Saturday, October 5, 2002

    Another "Oh, brother" start to the day! Of course we were all packed, but still got up quite early—well before six. B thought the blue suitcase was too heavy, so we used the Kinley system. I got out the collapsible black bag to pull some things out to lighten the blue bag. We got away by 6:30 AM, our target departure time. It was still dark—the moon was up and a lovely sight over the dark hills. A brilliant sliver of a crescent at the bottom, and pale earthshine rim all around. As the sky began to lighten, the moon became opalescent—gorgeous.
    We arrived at the airport in such good time that the check in gates weren't open. We lounged around, and by the time B had turned in the car (3,315 km, 1,989 miles on the trip meter) we were able to check in. We were seated in the little cafe by 8:15, waiting for a 9:20 boarding. Yow!
    At 9, we decided to go into the waiting area, and were we glad we did. Security would not let us carry B's tripod on the plane. He has a lighter weight traveling tripod, and carries it strapped to his camera bag. We use the camera bag as one of our carry-ons, stuffing it to bursting with both our cameras and film, binoculars, guide books and other valuable necessities we don't trust to the airlines. He carried the tripod on in Dulles, and again in Paris. But in Montpellier, some supervisor decided it was against regulations.
    Now there was consternation. The security folks were sympathetic, we think even the supervisor felt he was being foolish, but could not take a chance on letting it slide. But we had no way to pack it! Our bags were gone, into the bowels of the airport. It couldn't just go on the plane as baggage; we were sure it would be smashed. B's heavier tripod was broken one time when we had packed it in a suitcase. We had visions of shards of plastic and splinters of metal arriving in Paris.
    We argued and pleaded. They called someone from Air France who walked us out to the check in and we watched them wrap it in a plastic bag. We protested, and they very nicely found a second hand cardboard box, out of which a third of the tripod protruded. No good. A third box was procured, and now only a few inches of the tripod stuck out. This would have to do. B was oddly quiescent, resigned, it seemed, to his fate. Ironically, they let us through security with a big glass bottle full of B's morning juice, in my carry-on. A broken bottle would make a much better weapon than the tripod, but then, we were never sure just what was objectionable about the tripod.
    Now we are preparing to take off for Paris!

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    A miracle! B's tripod came through safely. What a pleasant surprise. We messed around a bit deciding how to get to Rue Buffon from the airport. We found the train station at the airport—B was trapped on the track level for a while with our cart of luggage, as the elevator was constantly full—but in the end decided on a taxi. The taxi was r50, what with traffic detours, bag handling fee and tip. Yow! Rather more expensive than a train, but we didn't know exactly how far we might have to trundle all those big bags around the streets of Paris. Our old taxi driver was fun, though. He kept up a conversation in French and B did his best to hold up our end. B did make out that he was recommending two excursions in Paris: supper on a "bateau mouche," a kind of tour boat on the Seine, and a trip up the Eiffel tower. He says the Tower takes one hour, gives the best view of the city, and it's over, finis. You're done, you've had your view. He did it last year for the first time, at the age of 70. We take it he's not an enthusiastic tourist. Nor a native Parisian. The best thing was his computerized GPS showing him the route.
    As our driver unloaded our bags from his taxi, we realized we were missing one bag—we had left the expandable extra bag at the airport! I guess we were so happy to see the tripod we just forgot all about the extra bag. Damnation!
    Marie Francois turned out to be charming and full of personality. Her granddaughter Lucille (Lucy) and Lucy's father Mark were there when we arrived. Lucy is seven, and helps Marie tend to her guests. Marie is vivacious and talkative—trying to make a new life after divorce. She lived in Africa most of her married life and her apartment is full of art and crafts. She is a student of art and history, and very much enjoys good conversation.
    She helped us call the airport. They assured us our bag would be held for five days, before being sent to the giant warehouse for unclaimed bags, and five days was just as much time as we would be in Paris. We probably have to go to the airport to pick it up. To help settle down from our baggage travails we enjoyed a drink of white wine and Kir, while Lucy used the curtain that can close off the small sitting area as a stage for a presentation of a tableaux vivant as a Moroccan princess. Lucy has been to Africa with her grandmother.
    Then we took a walk around our neighborhood. Well, maybe a bit out of what a Parisian would call our neighborhood! We walked through the Jardin des Plantes (right across our street) and across the river to Ile de la Cité, passing Notre Dame with its Place des Trinkets; back across the river, along the riverbank and under the newly cleaned Pont Neuf (the oldest still standing in Paris, with its first stone laid by Henri III in 1578; named and inaugurated by Henry IV in 1607, and decorated by rows of fantastic high relief grotesque masks); by some houseboats tied up two and three deep; into the St. Germain des Prés district, seeing the Monnaie, the old mint; the Tour d'Argent restaurant; the Place Odeon and the Relais Odeon where we stopped for a bit of streetside refreshment; the Odeon theater itself; over to St. Sulpice, with the Delacroix chapel; by the Palais du Luxembourg; the Pantheon (Aux Grandes Hommes) and the Sorbonne, but all the gates are now closed for security; St. Etienne and a bit of Phillipe Augustus' medieval city wall. What a tour!
    We ended up at the brasserie Moisonnier for supper. We were there in good time, a bit before they opened, and got a table downstairs. We think perhaps the upstairs is nicer, less bustle, but we enjoyed being in the thick of things. The hostess was also the server, and was certainly on the run, up and down stairs, in and out of the kitchen. She sliced bread for the tables at a little counter right next to us. We had a hearty brasserie meal: Les Saladier Lyonnaise for me, and escargots for B to start. The "salad" turned out to be a chariot of heaviness, eight or ten bowls of meats, vegetables, fish and tripe, all sauced, from which I helped myself for as long as I liked. B's snails were delicious, basily and buttery.
    I had fish with sauce, mushrooms and potatoes for my plate; B had blood sausage. Yow! We had carafs of house wine and were much too full for dessert. While we ate our plates, an American father and son sat next to us and had the Salad Lyonnaise.
    A stroll through the night streets back to our apartment and the long day is done.

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