So we went to Paris last month and I'm just now writing about it because it has taken me this long to get over the jet lag and the cold I apparently caught while we were there (sorry if I sound like a certain president). It wasn't my first time in the City of Light but it was certainly the rainiest and most crowded. I guess everyone had the same idea we did and decided to travel to Paris before the Olympics start later this month. I don't even want to think about how jam-packed the city will be then. 

As it was, our average time spent waiting in line to get in anywhere--the Louvre, Versailles, Musee d'Orsay, for example--was 2 hours. And, during much of that time, it was raining. Not the brief, summer afternoon downpours we regularly get here in the tropics, but a light, relentless veil of fine spray chilled by harsh winds and unseasonable temperatures. We'd packed for springtime in Paris, not Reykjavik, so were ill-equipped to schlep around town in such intemperate conditions. And yet we did. Well, of course we did, what did you expect? We were American tourists and, as such, would not be deterred from visiting as many museums and notable landmarks as humanly possible. Because that's how we are. Regardless of inclement weather, physical infirmities, rude waiters (more on this later) or ongoing strikes, we Americans are going to get what we paid for (which, from a political standpoint, has not always turned out so well). So there. 

France is the most visited country in the world, and Paris, being the capital of both the country and all things haute and beautiful, attracts throngs of tourists from all walks of life to come gawk at its infinite supply of splendiferous offerings. Consequently, when you finally get into the Louvre, for example, do not expect to get within 15 feet of the Mona Lisa or the Venus de Milo. Even if you manage to get past the myriad sightseers taking multiple x 10 selfies (no, they do not just take a few selfies and move on: selfies must be considered from all angles exhibiting every conceivable facial expression presented by the exhibitionist holding the phone), there are ropes put up by the museum to prevent the hoi polloi (folks like you and me) from rubbing elbows with Mona, Venus, Vincent van Gogh or the Imperial Era Richelieu Apollo. Just be thankful you caught a glimpse of the legendary artworks. 

Don't get me wrong, I love the museums in spite of the ridiculous narcissism of the immoveable selfie-takers and lines for days. Incidentally, in case you weren't aware--and you probably aren't if you're a devout heterosexual--both the Louvre and Musee d'Orsay (and, to a lesser degree, the Petit Palais) are super-gay. Just sayin'. There is no shortage of homoerotic art on display. There are, of course, the sumptuous Renaissance masterpieces of Leonardo, Michelangelo and Caravaggio, renditions of an unclad St. Sebastian pierced by arrows and tied to a tree, Napoleonic renditions of ancient Greek battles, such as Leonidas at Thermopylae, 

genuine vases and urns from ancient Greece that, to this day, inspire no small amount of trauma from pearl-clutchers and the MAGA crowd (see below).

Not to be missed--as if you wanted to--in the Greek antiquity section there are the ages-old sculptures of promising young men, most of them naked and some of them--sadly--missing their penises. Thanks for that Pope Pius IX. To be sure, not everyone here is missing his membrum virile, but really, I can't spend this entire post talking about antiquity and papal penile vandals (although there are some intriguing backstories behind some of our most noted masterpieces). Suffice it to say, there is much more homoerotic art that I haven't even begun to mention. 

And please do not feel deterred if you are of the heterosexual persuasion because there is plenty for you at these museums, as well. Some of it is pious, some of it historic, some of it is downright naughty, and some of it will be seen as, in this over-coddled day and age, politically incorrect. Yet there is literally something for everyone within the walls of these magnificent mansions of human creativity.

With the Olympics coming up, our access to the Eiffel Tower and the Place de Concord was impeded by barriers meant to keep tourists at bay while venues for the games are constructed on the premises. Incidentally, the barriers are within spitting distance of camo-uniformed soldiers toting assault rifles, so keep that in mind if you decide to jump the hurdles surrounding these landmarks. 

Now seems like a good time to mention that Paris is not cheap. The whole of France is not cheap. C did his best to keep us on budget so there were no Michelin-starred restaurants on the menu during this trip. Still, even the starless restaurants and cafes may charge a hefty fee for their vittles although in most cases, they are well worth the cost. Michelin or no Michelin, Paris is truly a gastronome's paradise. We started the mornings with fresh-baked croissants and chewy baguettes, segued into late-morning and afternoon devouring Croque Monsieur, Jambon-beurre, and French Onion Soup, and melted towards midnight with Coq au Vin, Bouef Bourguignon, Moules Marinieres, and good old Bouillabaisse. Keep in mind that most dining options feature some type of potatoes and a helping of weeds (unrecognizable salad greens that are neither Iceberg nor Romaine). I'm sure that there are healthier restaurants than the ones we frequented in Paris, but one does not go to Paris to eat healthy food. 

Our hotels were not particularly budget-friendly, although they weren't the Ritz or the Plaza Athenee, either. Our first six nights in Paris were spent in artsy, atmospheric lodgings in the 2nd Arrondissement, a mere few blocks away from the Porte Sainte-Denis and, most importantly, a metro station. From our sixth floor hotel room in the Edgar and Achille Hotel, we were able to look down across the rooftops of an old Paris I'd seen in Hollywood movies and Disney cartoons. 

Across the very narrow, cobblestoned street was a quiet square where young guys gathered to make music and smoke dope. The building directly across from us was being renovated (and probably still is) and one worker, in particular, spent most of his time (at least while we were there) standing in an open window smoking cigarette after cigarette as he stared up at the sky, pondering the mysteries of life beyond that ongoing refurbishment. Smoking and smoking and pondering. 

 

At the Edgar and Achille Hotel we were told that we had the largest room in the place, which I can't contradict. It was very charming, comfortable and the king-size bed was outstanding. However, along with all the French charm came the inconvenient layout of our room, most specifically the toilet was located in a tiny, claustrophobic closet while the sink and shower were situated in a completely different area. Yes, I am aware that this is how French houses were constructed back in the day but still.... 

After our sixth night in Paris we boarded a train for Strasbourg, which my doctor told me was a must-see historic city about 2 hours (by fast train) east of Paris on the border with Germany. Our friend from Ft. Lauderdale, Helga, had been in Germany visiting her family and decided to meet up with us in Strasbourg. 

The three of us shared a luxurious Airbnb-type apartment with a loft in the (surprisingly sprawling) historic district. We slept on the first floor and Helga claimed the upstairs loft for herself. She immediately discovered that her nearly 6-foot frame had to twist itself into a pretzel going up the narrow stairs and making her way to the bed. Being a few inches shorter than Helga, even C and I had problems maneuvering around the loft, but Helga wouldn't hear of swapping. Also, I think she liked the privacy of the loft, which gave her a certain remove from the two of us. Fortuitously, in addition to speaking German (her native tongue) and English, Helga is fluent in French so it was nice having an interpreter along. 

Strasbourg is a wonderfully historic city, and also extremely beautiful. 

In the region of Alsace, Strasbourg is the seat of the European Union, the Council of Europe and numerous other very important institutions. There's an almost-700 year old cathedral, complete with gargoyles and ancient tombs,

half-timbered houses, the Ill River narrowing into smaller canals, medieval watchtowers, quaint shops, and delicious regional fare. Petit France, Strasbourg's historic district moves at a much less frenetic pace than Paris: it feels like a village even though the population of the city at large numbers around 300,000. There are plenty of excellent dining establishments located throughout Petit France, but my favorite was a small, delightful eatery called Le Baeckeoffe d'Alsace, featuring the Alsatian specialty Baeckeoffe, a delicious hodgepodge of meats simmered in Alsatian wine, with potatoes, onions, leeks, carrots and spices. And cheese. Mine had lots and lots of cheese. 

Heading back to Paris, we checked into the Hotel le Cardinal, near the Place de Clichy, and within walking distance of the famed Galeries Lafayette, a sprawling shopping complex offering high-end fashions and accessories. 

The Galeries Lafayette also happens to be conveniently located directly across the street from the renowned Palais Garnier (inspiration for Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera). Since I've never seen an opera performed in person, I thought it would be fun to see one in such an esteemed venue as the Palais Garnier. My pursuit of this venture was immediately 86'd by my companions, who simply couldn't be bothered. It was disappointing because Strauss's Salome was playing and, having so recently seen paintings of Salome carrying the head of John the Baptist, I expected to witness a gore-streaked camp shocker that would provide an interesting entry into the unknown world of opera. It might even have made me appreciate the singing.  

We headed back up to the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre, which we'd already done on the first leg of our journey. Helga had never been there--surprising since she lived in Paris for a couple of years--so up we went, not hiking like many of the younger, more athletic hikers, but by funicular. 

There was a kerfuffle when we went out to Versailles on a cold and rainy day. After standing in line for 2 hours, we were politely informed that our tickets were for the following day. Oops! The following day was, in fact, much nicer and, while standing in line, we met a nice family from Germany who expressed much concern that Donald J. Trump might once again inhabit the White House. Apparently, it was once a common practice for many Europeans to send their 17-year olds to the U. S. for a year of education. Not so anymore. Our new German friends said that, due to the volatile political situation in the U.S. and all the school shootings, Canada is currently the destination of choice for discerning European parents. Well, who can blame them? Versailles was interesting but, as with everywhere else, swarming with tourists. What struck me was that, with all the gold-leaf and gold ornamentation, Versailles appeared very much like I expect Donald Trump's dwellings to look like inside, only classier. I was also eager to see Marie Antoinette's bed but I can't think why. It was a bed in a cavernous room. 

A trip to Paris would not be complete without a mention of the legendarily surly French waiters. I'd long heard about this phenomenon but the last time we were in Paris, we hadn't encountered servers--or anyone else--requiring a major attitude adjustment. There must have been a rude waiter convention going on somewhere back then because everyone seemed, so.....well,.....nice. So, this time was a different story. Maybe it's because of the hordes of tourists cramming every restaurant to the rafters, or maybe it's because of the pay (although I heard that servers in France are actually paid a living wage, unbelievable as that may seem to Americans). Whatever the case, they certainly lived up to their reputation. I'd estimate the nasty to nice waiter ratio to be 60/40, with one waiter lavishing us with attention on the second floor of the fabled Cafe de Flore (once patronized by the likes of Picasso, James Baldwin, Anais Nin, Albert Camus, Simone de Beauvoir, and Jean-Paul Sartre), and his polar opposite snarling at us two weeks later on the patio of the same place. Tips are optional in France since, as I previously mentioned, the servers are paid (if not well, then fairly), and I understand a tip is often already included in the bill presented by your server. The ass on the patio at the Cafe de Flor did not get one from C or me but Helga literally tips everyone for everything and she couldn't resist. 

There are also waiters who pretend not to understand you even when you are trying to speak French (haltingly and imperfectly, I admit). A very kind waiter at the establishment where we dined on C's birthday informed me of this common bit of tomfoolery (apparently, waiters have a particular animus towards Americans). Here is what you should remember: as a rule, the younger the waiter, the more politely they treat their patrons, maybe because they have not yet had time to acquire that jaded insolence that bedevils many of their Millennial counterparts. We also noticed that there were few female servers in restaurants so, make of that what you will.

A final word about Parisians. Many residents utilize the metro to reach their destinations each day. You are not going to see a lot of overweight Parisians. The metro stations are dark and deep, with steep steps leading hither and yon; they are not for the faint-hearted. 

Consequently, everyone seems to be in reasonably good shape, and many are as lithe and graceful as cats: even the Boomers are glamorous and good looking. The French, overall, are a gorgeous people and have a distinctive look that I hadn't noticed before (not even in my considerable collection of French movies). 

At the end of our 2 weeks, we boarded our plane back to the States and it was not nearly as much fun as the flight over had been. I did manage to watch the entire season of True Detective: Night Country during the flight home, and it was, fortunately, an excellent season harking back to the brilliant first season of that series. Exiting MIA some 11 hours after leaving Charles de Gaulle, we stepped into the hellish, blazing sunshine of south Florida and I immediately wished to hop on a flight back to Paris, exasperating crowds, hateful waiters and sodden chill, be damned.