There and Back Again, Part 6

Saturday, October 28

Two of many, many booths touting chocolate

On our last full day in Paris, it being a weekend day, I had hoped that the workers would not show up next door, but they did. We were driven out of the apartment fairly early, and set out for the Metro, since the trip to the Porte de Versailles (where the event was taking place) was fairly direct, with only one change of trains.

When we arrived at the convention center where le Salon du Chocolat was being held, we encountered another monster line. And, again, standing about, my back started twingeing. The muscle is just at the pelvis and rather deep in the flesh.

Chocolate gown

The effect of the malady is like a low-level Charlie horse that knots up when standing up straight. So ambulation is possible, but it has to be hunched over, the epitome of old-person existence.

Edible clothing

I think that half of my irritation came from hobbling around like an old man and how people could care less. Couldn’t they see the look of discomfort on my face?

It’s another example of what my dad used to tell me about worrying what other people think: “You’re worried about how you look or act? Nobody pays that much attention to someone they don’t know. It doesn’t matter what they think because they probably don’t think anything at all.” Or something like that.

White chocolate orchids as garb

The convention hall was huge, and the salon spread over two floors, with hundreds of booths. There were two presentation stages upstairs (one for demonstrations and another for musicians and performers) and one downstairs (for lectures on chocolate).

I was a little disappointed that there weren’t more samples being given out, and the booths that did have samples had tiny, pea-sized chunks of chocolate to taste. Obviously, everyone wanted you to purchase their wares.

A dress that melts

One thing there wasn’t was a plethora of places to sit. Large platforms around the entertainment stage help perhaps 40 people. A few of the wiser participating booths had worked in chairs in their booth area, which always attracted attendees but rarely resulted in any sales.

We started out on the second floor of the event. Two of the things I wanted to check out were the chocolate sculptures and the fashion show, which touted dresses made with elements of chocolate.

Is that a chocolate bodice?

They had had a live fashion show the night before on opening night (the BBC even carried news of it), so the garments were now on mannequins. The news had said that there were problems with the stage lights melting the chocolate during the show, but whatever damage had been done was not evident.

Very big chocolate fox

I didn’t find a collection of chocolate sculptures, but there was one huge fox, perhaps five or six feet tall, that had been executed in chocolate, but if there was a competition on opening night, the competitors’ handiwork was nowhere in sight.

The other thing I wanted to check out was molded chocolates to buy (you know, little hearts, shoes, cars and every other object imaginable). There were perhaps a dozen or so booths that carried that sort of thing.

Most of these exhibitors were there to make network connections. At some booths (especially those from foreign countries like Japan and Brazil), it was obvious they were shunning the consumers and looking for that one broker or middle man who could make their chocolates famous.

The lecture room had places to sit! Cacao genetics.

After standing for so long, I simply had to find a place to sit. I took the escalator downstairs, where most of the foreign booths and raw-materials providers were situated. Then I found the lecture stage. Even though there was a lecture currently being presented, half of the chairs were empty.

I slipped into an available chair in the front row and proceeded to listen to a very interesting talk about the genetics of cacao, the biology of the bacteria naturally occurring on the cocoa bean and how this all affects the roasting process and the consistent taste of any given brand of chocolate.

About that time, Kittie showed up. While she missed most of the lecture, she did take advantage of the seating. It was early afternoon and she suggested we find food. This was not going to be easy within the confines of the salon.

Copper pots pepper the ceiling
of  the delightful Chez Clément

There were two places selling prêt-á-manger foods (sandwiches and such) but, again, no place to sit down. The few seats that were available at one spot were constantly full, with folks waiting to take them over the moment someone abandoned their table.

So, after some consideration, we decided that we should leave the exhibition (there was no re-entry) and look for real food somewhere nearby. And we found it. In spades. A bistro across from the convention center called Chez Clément.

The place was a delight to the eye. The general motif was copper pots, coursing across the ceiling, fashioned into the front door handles, augmented by cutlery fashioned into shelves and lighting fixtures. The look was definitely playfully French provincial, and the menu reflected that.

Checking out the menu

Our waiter seemed a graduate of a mime school; he said almost nothing while serving us, but was funny as hell, picking on Kittie the entire time. Of course, she loved the attention.

I’m unclear as to what I ate there, but I do remember that Kittie finally finished her gastronomic bucket list by having French onion soup. (You may recall, from earlier entries, that she had her foie gras and escargot earlier in the week).

Kittie got her onion soup.

After we ate, we headed back across the street to snag a taxi. The woman driving it knew a little English, and she was very nice. I had noticed her standing outside her taxi, vaping, when we came up. This seems to be the alternative for many previous smokers in Paris.

She got us to the apartment, right to the front door, and I didn’t have anything with which to tip her. Kittie was digging around for cash, but the taxi was blocking the street, so the driver acquiesed to the cars piling up behind her and left.

More copper pots continue the motif in the prep area

Once in the apartment, Kittie and David set back out to find a small carry-on that they could purchase, as they had packed in two tiny carry-on cases and had no place to stow their Parisian purchases on our return flight. They were back in a flash: David had found just what he was looking for in a shop next door. It was a nice, hard-shelled roll-around with a handle.

Also while packing, Kittie realized none of their luggage would accommodate the chocolate advent calendar that she had purchased that day. I offered to put it in my checked bag, then mail it to her when we got back.

Spoons as decor

Not long after, David held up a huge icing spatula he had purchased at the exhibition. It was about 18 inches long with handle.

“This kind of looks like a machete,” he said, holding it up. It really did. “I don’t think I should put this in my carry-on.” I heartily agreed, and it was added to my bag, along with Kittie’s calendar.

That final evening in Paris, we had one duty: to eat all the food that had accumulated in the refrigerator over the past week. And we did. The only item that was thrown out was the sautéed marigold greens.

We got everything packed and ready to go. The car to the airport was supposed to arrive at 6:20 the next morning, and it being a Sunday, we could not rely on the workers to wake us. With all the bags ready to go, David set his alarm for 6 a.m. All we would have to do is throw on our close, drop the keys on the counter and pull the door to as we left (it was self-locking).

That final night I slept relatively well, until something happened at 3 a.m. that no one was expecting. At least not us.

There and Back Again, Part 5

Friday, October 27

Seemed only to open at night

Friday morning, we got up with the construction and headed out to find a place that was serving breakfast. I really wanted to sit in a cafe, drink coffee and not worry about dishes. We walked down rue Beaubourg and found a corner bistro serving omelets and similar breakfast fare and we ordered ham and cheese omelets all around.

After eating and another cup of coffee, we headed out to find a taxi and headed to the Louvre. Things were really hopping there. We had our museum passes, so I expected to get in fairly quickly. But there was a security line, and the things they were checking were purses, backpacks and the like.

Kittie and David at the Louvre

Now, I knew that they would be stopping people carrying stuff, so I advised Kittie and David, and took my own advice, and we didn’t carry anything. But this did not matter, as those of us without any packages or parcels were required to stand in line with those folks who feel it necessary to carry their worldly possessions in a ruck sack when they travel.

I think they would do well to create two lines, one for those with bags and one for those without. The French, though, don’t seem really good at streamlining that kind of procedure, though they excel Americans in setting up and installing (instilling?) bureaucratic structure.

I had started out the day feeling good, but by the time I had stood in line, my hip was aching once more, but a good stride and the reasonably wide open spaces of the Louvre would work that off.

The graces or muses or something

This museum, too, had changed over the decade I had been absent. On top of that, they had several exhibits closed down, the most notable one being the Egyptian antiquities. I tried to get my bearings in the place, but it, too, was a labyrinth, and things didn’t flow from one to the next as I thought they would. I guess this is what happens when you adapt older buildings as museums rather than building them from the ground up, like Americans do.

Venus and Cupid

Today, we decided to kind of hang together but not expect everyone to stick together all the time. We had a general plan of attack, starting at the Roman antiquities and concentrating on sculpture.

The things we did not get to see that I would have liked: the Asian-Oceanic exhibit and the collection of Arab art and artifacts. Another closed-off area was the medieval art wing. All three of these are exceptional collections.

It's that satyr guy I can't remember

In fact, walk into any room or hall in the Louvre and you’ll see enough to fill an entire regular museum. And to think that a good portion of the Louvre’s collection is in storage.

After we cleared the Roman sculpture and finished the smaller Roman artifacts rooms, we headed over to see the most famous painting in the world: her; the L de V bee-atch, the MoLi, dog.

Emperor Claudius, my favorite

She is situated on her own wall in the center of a large hall. There are ropes blocking off access at about six feet from her, and she’s in a bulletproof glass case. There she sits, grinning smugly at all these idiots in front of her, pushing, jostling, craning their phones into the air to get a picture of this trollop. And she just smiles back, like she’s the only one who gets the joke.

Now my back was bothering me. I hobbled and bitched. Kittie and David tolerated it as gracefully as possible, but I could tell it was getting as tiresome for them as it was for me. So we wandered around and got lost once or twice, but we finally found the main area below the pyramid and headed to the eatery (a cafeteria/restaurant affair with a food court atmosphere).

There she is back there!

I remember ordering a hamburger (I stayed at our table to save our seats while Kittie and David stood in line; of course there was a line). What I got was a kind of bland pulled-beef sandwich in the most mediocre tradition of prêt-á-manger. I can’t recall what Kittie and David had, since all of it was just okay.

After lunch we were all refueled, slightly rested, and I suggested that we walk over to Notre Dame. My back was feeling much better, and it couldn’t be more than half a mile. That way, we could see the Seine. Of course, as usual, it was rush hour and the Quai du Louvre, which we walked down, was crowded with pedestrians.

Look at them look at her looking at them.

This trek was a good thing and a bad thing: a good thing because I found some refrigerator magnets that I had seen when we were driving past the day before in the taxi. The stall that was selling them was right on our route.

The woman from whom I purchased the magnets (two of them; one of Monet's Irises and one of Lautrec’s Chat Noir) didn’t say a word to me, but earnestly wrapped the magnets each in a little bubble-wrap bag inside a tiny white paper bag. She then handed me the items and a lovely smile broke across her face as our eyes finally met.

What would you keep in this box?

Taking the walk was a bad idea because it was not a half-mile, but a mile between these places of interest. Also, waiting for traffic lights is not unlike waiting in security lines, and my back was knotting up and I needed to relax. And I find just the potential of discomfort, the anticipation of it, is almost as debilitating as the actual condition.

It was around 4 p.m. when we got to Notre Dame. It was as crowded as any other popular landmark, and there was a long, long line to get in. Since the cathedral closes at 5 p.m., there was little point in standing on line. And even if we did get inside before closing, the sun would have gone down by that time, and the whole point of Notre Dame is the stunning stained-glass windows. Kittie and David saw the wisdom in this, and spent some time wandering around the exterior as I sat on a stanchion and stretched.

Notre Dame Cathedral.
The long lines are behind the doors.

After Kittie and David had seen what they wanted to see, we headed to the taxi stand, getting a most unpleasant driver. It was obvious he did not want the fare (he was playing solitaire on his iPad), and took us begrudgingly because it’s the law. Once we got to the Marais (our neighborhood), he took several wrong turns and ended up dropping us off like three blocks from the apartment.

So we walked up the street to our place, climbed the four flights of stairs to the apartment and I, at least, collapsed. But only for a time.

Selfies prove you were there.

I am finding that, in writing these missives, my memory dulls once we have returned to the apartment and trudged up the four flights. Then the shoes get kicked off and my thoughts turn to relaxation.

Cantina California was open

Such is the travesty of old age and infirmity. Where evenings were
once a time for partying and celebration, as I’ve aged, evenings have become the time when I unwind, relax, withdraw from the crazy and find my center. Perhaps this is why I can’t clearly remember what thing happened on which evening.

In any case, we headed out to dinner and ate at a place called Cantine California. David had poo-pooed it once earlier in the week when we walked past. In Paris, he thought, we should be eating French food. He would derisively point out every Starbucks and McDonald’s that we drove past in taxis.

The bar inside Cantina California

When we went out, I was looking for a certain restaurant, only to find out it was really more of a bar and smoking spot. This was true with the Royal Beaubourg and the Maryland (the name of the restaurant Kittie had spotted the previous day). I soon realized that a “tabac” sign on an establishment meant it was a bar that served food, and not a bistro, cafe or brasserie.

After once or twice around the block looking for something new, we stumbled upon Cantine California. I was just wanting to sit down and have a drink. I don’t know whether it was my whining or his spirit of adventure, but David decided to give it a try. I’m glad he did, because it actually became one of my favorite meals of the entire vacation.

My bacon-guacamole burger with fries. I'm sorry, but
the French do better American food than we do.

I ordered a bacon-guacamole burger. It was a gem of ground beef, like a juicy, tasty cabochon, on a brioche bun with lots of lettuce, tomato and sautéed onions. It was so juicy, and with the guacamole there was no need for condiments although, being an “American” restaurant, they did have ketchup on the tables.

Our server was new to the job, and she spoke a fair amount of English. She was kind of amused that people from California were coming to eat there. Her service was wonderful and attentive, and David flirted like hell with her, which she loved. I left her a €10 tip, even though the tip was included in the price.

After dinner and a drink, I was feeling much better. We got back to the apartment at a reasonable time, though, because the next morning was the raison d’être for the trip: le Salon du Chocolat.  It would be our last day in Paris.

There and Back Again, Part 4

Thursday, October 26

Interior of the d'Orsay Museum

We got up at a reasonable time on Thursday. With everyone's phones on different time zones, the clock didn't seem to have the importance it does in everyday life.

Now, there are a couple of downsides that I haven't mentioned yet: one, Kittie and I were catching a low-grade cold which reared its head around this time and, two, the apartment next door was being remodeled with a plethora of power tools, most of them being applied to the adjoining walls. This being so, we needed no alarms, as they started up at 9 a.m. sharp.

The station clock

The construction work next door went on all day, stopping around 5:30 each evening. Each of us was driven mad by the noise at least once during our stay.

So Kittie put together breakfast from the food they had brought back the night before. Afterwards, with the workers busy making noise next door, we headed off to find a taxi. We walked down rue Beaubourg toward the Pompidou and ran into "those women."

I had warned Kittie and David about them. They hang out in groups of three to six women. When Steve and I visited, they were handing out handwritten notes about being destitute and asking for money for their children, etc., etc.

Statue of Zeus

This time around, they had clipboards with a petition on it about blind and deaf people. They were merely asking for signatures. Knowing their scam, I was firm about not getting involved, but while I was fending off one, the others were cornering Kittie and David.

David, good soul that he is, had signed the petition before he realized what was happening, and when they asked for a donation, he asked if they could change €20. The woman simply took the bill and walked off. He did have the presence of mind to sign a phony name and e-mail address.

Pan pan pan

We caught a taxi nearby and headed to the d'Orsay. When we arrived there, another group of women with the same petitions were there. We were waiting to cross the street and they came up, starting to hassle us to sign the petitions. We were all firmly saying no, then one woman pushed Kittie just a bit too much. Kittie turned and barked, "NO!" at the woman, who got terribly offended by that. They did leave us alone, though.

Art Nouveau bedroom set.

This museum was originally a train station, one right in the heart of Paris. When new stations were built, the d'Orsay was eventually converted to a museum to house impressionist paintings. The overall form of the station has been preserved while providing large and compelling display spaces
in the building.

Lunch at the d'Orsay

Again, we decided to split up and meet later for lunch. My back was in pretty good shape, as there were no long lines for security and we had our museum passes, so I decided to walk to the top of the station and work my way down. I probably got through about half of the museum before lunch.

I got to see quite a bit, and there was a fair amount that I just passed by, having seen it before or being distracted by expanded exhibits and whole new collections since I had last been there. I did come away with the knowledge that I'm just not as in love with impressionism as I used to be. But the other 20th century forms on display were very intriguing.

The lunch room at the d'Orsay

The two areas of the museum that I found the most interesting were the Art Nouveau exhibits (with furniture, glass and ceramic creations), and an impressive collection of early 20th century sculpture. on the main level of the museum.

A painting

When lunchtime rolled around it was now Kittie who we couldn't find. After some confusion (because the museum really is a labyrinth), we all met up and had lunch in the museum restaurant.

Pewter bas relief

I had a French version of chicken pot pie, with puff pastry and a wonderful light sauce. Kittie had salmon, I believe. David, as is his habit, pointed to something on the menu and had that. I was glad that we didn't take a break and go out to find a café for lunch. It was pricey, yes, but a very nice experience and the perfect punctuation for the day.

Another painting

After our lovely lunch, I checked out the impressionist paintings, all of which have been moved to interior rooms to preserve them from the sunlight that streams into the station.

It was the shank of the afternoon, and my back was wearing out, so I went out to the courtyard to stretch and have a cigarette. After, I went back into the gift store and bought what I thought would be my refrigerator magnet for this trip (this is how I memorialize my vacations; the next day would prove me wrong and create another gift to bring home with me).

Small grotesque statues

We all met outside and got a taxi back home. In the rush hour, of course. Later that evening, Kittie and David went down to check out the Pompidou Center, which was open late on Thursday evenings. What they didn't explain was that the building was open until 11, but the museum closed at 9.

Meanwhile, I decided to get out and stretch the legs. I went up to the grocery store and picked up some snacks. The woman was very nice, even giving me a canvas tote bag free instead of charging me for a paper one (another souvenir).

We all collapsed around 11 o'clock. No need to set the alarm, as the workers would be back next door first thing in the morning.

David's Slideshow

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