Return to Paris

Although we went to bed early, we’re all reluctant to get up when the alarm calls. Throwing on clothes, we stumble sleepy eyed into breakfast. It’s the usual offerings and the coffee is terrible, having sat on the burner all morning long.

It’s a chilly morning and we’re glad to reach the warmth of the station or “bahnhoff” after a long walk through Luzern. We’ll ride several trains today, first to Basel and then switch to a TGV high speed onto Paris.

Our ride to Basel is a comfortable one on the regional rail. Owen plays cars and does puzzles on the small table. In Basel we pick up some coffee and sandwiches with our remaining Francs, then board the train to Paris.

We’re disappointed to once again find a crowded, uncomfortable train. The seats in second class don’t recline and we’re in the section right before the bathroom or “WC,” which means that the automated doors on both ends of our small cabin are constantly opening and closing as people pass through. Owen naps, his feet in my lap, while I doze fitfully and George reads.

When we arrive, it takes a minute for us to get our bearings again with the metro. Owen loves riding the metro though and it’s much easier this time around now that we actually know what we are doing. Except for the whole several flights of stairs thing. That’s still as annoying as before.

At check in we discover that luck is on our side and instead of being assigned to a room on the 5th floor, we’re on the fourth floor. You’ll recall this is the same hotel we stayed in earlier with the narrow, curved stairs and no lift. It’s grueling hauling the bags up but out room is a bit nicer this time and Owen has his own bed instead of a crib.

We head out immediately to catch a few sites that we missed the first time around. Plaza de Concorde is the first stop, where the gold tipped monument marks the spot where the guillotine formerly resided during the revolution. This is actually a beautiful square with intricate street lamps and gardens on either end. It takes some persistence to cross several knots of traffic past the Plaza and on down Champs-Elyss avenue and the Arc de Triumph.

We snap several photos of that famous view down the avenue, bordered by trees with the Arc standing sentry at the end. George remarks that it must be an optical illusion that it seems so close because it takes another 20 minutes of brisk walking before we finally reach it.

This arc was built hundreds of years ago to memorialize France’s fallen soldiers, but today it has a more practical use and serves as the roundabout where all the major avenues of Paris converge. The scale of the Arc is impressive, especially given its age. We opt not to go under the monument, but instead journey on to the Eiffel Tower. The sky has been threatening rain all day and we don’t want to miss our last chance to ascend the tower.

We reach it by a back street and the view is lovely, prefaced by a grassy square with fountains and a series of marble balconies and stairs. There is a small rabble of street vendors hawking their tourist trinkets on these steps. They have them laying out on blankets or hanging on a big ring that they shake to attract attention to their wares. We’re there for only a few minutes when it seems someone has sounded the alarm. In a matter of seconds, the group has folded up their blankets and taken flight, with the police hot on their heels.

Down at the tower, we brave the line to ascend. After a 20 minute wait for tickets, we’re crammed like cattle into a car and hoisted up to the Eiffel’s 3rd level. Once out at the platform, you have to fight your way past the cold, wind and rude crowds to the rail for views of Paris unfolding below. George and I both agree we’re not particularly impressed and make it back down quickly. We decide to buy Owen a mini Eiffel tower, which he’s thrilled with and clutches all night.

On the way back to the metro we stop at our favorite crepe stand. We’ve been craving them since our first visit to Paris weeks ago. The guy at the counter thwarts our efforts and informs us that these confections are not served until after 7pm. We head back on the metro to Bastille and dinner instead.

The receptionist at the hotel has directed us to a neighborhood just a few blocks down from our lodging. We’re famished and hurry there directly, picking out a place that looks popular.

Like our previous dining experiences in Paris, the food ranges form mediocre to decent and the service form bad to worse. Our french onion soup is good, but a bit overdone. Owen spills George’s wine all over the table and we sop it up as best we can since the waitress seems unconcerned with cleaning it up. It’s more than an hour before our meals arrive. Owen, who had requested rice, has decided it is too bland to eat and has opted instead to help me eat my fettuccine alfredo with mushrooms. George has flank steak, potatoes and shallots in a reduction sauce. Since the meals were good, we decide to risk dessert but are once again disappointed. Owen dislikes his passion fruit gelato and I’m not enthusiastic about the Gran Marnier crepe George and I decide to share, which turns out to be nothing more than pancakes soggy with liquor.

Nearly two hours later than when we sat down, we’re ready to leave. In my haste to leave the table, I forget a rose George had bought me, one of the few bright spots of our meal and a memento of the last dinner of our trip. We’re back at our hotel, packed, showered and exhausted but reluctant to return home.

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