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

A Woman Alone

I really love travelling to Paris. For years, I waited to travel with a boyfriend, thinking this was the thing to do with the ultimate of romantic destinations. 
 On my 30th birthday, I finally gave up and took myself. Later I did travel with a boyfriend and if anything, it took the romance out of the city.  While my idea of a great time was hanging out at The Village Voice and drinking wine with A.S. Byatt, his was eating at overpriced restaurants on the Champs Elysee (and no, he was not picking up the tab) and checking out bars. I admit that when I'm on vacation, I'm on vacation and don't like to adhere to anyone else's timetables or moods. I certainly feel no obligation to do anything. My senses are in overload because I'm always overwhelmed simply at the fact that I'm in Paris. Everything ordinary is transformed: I'm waking up in Paris, I'm drinking coffee in Paris, I'm having sex in Paris and really, it's having sex with Paris... 
Eating alone in a restaurant in Paris is not easy. It requires a certain attitude and a lot of practice.  Luckily, I'm not shy about changing my table when I'm seated by the waiters' station or in the middle of the aisle or in the basement. At le Polidor, there's never been that problem, because everyone gets seated together. Big long family-like tables means sharing condiments as well as bread baskets and intimate conversations.  A waitress may insist you must order a 'pichet' rather than a single glass of wine but the only problem with imbibing is having to use the Turkish toilet. Of course, drink enough and you may not care.
I only got a window table once at Angelina's on rue Rivoli. At my favorite place for hot chocolate and eclairs, I'm often steered towards the back. I usually just smile and  esconce myself wherever I want along with all my packages. This is a very good time to go clueless.
Pizza Marzano off the Boulevard St. Michel is the perfect place for a pizza Americaine and a glass of wine along with a view of the Seine. I'm equally comfortable going with a book or chatting with adjoining tables. 
In the maze of tiny streets off the boulevard Saint-Michel, just above the Seine, there's a great assortment of affordable places to eat, all with a chalkboard outside the door, listing the prices for a "plat complet". This includes an appetizer--onion soup or some kind of salad, main course--poulet roti or duck a l'orange--and dessert which is usually creme caramel or some kind of cheese plate. You don't have to eat French; there are plenty of Greek restaurants, a great Swiss place for raclette and even a Tunisian bakery. And when I can't get a table I like, I just opt for take-out and eat in the garden of my hotel.
I've learned to go with my intuition when I'm seated at the crappiest table in an empty restaurant or when I'm abandoned by a waitress who disappears to flirt with a table full of businessmen.  
Because there's definitely that double standard in treatment. At lunchtime, it doesn't seem to be a big deal but dinner is definitely a couples thing. The French don't seem to know what to do with a woman alone.
Except for the obvious. There's always some guy following me back to my hotel; one trip it happened twice in a row. It was creepy and I didn't hesitate to tell him so.  Didn't I run into him the following trip? The fact he looked like Alan Cummings in Circle of Friends didn't help.
But it's when I'm alone that I meet other people. Fellow guests in the garden of my hotel where people gather for a glass of wine. The hotel chambermaids who update me on the state of their growing children and invite me into the kitchen for coffee. At Shakespeare and Company, I not only got an invite for tea but the offer of a place to stay. Shopkeepers are only too willing to bend my ear about the terrible economy--booksellers there are amazingly like the ones here. The Canadian owner of The Red Wheelbarrow on rue St. Paul had actually worked in Montreal with people I knew. When I got invited to help out with  an author event, I didn't feel alone; I felt like I was back home. 

When you're alone, you can flirt with firemen.

Places to eat Alone
Although I'm used to eating alone, I'm still not comfortable just anywhere. The following places are where I've felt perfectly at home.
Angelina's, 226, rue de Rivoli, 75001 Paris.
Le Procope, 13, rue de l'Ancienne-Comedie, 75006, Paris. 
Le Polidor, 41, rue Monsieur-Le-Prince, 75006 Paris. 
The Frog and Princess. This is admittedly a chain but I love the fish and chips and the ginger beer and have always felt at home, with both the waiters and the crowd, in any of their locations.   
Pizza Marzano, 2, Place St-Michel, 75006 Paris. This is a comfy family style restaurant where you can also get your pizza to go. I've often stopped by after a day of wandering the city and grabbed dinner to eat in the garden of my hotel. 

Missing Eddy

This is the time of year that I begin to crave Paris. One problem with going away is that I inevitably miss my dog. And it doesn't help that Paris is such a dog friendly city. At some point, I always wonder if I should've brought Eddy along. I picture myself strolling along the Boulevard Ste. Germain with Eddy by my side, stopping off in my favourite cafe. But Eddy's a terrible traveller. It's an ordeal just to get him in a car. I took him once on a plane, when he was still small enough to fit under the seat and I vowed never again. The tranquilizer acted like caffeine and five hours was simply too long for him to go without a pee. (I brought him to the bathroom with me and, padding the floor with paper towels, let him go there.) And he just wasn't happy away from home.
So I make due with talking to other people's dogs. I try not to think of Eddy romping in the garden of my hotel as I linger over a glass of wine. Or cuddling up to his dogsitter at home. I used to call home, ostensibly to say hi to my parents but they knew I was really checking in on Eddy. I remind myself of the advantages of being temporarily dog-free--I can stay out all day without worrying about getting home so he can pee. All night too, for that matter.

I actually do get impatient with the number of dogs in the city. It's only recently that Parisians have started picking up after their pets and my earlier trips always involved wiping my shoes on the piece of rolled up carpet in the water swept gutter. It's impossible to ask a Parisian to move his dog that's stretched out the length of three cafe tables and many of the shops have canines guarding the doorway. Like back home, I always have cookies in my pocket--paying attention to a pet brings out a Parisian's soft side and sometimes, an unexpected discount.
I also find myself lingering in pet stores. There's a whole slew lining the right bank of the Seine when you cross over at the Pont St. Michel. (Unfortunately the number of caged chickens makes me suspect that some of these are  more for fresh produce than pets.)
When I return, it's a quick kiss before Eddy runs to my suitcase and begins nosing for presents. Yes, all of his collars come from Paris and I make a special trip to  Cours St. Emilion for these Vitakraft chew treats you can't get anywhere else.
It's amazing how quick he forgets that I've gone.

Cour Saint Emilion is one reason to take the new metro line. Yes, it is a little sterile and prepackaged, like the village at Mont Tremblant, but it does have some sweet shops. 
La Cure Gourmande Biscuiterie Confiserie has all the cookies your heart desires. Fortunately, they're so expensive, you won't have to worry about breaking your diet.
Animalis is a shop with everything you could want for a pet languishing at home. I've bought stuffed animals, leashes and collars and all kinds of treats for a very finicky little dog.
Finac Junior has a great selection of traditional wood toys and Zamiloo figurines, including shops and cars.  There are also picture books and a smattering of trendy toys you won't find anywhere but in Paris.
Le Jardin d'Olaria is the lovely housewares and gift shop pictured at the top of this post. Located at 5, rue Medicis, right near the Jardin du Luxembourg, it's one of my regular stops.