There has been way too much written by others about the follies of coach-level
transcontinental travel so I won’t waste words describing how we were jammed
into tiny seats and deprived of sleep by a constantly-flickering television
monitor showing the “in-flight entertainment”.
I did manage a short nap and when I awoke I looked out the window to see that we were flying over land; in the darkness I could see organized patterns of light so we were probably aloft over Great Britain. Excitement began to build—soon we would arrive in Paris!
As we picked at the airline breakfast I thought about the pot of gold at the end of the morning’s particular rainbow—a corner café, a fresh omelet, bread and perfectly mixed café au lait. I knew the routine of arrival at Charles de Gaulle Airport; the last time I traveled to Paris our plane parked out in the far airfield and passengers were taken by bus to the terminal. It was kind of a pain because instead of using a jet way we had to lug our bags down a flight of stairs.
This trip was no different. As we hit ground, slowed and continued to taxi I knew that it would be the same arrival routine. But with every bit of hassle there’s an opportunity to have fun. I suggested to Michael that we channel our inner “Jackie-Oh” by giving a little wave as we come out. Of course instead of paparazzi we’d be waving to baggage handlers and mechanics.
I didn’t care, I was excited to be there and happily lugged my carry-ons down the stairway and onto the little bus so we could make our merry way to the terminal. Showing our passports at immigration was quick and before long I had exchanged enough cash to get on the Air France shuttle so we could make our way into the city.
The trip took longer than expected due to accidents on the freeways which tied up rush hour traffic. It usually takes 35 to 40 minutes; an hour later I saw parts of Paris that I’d never seen before and I wondered what Michael was thinking. Eventually we got to the Arc du Triomphe and then caught a taxi to our rental apartment.
We couldn’t officially take possession of the rental until noon but we were allowed to drop off our luggage if we agreed to leave so that the housekeeper could clean up from the previous renters. Even though Michael and I were tired we were also eager to walk around the neighborhood and find a café for breakfast.
Our apartment was located off the Champs de Mars and just a block or so away from the Rue Cler. Reports from my friend Kim were that this was one of the very best locations for foodies, especially on weekends when the market would be the busiest.
Kim’s information didn’t disappoint. The vegetable stands were vibrant with color; there were two Asian markets that offered a wide selection of Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai dishes for carry out. Flower markets displayed gorgeous blooms in buckets and specialty shops were ever-present. You could smell the cheese shop half a block before you saw it and nearby we found a shop that sells honey and products made with honey.
At the corner of the Rue Cler and Champs de Mars were a drugstore, a bakery and two cafes. The Café du Marche was open so we went inside. One of the things I’ve noticed on past trips is that the French are die-hards about dining outside at cafes. It can be a cat’s whisker above freezing with a cold, damp wind blowing from the direction of the North Sea and Parisians will still think twice before going inside for a table.
Such was the reason why the Café du Marche had a plastic wind blind up so that patrons could still eat outside on the sidewalk, kept warm with a butane heater. I gave the first of what would be several shrugs on this trip and led the way to a table near the wind blind. The waitress handed us menus then bustled back inside with some dirty dishes.
Michael and I were both single-minded about breakfast; we were hungry and there wasn’t enough coffee on the plane to make up for a crummy night flight with two hours’ sleep. My choice: omelette composé, which had mushrooms, cheese and tomato. It was served with a delicate salad of tender greens and, of course, bread. I sipped my café au lait and felt my head clear.
Life was good. I was there.
I did manage a short nap and when I awoke I looked out the window to see that we were flying over land; in the darkness I could see organized patterns of light so we were probably aloft over Great Britain. Excitement began to build—soon we would arrive in Paris!
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As we picked at the airline breakfast I thought about the pot of gold at the end of the morning’s particular rainbow—a corner café, a fresh omelet, bread and perfectly mixed café au lait. I knew the routine of arrival at Charles de Gaulle Airport; the last time I traveled to Paris our plane parked out in the far airfield and passengers were taken by bus to the terminal. It was kind of a pain because instead of using a jet way we had to lug our bags down a flight of stairs.
This trip was no different. As we hit ground, slowed and continued to taxi I knew that it would be the same arrival routine. But with every bit of hassle there’s an opportunity to have fun. I suggested to Michael that we channel our inner “Jackie-Oh” by giving a little wave as we come out. Of course instead of paparazzi we’d be waving to baggage handlers and mechanics.
I didn’t care, I was excited to be there and happily lugged my carry-ons down the stairway and onto the little bus so we could make our merry way to the terminal. Showing our passports at immigration was quick and before long I had exchanged enough cash to get on the Air France shuttle so we could make our way into the city.
The trip took longer than expected due to accidents on the freeways which tied up rush hour traffic. It usually takes 35 to 40 minutes; an hour later I saw parts of Paris that I’d never seen before and I wondered what Michael was thinking. Eventually we got to the Arc du Triomphe and then caught a taxi to our rental apartment.
We couldn’t officially take possession of the rental until noon but we were allowed to drop off our luggage if we agreed to leave so that the housekeeper could clean up from the previous renters. Even though Michael and I were tired we were also eager to walk around the neighborhood and find a café for breakfast.
Our apartment was located off the Champs de Mars and just a block or so away from the Rue Cler. Reports from my friend Kim were that this was one of the very best locations for foodies, especially on weekends when the market would be the busiest.
Kim’s information didn’t disappoint. The vegetable stands were vibrant with color; there were two Asian markets that offered a wide selection of Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai dishes for carry out. Flower markets displayed gorgeous blooms in buckets and specialty shops were ever-present. You could smell the cheese shop half a block before you saw it and nearby we found a shop that sells honey and products made with honey.
At the corner of the Rue Cler and Champs de Mars were a drugstore, a bakery and two cafes. The Café du Marche was open so we went inside. One of the things I’ve noticed on past trips is that the French are die-hards about dining outside at cafes. It can be a cat’s whisker above freezing with a cold, damp wind blowing from the direction of the North Sea and Parisians will still think twice before going inside for a table.
Such was the reason why the Café du Marche had a plastic wind blind up so that patrons could still eat outside on the sidewalk, kept warm with a butane heater. I gave the first of what would be several shrugs on this trip and led the way to a table near the wind blind. The waitress handed us menus then bustled back inside with some dirty dishes.
Michael and I were both single-minded about breakfast; we were hungry and there wasn’t enough coffee on the plane to make up for a crummy night flight with two hours’ sleep. My choice: omelette composé, which had mushrooms, cheese and tomato. It was served with a delicate salad of tender greens and, of course, bread. I sipped my café au lait and felt my head clear.
Life was good. I was there.