france, finally

Many moons ago I determined to write some posts about my trip to France. I considered blogging while I was in France, but I didn't always have access to the Internet, and let's face it: I was too busy doing interesting stuff to be wasting my time sitting at a computer and writing about it all. That said, I really didn't mean to wait four months to give this account, but . . . merde happens.

My reason for going to France was to attend the Twelfth International Enlightenment Congress: Knowledge, Techniques, and Culture in the 18th Century. But before you go running off to YouTube to search for something more entertaining, take heart in knowing that I am not going to be saying very much at all about the conference or about the 18th century. (This is mainly because I didn't spend much time doing anything conference related. I was in France, for goodness's sake!) Thus, rest assured that these next few posts will be largely unenlightened. I mean, enlightenment-free.

(If any of these pictures look too small, just click on them, and they should appear as larger versions in your web browser.)

I won't say much about my experience getting there, except to say that it takes a really long time to get from Dallas to Paris. And that I've become a big fan of the international terminal at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, where you can sip margaritas at a variety of bars and restaurants as you while away your 3+ hour layover.

I arrived in Paris the morning of July 7, and I spent the first day checking into my cosy hotel (it really was called the Hotel Cosy) and wandering about in search of sustenance. You need to realize that I don't speak a lick of French (well, maybe just a lick, and, after having been there for a week and a half, I think I speak maybe two licks now), and so getting myself some lunch proved absolutely futile. I would walk into an establishment and say something like "bluh blah bluh bluh bluh," and, surprisingly enough, this would not cause a plate of those yummy French vittles to appear before my famished self. I also learned (mainly through a series of quizzical looks, grimaces, and pointing at signs) that the French don't do lunch after 2:00 p.m.

So, I did the next best thing, and wandered off to the Cimetière du Père Lachaise. This is a great big cemetery where the remains of such luminaries as Edith Piaf, Molière, Gertrude Stein, Isadora Duncan, Georges Bizet, and Richard Wright are interred. The place makes for a lovely walk, and the weather was beautiful, so I spent a few hours paying my respects to some of the most important folks of the last few hundred years, and was generally thrilled to be standing before the grave site of, say, Oscar Wilde.

When I found myself before the headstone of Jim Morrison--one of the most visited sites in the cemetery--I was surprised to find that I had Jim all to myself; no one else was around. Shortly after this, some cemetery police people pulled up next to me and began to say things in urgent and loud tones. I finally came to understand that the cemetery was closed, and I would have to leave immediately. Good thing they found me, because as charmed as I was by the place, I wasn't prepared to spend the night there. (Not without a Ouija board and some warmer clothing, anyway.) Besides, I was getting really hungry at this point. So after a crypt keeper let me out through the side gates, I wandered off in search of food again.

I finally steeled myself, and walked into the Crêperie Bretonne on the Rue de Charonne. If you're ever in Paris, and you're in the mood for a tasty crêpe, this is a good choice. I recommend the buckwheat galette with ham and cheese. And be sure to try the cidre de Rance, a lovely dry cider that they serve in traditional Breton stoneware.

I should mention here that all those stories I'd heard about the French being rude and snooty proved to be untrue. I never once had a bad experience with anyone in Paris or elsewhere in France. The trick is to make an effort with the language. Even when whatever I tried to say sounded like I was about to spit a mouthful of oatmeal onto the floor, the people seemed pleased that I was taking a stab at speaking in French. And for the most part, I kept trying. In any case, at this crêperie, a young man walked in and blurted out "Can I get a crêpe to go?" My server, who had just recently demonstrated that she spoke perfect English when helping me decipher the menu, merely gave this guy quizzical looks and shrugs as if she couldn't understand a word he was saying. And I can't say I blamed her. The kid came across as insolent. The least you can do is learn how to say "Me wantee!" in French. On the other hand, maybe I just got better service because I was so much more attractive than the other guy.

I then wandered back to the Hotel Cosy (and got really lost trying to find it again) and spent a generally sleepless, jet-lagged night before rising early to catch an early train for Montpellier, the site of the conference.

Stay tuned.