cash payout and a direct flight a day later. And then I sat down to read the terms of the bill of passenger rights in all the fine print. No matter how you sliced it, you had to be checked into the airport and physically present to be entitled to the payout. I called again and asked another agent about the terms and conditions. They didn’t have any answers—call back once you’re in Europe, they advised.

Our bags had been packed. Julie had changed into her traveling clothes, and then changed out of them when we found out we were going to be delayed a day. She changed back into them. We were going to the airport. The worst case scenario, I thought, was that we’d be stuck in D.C. for a day with Lufthansa paying for our hotel and food. It would still be vacation.

The goodbyes to the kids were not what either of us had in mind. We were discombobulated, in a hurry, and unsure of whether we might have to just turn around and head right back to Hanover later that night. James was urged to look after his little brothers. Owen was urged to listen to his grandparents and use his best manners. Felix was urged to not forget us and not to learn how to walk too soon, and to not be angry at us when we came back, and also to sleep through the night if at all possible. And then we were on the road.

The drive to Dulles takes an hour and a half in the best conditions, but that easily expands to two hours whenever there is traffic around D.C., which is basically all the time. That said, we didn’t really have any trouble. We were both quiet—no kids, but lots to worry about and all sorts of uncertainty about where we’d be sleeping that night and what the financial ramifications would be. Every once in a while we’d try to remember whether we’d packed something—it had been an irresponsibly quick dash out the door once we’d made up our minds.

We’d paid for a parking spot at a hotel near the airport for 10 days, so we parked the car at the very back and then waited for the airport shuttle to drop us off at the Lufthansa gate. At the airport there was a long line of delayed passengers trying to get food vouchers and figure out whether or not they could be rebooked. The first person we spoke to dumped a bucket of cold water all over our vacation plans. We were no longer eligible to board our original flight since the phone agent had put us on another carrier and that was the extent of the compensation available to us. That’s not the song the phone agent was singing, we argued, and a manager came out to complain that nobody else was going to get a hotel and we were just out of luck. If we wanted, we could talk to the booking agent, but we might have to pay the difference in fares.

We waited almost a half an hour to talk to the booking agent, partly over a misunderstanding over whether or not we had already been helped, but she was worth the wait. Simultaneously juggling us and an angry woman who was going to miss her connection in Stockholm, she got on the phone with United and booked us out on a flight that night that put us in Paris two hours earlier than our original itinerary at no extra charge. When she handed us our tickets the world brightened, birds sang, and a huge weight lifted from my luggage-laden back.

There was just enough time for us to comfortably get through security, find our terminal, and grab a snack before our flight left. Neither of us had eaten dinner in the rush to get out and it was nearly 10PM. We were now heading to Portugal, albeit in the very back row of seats next to the bathroom. We stood in line at the front of Boarding Zone 3 and eyed the list of unconfirmed passengers (those waiting a seat assignment), grateful for our confirmed, if slightly smelly, seats.

“Would passengers Roy and Julie Smith please come to the service desk?”

So close…

This gate agent was also arguing with somebody, who was in a particular huff about having to sit next to a child. (What’s wrong with people?) We nervously approached, knowing it was probably all too good to be true. He handed us two new boarding passes, explaining that we definitely didn’t want to sit by the bathroom for eight hours and he had found us a pair of seats much closer to the front.

And then we were on a plane, sitting together, tiny TV screens at the ready, settling in for a transatlantic journey.

The dinner service didn’t come around until almost 1AM, but we were both still awake and both still definitely hungry. We attempted to watch The Post together, but I fell asleep about halfway through. Julie said it had a good ending.

Neither of us really slept deeply, but there were snatches here and there and some croissants and yogurt were passed out about when my watch said 5:30AM. (Who knows what time that was locally.)

From the air, Lisbon looked amazing. It’s right on the ocean—a city dotted with beautiful old red roofs and soccer stadiums. We walked, went through passport control, went through security again, and had just enough time to use the bathroom before checking into our Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle. A young man was checking all boarding passes at the gate and instructed us to wait until all other passengers had finished boarding since we were going to be next to a passenger who would be traveling on a stretcher. We waited with a dozen or so others until everybody had checked in, and then were flagged as we headed down the jetway by a gate agent who asked for our luggage tag.

We didn’t have a luggage tag.

They had no electronic record of our luggage. They had no way to guarantee that our checked suitcase was going to make it to Paris. (This was probably because of the carrier change.)

“What does your suitcase look like?”

“Well, it’s big and red, and we left from IAD.”

She went to go look for it. We kept one eye on her and one eye on the door of the plane, just to make sure it stayed open for us. She reappeared a few minutes later and gave us the blessing to board. The suitcase was down below.

We didn’t get to sit together on this flight, and both of us dozed some more. The stretcher passenger was laid out over three rows of seats to our right, with her face just inches below the baggage compartment. Any comfort gained from lying down was lost in the claustrophobia.

It was just two hours and then a descent, a landing, and the captain’s voice on the intercom:

“Mesdames et messieurs, bienvenue a Paris!”

“Smile, James!” v. “Smile, Owen!”

At the Glen Iris

"Okay boys, so what are some things that we are going to remember about nice restaurant manners before we go in here?"
"Please and thank you!"
"Yes, those are good words to say. And also that we will use inside voices?"
"Yep!"
"And we will lean over the table when we eat?"
"Okay!"
"And we won't complain about our food if we don't like it?"
"I think I will get food that I like...like a hangaburgaburger!"

At the table
"Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom."
"Okay, Owen, follow me."
"Where is the bathroom?"
"Follow me and I'll show you wear it is."
"Wait, Daddy!"
"What is--"
Owen has pulled his shorts and underwear down in the middle of the restaurant and is waddling through the amused diners with his clothes around his ankles
"What are you doing? Pull your pants up!"
"But I have to go potty!"

Upon returning to the table
"Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom"
"Okay, James. Follow me. Try to keep all your clothes on until we actually get to the bathroom."
"Yes, yes. I will."
Owen, in his loudest voice, calling out to James across the dining room: "Be sure you hold your penis when you pee into the potty, James!"

Snacks

James and Owen are sad. They are very, very sad. They are so sad because they just got up from their afternoon naps and I am not letting them have a snack. We are going to eat dinner in two hours, and that is so far away that they will probably starve. Also, the enormous lunch that they ate a few hours ago apparently wasn't enough to fill them up. Poor James and Owen.

Here is what they would like to eat:

Even one cherry
Penguin crackers
Veggie straws
Crackers
Chips
Dill pickles
Cheeseburgers or hamburgers
Hot dogs
Carrots and hummus
Cucumber slices
Graham crackers
Cheese slices
Apples
Applesauce
Blueberries
Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
Pepperoni or Chicken Charlie pizza
Cheese pizza
Grapes
Ice cream
Chocolate bars
Cake pops
Cake
Whipped cream
Strawberry yogurt
Strawberries
Yogurt and cookie butter
Nutella off the spoon
Parade candy
Even more parade candy
Chocolates
Burrito bowls
Fish
Chicken
Cracker jacks
Pancakes
Almonds
Hammelburgers (Owen hamburgers)
Fries
French fries
Rolls
Potatoes
Popcorn
Pudding
Jello
Fortune cookies
Sesame chicken
Ranch dressing
Apple juice
Green apples
Broccoli
Peas in the pod
Cinnamon
Smoothies
Toast
Bread
Eggs with ketchup
Peppermints
Salt and pepper
Pickled peppers
Regular peppers
Ice cubes
Bananas
Popsicles
Pepperoni slices
Donuts
Cookies
Barbecue sauce
Bacon
Baked beans
Brussel sprouts
Salsa
Avocados
Raisins
Oatmeal
Peanuts (suggested by Owen)
Biscuits
Celery
Some salads
All waffles
Waffle cones
Chicken nuggets
Maybe chili
Tomato soup

Things they wouldn't like to eat:
Felix's puffs
Beer
Black beans
Dates (Owen says they are okay)
Hot sauce
Milk (Owen and Felix say milk is okay)
Lemons
Lemon sauce
Mushrooms
Onions
Pumpkin soup

Camp

What the boys have done at camp so far (day 3):

Bleeding: James' lip, Owen's right hand, Owen's left hand, Owen's left elbow, Felix's head.

Singtime: Just James the first night, and then both James and Owen the second night

Climbing: For James, the big Houghton rock, two trees (from which he was able to get down successfully), and all of the furniture in our apartment. For Owen, the big Houghton rock (with some help), one tree (from which he was not able to get down successfully), and all the furniture in our apartment. For Felix, all of the steps in front of Luckey Hall, the big Houghton rock (with some help), and select furniture in our apartment.

Throwing: James: rocks, balls, nametags, handfuls of leaves and dirt. Owen: rocks, balls, James' toys, handfuls of leaves and dirt. Felix: applesauce, peas, mashed potatoes, granola, water bottles, cereal, pizza bites, veggie straws, balls, and handfuls of leaves and dirt. A note about Felix and rocks--he doesn't throw them, he chews on them.

Letters from Owen

Dear Aunt Martha,
You are my great friend. Happy Birthday to you! Well, I love you. You will be 23 on your birthday. I hope Mommy makes you a cake. What do you say, bunny on a bench? What do you say of a tree falling down on your head? And I hope you have a great time with having to play with me. Every time you go to your room I think it gets messy. And I like your sandbox--Nama and Papa's sandbox. I love you Aunt Martha, and I always think the room you sleep in looks messy. You should come to sleep at our house some time. We just had a baseball game, and I have a sticker from the baseball game, from the team we were rooting for, and they won! We were there for half the game. Felix is so sticky. Mommy is going to a party and only girls are allowed. Help me if I fall in the water at your house. A long time ago me and Uncle Lucas and James and Felix went to a hockey game. It was great there and it was really loud. Mommy couldn't come. I hope you have a great cake and love your birthday!
Love,
Owen

Dear Silas,
I love you Silas. You talk real good, too. If someone is on your head and a bunny fell on your head too, that would be an "uh-oh." We have a planet book. I'm going to bring it to your house. Would that be great? Every time Uncle Lucas gives you water, just bubble in your water. If he sinks in water, help him get out. Toilet paper. Ha ha! Happy Birthday to you. <belch> Excuse me! I have a watch! I was going to put that on the wrist. Did you know that? I hope you have a great time. I love you, Silas!
Love,
Owen

Dear Roland,
I guess James likes you, Roland! I have a football, but I have a soft one, too. And Happy Birthday to you. R-O-L-A-N-D.
Love,
Owen
Silas
Your best friend is mine other best friend, Silas. Luckily. And, that's all.

Dear Silas and Roland,
Do you know something? I have even more stuff that James and me like. We have three clocks, which is this many. (3) Happy Birthday! And I love you. I like you, Roland and Silas. I like drawing pictures to you. I love you. I like you. I love Jesus and I love you. Felix and James are great guys, too. Mommy and Daddy are pretty good, and I love them. They are pretty good at football. I am really faster than everybody. And I can go very, very fast on mine scooter. But I can go more than one hundred fast on mine tricycle. And even faster on mine scooter.
Love you, good bye,
Owen

Dear Silas,
I like you, but I don't like it when Roland scrambles your crown up and ruins my life. I don't like it when you cry. Thank you for Knight Camp and getting to sleep over with you. Thank you for helping me and be happy. There's going to be another Knight Camp. You're going to read these when it's almost time to go, but not quite time to go. Thank you for making mine life and fixing mine knee every day.
Love,
Owen
P.S. Thank you for making me happy. Thank you for making Felix cry. Thank you for our pictures of "A" and "B."

Dear Aunt Martha,
Thank you for making me so happy to see you. Thank you for making me not going to naptime and having a rest time. Thank you for having mine life to be very happy and making me happy at your house. Tell Silas he has a green toy and sometimes I want to come to your house. And thank you for having mine life to be very happy and for being in my life. And God, thank you for having me up. Thank you for making me a piggy bank--but I don't have one! Thank you for having mine life to begin. And having time with me. Silas and James had rest time in the barn. And thank you for getting me to be happy. Thank you for having me to begin. Thank you for making a house. And making a light.
Love,
Owen

Dear Roland,
Thank you for having mine life to begin again. Thank you for being in mine life again. I have a great friend. Do you know who it is? It is a guy I like who is a girl. Know who it is? Aubrey! We need to get all of your books out of our house. We don't like them. I like your toy, but I don't like it when it makes noise. That's kind of scary. Thank you for making Jesus dead and making a pumfrey and a window thing and for making us...DOORS!!!
Love,
Owen