What I Bring Back

Friends are always excited to hear what I've brought back from my travels. But I'm afraid I disappoint them. I've only ever once brought back shoes from Paris and the Champs Elysee doesn't interest me in the slightest.
Of course I've been there. Several times, just to see what all the fuss was about. I've stood on a traffic island to take a shot of all the traffic and the lights. But it really did nothing for me. I find all that money much prettier than the end product at Hermes or Chanel.
I do like shopping at the Carrousel de Louvre though I'm a bit dismayed to see multiple Starbucks and even an Apple store sharing space
with the Mona Lisa. I'll even admit to spending my money at Starbucks where I purchased a mug and a chai latte--although it was served up in typical Parisian fashion: with the barista refusing to take my 50 Euro note, insisting I use a pin card instead. I'm not embarrassed  to let the line grow behind me: nothing like a hoard of caffeine deprived tourists to make a cashier take cash.

I found the souvenirs I wanted right away by heading to the row of shops near Notre Dame cathedral: a black beret studded with the Eiffel Tower for my niece, Kathleen, an Eiffel Tower army bag for her twin, Christina. And the inevitable keychains and fridge magnets--the best to be found at Album, a graphic novel store right on the Boulevard St. Germain.
But I couldn't find most of what I was looking for: boots and a cool bird bag I'd seen on Pinterest, an Eiffel Tower Swatch which apparently isn't being made anymore (WHY? Swatch people, it's not as if it's being replaced by any cooler designs!) and the Italian brand of stuffie I buy for my dog, Eddy. I found Trudi plush animals everywhere on my previous trips; this time my enquiries were met with blank looks as if I'd been shopping in the twilight zone of my imagination. ("JAMAIS ici, madam.")
Sabre's newest cutlery are made in a printed plastic which look like disposable picnic ware though I was able to find one wooden handled spoon with a 'Heidi' design, after being told at various locations that it was a new design that hadn't yet arrived or an old design that was being phased out.
The foreign editions of books I so craved either hadn't yet been shipped or their destination had been expunged.
 Surely, there's nothing sadder than a bookstore with books in the window under a  For Rent sign and I stood there much longer than I needed, staring in disbelief at the Red Wheelbarrow. But when I asked at Galignani's for a Petit Nicolas agenda, I was handed something even better: another agenda by Sempe, one of my favourite illustrators. As I use it throughout the year, I'll be reminded of my trip to Paris. Which is the best thing of all to bring home.

Why I go

Getting There--Finally!!!

I don't know why it is and I'm willing to concede that maybe it's me, but getting out of Charles de Gaulle takes as long as flying in from Amsterdam. I get into the terminal, tired and hungry, looking for signs for the Roissy bus into Paris and all I see are signs for the Charles de Gaulle shuttle. I follow the signs through the terminal, I follow them and follow them until I'm in another terminal. I follow them and follow them until the signs suddenly disappear. I backtrack until they reappear  then follow them down the stairs, across another corridor, around a corner and down an escalator. To a deserted platform. Where there isn't a shuttle--not the bus I'm expecting anyway--but a train. To the terminal I just hiked away from and to another. Luckily there's a phone labelled tourist information. It rings and rings and rings. Someone picks up and hangs up. Welcome to Paris.
I plant myself in front of someone coming down the escalator, someone wearing a security tag. He looks askance at being accosted but answers my questions none-the-less. I'm to take the train to Terminal 3 to the Roissy bus platform. I do this and end up in the middle of a central transportation hub with trains leading into the city but no sign of a bus. But there is a tiny tourist information desk with an actual person sitting there. She directs me to a door leading outside.
To multiple buses and the dreaded ticket machine. I do have some smaller Euro notes but am wary to let them be sucked up into a mechanical void, leaving me without correct change and stranded at the airport. Now it's just a question until someone else comes along to be a guinea pig with their money. It doesn't take long for a native Parisian to come along and by then, there are also a few anxious Japanese peering over as he enters his pin. I can take it from there but still question the driver as I haul my bag up the stairs.
Il ne prends plus l'argent pour les billets? He looks at me as if I'm an idiot as it's obvious I have my ticket in hand. And for the unwary young American who doesn't know any better? He waves his hand towards the machine and closes the doors, leaving her to figure things out and wait for another bus.
I'm settled in nicely at the front with a full vista of the ride into the city. But first, a 30 minute tour of each and every terminal. Including the one I hiked over from. Oh well. At least I have the best seat on the bus.
When I wake up, we're at the gates of Paris. And I'm treated to the ugly outskirts where I would never ever go on my own. I'm amazed at how fast an unwieldy bus can actually go and how wieldy it can become in the hands of the right driver, taking our monolith into streets made for scooters and Smart cars. If I had a cloth in hand, I could wipe the apartment windows flying by, just outside.
Then suddenly, it's there: our final stop and the Opera. I haul down my bag and stand there agape like the overawed tourist I am.

Packing for Paris

I'm always packed a month before I leave. It's not that I'm anal (though I probably am) but I worry about having the 'right' clothes for Paris.
Which means I always shop before I go. I am forever grateful that they opened an Anthropologie in Montreal, where I can actually fit a small. In Paris, most of the sweaters look as wide as my arm and I have given up trying to buy anything other than accessories--not that I can afford anything more than accessories.
I pack bandages for the inevitable blisters of walking miles out of the way to track down a particular shop I remember from trips gone-by. There's no such thing as discount drugstores in Paris; shopclerks in Pharmacies wear lab coats and a little thing like a box of bandages might as well be stamped by Hermes. (I remember one trip where I saved my feet by stuffing Maxi pads into my shoes--much cheaper than insoles!)
A hotwater bottle because Paris is inevitably damp and the last thing I want during my precious few days is to be laid up with a cold.
Bedsocks--ditto the above.
An umbrella, though it's not really much help because Paris tends to get that European mist that only the aforementioned items guard against. That and a good shot of French brandy which I buy when I arrive.
Books. A couple of guidebooks and something to read on the plane and when I'm lounging around in the Jardin du Luxembourg. I either leave them in my hotel, where they have a neat little library of guests' cast-off volumes, or bring them to Shakespeare and Company for a few extra Euros to spend.
A couple of cameras--two just in case one goes on the blink--a Polaroid or automatic for quick and easy shots  and a 'real' camera.
A picture of my dog, just in case anyone asks about Eddy--voila, the latest.
Presents for the concierge and chambermaids at my hotel. The inevitable maple syrup and something in a Roots bag.
Weather wise, it's almost impossible to predict what to pack. I have pictures of me shivering in sandals during a Parisian Spring which just happened to be the coldest in 20 years. It's always easy to peel down but I hate to use up precious suitcase space with bulky sweaters.
Even more, I dread the thought of ending up in sneakers and a Tilley hat. That's probably why I pack a lot of black.
I know when someone stops to ask for directions that I've got it right. Maybe it's the scarf...

Where I'm headed

Just Getting There

I remember when flying was fun, a big adventure to dress up for. Now it's an ordeal I have to armour myself against. I keep switching airlines hoping to find the magical company that actually likes their passengers. When I first started to fly to Paris, it seemed only natural that I go with Air France. The coffee was wonderful and when the plane landed, the music of Under Paris Skies flooded the cabin. And if the flight attendants were a bit snooty? Well they acclimatized me for my destination.
But I found my fellow flyers horribly horribly noisy. I always seemed to be the lone passenger in amongst a bevy of tour groups that partied their way across the Atlantic, grabbing on my seat and screaming across the aisle.
Forget about trying to sleep on the plane. Charter outfits were worse with limited legroom for even my 5 foot frame.
Then I discovered British Airways. And if I had to fly via Heathrow, so what? It gave me time to shop at Harrods and load up on jelly babies and Thornton's chocolates. But with the building of Terminal 5, that little hour layover became 4 or 5 and when I got into Paris, I was truly wiped and so was the rest of my day.
I flew KLM because it suddenly had the best deal going. I could still fly direct to Paris only then I was pushed back on their sister company, Air France, who were now minus the great coffee and the music but more overwhelmed with rowdies whose verbosity made my ears bleed.
Flying via Amsterdam meant I could pop into the duty free for my favourite dutch licorice so it was a done deal.

Only when I tried to get a boarding pass, the machine spat out a slip telling me to go to passenger assistance. Where I had to wait and wait and wait. The check-in clerk was friendly enough, explaining they'd like my seat as the flight to Amsterdam was overbooked and suggesting I fly Air France direct. She was apologetic enough when I explained I didn't like Air France. For some reason, her supervisor kept skirting around us, holding up his hand to her entreaties. When he sneeringly told me I would have to wait an extra 55 minutes with no upgrade (and at that point, probably a middle seat), I firmly turned him down. Hey, it's why I don't fly Air France.
But KLM turned out to be little better. We flew an older plane where the top of my armrest came off in my hand. Our hors d'oeuvre size meal arrived with a label insisting "delicious meal"--neither word having anything to do with the contents of the tray. You could count the pieces of pasta adorned with dried up breaded mystery meat along with some sort of creamed carrots with capers and a spongy brown square with an undertaste of fuel. The boxed breakfast came with a similar label and coffee, complete with powdered creamer. Really? In this age of technological wonders, why are economy passengers given food reminiscent of my childhood flights, while at the same time tortured with Holland Herald images of what the better classes are eating in Business?
I could only see it as inspiration for this blog and an immediate written complaint.
"KLM should be ashamed at what they try to pass off as food in economy. A passenger should not have to fly business class in order to get something edible. (I took pictures of my "Delicious meal" to post on my travel blog. You can tell your marketing people that just because you label something 'delicious' does not make it so.)
And the breakfast in a box was the equivalent of something I'd pick up in a gas station.
Whatever happened to Dutch hospitality?"

The hospitality starts when you're there