A bad omen this morning: As I tore open an English muffin—the authentic variety with no relation to Thomas—the muffin shredded into pieces. I don’t believe in omens, but the muffin shattered and that must represent something. Sure, people may say it’s only an English muffin, and remind me that I managed to toast and eat the broken muffin. To those people, I offer exhibit B: last night, while attempting to wash the fish caked dishes, I broke another large glass. First the glass, and then the English muffin, now do you see where I’m going with this?
My mind wanders because of a poor night’s sleep. I awakened at strange hours, and surrendered to wakefulness at four. Nerves hammered me down. I’m underway flying from Seattle for the first leg of the journey. (Why do journeys always have legs?) I’ll see Julie in a few hours, and then we’ll prepare for the haul to Paris. I feel ready after skimming through the Paris section in Rick Steven’s France guidebook.
Below this line, nothing waits. I feel stretched across time, pulled by distance and velocity. Nights when no thought slips my mind; days when my mind doesn’t recognize thought. I draw words to see their shapes. What good are the shapes of words? Silence reverberates off my skull and I will it gone, replaced by dreary shapes.
She glanced through the index of a Ziploc bag. She searched and located the airplane pretzels on her weight-watchers card. No go. I sat scribbling to scribble, but my brain has no cares.
Richard studied his name in print. As he stared, the words became garbled and strange, the dark ink of the letters running together. He felt joy in the meaningless symbols, lifted the newspaper to his nose, and smelled the printed ink. His fingers were black. The paper published his article, his first published article. During college, Richard dreamed of writing articles for newspaper. The paper, the Ostrich Daily, was no thte type of newspaper Richard envisioned.
So it goes, with words on paper to hurry the time. He hummed and sang off pitch without diffidence or thought for others.
Snow covered the mountains and filled the lakes. With a fork, he dug valleys, creased hills, and lifted mountains from the potatoes and gravy, dumping packets of sugar at the peeks. Stuffed beaks sang of whistled nights and putty clogged the night’s sky. Geometric farms fill the vista. I forget how large LA is until I fly over it.
We arrived in Paris a few hours ago. (You can stop worrying, mom.) The flight was the flight. It lasted ten hours, and we managed a few hours of sleep. The food was better than the flight to Taiwan, but it still it tasted of airplane food. They supplied us with earplugs and nighttime masks, the type you wear over your eyes to block out the light. I wore mine, and named myself Batman, except I couldn’t see, making me more similar to Daredevil. I fought a small sleep-related headache most of the flight.
After checking in to the hotel, we slept a few hours, which scared away most of the pain. We’re to meet Will, Cecilia, Erik, and Gloria in an hour for dinner, our first night in Paris.
The “phone that is smarter than me” works in Paris with, what I’m sure are, ridiculous roaming rates. Only call it if there’s an emergency. I bought a 60-minute hotel internet card for 18 euros (the bastards!), which should give me plenty of time to post my musings. I’m not sure about the photos—I’ll test the speed once we start photographing.
The weather is as promised: cold with snow lining some streets.
Good morning. It is 9:10pm Seattle time, and we’ve woken up, which is good because it’s also 6:10am in Paris. I’m not saying we pummeled jetlag; all I’m saying is that if we to kept score (and the one thing I do well is keep score), we are 1-0.
After a crucial nap yesterday, we met GWEC (Gloria, Will, Erik, and Gloria—and, yes, I wasted valuable brain heat on that acronym) for dinner. Will and Erik (along with Scott in Seattle) are my remnant friends from graduate school. We adhered to Rick Steve’s guidebook for our restaurant selection, and braved the cold, snowy night to walk from our hotel, which is near the Louvre and US Consulate, to the Eiffel tower neighborhood in Rive Droit. Okay, Rive Droit isn’t really a neighborhood but translates to the right side of the river (so useful having Julie around), which doesn’t give you much information because there are plenty of neighborhoods on that side of the river. I just wanted to show off my memory skills.
Many tourists read the same guidebook, and the first restaurant we visited turned us away. The second restaurant (Will and Cecilia, being consummate travelers, had a plan B), was a few blocks away, reasonably priced (especially the wine), and delicious. The highlight was my wonderful paté appetizer, served in a large white bowl with toast. It was different from other patés I ate, seeming fresher and more authentic. I guess what they say is true: everything tastes better in Paris. (Okay, I’ve never heard anyone say that, but it sounded good as I was writing it, like a cliché, a topic we spent much time discussing during our fun dinner talk.)
Wine filled our heads as we strolled back to the hotel with frozen ears and feet. They lit the Eiffel tower with sparkling, flashing lights, and a large spotlight turning parallel to the ground on its top. The rain and snow illuminated the path of the spotlight, which reminded me of the eye of Sauron from the Lord of the Rings movies.
Julie finished planning our day, and we plan to shower and start early. We’ll meet GWEC tonight for dinner and rehash our days.
Addendum: after Julie scheduled our day, she realized that few places open before 11am. We’ve made the executive decision (since what is a decision if not executive) to sleep a bit more. I know, it smells like a mistake, but we’re rebellious. Very rebellious.
After a walking day of sightseeing, we’re resting in our hotel room, our feet and legs throbbing. Dinner is in an hour if we can’t convince GWEC to postpone it. We’re exhausted. The jetlag battered Julie and me at different times during the day. By the end, neither of us had much left. We napped after I wrote this morning, leaving the hotel around 9am. Our first stop was the dreary Notre Dame cathedral. Its only redeeming feature was its dark architecture and musty smells.
Sleep smacked us upside the chin after I typed the first paragraph. Will telephoned at ten to six, twenty minutes after we were supposed to meet in the hotel lobby for dinner. We went to the quaint dinner place that didn’t have a table for us yesterday. We called for a reservation, but it was unnecessary, as we arrived early with plenty of open seats. GWEC enjoyed the food, while Julie and I thought it simple and salty. The owner cooked and waited all seven tables in the small restaurant, with only the help of a young woman, who arrived after we finished our first course. The food tasted of the French countryside, with simple ingredients and an easy cooking style. The restaurant catered to the many Americans who visited the restaurant; most arriving after “discovering” it in Mr. Steven’s guide. If I were Rick, I’d demand a bigger cut of the business he sends to these small places.
I’m writing this late. I have many notes from the day, but I’m tired and I’m not sure I’ll get through them all. We finished a wine nightcap at the fancy bar Room 126, also known as Erik and Gloria’s hotel room. It seems Julie and I received the small stick. Except for the double-high ceilings, our room is tiny compared to GWEC’s rooms. From what they tell us, however, it’s a nice change from the hotels they stayed when they visited London and Amsterdam. I don’t think I mentioned this, but we’re catching them on the tail end of their European vacation. With Julie having five days off from work and me having had enough of traveling to London while living in Houston, we decided to skip the beginning of their tour and meet them in Paris.
After leaving Notre Dame, we spent the next couple of hours wandering the cold streets, looking for a few neighborhoods. The weather was warmer than yesterday, but when outside for too long, the cold seeped into us. At Julie’s urgings, I bought a reasonably priced black coat to replace my ratty green one. I’m happy with the purchase, except that the zipper is on the wrong side. I didn’t realize how difficult it is to zipper when reversed.
One of the neighborhoods we went to was the Jewish quarter; the part we visited consisted of two blocks with kosher delicatessens, Middle Eastern food, butchers, kosher pizzerias, and a few Jewish art stores. A class of young children sang loud French and Hebrew songs from inside the pizzeria.
We next visited the Jewish museum of art. The museum, which was also difficult to find, was a few blocks outside the Jewish quarter. They built it from two converted mansions. The museum was empty, containing more attendants than visitors. There was good reason for that. It was a dark, dreary museum, following the history of the persecuted Jews in France and parts of Europe. There were not enough French exhibits, and they imported many items from other parts of Europe. The items on display included tarnished silver Torah covers and menorahs, and faded cloth, mostly Torah covers and old clothing. They wrote most of the descriptions in French, and except for the free (well, relatively free when you consider the entrance to the museum and “special exhibit” was twelve euro per person) audio machine, there was little to understand, particularly in the special exhibit, which followed the Jews as they fought in Europe during World War I. This included a floor dedicated to the German Jews with great irony considering what happened in the next world war.
I left the museum with an uneasy feeling. The museum portrayed the Jewish religion as ancient and dreary, and most of all a persecuted people. While there has been much bad history in Judaism, there is much more that we should celebrate besides our survival of persecution. I’ve found this disheartening theme repeated in many Jewish museums I’ve visited.
I heard that the Parisians are hard workers but I now have my doubts. As an example, many of the people we purchased tickets from always seemed to be talking on the phone. We stood there waiting for them to acknowledge us, and when they did, usually with a quick hold on or the French equivalent, they looked to us as if our interruptions were insulting. This was before we they even knew we were American. Julie tried to charm them were her attempts at French; the ones that spoke English switched quickly to English (which insulted Julie since she wanted to show them how well she spoke French); although, she did rather well with the ones who did not speak English, which either says something about Julie’s French or their patience.
After leaving the Jewish quarter, we walked over to the Pompidou, a delightfully modern art museum. The architecture is brilliant, with many pipes and gates surrounding the main building. The exhibits were fun and decidedly modern. I’ve grown to enjoy modern art. I heard an explanation of it that I loved: Paul was viewing art with Vivian (I made up the names—ain’t I clever?). They staring at one of those scribble pieces; I’m sure something similar to Cy Twombly’s work. Paul says, “My seven year old son could draw that.” Vivian, an avid art lover, says, “But he didn’t.” That’s the beauty of modern art. Sure, after seeing the art piece, a seven year old might be able to copy it. But the idea to create art in that fashion is what makes art of any type special.
I’m a subway person. I adore local transit, having traveled often on the New York subway, Washington D.C. metro, and London underground. The first day we arrived, we walked to all our destinations. After finishing at the Pompidou (unfortunately, we left before seeing most of the exhibits because of jetlag-induced exhaustion), we decided to brave the Paris metro service. While I’m embarrassed to admit it, the first station we went down into intimated us, and we skulked back to the surface to find our bearings. After walking to Notre Dame, we remembered how long it took us to walk there in the morning, and decided to brave another metro station. This time we were successful. Julie struck up a conversation with a Frenchman who was looking through the map, and once he told us where we were on the map, we (okay, Julie) figured out quickly where we wanted to go. Once you understand the starting and ending points (which is not easy because of the language and the Parisians’ deliberate obfuscation), the colored and numbered routes are easy to follow. We used our Metro knowledge to impress GWEC later. They thought we (viz., Julie) were quite worldly.
Before heading for drinks in Room 126, we made our pilgrimage to the Eiffel tower. Julie had her misgivings on the flight over, her family telling her about terrorists’ plots to destroy the tower, but we decided it’s wrong to visit Paris with visiting its most famous landmark. I’m not a height person. It turns out Erik is not one either. After traveling to the top on the ancient elevators, we climbed the final stairs that led to the outside top portion of the tower. At first, Erik and I hugged the walls, afraid to step toward the rickety balcony. It’s not that we were technically afraid, it was more because we’re both educated men that understand the physics and engineering principals that hold up the tower, and know that, having been built in the 1800’s, it’s not the safest of structures. We did eventually brave the fence to peek heroically over the side. We took many pictures of the tower and us and the tower. Hopefully a few of them came out.
I’m exhausted, and I’m sorry for the laundry list of accomplishments. I hoped to share some insights, but my mind and fingers are barely working, and this is the best I can do. Until tomorrow.
Today was a sleep-in day. Our clocks reset partially to European time, and we (mostly I) thought this would be a perfect morning to sleep late. Julie would have none of it. She woke up at five this morning, and poked me repeatedly to a semi-conscious state. We ordered room service for breakfast, at the overpriced fare, and slept. We didn’t leave the room until noon.
Our first stop was the Louvre, a must for any Paris tour. The Louvre is huge, and our 3-day museum passes—which we acquired through much research and ticket sellers turning us away because of telephone calls—let us in with no line. Of course, since this is winter, there was little line to speak of, but Mr. Steve told us to buy the pass outside the museums, and we would never dare question Rick Steve (I’ve been misnaming our illustrious guide—his real name is Rick Steve, not Rick Stevens). The Louvre consists of three major wings, and we toured the Doron wing because that’s where they house the Mona Lisa, and you can’t say you’ve been to the Louvre until you see the most overrated painting in history. Did I say that? I’m sure art historians can explain its significance, but to me it was a crowded piece, both dark and lackluster, like most of the paintings of that era, which, I theorize, is caused by either aging or the dearth of colorful pigments for the artists.
I used to appreciate the art of the Renaissance (I’m assuming their Renaissance—my history, like my knowledge of art, is highly suspect) because of its realism, and while I still enjoy the sculptures because of their size and forwardness, I find most of the paintings boring. I’m convinced that the paintings of this era were the TV and movies of their time. If we knew the stories as well as the people of that era, they would be much more entertaining. Regrettably, I don’t and without knowledge of the story, the paintings appear less interesting. As it is now, most art historians study the paintings for their composition and artistic technique, which, while important, is less entertaining to us laypeople. Overall, I appreciate the modern and abstract art over the classical. With photography and computers, the medium has become less important, and the artistic skill has moved from the technical to the innovative. At my insistence, we skipped the pots, pans, and furniture because of my previously revealed abhorrence for ancient kitchen and living-room ware.
We took many pictures in the museum. I don’t know when they changed the rule, but whenever they did, nobody told me, and I didn’t figure it out until today. It seems they allow photography, even flash photography, in museums. The flashing of old paintings is discouraged with an invisible plastic or glass cover, which bounces the flash into frame. Had I known, I would have taken many more pictures yesterday. We plan to return to the Pompidou and flash away. I’ve also lost some of my distaste for locals identifying me as a tourist by showing my camera. I admit I was silly for thinking that way, but as part of NEQID, I’m trying to find my faults and move on. This is not to say, of course, that I’ll show my camera in NYC. That would be wrong because I’m a local there.
After returning from the Louvre, we walked over to Angélina, a chocolate restaurant near our hotel. They sat us in the middle row of three two-person tables, making us feel like the unlucky passenger in the middle seats of an airplane. We ordered the house specialty: a hot chocolate unlike any hot chocolate I’ve drank before. Imagine melting milk chocolate and drinking it. They served it with unsweetened whipped cream, and it was almost too thick to drink. A good experience, but I wouldn’t order it again unless they added a couple of shots of caffeine. Now that would be delicious.
An older couple was sitting next to us. Since they squished the tables together, I had no choice but to eavesdrop. The man and women were old friends, and from their accent (obviously they spoke English or I wouldn’t have been able to relay any of this) they hailed from New Zealand or South Africa, or somewhere other than the states. The woman spoke most of the time, which was annoying at first, but she did tell a couple of things that I thought worthy of note. She traveled as a salesperson and compared the people of NYC with Paris. It seems that New Yorkers, while seemingly rude, are actually much friendlier than Parisians are. For example, she said that a tourist who looks confused in NYC is more likely to receive help than a similar person in Paris. While I like to imagine us New Yorkers as cold people, it turns out we’re only energetic and busy; we don’t share the cold heart of the Parisians. Okay, that’s probably unfair, but I thought it funny.
There was an archway near the Louvre named the Arc du Carousel or something like that. I figure taking pictures of that removes the need to photograph the Arc du Triumphe, which we saw from a distance on Friday. When you see one Arc, you’ve seen them all.
After I finish writing this (assuming I can wake Julie from her David-writing-induced nap), we’re leaving for our early evening sightseeing. Our plan is to visit the D’Orsay museum, which roughly translates as Museum of Horsies, or at least that’s what I’m telling Julie. Once we see the horsies (or impressionists, which, when you think about it, are closely related to horsies), we’ll head back for our evening dinner with GWEC.
Oh, and if my sister Randy reads this (which is unlikely), Happy 30th Birthday!
We just returned from a nice evening with GWEC. We went to a more authentic French bistro for dinner—authentic in that most of the diners were French—and sitting next to us was a particularly French threesome, who smoked a pack of cigarettes before starting their main course. The food was good again (which is getting rather old), and I ate yet another superb fois gras. Julie and I are responsible for choosing the restaurant tomorrow night, our final night in Paris. We’ll see how Julie does. (Julie is the planner of the relationship; although, I’m happy to take team credit when she does something well.) Mr. Steve has many suggestions, and we’re looking for a nice restaurant in a different but close neighborhood.
After napping after writing earlier, we visited the D’Orsay museum. As expected, there was a horse statue outside (I have photographic evidence), which validates my Horsie Museum name. The museum was better than expected, containing the impressionist and post-impressionist paintings. We arrived at 5pm and the museum closed at 6pm, with sections starting to close at 5:30pm, which left us little time to run around and take photos of famous paintings. As Julie liked to say, “That one looks famous, take its picture.” We rushed to the top floor, which housed the impressionists, including Monet, Van Gogh, and a whole bunch of other painters whose names I would know if I remembered anything. I discovered I’m a late-stage Van Gogh person, enjoying his paintings where he sees everything in crooked swirls. My theory is he painted these when he was in his less sane state—something I am capable of appreciating. I can’t wait to see the Picasso museum tomorrow because I understand his work is even more bizarre.
After leaving the museum, we bought t-shirts for my nieces, which (hopefully) completed our shopping for the trip. Other purchased items include: new socks and sneakers for Julie the first day out, since she only brought “stylish” shoes, which is the same as terribly uncomfortable shoes; a new scarf and jacket for me to replace my tattered-green coat; chocolates from the hot-chocolate joint; metro tickets; Jewish Art museum tickets; 3-day museum passes; and heaps of food.
After dinner, we went to an Irish pub and had a great time drinking beer (GWEC drank beer and Julie and I watched) and talking crazy talk. It’s nice to drink and eat with good friends. Julie is showering the smoke off her body, and after I finish this, I plan to reacquaint myself with sleep. We have an art-museum heavy day tomorrow, attempting to make up for our shortened earlier visits.
We exhausted the morning and afternoon inspecting our dinner restaurant, playing at art museums, and returning to the Jewish quarter to, in film industry terms, pick-up shots—i.e., take photographs at places we missed during normal shooting. I hoped to revisit the Horsey Museum to purchase postcards for my office, but after a second lunch, we went to rest in the hotel room, and as happens, we woke up hours later with barely time to write and prepare for dinner. It’s for the best. Julie’s feet and legs hurt from the walking, and mine aren’t much better. We’ve drank many sights with a large straw over four days, and we’re now taking time to savor them—or at least that’s how I justify laziness.
Today dawned cold, with moments of sun giving illusions of warmth, which the troublesome clouds smashed with ice picks. We started by tracing our—as in the Julie/David team’s—plan for dinner to impress GWEC. While Julie did all the preparations, I provided slight ancillary support in the form of choosing the time. We then visited the Jewish quarter. Our plan was to take photographs of the few orthodox storefronts in Paris we visited earlier. I don’t think I would have gone if Julie hadn’t dragged me, which highlights my dilemma with Judaism. I enjoy its beauty, ancientness, and traditions, but there are parts that I don’t identify with, and parts that embarrass me. We did manage to shoot a few photographs and eat lunch at a kosher-falafel restaurant. It’s been too long since I’ve reexamined my beliefs, especially since I want to convince Julie to join me in my faith.
During our nap, I dreamed I attended a banquet where the diners interrogated one another about some crime. It turned out a female diner sitting next me was a Holocaust doubter. I verbally attacked and vanquished her (not sure the details on the vanquishing, but the dream had that hero-quality I’ve related previously). I don’t know if this erupted from today’s thoughts or because I’m in France, one of the seats of the massacre.
After leaving the Jewish district, we visited the Picasso museum. Rick Steve, who’s opinion we’ve trusted, gave this museum one triangle (he rates sites based on triangles—don’t ask) and three triangles for the “Picasso fan.” While any self-respecting Picasso fan would not look to Mr. Steve to decide whether to visit this museum, it turns out that I am a Picasso fan. I loved his work (Picasso’s work, not Rick Steve’s, who I appreciated but didn’t love in the traditional sense). As I mentioned yesterday, I enjoy imaginative work that pushes the edges of sanity. Picasso has plenty of this, from his sculptures to his paintings. I purchased half dozen postcards with some of his stranger (and therefore more interesting) work, which I’ll use to decorate my work office. I tried to buy a larger poster, but all the large posters were of his more standard fare.
After visiting the Picasso museum, I must correct yesterday’s declaration of being a late-stage Van Gogh fan. I’m actually a Picasso and late-stage Van Gogh fan.
After leaving the museum, we headed back to the Pompidou. During our first visit, fatigue kept us from understanding its layout, and we missed the entire top floor crammed with the modernist movement including more (but slightly unsatisfying) Picasso. This gave a wonderful sense of how the painters of this movement worked together, freely borrowing one another’s ideas to move the art forward. Some of my old fears and doubts rose up during this visit. I wondered again if I discovered art too late. There were whole worlds of expression and, more importantly, ways of perceiving the world that I didn’t know existed until recently. It’s the same thoughts I have about my writing: I wasted so much time not writing, I wonder if it is it too late to begin now. In my insides, I know that loving art is not a question of when but if. It is better for an eighty-year old to spend the last years of her life enjoying a newly discovered love of art, than spending that time lamenting that it took her so long to find it. I’m not eighty yet, and I should use my exposed passion not by regretting the past, but with joy of the future. I do not want to write about cleverness; I want to write about revelation and squiggly mental imagery.
I wrote some of the above after napping from the latent jetlag and exhausting walks. When I woke, I asked Julie what time it was. I should have known something was amiss when I asked and she answered, “what time?” When I asked her for a third time, she said, “I said it’s five,” and fell back asleep. We planned to meet GWEC at 7pm to start our evening activities, and I made a note of my computer’s clock, which I never bothered to reset from Seattle time, and added an hour and a half to ensure that we’d have time to prepare before dinner. When the phone rang thirty minutes later, I knew we were in trouble. Erik called and said, “We waited until 7:30pm, but then had to call you.” I thought he was joking. When he convinced me that he was serious, I looked to Julie, who woke up confused, and with no recollection of checking her watch earlier (or of the conversation). This was the second time we were late to a GWEC dinner. Our first night in Paris we had a good excuse: we deplaned early in the afternoon and were still affected by the flight. Even with our lateness, we succeeded with tonight’s dinner. The dinner Julie planned was tasty, and our night walk to Notre Dame went well. Okay, that’s probably stretching the definition of “well.” The plan was good, but the weather was vicious; with the wind-chill factor, the temperatures probably dipped close to zero degrees Fahrenheit. We tried to make do, but after snapping a few pictures, we hurried to the Metro station to return to the hotel.
Julie is now sleeping and I’m finishing typing my thoughts for the day. I still have much to supplement in the earlier sections, and I’ll save my final thoughts on the trip for tomorrow’s ride home.
As customary, I scattered sleep before morning because of my early flight. I woke and hunched over my computer to write the first sentence, which echoed through my brain and made transcription a condition of sleep. Julie still sleeps, her warm form next to mine, her back turned to conceal the computer’s light. My silent typing wakes her. There’s not much left of Paris except popped ears at thirty-thousand feet and stressed backs.
We’ve flown a few hours from Charles de Gaulle airport to LAX. I’ve not slept yet, but seeing as it’s only around 5am Seattle time, I’m preparing for a nap to aid my temporal transformation.
Continuing my hourly detail, I slept a few hours and now I’m fidgety. Four hours plus coins remain, with another three tacked on the end to deliver me to Seattle.
I struggle in my seat, alternately looking for distractions and permissions. I devoured the Atlantic monthly, The New Yorker, and The Economist, and my current book, Austerlitz, is not holding my interest. I jump from moments of tiredness to specks of sleep. A French monster screams. Time taunts me and Julie sleeps unfazed. A movie flickers on the TVs, but it holds little entertainment. Orange pillows and blankets decorate the plane.
And finally, a few words to sum up my experiences on the long flight home.
This trip was wonderful. Julie had mentioned (repeatedly) her desire to visit France. Like most things involving long-distance travel, I deferred. Will and Cecelia thought up the idea for this trip, and asked me months ago if we wanted to join them. While their 14-day itinerary to London, Amsterdam, and Paris was too much for me (and didn’t fit in Julie’s “vacation” schedule), the last leg to Paris was perfect, satisfying Julie’s Paris dreams and providing me an impetus to travel. Erik and Gloria signed on to the full package, and we booked the trip. I have to give huge thanks to Will for pressing forward with the idea. We had a great time, and I’m not sure when (or if) we would have made it to Paris without his goading.
The evening meals with GWEC were always a highlight, allowing us to relive our vacation days in a relaxed environment with those who shared akin but different experiences. As always, it’s also fun to reminisce with school friends, and the occasional political debate or practiced belittlement added additional flavors.
We spent most of our time in Paris enjoying fine food and brilliant (if squiggly) art. The five-day trip was the perfect length, giving me a taste without excess. Returning, I regret Seattle’s cheap, imitation art museums. They’re expanding the Seattle Modern Art Museum, but as it is now, it would fit in one walled section of any of Paris’s museums. We fly home full of memories and good photographs. I’ll share them with you once my website stands up. Erik promised to send more photographs to give a fuller picture of Paris, since he (and Will) traveled to more places than art museums, which I still can’t understand.
We’re less than two hours from touchdown. Flying west always seems easier because I don’t have to force myself to sleep, I need only stay awake until a normal bedtime. While this won’t cure jetlag, it will lessen it. I expect they’ll serve a cold dinner soon, and then we’ll land. I’m still seven hours away from Seattle, but much of that time, I will spend in LAX.
GWEC, Julie, and I visit Paris.
