Chris and Jane in Paris

Our Vancouver neighbor Judy has been travelling Italy and Germany for the month of June, and joins us here in our final week.

I found this article in the Financial Times which says alot! about Paris!

‘I would be an exemplary Parisian’By Michael Steinberger

It is often said that one of the pleasures of travel is going home. But what if you do not want to go home? What if the place you visit feels more like home than home itself? That, for better or worse, is what Paris has been for me since I first set eyes on the city as a slack-jawed 13-year-old. A quarter-century on, this very peculiar sensation – this feeling of being a displaced Parisian, inexplicably marooned 3,000 miles away in north-eastern America from where I was meant to be – has not only remained, it has become a nuisance. I am fortunate enough to get to Paris fairly regularly and I derive as much pleasure as ever from her. Yet there is now a bittersweet edge to each visit. That is because I badly want to stay and I realise that the possibility of doing so is growing ever more remote.

There are, to be sure, worse fates than never being able to call Paris home and Paris is not exactly an original choice as objects of affection go. But – and to reword the Samuel Johnson formulation – if a man is incapable of being seduced by Paris, it means he probably has a heart of stone. Most of us want beauty and pleasure in our lives and Paris, as no other city on earth, satisfies these very basic human impulses. Some people can visit Paris, soak up its unsurpassed grandeur and charm, and happily return home. I have never been able to do that. Ever since that maiden trip to Paris, I have always felt that to live elsewhere was settling for less.

But, for me, Paris has always provoked more than just desire. I vividly recall all the touristy things I did on that introductory visit to Paris but what I mostly recall is this odd sensation of belonging. The city had a magnetic appeal that I’d never before felt. A few weeks after returning home, a family friend asked me what I had thought of Paris. Without hesitation, I said that I loved it and wanted to live there, an answer that she seemed to find amusing. Thirteen years later, over one exhilarating summer weekend in Paris, a friend became a lover who, in turn, became my wife, a fact that has only deepened my conviction that Paris and I were destined to be together.

Sadly, we are not; with a young family and ageing parents, I recognise that I may never get the opportunity to live in Paris. It is a realisation that gnaws at me, especially when I meet expats who are lucky enough to reside in Paris. As if picking at a scab, I cannot resist asking them if they enjoy living in Paris (as if the answer is really in doubt), and if I am feeling particularly masochistic, I will ask how they managed to pull off this coup, which will inevitably set me to coup-plotting. Reality eventually intrudes and when I grudgingly concede that there is no practical way to live in Paris now or in the foreseeable future, I am left marinating in my own jealousy – Paris Envy, you might say.

The fact that I am not living in Paris is not just my loss, however, it is also Paris’s loss, because I am quite certain I would be an exemplary Parisian. I doubt there are very many natives who partake so fully of the city’s pleasures. When I’m in Paris, I usually stay on the Left Bank, at a friend’s flat near the Mouffetard market, the oldest and most cherished of the city’s outdoor food markets. If I happen to be there on a Saturday, I will roll out the door at around 9am or 10am, take a brisk stroll through the Mouffetard and then head off in the direction of Saint-Germain-des Prés. My first stop there is usually Gérard Mulot, the superb pâtissier, for a slice of his cherry clafoutis – not the healthiest of breakfasts but certainly among the tastiest. I will then usually pop in to see my friend Georges at Bacchus et Ariane, a cute little wine shop with a deceptively good inventory in the Marché St Germain. Inevitably, Georges will have an open bottle and several empty glasses at the ready .

I typically have lunch at Le Comptoir du Relais, Yves Camdeborde’s cubbyhole of a bistro, a meal that will invariably consist of his superb salade niçoise, chased down with a glass of a Loire red. From there, it is a short walk past the St Sulpice church to the boutique of Pierre Hermé, Paris’s most acclaimed pâtissier, where my usual dessert awaits: a praline millefeuille. In my considered judgment, it is the single greatest pastry known to man, which is reason enough to make it a daily habit when in Paris.

For me, life in Paris revolves mainly around three things: food, wine and walking. Sufficiently fortified, I will set out from Pierre Hermé in the direction of the Seine. My usual route takes me across the Pont du Carrousel, immortalised by Rilke (and featured, more recently, in The Da Vinci Code). No matter how often I cross this broad, elegant bridge, which runs perpendicular to the Louvre, I always come to a halt in the middle and the view in both directions never fails to cause a tingling sensation. Once on the Right Bank, I might head towards the Marais or walk along the Rue de Rivoli towards the Place de la Concorde and the Champs-Elysées or meander around the Palais Royal. There is no agenda, other than just savouring the views and savouring the time to think. Paris is easy to walk in and a pleasure to navigate by foot.

I end up retracing my steps back to the Mouffetard but with one slight detour into the Luxembourg Gardens. If there is another park in the world that manages to combine as much majesty, tranquillity, and humanity, I’ve never encountered it. I’ve always loved the Luxembourg Gardens but it has become even more sacred to me since I brought my son (now six) there as a 10-month-old.

At that time, he was just managing to get himself off the ground and we set him alongside the little boating pool in the middle of the gardens. As he stood there, tenuously holding on to the side of the pool and excitedly watching the regatta of toy boats, he turned around and cast a huge smile in our direction that we, for once, managed to catch on film. Returning to the gardens now, I find myself gazing at that spot and wishing desperately that my family were with me.

Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2007

Ben and Jen arrived June 4th. They have done the walking shopping museum subway thing here in Paris.

We went to the Jazz Festival

at Chateau de Vincennes on the east end of Paris with its excellent gardens.

We took 2 days and went north to the coast. Fun driving for Chris - we now know that the dotted lines between the lanes on a highway are for the motor bikes to zip by on, with perhaps of foot of space to spare. Saw the Bayeux Tapestry and ancient town,

The US Cemetary and museum at Omaha beach. (Watch the beginning of the movie Saving Private Ryan).

"Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms unknown but to God."

Overnight in a "B&B", which you can see on the hill against the trees. Surrounded by extensive gardens, inground pool and full of antiques. Rare homemade jams x16 for breakfast, as we recovered from the black mold.