Paris Day 4: We Slow Down

I'm Waiting for My Man.  My croissant man.  Amy and I are shivering with withdrawal as our fingers nervously pop the Euro's into the cash register (Parisiennes don't want to handle "ze filthy money", so machines do it for them and dispense change). Finally!  We grab the croissants and don't even bother sitting down before shoving those crusty, buttery drugs in our mouth.  Our eyes close as we chew.  Our bodies stop shivering and melt into contentedness.

Amy's eyes pop open.  "Let's just climb the damn thing!"

Eiffel Tower by Stairs

The "damn thing" she meant was the Eiffel Tower.  We spent the last three days ogling it from near and far - there's no place in Paris it isn't casting some shadow.  Now it was time to get up close and personal.

You can basically go up the tower two ways: stairs and elevators.  The elevators are expensive and you have to wait in a long line.  But they go all the way to the top.  The stairs are cheap and you only need wait in a 10 minute long line for a ticket.  They only go halfway up the tower - basically to where the four legs meet and start one big sheet of metal to the top.  The tour guide on our Red Bus two days ago describes it, "You can take the elevators or ... IF YOU HAVE THE COURAGE ... the stairs!  Gasp!"

But we climbed friggin' Algonquin just two weeks ago.  How bad could this be?   We looked at the sign for the proper way to ascend the stairs ... one arm raised in front, one arm lowered below (we couldn't find a turtle to attach to our foot - oh well) ... and embarked on our journey.

And it really wasn't bad - Algonquin with handrails.  We stopped at the Premier Etage (first floor) and surveyed the landscape.  Very nice.  There were three or four restaurants, a gift shop, and bathrooms - and if you're wondering where the sewer pipes go in the Eiffel Tower, I'm as mystified as you are.  And there were lots of plaquards describing the building of the tower and its subsequent opening. 

Then up to the Deuxieme Etage (second floor) where the end of the stairs are.  This is where it starts getting freaky.  The pillars going from the first to the second are more exposed to the air outside, and you feel less sheltered.  You've got cages around you - it's not like your climbing a utility pole - but it's still more raw.  I white knuckled the rails.  Still the view was worth it:

Amy said, "Ooo, you know what would be great?  Call your mom!" 

So I dug out my cell phone and dialled Lincoln Nebraska.  "Hey mom!  This is Craig your son ... remember him?  Well guess where I'm calling from.  You'll never guess.   THE EIFFEL TOWER!  I'M ON THE EIFFEL TOWER!  You wanna talk to Amy?"

Amy said, "Hey there.  What time is it in Nebraska?  7:00 in the morning huh?" 

Catholic guilt settles in.  I try to make myself feel better by saying, .... well as far as 7:00 calls one might be expecting, that one wasn't too bad!

Chillax!

After one climbs the Eiffel Tower, one finds an overwhelming desire to take it easy.  And we knew just the place.  The Jardin by the Louvre. 

As I said a couple of days ago, this park is what parks should be.  It doesn't try to cut itself off from the city like Central Park does.  It it large - 5 blocks long and a few blocks wide -  with lots of moveable metal chairs everywhere, sculpture and fountains.  The grass is all blocked off, so there are no prosaic scenes of children running through the greenery.  You walk on mostly sand and a little concrete in between.  There are a few classic restaurant areas around, a few glaceries and creperies.

Getting chairs to sit in and put your feet on required big city predator instincts.  We used the ladder method.  Find an uncomfortable, unoccupied spot.  Use it as your temporary home base.  Wait for a chair to come free.  Grab it, sit down and wait for another chair to be free.  And so on. 

Pretty soon Amy and I were in the lap of luxury, scarfing down trail mix and water, writing post cards and my blog entries (which I still couldn't send for lack of an Internet connection.)  The autumn was settling in the Paris trees although the weather that today was hot and a bit balmy.  I will say this.  Fall tree colors are prettier in the Northeast, and I found the leaves turning a crunchy brown on the Paris trees as closer to my midwestern roots than I was expecting. 

Refreshed and enlightened, Amy and I made our way back to the hotel and dressed up to the nines for dinner.  Well.  I don't mean Tuxedos or anything, but we looked great.  There's something about the backdrop of Paris that makes you look more elegant than you normally would. 

A Fine Evening

If you're lucky, you find a rhythm when you travel.  You find what generally works, what looks right.  Amy and I plugged the address of La Gout Dujour into Google Maps and made our way from the hotel across the Champ Du Mars (the park that connects the Eiffel Tower to the Military School).  The neighborhood was a bit newer.  But the restaurant was old school Parisienne, waiter in white and black clothes and tie.

Amy had Guinea Fowl, which was beautifully crispy with the meat falling off the bone.  I had duck - big surprise.  It was like Amy's dinner the first night at Le Bistrot de Paris, but spectacularly different.  It had the density of good prime rib, but the spices rubbed into it were fascinating and surprising.  It was a different dish every bite.  We finished with a fromage plate apiece, and the honey and walnuts which graced them brought out their subtlety.  There's really nothing like French fromage!

I think it's important to note here ... we have not eaten hardly ANY recognizable vegetables in the last 3 days.  The French like their vegetables, but in season, and often whirled and pureed beyond recognition.  People ask how the French stay thin and they do it by eating LESS, smoking more, and riding their bikes, I suppose.  Evidently not by roughage. 

And we ended the day watching the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower as we hiked back.  We stopped in a grocery store and bought stuff for a picnic the next day.  Brie for 3 euros (4 dollars), white burgundy for 4 euros (about 5 dollars).  Only flash forwards of eager custom inspectors ransacking our belongings kept us from filling every pocket of ours suitcases with the stuff.