Not since the Israelites sandaled through the Red Sea has so much flesh and blood passed through saltwater. We played Scrabble during our time of passage.
Here is the Eurostar—a snub-nosed rocket where people read their own newspapers. I say this because back in London town, where we came from, the Brits on the Tube treat newspapers as community property. You’ve got a man reading the paper with 72 eyes behind him, glued to every page turned. The passengers on the Eurostar read their own newspapers.
So we eased out of St. Pancras international station in London, crawling at first and picking up speed toward the coast. We zipped underneath the English Channel, shot up into France and rocketed past kilometers of vineyards with rows and rows of grapes, through villages with lofty church spires, and through larger towns filled with people who were unimpressed with this space-aged rocket. Our hair was on fire. We cut a path deep into the continent, jutting south and to the west, past factories and trucks and Gothic cathedrals, still playing Scrabble, racing toward Paris at breakneck speed before pulling into la Gare du Nord station, where we stopped.
So here we were, away from the land of Churchill and the Beatles and Shakespeare, into the land of Charlemagne and the Huguenots and the Holy Roman Empire, which, as at least one historian has noted, was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire. It was also the center of the footprint of Napoleon. Voltaire scribbled down satires in this city. Blaise Pascal called reason's bluff with his famour wager in this country. Also, one of my favorite scholars and theologians, Erasmus of Rotterdam, studied there. And before that, cave men killed bison.
Should we go to the hotel first or the Left Bank?
We dined on La Rue Montparnasse at a bistro where the menu was written out on the window. Sole Menuiere this and escargot that. We ordered creatures that used to be alive in the sea. Christa’s fish stared back up at her with bulging eyes; mine swam in butter. They were delicious. We fumbled with our napkins and we fumbled with our Kindergarten-level French with waiters who were too busy to despise us.
There is much more to say about Paris. We had chocolate croissants for breakfast every morning. And once we had a thimble full of champagne. Okay, more than once and more than a thimble full. On the whole we had more chocolate than champagne I think, but don't quote me on that.
One word of advice: Stay away from shell games around the Eiffel Tower. They make a killing off assertive and adventurous males who enjoy the thrill of competition. In the blink of an eye you can get swept up into one of their games and lose two days worth of your budget, quickly transforming you from a tourist into an ass. I will say no more on that front.
Next up, Shakespeare & Co. and Notre Dame. Did we also see a local man without a shirt on, walking down the street, gut hanging out, carrying an oversized baguette tucked into the sweet spot of his armpit? Did we find much pleasure at the sight of such a walking cliche?
Stay tuned to find out …
