The Dogs of Paris

Part of me is always sorry I can't take my dog with me to Paris. Although I'm assured she would be welcome at my hotel, I wouldn't dream of subjecting her to a plane ride that I find increasingly grueling. So I leave her at home with babysitters she loves and I make due 

with Sophie substitutes.                                         

I'm greeted by the owner's two as I go to check in. 

I just have to walk down the street to a typical cafe where it's evident that dogs are at home wherever they go in Paris. And nobody seems to mind...

This greyhound in the Galeries Lafayette looks a bit sheepish about being there!

                        This little Yorkie was working at a Papeterie not far from my hotel.

This one looks like he's dying to be up on that chair, slurping something cool. Maybe that's why his owner has her foot firmly on his leash!

When I caught up to the owner of this pooch in a purse, she explained that she was carrying him because he wasn't feeling well that morning.

It's so good to be greeted when I get back to my hotel! (Though I'm not sure if it makes me miss Sophie less or even more!) 

A Burger in Paradise

I know that people associate Paris with Michelin star restaurants, but really, with the cost of airfare and a good hotel, who can afford that type of food? It doesn't mean you have to eat at McDonald's though I have eaten at McDonald's. McDonald's in Europe is not the same as McDonald's here. It's more expensive--whatever you pay in dollars here, you pay in Euros there so a burger will cost you about 50% more (or the current exchange rate). But it's a better burger, the food quality is much higher and the menu more varied, with just that Parisian flare. So ask for a McDo, a deluxe potatoes and a Coca; (just don't ask for a McPoulet because unlike in Quebec, a McChicken stays a McChicken).

 But if you really want a burger, 
forget American fast food and head over to les Galeries
Lafayette. At Steakpoint (located in the lower level of the Maison store), you will get a burger that is heartachingly delicious. The first time I bit into one, I had to seek out the chef to tell him it was the best burger I'd ever had. He actually beamed and regaled me with the story of where he got his meat. I should have written it down but I was too sated with that perfect burger and fries and just the right glass of red...

What should be dessert but passes for breakfast

Longing to Go

  

My very first stay

I've got Paris on the brain. Even more than usual. And I blame my friend Bruce.

He called me the other night to tell me he was on his way to London and Paris.

"Wanna meet up?"
Who wouldn't? But those days are long past when I can book a cheap ticket at the spur of the moment and just leave. First of all, let's dispel the notion of a 'cheap' ticket. Every year I leave later and later and I'm still paying eight or nine hundred dollars plus insurance and assorted fees. And life has somehow gotten too complicated to be able to just take off.

A visit with my sister

                                                                           
                                                                                     And I've been thinking about Iceland, in particular next April's writers' festival. And Edinburgh--the Fringe Fest, the Whiskey Trail. And all those other places I haven't been. I thought I might skip Paris for once. But as I email suggestions of where to eat (Angelina's! Le Procope! Le Polidor!) and what to do and (blasted!!!) yes, where to stay, I'm flashing back to being there. And kicking myself for not just saying "Hell yes, I'll meet you!" (And still knowing that with income tax and apartment insurance and vet and eye doctor appointments, it was the right and responsible thing to do.)

So I sit here, checking out Bruce's Facebook page with postings of my hotel. My hotel. Of course I wish I was there. But I'm here. Sigh...my next trip seems a long way away. 

My 50th Birthday

                         

Things To Do Before I Go

There's always too much to do before I leave. I make ambitious lists, knowing they are bound to fail. No matter how calm work has been, how organized I think I am, there is always a flurry of e-mails about things that have to be taken care of right away. I suppose I could do them while away if I travelled with a cell or laptop. But I have no desire to be as industrious as my fellow passengers whose work toys have to be wrestled away during take off. 
I'm so busy the moment I book my ticket, that the only thing I want to be doing while onboard is to read the magazines I've carefully picked just for that purpose: the New Yorker and the Christmas issue of Oprah. They're in my carry-on, which I carefully mended with ducttape (to cover where my exuberant Sophie chewed on the return from my last trip). I did buy a new bag which I loved but brought back (egged on by my mantra "money I can spend in Paris"). Tucked inside are TicTacs, toothbrush, the inevitable Immodium--which I almost fainted on buying: $10.00 now for 6. Six!--socks and travel journal, camera and converter.
I agonize over packing a second camera and a sketchpad. The suitcase is packed a full week ahead so I can start to unpack  the night before leaving. I resist extra shoes and take out the sweaters; I've shopped specially for this trip, tried on every outfit, shortened pants and mended gloves.
I've written the list for Sophie's sitter, changed the bedsheets, scrubbed the bathroom, cleared both dining and coffee tables of their usual piles of books and paper and emptied the recycling. I paid the bills, got haircuts for both me and Sophie and bought presents for the staff at my hotel.
I've stocked my fridge (which I also cleaned), posted one last blog and  I think I'm ready to go. I try not to think of things I should have done--I have a shelf still in its box, bought at the Pottery Barn last May while my bike, resting on flat tires on the balcony, will no doubt be covered in snow by the time I get back. They'll have to be added to the list I've already begun--Things To Do When I Return.  

See you in the City of Lights!

Books to Bring and Books to Buy

I know that many people go into raptures over the ease of carrying an e-reader on vacation.  I'm not one of them.
Finding the perfect book to bring along is as crucial as packing the right clothes.
And I'm not bothered about the weight at all. There's safety in having at least three books along with me; what I read, I discard or sell. My hotel has a neat little bookcase in the hallway behind the lobby and I've often gone through to find books with my name inside. Sometimes I read them again if only to encounter my own handwritten notes. Other books, like my guidebooks, I've carried along to Shakespeare and Co. to get money for a last dinner or even another book.
There are always foreign editions of my favourite authors and the latest collection of Sempe at Galignani's on Rivoli. W.H. Smith, just a bit further along within view of Place de la Concorde, has Ann Gutman's mischievous Gaspard and Lisa books in their wonderful children's section on the second floor . I've given some away to my niece but kept the best for myself. (Gaspard & Lisa aux Grands Magasins are the exploits of the two little dogs  being accidently locked in the Galeries Lafayette after hours, an adventure I can only dream of.)
I was selling The Age of Innocence when the movie came out and brought along my copy to read in exactly the same place I imagined Newland Archer to be sitting outside of Madame Olenska's apartment.
I picked up a neat little hardcover edition of Edith Wharton's A Motor-Flight Through France  for 156 francs (the price still pencilled inside) and Henry James's corresponding  A Little Tour in France in paperback for decidedly less. But I don't really care what books cost when I'm in Paris. The way they're displayed, the way they're packed and presented are done with such flourish, I'm always ridiculously pleased as I lug my finds through the Jardins des Tuileries on my way back to my hotel.
Which brings me to the list of what to buy and what to bring.
This time I'm looking for some out-of-print picture books by Martin and Alice Provensen as well as the Graham Oakley Church Mice books and Alan Ahlberg's The Worm Book. Of course I'll buy my Sempe agenda and some more Gaspard & Lisa.  
I was planning to pack the new Asa Larsson but as soon as I got my hands on it, I had to read it. Ditto with Henning Mankell's An Event in Autumn and Sharon Bolton's A Dark And Twisted Tide.
So it looks like The Bone Clocks is coming along. It's already deep in my suitcase, out of sight. 

Lucky enough to meet A.S. Byatt at the Village Voice

About the Dog

It's always been hard to leave my dog behind when I've jetted off to Paris. Even though I always left Eddy in good hands, I worried all the time I was gone.  When Eddy died unexpectedly before my last trip, I'd already booked my ticket and arranged his babysitter. I hadn't planned to get another dog but Sophie climbed in my lap and the rescue gave me no option. I either took Sophie right away or I could forget about her. So I had her for exactly five days before handing her off to a sitter.She wasn't a bit bothered, curling up beside him on the couch as I headed out the door.
I still thought about Eddy as I went to the same shops looking for treats for Sophie. While looking at leashes, I felt a nudge from a small dog who persisted in following me. His owner explained he was a recent rescue and she was there to look for toys. I picked out a little hedgehog, I would've bought for Eddy and handed it to him. And it was a hit. I felt ridiculously pleased and saddened at the same time.
Paris is the perfect place to have a dog; I wish my hotel came equipped with them. (In fact someone in the office has a couple of Westies I always try to lure to my room.) Everywhere I walk there are dogs, every park, every store, every cafe. Nobody minds them, everyone seem to expect them.
Since I'm a big walker, I feel at odds without a dog. I almost become a dog stalker. I feed them, I talk to them, I take pictures. But I couldn't envision either of my dogs sitting calmly under a cafe chair while hundreds tromped by. Even though both were city dogs, they lacked the acclimatization to crowds and indeed were sorely lacking in the sophistication of the title subjects of Rachael Hale McKenna's The French Dog. 
I wish my dog would wear a jaunty little scarf, but the girl is as averse to dressing up as the old guy was. And I can only dream of zipping around on an old red Vespa, dog in sidecar. (I don't drive and quite frankly I'm terrified just watching any motorbike tear through Paris traffic. And the drivers who have their dogs perched in front are people I openly curse.)
I never last more than a couple weeks on my own. I need my four legged shadow.
As much as I love Paris, home is where my dog is.

Cours St. Emilion's big red dog.

En Route to Somewhere Else

I have often used my trip to Paris as a frame for a trip to somewhere else. Mainly because I can't imagine going to Europe without going to Paris. I have done the Paris-London thing, Paris-Perigord, Paris-Kiev, Paris-Eindhoven, Paris-Amsterdam and Paris-Venice.
I loved Lviv but wasn't too keen on Kiev. Kiev was cheaper than Paris but had nothing I wanted to buy and far too many Russians for my comfort. I was happy to get to Paris and not just for the plumbing.
 Paris and London compliment each other nicely; although each are equally outrageously expensive, people in London are definitely friendlier than their Parisian counterparts. There's something about being called "Love" that's a soothing antidote for Parisian pushiness.
Doing Venice on the same trip with Paris is asking for sensory overload. And if you think the German and American tourists are obnoxious in Paris, wait til you hit Venice, where the streets are only a fraction as wide. You're in a squeeze almost everywhere you go, almost any time of year. Venetians themselves are very friendly, if you can actually find any.
And I've been meaning to go back.
But there's something about Amsterdam that's a balm to the French experience (and no, it's not the coffee houses, though it could be). I go to Amsterdam so my wallet and I can recuperate from Paris.

It's nice to have someone waiting!