Back in April of 2012, my wife and I went to Paris for the first time. I had dreamed of visiting France for decades, ever since I started learning French in middle school; I was hoping to put my rusty français to use after all these years. Liz was certainly eager to go back to Europe, but more so for the sightseeing and cuisine. While our time in The City of Lights was mostly magnifique, there were some memorable missteps.
We flew out on Easter and arrived the morning after, expecting to do the usual touristy stuff. However, the Monday after Easter is Orthodox Easter, and nearly the whole city was shut down for the holiday (any excuse for a day off in France). Museums were closed, churches were closed, most restaurants were closed -- we couldn't get a blasted street crepe. Plus it was rainy... it rained most of the time we were there, actually. Now, Paris is very pretty in the rain, but it gave the Mrs. a sour first impression.
Still, we ventured out when we could. After trying to visit a cathedral (closed) and a farmer’s market (closed), we toured the neighborhood around our hotel, trying three bakeries before finding an open one – a halal spot – and getting some tolerable pastries. We rested for a bit after that, then headed downtown for our first proper meal at Le Trumilou. We had fantastic escargot, as well as the best steak frites of our lives. We capped the evening off with a misty night-time boat ride down the Seine, passing Notre Dame, the Musee D’Orsay, and the Eiffel Tower just as it did its hourly lightshow (although we didn't get to see any legendary Seine catfish).
On our second day we went up to Montmartre, the highest hill in Paris. The gorgeous alabaster cathedral of Sacre Coeur sits atop it, and we toured its soaring, mosaiced interior. Once we stepped outside, we took in the amazing view overlooking the city. Caught up in the romance of the moment, I suggested that we walk down the middle of an empty cobblestone street, holding hands.
We took about two jaunty steps together before Liz fell and twisted her ankle.
I helped her up, immediately regretting my decision. I guided her over to the sidewalk, and we took our time easing downhill the rest of the way. We cut the rest of our sightseeing short and headed back to our hotel to rest. On the way, I ducked into a few pharmacies to get some help, to little avail. Most European pharmacies are these weird mash-ups of holistic “medicine" and infomercial cosmetics. I couldn’t find any of the usual pills on the shelves, so I went to the pharmacist:
Me (in my broken French): My woman has the pain in her foot. There is any doctor -- any medicine for the pain?
Pharmacist: Do you have a prescription?
Me: No... have you any Advil?
Pharmacist: Come again?
Me: Tylenol?
Pharmacist: I don't understand.
Me: Um... acetaminophen?
Pharmacist: Ah! Acétaminophène?
Me: Oui! You have this?
Pharmacist: No.
Me: OK... know you where I can find this?
Pharmacist: Yes. At a pharmacy.
Me: [slowing backing away] Oookaaay... thanks.
So we simply went back to our hotel, where I made a makeshift ice pack for Liz’s foot, my face hot with shame for ruining the trip. To her enduring credit, Liz was a total trooper; after a little R&R, she was back on her feet, and we ended up seeing (i.e. walking around) a lot of Paris, including a tour of the catacombs under the city, a trek around the Louvre, and a long hike down from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Is there any doubt why this woman is my hero? I would have booked a flight home if my contact got stuck up under my eyelid, and here she was hoofing it around the city with a half-broken foot.
Not only did we galavant around Paris, we took a train down to the Loire River Valley to tour a chateau. After a quick stop in Orlean, where I snapped some pics of Joan of Arc’s church, we arrived in the little town of Blois (BLWAH!). Our first stop was a charming little wine shop, where we tasted some of the local vin. We then ate lunch in this deserted square beside a lovely chateau. Across from the castle was this stately stone house -- there was a statue out front, but otherwise it was fairly normal-looking.
All of a sudden, these gongs started chiming, and faint groans and metallic grinding emanated from the house. We looked over and the windows and balconies folded open. From the openings, golden mechanical dragons emerged, craning their necks and intermittently roaring. For five minutes they did this, apparently just for us, because it drew NO CROWD AT ALL. Turns out the house was the home of Jean Houdin, a "watchmaker and conjurer" who inspired Houdini. So, that all tracks.
After touring the chateau, Liz wanted to try the local pharmacy to see if she could at least get her ankle wrapped. Despite my halting, jumbled French, the lady there was able to help Liz out a good bit-- we left with an Ace bandage and some weird salve that was probably made from salamander mucus and absinthe. We kept that tube of ointment for years; it never worked for anything, but it smelled pretty good ("my French perfume," Liz called it).
As we bounced around France enjoying its amazing sights and flavors, I continued to butcher their beautiful, nasally language. Here's how pretty much every exchange with a waiter went:
Me (Frenchin' it up): Good day. We will like the water of the tap to drink.
Waiter (in English): Let's just speak in English. It's easier that way.
Me (still in French): Sorry. I studied the French in high school many year ago. I know it's rust.
Waiter: It's OK. I like practicing my English anyway.
Me (head down, to myself): It is the crockery that interests me...
One time we were having this great lunch outside a café and the waiter brought us a cheese tray. We weren’t quite sure what we got, and neither of us like goat cheese, so I flagged down the waiter for some help.
Me: Where are these cheeses from?
Waiter: Zis one is from zee Pyrenees, near Spain... [draws a map on the cheese board]
Me: Oh, cool. And what animal is it from?
Waiter: It is from -- how you say? -- zee muzzair of zee lamb?
Me (thinking a moment): Ewe?
Waiter (eyes widening): QUOI?! You are calling me WHAT?
Me (flustered): No, no... in English, a female sheep is called a "ewe". E-W-E.
Waiter (taking a breath): Oh, ok... yes, merci. [Pointing to the next cheese] And zis one is from Bretagne, along zee coast...
I have to say, despite their reputation, I found the French to be very polite. I only had one genuinely rude encounter, and it was probably my fault. Before climbing the Eiffel Tower, Liz and I stopped at a little corner bakery. I went inside to check out the goods, gazing in awe at the display. The owner, a middle-aged woman, was just coming around the counter with a tray of pastries to refill the case. I was in her way, and because I was inspecting the offerings, I took a moment to step back.
Me (noticing her): Oh – pardon.
Baker (huffing): Oui! [yanks the display open, fills it, slams it shut]
Meanwhile, other people entered. They all greeted the woman upon entry, and she responded cheerily. Having decided what I wanted, I got in line behind them. When it was finally my turn, I spoke up.
Me: Bonjour. I would like--
Baker (to the person behind me): Bonjour! How can I help you?
Me: [looking back] Uhhh...
The woman waited on the person behind me, taking her time with the transaction. She waited on another person right when they walked in and said hello. Finally, no one else was in the store. I stepped forward; she continued to stare past me like I was not there.
Me: Bonjour. Could I have a chocolate croissant?
Baker: [briskly bagging the pastry] For here?
Me: Um... no, to go. [timidly handing her the money]
Baker: [shoving the bag toward me] Bon debarras!
I didn't need to know that expression to cop her drift. I was pretty thrown by the whole situation afterward, but eventually realized the issue. In France, it’s common courtesy to greet a shopkeeper when you enter their store so they can welcome you in; when I barged right in without acknowledging the baker, it was like I marched into her home and just started nosing around. Le shame on me, I suppose.
Despite these occasional mishaps, we had a fabulous time enjoying Paris that spring. We saw so many beautiful churches, ate several phenomenal meals, and even fit in a day at the incomparable Versailles. Still, there is so much we plan to go back and see when we return to Paris next summer… hopefully without making so many painful faux pas.