Day 14 Giverny – A rose by an other name is still a rose. (Or Pigs with Lipstick are still .....)

Day 14 Tues. Oct. 28th 2008

Today was our last excursion day. It was down to 10 degree Celsius (50 degrees Fahrenheit), but it was sunny.


Okay cloudy. Errr, I mean raining, or rather all three, at the same time, and in sight of each other.








I’ve never seen such a busy sky – black clouds, God light, impressionistic spotting/dotting of light on fields, paths, estates, cow licks, and Châteaux.







It would have been the perfect day to go to Giverny (Home of Monet and his Water Lilies) if we had done so ONE WEEK before.





It was still gorgeous, but the first frost had taken his toll, squeezing off life to many leaves and flowers, leaving only a handful surviving on the water lily pads.





Leaves had fallen and cleaned out many a tree’s leaf bank, but some trees still had vivid vestiges of their previous splendor.





The skies were the saving grace today. The sun would shyly appear and slowly disappear making only a partial appearance from behind various shapes and colors of clouds.




The effect made pointillism a reality, with highlighting juxtaposed with deep darkness.


Like many days on this trip, there was an enthralling Kodak moment at every turn. Our Canon Digital Rebel XTI was gobbling up images and we simply turned, framed an area, and let him do his thing.

We have a number of lenses for this Canon, but if you are not a professional photographer and possibly no one except you will ever see the pics and appreciate the memories they bring, then most lenses lay, waiting their turn to be used (generally in the trunk of the car having a party with the other assorted camera goodies that I have purchased over time (tripods, cleaning fluid, microfiber cloths,) rarely see the light of day. If I ever implied that I am anything but a typical American when it comes to Tech toys, I have been misleading you.



We have every gadget that goes with any other gadget, but we have found the learning curve too steep to utilize many of them.



They all seem so enticing in the infomercials or on the tech sites or even in real life in the store.





Take my advice (although clearly I don’t follow it myself)
Don’t buy it if you aren’t going to use it.
The dilemma is - How do you know you won’t use it, unless you already have bought it and you carry it around just weighing you down or it sits in the trunk commiserating with all the other forgotten wonders?


I usually convince myself, that some unusual picture will come along and I won't have the proper equipment to catch it.




One test is, don’t buy it right away. Go on another trip without the enticing object, and if you say to yourself, Hell, I could really have used the phneuah. Then, before you go out the door on your next adventure, go and buy one.


Another good test concerns reading the brochure that comes with the phneuah. If it is longer than your microwave manual, or seems like instructions for an alien vessel, forget it. You will NOT use it.



How about taking up space with a GPS?

Giverny was easy to find using the GPS, but I still had to use some tricks that I had learned inductively to get it to go the way I would choose using a map. Now, the GPS, no matter how large the learning curve, is worth every minute of research and concentration.

Once you get used to using it, you have great difficulty without it.




Cell phones, similarly, have myriad function, but many of us digital immigrants are using only about 1/100 of its possible tools.

We don’t miss what we don’t know about or don’t use. When I first got my cell phone, I was going to use for disasters only. As we live in Minnesota, one can think of quite a list of situations where you might need it in an emergency, go off the road, run out of gas, car doesn’t start because you left your lights on, flat tire, a monster has jumped on the roof – there are many scenarios.

But after I got the phone and got the family plan with my daughter in California, it would be easier if the cell phone came as an implant, my arms would sure appreciate it.

(BTW, I have tried any number of blue tooth hands free apparati but they make an even tinnier sound than the stupid cell phone and I yell because I don’t think the poor person on the other end will be able to hear me – which exacerbates the problem of tinniness and distortion.)





Laptops with WIFI are a God send, but also a scourge on humanity, huwomanity, and hukidity.


Once you get hooked on Google, email, Word, and Picasa, then you can move on to Skype, forcing you to invest in better and better webcams, microphones, speakers, video cards, sound cards, a need for USB hubs (more than one) and surge protectors.


Eventually you have produced a machine that looks like a spider, with legs and arms protruding at multiple degrees from their tiny sources, crisscrossing your real desktop and causing you to trip when you get up.

Zach and Ange just shake their head at both the impossible configuration I have on my real desktop and the clutter I have accumulated on my computer desktop.

Messiness is a sign of genius, I always say.



I could have used that laptop today, if I could have plugged it into the car.

Actually, I bought one of the pheuahs (an adapter for the car that allows you to plug in 110 AC fun objects), but I don’t know where I put it (another problem with too many gadgets.)

We nearly had a Klohs encounter with a group of fiend teens that we could have avoided had we seen on a map where the entrance was to our next destination – an ancient château in Gisors (or as Ted called Gizzards.)

There was a road block to the normal entrance to the monument, so we parked in a secluded part of town that had an old moat now made of weeds and grass that circled the place coming in the back way.

When I was told to GO ASK, I had questioned a respectable French woman passing by our parking place. Oh sure, she said, you can get to the chateau that way. It’s the long way, but it’s open.

Well, I don’t know the last time SHE had gone back there if EVER. I think she was just talking through her pantalons. After about a 100 meters, we found ourselves venturing down a grassy knoll. Every time I hear the term grassy knoll, I think of the assassination of JFK. We were sufficiently into the forest when we heard voices from up on a hill near by. There were about five or six teenagers who were “hiding” there, or at least out of sight of parents and town-folks. Clearly they had their reasons for their clandestine behavior, as they were enjoying weed, whiskey, and whooing.







Kids are like animals. They either see you as the alpha wolf and are like cubs, fun loving and endearing...









or They smell fear.


I wasn’t afraid (yet) and was not going to be if I could help it. I engaged them in a little dialogue as to the whereabouts of the entrance to the château. One slowly raised his head and pointed at the stairs that led up to a prison-type barred gate. He said tentatively but loud enough to be heard. “You can get in up there.”



Ted climbed the stairs.





He tried the large gated door. “It’s locked, chained and bolted.” He puffed.



When Ted reached the bottom, it was decision time. We could return to the car and find another way in, but that would mean going past the smoky ones again or we could keep going on the grassy knoll/moat and hope that it got to the pubic, unlocked entrance. We chose the latter (not the ladder, if there had been a ladder that would have solved the problem.) On the far side of the moat, we ran into another kid, who was too clean cut looking to be part of “the Group” yonder.

Monsieur (always a good idea to err on the side of politeness and respect), L’entrée qui n’est pas fermée à clef, c’est par là?”
Oui, Madame pas loin, après la fête foraine.
Hmmmm. Was there a circus in town? That must have been why they had cordoned off the normal approach to the site.

We started to hear voices and music. We made it around far enough coming across a banger, you know, where you have a large mallet and try to hit a spot hard enough to have the weight bang at the top. I guess I was traumatized by the moat trip and saw this kid with the mallet before I understood what he was really about to do. But then we ran into rides, bumper cars, an arcade, and families. It was the fête foraine. We stood there long enough to get a couple of bumper car shots, one of which is like totally bizarre where the Canon performed some mystery feats I have never seen before.




The kids were all in their cars, but some of them were decapitated - as was they guy running the ride. There were heads of people in the picture, but they belonged to other folks. I didn’t even think that you could perform such flukes with digital, but here it is to show you.







Finally, we made it to the entrance and took two pictures. Strangely, what had been a nearly full battery all of a sudden registered “dead’. So, all that way for two lousy shots, I was unhappy.

Ted turned the camera off and we looked around. There were two separate monuments, neither of which we tried to enter as they both looked locked, bolted and chained.







The sun was either descending or was trapped behind clouds that came and went. We stood by the wall that we had looked up at on the moat walk.


Just then, some of the smoky kids came through the public entrance. I don’t think they were following us, nor had any mal-intent.

But I told Ted it was time to pull up stakes and split.









Ted insisted that he could squeeze some more pictures out of the Rebel and turned him back on. He took a picture.

It worked.

It still said the battery was gone, but if Ted turned it off immediately, waited a bit, and then flipped it on again, Rebel was good to go for “one more “ picture. Between us, we took eight or ten shots of the buildings, and a couple of the Smokies.



The view of the town from the Château was quite spectacular, with a nice perspective on the neighboring cathedral, Hôtel de Ville, parks, and in the distance, our parking place. With the camera zoomed in, I could see the Grey Ghost, sitting quietly until our return She had been such a good car, unless you feed her the wrong kind of “food”. But that wasn’t her fault. If they made the Citroen C3 diesel for purchase in the US, I would buy one - 50 plus miles to the gallon, turns on a dime, and has European suspension and braking.

L’Esprit Gris would have to go off with someone else in just a day or so. I really got attached to her. I wonder how she is doing – she really needed an oil change. I hope they did her that service.




We left Gisors, and traveled back cross country, watching the hunters and their dogs in farmers’ fields.






I can’t imagine that someone didn’t get shot when they hunted so close to civilization and the freeway.



We watched clouds that dropped rain on neighboring towns, but not on us. There were clear skies and dark clouds, there was rain, and a patch of fog. Just like the morning, the skies couldn’t make up their minds how to fool the weather forecasters. It was a sunny, raining, cloudy, misty, clear day and provided much fodder for the XTI. Just then I spotted the one and only event that had been missing.




...a rainbow.


The rainbow was full and dramatic. It was so vivid that I could actually see where it went into the ground.

I tried to convince Ted to take a detour and find the pot of gold there, but the sun was quickly setting, and the spot continually changed locations as we drove along.

The really uncanny thing is that the Rebel now showed having a full battery and had no trouble taking in all the sites, activities and weather phenomena for the rest of our way home. Makes you wanna go hmmmmmm.


Tomorrow we go home. Nothing more to tell. What a Great Trip! Loved every minute of it.
Maybe we could stay for another month in France?

You have a picture from this trip dedicated to you on Picassa. Look for the group with the first letter of your last name. OR better still look at all of them, they are meant to be funny.
I hope you like them. See you on my next French trip!

Day 13 Paris, ahhhhh, Paris

Day 13 Monday, Oct. 27th, 2008

Today, Ted and I communicated by ESP (again). He woke, rubbed his eyes and said, “Let’s go downtown Paris and eat in that alley.”

I knew what “alley” he was talking about.

It’s a few short steps from the Boulevard St. Michel fountain and stone skipping distance from the Seine.





It’s an area made up of a few “hidden” streets which are dotted with restaurants of many ethnicities. We’ve been to this area many times in the past, and it was exactly what I was going to offer as a destination today if Ted hadn’t said it first.

Some of my most vivid recollections of that area have taken place at the dinner hour or a little later, like just after sunset; The blues, pinks, and reds dancing on the buildings, the Seine, lights coming on and people moving in mysterious ways.

Once I encountered a man who chained himself up then took bets from the audience on how long it took for him to get out.


Another man lit a torch, and I was happy to see that he simply ate the fire not bathed himself in it.

There were Gypsy type women who danced to the sound of a flute. A man with a monkey, but not with an organ grinding machine; Non, an electronic keyboard took its place.

People always look and sound supernatural there or that seem they are from a different time or place on earth. They sometimes conjure up images of the 1500’s or a bizarre Minnesota State Fair.

We go to the Minnesota State Fair every year, as though a religious pilgrimage, and that’s how I feel about visiting this area of Paris. Every time we set foot in town; You have to go there.


This was going to be a somewhat new experience of visiting the city today.

We were NOT going to use the metro, bus system, RER, or taxi.

We were going to drive l’Esprit Gris and use Halette to get us around. I packed up the GPS, the books on Paris, the Canon Rebel XTI with an extra Compact Flash and battery and a mental agenda of what I had to see.

As it turns out, it was the identical agenda to Ted’s. I guess 40 years of marriage (with the same man) and 6 ½ years before that is enough time to form similar mental habits and desires. This makes life both enjoyable and a whole lot easier when everyone wants to do the same things and they don’t even have to mention what they are.

But before we could get to the weirdo Boule Miche quartier, we had to get downtown.

Halette directed us to the Place Charles DeGaulle de L’étoile. Twelve Avenues converge to form a star and in the middle is the Arch de Triomphe. You undoubtedly remember the Griswolds in European Vacation. They got on this giant round about and spent some time trying to get off. Well, this is that spot. And getting on and off is no joke.

But I must say again that things are different in France since the last time I drove there – not that’s not too terribly long ago. French drivers have changed and it was more evident than ever in our jaunt through Paris.







Driving in Paris is a harrowing experience. But even at this historic and dreaded point in Paris, where you normally take your life in your hands to make an entrance and then get off at your desired exit, people drove relatively sanely. I couldn’t believe it!





I am notorious for being an aggressive driver.

I can’t, however, hold a candle to my daughter Angela. Many times, you just close your eyes and pray a lot with her behind the wheel. In fact, our family has taken to calling a four lane exit in less than a quarter mile “an Angela.” We don’t limit the maneuvers to just that - any thing that requires a wing and a prayer or squealing on two wheels to accomplish your goal are all labeled “Angelas”.





Ange was so good at her craft, she was able to drive easily in Rome. Rome, mind you. Why? She scared the Roman drivers - and that is no small feat. The last time we were there, we just breezed through town, and they gave her plenty of berth.















This time getting around 6 avenues to the Champs Elysees, required no “Angelas” what-so-ever! It was miraculous, and totally unexpected. We were ready for a fight, and no one took us on!!! Wow. I am impressed.

We did go back around though, not just to see if we had just hit a lull in the traffic and it would return to business as usual (which it didn’t) but also to stop and take some pictures of one my favorite monuments in all of Paris – L’Arc de Triomphe.







It sets as a jewel in a donut hole, honoring the hated Napolean.


The French people’s feelings about this man represent some of the reasons that the French are often constipated looking or sounding.


They are upset, mostly with themselves.


For instance, the French are hell-bent on tradition, with insistence on adhering to the “right way” to dress, or eat, or sign your name. But, on the flip side, they are extremely creative people and respect that characteristic in others. How can you be the same and different at the same time? Good luck, Frenchies.

Here, too, with Napoleon, they demonstrate another contradiction. They constructed an immense monument to honor a man they hated so much they exiled - TWICE. You hate him, you love him, you hate him, you love him. The French had the same dilemma with the Tour Eiffel and I.M Pei’s plastic pyramid at the entrance of the Louvre. They hated them, they loved them, they hated them…. The Frenchman’s life must be filled with flower petal removals.


We had worked our way back for picture taking, and found a spot to park not far from the intersection. Ted stood in the middle of the busy avenue to get some interesting pictures of people and the Arc, while I stood mesmerized by the waltz of the dancing cars, coming on and twirling around and then finding their exit as though all choreographed from above.

Things must not always go so well there, because I snapped a picture of a Flic-mobile that was permanently stationed there, waiting for the next accident to happen.

Some of those accidents are caused by pedestrians. These idiots try to get to the Arc by crossing the street. There are no pedestrian crossing marked because it is against the law to use the street level. There are various pedestrian underground tunnels to get you there without being run over. But some people don’t know how to read (in any language) as instructions are written in about 20 languages at the tunnels entrances. These same idiots don’t understand the idea of following the crowd.
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The following is a wax parenthetical, and has some opinions that you may disagree with.
For those who might be offended, just look at the pictures until you get to the next black line.

When touring anywhere, two smart strategies that your parents may have discouraged are your best survival skills. Follow the crowd and blend in.



Don’t take this an affront, but Americans don’t always display the proper etiquette for all situations. In fact, Americans tend to be the most obvious in their lack of paying attention to what one “should do”. We have a tendency to be blasé, brash, or childish and frankly can be downright irreverent.

Many American travelers are “dismayed” at French behavior, saying things like “The French are rude, or the French don’t like Americans.” Why do Americans often come to this conclusion and speak disparagingly about it upon their return to Anoka, Minnesota, or Timbuktu, Missouri?



Why? Because French people don’t automatically smile at everyone and everything they encounter.

Their reaction to people and situations are not culturally similar to ours.

Everyone thinks that their way of doing things is the right one, and if “others” don’t do the same, some important synapses are not firing properly.






I used to give my students in class an analogy that seemed to make the French attitude about smiling understandable. It goes like this.


When you (an American) drive up to a stop light and have to sit there for the light to turn green, do you turn to drivers of cars around you (people you DON”T know) and give them a large plastic American smile?






Of course you don’t.




The other driver(s) would think you were weird, or mentally unfit to drive, or that next you would pull out your Saturday Night Special and blow them away.






Well, the French are always in their car (not really, It's a metaphor).
For the French, unless you know someone, it is inappropriate, and just plain weird to give a big smile to people you don’t know and could care less about. It’s simply NOT done.

Even if the French had similar upbringing to ours, have you ever tried this smiley thing in say the Bronx in New York, or a ghetto in Los Angeles.
What are you crazy?
Well, most Americans don’t venture out of Paris, and that one city serves as many people’s one and only encounter with French people.




In Paris, where most Americans travel – the Parisians are sick and tired of foreigners that either don’t know how to behave or have never studied anything before they stepped off the plane.






Many Americans don’t speak a word of French and are appalled when they find that many French don’t speak English either.

Keep in mind how you would feel if a bunch of Italians got off the bus at McDonalds and then yelled and screamed because 1) No one spoke Italian in Andover, Minnesota and 2) there was no wine or beer on Mac and Don's Rainbow Room's menu.

"What is the world coming to?" , they rant in Italian.
But no one would even understand what they are mad about, not that anyone could do anything about their complaints even if they understood them.


I’ve seen people who insist on calling their French tour guide Joe because they can’t pronounce Raoul.

Others, acting like children because someone served them a coke without ice cubes.

"Where is the Leaning Tower?" is an oft heard American tourist question in Paris.
"In Pisa, you idiot, in Italy, not in Paris, France."

Or the inane continuous problems concerning butter.
“What is wrong with these French, are they too cheap to put a little butter on the table for this bread?”

Perhaps you don’t know two important facts about butter in France;
1) It is unsalted (No, you are not eating a cheap butter substitute) and
2) Butter is for breakfast, NOT for lunch or dinner bread.





French bread is such finery that it is insulted by a lathering of butter. It’s delicate and pure taste would be overpowered by such an insulting attack of salt and fat.

Sometimes it really gets bad - with two remarks that make me want to hide.













1)Why can’t I pay in dollars? If they are good enough for Americans they should be good enough for you!

2) Or the one I really, really hate. “Hey, Frenchie, don’t look down your nose at me. If it wasn’t for us, Germans would be living here now.”



These statements and a hundred more that I have heard emitted by fellow patriots- my Fellow Americans, are appalling, embarrassing, and show a lack of culture and learning in general.

Now I will make a statement that will probably really offend you, but reflect on it because it makes perfect sense.

If, in fact, you want everything the same as at home, the language, the culture, and the comfort of “sameness” and or “ predictability”,

STAY HOME

Traveling, even in the US, requires a different mindset. To be a happy traveler, you have to relish in change, the unpredictable, flexibility, light footed-ness , and see obstacles as learnable moments.



You have to see “wrong turns’ as taking the scenic route and waiting in line as an extra opportunity to observe what’s going on around you.

You have to perceive of differences, not as something you abhor or want to change in others, but as ways that you might adjust to somewhat or even adopt in part as your own.

Travelling will not be changing everyone and everything else the “way it should be” à l’Américain, but should give you a chance to try new foods,















learn to drive a stick shift car, or learn that going topless on the beach does NOT require staring at boobs, or saying disparaging remarks in disgust.

From what I have observed on this time around, the initial shock of change will be less strident than before. I saw more overweight Frenchies than I have ever seen, and No, they weren’t all tourists.

I was greeted cordially and even with a small plastic American smile at restaurants, small shops, and even on the street.

Nearly every cassiere (cashier) greeted me with a “Bonjour, Madame” and a smile as well as with a parting “Bonne Journée” or “Bonne Soirée”!

This time it never failed. If I started each interaction with a pleasant “Bonjour, Madame (or Monsieur)" and then asked my question, I was regaled with a kind and detailed answer; help beyond what I expected and in many cases a smile.

This is different than interactions in previous years, and sadly I must admit, it is a welcome change. After all, I am American too, and feel more warm and cozy if people seem even artificially interested in my well-being.

But face it folks, this "have a nice day" is not real conversation, it is artifice. There is truly nothing genuine in me wanting someone I don’t know to have a nice day - unless you are from Minnesota, where we have had decades of "Minnesota Nice", and now genuinely believe that such expressions are what we really mean.

I have been treated extremely well most times I have visited France, but especially kindly this time. However, I came here (again) with skills, knowledge and manners. I didn’t make any ridiculous statements or demands that would ruffle the feathers of even the most understanding of Francophones.

Instead, with a couple of kitty looks and my best attempt at lighthearted joking,
• a manager of a McDonalds saved our day (and that night) with his cell phone and an insistence that he would not quit until we were taken care of.
• a French “voisine” (neighbor) who despite being scared out of her wits by an intruder into her home, took it upon herself to see to it that we were not left out in the cold, continued until we were safe, warm and settled.

There were still a number of Frenchies who took notice and complimented my language skills, and showed genuine interest in where we were from.

They often carefully alluded to the upcoming presidential election, and expressed their hope that we would elect someone who would return some discourse and friendship between our now seemingly estranged countries.






I heard none of the blame that the world economy was in the poubelle due to American greed, need for instant gratification, or conspicuous consumption, or that we should be aware of our needed leadership in the realm of global environmental issues.

We haven’t permanently lost a friend in the French. They are hurt, though, and leery of our quick and cruel temper, of our continuously changing allied status. Some Americans are still taking pot shots at the French, so they have a lot they try to ignore.



It’s hard not to ruminate when you have some time to sit and think- like I have had on this trip.

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When we found our way back to our car we made it just in time to jump in and escape ticketing by approaching meter maids. I thought we had found a legitimate place to park, but upon closer inspection, we were in a limited minute parking space on a one way, facing the WRONG way.









But half the cars around us were parked the same as we were. Rather than trying to explain, we just unscrewed ourselves from the tiny spot and nonchalantly drove away.







We didn’t get far. No. The meter-maids did not chase us, saying “Haut les mains” pulling out their billy clubs and hand shackles.



Instead we ran into an embouteillage – traffic jam. It was caused by a man who drove up to the middle of the road in a large truck and started to unload a vehicle with his attached crane.

There was no getting around this mess, and since double or even triple parking is commonplace in Paris, the long line that was forming in back of us, including the meter-maids now in their micro-mobile seems to tolerate the wait.

But after the man unloaded one set of equipment and then started loading up another set, the honking started. He looked like he was remorseful, as he gave us “Well, what do you want me to do, folks” look, but he still took his time in chaining on his load and then pulling in his crane in an “orderly fashion” following what must have been the proper protocol for such a maneuver.




It took about 10 minutes. In this respect, driving in Paris has not changed and I am surprised that some of the waiting drivers did not get out and start a "discussion" with the offending trucker. Ted would have joined in, at least he did with the honking. It’s good see Ted return to his blustery self from time to time.



As this day’s description has gotten a bit long, suffice it to say, that we did a whirlwind tour of the rest of Paris:


We noticed Notre Dame de Paris had long lines (longer than in the summer) ...





and a bird man who kissed the pigeons and pet their pin feathers attracked a lot of attention.













There were beggars that lined the entrances of the Cathedrale and were not escorted away by the church officials nor police – strange.







We did see some police on horseback that trotted through the square like they were in a parade.






Then we touched in the “Tour Eiffel” in Halette, and she guided us to some bizarre location that must have sold mini Tour Eiffel souvenirs or something, because the real thing was no where to be seen. We finally got to it by dead reckoning.



As it was now raining cats and dogs, (il pleut à verse or rather Il pleuvait à verse – imparfait ya know), neither of us got out of the car; just took cracks at photographing her magnificence on the run. There were stupid tourists in long lines waiting to go up, doused in rain, bumping each other in the head with umbrellas and looking silly in multicolored ponchos. I think I even saw a guy in a wet suit. You can see just about anything at the Tour Eiffel; it adds immensely to its reputation of being memorable.





The Tour is best appreciated at night, when it is not raining, or terrifically windy. You go up to the troisième étage and feel like you are in an airplane or hot air balloon floating over the monuments, people, and cars, far, far, far below. Or if you are rich, you have dinner on the deuxième étage (be sure to get reservations – ask Kelly and Nick) a romantic evening of gazing at each other’s eyes or out on the Parisian horizon.












We went back and got our car out of hawk at Notre Dame. There you can see just about anything, like this man taking a large series of pictures of his dog at famous sites.



We finally called it a day as it looked like an all day pour. We went to a Carrefour and bought a pre-made paella dinner, bread, (we already had a couple of varieties of cheese),some wine, and some crème caramel for dessert. It was all quite tasty and was enhanced by thunder and lightening (our family loves thunderstorms.)

Tomorrow will be our last day to be out and about in Good Old France. Boo hoo.
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