Paris - Montemartre

Hé, le miel, je suis sur le papier de toilette, pouvez-vous me jeter un rouleau?  Isn’t that pretty?  French is considered one of the romance languages, and it looks nice in print and sounds nice rolling off the tongue.  In English, the sentence above says, “Hey, honey, I’m out of toilet paper, can you throw me a roll?”  Dang, I feel unrefined just writing that.  The history of languages is long and involved and holds my interest for about as long as it takes to read a compound sentence, but French is a language that has endured through the millennia to the chagrin of many high school students who wish they had signed up for Spanish.  In the US, we give a lot of help to consumers by offering instructions in many languages on signage, food packaging, and product labels at the Home Depot.  The French haughtily withhold such assistance as I could attest while standing in the market aisle wondering if I was selecting goat cheese or spackling compound.  At least I can decipher labels on the wine bottles well enough.

Paris was settled about 300 BC by a Celtic tribe called the Parisii, and they began building at a major trade junction on the Isle de la Cite, a convenient point for crossing the Seine River.  I’ve taught a lot of history to my kids over the last few days; so forgive me when I say that a whole bunch of stuff happened in Paris over the last two-thousand years, and now it’s home to two-million people, the majority of them working in the commerce industry.  How’s that for an abridged version of Parisian history?  Paris is known as the City of Light due to its designation as a place of enlightenment in the 18th century and its adoption of street lighting in the late 19th century.  A lot of famous people were born in Paris including Voltaire, Marquis de Sade, Claude Monet, René LaCoste, Inspector Jacques Clouseau, and Pepe LePew.  In American schools, students are presented a romanticised view of the Lost Generation, a group of expatriate writers, including Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, who lived in Paris, drank a lot, and wrote about drinking a lot.

Rene LaCoste Rocking a Throwback Izod

Our status as American expatriates living in Paris expires in three more days, so we reviewed our list of must-do activities and decided that we would spend the afternoon exploring the area of Montmartre and then splurge on dinner at a traditional French restaurant recommended by our host, Franck.  The children spent the morning with their laptops while Deena and I walked to the nearby markets and purchased supplies for the day.  Living within walking distance of well-stocked grocery stores over the last few weeks has introduced us to a way of life that we’ve come to enjoy very much.  We have the option to decide what foods we would like to eat during the next day or so, then enjoy a nice walk to pick out fresh breads, fruits, and vegetables along with meats and cheeses.  We’ve been eating simple meals prepared from quality ingredients, and I’m pleased with our overall diet.  Lest I sound too high and mighty with the superior diet, we’ve also been treating ourselves to the local pastries washed down with plenty of Coca-Cola, so in many ways we’re still rooted firmly in the States.

With a loose agenda for the afternoon, we boarded the metro bound for Montmarte, a famous neighborhood located on a 130 meter hill in the 18th arrondissement.  The area is known for its sweeping views of Paris, artists' community, restaurants, and our main target, the basilica of Sacre Coeur.  The sky was still cloudy, but thankfully the rain had moved on and visibility was promising.  The air felt cool and fresh as we walked from the metro to the base of the long stairway leading up to the pinnacle of Montmartre.  For the cost of a subway ticket, one can conquer the stairs by riding the funicular, the method of ascension Deena and I elected to employ considering my working man's knees.  Touting their superior physiques, the children decided to race us on foot and lorded their victory over us for several minutes while trying to disguise their need for extra oxygen.

The basilica of Sacre Coeur was constructed between 1875 and 1914 and sits at the highest point in the city of Paris.  The children enjoyed taking panoramic shots of the city, slightly disappointed that the Eiffel Tower wasn’t visible from this vantage point.  We took a leisurely stroll through the church and took notice of the fine art and stone work displayed there.  Located slightly downhill from Sacre Coeur is the artists' square surrounded by cafes and souvenir shops.  As we approached the square, I was thinking, “Cue the breezy accordion music,” and darned if someone didn’t start playing an accordion a few moments later.  I kept looking around expecting to see the ghost of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec prancing among the artists’ stalls as we matched steps with the rest of the tourists milling around the square.  Considering human genetics, the tourist gene is difficult to fight, and we had to resist mightily the urge to purchase watercolors and silhouettes. Joseph finally succumbed and bought a t-shirt.

Sacre Coeur - I like this one

The Kids at Sacre Coeur

With a dinner destination in mind, we took our time descending the hill and winding our way through the picturesque streets of Montmartre.  After walking a couple of miles, we arrived at Le Bouillon de Chartier, a restaurant established in 1896 and loved by locals and tourists alike.  It’s known for quality French cuisine at reasonable prices and ambience appreciated by foodies from all parts of the globe.  At 5:30 the big dinner crowd had yet to assemble; so we were seated right away by a friendly waiter wearing a crisp white shirt, black bow tie, and white apron.  It may have been the orange daypack, but somehow he knew we weren’t local and spoke to us in English and promised us guidance through the menu choices.  

The main dining room was airy with a twenty-foot ceiling and rich paneled walls darkened from many decades of varnish.  Pink and white cloths covered the tables which lined the rosy-veined brown marble wainscoting.  With our waiter’s help, we ordered three entrees including rib eye steak, roast chicken, and pork stew with a shrimp and avocado starter—a fabulous selection.  We shared everything, and there were plenty of pomme frites to go around. Our favorite item was the pork stew, simmered slowly with savory herbs, tender carrots, and buttery potatoes.  Dessert was 100-proof rum cake and a chocolate cake/ice cream/almond concoction that was so good I wanted to rub it all over me.  Our table was a six-seater and halfway through our meal, the waiter seated a very young couple, probably on their honeymoon, right beside us even though the restaurant was still sparsely populated.  We had already pilfered the extra napkins from the place settings and spilled wine on that section of the table, but hey, I guess that’s how they do things en Francais.  No big deal, we finished up, paid our bill, and walked out full of good French food and a fun memory.

Le Boullion Chartier

Le Food

Kids at the Metro

We walked along the large boulevard near our restaurant and did some window shopping. There was still a good bit of daylight left, but I sensed that everyone was getting weary of the surroundings.  I did what every red-blooded American Southern boy would do in that situation and said, “Hey, y’all wanna go see the Eiffel Tower?”  That question was met with wide eyes and eager smiles, and all of a sudden we had the spark we needed to finish the day Parisian style.

We have an appointment scheduled to ride up the Eiffel Tower on our last night, but the little preview we had from the Trocadero Plaza was enticing.  We took lots of goofy pictures along with the other tourists and I’m sure the social media channels were bulging from my kids’ postings.  The tower looked like it had been dipped in liquid plastic, and I determined that it must be maintained by a top-notch paint crew.  Fun fact:  since 1965 the Eiffel Tower has been painted with a custom color called Eiffel Tower Brown.  

What a fun day full of learning, culture, and food.  Deena and I fearfully went over the ledger when we got home ready for the guilt our fine living would bring.  To our surprise, even with the extra transportation expense and the dinner splurge, we hit our daily budget number right on the head.  Vive La France!

Paris - Orangerie, St. Chapelle, Notre Dame

Tuesday morning dawned slowly with grey skies full of heavy clouds that brought a drizzly mist to the city of Paris.  All along Rue de Madagascar, pedestrians were strolling quickly, wearing raincoats, and dodging umbrellas as they passed each other on narrow sidewalks.  I got up early and went through my coffee ritual:  two spoonfuls of instant coffee and two sugar cubes in a white cup on the counter, followed by boiling water from the hot pot, and finished with whole milk to the brim of the cup.  We had planned to see some major sites on this day, and we wanted to walk to all of them after the initial ride on the metro, but I was worried that the rain might hinder our goals.  Breakfast was a repeat of the day before, and we managed to get ourselves dressed and ready to go by 10:30, zipped up in raincoats and toting a backpack full of ham sandwiches and water bottles.

We found a metro station that was a little closer to home, and on the way, discovered another grocery store that was larger than the one we've been frequenting; so we purposed to stop there upon our return.  In less than half an hour, we were out of the metro and walking in the rain toward the Place de la Concorde to view the monument of Rameses the Great, a three-thousand-year-old obelisk originally standing at the front of Luxor Temple and gifted to the King of France by the King of Egypt in the late 1880s. (I pondered the fact that I’m lucky just to be gifted a new pack of boxer briefs on my birthday.)  The obelisk was located in the middle of a vast roundabout, and we had a bit of trouble negotiating traffic, but we prevailed and made our way to the Musee de l’Orangerie located in the park nearby.  More impressionist art was on our plate for the morning as we entered the museum housing Claude Monet’s Nympheas panels from the early 20th century.  A complete renovation of the building since the time Deena and I visited two decades ago made the place unrecognizable to me. I reminisced about almost being tackled during that visit by a security guard when a trance-like state generated by the beauty of the art compelled me to reach out and touch one of the paintings.  I am a textbook example of a rule-follower, and I don’t know what came over me back then, but hey, I’ve touched a Monet.

The primary exhibit which is located on the main floor of the museum, consists of eight panels spread out over two oval rooms, depicting a cycle of light from sunrise to sunset on the water and the lilies in Monet’s Giverny garden pond.  The panels measure six-feet-by-thirty-five-feet and are trimmed with thin gold frames which just barely contain the hymn of colors that Monet blended over a ten year period.  The artist gifted these paintings to France and the city of Paris as a respite from the horrors of World War 1—a gift well given and well received.  After reviewing a bit of history with the children, we went off in separate directions to view the panels as we each saw fit, eventually coming back together to sit on a bench in front of the panel we deemed most compelling.  Even though the paintings captured a moment in time and are fixed objects, sitting in front of one of these is like viewing the ocean from a balcony, or the mountains from a porch, or just watching people pass by a busy intersection.  The paintings draw attention to many different points, and the water seemed to move as light is reflected on the lilies. The effect produced a restful reverie that we were loathe to break.

Musee de l'Orangerie

There is a large bronze copy of The Kiss, a sculpture by Auguste Rodin, placed right by the exit of the Orangerie, and it depicts two characters from Dante’s Inferno naked and making out in front of God and everyone.  I appreciated the artistic talent on display, but not being a big fan of public displays of affection, I hustled my crew on down the promenade.

We began our long walk from the Place de la Concorde to the Isle de la Cite, a mile-and-a-half trek in the steady drizzle that continued to swirl in the air.  It was the kind of rain that tempts one not to bother with the hood attached to one’s slicker but produces a headful of soaking hair after a short period of walking.  There was no stopping my intrepid crew, and before long we were crossing Pont au Change on to the Isle de la Cite and headed to the French Gothic wonder of Sainte Chapelle, a 13th-century royal chapel containing some of the finest original stained glass in the world.  The security measures were hefty here, and I submitted to my usual frisking by a big French dude wearing a machine gun who stared at me unblinking during the whole uncomfortable ordeal.  The payoff was sitting in the chapel for the better part of an hour with my little family as we discussed history and how people made stained glass eight-hundred years ago.  The western wall is dominated by a rose window that shows the events of the Revelation, and the rest of the chapel is surrounded by fifteen soaring stained glass windows depicting over 1,100 scenes from the Bible, barely contained by leaden filigrees.  We learned how to read the panels, left to right, top to bottom and enjoyed locating the scenes showing the Passion of Christ, Cain and Abel, Noah’s Ark, and many others.  We weren’t aware that we had just made the cut off before the afternoon visitors' break, and at times we had the whole chapel almost to ourselves.   As we left the courtyard, we saw a large queue of people waiting to enter the chapel, and we were thankful for the timeliness of our visit.

Outside Sainte Chapelle

The Altar of Sainte Chapelle

After strolling another quarter mile or so with Joseph and Deveny leading, we turned a corner, and the kids stopped in their tracks and shouted a collective, “Whoa!”  We followed quickly behind and realized they had just caught their first head-on glimpse of the classic French Gothic European icon, Notre Dame.  A long time ago when Deena and I were young and fabulous, we picked a stone bench in front of the cathedral and ate our lunch, and now we sat with our children eating lunch in the same spot, as the gargoyles of Notre Dame repelled evil spirits from the Isle de la Cite as they have for nine-hundred years.  It took almost-two hundred years to build this cathedral—a fact which is hard to comprehend considering modern glass-and-steel skyscrapers can be constructed in a few years' time.  By this time of day, we were almost at history overload; so we reviewed basic facts about Notre Dame and then spent about an hour wandering the interior, photographing the rose windows, and finally sitting in the middle to just take it all in.  Joseph and I considered climbing the stairs to the tower balconies, but fatigue and the price of admission left us content to view the gargoyles from ground level.  Before leaving the area, we walked around the side of Notre Dame to view the flying buttresses, the graceful architectural elements that keep the whole building from collapsing on itself, and my favorite aspect of the cathedral.  How does one tap the well of fortitude and leave a place like Notre Dame?  Somehow we staunched the wounds of parting with an appreciation of the inspired work of those gone before us and the memory of beholding it together as a family.  Munching a freshly prepared banana and nutella crepe helped as we walked through the Latin Quarter and to the metro station for passage home.

Notre Dame

Supper was a chicken stir-fry with fresh broccoli, carrots, and peppers purchased at the grocery store we spotted earlier in the day.  We were slightly disappointed by their higher prices and the lack of a few necessities, but they had a pretty good selection of two-euro wine.  The Southern Cross Academy was in session after supper, and the kids got in a solid time on their laptops to supplement the education they received strolling the streets of Paris on a rainy day.

Paris - Musee d'Orsay and Trinity Church

Deena and I had a little more difficulty locating a place  in which to worship on Sunday, but we discovered a Missionary Alliance Church that listed a 3:30 PM English  service—perfect for travelers getting off to a late start.  We all got up slowly and took time to enjoy the comfort of our new accommodations, especially the glorious shower.  Our last hefty morning spread was in Ireland, so we went all out with scrambled eggs, crusty bread grilled in butter, and fresh strawberries bobbing in Yop, a delicious yogurt of medium viscosity.  I’m still suffering instant coffee, but I’ve learned to make it taste pretty good with the right strength, sugar level, and fresh milk.  The girls have become accustomed to their hot tea with milk and sugar, while Joseph still prefers his caffeine cold and fizzy.  After breakfast, we packed lunches and made plans for our first full day in Paris.

Getting to church was our main goal for the day, and the secondary goal was to visit the Musee D’Orsay located along the banks of the Seine.  This museum is well known for its beautiful architecture and collection of impressionist paintings, and on the first Sunday of the month, admission is FREE.  The Trinity Missionary Alliance Church was located a little over a mile from the museum, so with temperatures predicted for the low 70s, we thought walking to church later in the day after a museum visit would be refreshing.  

It’s been a long time since Deena and I have been in a place where English is not the primary language spoken, and I’ve forgotten the state of frustration and helplessness of being in that situation.  I agree with Steve Martin’s assessment of the French, and I’m almost 100 percent certain that they have a different word for everything.  By using my powers of inference and the remnants of French classes I endured in school, I have the ability to boldly lead my family into open sewers rather than metro stations or other important destinations.  Despite my limitations, we were still able to figure out the subway fairly quickly, and before long we were speeding toward the central area of Paris.  Looking around at our fellow passengers, I was distressed to see that wearing a sweater tied loosely about the shoulders is still a thing for men here, one of the great tragedies of fashion right up there with flip-flops.

Deena and I visited Paris for a week over twenty years ago, and I still remember the feelings of wonderment I experienced emerging from the subway for the first time and beholding the streets of Paris, and I was curious to see look on the faces of my children in the same situation.  As we walked up the stairs from the Concorde metro station, we could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the Jardin De Tuileries in front of us, and the distinctive buildings of urban Paris all around.  To my delight, both children were looking around with wide eyes and wide smiles—there’s no other city in the world like Paris, and it takes captives quickly.

We took our time and walked down the Rue De Rivoli, crossed the Seine on Pont Neuf, and made our way up to the plaza in front of the Musee d’Orsay, which is situated on the left bank of the river housed in a former rail station built at the turn of the twentieth century.  We had anticipated dealing with a lot of people since admission was free on this day, but the crowd was manageable and we gained entrance quickly and picked up a free map to help plot our course.  The artwork at the Orsay is displayed on separate floors. We were focused primarily on level five, which contains the work of the impressionists.  We also wanted to see the works by Van Gogh displayed on level two.  Before we left the US, a dear friend had described her enjoyment of the architectural beauty exhibited in the construction of the museum itself, and we were immediately enamored with it as well.  The ceiling soars and curves down into halls and rooms packed with objects that bring instant joy to the patron.  Standing behind the enormous clock face looking out over the Seine and the city was an extra treat that we all enjoyed.

We made our way up to level five and for the next two hours, we were lost in galleries with walls graced by some of the most beautiful, engaging paintings I have ever witnessed.  I won’t go on about everything we saw, but I will describe a few of my favorites at the risk of losing my macho tradesman persona.  About a quarter of the way through, I happened upon a corner wall that displayed three paintings by Claude Monet from his Cathedrale Rouen series.  In 1892, Monet rented studio space across the street from the cathedral in Rouen, Normandy, and during the next year, produced over thirty paintings based on the front of the cathedral each with a different light perspective.  The ones on the wall in front of me were stunning, and here’s the kicker:  right next to them on the adjacent wall, was Haystack at End of Summer, my favorite of the whole Haystack series which I have seen only in books until observing the texture of Monet’s brushstrokes today.  I don’t know if it was leftover weariness from travelling the day before, the fact that my children were viewing world-class art in Paris, or that I was standing in the presence of as much beauty that a human is capable of producing, or perhaps a combination of all that, but I lost my composure and stood there with tears running down my face unable to speak to my wife.  There, I said it - I’m four-thousand miles away, judge me if you will.  My children looked upon me with pity, then took off running toward the corner that made me cry—no doubt hoping for some revelation of their own.

Claude Monet is the mack-daddy of the impressionist movement, but there are others worthy of mention whose work was on display as well.  Matinee d’Automne by Camille Pissarro was the painting I chose to use for explaining impressionism to the kids.  The only hard lines in the painting are from the buildings in the rear. The light on the soft colors of the fields and flowers are painted from the perspective of a glimpse of beauty on an autumn morning. The combination suggests an escape from the harsh realities of daily life that are always in the background—perfect. Not a bad breakdown from a dude that paints houses, huh?

Matinee d’Automne

At one point in our visit, we came around a corner and Eduard Manet's Le Déjeuner sur l’herbs was there in all its glory.  That's the painting that shows a naked lady looking at the viewer while having a picnic with two well-dressed gentlemen as another lightly clad lass is bathing in a stream behind them.  Deena said that it reminded her of every nightmare she's ever had where she showed up naked to a well-populated event.

Auguste Renoir is a heavy hitter as well, and his 1875 portrait of his friend Claude Monet is a cool artistic association and one of the works I enjoyed most today.  The fact that the two were friends is obvious in the way the piece is painted, and Renoir worked in a few jabs at his buddy by painting the oleander leaves to suggest a wreath of laurels and painting his hat to resemble a halo.

Renoir's Portrait of Monet

By the time we made it down to the galleries housing the Van Gogh pieces the crowd had grown, but we were able to squeeze ourselves in and view the famous Self-Portrait, September 1889 and the compelling La Chambre a Coucher with its pairs of objects, striking color, and simple composition.

La Chambre a Coucher

Whew, what a time we had in the Musee d’Orsay —the kids got a massive art appreciation lesson, and we all enjoyed seeing the historic and definitive works of the impressionist movement.  After eating our lunch on the steps of the museum, we started the mile walk toward Trinity Church through the streets of Paris weaving in and out of neighborhoods and ducking under awnings periodically to escape some light rain showers.  After a few wrong turns, we eventually made our way to the arched doorway of the church and quickly found the sanctuary, which was small but a second story made it appear larger.  The room was painted a creamy off-white and trimmed with robin's-egg blue columns and wainscoting—it felt a bit like sitting in the middle of a wedding cake, or maybe I was just hungry.  

Once again, we stood out as visitors and Pastor Al introduced himself to us before the service began.  Al is an American whose long tenure in France has resulted in strong command of the language.  The congregation had representatives from many races and people were listening to translations from English to French through headsets.  The room was full by the time the service began. We sang many familiar hymns led by a worship team consisting of a drummer, two excellent guitar players, and a female singer who sang the verses in French and English.  Pastor Al preached a powerful sermon about the historical, cultural, and personal reliability of the Bible, and it was clear from his examples that truth transcends time and all human perspective.  After the service, we went to the fellowship room for coffee and excellent snacks, and it was the first time since we’ve been at church overseas that no one made an effort to talk to us.  This kind of situation is a big deal in the US where churches worry themselves into a frenzy that a visitor might be put-off by a perceived lack of outreach on a given Sunday—we were not.  I think the burden is primarily on the visitor to take the truth which he or she just heard from the pulpit and go do something with it, and so we shall.

 

Trinity Church

We walked to the closest metro station, took the train back to the Bercy neighborhood in the 12th arrondissement, walked a few blocks to 6 Rue De Madagascar, and called it a day.  We spent a good bit of time today walking streets lined with seven-story buildings capped with slate hip roofs, a design by which Paris is known.  We liked that look, and we’re anticipating more.  

Paris - Travel Day

Occasionally, I’ll have a dream in which there’s a place I’m trying to reach, and no matter how hard I try, I keep getting farther away from my destination.  I wake up exasperated and thankful it was just a dream.  We were living that dream yesterday as we used a full day and every form of transportation known to man in order to reach Paris.

The focus of the day was a forty-five minute flight from London Gatwick to Charles De Gaulle in Paris—forty-five minutes.  The day started with our last breakfast in the Stepney Green flat, and we did our best to use up all the food we had accumulated over the past two weeks.  Our flight was scheduled for 2:30 in the afternoon, so we took our time sweeping up, stacking towels and linens, and packing at a leisurely pace.  

If one pays to be a “premium boarder,” our designated airline, EasyJet, is lenient when it comes to carry-on baggage.  If one is a loser, “pauper boarder,” like the members of my family, one is limited to a single carry-on bag, and it better, by God, meet the measurement guidelines.  No extra backpack, no purse, no shopping bag.  EasyJet is a budget airline with tight schedules, and we’re aware of the guidelines, but we still had some packing problems to solve.  We’re each packing in a forty-liter bag that meets all carry-on restrictions, but we have a few extra items that require the use of a purse and a daypack.  So, how did we stick it to the man and fight the power, you’re wondering?  Raincoats.  Joseph and I brought our trusty, Troop 133 raincoats on this trip, and those suckers have some big pockets, which we filled with all of our travel-size liquids, nalgene water bottles, and our many medication vessels.  There were a few leftover items that wouldn’t fit anywhere; so I put them in a daypack, tightened it against my body, and covered it up with my bulging raincoat—take that EasyJet.

The flat was tidy, and we finished with our subversive packing by 10:30, thirty minutes ahead of schedule, so we sat for a bit reminiscing over our time in London.  We finally bid goodbye to our English home and took a relaxed walk to the underground where we discovered that the Stepney Green station was closed for engineering work and a large section of the District Line was shut down for the day.  Here we go...

We had to wait twenty minutes for the Replacement Bus, which we rode for fifteen minutes to the next open underground station, Tower Hill.  We took the subway to Victoria Station where we had to locate a machine that would grant us a refund on the leftover train fare on our Oyster transport cards which would then be used to pay for the Gatwick express train to the airport.  Flush with cash, we rushed to the line to buy train tickets where we waited in queue for thirty minutes—our time cushion for the airport was dwindling, and I was sweating in my overstuffed raincoat.  Tickets in hand, we ran to the platform and barely made the express train where an elderly gentleman wearing linen trousers and a classic blue blazer moved his luggage and made room for me to sit and patted me on the back once I did.  I wasn’t aware that angels wore blue blazers and penny loafers.  Once in the south terminal after a thirty minute ride to the airport, we discovered that our flight would be leaving from the north terminal. This correction required another train ride across the industrial landscape of London Gatwick.  We were finally where we needed to be with about an hour to spare—with the security protocol still looming.  

We made it through the line fairly quickly, and as usual, my whole family skated through the x-ray machines while the security corps mistook  me for Osama Bin Laden’s wayward brother.  I had to remove most of my clothing, empty my pockets, and take off my beloved knee brace. I proclaimed to the young security lady, “Okay, I think I’m empty now.”  She replied, “I like that in a man, now go hobble on through the machine.”  I was still trying to figure out what the heck she meant by that during my second trip through the x-ray when I was moved off to the side and felt up good by a burly bloke who meant business.  Geez, at least in the US they tell you ahead of time that you’re about to be violated.  Once it was determined that I was no longer a threat to national security, I was able to rejoin my family and run to the departure area thirty minutes before our flight only to discover there was no gate information yet.  Deena stayed with the luggage while I ran off with the kids to find food and beverages.  We wolfed down some chicken and stuffing sandwiches (also a thing here), watched the board until gate 101 popped up, and then we were off and running again.  Once at the gate, we were in queue waiting to have our boarding passes and passports checked again. We muttered under our collective breath as the premium boarders smugly walked past and entered the aircraft first carrying their stupid extra bags.  Well, the joke was on them as the rest of the riff-raff boarded, and the whole lot of us waited for an hour on the tarmac as take-off was delayed due to a direct command from Satan himself.  To top it off, the smarmy wench in front of me told me to stop knocking her chair when it was the kissy couple next to me that actually did the deed.  By the time the plane finally took off, we were exhausted and dehydrated, but that was offset by the pleasure we felt by getting away with our baggage scam—goodbye England.

Forty-five minutes later, yes forty-five minutes, we touched down in Paris and made it to our gate in about fifteen minutes.  Thirty minutes later with freshly stamped passports, we were in an Uber car on the way to our apartment in south Paris where the “modest” people live, according to our friendly driver who was enjoying practicing his English on us.  By “modest” he meant “poor.”  We arrived at 6 Rue De Madagascar where our host, Franck, was smiling and waving to us from the second-floor apartment window.  Franck met us at the front door and walked us upstairs where we got the grand tour of our glorious home for the next six days:   two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom that we have all to ourselves—hallelujah!

The kids got settled in while Deena and I walked to the nearby market to get something for dinner and stock up on provisions for the next couple of days.  Since France is the wine capital of the world, and good wine can be bought here inexpensively, we decided a bottle was in order after the travel day we had endured.  On top of the groceries, we splurged on a 2 euro bottle of merlot that turned out to be soft, jammy, and the perfect compliment to our pasta dinner.  At that price, we figured that we could have good wine in Paris at every meal...theoretically.

What a day, but we’re here in Paris, and our second-floor apartment is amazing with its two balconies and private amenities.  Tomorrow will bring a big day for the Southern Cross Academy, but tonight we’ll enjoy the deep sleep of the traveler with the reward of the destination firmly underfoot.

London - The City and the People

The city of London has been growing since the time of Roman occupation two thousand years ago, and it’s the world’s most visited city according to people who keep up with that sort of thing.  Those same smart people also state that 300 languages are spoken by the residents of modern-day London, and I think about 295 of them are spoken in the neighborhood in which my family temporarily resides.  I enjoy reading historical fiction, and one of my favorite books is London, by Edward Rutherfurd, a British-born master researcher and story teller.  I recommend this book highly to anyone interested in learning the history of this great city without falling asleep on the pages of a dry textbook.  Rutherfurd’s novel Sarum is another favorite of mine.  It explores the history and settlement of southern England around the Salisbury plain—also worth checking out.

Overall, with the exception of the soaring icons of British history, London architecture is low and chunky with buildings of varying heights placed together like Legos in the hands of a toddler—perhaps the zoning committees hold their meetings over multiple pints at the local pub.  One of the things I enjoy the most about visiting large cities is turning a corner while out walking and being presented with a street scene unlike anything with which I’m familiar, and one that is indicative of life in that particular part of the world.  London has a lot of those views, and the contrast of the old and new is striking.  One of the best examples I’ve seen in our time here was walking the Millennium Bridge and turning around to behold the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral looming over the buildings of modern commerce.  Colorful storefronts line the twisting streets of London, their signage offering everything from halal meats to diet cloudy lemonade—that’s a thing here.  I enjoy spotting the pub fronts adorned with black lacquered frames, gold lettered trim, and baskets of red and purple flowers—many establishments curiously named with couplets like The Pig and Whistle.  Some of these pubs have been around for centuries satisfying the thirst for cask ales and friendly conversation.   A stroll down any given avenue will also reveal a graceful stone church or hotel dropped in the middle of a long housing row.  A visit inside just about any building reveals the signs of age like undulating plaster ceilings or stress cracks in the masonry and corners full of random pipes and wires showing the effort to preserve an existing structure while cobbling the centuries together.

The streets around central London are litter free and pose no distraction from the iconic structures and attractions.  Venturing out in any direction from Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Trafalgar Square, things quickly get real.  Despite mini-billboards touting the benefits of using the bins, litter is prevalent, and the smells of the city become more concentrated into Eau d’London.  One can detect exhaust fumes, sulfur from the sewers, cigarette smoke (they smoke in public here, horrors), perfume, pastries, garlic, curry, and the heady tang of urine.  Homeless people, mostly men, sleep in doorways on mats made from cardboard boxes and newspaper, some sitting by their custom dwellings holding cans out for spare change.  I’m surprised at how many of them have dogs leashed to nearby poles and sewer grates in order to keep their only companions from running away.  I’ve dropped money in some of their cans, usually to get rid of the chump change in my pocket, not wanting to part with coins of greater worth, to my shame.  People are everywhere, moving at a great pace in all directions, and they are much more likely to openly curse you for being in the way than to offer a simple “excuse me.”. I’m generally in a state of cluelessness, and my tendency is to be nice to everyone, so I’ve been openly cursed numerous times mostly by people under twenty-five.  I’m not complaining, just bearing witness to life in an ancient city, home to eight million people, all made in the image of God, struggling to make their way in a world that pushes back—hard.

London has survived fires, plagues, and the Sex Pistols—the inhabitants are tough with national pride flowing hot in their veins.  After all that social upheaval and political strife, most still find time to chat politely over tea and biscuits.  The best place to view the many ethnic groups here in London is the tube.  The people living here are constantly on the move, and the underground rail lines are the main arteries from the city center to the outlying areas.  Muslim men in their ankle-length galabiyas and kufi caps sit next to young bankers dressed in slate-blue tailored suits with latte-brown leather shoes.  Most of the young men have beards or three days' worth of stubble on their chins, while the men over fifty tend to be clean shaven.  Social contradictions are prevalent as tattooed and pierced young people sit talking politics while matrons in print dresses tap their smart phones.  Through all this mish-mash of cultures, the crisp, refined sound of the British accent prevails after centuries of rulers, wars, and trends.  My little family sits there on the train trying to be inconspicuous with our matching orange daypacks.

Some of the world’s most famous and priceless treasures are kept in London, and the weight of the responsibility of keeping them safe must be burdensome, though tempered perhaps by a sense of duty to preserve them.  On our third and final visit to the British Museum, we saw a 500-year-old Samurai sword that was so shiny and bright, it looked as if it had been forged the day before.  Beside it in perfect condition was a complete set of armor in worn by a Samurai centuries ago.  The Room of Enlightenment was the last area we tackled in the museum, and we found ourselves lost in the world’s largest, most varied cabinet of curiosities.  King George III’s coin collection was in there along with his books on numismatics.  Ancient verdigris-stained Etruscan battle helmets and swords are stacked on shelves beside display boxes full of exotic extinct birds stuffed by a 19th century taxidermist; temple bricks from the fertile crescent proclaim the honor of ancient kings including Nebuchadnezzar; the list could continue for thousands of pages just from this one amazing room.

The treasures of London are not limited to coins and ancient statues—a visit to the British Library opened our eyes to the wealth of the literary world as one large room in this modern archive contains the stuff of legend.  In one corner, Mozart’s personal music diary sits beside handwritten pieces of music by Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, and the original Messiah by Handel.  In another corner, one of the few surviving Gutenberg Bibles is there along with many other rare, sacred texts.  One of only four surviving original copies of the Magna Carta begins a row containing letters from kings and queens and Florence Nightingale’s field notes.  The one-thousand-year-old pages from the ONLY Beowulf manuscript are in plain view in this room.  There are handwritten texts by Oscar Wilde, Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen, and Ian Fleming—it was a treat to read his musings on the city of Berlin through the eyes of James Bond.  There are original drawings by Leonardo DaVinci, including one that provides historical intrigue concerning his bitter rivalry with Michelangelo.  We walked open-mouthed from one unbelievable display to the next.  While I appreciated the significance of all the priceless pages in this room, my favorite items were the complete lyrics to "A Hard Day’s Night" written by John Lennon on the back of his son’s birthday card and the verses of "Michelle" scribbled by Paul McCartney on an envelope.  Did these two items change the world like some of the other rare pages in this room?  Does their significance pale beside a letter from Queen Elizabeth I?  That kind of debate holds no interest for me—I just like the fact that a moment of epiphany for a creative person seeking inspiration can must be contained by a napkin or the closest scrap of paper within arm’s reach before the moment vanishes.

Stepney Green Station

Over the past two weeks, our little slice of the Stepney Green borough became more familiar, and we found comfort there when returning to our flat at night after a long day spent in greater London or on longer field trips.  We’ve come a long way since our first night here, arriving in the dark to dirty streets, run-down buildings, and stares from locals who can spot newcomers a kilometer away.  Most of the buildings in our neighborhood are ugly, tenement-type structures, four stories high and shabby with age.  The alleys and walkways surrounding the buildings are overgrown with weeds and litter-strewn with paper and wine bottles.  There are no active homeowners' associations here to make sure that everyone collects the trash cans from the street in a timely manner and that all the front doors are painted the same shade of Charleston green.  I don’t think the door to our flat has been painted since 1965.  We felt afraid that first night, looking over our shoulders as I fumbled with the keys, and then slammed the door behind us to shut out the gangs that were surely there to rob us of our laptops and credit cards in their RFID blocking protectors.  Noise from cars and crowds of people comes in through our windows at all times of the day and night, but we’ve learned to sleep through the cacophony—even the most heated domestic disputes delivered in rapid fire Arabic.  Now we’re comfortable walking to the library or the market, and the twenty minute journey to the takeout fish-and-chip restaurant has become a much anticipated activity.  We’ve worked our way up to the “friendly wave” stage with the flat full of eastern Europeans next door who like to venture outside at 6:30 in the morning to start drinking and engaging in loud conversation.  One of them is a master guitarist, playing well into the night.  Another one is an aspiring artist, and we’ve enjoyed watching him paint a desert scene complete with a saguaro cactus on the door of the shed behind their flat.  The things that made us fearful that first night are just the normal machinations of an old east-end neighborhood, and we’ve just had to find our way into the workings of the gears.

Our Neighbors' Shed

Our Neighborhood

We spent our last afternoon in London visiting the Churchill War Rooms, Sir Winston’s underground hideout during World War II that looks pretty much the same as it did seventy years ago.  The admission was a little pricey, but we paid it knowing the history we would learn here was invaluable.  In 2005, Queen Elizabeth II dedicated The Winston Churchill Museum as part of the War Rooms, and it was extremely well curated.  Churchill was one of those larger-than-life characters who figured greatly in the history of England and the lives of her citizens.  Every aspect of his life was broken down into five chapters, and we spent just as much time in that section of the museum as we did in the War Rooms.  I was surprised to learn how many times Churchill went from being loved by the people to being despised by the people.  He was also an accomplished writer and painter, and my favorite part of the museum was a proposal for a contract from a publisher outlining specific details and a payment of 20,000 pounds for a new book.  I won’t go into detail on this, but check out the picture—he didn’t finish the book until the 1950’s.

Proposal to Winston Churchill

With an excellent audio guide for the War Rooms, we spent an hour roaming the tight underground quarters that housed Churchill, his cabinet, his wife, and his staff during long stretches of the war.  How they managed to run the war using their limited technology is a wonder.  Joseph and Deveny tried their hands at using an Imperial manual typewriter, and I now I wish I had taken a video to share the hilarity as mayhem ensued.  The Map Room is the high point of the exhibit; it doesn’t disappoint as it is shown exactly as it was when the last man out locked the door right after VJ day.  We backtracked to the cafe in the museum to get some cokes and eat our last packed lunch.  We ended up sitting next to an American couple visiting from Texas who just happened to know our senior pastor at church back home—go figure.  We enjoyed talking with them about England, homeschool, and places to which we had all traveled.  

After leaving the War Rooms, we walked a short distance to Parliament Square and sat for an hour in the grass feeding the pigeons and gazing upon the tower that houses Big Ben for the last time.  There were people everywhere laughing and taking pictures and enjoying the parts of England with which everyone is most familiar.  It’s easy to get caught up in all the glory of England especially when watching the last winds of summer snap the Union Jack crisply back and forth over the Houses of Parliament.  We saw most of the things in London that for good reason one is supposed to see, but with two full weeks we were able to dig a little deeper and live the English life for a bit.  We saw many treasures during our stay, but the memories we made in London with each other are the real treasures.  Now we’re excited about heading off to Paris

Sad to Leave our English Garden

Field Trip - Canterbury

Canterbury

“ And so they lived, till their lives' very end,

In perfect joy. And may Christ Jesus send

Us husbands meek and young and fresh abed,

And then the grace to outlive those we wed…”

So speaks the Wife of Bath as she wraps up her story in the midst of Geoffrey Chaucer’s 17,000 line opus, The Canterbury Tales.  Chaucer wrote his tales near the end of the 14th century, but they were not published until much later in the 15th century and circulated through hand written copies.  This classic literary staple of high school seniors across the fruited plain involves thirty characters competing for a free meal in a story telling contest against the backdrop of a pilgrimage to the shrine of martyred St. Thomas Becket in the Canterbury cathedral.  I have always had an appreciation for this vast work, but it didn’t come alive for me until our field trip to Canterbury near the southeast tip of England.  Our main priority for extra excursions in England was Stonehenge, and once we had accomplished this goal, we tightened up on the budget to see if we could pull off the Canterbury trip.  This town and its famous cathedral hold so much historical significance that we felt an obligation to share it with our children as part of their education on the road.  Plus, Deena and I wanted to see it again, this time with my heart disease hopefully in check.

Deena mentioned in her recent budget post that we have avoided touristy-type activities in which families typically engage while on vacation.  Not today.  Our first stop in Canterbury after a two hour bus ride from London on the National Express was The Canterbury Tales Experience, an interactive literary tourist attraction which would have been right at home on Main Street in Ye Olde Gatlinburg.  A docent clad in medieval costume, Charlotte the tavern wench in this case, set the scene for our group as we assumed the roles of pilgrims on our way to Canterbury Cathedral.  We were swept into Chaucer’s world as we progressed from room to room and were told abridged tales from the Knight, Miller, Wife of Bath, Nuns’ Priest and the Pardoner through the use of Disneyesque mannequins.  I would give the tour a solid PG-13 rating due to the bawdy nature of the Miller and the Wife of Bath, but the whole thing was highly entertaining, and we enjoyed it.  At the end of the tour, Charlotte returned to wrap things up with an excellent history lesson on the events surrounding the murder of Thomas Becket.  The Canterbury Tales Experience:  fun?  Check.  Cheesy?  Check.  Moderately expensive?  Check.  Taught the kids about the Canterbury Tales in a cool, memorable way without lectures from Mom and Dad?  Checka, Checka, Check.

Canterbury Cathedral

After our pilgrimage, the pull of the cathedral was too strong to resist, and we abandoned our attempt at window shopping and went to the gates straightaway.  We gladly plunked down some more pounds and gained entrance to the grounds of one of the world’s most picturesque and historic cathedrals and the mothership of the Church of England.  Sent to Britain by the Pope in 597, St. Augustine brought Christianity to the area, began work on the cathedral, and became the first archbishop of Canterbury—not a bad resumé.  The cathedral was constructed in different stages over the centuries, and by 1077 it was completed to the point visitors enjoy today.  Surviving the ages and towering against a watery blue sky, Canterbury cathedral was stunning.  Walking the 100 meters from the gates to the main doors, our children stopped every few feet to take pictures—we smiled and knew they were hooked.  We chose not to pay for an audio tour; so we picked up a map from a friendly volunteer and wandered to the points that interested us at a leisurely pace.  The interior of the cathedral was softly glowing with the warmth of incandescent lighting, and we walked carefully on stone pavers worn smooth and uneven through the centuries.  Deveny loved the beautiful stained glass and spent time in pursuit of the perfect photograph.  Joseph was interested in the construction of the cathedral especially the crypt ceiling with its loping curves.  We wondered how people a thousand years ago had the knowledge and fortitude to construct such a massive structure trimmed with perfect details. Thomas Becket was martyred on December 20, 1170, and we stood for a long time at the place of his murder and talked for a while about the events that led to his demise at the hands of four knights (I won't present that lesson here, but it's worth looking up).  

We stopped to rest on a bench near the middle of the cathedral, and I was a bit perplexed about not seeing Becket’s burial shrine after touring most of the building.  I flagged down a nearby docent and asked about the location of Becket’s tomb.  For the next thirty minutes, Sue, the amazing volunteer, gave us an enthusiastic, colorful history lesson while we sat entranced in the light coming through the stained glass.  She told us how the cathedral was the center of the community during the time of the medieval pilgrimages and how monks would guard Becket’s shrine until morning, then ring a bell to signal opening time.  While hopeful pilgrims had valuable objects affixed to the shrine by welders, a large market was bustling in the center of the building with drunken men cavorting by the rear doors.  Rip-off artists sold indulgences to pilgrims by the front doors, and townspeople used the main sections of the cathedral as a cut-through while conducting their daily business.  What a scene this must have been.  

Sue then told us that Henry VIII had Becket’s shrine and tomb dismantled during his dissolution of the Catholic Church and made off with twenty-six ox carts overflowing with the riches of the cathedral.  The large ruby welded to the shrine was removed and can be seen on Henry’s finger in the form of a ring in portraits.  All of Henry’s antics were carried out in order to obtain a divorce which the Pope had denied and to solidify what was considered his weak link to the throne of England.  Sue’s passionate recounting of this period of history had us spellbound, and I remarked that Henry VIII must have been a scoundrel of the highest order and fell neatly into her trap.  Sue turned to me with English pride shining in her eyes and said slyly, “Henry was a man of his time.  The people of England would expect nothing less from a man guarding his throne and furthering his line.”  Point taken.  Sue asked about our children, and we told her how we are homeschooling them as we travel.  She was pleased to hear about our homeschool and curious to know how that sort of arrangement is received in the US.  She was surprised to hear that home schooling is very popular in North Carolina.  “You would receive a hefty fine for attempting that in England,” she said, and added, “But I think it’s a load of rubbish!”  Sue turned her eyes away as she told us how she had lost one of her sons and that the other one is currently in the military serving in Afghanistan.  She told us to enjoy every moment we have with our children, and we thanked her for spending so much time with our family.

The Tiered Ceiling

Some old graffiti

Silhouettes with stained glass

We spent a little more time outside the cathedral wandering the grounds near the cloister and the loggia before ending our pilgrimage and returning to the town.  We enjoyed meandering through the streets, stopping occasionally for cold drinks, and I opted for an excellent americano at an Italian coffee roasting establishment.  Late in the day we stopped for a waffle covered in chocolate sauce and ice cream at a place called Kaspas, the “King of Desserts”—said so right on the sign.  We listened in as a tour guide explained to his group the technique of testing a lady with water to see if she was a witch.  Everyone knows that if she floats, she’s a witch, duh.  The old town of Canterbury with its trendy shops, eateries, and tattoo parlors borders on the classification of tourist trap, but it’s delightful, and the cathedral, cobbled streets, and five hundred year old buildings give it a pass in my book.  We had a great time here, and we talked about our experiences as we slowly walked back to the bus station.  Two and a half hours later we were back on the crowded streets of London satisfied with our Southern Cross Academy field trip to Canterbury.  We enjoyed another splurge by dining in the three hundred year old Shakespeare pub near Victoria Station then took the long tube ride back to Stepney Green.  Back at the flat, we broke out the ledgers and calculators, did some cipherin’ and determined that we had completed all the activities on our wish list and still managed to stay under budget.  It’s hard to believe that our time in England is drawing to a close, but we’ve got ramblin’ on our minds.

Cloistered Kids