2014 Calendars from Saint James Infirmary Books

From our Paris (Black and White) 2014 Calendar.

From our Paris 2014 wall calendar.

From our New Orleans' French Quarter 2014 calendar.

From our New Orleans Doors 2014 calendar

During the month of October, all of our calendars have a 30% discount.  Choose from our selection of New Orleans and Paris collections, and enter the code 2014CALENDAR at checkout.

My View of Edward Rutherfurd's Paris: The Novel

Paris: The Novel, by Edward Rutherfurd, is an 805 page historical epic that takes a great deal of time and attention to read.  It is not the length of the book that demands so much.  It is the structure of the book that sets the bar so high.

For those readers unfamiliar with Edward Rutherfurd and his epic novels, I will note a little bit about what makes a Rutherfurd novel unique.  Like a James Michener novel, these books are centered on one geographic location.  However, whereas Michener takes a larger view of a place like Spain (Iberia) or South Africa (The Covenant), Rutherfurd takes a smaller bit of real estate, such as England's New Forest region (The Forest) and England's Salisbury plain (Sarum).  Lately, he has been tackling individual cities: New York, London, and Dublin.  Like Michener, Rutherfurd follows a handful of families across many generations through the ebb and flow of real historical events.  All of this is true of Paris: The Novel.

Unlike some of his earlier works, Rutherfurd has chosen to take his stories out of chronological order, skipping back and forth from various time frames.  I felt this was done as a way to increase the suspense over some of the story lines.  I did not mind this, and even felt it might have been a benefit to the book.  It kept the story fresh, and I was happy not to be forced to read the older history before being allowed a peek at the era of the Belle Époque.  I've seen some complaints in other reviews regarding this jumbled ordering of the stories.  I did not mind at all.

I won't get into particulars as far as the families and their story lines are concerned.  Suffice to say, there are a number of families, representing various strata of society: aristocrats, laborers, professionals, and thieves.  Watching the families grow and evolve is part of the charm of an epic like this.  Discovering secrets and their long-reaching consequences is another.  It is a nice reminder to us that what we do today can have extreme consequences on our descendants, both good and bad.  One can also see how some family traits can finally be broken by the younger generations.

Atop Montmartre, the site of much of the action
in Rutherfurd's Paris: The Novel (photo
from RoomWithNoView)

The star of the book, of course, is that grand lady, Paris.  The City of Light.  No matter the subject matter of the time period, whether it be the uprising of the Paris Commune, or the French Revolution, or the golden age of the Sun King, or even the building of the Eiffel Tower, Rutherfurd keeps our eyes focused solely on that most magical of cities.  The reader is taken to the heights of Montmartre, to the bridges over the Seine, and into many famous landmarks that are stacked like chord wood within the boundaries of the city.  He also takes many opportunities to inform us about the history and culture of the city.  Most tour guides tell small stories to back up their recitation of the facts.  Rutherfurd takes the opposite approach, using his characters to back up his story by reciting many facts and anecdotes.  A few times this becomes tedious, seemingly too unreal and staged.  If I had not been such a fan of Paris, I would have found it a bit boring.  However, I love Paris, and I enjoyed all the little tour-guide moments.  No matter that I already knew much of what he was talking about beforehand.

At this point, you would have to guess that I loved the book.  That I couldn't put it down.  It was right up my alley.  It was everything I would want in a book.  And for the most part, you would have guessed right.  Except...

I was initially disappointed with the story lines.  I understand that a book of this size requires a slow approach, and that the author can take his time to build the atmosphere and complex story.  However, it was readily apparent that the book lacked a bit of that Paris pizzazz.  This is a city known for its party atmosphere.  It is exciting.  There is so much that can go on there.  Yet the stories were very low-keyed.  I enjoyed them, I had simply expected something more compelling to read.  A good deal of it turned into a soap opera, just detailing who was sleeping with whom, and who was mad at whom.  I admit that I grew dismayed near the middle of the book.  It seemed as if if Edward Rutherfurd had blown it.  He had the most beautiful and exciting city in the world to play with.  Shouldn't he have come up with something to match its energy and glamour?

Author Edward Rutherfurd

In fact, dialing down the story a notch,  the author allowed himself to build solid characters and situations so that when they all ran together near the last one hundred and fifty pages it finished with a bang.  The last time period he covers is that of the German occupation.  And this is where all the background story pays off.  We see how people with such rich family backgrounds reacted to the pressure-cooker that was Nazi-occupied Paris.  From that point on, the story no longer looked back.  It moved along like an old-fashioned noir thriller.  I was surprised at this turn and greatly enjoyed the change of pace.

Books like this do a great job of reminding us of the history that clings to a geographic location.  It also reminds us of the way sins cling to historical timelines, and how easily our mistakes can effect many generations.  But what it does most for me is reminding me that we are not alone in the place we call home.  So many others have come before us, and so many will come after us.  We have an appointed time while we are here to make a contribution to the small slice of the world in which we live.  When it is over, there is so much more that will continue to happen.  We are often too arrogant a people to understand this.

While I would recommend reading Paris: The Novel, I am well aware that it is not for everyone.  The story is long, and builds slowly.  However, if you commit to the time necessary to read it, you'll find the book ends quite satisfactorily.  You'll have learned much about Paris and the French people.  You also might find that you're curious about New York and London.  I haven't read those yet, but I am adding them to my list.

An Inside Look at Room With Paris View

Room With Paris View, our travel memoir released this spring by Saint James Infirmary Books, is more than just a memoir.  Like a tour guide's oeuvre, it is full of historical anecdotes, and like a travel guide, it offers up advice on cafés, museums, and the métro.  You can walk the streets of Paris with us, including those we never intended to walk.  As author Richard Bunning points out, "...the curious footfalls of the Reesers are a joy to follow, even when they are regularly lost. There are many confused steps, but none are wasted. You see, this really is a guide book for those who want good ideas, but certainly don't want guiding."

  And while we do wander many side streets of Paris (both intentionally and unintentionally), there are plenty of chances to see the main attractions.  The most iconic of these, of course, is the Eiffel Tower.

 Excerpt from Room With Paris View

A short walk along Avenue de Tourville brought us to the Place de l’École Militaire, which connected us to the Champ de Mars.  And that, readers, is possibly the best family park in the city.

The site of the amazing 1889 Exposition Universelle which featured the brand new Eiffel Tower, this field has been the central point of many French festivals and historic celebrations.  It is also the point from which the world’s first hydrogen-filled balloon was launched in 1783.

After a flurry of picture taking, we walked out onto the mall.  The park, with the Tower at the far end, was full of families who had come out to enjoy the warm, spring day.  Forget the fact that the Eiffel Tower is an overused iconic image for this tourist destination.  All I could see were Parisians out enjoying their local city park.  Couples were sitting in the grass, reading or just snuggling with each other.  Kids ran after soccer balls.  Little girls were climbing all over a playground set—a cheesy plastic and aluminum castle—off to one side.  Behind them boys played a pick-up game of basketball.  A white-haired grandfather let his grandson win on the outdoor ping-pong tables while a young girl in a sandbox, wearing a long black coat, fed the pigeons flocking around her.

I suddenly wished I were not a tourist.  I wanted to be a Parisian.  I wanted this to be my park too.  I didn’t want to be an outsider, disturbing their family time.  And yet it was an inescapable reality.  I still did not know the language enough to feel like I fit in.  Surrounded by these families, I could hear them chatting away, could hear the kids squeal with laughter, could hear the parents warn them not to run too far, all of it in a language I did not understand.  This single barrier kept me apart.  It kept me in an observation mode much like a time-traveler who can visit a point in the past but cannot interact with what he sees.

Jennifer fell right into her poet’s mode, dropping onto a bench under the box-topped London plane trees.  (Of course, in France, they do not call them London plane trees.  They call them platane a feuille d’erable: plane tree with maple leaf.)  As per our unspoken agreement, I wandered off with the camera, leaving her to her thoughts, ink, and paper.

And as I walked the Field of Mars, snapping shot after shot of children, old men, couples, and the massive tower, I eventually began to get it.  The Tower.  Eiffel’s Folly.  That great big monstrosity of steel that drove Maupassant crazy.  That simple pointy shape that is slapped on, printed on, engraved on and painted on every chintzy trinket sold in Paris clicked in my head.  I can’t really say why.  It just did.  And as I walked ever closer to it, and bent my head back to look up at it, it won me over again each step of the way.

I’ve stood at the base of the Sears Tower.  I’ve lain in the grass beneath the St. Louis Arch and gaped at that delicate miracle.  I’ve been knocked out by the art deco design of Rockefeller Center.  But nothing like the Eiffel Tower has ever hit me in this manner.  This massive, dark, raw and powerful colossus stands planted in the earth like some alien creature from a Jules Verne science fiction novel.  Yet at the same time, its intricate and graceful design adds intelligence and beauty to offset that initial brash impression.

Does everyone get that?  I don’t know.  Most tourists just posed for silly pictures from afar, with the man or woman in the frame holding up the tower in the palm of their hand or maybe pretending to push it over.  And that’s fine.  That’s part of its magic.  In addition to being powerful and beautiful it is also whimsical.  It seems to be everything to everyone: a universal appeal.

Towards the middle of the park, on the west side under the trees, I found a little carousel, a chevaux de Bois, which looks like it had been there since before the Eiffel Tower.  That’s not to say it was old and run-down.  This wooden gem is in great working order.  When I found it, it was full of children, ready to begin its spinning adventure.  The operator, an older gentleman with dark bushy eyebrows and matching mustache, was just making sure the kids were settled properly in their seats.  Once the kids were ready, he grabbed one of the horse's poles and began to push.  After achieving the desired speed, he slipped inside the circle of horses, and I saw that the machine was operated by hand-crank.  He began to crank away, his initial push making it much easier for the horses to reach a comfortable trot which then required little effort for the hand crank to maintain.

Jennifer finally put down her pen and we strolled up to the Tower, our heads tilted in order to view the top of that one-thousand-foot structure, which was the tallest man-made structure in the world from 1889 to 1930.  It’s pretty cool to realize this, since as a native Illinois kid, I was always entranced by the Sears Tower, which held its own world height record from 1973 to 1998.

And as we stood there near the base of this modern Wonder of the World, I couldn’t help but shake my head at the thought that this was really happening.  Here I was, just a kid from the fields of Illinois, standing in one of the grandest locations the world has ever known, where people come from every corner of the globe to stand and stare and become a part of something greater than the little worlds we inhabit during our daily isolation from the planet at large.

I don’t care if you aren’t interested in Paris, or France, or even Europe.  Sacrifice enough in life to save up some money and travel to a place that will mean as much to you.  Go stand on Golgotha, or look out over the Great Wall of China, or plant your feet in the middle of Red Square and marvel at St. Basil’s Cathedral.

For more information on the book, please visit the Saint James Infirmary Books website.

You can also order the book from Amazon (both print and Kindle editions are available).

My Re-View of The Last Blog (Tango) from Paris

It has been one year since we said goodbye to Paris.  For new readers of Room With No View, today's post is a look back at the last post from Paris.

  For those of you who follow my blog, you know how little I knew about France before I began this journey.  As we prepare to leave I can honestly say that we pulled off this trip with only the bare minimum of setbacks and the most spectacular time of our lives.  I would never have thought I would be standing outside the palace of Versailles just a few years ago.  It was very humbling to walk where Kings have walked.  In the United States we do not have this opportunity.  Our history only goes back so far.  Yet here, in Paris, the people are much more accustomed to being around history that reaches back to so many different centuries.

   For a brief time, the people of Paris allowed us to feel as if we actually lived here.  Instead of living out of a hotel, we lived among the local Parisians, shopping with them at the grocery store, and passing by them on the streets and in the stairway every day.  We know that we were really outsiders, but it did not always feel that way.  The French are a very kind people, and they are pleasant and easy to interact with.  During the American war of Independence, it was the French who came to our assistance.  I can understand this.  They seem so willing to help.  So willing to accept strangers into their midst.  There were a few times when this was not so: we had a few waiters who could be labeled as surly.  There were a few times when French tourists were not easy to get along with.  But if you've ever taken a vacation in New York City or Chicago, you know that this can happen.  And it happened far less than if we had been in those cities.  We have recently vacationed in both of those cities and I know of what I speak.

   Just at the far end of the Tuilleries Gardens, by the Place de la Concorde, there is a small candybar/drink stand with public toilettes that cost .50 euros to use.  I bought a Coke Zero and told the pony-tailed attendant--a funny guy who joked around with Jennifer--that I wanted to pay for the toilettes.  He charged me, made change from the cash I handed him, and then as Jennifer tried to get in line, he told her no, she needed to pay.  He did not realize I was paying for her.  When we finally cleared this up, he was so embarrassed that he had given her a hard time, he put one arm around her and apologized, then allowed her to use the reserved handicapped toilette.  He made a silly face by way of apologizing to me, and I told him not to worry, he was now her hero.  He shook his head, with an exaggerated frown and lift of his shoulders.  Shortly after that, the manager of a cafe had to apologize to Jennifer that it was taking so long to get her the coffee she had ordered.  He was short-handed, he explained, some of the help had not come in.  He made the coffee himself, with an exaggerated frown and slump to his bearing.  He had obviously been having a bad day.  Jennifer cheered him up with her encouragements in French.

   There is no denying that Paris has some of the most beautiful landmarks and works of art in all the world.  But I have to say that of everything I have seen, I was most impressed with the people who make Paris their home.  I could not miss the fact that everywhere we went, whether it was on the Champ de Mars, the Luxembourg Gardens, or at the Saint-Sulpice fountains, the people of Paris were always out enjoying their city.  As the couple in the photo to the left made their way through the Luxembourg Gardens, I could not help but watch them.  They were out for a simple Saturday morning stroll, in one of the most beautiful gardens in the world.  How many times had they done that?  Did they mind that I-- a tourist-- was invading their garden, taking pictures from a camera hanging from my neck?  (I only ever took pictures of people with my zoom lens from a distance, where it would only look as if I were snapping shots of the scenery, so as not to bother them.  However, as you can see in this shot, the old man looks like he is on to me.)

     It is a hard thing to say goodbye to this city.  We do not know if we will be back.  We can only hope.  But we will forever remember the warmth and welcome that we found here.  And we would encourage anyone who has the chance to come and see Paris.  It is more than the Eiffel Tower.  It is more than Notre Dame.  It is more than the City of Light.  It is a city you will never forget.

My View of Tour Saint-Jacques

Just across the Seine from Notre Dame Cathedral on the right bank is a lone tower-- Tour Saint-Jacques.  Standing 171 feet high, it is surrounded by far more popular sites: the Louvre, the Palais-Royal, Hotel de Ville, and of course Notre Dame.  For today's look at this spectacular Gothic tower, I'll take a break from writing and let the video camera do its work.

A Macabre View of Paris Part Four

 The paintings in Paris are not always of beautiful scenery with soft, impressionistic vistas.  This time around, we'll look at a few of the more macabre images you will find around the City of Light.
Right away, as you enter the Pantheon, you'll be treated to this larger than life mural of the patron Saint of Paris--Saint Denis.  As we've mentioned in earlier posts, after his martyrdom, he is said to have picked up his head and walked with it, preaching the gospel for ten miles before finally dying.
You can't keep a good man down.

 Okay, this takes some explaining.  These next two are from the Louvre, details from Mantegna's Pallas and the Vices (aka Minerva Expelling the Vices from the Garden of Virtues).
Here we see two figures helping a third, drunken figure.  Their Latin headbands are translated as (left to right) Ingratitude, Ignorance, Avarice/Greed.

 This detail from the same painting has some rather creepy little owl cupids who seem to be helping Athena, though it is hard to tell.  Are they instead, perhaps,the classic precursors to Batman and Hawkeye?

 I know we covered this guy before, but he offered a hand in order to demonstrate the more ghoulish images you'll find in Paris.  This detail, from Salvator Rosa's Heroic Battle.  A picture that seems to be an inspiration for Hammer Horror films.

This detail is from a mural on the walls of the Pantheon--Joseph Paul Blanc's The Vow of Clovis at the Battle of Tolbiac.










Finally, we get this great shot, which is not a a scene from the latest Scarlett Johansson tough girl action flick.  It is, in fact, from Jacques-Louis David's 1799 oil painting The Intervention of the Sabine Women, which is in fact a far more moving story than a Hollywood action movie would be.  The Romans, denied a chance to marry women from the Sabine tribe, attack the Sabines at a festival in order to steal away the women.  In order to prevent further bloodshed, the women intervene, offering themselves as a sort of living sacrifice.  Of interest here is the woman in yellow holding up her baby, which I imagine is her way of attempting to keep it out of the melee all around her.  Even more moving is the old woman, in the center, just beginning to bare her breast in a sacrificial gesture.  And of course, what parent cannot be moved by the little pile of babies endangered by the warring men as the women hover over them in an attempt to protect them?

A Macabre View of Paris Part Three

I can't help but take advantage of the cemeteries of Paris to add to our macabre collection of Paris sights.  To pass them up would just be wrong--dead wrong.

 We begin at Pere Lachaise, the most popular cemetery in Paris.  I couldn't help but feel deep empathy with this poor fellow, who has obviously been weeping for a great many years.  But seriously, I wonder who would commission such an image for their family crypt?  He might be meant to represent mourning, or something similar, but even without the stains, he mostly looks comical, or at least overly dramatic.

   You might think this was actually a picture taken at Disney World's Haunted Mansion, since he looks much like one of the singing heads from that spooktacular ride.  However, this gentleman sits atop a memorial at Montparnasse Cemetery, not far from the grave site of none other than Charles Baudelaire.

Back at Pere Lachaise, you can find this dramatic and bizarre memorial to the Czechoslovakian soldiers who died in WWI.  The odd image here, of course, is the dying soldier, being held by the mythical warrior and his lady, as they are watched by a figure that could be either Death or simply a refugee from the ghastliness of the Great War.  Considering the carnage this generation had to see and embrace, I think this memorial is a bit restrained.

  And speaking of the ghastliness of war, this memorial is not dedicated to any men who died on the field of battle.  It is, instead, a reminder of the extreme cruelty of which man is capable .  These figures represent those souls who suffered such cruelty at Buchenwald.  Despite the grotesque figures on display, I still think this image shows great restraint in light of the reality of what Buchenwald represents.

And lest we forget what is underneath such elaborate and artistic monuments, let's take advantage of our ability to see what was once buried in the Cemetery of the Innocents before it was emptied to make way for Les Halles, the great Paris Market, and is now piled up in the caverns of the Paris Catacombs.

As they say...Paris is for Lovers.

A Macabre View of Paris Part Two

When I think of the opera, I think of big Viking women singing like there’s no tomorrow.  And maybe a chorus made up of peasants, singing about their happy little lives—just before they storm the castle.  Basically, something dramatic is always going down.  So why shouldn't the décor at the Opera Garnier be just as dramatic?

We start with this happy looking fella, who I noticed staring down at me from the ceiling of the outdoor balcony overlooking Place de l'Opera.  Is he crying because spears are sticking out of his head?  Or is he just sad that no one notices him as they stand at the railing and watch all the brightly colored buses zoom by?  As drama masks go, this face, much like the face of a two-year-old who has been told no when he tries to stick his finger in the light socket, is pretty standard.  If I had spent more time searching I’m sure I would have found his counterpart—a happy face.

I’m pretty proud of this find.  It wasn't easy to see, being in a fairly darkened anteroom off the main staircase.  I've increased the light to it so you can see the wild bats and owls painted above the lights.  This is great detail.  Very imaginative.

This little dragon was slinking his way around the base of the main staircase.  He wasn’t easy to spot, since his color blended in with the stairs, and he was really, really still.  Why would a dragon be sneaking around the hems of all those overdressed opera socialites?

Every Opera needs a ghost.  And this one looks deliciously spooky.  Even better, she has a companion ghost.  What was so great about them was the fact that they were lit from below, surrounded mostly by the dark.

On the front corner of the Opera, you can see this fun-loving group.  The only thing better than an angel that destroys its foe?  One who takes the time to step on him after she’s done so.  Whoever this guy is, she is really infuriated with him.  I get the idea she’s about to use that stick to bash in his head.  She does not like the guy.  It’s a safe bet.

A bonus picture for today.  From the Musee D’Orsay, we see this depiction of hell in William Bouguereau's Dante and Virgil.  This demon is pleased to see Redhead tearing into his wrestling partner—with both his teeth and with his hand.  I was impressed that my fourteen-year-old son knew right away who these guys were.  Anybody else know?  I’ll give you a hint—just off to the side we can see Dante and Virgil observing the scene.

  Bouguereau painted this terrible scene in an effort to win the Prix de Rome from the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture, which he had failed to win the previous two years.  It was said Jacques-Louis David nearly attempted suicide after failing to win in three attempts.  Bouguereau's Dante and Virgil won him the prize.  (A feat even Degas and Manet never accomplished.)  You can see the full painting here, a site with the complete list of his paintings.  Despite this intense, violent scene, 29 years later, Bouguereau would give the world his most famous and more beautiful work: The Birth of Venus, which won the Grand Prix de Rome at the 1879 Paris Salon.  Botticelli's The Birth of Venus is by far the more famous, but I always liked Bouguereau's more.

  Amazingly, Bouguereau went from being one of the most popular artists of his time to near eradication from the world of art after Degas and many others singled him out and derided his work.  His staunch opposition to the Impressionists seems have been a major factor in this.  At one point, his name was not even listed in encyclopedias.  Oppose newly popular artists at your own risk!

A Macabre View of Paris Part One

Well, I've shown you so many beautiful things from our Paris adventure, I thought I would add a few of the more macabre, darker images I noticed while in the City of Light.  This more sinister side does not always mean there is less beauty here.  Often, this means just the opposite.  The artists rendered many powerful and bizarre images in quite beautiful ways.
This first batch if from Versailles, the apex of Beauty in that city.  Yet in all this beauty, there is often an odd little detail that makes you sort of wonder what was going on.

 This odd little scene is near the entrance to one of the main courtyards, over the gilded iron fence.  I don't know if this statue was in place at the time, but if there's a revolution fomenting in the streets, it is probably not the best thing to have your goddesses and Royalty depicted as sitting on the backs of the downtrodden.
  I could be wrong.

 I actually hurried over to this statue, which is quite large, overlooking the Water Parterre, because I thought it would be a touching scene of a father holding his infant.
  Is there anything touching about this father?  I'm thinking this child needs to be placed in Protective Services, sooner rather than later!

 I'm not always the best resource for the Greek Myths and Roman Myths, and German Myths, and Urban Myths.  So this might not be as odd as it looks, if you know the story.  Okay, I suppose this guy is really feeling guilty for having killed his lover in a hasty moment and decided to stick the sharp end of his sword into the breast pocket of his shirt for safe keeping.  Of course, being a warrior, and not a geek, he was not wearing his pocket protector, and so he has inadvertently stuck his sword into his breast.
  Anyone have any better ideas?

 This is just a great, decrepit scene from Marie Antoinette's play village.  I imagine this spiral staircase, made of wood with what was more than likely great skill hundreds of years ago, was something Marie was proud to show off to friends.  And so was everyone else, which is why they have trouble admitting the old staircase needs to be torn down and an escalator installed for all the lazy, huge American tourists who visit daily.

 In the Hall of Mirrors, this odd little scene was staring down over us from on high.  I'm pretty sure that's Boromir staring out from the top center, probably saying "One Does Not Simply Paint the Hall of Mirrors with Dutch Boy Flat Black."  (If you look close enough, you'll see this Boromir look-a-like is actually someone from Holland, according to the French inscription.)
  I really like the shades on either side of the lower painting.  They've got to be ghosts.  I'm gonna be disappointed if the chief curator of Versailles comes on this blog and leaves a snarky comment that they are not ghosts but simply faded images that have not yet been restored to their original color.

Here's my favorite guy at Versailles.  When you enter the War Room, from the diplomatic rooms, this guy is on your immediate left, just inches from you.  He's a startling sight to behold.  He is, in fact, a prisoner of war, who, along with his buddy on the other side, pull the chains that secure the great relief you see just behind him of King Louis the Some-Such (XIV, I'd guess, but I can't recall off hand and I'm too lazy to go look,) as he parades in the war room on his horse, gloating over his conquests and spoils.
  The prisoner's expression is priceless.

Before Paris (Part One)

   I was not always the type to be prepared.  I was never a Boy Scout.  I've been told I run on sensory reaction.  The big joke in our family is that I'm the Labrador Retriever type--look over!  Squirrel!  It's a fair assessment.  My attention span has always been lacking.  I don't mind the joke.  Besides, I love Labs, and think they are the only creature worthy of the moniker man's best friend.
   But as I've grown older (and let's face it, when you are just a year away from being eligible for grandparenthood it is safe to say I've grown older), I have learned to be prepared.  This might have come with age.  It might have come with raising 5 children.  At any rate, I have become more proficient at preparing for a great many things.  The most consuming preparations of the recent past have been centered around our imminent trip to Paris.  There are bigger things coming just weeks after this trip, but I'm not too involved in those planning sessions.  As I understand it, I will mainly be showing up to look distinguished or something close to it during said occasions.  I'll do my best.  But for now, I've been focusing on Paris.

This photo hung on our diningroom
wall for many years.  An early
inspiration for our trip to Paris.

   For those of you who do not know why I have chosen to take my wife to Paris, I offer a quick explanation.  My wife and I are writers.  We are huge fans of the Impressionist painters as well as many classical artists, and just about anything Paris is our idea of culture and beauty.  We are fortunate to live near the Paris of the States.  New Orleans is like home to us now, and we both love it a great deal.  But there is only one Paris, and we have both wanted to visit her at least once in our lives.
   I began planning this trip several years ago, as a bit of a surprise for my lovely bride.  She had heard me often tell her I planned to take her to the City of Lights, but I don't think she ever really thought it would happen.  Or maybe she thought it would happen when we were retired.  At any rate, she would always smile and say it was a nice thing to offer.  Sort of a 'humor the husband with the crazy scheme' kind of smile.  'Okay, that's sweet.  Now go play.'
   So the first real obstacle I had to overcome was figuring out just how one goes about traveling to Paris.  Sure, I knew it was airplanes now and not ocean steamers.  I'm a little old fashioned but I have heard about modern travel methods.  But what I wasn't sure of was where you stayed, what you did, what would happen when a plain old guy on the street like me took his not so plain wonderful wife to Paris.  I knew as much about Paris as the next guy who'd read Les Miserables, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and A Tale of Two Cities.  Well, maybe more, since I'd see that Jason Bourne movie half a dozen times as well.
   To be honest, telling someone that I was going to Paris was just about like telling them I was going to Mars.  It can be done.  But how?  Well, the simple thing to do is just ask NASA how; let them make all the arrangements.  Only in this case, NASA would not be your first choice.  You would want to ask a travel agent to set you on your course.
   If you know me at all you know I don't always do what looks like the logical thing.
   What seemed more logical to me was to teach myself how to get there.  And the best place to start was in choosing a place to stay.

The living area of our apartment
on the Left Bank in Paris. 

   And since a hotel was a logical choice, I ditched that idea pretty quickly and decided on renting an apartment.  That just sounded great.  What little I knew of Paris was enough to know I wanted to wake up, open the french doors (which I think they actually have--french doors aren't like french fries, which the French don't really have, from what I'm told), sit in the fresh air, and drink coffee as the city comes to life.  And since we were going for two weeks (this time frame was important, since it would be a trip of a lifetime, I didn't want to be rushed--more on that later) I also wanted to try and create just the slightest feeling that we were living there, no matter that it would only be for a matter of days, not years.
   Checking out a few magazine ads and online travel tips, I found an apartment broker who was more than happy to help out.  For those of you keeping score and looking for tips on how to get to Paris, I'll add that I arranged the apartment through vacationinparis.com.  Now, I needn't add a disclaimer saying I cannot ethically promote this company because I have not yet seen the apartment since you know I haven't seen the apartment yet and you are smart enough to realize that I cannot know if it was worth the price or if the service was reliable.  These are things I will be able to report after the trip.  But like I said, you understand that, so we'll go on.  So I felt pretty sure this was the way to go.  After researching the company and checking out their reputation, I felt it was a good idea.  Jennifer, a little skeptical, once I surprised her with the news of Paris, asked friends who live in France or visit there regularly if an apartment in the neighborhood I chose was a good idea.  I was relieved to hear overwhelmingly positive comments from those who are familiar with Paris.
   Not a bad start.  We had a place.
   I had rejected the idea of taking an established tour.  I wasn't about to spend our days with a group of strangers being led around by a pushy tour guide who did not care that I wanted to stay a little longer in the Louvre because I didn't think two minutes was enough time to glimpse the Mona Lisa.  But without that tour itenerary, I knew I was going to have to work pretty hard to make sure we did not waste what little time we had.
   I would have to become our own tour guide.
   (continued in the next post)