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!

Another View of the Garden

                                                                                                                                                                                            I'd been to Monet's Garden before but always with one of those overpriced tourist outfits. I reasoned that it was easier to  show up at the Paris Vision office and just be whisked away rather than try and find my own way there. This time I wasn't willing to be rushed or pay the 150 Euros it cost for a guide and minibus. So I asked the concierge at my hotel how to get to Giverny.
I hopped the metro to Gare St. Lazare and picked up a round trip ticket for the train to Vernon for less than 28 Euros. A waiting shuttle as big as a city bus cost 8 Euros and entrance to the Garden itself, another 9.  And boy, did I feel stupid for not doing it this way sooner.
Only days before closing for the season, the garden still had plenty of flowers. The lilies in the pond may have disappeared but so had the hoards of tourists. The only place I really encountered them was in the  gift shop and the house itself (where I got to round someone up to take my picture). The last time I'd done this was nearly 20 years ago and the only thing that had changed was me.

Then

And now

The last stop before leaving 

A peek on the way out

Another Trip

My Aunt was surprised to hear I was going back. 
"I thought you hated Paris? I thought you'd had enough; you'd discovered Amsterdam and you were never going back to Paris?"
Yes, well...
It's like I'm controlled by flashbacks of the perfect moments: meeting up with Ian MacEwan, AS Byatt, James Salter, being invited upstairs for tea at Shakespeare and Company, being serenaded by the perfect jazz quartet just outside my hotel window...
And something about Montreal triggers those flashbacks. 
So I book my hotel and even at the last minute, Marie finds me a room.
My confirmation comes back, "Big kiss until then." 
I book my ticket and buy my Euros for a trip I really can't afford.
I don't need anyone to remind me how I've been bellyaching about how bad the economy is. It is. 
That's exactly why I need to go to Paris.
Never mind my rants. In that I'm just becoming more like a native Parisian. The moment I am inundated by the smell of diesel by the Seine, I know I'm back. 
Paris, c'est moi.

Take me too...

When I Can't Get There

Yes, yes I tell myself I'm very happy for all my friends who are presently in Paris when I'm not. I keep reminding myself that I'm happy for them and not the slightest bit jealous. Because after all, I live in what's known as the Paris of the North. We do have cobblestone streets, croissants and cafes and even a Notre Dame Cathedral. So maybe we don't have the shopping anymore. (I remind myself that even Paris is inundated with chains like the Gap though somehow their Gap has that je ne sais pas flair that the North American ones lack.) And maybe not the fashion--certainly Parisian men would never wear cargo shorts into the city or ever.  But definitely the politics, the petty bureaucracy and the manifestations and the strikes and the politics. Did I mention the politics? While Parisians are getting friendlier in spite of their politics, the Quebecois are not. Ask the former about the latter and you will get a very well enunciated earful. Which is what I hear when I tell them I happen to be from Quebec. But this is home, this is where I come back to. If I really need to, I can just shut my eyes anytime and almost believe I'm in Paris. Almost. 

 

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