Here in the new 2C terminal of Charles deGaulle airport, nothing is open yet. I have followed all of the rules in getting to the airport well in advance of departure time, and have learned intra-Europe flights have different rules and standards. In other words, I was through security in Rome in 14 minutes and through security in Paris in 8 minutes (not including the getting lost time of 20, since there are four 2 terminals - A,B,C,D).
The airport is really quiet this morning and I need a cup of coffee like the espresso from La Romita. We loved that so much we broke their machine. Fortunately, they bought a new one right away. One shot of espresso topped with decaf coffee in an American-sized coffee cup: my drink of the day. I miss our group. We bonded over D’s COVID diagnosis, E’s terrible faceplant requiring stitches in a hospital outside of Perugia, 3-hour workshops and multiple one-on-one consultations, nightly rounds of the Scopa, and lots of wine from central Italy’s Umbria region. Then, the parties on our final two nights. Such joy, such laughter, such drinking.
I can’t believe I haven’t posted in nine days and tbh, will try to write everything on the plane. We’ll see how long the battery lasts. Last night, I emerged from the Hotel Midi Montparnasse in my mint silk handkerchief dress and turquoise jewelry knowing I wouldn’t be hiding under the radar. For one night, I was the star of my own adventure. I bought new Metro tickets and rode the purple #4 from Denfert-Rochereau to Vavin, just a five minute ride but one saving me steps in my too-tight sandals. Emerging on Boulevard Montparnassee, I saw La Dome, La Coupole, and many other iconic restaurants. I had time before my 6:00 p.m. to visit the Notre Dame de Marche church across the street and as I went inside, I felt a strange rumbling. It was the RER Blue line. Every 6 minutes or so, the windows rattled and the floor shook. What a shame worshippers would be disrupted during the prayers and meditations. Many believers were inside when I walked into the nave, which had concrete pillars and looked nothing like the wonders of Italy. Still they had a wall of programs for infants, school-aged children, the 18-30 group and older adults. It felt welcoming.
Nothing could have prepared me for the welcoming from Bernard, the outside host at La Coupole. I’ve learned to make reservations, even if it’s only 2 hours before the time. I arrived 5 minutes early, and he asked me where I’d like to sit. I confirmed lots of smoking would occur outside, and told him “I trust you. Let’s go inside” He proceeded to seat me in the middle, near the famous sculpture by Louis Derbre so I could enjoy it and watching people as they entered the space. Incredibly beautiful columns of light emerald green marble had trompe l’oil paintings between the bottom and the capitals. Scenes of the roaring 20’s and outside landscapes decorated the ones near me. I could see the fresh seafood on ice in one corner, an Art Deco bar behind me, and the street side off to the side.
My waiter wore the coolest sun/reading glasses and greeted me in French. I said my usual apology for speaking only a little French, but he was cool. After discussing my love of seafood and the vin blancs on the menu, I asked him to select his favorite. A Sancerre appeared within minutes, with crusty white bread, a foil-wrapped tube, not rectangle, of fabulous butter from Normandie, and sparkling San Pellegrino.
I was worried about walking out in an hour as the servers walked at a leisurely pace, but my main course of Royal seafood on a bed of beer and wine-marinated sauerkraut arrived in a very hot plate. Skate, sea bass, salmon, and lobster arrived in a blazing-hot bowl. I took my time savoring every bite, starting with the baked salmon. A sip of water, a sip of wine, a bite of fish, and a long sigh. Thirty minutes of gustatory delight, and I was stuffed. I couldn’t believe how tender and flavorful the sauerkraut was, although the serving size must have been 2 cups. I love sauerkraut, but in a fancy restaurant? When I asked the waiter what kind of cabbage they used, he asked the chef and I received an explanation of the cooking method, not the cabbage. We had a good laugh over the typical language confusion and I learned my cabbage guess was correct: Savoy from Normandie. Lucky guess.
Side note: when you go downstairs to use/view the gorgeous restrooms, don’t turn right. That’s where the dance band gets dressed for their show. Nice looking men.
With 30 minutes to go for show time, I looked for a taxi, then decided to return to the Metro. I’d be able to walk by one of my favorite buildings in Paris: the Hotel DeVille. I’d have to hoof it for 3/4 of a mile, but I had on my trust Skechers GoWalk sandals, which did wreck the elegance of my outfit. So funny to be the most dressed-up person in the metro, but I had a show to get to.
Many of the stores along the Rue due Rivoli were covered in scaffolds. It looked like they were getting ready to change the signage for the Olympics. The color scheme, when applied to my Hotel De Ville, made the building look a bit too Disney for me. I wondered if there was any collaboration with the Imagineers. There was a short line outside of 38Riv, a noted jazz club two stories below the street. I wound my way down to one of the caves where French Resistance fighters plotted to find an 8 X 8 stage. Tiny seats only 18 inches off of the floor and a bar in the back made up the space. A true character introduced the show, making jokes in French about his bad English. I understood about 50% of what he said which is a 40% increase from a month ago. I sat near three Americans, two from Detroit and one from Cleveland. The Ohioan is a journalist for the Cleveland Times and he’s writing a book with his curated columns. Lucky guy, as he has to travel to complete the project.
The band? Five French millennials experimenting with two soprano saxophones, a flute, standing bass and too many drums kit. They were fine musicians, but with ambition comes dissonance and I had a hard time enjoying their set. Many of us were looking at our watches within 20 minutes. I give them credit, but their YouTube video suggested more traditional tunes. Only one had the swingy beat I prefer, and not a bit of funk in any of it. After, I talked for awhile with the guys, who followed me out and wanted to go have another drink. They were sweet, but my sauerkraut was started to create toxic gas and I knew I had to get walking. They said, “Thank you for your company,” and I thought to myself, I should move here. Here people gravitate toward me. It’s so cool.
Walking along the Right Bank of the Seine, I tried to get to the bridge that used to have locks on it. I wanted to get the perfect shot of Pont Neuf when the sun hit the buildings, but I kept stopping. The Conciergerie was too beautiful to omit from my pictures. I saw the Samurtaine store’s new facade and had to stop again. I powerwalked on my way to the jazz club and I powerwalked past several bridges. I knew the shot I wanted, but realized it would be full of people. The entire Pont Neuf was covered with bodies stretched out to enjoy the sunset behind the Eiffel Tower. I took a pic of them, took a shot at the Eiffel behind me, danced to the band on the bridge and thought, “Who’s got it better than me?”
15000 steps during my last day, which included a two-hour nap after wandering through the Montparnasse Cemetery. My knees ached, my head ached from too much wine, and as I drank an entire bottle of water and popped an Advil PM for my knees, I realized I had kept a similar pace as 40 years ago. I smiled and laughed and sent my family some pictures to make sure when I return home tomorrow, I’ll know this whole magical experience was real.
