France for Food 2
FRIDAY, 6/10/11:
Pee at 3:34AM and type dream to 3:42AM. Only after that remember to take bridge out. Start trying Actualism, which doesn't go at all. 6:24AM: DISTINCTLY, TWICE, hear Ken calling, "Bob, BOB!" and leap awake to find it was a dream. Add 2) to DREAMS:6/10/11, typing to 6:31AM, peeing again. 8:10AM: Decide to get up. I'd awakened before to find Ken in the john, so I turned on my light and THOUGHT it said 8:32, and figured it was time to get up. But when Ken returned from the bathroom and found that my light was on, he asked, "Did you intend to get up already?" I replied, "Up to you," and he said he'd rather get maybe 45 minutes' more sleep. I said OK and then asked if he had called my name to stop my snoring, and he said he hadn't. I lay for a bit in the dark, but I didn't really need any more sleep, and felt that if I DID fall asleep again and get wakened, I'd feel worse than I felt now, so I got up and went into the bathroom and saw that the time was 8:10AM, so I must have misread 8:03 as 8:13 [These times don't make sense; that's the way it is]. Shit a bit, with a bit of a strain, but it feels like that's it for this morning. Decide to see if I have tweezers to attack my pinna hairs. I do, and they work very efficiently and directedly to 8:32. Wash, comb my hair, deodor, and distribute my morning pills till 8:40AM, then type in file 6; 8:45AM: Ken still hasn't gotten me out of the bathroom, so I decide on a sort of WHERE AM I NOW? Firstly, the vacation is just too long: too many days, at the start, in Paris, and even a couple more days there at the end. And, of course, as I type that at 8:46, he comes to the door and asks if I'm just typing. I've collected too much stuff to pack, and worry if I can cram all the extras into my unzipped shoulder bag when I have to abstain from my big-black-bag carryall for the flights---but it just dawns on me that I can stuff my big black bag INTO my shoulder bag and let it overflow as much as it wants. Two more days of driving left, which is a relief, but then we have to cart our stuff around to trains and busses and taxis, again making the black bag a problem. Our delight with Loiseau, and our displeasure at Ponts and Passarelles last night, show that we can eat MANY meals and retain our critical tastes, but never again, to be sure, will EITHER of us indulge in so many fine restaurants in so few days. My listlessness yesterday when confronted by touring Lyon was vanquished by some (but certainly not all) of the items in the Gallo-Roman Museum, and the subsequent stroll through Old Lyon, as I probably should have expected them to do, but I fear that the last few days in Paris will just be counting hours before returning to NYC. Guess I'll finish packing now at 8:52AM. 9:52AM: Ken's back from breakfast, saying I have to make a U-turn when I leave the parking lot, and we're off for another day. 4:39PM: Ken dithers before we leave for a view of the mountains from the Champ de Mars in Valence. He's already gone down to get two more hangers to add to the two we found in the closet; I've looked at the no-place-to-attach-hand-shower and decided no shower for me tonight. My socks are beginning to suck. He raised the black-out shade the first thing he entered the room, and it's above my bed. Ken wants the bathroom at 8:45, and I finish file 6 to 8:52 and start packing. Forget to pack my pills and tell Ken, "as a joke," "If I scream that I left my pills behind, remind me that I put them in the top of my suitcase---but that's a joke." He dresses and permits me to turn on TV to find that it'll be 20-22° and cloudy today from Dijon down to Marseille. Now at 9:08AM we go down to breakfast. Up at 9:43 from a GOOD breakfast: two small (tiny!) omelets, four (tiny!) slices of bacon, two "rolls" of ham, a glass of orange juice, a VERY juicy orange, a slice of Tome Noire, and finally a glass of water to watch Ken finish his cheese and juice and coffee. Even poke my head into the kitchen to thank the lady for "un tres bon repas." Up to put my pillboxes BACK into my dop kit and take my spoon out for my purloined yogurt "Fruit Malins," which Ken says his dictionary defines as "crafty," and I have a good laugh at "crafty fruits." And at the same time move my pills from the "outside" to the "inside" of the suitcase. Ken "pulls a me" by insisting he has to take the room key with him when he goes down to ask for instructions for leaving the city from the underground parking lot---"There's no other choice," he remonstrates. To which I add, trying not to be sarcastic, "I thought there would be no other choice but to knock for me to let you in." He stares vacantly into space for a discernible moment before agreeing with me. I return to file 6. Check out at 10:02, Ken having had to cash in 25€ in bills for a ROLL of new coins, which will be accepted in the "only automatic, no person" exit from the parking lot, which he, probably justifiably, fears will reject his American credit card without the chip all the European cards have. I sit guarding the luggage inside while he goes through the pain that I'm so glad he can relieve me of. Don't want to read, don't---ah, I can start proofing! End proofing at 6/4/11. Check out at 10:02. Ken TRIES his US credit card, and it DOESN'T work, so he WOULD have been stuck had he not read about it from a place he doesn't remember. The machine would have shut off after a certain limited time, returning all coins and the ticket AGAIN. He manages to get someone else's credit card to get out. He returns to hotel at 10:31. Itinerary from Ken: Leave Lyon south, with detours to the west from Givors, where we stop to buy a half-kilo of marvelous Black Bing cherries for 1.5€, most of which I eat; out to St-Etienne, scenic part in Le Bessat in Parc Naturel Regional du Pilat, beautiful Chateau Rochetaillee perched on a ridge overlooking two spectacular valleys, through Bourg Argental, south again at Andance, getting onto little roads through Secheras and Cheminas, marvelous hilltop towns, taking photo of church in Cheminas, circle down to Tournon, around Gorge du Doux, south to Valence. Check back that I DID record kilometers after yesterday, so I don't need the fact that at 11:47AM we were at km 8279. Noted on #377 at 3:56PM that there are HIGH MOUNTAINS in the background---and in the room later Ken shows me that the "frozen wave" mountain that I managed to capture a shadow of in one later photo is actually Puy-de-Dôme!! Astounding! Some of the roads were spectacular, but it was impossible to guess which pullover to pull over to because you can't see the view you'd get until you PASS it to see that there are or aren't trees that BLOCK any view of below from above. Tried to get "typical" photos of the Rhone River, vineyards, hillside villages (avoiding the two mountains that seemed in process of being blasted level to the ground for their ore or stone or rock), and a solitary church with a guy in a wifebeater T-shirt. And a particularly muscular Christ in the church near the Maison des Tetes, that at the front was closed, but at the back was a wooden door that appeared as if it might be slightly ajar, and I pushed it and it was OPEN! But the church was so undistinguished and dim that I didn't even bother to take a picture of the interior. We stop at km 08444 at 3:56 on the street in front of Hotel Les Négociants, into which Ken takes his luggage, finds where to park, returns to let me take my luggage in and let the Russian lady at the desk finally find the reservation for us and give me the key to room 211 at 4:14. Unpack, finish the rest of the delicious cherries (which would probably be rotten by tomorrow), and decide the shower is impossible, and Ken wants to see the view over the river, so we leave hotel at 4:43, go to the viewpoint for photos, including the ruins of a 13th C. chateau on the hill, and then back to the Maison des Tetes and the Cathedrale St-Apollinaire for the muscular Christ and back to the hotel at 5:35, TIRED. Shoes and socks off again, get pills out, wash face, and start typing, getting itinerary from Ken, and finish this at 6:20, ready to get ready for the 6:50PM taxi Ken already ordered to take us farther along Avenue Victor Hugo. Ken identifies Massif Central or Cévennes mountains that I couldn't photo. Get dressed at 6:33PM. Down at 6:45 for taxi at 6:51, getting us to Pic by 6:58 for only 8€ (probably the BASIC 6.5€ for entering, plus Ken's tip of 1.5€), and we're given the choice of outside or inside, and of course I choose outside, under enormous beach umbrellas in comfortable black wicker chairs around a central table, after which four other English-speakers gather around a table at the opposite end. I take a picture of the facade from across the street, and Ken's ordered my dark Kir Royale, and his drink---plain (rather dull, to my taste) champagne---and mine are 25€ each. The meals are 330, and (with 8€ for the Pellegrino) come to 783€, the most expensive so far, though Monte Carlo promises to be more. At first sight of the beautiful blonde waitress I think it must be Madame Pic coming out to welcome us, and I rose from my seat and said something like "Enchantée," which I later echoed with embarrassment. I think she realized what I'd done, and ever after gave us her VERY special smile. The four starters included a ball of smoked tea, a glob of foie gras, a square marshmallow coated with some kind of red pepper, and a white globe of something on a flat spoon---not the greatest, but not bad. Then inside we had a cup of peas with some kind of foam on top, and then a crème brûlée of cream, maybe some herb, delicious. Ken ordered a bottle of Condrieu (for 75€ and was charged 65€), which was not at all to my taste. Then came a stack of HH vegetables made memorable by surrounding a glob of molten Parmigiano Reggiano; I asked for a menu, and then it seemed that every table had its own menu also. A loud group of four moved from a table in front of me to a table behind me, and then a couple sat at the window across from us, and for a long time we were the only ones being served, primarily by Blonde, as I'll call her, who continued to grace us with her smile, and I called Ken's attention to the very slender gold band with a simple green (carnelian?) stone, while he particularly noted the diamond and pearl around her neck---and later I witnessed her deep décolleté. She seemed to do more work than any other. The Pellegrino lasted almost the whole meal, except that Ken wanted a sip of my last two sips. The bass in still-bubbling champagne, over unannounced quantities of butter, was superlative, even if the recipe WAS 40 years old---actually dated 1971. The breads weren't that great: buckwheat (which in French is Farine de Sarrazine), sesame, olive, and white, and the butter came in a white tureen that I decided to keep covered, while the butter KNIFE (like all knives, from Laguiole) was rather preposterously stood on its edge, but I chose for convenience of handling to lay it on its side between uses. The Poulet de Bresse was just as white and creamy as at La Bristol, and though it was SAID to be pan-roasted, it wasn't any more crisp or charred or outside-processed than before, which I think detracted from it a tiny bit, as did the peanut-sized bolus of unchewable substance I extracted from one of my last bites and hid under my fork on the empty plate: empty because I used my bread to sop up the rest of the sauce, as I had done with the sauce (of which I requested "encore une fois" from the smiling Blonde) for the prior dish (how happy I am to have ALL these menus to refer to when editing this!). Some of the waiters who did almost nothing I found rather smarmy, which of course Ken didn't agree with. He insisted on paying the check, asking for l'addition once, and then a second time, and handing the papers to me after verifying their accuracy. Then I said I was going to leave (ah, forgot my epic trek to the men's room, across all five dining rooms and only two empty tables in the maze-like arrangement of rooms, mirrors, and chandeliers). Ken said I couldn't possibly ask a working waitress to pose in front of a chandelier, and I said, "I'll wait for a sign," which he took as a pun for his signing for the check. I got up, his face expressionless, and took a photo of the entry-chandelier to our room---after the beautiful one over the next table---and then encountered Blondie, who said, "Oh, you must wait; Madame Pic will be around in a few minutes." I was floored with pleasure, and asked, as my sign indicated, if I could take HER picture, and she moved out in front of the chandelier and into a vacant space, where I took a somewhat unflattering picture of her. Then I waited, with waiters and headwaiters fluttering around---and then Ken joined me, too---as Madame Pic, darker hair than in her photographs, and looking ever-so-slightly like my father's mother, came out and vied with us in being gracious and thankful and bowing and courteous and flattering and smiling. I led her to the entry-commode chandelier for her picture, which she approved of, and we shook hands and went to the waiting taxi. It seemed the trip back was faster, but I guess I still wouldn't have wanted to walk it, and Ken and the driver had a talk that concluded something like, "If you can't have a great meal at Pic, where on earth CAN you have it?" Trip back was 12€, Ken having trouble getting his wallet out of his pocket, and we're back to the room at 10:46, happy, agreeing that we were full but no overfull. Ken hogged the bathroom until I could put my collar-extender back into its box. Then I put the comb back, took my pills and a pee, and hung up my clothes and spatted with Ken about keeping the window open, but not so much that it blew on me, and he of course over-reacted to my "It will still let the air come in." And just now he puts in his earplugs, puts on his facemask, and rolls over in bed without saying goodnight. Pity. I finish this at 11:34PM as he covers his head with his third pillow. I'm still thirsty. Bed 11:40PM.
SATURDAY, 6/11/11: 6:28AM: Pee and type DREAMS:6/11/11. 8:47AM: THE most strange dream added, to 8:57AM, when I think I might hear Ken moving around in the bedroom, and we HAVE been sleeping more than nine hours! Instantly, Ken calls out, "Are you typing or using the bathroom?" "Both," I reply truthfully, peeing. He goes in without shutting the door and pees, and I finish typing this at exactly 9AM, ready to start the last day of my driving the car. Ken sneezes CONSTANTLY while he's shaving, and I laugh when I ask him if he was farting at the same time. "What am I supposed to do when I have to sneeze when I'm shaving, stop shaving?" "I don't know," I reply, "it's never happened to me." He remains in the bathroom while I can't do anything like dressing, because I still have to wash my face; or packing, because I can't get to my dop kit; so I resort to typing as he rattles the pills in his bottles getting his morning doses together, as I yet have to do. The whole aura of the morning seems dominated by the absurdity of the dream I just finished recording, where NOTHING followed and NOTHING made sense. Breakfast 9:25-9:56, just cereal, a croissant with butter, an orange, and a glass of orange juice for my pills, Ken commenting, "You're having no hot drink?" to which I reply, "No." He elaborates a way of returning to the room THREE times, and I suggest he bring his luggage down during the SECOND time, eliminating the third time, and he says no. I don't ask why, since to an intermediate question he responded, "Because I don't want to." Then he goes "to ax her," at 10:02, proceeding to lock the door, and I say, "You can just leave it, if you want," and he says, "All right," and then proceeds to lock the door because it won't "let be" as he would have liked. I start reading New Yorker. Then he pleads [at that point {at 8:41PM on Sunday} a HORRIBLE thing happened: the SPACE BAR stuck, down, and I couldn't get it up! And in trying to get it up, it quickly repeated about a hundred spaces, and then a lot of v's when I tried prying the space bar up with the v-key, and then I used the insert of the earphones to pry up the space bar---and it's worked ever since!] for me to come with him to the parking lot to hold out a handful of change so that he can pick what he needs to put into the machine at the exit. I put my magazine down and follow him into the parking lot. He at first can't figure how to get down, and finally we walk down one of the exit ramps, and he goes to some office to find that he puts in a CARD from the hotel, saying we're in the hotel and have paid for the privilege of using the hotel's discount, and then we put in cash. So we drive to the exit (one of two, thank God) and he puts in one card, which is rejected. So he puts in the other card, which is accepted, and the machine says "Deposit 2.3€." I hand him 2.3€---and there's no slot to deposit the money. We look and look at it, but there's just no money slot. Ken moans and groans and finally gets out of the car to find a live attendant, while I think to get out of the car and direct the OTHER cars to the OTHER exit lane, even though, if they looked at our car's open door, they could see that it wasn't about to exit. I actually flag two cars to the other exit before Ken comes back with the news that the 2.3€ has to be on a TICKET for which he PAID 2.3€, which he then inserts into the machine. And our blonde Russian hotel clerk had no idea in the world to tell Ken this! FINALLY Ken returns with an attendant, who does whatever she has to do with the machine, and we can drive to the hotel, NOT finding the turn indicated on the map, and being forced to go to the NEXT block, which is partially blocked off, but I look down the street and assure Ken that the car can just barely squeak through the narrow opening. We get to the front of the hotel, and he leaves to get his luggage, and then I leave to get my luggage, and we pack up the car and finally get onto the road at 11AM, following a number of roads out of town, some of which appear to be right and others wrong, and finally get into what looks like a proper line at the entry to the A7: NOT with a "t" that indicates an automatic ticket of some kind, but just a plain green arrow. All we have to do is pick up a ticket, and the line is long, and I notice that the car in front of me has barely had a chance to get out of the way before the gate lowers. I finally get to the yellow facade and there are TWO ticket slots, TWO blue indicators below them with a drawn finger pushing them, and ONE blank metal rectangle centered above the two slots. I push on one blue indicator, expecting a ticket to come out, and nothing happens. I push on the second blue indicator, and nothing happens. I push on the blank metal rectangle, and nothing happens. I repeat this, frantically, two or three times, Ken shouting at me, and finally the guy behind me starts beeping his horn again and again. I keep pushing, and nothing happens. Finally I just move forward, since the car ahead has finally moved forward enough so that I can move, and I look in my rear-view mirror to see the gate come down and the guy behind me push a button---and TAKE A TICKET THAT COMES OUT! I can only conclude that, because the car in front of me hadn't moved FORWARD enough for the gate to come back down, the machine couldn't issue another ticket UNTIL the gate came down. I explain all this to Ken, but he refuses to believe it, only agonizing about how we're going to get OFF the highway without having a ticket, until he consoles himself with the idea that A7 STARTS in Valence, so that when we get off in Marseille and have to pay the maximum amount, that would be what we would have had to pay ANYWAY! That works until I've driven about 40 km and find a road sign that says we're at about km 80 on A7, implying that A7 started BEFORE Valence. And the traffic is just hell: all lanes totally full, sometimes all three lanes stopped, trucks galore, cars weaving in and out of lanes when they DO move, and Ken constantly looking at the map to try to see a way off the highway where it will be EASIEST to remedy the fact that we have no ticket, and where to get the final gas before turning in the car at the Marseille airport in Marignane. He finally insists that we stop at one of the Aires, about 1/3 the way to Marseille, and I bite my tongue before saying that I hope it will be the ONLY time he has to stop on the highway---but decide I just CAN'T say that! So we stop at 12:25PM to pee in this ENORMOUS Aire, where I have to go from parking lot to parking lot to TRUCK parking lot to gas stations before finding a large central restroom, where we both pee: I'd started by saying I didn't have to, but then think how awful it would be to get caught in some horrible traffic jam and have to pee and not be able to get out of traffic to do so! So I lock the car and take off into the enormous mall-like building, walking to the end toward the male silhouette, thankfully finding Ken coming OUT and giving him the key as I go in to pee, and then get rather lost coming out, because I have to retrace some steps before I can look back and prove to myself that I'm going out the entrance I came in, so that I can find my way back to the car, which I'd actually parked in a BUS slot because I couldn't find anywhere else to stop! Ken is rooting in the luggage for some Hertz papers that he'd forgotten to get out earlier. We're 140 km from Marseille. Back into car, actually feeling easier now that I've walked around a bit and there's not as much traffic, and, as Ken adds, knowing that this is the LAST day I have to drive the car. We get closer and closer to Marseille, and we see the first sign to Marignane, the airport, and at km 8617, at 1:09PM, just over two hours after we left Valence, we get to the pay-gate for the end of A7. Look at all the lines at all the gates, look at the unmanned gates at the right, and drive to the far right, out of the traffic, and sit to think what to do. All we can conclude is that Ken should find some PERSON to ask how to proceed. He goes toward the line of gates, but can find no one, and certainly he can't cross lines of cars until he gets to a station that has a person in it. Finally, in desperation, I see that the right-most line ends with a motorcyclist, so I don't even have to cut into line! Follow him to the gate, and tell Ken to PLEASE be as simple as possible, maybe it's not as bad as we think, and maybe I stupidly think that as a foreigner I can more easily get the sympathy of the woman at the gate, so I try to say, "We don't have a ticket, because...." and Ken breaks in with the beginning of a VERY long and involved explanation, and to our GREAT relief, after hearing only a FEW words from both of us, she smiles, says, "C'est normale," and charges us 15.3€ toll, for which Ken pays, and with relief we head for the final Aire, with a diesel station, where I put in the hose and pump out 36 liters, more liters than I thought we'd gotten before, Ken paying 52.7€ for the gas at 1:24PM, and I start driving again with the relief that all our problems seem to be behind us. Stop AGAIN to pee in the john in the middle of many PICNICKERS at 1:30PM. Follow many signs to Marignane and finally find a blue "Car rental" sign, following them through MANY circles, and then screeching to a halt just PAST the Hertz sign, backing up, moving into a space RIGHT next to the office, at km 8646 [making the total I drove 1327 km, or 796 miles] at 1:54PM, just short of three hours, leaving the key in the car (which of course the woman from the office said I shouldn't have done), and we take all our stuff out of the car and the trunk, and I sit next to THREE screaming kids who alternate making a mad dash to the vacant chair next to me, bouncing around in it, bouncing off, and letting the NEXT screaming kid make a mad dash to bounce onto the chair. I merely sit reading while Ken checks everything out by 2PM, happy with the thought that I put NO dings in the car AT ALL during the miles and miles and kilometers. We're directed across various traffic islands, with our luggage, to a taxi stand, where THREE people wave us to the first taxi in the line, and for a moment I wonder how we're all going to fit, but only the woman is the driver at 2:08PM. Long ride through many roads to a series of uphill streets, where Ken isn't sure she knows where she's going, and I observe she keeps shaking her head when a woman driver dithers in front of her on a particularly narrow street. Finally we get to the crest of a hill and turn in at the New Bompard Hotel at 2:35PM, 58€ for the taxi, and we're given a lanai-like room looking onto the lawn, which features a giant bronze FOOT on a raised square of sod, and I look at the bathroom with gratitude to find a shower that ACTUALLY WORKS AS A SHOWER. We apportion the beds, unpack, and at 3PM sit in front of the Bar Le Lautrec, where Ken orders a pastis, after looking through the menu to find ANYTHING that he wants, and I simply want a pichet of ice water, which the waiter actually brings and Ken uses to dilute his very strong pastis, and I go to the room to get the "Fruits Malin" to find they WERE lying: it's not a kind of yogurt, it's Dole Fruit Cocktail! But I delight in eating it, with my two slices of cheeses from yesterday's breakfast, while enjoying the peacefulness of the isolated hotel's solitude. This goes to 3:30; then I read more of the Mayle book, putting on my sweater at 4:15 in the coolish breeze. Finally finish Peter Mayle's French Lessons at 4:53PM. Shower WELL, for the first time in ages, on the nonskid stony floor, to 5:25PM, and change shorts, counting that I can change shorts and socks every three days (that is, twice) to the end of the trip. Dry off in the coolish room, with my blanket over my feet, and play sudoku to 6:32, when Ken says we should leave for Le Petit Nice at 6:50. We do, getting a straight-line drawing to the restaurant from the hotel clerk, and get there about 6:58 to find what may be the main (white-painted metal) gate closed, so we think to go toward parking, and then onto a path toward the water below the restaurant, and we pass someone from the kitchen who doesn't bother to say anything, and finally end up on a road down to the beach, practically, before we decide this is NOT the way into the restaurant. Retrace our steps, Ken cursing his balance all the way up and down flights of stone stairs, and we're back to the main gate with a group of four or five people (including a woman holding a child) dressed VERY casually, and I certainly HOPE they're not clients, and it turns out they're not, and the gate slides open and we go inside to greet a short, Italianate flunkey who welcomes us, gets Ken's name (as if we don't belong), and shows us toward the main restaurant, of which I take a picture (with a time-stamp that I can later check). We go up a few stairs to a porch and are asked if we'd rather have our aperitif outside or inside. I, of course, choose outside, even though it's quite windy, and I choose a seaside table in the shade, but Ken absolutely refuses to sit down, saying it's cold and windy and he wants to sit inside. I'm mad, but we're shown inside to a warm, stuffy room, which I IMMEDIATELY point out to Ken is EXACTLY the kind of room he HATES, and yet he chooses to be here rather than outside. He refuses to reconsider. We sit for quite a while before someone comes in to take Ken's order for the house-special aperitif (really quite good with many fresh-fruit flavors), and my Kir Royale, which I make clear is my only drink and has to be moved to my table, and it is served with a tray made into a matrix of nine porcelain squares: two corners with four small whole fried fish each; the side between has a white spoon with a red daub of sauce in the middle. The other six squares contain six amuse-bouches, some good, some not so good. Many other people enter the premises and are served outside. One couple was in the bar area when we were seated, and then a woman in a tank top and slacks comes through, asks a question, and she and her male friend go back to change into bathrobes for the pool nearby---she actually going IN in her skimpy red suit, while Ken shakes his head and says it's too cold for swimming. Even more scantily clad women accept seating outside, where they have wine lists and menus waiting for them, along with the majority of the serving staff. Ken sits and fumes that we haven't been offered menus yet. Another couple arrives in our room, and after a long while THEY start to fume at the lack of attention, too. I REFRAIN, with every ounce of self-restraint that I can muster, from saying that we would have been more quickly served had we been seated outside WITH EVERYONE ELSE! FINALLY the menu comes, and the small one is too small, the large one is too large, and finally the Passedat Menu appears to be perfect, even though it includes sea anemones, a number of fish I don't know, and what I think are TWO different servings of lobster, one abyssal. Then we have to wait for the sommelier to come with the wine list. Ken fusses and asks and finally settles on a 50-liter bottle of Condrieu, and proceeds to finish his drink, while I nurse my short-pour Kir and avoid the second pocket of deep-fried whole fish (the first few of which I keep picking finny fragments of from my teeth and bridge for the next hour.) Ken REALLY starts being annoyed with the lack of service, though the outside crowd is being served, looking through menus, happy in the windy coolth, and I suggest that I could stand up, which he frowns at. Finally, about 7:32PM, I DO stand up and wander toward the dining room, where one of the waiters stops me to ask what I'd like, and I say, simply, "J'ai faim," and he immediately shows us to our table; we're the only ones in the dining room for quite a while, after which Ken starts fuming, "If they don't serve until 8PM they should TELL me I shouldn't make a 7PM reservation." We finally get our Pellegrino; he has to ask the sommelier to pour his wine when we get our first amuse-bouche. Our main waiter, at one angle, looks like the guy who was in Cats, played a player in Cats in a play whose name I can't remember by Tony Kushner, and who played the outed gay guy in Mad Men," and at ANOTHER angle, with his head lowered and his eyes vaguely sinister, looks for an instant like Richard Nixon. I ask for a menu a few times, and we never get one until the very end, on a single sheet. Ken ENDLESSLY complains that such a crowded room needs more than one sommelier, and I point out that a NUMBER, up to FOUR, of other waiters are handling wine, and finally Ken gets to talk to a waiter who'd worked at Oustau de Baumaniere and thought it was great, worked for Ducasse and thought he messed things up, is impressed that we'd eaten at Ducasse's restaurant in Mauritius, and tells Ken WHY it's so hard to hire sommeliers: they change jobs frequently, they're hard to work with, they don't tolerate competition, etc. I almost threw up when I ate the dangly-eyed sea creature next to the magnificently soft mussel, drowning it in Kir. Amazingly, the fish called denti (for its big teeth) was rather good, and the little raw special fish were actually very tasty. Ken was horrified to hear me say I hated that first dish, so why did I want to RETURN to Le Petit Nice, and I gave him some variation of "because it's a three-star restaurant." He kept saying how much he enjoyed the food, and when he selected SIX cheeses (which he very reluctantly shared with me, though I didn't order many that I wanted because HE ordered them), he said it was the best cheese course he ever had. At the end he was saying this was one of the BEST restaurants on the trip. I said I was amazed by how many of the dishes I liked (I even thought the abyssal lobster wasn't particularly difficult to cut, while Ken left most of it in shreds on his plate). We got to the pre-dessert, the dessert nine-compartment matrix of various fruits and things, and finally four supernal "fragile" chocolate cylinders and three good caramel cylinders, with extremely thin, tasty, bits added. Ken even offered me a glass of his wine, to "help" him, which I considered and agreed to, though it wasn't that good, and he didn't like my suggestion that it tasted MUCH better after the cheeses. We finally got out at 10:44, Ken finally relenting to like it, and we climbed the hill to 11:05, I panting, about which he pissed me by asking if I knew I did it. "Of COURSE I know I do it, and I don't LIKE it, and I don't like to be REMINDED of it!!" He just said he wanted to make sure I knew about it. Thanks. Packed to 11:30, putting everything away except my clothes, which I hung in the closet to dry out, happy that all the stuff from the black bag fit into the suitcase or jammed into my shoulder bag. Back to sudoku 11:33-12:06AM, and bed at 12:14AM.
SUNDAY, 6/12/11: I sweat under the duvet but am too lazy to take the stuffing out. 4:17AM: Pee and turn A/C down and take stuffing out of duvet. Lie awake a bit and then have bit that I transcribe as DREAMS:6/12/11. At 7:33 I wake again, debate raising the front shade and turning off bright bathroom mono-light, but don't. Manage to shit a few turds, pee, and type to 7:45AM, nose dripping. 8:15AM (exact): Ken turns on lights and says getting up now would make the difference between the 11AM and 1PM train. I reluctantly agree. He also announces that he's dropped his watch on the floor and it's now not working. Asks me for the time, which is 8:15, exact, followed by his Ollie-like "OOOOHuh," when whatever he's trying with his travel clock doesn't work immediately. I'm groggy with sleep, hearing an "OOOOHuh" an octave higher as something else doesn't work. He verifies that it's the 12th---"Then I must have the year wrong." I'm so glad I mostly packed last night, except for my clothes, which I hope will still fit under my now-bulging paper compartment of my (Spartacus's wonderful) suitcase. 8:23AM: Wash face, put in bridge, take stuff out of bathroom and replace their junk on the sink-top, raise the outer blind and hear Ken announce that "It's really and truly broken." [start file 3 at 9:52PM on 6/12/11---I KNEW this could happen, not finishing Saturday in file 2 where Sunday has already been started!] [I include Sunday from file 2 here.] To breakfast 8:30-8:54, good with orange juice brought out when I ask for it, and hot chocolate from powder for a change. Pack and leave room at 9:04, Ken wanting us to get to the station early. Taxi comes at 9:11, to station at 9:24, driver reads Ken's card into his computer to let him drive us to the entrance of the station. Ken does his paperwork to 9:29, handing me the hotel bill and taxi bill, and I STAND with bags as he stands in line for our TGV tickets. He gets them by 9:37; we sit to my sudoku at 9:42. We move to track F at 10:33 when it's announced, and board at 10:50, getting two forward-moving seats together across from a quiet woman at the window and a featureless man---with three Japanese across the way, a woman with false eyelashes who takes pictures of herself, and a sleeping Black among the group next to us. Train goes at 10:59, on the dot. Good scenery, photo Cannes Beach at 1:01PM, the shot after Petit Nice table. Then the town of Vallarus, before Antibes. Then Antibes. Distant Nice at 1:20. At 1:27 there's frantic movement toward the exit, as I put things into my shoulder bag as train pulls in at 1:30, and we're off train at 1:34. Into taxi at 1:42, quickly, and to hotel at 1:46. Into room 51 at 1:51. Unpack to 2:08. Ken FINALLY finds key in his right pants' pocket. Leave room at 2:13. Stop for lunch, not where I want, but where KEN wants, at Punto Break. I have half of a ham and cheese sandwich, which fills me up, and a lemonade and some of Ken's ice water, and the whole thing ends up 12€, with a credit card, about which Ken taunts me by saying they won't accept it. But they DO, Blanche! At 2:54 we move toward the Promenade to search for the City Tour bus. Around the park; can't find it. Back of the park; can't find it. Search for Tourist Information; can't find it. Walking and walking, and my right HIP becomes VERY sore. Finally Ken goes into a police station and talks for a LONG time to a woman, who sends us across the SAME park AGAIN, until FINALLY we see two City Tour busses parked across the street from the end of the park. On bus at 3:28, I getting a discount to 36€ by saying I was an old student. Driver sweet. Ken keeps talking about what we can and can't do before the bus stops at 6PM. I buy two tickets, essentially ignoring him. We go, starting at 3:33, through much of the city, wonderful streets and villas and gardens and hanging palaces over the sea, and off at 4:06 at Cimiez for Matisse Museum, which I look through, having seen much of this before, and Ken "waited for" me, and at 4:32 got pissed and looked at more of the exhibits, and we missed the next bus, sitting on the bench until 5PM. Off at 5:19 for a LONG walk to the Russian Cathedral, interesting enough, but no photos inside, just outside, where he pees against a bush. Back to bus stop at 5:50 and miraculously the bus comes at 5:52 and lets us off at 6:08 at the start of the pedestrian street, which we walk up until my hip hurts so much I say we should go back to the hotel. Then it starts: I get to hotel at 6:36 and prostrate myself on the bed. He gives me a Celebrex at 6:50 and I lie to 7:06 and do sudoku 7:10-7:47, when I say we can go to dinner (he INSISTS on company). We try next door on one side downstairs: full. Try OTHER side downstairs: 10 or 15 minutes. Ken gets another top-floor panorama suggestion from his book and I INSIST he go alone, and he flounces off VERY annoyed---with the room key. She lets me in at 8:17, I give key back, eat sandwich, drink water, read New Yorker, to 8:35, when I start typing. Ken gets back about 9:30, having had a GREAT meal at the family restaurant next door. We chat, I continue typing, he starts reading my New Yorker, and I FINALLY get this up-to-date, exhausted, at 10:46PM. Put some things away, undress, hang clothes up to dry, wash face, brush teeth, put out tomorrow's pills, and then shit a bit and do a final piss by 11:05PM and bed by 11:07, tired. Put blankets off as it seems to grow warmer in the room. Take a while to get to sleep.
MONDAY, 6/13/11: 4:23AM: Wake to a bright light. Raise my mask and look at my watch and it's 3:24AM. Ken says, maddeningly simply, "I'm reading." I put my mask back down: I don't feel like peeing; I haven't had a dream to record. But I can't get back to sleep, vaguely angry with him for not going into the john to read, as I would have. Finally raise my mask again to find it's only the light from the john that I've been seeing. Throw off my blanket and sheet and go to pee, amazed to find it's been an hour since I woke---I must have dozed off some during the intervening time. Finish typing now at 4:26AM, not yet having peed. Thank goodness tonight we sleep in two different rooms, and then there are only the two nights in Paris left on the trip. 7:54AM: Type DREAMS:6/13/11 and pee. Finish typing at 8AM. Try to shit and only get that foul, orangey-yellow liquid that seems to threaten diarrhea, which makes me nervous for the following days. 8:25AM: Just can't stand being in bed any more: think of the number of days, 4; number of hours, roughly 90; number of meals, 12---left in the trip. Think to take a Valium to ease the rough-walking day in Monaco. Then start to think of all the things waiting back home: the Times, the mail, the bills, the Visa payment, the phone calls, the unpacking and souvenir sorting, the jet lag in catching up with the change in time. Bring everything out from the bathroom and Ken wishes me a good morning. Open the curtains and briefly open the door to the balcony and say that it's "room temperature" outside. Put on shorts and type this as Ken goes into the bathroom and I start into my fourth-last day at 8:37AM. Thinking, always, how this journal has become more a listing of times logged in than any activities, feelings, or real DESCRIPTIONS of what the trip is all about: merely a listing of Hour:Minutes, which Ken can't even do now that his wristwatch is broken and he hasn't yet broken himself of looking at his wrist rather than dipping into his pocket for his small clock. Have my daily pills ready, will take the Celebrex that Ken offers, I assume before breakfast, and note now that, as I move about the room, there's only a slight pain at the base of my spine rather than in any specific knee or my right hip-joint in particular. Now 8:39, Ken farts excessively, sniffs, and continues his toilette, blowing his nose. The best part of the trip will be not having to put up with his petty annoyances anymore. How wonderful it is to live alone, I think, as the drone of his shaver starts at 8:40AM. Compulsively clip FIVE articles from the May Scientific American before throwing it away after Ken's finished with it. Put my passport into the front pocket of my shoulder bag. 8:48AM: Ken offers me a Celebrex, asking how my hip is, and I report, "The only twinge I feel is at the base of my spine; consistency isn't important." To great breakfast at 9:05: cereal; hot chocolate; roll, butter and jelly; salami, ham, and cheese; orange juice, and a nice big bowl of fruit. Up at 9:44, Ken saying we'll catch, maybe, an 11AM train to Monaco, passports at the ready. Debate for a moment putting my Neo into my suitcase, but it just so BELONGS in the shoulder bag I'd rather transfer something from there TO the suitcase than otherwise. Sudoku book fits into FRONT compartment! We go down at 9:55, Ken having his large bag BROUGHT down to the waiting taxi, which he had called at 10AM, which arrived at 10:03! To the station at 10:10, which is JAMMED. I stand over bags, getting hip-weary---I'd much rather be SITTING! I watch the 10:23 train departure for Monaco make its way off the top of the board before he returns at 10:27 with two tickets for 5.2€! To track D, I getting a seat at 10:34, when I go to sudoku. Train arrives, large crowd pushes outside doors as large crowd exits from train [and I rather suspect this is where Ken's wallet was taken]. There's no room for bags when I go up top, so we're down to pile bags outside door and Ken gets a double seat facing backward, train leaving at 10:53. Past five or six stations, where people end up standing, and we get off train in Monaco with many others at 11:15. I look to the end of the platform and see an escalator going up. We're out to a curb and see a taxi box, and call a taxi at 11:30, and it literally comes at 11:31. We get to the Hotel Ni at 11:35; Ken reaches for his wallet, and it's not there. They search the back of the taxi and it's not there. We get our two rooms, he in 26, I in 38, at 11:41. I get up to room at 11:48 after much discussion of what must be done. I unpack some to 12:03PM and call Ken, and we go down to the lobby at 12:04. Ken calls and the clerk calls and everyone talks numbers back and forth for credit cards and bank cards until 1:17PM! Back to rooms to prepare for our tour of Monaco, and get on a jammed bus that should cost 1€ at 1:38 to ride up to the top of Monte Carlo, and get off bus at 1:41, when Ken goes to ask some question and offer the driver his 1€, and the driver says that's OK. Walk up to the ticket counter, where the woman ahead has to fill out some kind of form for her credit card to get two tickets, and I get two for 38€ with my credit card, museum and palace combined, and we enter the Oceanographic Institute to ride to the second floor Panorama Restaurant at 1:52 and I order ravioli maison and go out to take pictures, and back for Ken's beer and Salad Niçoise, and we eat 2-2:35, back to the panorama for Ken, and into the museum on the second level at 2:40. He gives me Celebrex #3 at 3:10 when I complain that my hip is hurting again. Aquarium is quite good, though some of the nonliving exhibits are a bit of a bore, and many tropical fish are really spectacular. Finish the Aquarium at 4PM, shit a bit, and into palace at 4:20, getting a good guided tour that I cut off before track #2 ends, so I play it again and fall behind Ken, but we go through the Duke of York's Room, the Red, Yellow, and Blue Rooms, the Throne Room, the Ambassador's Room, and a number of others, while the Arms Room contains a wonderful little collection of Incan gold from Panama in 2003. Out at 5PM and walk down the ramp after taking pictures to 5:15 and back to hotel to undress and unpack suits and shirts to 5:32, tired, but I start typing the journal, Ken calling to say I have to cash $200 into euros with the Ducasse Hotel concierge, and then it increases to $300 because we'll be thrown in jail if we take a taxi for 80€ to the Nice airport and don't have it, and I say I'll cash $400, with my passport and Ken's help, this time at the Casino across the street from the hotel, and then he calls a third time to scream at me to impress me with the importance of the transaction, and I assure him I CAN, if I MUST, get the same amount of euros with my bank card, which I don't want to do, since I brought the cash---and we can share the damage the exchange will cost me. Finish this to 6:16PM, he having told me he's called for the cab to the airport tomorrow at 9:30AM, since the desk hasn't been able to assign us seats on the two flights to Paris tomorrow, and he wants to be sure to be there in plenty of time, and he SWEARS the taxi won't take a credit card, which maybe I don't quite believe. Now I have to start washing my face and seeing if my collar-extender will work with my North Face shirt, which has far more presentable cuffs than my white shirt at this time. Should also recharge my camera batteries tonight. 6:27PM: Ken calls: our flights to Paris were TODAY; I have to go down with credit card so the infinitely helpful desk clerk can make flights for TOMORROW! I put on shirt and pants and shoes and go down at 6:51PM, and he says there are no spaces on direct flights; then he says there are none on the four possible connecting flights. He's at some sort of Internet site that checks cheapest prices. Finally he finds an easyJet flight that at first he says departs at 9PM, then suddenly changes to 7PM. Ken had meanwhile changed our Ducasse reservations to 8PM, and now I'm charged 494.5€ for two MORE plane-flight reservations, on the SAME leg that Ken had had to make some sort of change on before we LEFT for the trip, for which we each had to pay something like $250 for the mere fact of making the change, and then something more for the added cost of the change itself. He and Olivier keep talking back and forth; Ken is obviously dressed for Ducasse, while I'm without my jacket and tie. Then, thinking of the trip from Monaco to the Nice airport, and seeming to KNOW that no Monaco taxi EVER accepts a credit card, and that the trip will be about 80 euros, Ken BEGS me to go across the street and withdraw 300€, saying something rash like, "I'll GIVE you $400, just please go DO it so I don't get driven CRAZY." I sigh and go across the street to the bank, finally finding it on the near corner rather than down the block that Olivier seemed to be indicating, and try to open it with my HSBC card, which doesn't seem to work, and then try my AmEx card, which does work, but maybe only because I pressed on the door at the right time. Have no problem with my HSBC withdrawal of 300€, which I figure is, at most, $450, within the maximum daily withdrawal of $500, but I can only dream about what finance charges I'm incurring [actually, only $1.50!]. Then up to the room to finish dressing, putting in the collar-extension for my tie, and down to wait for the taxi, which had been called about 15 minutes before, but Olivier told Ken that all of Monaco has only 18 taxis, so there's no competition---and later a driver tells us there are 83-84 taxis, or maybe as many as 86 or 88, so Ken wonders why Olivier would have told us such a story. I note that we're still waiting at 7:27PM, but the taxi comes quickly, we zoom down different roads, some along the Corniche, and get to another area of palatial facades around a park gaily decorated with red-and-white flags and banners and bright lights. The driver arrives before an elaborate facade with three or four doormen scurrying about and announces "The Hotel de Paris" at about 7:40 [I can check all these times on my camera's time record], so I get out and take a picture of the facade, look along the square and there's the Casino de Paris, which I also take a picture of. Then in through the massive revolving doors to take a picture of the chandeliered lobby, and move toward the desk announcing Louis XV, and get told that the dining room isn't open until 8PM. Would we like an aperitif? Yes, but no one comes into the plush lounge in which we plunk ourselves. Finally Ken demands service of the woman who said we'd have to wait, and of course the sommelier comes out to take my order for a dark Kir Royale, ostentatiously pouring Kir into a champagne glass, filling it about halfway. I of course protest that that's too much, and he smiles and pours about half of it into ANOTHER champagne glass, which we agree is enough for a VERY dark Kir Royale. He pours a rather full glass, though it's quite narrow, and they have NO house-special drink, so Ken settles for Ducasse's "own" champagne as is. We drink for a bit while I stare at an uncomfortably jeweled more-than-middle-aged blonde talking animatedly on a sofa in the hotel's enormous lounge. At about 7:55 a waiter comes out to say that we can be seated now, and Ken hasn't even had half his champagne, so both glasses have to be carried in to our table on the side, where one couple is already seated and two other couples are quickly placed. We order Pellegrino, which is poured quickly, and then a monstrous wagon with at least a DOZEN breads pulls up: the two in front are local breads, there's a 2x8 matrix of smaller breads behind, and then a large basket of baguettes on top, with another basket of other major LOAVES for our choice. Ken takes the two local ones, and I can't resist asking for the untouched loaf of olives and nuts, and he cuts off the substantial end, ready to give me the next slice, and I hastily say I'll take the end, and am amazed when he readily slices it into four substantial sub-slices and puts them all onto my tray. Then come the butters: the unsalted in an enormous rectangle under a golden cover on a golden salver; the salted in a CONE about 9 inches tall and 8 inches in diameter, to which he takes a tablespoon and SCOOPS a coil of butter about a half-inch thick and places the coil-and-a-half on a marble presentation block---both these quantities of butter have their own knives, and Ken indicates that he's not having any, so when I ask Ken for the rectangle, the cute bread-guy quickly removes the now-useless cover. I say the butter presentation is one of the silliest I've ever seen, but the best is yet to come: the TEA selection is presented on a cart of about a dozen PLANTS, from 12-15 inches tall, about 7-8 inches in diameter, of the actual TEA TREES from which the teas may be selected. Our unannounced appetizer is equally bizarre: a plastic bowl, salad greens filling the bottom, with steeples of the thinnest sprigs of vegetables sticking out: a spindle of celery; a pencil of something bright green; a leaf under which a lamina, micrometer thick, of carrot depends; another leaf hides a spade-shape of white that Ken suspects of being a beet---I say I've never heard of white beets; a foot-long thin white-outlined-in-green strip that may be zucchini and MAY have been folded over a-la-basket-handle originally, but I break it into pieces and dip it, as everything is to be dipped, into a smaller bowl of green that isn't guacamole, nor is it regular salad dressing, but something between. I go through carrot, radish, zucchini, beet, a red object that to me IS a beet, then fennel, and other things, and then decide, since my green sauce is finished, not to dig into the miscellaneous greens below. Then we go more or less according to the menu, with Ken exclaiming about the excellence of everything, but---I may be tiring---it doesn't do that much for me. He looks at the menu---at the pigeonneau---and decides he doesn't want it because it will be served rare, and they don't have riz de veau, so Ken settles on veal, which turns out to be great. I keep the pigeon because it includes foie gras, but THAT turns out to be larger than the dark-meat pigeon, which is surprisingly close in density, texture, and richness to the foie itself. Ken almost literally COMES over the deliciousness of his vegetables: the tomato, onion, courgette/zucchini---and compliments the chef on the best dish he's ever had, anywhere, and then he praises the sommelier for the best possible single white and single red wines by the glass that he could have chosen in the world. Both beam. We choose our desserts: Ken, the house-special fraises, which are served on marscapone tetons that the server sends me the MOST delicious eye-roll over the prospect of Ken observing, and I burst out laughing, and the waiter continues to smile broadly as he pours more strawberries over the two centrally placed first ones. I have the "cherries" special, the main ones in an enormous coupe with pistachio ice cream, and whatever the cherries are marinated in, it only serves to emphasize the basic cherriness of the enormous halved fruits. Then there is a separate, superfluous, bowl of pistachio ice cream, and a rectangle of dough around some inner cream that doesn't quite meld into anything memorable. I thought the immaculate bar (bass) served at Pic superior to the mottled bar served here, but Ken loves the sauce, and I have to agree the tiny vegetables around it are good. Also, he praises the quantities of girolles around a raviolo of the thinnest, saltiest ham I've had. My Kir lasts and lasts; Ken orders a second glass of white and praises the heavy body of the red. Oh, forgot the initial central "bouquet" of the most delicate crackers, maybe of cheese, each about a foot long, that melted in the mouth. One guy at the windows is surrounded by about eight young women in the shortest possible dresses. A red-faced bald head looks ready to explode from redness and fatness. The oriental woman in the multicolored floor-length dress leaves before we do. We pay the bill and ask for a taxi and are told that the stand is just down the street. We leave, get the first one, and return to the hotel at 11:20, exhausted, going to our rooms. I wash, undress, see Ken's room (an obvious add-on near the Ni breakfast-room skylight on the second floor), review my photos so far, put my batteries in for recharging, and close shutters---having difficulty with one until I find the latch that releases the building-nearest leaf from the building itself---for what I hoped to be darkness, but when I shut off the room light, there's a rainbow halo around the upper part of the room, possibly coming from the tomb-like bathroom lights, which are still on---and would have gone off had I pulled out my card, which I didn't. That takes to 12:07AM, which I think is long enough after dinner-finish to get to bed, still feeling full.
TUESDAY, 6/14/11: Uncover the duvet and get to bed at 12:18AM. Amazingly, I get up at 8:18AM to pee, recalling an awful reflux-coughing spell earlier, but I still basically slept eight hours straight---maybe due to the anxiety of the day, blessedly relieved by the Valium I'd taken that morning. I'm feeling tired, figure to skip breakfast, and Ken calls at 9:08 to insist that it's FREE with the room---at 290€ it may well be. Type thoughts into file 6 until I leave the room at 9:28AM for breakfast: 9:21AM: Had been in total bliss: woke EXACTLY eight hours after I recorded I went to bed (neglect the time I spent in getting to sleep, and the time I spent coughing with reflux in the middle of the night, and the time I spent luxuriating in bed before looking at my watch). Figure I want FOUR things in life: 1) to get to Paris, 2) to dine in Ledoyen, 3) to get to New York, 4) to resume my normal life. Ken calls at 9:08AM to insist that we meet for the free (that gets me!) breakfast at 9:30 on floor 1. I comb my hair, put in my bridge, find my glasses on top of my dop kit in the bathroom, dress, put the recharged batteries into my camera so I can take it for a picture of the undoubtedly "avant" breakfast room, and type this to 9:25AM before blowing my nose for the seventh time, putting on my shoes, taking my shoulder bag, and getting down to floor 1 to meet Ken. 9:58AM: Back from a minimal breakfast: two little jars of orange juice with added ice cubes for my pills, a demitasse of hot chocolate, one chocolate roll with butter, and I take a yogurt and a slice of Emmenthal cheese to eat later. Ken wants to see the Stamp Museum first, so we agree he'll phone me when he finishes breakfast (and talking with the cute American about his trials on losing his wallet), gets his directions together, and asks final directions from the desk. I'm AGAIN amazed to see the SAME pattern (which I just took a photo of) (of what actually look more like SHOE-PRINTS than anything else) on my pillowcase that I noticed in AT LEAST the last three bedrooms: is my HAIR or HEAD leaving the pattern, which is the most obvious guess as to the SOURCE, regardless of the "logic" of the result, or could it have been from BEFORE, when I used the pillows to prop me up, either naked or in my shirt, while I typed? I'm QUITE sure they weren't there BEFORE, or I would have noticed them as I'd noticed them NOW. Now at 10:03AM I feel I'd better try to indulge the possible feeling to shit, before Ken calls on the phone. 10:13AM: MULTIPLE REVELATIONS: 1) Recognized the "shoe-prints" on my pillowcase as coming from my FACEMASK, the same color light blue, AND reminded me of my PRIOR mystery of the RED marks on my HOME pillowcase that were caused by my RED facemask. 2) Recalled Ken's "third disaster during dinner last night," which he couldn't remember, as his "Well, mightily, and WORST bepissing of my trousers" when he went to the john during dinner. 3) And wanted to note that my ass-wipe after my satisfactory shit just now was "normal," in being multi-wipe brown, as opposed to the worrying "single-wipe pre-diarrhea color-and-smell" wipe a few previous times, with 4) The concomitant "concern" of my grafficicity about describing such details, although current fiction and even nonfiction include truly disgusting details of fucking, vomiting, operations, fantasies, dreams, etc., which, I suppose, would put whatever I could say well into the shade of their overwhelming shockingness. Now at 10:19AM I await Ken's call, glad of the simplicity of simply dialing the two numbers of the room on the phone to get the person, though he keeps reminding me that our BILL, while paid for in the main, will include "international" phone calls from Monaco to France and maybe the US for his credit cards, and possible added taxes, though hopefully not for my extra bottle of orange juice with our supposedly free breakfasts. I take care to place the spoon from my dop kit atop the yogurt, which I do NOT try to put into the fridge to keep cold, fearing to forget it, as I have my recharger lying on the floor at the doorway so I won't forget to pack THAT. And speaking of packing, I suppose I should start NOW, since we're supposed to be out of the rooms by noon. And at THIS MOMENT of 10:21, he phones. [11:40AM: WONDERFUL Stamp Museum, opened to us because I THINK of my "charm" in apologizing for holding the door open, but maybe not. Almost finished packing, everything ready, so I'll put this away so I can close that compartment easily, as opposed to the most-difficult center one.] Leave room at 10:22AM, having taken Celebrex #4 at breakfast. To the Stamp Museum 10:?? (check first photo of my foot in the door, which I think MAY have influenced the guy, who'd started saying "No," to change to saying "Yes"). Back to room at 11:24 and out of room at 11:53AM, all packed. Check out at 11:58, getting a tiny receipt for our tiny telephone-call bill. Walk around looking for the bus to Jardin Exotique, finally on at 12:18PM, to stop at Hopital. Elevator up, and walk around construction, pay the discounted two-for-one senior rate, and photo an unusual-looking ceiba tree at 12:30. Cacti are absolutely glorious, many photos, impossible-to-capture romance of Monaco. To Archaeological Museum at 1PM, good mainly for large photos to 1:13, then back the way we came down to exit at 1:30, sweating under the sun. On same bus at 1:35 and have a FANTASTIC ride down that I even debated recording at length as a surreal movie down the narrowest-possible road, with intermittent views over the harbors. Off bus at 1:50, eat a pizza "King," with chorizo that's just as lean as pepperoni, and a wonderful 50 cl of lemonade that costs more than Ken's glass of white wine. Good cold liter of water, too, at Café 8 1/2, to 2:30. Ken changes his shirt at 2:48. Do I shit? Just as clerk starts to summon elevator, the taxi driver arrives at 2:51, but Ken says that he'll take two minutes to pack his luggage, so I decide to go to the first floor for the john, where I actually have a satisfying shit, and get back to lobby at 2:55, and into taxi at 2:59. No pictures on the road, and it's quicker than we thought, getting there at 3:35 for 90€, thankfully including tip. Out and get to easyJet Special Boarding, but told we have to wait until 4:55, two hours before boarding! Sit at 3:38 and Key tells me about Paris hotel. Type to 4:55, when we check in, go to restaurant to chat with kid from San Francisco on his way to Rome, Interlaken, and other places, about his 21-day trip. Ken buys a three-half ham and cheese sandwich, which he shares with me, and I finally catch up to date at 5:36PM, waiting for boarding. At 5:51 Ken goes to ask. At 6:13 gate 1 is announced. At 6:27 we're allowed to pass to the first barrier in the hallway to the plane, and at 6:33 I finish reading my last New Yorker. At 6:37 we're allowed to pass to the SECOND barrier. I'm the second person on the plane, at 6:38, getting the rightmost seat in the first row, somewhat cramped due to the curvature of the fusilage, and even the window is canted somewhat forward. We back out at 7PM and take off at 7:09, first over the sea, then over Nice, allowing a few pictures of the airport, but then the villages behind gradually vanish below clouds, and though I look hopefully east, there's absolutely no sign of mountains until about a half-hour later, when there appear to be a few age-gray snowy areas on the hidden sides of peaks that are too low to have glaciers. Villages, farms, and rivers appear between clouds, and they begin selling food. I tell them I have no money, what can I get for free? "A glass of water." So I drink a glass of water while the guy to my left talks INCESSANTLY to the cute guy to his left, on the aisle, and I keep looking for pictures that aren't there, as pilot announces we're passing over Lyon and Dijon until we start down, and there on the far horizon is a tower (maybe Tour Montparnasse, as we're coming in from the southeast) lined up with an unmistakable Eiffel Tower, so I try a few pictures of that just before we land at 8:17 after a 1:08 flight that had been announced for an hour and a half. Off plane in a rush at 8:23, everyone RACING ahead on the moving walkway while I rest my shoulder bag on the railing and watch them pass. Get slightly lost after going to the john (when the first one pointed to didn't exist), but a clerk points me toward Baggage at 8:40, where Ken frantically motions me over to tell me something about the day after tomorrow's way of paying for his alcohol. I then ask, "Do you mind if I sit down now?" After a bit the carousel starts, and my bag, quickly followed by Ken's, comes out RIGHT near the front, so we take off for the taxi stands, the first of which Ken wisely sees is "Paris Banlieu," so it won't serve Paris proper. Go farther to the Paris Ville longer line, and he steps into traffic to ask the first five or six cabs available to us if they take credit cards, and they all say no. Ken is about to give up and let me pay cash, when a driver agrees, and we get into taxi at 8:57. Through what look like familiar streets to the Place des Vosges, and drive around a bit until the driver puts our street into his GPS, and finally deposits us in front of the Hotel Place des Vosges at 9:24PM, still quite light out. Ken gets the young woman from the desk to carry his monster up the one flight of stairs to the elevator landing, REFUSING to wait her suggested twenty minutes, when some GUY will arrive who will be able to carry it up. Ken insists it has to be her. I start lugging my bag up the stairs, when I feel her lifting from below (it occurs to me she was just protecting the already-frayed carpet on the narrow, slightly winding stair). I get into the elevator-built-for-two-without-any-luggage-at-all, and push 3, and get out onto a landing with a door marked Private and one other door. Push that door and I see 31 and 32, and then Ken's behind me with his monster and opens the door onto a TINY room with two beds jammed together with hardly any room to MOVE them. I promptly push one toward the window, saying I'll sleep there, since he obviously needs the larger space between his bed and the bathroom and hall for his larger suitcase. Later I complain that I don't want the window open over MY bed, but he REFUSES to consider changing (later telling me about his brother, who ALWAYS insists on having his way, and then has the NERVE to insist that he, Ken, isn't like his brother AT ALL!!!). We unpack what has to be unpacked, leaving the window wide open, and go down at 9:49 to Le Préau, where he can't resist the rabbit, and I settle for an enormous Croque Monsieur with a heap of fries that I barely touch, a decent salad, and a good---though only 25 cl, as usual---Schweppes tonic. Cute gay couple a few tables away, and I think the waiter is a doll, too. Lots of traffic on the street, which we hope will quiet down later. Ken loves his rabbit, ending with an Armagnac, even the more expensive one when she doesn't have the cheaper one he ordered, and a boule of noisette ice cream with a cracker that he says he just loves. My Croque isn't bad, but a Croque is a Croque. We finish, I quite stuffed, at 11:13PM. Up and take the duvet out of the casing and move things around some more and get to bed at 11:42PM, still feeling full from dinner.
WEDNESDAY, 6/15/11: Pee at 6:09AM. Up at 8:49 when Ken is moving busily about. Paul calls at 9:01AM, saying he probably won't join us at Ledoyen, but says he'll think about it when Ken says it really would be nice to see him one more time before we leave. Paul hadn't gotten Ken's phone message, so Ken goes over all the tragedies of the past two days again. At 9:15 I take .5 mg melatonin (having gone through my bag to get out the stuff for today at JUST the right time), a Celebrex #5 that Ken offers me, and a Valium in case I get anxious about leaving tomorrow. We're down for breakfast alone 9:35-10:20---well, another woman is eating, too---all of it served: a platter of orange juice, rolls, butter, jams---and Ken has coffee and I have hot chocolate. Have some bits of cheese, and a container of plain yogurt, too. Ken gives me his butter, so I'm nicely full. I leave for Cluny after being told that I'm now fucked up for the SECOND time by the closure of the Bastille Metro stop: I can't go on TWO trains to Cluny, I have to take THREE. So I leave at 10:38, stop in at St. Paul's for a few photos at 10:54, take the three trains to Cluny easily---though I always seem to be at the wrong end of the station---to 11:23, look through the garden, go around the long way, and at 11:44 discover she sold me TWO tickets for 17€. She returns me 8.5€. Take lots of photos: Notre Dame facade heads from 1220 discovered only recently in excavating for some office---unicorn tapestries for five senses: taste, sound, sight, smell, touch, and for the sixth: renouncing them all---at 1:20PM. 7th C. Visigoth crown and cross. Go meticulously through, and at 2:50PM I have a disquietingly soft shit, after sailing through a few rooms on a wake of fart-scent. Photo Joyeuse: sword of Charlemagne, and a pottery piece actually labeled "Saint John in disco." Lovely stained glass, pilgrimage tokens, tapestries, statues, paintings, furnishings, jewelry, and lots of other stuff so entrancing I buy a guidebook for 18€ at the end. Finish all 52 Audioguide segments at 4:34, exhausted. Get my driver's license back for my Audioguide---which I had forgotten I'd given---retrieve my bag, have some water, and write late notes in sun at 4:39. Back, via the inverse three trains, to the hotel at 5:10, Ken greeting me at the door in a dither because, until ten minutes ago, he hadn't been aware that his clock had somehow skipped ahead two hours, and he thought it was way after 6PM and was I lost, hurt, and wandering mindlessly about Paris? THEN he found his time was wrong. After spending a few hours at the Rodin Museum, he spent the rest of the day hassling our again-changed airline reservations with Air France, who charged us 96€ for the change AGAIN!! I'm DETERMINED to write and say I'll NEVER use Air France again and they MUST return ALL our FUCKING MONEY THAT THEY CHEATED US OUT OF OR I'LL TAKE THEM TO SMALL CLAIMS COURT! I lie exhausted while Ken complains about his day, and it turns out he hasn't had his shower yet, so I groan up, try to take a shit and STILL have a hint of coming diarrhea, which makes me very unhappy, and shower from 5:30-5:52, getting out my last clean pair of shorts (while Ken jokes about my not having a clean shirt to put on, baselessly accusing me of wearing my short-sleeved shirt EVERY day of the trip!) and enjoying being clean. Out to start typing, listening to Ken's interruptions, and finish to date at 6:44PM, knowing we have a 7:30 reservation. Also counting I have only four meals left on the trip, and just under 27 hours between 6:48PM now in Paris and our estimated 3:45PM arrival NYC-time tomorrow. Ken finds another white spot on the front of his pants. Rather loud music comes in from the street. Thank goodness Ken said he slept well last night even WITH the windows totally closed. My stomach grumbles: I try to shit again and nothing much happens except gas. I sure hope I don't have trouble at Ledoyen tonight or on the plane tomorrow, even if I have to take two Imodium tomorrow morning, when our shuttle to the airport leaves at 10AM (and Ken's put in for an 8AM wake-up call). Leave at 7:13 after deciding to take two Imodium at 7:04PM, JUST IN CASE, telling Ken, to warn him in advance if anything happens. At 7:22 we get on the train in St. Paul and it just SITS! Two trains pass in the other direction, the doors close, open again, close again, and open again, and I think, "Could this be ANOTHER disaster during these last calamitous days?" Announcement outside the car, on the platform, says something about Chatelet, but there's no announcement INSIDE, and no one seems overly concerned. But I am. We finally leave about 7:28, then STOP in the next tunnel, the first time, I think, this ever happened to me on the Paris Metro. Stop and start again, and finally the stations pass: 4 left, 3 left, 2 left, 1 left, and we get off at Champs-Elysée/Clemenceau, out into the middle of the Champs-Elysée, where Ken expected to have a full view of the Place de la Concorde, but absolutely nothing is visible. He arbitrarily ("I looked at the map, you didn't") starts off in one direction, and I see a pavilion that I think might be Ledoyen, but it turns out to be Laurent, the other elegant place that I THOUGHT (wrongly) was on the same side as Ledoyen. We ask an American tourist where the Place de la Concorde is, and he helpfully explains it's where the big column is. Not much help if you can't see it. I suggest going toward Laurent to ask directions, but we only get to the garbage dump in its rear. He looks at his map for no help at all. We finally ask at the Theatre Marigny and get pointed in the right direction. I cross and Ken REFUSES to cross a SECOND after the light turns red. I stand, fume, and resolve not to let my temper get the best of me. Finally we head for the right building, I ignore Ken when he says that the side entrance looks like the main entrance, but I aim for the doorman, who ushers us into an elegant hallway---with absolutely no indication where the dining room is. Into a central lobby and I spot Paul sitting on a divan and say, "Look who's here!" Ken, with his usual acuity, finally recognizes Paul, and we express happiness that he decided to come, even though he has to be up at 6:30AM tomorrow to prepare for a hard day's work. He's in jacket and tie, and for a while it looks like it's going to be one of the more formal places, until a burly guy in a red-and–black-striped T-shirt (which Ken insists on calling a Rugby shirt) sits down, and then the Corleone family comes in, with fancy women and men who remove their jackets to reveal short-sleeved shirts. Across from us is a beautiful woman in a white halter-neck dress that caresses her bosom for her businessman partner, and she takes pictures of EACH COURSE with an enormous flash camera. We get the menus, which don't make it clear that we get ALL the choices, not just "the ones the chef chooses for us," and Paul clarifies that De Squer is from Brittany and rhymes with "de queer." Paul insists the staff speak in English for him, but later Ken insists they speak French because Paul is French and can translate for us. We get TWO black blocks with yellow chips and black-with-white-speckle chips (that seem to be seaweed), since they seem not to be set up for tables for three. Three breads are offered, of which Ken takes two baguettes, and Paul and I take one each of three: olive oil, whole grain, and baguette. A wedge of butter comes, which only I use. Then we're presented with an array of four appetizers: a spoon that each of us takes and is directed to swallow in one bite, which turns out to be mostly air. Then there's a little sandwich of something, followed by a wonderful brown folded-leaf of crispness with a nut of some kind inside, of which I have two of the four presented us on two trays of two each, again not "set up" for three. Paul orders a glass of champagne and Ken follows suit, and I order a Kir Royale, which costs the same and is much more delicious. Ken ends up with two additional glasses of wine. After, we finish the cold, white-coated pop atop what Paul calls "pain d'epice," essentially gingerbread, and I take the top of the fourth and Paul virtuously refuses to take the pain, which he says he loves. Then the main courses come out: the langoustine, VERY rare, maybe not cooked at all, the flesh translucent, with a strange shredded-wheat-covered shrimp, also undercooked and tough to cut, with a sort of white-cream sauce on top. Then the turbot is flaky, but bizarrely they serve it atop a bed of potato cubes, not the most romantic of foods, which, of course, Ken says he just LOVES. Paul is caught in the middle of all this, trying to make conversation, asking us about our ratings of the twelve restaurants, Ken and I each throwing out random observations as they come to mind, and I conclude that I might be able to isolate the best four, the next-best four, and the four least-best, according to the ancient rating system that John and I came up with for restaurant dining. It's quite warm, and I debate taking off my jacket to allow air to my quite wet black sweater---the place is overheated for the nearly naked women, and it's not as cool as I'd thought---and by coincidence this is the night of the eclipse of the full moon over Paris at 10PM, images of which Paul shows on his iPhone at 10:10PM, but which probably no one can see, since the sky is quite full of clouds. So I really don't care that much for the first two "specialities," though Ken and Paul rave about them, and then come the sweetbreads, nicely trimmed, crucified on crossed citronelle twigs, coated with something rather brown and sweet, and good-tasting, but with nothing at all else on the plate. The wine-pouring is constant, but the tap-water pouring is very scant, so that I end up asking Ken to fill my glass a few times, and when the second carafe is empty, I persuade him to pour me a few drops from his glass. Then a large selection of cheese, Ken having some orange "willammet," or something of that sort, and I have a bleu, another soft usual one, and a pyramid-piece of some kind of goat, none of which I like, even though I got a second piece of the whole-grain roll, by far the best of the three, for the cheese. I eat about an EIGHTH of the cheeses and decide I just am not hungry enough to eat more. Then comes a strange white "egg-white ice cream" topped by "flakes of milk," which is topped with silver that reflects the blue of the plate to make it appear that intense blue eyes are peering up at me. The taste is no great revelation. Then comes a tray of four mignardises, which we probably aren't supposed to eat until after, but I---oh, I described the DESSERTS before; the APPETIZER includes a wafer that contains an iced jelly of some kind on the left, and maybe a marshmallow something. I should have taken notes, but if I won't be able to remember items from the printed menus, I'll hardly be able to distinguish among seven or eight appetizers and desserts from twelve meals. Two jelly-like things are left on Ken's side---again we have four of everything---and they're cleared away. Then comes the final dessert of INTENSE molten-chocolate bars framing a most delicious bar of liquid caramel, the best taste of the dinner, with silly chunks of light-brown chocolate gravel on the right, a blob of some white cream on the left, and border slabs of thinnest chocolate. I don't even finish the chocolate, it's so chocolaty, but the other two do. Paul has established that he'll get a separate bill at the start, so we ask for the checks, and at first blush I think they charge Ken for THREE glasses of wine, which causes a mild flurry until I confess that I'm confused. Finally take a photo of the table with the riz de veau and part of the decor, but there are too many people already seated to take a good shot. The FINAL pastry is dismissed by the insouciant headwaiter, who flicks my napkin with unnecessary brusqueness off my lap in preparation for the placement of the DESSERT napkin, and then I INSIST on hearing what it is, and no one recognizes it until he says it is a Brittany specialty of the chef, spelled Kuign-Aman, which translates in Breton into butter-cake. It, too, is one of the best parts of the meal, and I'm tempted when Ken suggests I take Paul's, but I'm full and have nothing to wrap it in and surely am not hungry. Then Ken goes to the john after paying and I get a photo of "Ledoyen 1792," on the stairway, which Paul delights in pointing out is painted wood, "faux maubre," rather than real marble, just as he palpates the hydrangea arrangements to find they're plastic---"Good plastic, but plastic." As we wait for Ken, Paul schmoozes with a woman attendant about the state of falseness of the decor. Then out at 10:54 to the cool air, clouds not raining, thank goodness, and across to a piece of the Petit Palais that shows Rodin's "Ugolino" from the side with an elaborate stairway surrounding it. The doorman insists the Metro station is easy to find, Paul takes off for his car parked nearby, and we find the escalator down to Clemenceau and get on, my hip hurting badly, to hotel at 11:20, finish "cleaning up" by 11:54, Ken willing to read, and I finish the Tribune puzzle, clever for Wednesday, by 12:30 and get to bed at 12:35, the curtain jammed in the window letting in Ken's precious air (and a baby crying across the street for a long time), and fall asleep almost instantly.
THURSDAY, 6/16/11: 4:33AM: Type DREAMS:6/16/11 and pee, my tampon still unmoving. Back to sleep and the phone rings at 8:04, Ken up already, and I pull curtain aside and report, "Cloudy, not yet raining." Take a Valium at 8:20. Breakfast 8:30-9:10 with .5 g melatonin added in, but I think I won't need a Celebrex. Pack, with a futile search for my missing June Scientific American, just can't figure where it can be! Hoping Ken will find it when he unpacks. Leave room at 9:40, check out at 9:45, and searching for my keys, which I forgot to unpack, and FIND my missing Scientific American. 9:55AM: "Driver is having coffee; he'll be here soon." Into car, only we two in seats for eight, at 9:59. Off car at 10:38 at CDG Terminal 3E, paying our remaining 40€ cash. Onto Air France line at 10:48, to passport line at 11:10, to security at 11:14 (long wait to take off belt, empty pockets, display laptop AND camera), and to gate E36 at 11:33. Ken goes to john, buys water, Tribune, and "most expensive chocolate-covered almonds." I continue typing up-to-date by 12:32PM, deciding to see what happens when I try to go to the john. Pee, not shit, at 12:40. Call to board at 1:11, onto bus at 1:33, long ride to the plane in the boondocks at 1:54, waiting for passengers to clear so as not to overburden the loading stairs. Ken says he's glad it's not raining. 7:28 flight announced, our course taking us over North Ireland to Goose Bay. Take off at 2:38. If I strain my neck I can look at some of the ground visible behind the wing, but soon after we take off the whole earth is covered in clouds. I read book, then do sudoku, then puzzles, my eyes closing. Try to doze at 5:07. Probably nap some by 6:30, only 3:30 left, over halfway there, not able to get any good music on earphones that don't fit, no good movies available. I'm numbly depressed about not having anything to look at out the window, even though some of northern Canada is visible behind the wing: it's just not interesting enough, or new enough, to trouble with. Land at 10:06PM (Paris time) and dock at 10:17. Off plane 10:20, onto VERY SLOW passport line at 10:24, even though it's really quite short. Through passports at 10:31, pee at 10:35, get back at 10:40 and give in immigration form at 10:41. Into taxi at 10:48; even with arguing, the driver refuses to take me beyond Ken's apartment. Ironic that when we come out of the Holland Tunnel we're much closer to my place than we are to Ken's. Off taxi at 11:33PM, paying a $10 tip on top of the quoted $66 price, for $76. Decide the subway's convenient enough, so I pay $2.25 to get two entries at 11:40PM. Into 101 Clark at 11:59PM, Paris time, when I decide to revert to NYC time of 5:59PM. Joshua brings out a stack of rubber-banded mail, so I get a shopping cart and pile everything (including one item in my mailbox) into it, getting into my stuffy apartment at 6:06PM. Weigh bags: the suitcase weighs 25 pounds, the shoulder bag 18 pounds, totaling 43 pounds back versus 35 pounds out. The mail weighs 11 pounds. Open the suitcase and hang up all the clothes to dry out and de-wrinkle before deciding which to launder and which to just return to the closet. I listen to six phone messages to 6:38, leave word with Spartacus, talk to Mildred 6:41-7:06, check that I have no e-phone messages (which I couldn't have, since I never ignored call waiting while I was on vacation), and at 7:09 start downloading 144 e-mail, with constant warning that my C-drive is low on storage. That goes to 7:45, when I'm down to 13.0 MB. Play some Solitaire, then Spartacus calls 8:20-8:40. Exhausted, I get into bed after taking the bed-pillow off my desk and putting the chair-pillow back into its case and onto the chair, obviously checked by the bedbug review on 6/11. Then I'm up at 8:58 to check that I have an HSBC balance of $1,082, with a $1.50 charge for withdrawing all those euros; then check FIA to find that I owe $5,199 by 7/7/11 and have so much billing since the period ended that I only have $28.41 available! Try requesting my limit be raised to $15,000 to 9:10PM. [Tried checking to see if it succeeded at 9:30PM 6/19, but system was "being maintained and not available."] Bed 3:33:33AM Paris time, or 9:33PM NYC time.
END OF FRANFOOD TRIP
SUMMARY PAGE
WED, 5/25: Fly JFK - Paris starting 10:45PM.
THU, 5/26: Land in Paris 11:51AM, 7:06 flight. Lunch at Au Lys d'Argent, have Berthillon ice cream, walk Bayre Park, Sens O for pizza dinner. Bed 9:22PM.
FRI, 5/27: Wake 9AM, breakfast in Hotel Saint-Louis, Berthillon sorbet, walk Ile St. Louis, Notre Dame, Musée d'Orsay 1:55-5:28, Les Fous d'Ile dinner.
SAT, 5/28: Taxi to Paul's, drive to Giverny, lunch at Hotel La Musardiene, see Impressionists' Museum, Pré Catalan*** dinner $359 7-10:45PM, bed 11:47PM.
SUN, 5/29: Hotel Lancaster* lunch with Paul 12:40-3:06PM, to Bagatelle, Paul has stomach problems. Dinner at Paul's, Nureyev's TV Cinderella, bed 10:30PM.
MON, 5/30: Hotel de la Bretonnerie, see Hotel Soubise, La Comete lunch, Jewish Museum, Le Bristol*** Poularde de Bresse $406 7:10-10:45. Bed 12:01AM.
TUE, 5/31: Guimet closed, Arab Institute exhibits, lunch; Suan Thai dinner.
WED, 6/1: Hotel breakfast, Quai Branly 11:05-6:30, Metro stalls, Astrance*** $303 with Paul 8:30-11:30, Paul drives me to Hotel de Ville, bed at 12:32AM.
THU, 6/2: Hotel breakfast, Guimet 12-4:33PM, Pan-Buddhism Center to 5:28, Metro to Le Meurice*** $395 7:50-11PM, Metro to hotel, puzzle, bed 12:30AM.
FRI, 6/3: Read without breakfast, lunch at Open, Beaubourg 1:06-5:25, local fruit for dinner, read, relax, bed at 10:05PM.
SAT, 6/4: Breakfast and pocket lunch at hotel, rent Hertz Peugeot, drive to Le Rive Gauche in Joigny, Cote Saint Jacques*** $293 7:28-10:30, bed 11:44.
SUN, 6/5: Breakfastless, I pack black bag. Vezelay Basilica for Mass, Lormes ice-cream argument, tuna lunch; to Hotel de la Poste in Chagny, Lameloise*** $267 7:28-10:50PM, read Scientific American and New Yorker, bed at 12:30AM.
MON, 6/6: Hotel de la Poste breakfast, drive, lost lots, to Dijon's Hotel Montigny, Museum, Cathedral, St. Michel, Rude Museum, DZ'Envies dinner.
TUE, 6/7: Hotel Montigny breakfast, drive "scenic U" to Saulieu's traffic jam to Hostillerie de Tour d'Auxois. Ice cream lunch before church, Loiseau Shop, read and Restaurant Bernard Loiseau*** $280 7:04-9:37, sad. Bed 11:03PM.
WED, 6/8: Type evaluations 6:30-7AM, Hostillerie breakfast, get gas, scenic drive to Chatillon-sur-Chalaronne's closed La Tour Cocooning at 2:20PM. Finish M.F.K. Fisher's As They Were. Drive to Vonnas for Georges Blanc*** $341 7-10:30, the best yet. Drive to hotel 10:50, bed tired at 11:42PM.
THU, 6/9: FREE breakfast in FREE hotel! Drive to Lyon's La Résidence, through Place Bellecoeur to funicular to Cathedral, down via the exhibits in the Gallo-Roman Museum, to Old Lyon and Cathedral St. Jean. Ponts et Passerelles restaurant for a disappointing dinner with sweetbreads. Bed at 10:45PM.
FRI, 6/10: Hotel breakfast, drive to Parc Naturel Regional du Pilat for Rochetaillee, Secheras, and Cheminas, and south to Valence for Hotel Les Négiciants. Walk to park for view, then the Maison des Tetes and Cathedral St-Apollinaire. Pic*** $518 7-10:40, again one of the best ever. Bed 11:40PM.
SAT, 6/11: Hotel breakfast, trouble getting out of the parking lot, no ticket for the Autoroute, stops to pee and gas up, drop 796-mile car off at 1:54PM, taxi to New Hotel Bompard in Marseille for drinks and rest. Le Petit Nice*** $298, Ken angry at poor treatment when he chose to sit indoors, 7:32-10:44PM. Panting walk uphill to hotel at 11:05 to relax, and get to bed at 12:14AM.
SUN, 6/12: Ken breaks watch. Hotel breakfast, taxi to train station, arrive in Nice 1:34PM. Taxi to Hotel Grimaldi (off at BACK door). Punto Break lunch of half a ham-and-cheese. City Tour bus to Matisse Museum and Russian Cathedral. Hip sore. No local restaurant. Ham-and-cheese dinner, bed 11:07PM.
MON, 6/13: Great hotel breakfast. Train to Monaco at 11:15; Ken's wallet gone! Taxi to Hotel Ni, two rooms. Bus to Monte Carlo, lunch at Panorama Restaurant. Combined tickets to Aquarium and Palace. Ken finds our flights to Paris were TODAY! Frantic phones until I withdraw 300€ from HSBC and we leave for Alain Ducasse*** $441, 8-11:05PM. Still full when I bed at 12:07AM.
TUE, 6/14: Free breakfast, walk to Stamp Museum, back to hotel to check out by noon. Bus to Jardin Exotique and Archaeological Museum; fantastic bus ride down. Pizza lunch at Huit et Demi, taxi to Nice Airport for 90€ for easyJet flight to Paris 7:09-8:17PM. Taxi to Hotel Place des Vosges, late dinner at Le Préau to 11:13PM and early to bed, exhausted, at 11:42PM.
WED, 6/15: Hotel breakfast, Cluny 11:23AM-4:39PM, exhausting. Metro (slow) to Ledoyen*** $322, 8-10:54PM, I VERY uncomfortable; Metro back, bed at 12:35AM.
THU, 6/16: Hotel breakfast, car to CDG airport at 10:38. Fly Paris-EWR 2:38-10:06PM (7:28), and home by taxi and subway 11:59PM Paris time, bed 3:33AM Paris time, or 9:33PM NYC time.
FRANFOOD PHOTOS
WED, 6/1: #144 at 11:18 of a Sri Lankan exorcist, then a Mexican pantheon, then a Bolivian DEVIL at 11:31, and take a good shit after my constant farting through some of the exhibits. GREAT STUFF! Endless movies and shows and objects and displays and SOUNDS. Photo South African cave, Congo (5) masks, early 16th C. Benin ivory saltcellar, Yoruba hermaphrodite, Esu ritual (4) from Nigeria; Benin group from 16-17 C. Nigerian antelope horned mask; wall of Dogon masks. Toloy (3rd C. BCE) lived BEFORE Dogon. Sao figurine from Chad, 9-10 C. Jenné Jenno (Mali) to 2nd C. BC. 6 New Caledonia wood carvings; "The Prisoner" textile 5x8 feet, 1250-1500; Chimu, from North Peru. Diablado dance in Oruro, Bolivia. Devil and bear (lives in mountains and mediates between God and man). King Glele of Abomey, Benin, 1858-89, the 11th King of Abomey. To special-entry Dogon exhibit at 5:52! Pee and take photos of movie.
THU, 6/2: Lucknow special exhibit 12-12:55, some nice diamonds, old buildings in panoramic paintings and drawings, rather academic. Tired already. Maitreya Paradise 2nd C. Afghanistan; Song Buddha from 907; 15th C. Tibet dagger handle; Mahavajrabhairava from North China, 18th C., gold on black. #200 "Begram treasure," ivory, Afghanistan, 1st C. Hadda stupa from Tapa-Kalan, 4-5 C. Afghanistan. 4:10 to RC for Mehrgarh, Baluchistan, 7000BC, Mundigar, S. Afghanistan 4000-2500BC, Amri (2500-1900BC) then Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa. Nataraja, Tamil, 11th C.
FRI, 6/3: Beaubourg (12€) at 1:06, getting to top of escalator at 1:29, taking pictures, looking at so-so Morillet neon exhibit to 1:54, Pierre and Gilles at 2:33 in the Indian exhibit, and the tinny "Ali Baba" of pots. Hijras to 3PM. Out of India 3:06. Level 5 at 3:15, taking pictures of Atelier de Andre Breton; Matta (in response to Duchamp's sexual "Bride")(1945); Bacon from 1957, L-R: Dyer (lover), Bacon, Lucian Freud; Dado "Grand Farm," his suicided lover Requichot (1959) "Painting" in 3D, and 4:28 to 4th floor. Dubuffet (3D) (1970). Room: Agam (Elysée Palace room from 1974); Seed cathedral (British 2010 Shanghai Expo) (217,300 seeds); and WTC-tower try. Out at 5:10 to Brancusi 1 at 5:16.
MON, 6/6: Dijon Musée des Beaux-Arts 1:05, good pictures taken, shit at 2:18. Death mask of David, by his student Francois Rude, some relation of Sophia Rude, I bet. Antonin Merci: David, bronze in D'Orsay. Francois Rude: "Marius Mourning Carthage." Gerard Pascual: "Bicycle." Leave Museum 3:50, tickets to Tower 3:58. Ken leaves, I walk to St. Michel via exhibition hall "EFA" that used to be the Cathedral, taking a close-up of the nude over the former altar, then around the side to the entrance to the Rude Museum for an enormous replica of the statuary group on the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, with a rehearsal of Lilith going on in the pits, part of the Greco-Roman ruins.
FRI, 6/10: Le Bessat in Parc Naturel Regional du Pilat, beautiful Chateau Rochetaillee perched on a ridge overlooking two spectacular valleys, through Bourg Argental, south again at Andance, getting onto little road through Secheras and Cheminas, marvelous hilltop towns, taking photo of church in Cheminas, circled down to Tournon, around Gorge du Doux, south to Valence. Check back that I DID record kilometers after yesterday, so I don't need the fact that at 11:47AM we were at km 8279. Noted on #377 at 3:56PM that there are HIGH MOUNTAINS in the background---and in the room later Ken shows me that the "frozen wave" mountain that I managed to capture a shadow of in one later photo is actually Puy-de-Dôme!
WED, 6/15: Cluny: lots of photos: Notre Dame facade heads from 1220 discovered only recently in excavating for some office---unicorn tapestries and five senses: taste, sound, sight, smell, touch, and for the sixth: renouncing them all---at 1:20PM. 7th C. Visigoth crowd and cross. Go meticulously through, and at 2:50PM I have a disquietingly soft shit, after sailing through a few rooms on a wake of fart-scent. Photo Joyeuse: sword of Charlemagne, and a pottery piece actually labeled "Saint John in disco."