(back to Page 1) In-Seine in Paris

MONDAY - Maritime Museum, Quiche, Fauchon, La Samaritaine roof, Batobus, Fondue

We meet Ethan and Isabel at the Maritime museum in the morning, getting us our first close view of the Eiffel Tower. Vendors sell little tiny Eiffel Towers in a variety of dinky sizes on the plaza, so I get a couple. "Made in France" is worked into the fretwork of the arch on each statuette. Why is it in English? shouldn't it say "Fabrique en France" instead?

Ethan intercedes for me with his very competent command of French, and together with the curators of the museum and my smattering of information on the ship builder Honore Mallet, we gather some information on my ancestor. It turns out that the records I want are in the Maritime Museum in the port city of Rochefort. Rochefort. Rochefort. I need to come back to France, for the Rochefort cheese and the city of Rochefort. I may change my name to Rochefort.

We stop at a busy cafe and I order a three-cheese quiche with no expectations. Once again I am staggered with pleasure - I truly have not had quiche until this moment in time. A beam of light pierces the heavens and shines on our little sidewalk table. A castrato sings a single note that only angels can hear. I don't know what miraculous cheeses inhabit this perfect quiche with the ethereal crust, the texture of silk, flavor that floats through the top of my head into the beam of light. I am one with God (or someone).

We've accomplished my official excuses for the trip, having found a few Arago markers and made some museum contacts, so that leaves a few days of blatant tourism and goofing off we're so good at. We head for the Madeleine neighborhood to the extraordinary food emporium Fauchon to buy truffles. How we manage to miss the Museum of Spectacles and Field or Opera Glasses I'll never know, but we have a peek at the freshly remodelled Opera Garnier on our way there. "Truffe," Marcia repeats in her best imitation French pronunciation after the clerk. "I just spent $60 on truffe." She shakes the little jar at me, containing a dark round fungus the size of a walnut. "Truuuffe."

At least our purchases are light in weight. I find some nice espresso cups for our friend Greg Metzger, we shop for gold shoes to go with Marcia's wedding dress (ten days after we return from gadding about Paris on a chick trip, she marries a man who knows what to do with a truffe, thank God) We hit the department store La Samaritane at the beautiful Pont Neuf not so much for the the shopping but the view from the roof. The roof of La Samaritaine is a local secret - a wonderful view, affordable eats, and a lovely find. Ethan and Isabel recommended it highly. It is about to close and so we try French soda pop - Orangina. Contains real pulp, it says, plus essence of orange. It's the best orange soda I've ever had. Suddenly I'm an Orangina freak. It's the start of an Orangina jag. I'm sure I'll never find it in Seattle or even in the next Paris neighborhood. I grab an extra can on the way out.

The Batobus is another good find. Long passenger boats ply the Seine as a sort of tourist taxi. For $10 you can get a day pass that takes you from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower and points in between. We take the boat, split my Orangina, pass under something like 15 wonderful old bridges. There are no kayaks or rowing boats on the river, but there are large commercial barges and party vessels. On the point of Ile St-Louis, couples sit under giant oaks on the banks. From the balconies of five story 18th century apartment buildings, people sit in their windows and read, or work, or watch the boats go by. We feel rather communal, looking at them, admiring their living room furniture and modern art on the walls. The sun goes down and we walk home from Notre Dame.

On the corner near the hotel is a friendly little market, the size of a small convenience store, full of exquisite everyday items. Apricots, Toblerone chocolate bars, wine, water, Orangina. Another Orangina, this one called Orangina Rouge. Don't want to run out. The proprietor helps Marcia choose some good red wines, steering her away from the higher-priced stuff to his own favorites which are a good bargain as well. His son bags for me a few of the most perfect apricots, timed for consumption that night.

Dinner is at a very dangerous fondue restaurant, where we cook beef bits in very hot oil at our table. People at other tables stare at us. We drink lots of red wine and imagine the damage a dropped pot of oil could do to this cafe, with its ropes and timbers and mooseheads on the walls. We don't see any scorched places on the floors or tables, so guess there probably have been no fatalities. I ask for profiterole for dessert, which confuses the waitress because in my zeal I pronounce it too fast. "Profiterole, profiterole!" (Gosh, I think, doesn't anyone here speak French?)

We switch on late night television again as we get ready for bed. It's porn, the girl at the bakery with the short skirt. "We've seen this story already," says Marcia. "Let's see what else is on." Two channels away is an even more improbable pornography channel with no story, no production values, and three creepy actors with no fashion sense, going about their rude gymnastics to an out-of-context twittering bird soundtrack. We are no longer intrigued with French television pornography and very perplexed about the bird sounds. Then the normal programming resumes: The German cinema verite show "Big Brother," featuring the duller-than-usual, minute-by-minute, out of context lives of a number of exceptionally boring people. This concept show, it turns out, is emulated (and exceeded in dullness) by a US television version a short month later. The only difference I've noticed is that the Germans whine less and party more.

TUESDAY - Notre Dame, Berthelion's, cheese market

Our time in Paris is nearly over, so we get up early and pack. We have one last must-see in Paris, the Gallery of Beasts at the top of Notre Dame cathedral. It's raining a light misty Parisian rain right out of a black and white movie, which makes the tan paving stones shine. There are no crowds so early. We pay for our tickets to the top and begin to climb the bell tower's stairways. No wonder (huff) most tourists (puff) don't go up here. The stone steps wind in a tighter spiral, until my foot barely fits the tread, and I tiptoe the last bit to the top... the city sprawls out before us, we catch our breaths as we stand in the mute company of stone beasts who look protective and a little bored over their realm.

Up another narrow tower, squeezing through a narrow opening, our eyes adjust to the heavy timbers and the cool stone walls and... the biggest big-ass bronze bell either of us has ever seen. The 13 tonne bell hangs from a timber armament, and it is rung on special occasions. It would be best, we imagine, to be down on the plaza at those times.

As a reward for climbing two bell towers, we cross the bridge from Ile de la Cite to the Ile St.-Louis and choose from Berthillon's selection of ices and ice creams. Berthillon, by the way, is the worthy object of pilgrimages. I have a scoop of lemon ice and a scoop of pear ice cream. The bitter lemon rind, the orchard full of intensity of each tiny spoonful transports me to... oh, never mind. I've bored you enough with these poetic descriptions of food in Paris. It is really good ice cream.

The Maubert morning market next to the subway stop is just closing. We grab a selection of cheeses and pastries before heading to the airport. Double cream anything is something I don't get nearly enough of, and despite my zealous purchases, I still don't think it's enough. Marcia picks up an entire apple-almond tart, intending to take it to work the next day. My illegal cheeses make it through a half dozen customs and security checks unchallenged. The tart travels unsquashed 7,000 miles until we get to Seattle and Marcia puts her backpack full of wine bottles on it. We look sadly at it, symbolic of our return home. The tart, like our memories, will be gone soon, trampled and consumed in a warehouse full of fiberglass fumes.

We shuffle toward baggage claim. Marcia's fiance is ecstatic to see her. We're glad to see him but have a hard time showing it. The specter looms of American cheese and cones of insipid soft-serve, of safely tepid dinners and quiches that taste like damp scrambled eggs, of food to go and the tiresome phobia Americans have toward dietary fats. Cream in coffee will be replaced by non-dairy whitener, and food will be consumed from throw-away dishes during short, un-civilized lunch breaks. How could four short days spoil us so completely?