Travel Tips

Paris in one and half days, jet lag be damned. What was I thinking? I was already flying over on late f"AIR"ly often "FRANCE" for a week of skiing in the Alps. Or should I say, trying to keep my skiis on what little white stuff there was and avoid terra firma?

Flew into CDG and arrived around noon. I was burdened with backpack, camera bag, rolling duffel and ski bag. I opted to try for the RER and hope the train was not packed. The travel gods were smiling and I arrived at the Les Halles metro stop for the price of 7.95 Euro. Through the metro dragging my ski bag et al in tow and out I popped into Les Halles shopping streets. Completely disoriented even with map and compass I asked for directions. Everyone was helpful and no one was rude. I decided I must have gone through a space warp of some kind or the Bush administration team that said that Sadam had WMD also researched French attitude.

On my own with two nights and just less than two days I wanted to focus on museums I had not enjoyed during my previous visits.

Since Centre Pompidou was open until 8 on Saturday evening I headed down Rue de Rambuteau, leaving my hotel about 5:30. r. du Rambuteau is lined with wonderful shops, brasseries and, much to my temptation, waffle and crepe vendors. These insidious waffle vapors called to me like sirens to the Argonauts. It was all I could do to push through. Finally I reached the plaza in front of the Centre Pompidou. I must have gained 8 pounds by simply inhaling the fumes. If you ever hear me saying I am going back to Paris for the art, the architecture, the romance, it will be boloney. It will be for the waffles.

Sidebar - No one looks at you while you are cruising, although once you ask a question or look hopelessly lost, the locals are very helpful. However, the blue jeans I was wearing had a zipper that wouldn't stay up. This slightly embarrasing situation required me to discreetly adjust my zip on a regular basis. I don't know if I was just being sensitive, but Parisian eyes did not seem to focus on my waistline after I changed pants.

Back to the business at hand, the Place Pompidou in front of the Centre Pompidou is off kilter. The Place drops off at a considerable angle toward the Centre. This causes the local buildings, light poles, airvents, etc. to appear to lean inward.

In my formative years I never "got" modern art. Now that I have spent years enjoying some of the finest art collections in the world, the Italian, Dutch and Spanish masters, the wonderful Impressionists, the German expressionists, Picasso, Braque, Dali, and, and, and , I still don't get it.

I mean, did Roy Lichtenstein give his wife the pet name "Dot"?

Sometime in the last hundred years someone drew a line in the sand and , well, called it art.

Not that I don't like it, I just don't get it. I enjoyed the painting of a donkey standing alone in a small boat with a slightly "Uh? What am I doing in this boat with a paddle?" look about him. Maybe it was an allegory of the George Bush administration?

Finally, at closing time, I had to leave all these paintings, sculptures and videos and drawings, lines, dots, spills and swirls. I must admit I enjoyed it and regret I only had 2 and half hours. I still don't get it, but I enjoyed what I didn't get.

Off to dinner........

Back down r. du Rambuteau and those damn waffles and several delays to rezip, I hit the restaurant recommended by the staff at the hotel, La Fermette du Sud Ouest. I was looking for a good meal without dishing out $100. It was cool and damp outside and I wanted something confortable and informal. This was the perfect spot. I started with duck comfit on toast over greens in a garlicy oil and vineger. It was almost a meal in and of itself. Generous portions of duck over sliced french bread. For my main meal I had a soup/stew of beans, duck, sausage and ham. All washed down with a bottle of Pay d'Or merlot. It was an excellent finish to the day and I was ready for a good nights sleep.

Sunday morning and I am off to start hitting the places I missed my last trip. For some reason I was haunted by the fact that I never checked out the museums and Napoleon's Tomb at Hotel de Invalides. This massive structure with a gold dome seemed to stick out as much as the Eiffel Tower when I cruised through Paris.

So the Hotel de Invalides became my first stop. Ooops! What a freaking waste. Musee de Armee - The French view of WW II. Lots of German munitions, American machine guns, British rifles, Russian armaments, but little French stuff. A little about the defensive structure and how the Germans went around through Belgium. It really didn't get into the life under occupation, the Resistance Of course, the French that got away, like De Gaulle, huffed and puffed from across the Channel while most of the French that stayed, became pawns, albeit unwilling, of the Vichy government. So really not much to say. I would have thought it would have been important to reflect what it was like to live under Nazi occupied Paris. Lots of guns and weapons of minor destruction. You could compare the American mortar carried by one GI with the Russian mortar that required twenty men and a few oxen to move or one Russian woman.

They do some updating on this. Maybe pay a few euros and get to be able to shoot off a few rounds of a B.A.R. or Thompson sub machine gun. Maybe some simulations of what it was like to be in a pillbox being pummeled by artillery.

There was a V-1 hanging near a stairway. I would have thought it would have been bigger.

So there was this American Howitzer cannon. I asked the officials hanging around if they had papers verifying ownership, which of course they couldn't produce. So I waved my American passport and took it with me. it was obvious they weren't using it for its intended purpose.and I thought it could use a little action.

Off to say hello to Napoleon dragging the Howitzer along.

Now this a monument to one sorry ass leader. Two time loser and stuck in the middle of the huge ediface glorifying the maiming and injuries caused when egos are not held in check. Here is a memorial to a guy who caused incredible death and destruction in a facilitiy originally designed to assist those injured in these conflicts. Oxymoron extraordinaire! What this place really needed was some of Goya's war protest drawings hung up. It should be a required prerequisite for political leaders to study Goya.

I suggest a better use for the space would be say a champagne museum with cork popping ehibitions to see who could hit the ceiling.

I gather new respect from the locals who seem impressed with my Howitzer. " Le Howitzer, tres bon!!!!"
the local men would comment. The mademoiselles would coyly ask "Is that a Howitzer your sitting on or are you just glad to see me?. Of course they said it in French so I am loosely translating.

Of course, keeping my zipper up and dragging that damn Howitzer around was a bit tough to do.

A ten minute walk down the street from Invalides and around the corner is the Rodin Studio and museum. Even though I have been there before, it is worth a second visit. And there will be a third probably more. I parked the Howitzer outside and walked in with 18 euro day museum pass. As you enter the Thinker is off to the right. It is up on a pedestal and I think it would be more impressive at eye level. JMHO. I walked into the studio and checked out some of my favorite works. My favorite is shown in the picture. I don't remember the title, but it just oozes romantic humanity. Ooze is kind of a strange word isn't it? Included is a room of Camille Claudel's work. There are many large works outside in the garden, which is huge. Personally, I would have built a soccer pitch.

or more exact the Musee National de Moyen Age. With Howitzer in tow, the metro is right around the corner from the Rodin Museum. Still uncrowded on a Sunday I took a seat on the metro and headed to St. Germaine. Inspector Metro shows up and asks for tickets. I calmly push two proper tickets into his palm. He is visably relieved that I have a ticket for the howitzer, gives it a pat on the breach, "Le Howitzer, tres bon". The howitzer waited outside as I checked out the Hotel de Cluny, built on old Roman baths.

I still don't have a complete understanding of "Moyen", but apparently it is a medieval age term. And true to it's name La Musee de Moyen Age, it is full of 8th to 15th century stuff.

After poking around for a while I stumble into a dark room and "WHOA NELLIE", the Lady and the Unicorn Tapestry. On the one hand, seeing all six tapestries of the masterpiece was, breathtaking is a little too dramatic, and amazing all the same. But I also felt kind of stupid that I did not even have a clue that such a fantastic piece was right under my very nose. I was so impressed I even bought a little pillow with a unicorn head at the museum shop. The lion is prominately featured, but he never gets any credits.

and then to Sainte Chapelle. No wait on a Sunday morning in January. Being in the Department of Justice building, "NO, KNIVES, GUNS, WMD's, RUNAWAY FREIGHT TRAINS OR CANNONS", so the howitzer again waited outside. (Besides I couldn't fit the cannon through the xray machine) This is the stained glass queen of Paris. Wow was I lucky to be there on a sunny day, especially in January. There is so much going on in these panels, and they are so massive, you really need binoculors and a guide, just for the windows.

The intricate glass windows portray the stories of the bible as interpreted 400 years ago. In retrospect, I should have boned up on my Bible readings.

Almost right next door to St. Chapelle is the Conciergerie, the infamous last stop for those on their way to face the basket during the French Revolution. Being an ex military barracks, the Howitzer was welcomed inside. Once inside the beautiful ceilings were of no military barracks I had ever seen. Nor of any prison. There were some mediocre displays of some of the rooms that the comdemned would be processed through. The "Log" room, the "Barbershop", the "Collar Ripping" room. If some of these folks had just saved the "Get Out of Jail Free" card!

And there is the entirely mediocre room where Marie Antoinette spent her last days with Mannequin Marie on display. She asked if she could borrow my howitzer. She offered me cake in return. Therein lies the problem. I explained to her that most inmates have cakes brought into the jail, not bake them inside and give them to peasants. That way a hack saw blade or nail file could be smuggled in to cut through the bars. Alas, she pointed out that the walls were solid rock. I suggested a larger cake that could hold a howitzer, but then the mannequin French soldier told me to buzz off.

The old howitzer was getting pumped up at the thought of a little action. But as he creaked to attention, we both realized that an old soldier, while still a soldier, no longer can keep the ol' muzzle straight. He was already missing his old buddy Herr Lugar. We toasted with Pastis to the old days and I sent him off with a metro ticket. His parting words ... "Check your zipper."