Tierra de Tortugas

Summer 2018: Paris II

Elyse and Rachael have left Paris and taken that younger energy with them, and we are alone together, Carolyn and I, as the evening spreads across a darking Parisian sky (apologies to TS Eliot). It’s a good time to find dinner. And for the next few days we’ll see some things we’ve never seen, even after several extended visits in the past.

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Fondation Louis Vuitton

A big item on our list is the highly-touted Fondation Louis Vuitton, Frank Gehry’s new and challenging creation located in the woods, in the broad Bois de Boulogne. It’s a brisk walk on a fine day through the park from the Porte Maillot Metro stop in Neuilly, and the museum is hard to miss as we draw closer. Gehry makes a statement, although this one, unlike his museum in Bilbao, is hidden in the trees. Perhaps there was no good site available along the Seine, even with substantial Louis Vuitton funding to back it.

 

Gehry’s latest extravagance gives few clues as to what lies inside. It’s an exterior-dominant exercise in sculptural-structural complexity and ‘candy wrapping’ that demands exploration of its artistry, its ‘funhouse’ dynamic before getting to the art on display. Its amorphous ’crumpled tinfoil tossed on the ground’ aesthetic recalls the one in Bilbao, which is highly viewable from various parts of the city, including the riverwalk – and especially from the top of the funicular across the river. But the Paris example is curiously hidden. And as in Bilbao, the artworks on display take second place to the building itself.

 

(Here's a link to our post from Bilbao in 2016: http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2016/06/summer-2016-bilbao.html)

 

  Even if the whole thing has a sense of bizarre overreach – or exuberant celebration(!) – it’s difficult not to explore the buildings’ inner workings, its complex spaces, and its artful structural connections before visiting the galleries. One wonders if there’s really any room left inside this confection for galleries. And if Gehry grew up in a warehouse somewhere, filled with random spare parts, assembling curious objects from whatever was at hand. 

Views toward the great city of Paris are rare, with peeks at the modern skyline of La Défense being chief among them. Oddly, little homage is paid to the masterpiece of Gustav Eiffel, a kindred structure, where majestic form and robust connections are proudly shown as a main artistic element. The great Iron Lady is largely ignored here and only visible through a small opening in a remote corner, if you can find it.

On show in several large galleries, the huge and fantastical work of Takashi Murakami, born in Japan in 1962, deserves attention. The large sculpture in the center of one gallery, entitled “Chakras open and I Drown Under the Waterfall of Life, 2017” represents his response to “…the trauma of the tsunami that struck Japan in 2011.” 

 

In other rooms, Murakami’s cartoons and splashing colors, drawn from his work in anime, require a close encounter to fully appreciate the detail involved.

In other galleries, the ghostly presence of Jean-Marie Appriou’s large “Lips and ears, 2018” dominates a room by itself.

Other galleries contain works by modernist masters such as Brancusi, De Chirico, and other notable artists.

 

And a hidden exterior water space provides a bit of whimsy, and a hall for mirror play by wannabe photo-journalists. 

After an afternoon drenched in the challenging Fondation Louis Vuitton, we walk back into the city again, in need of a quiet dinner and a glass or two of good red wine.

 
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Just Being in Paris

Paris is one of the world’s great cities for living and wandering without any plan at all, for stopping at the window of a ‘jam shop,’ or heeding a sign that reads, “Enter! Here good wine makes good moments.” (Except the place was closed.) We check out the fine art in a gallery nearby, notice that Charlie Hebdo is still publishing outrageous political satire – despite a deadly attack by extremists – and consider turning up for an Archie Shepp concert at ‘an undisclosed location.’ I find a jaunty chapeau somewhere to keep the sunburn off my thinning scalp, and now the locals don’t assume I’m American anymore; they think I’m a lost German tourist.

 

There’s time to hang out by the lazy waters of the Seine, or stop by a tempting place that assures us, “Here one drinks and one eats until 2:00 in the morning.” And not far away is another good nose-wet called Le Smiley, with a fine singer in house.

And for breakfast we stop at Le Pain Quotidien for coffee with almond croissants and a view to the street, while Parisian parents deliver their children to a nearby school. On another morning we’ll enjoy delicious buckwheat crepes at La Petite Bretonne, while tradesmen make deliveries to a nearby boucherie (butcher shop). It’s another day in the early morning life of the city.

 

 

 

For us, having ‘something to do’ isn’t necessary, or even desirable, in a city like Paris. We're content to absorb the energy of the streets in a place that has inspired great writers, artists, and thinkers for centuries – with no illusions that ‘greatness’ will somehow rub off on us. But it’s nice to be in a place where that often happens. 

In Paris, iconic images are everywhere, none more so than a modern Parisienne shugged against a wall with a cigarette in one hand and her iPhone in the other.

 

The streets and squares of Paris lend themselves so well to wandering. Wherever you end up, there’s a Metro nearby to get you back where you need to be. And the words of the prophets are sometimes plastered on those Metro walls, with all the catchy ads and notices. And there are good musicians to make use of those fine acoustics in the tunnels.

 

 

And at the end of the day, we’ll return late to the apartment for rich chocolates, a few crispy crapotes (!?), and a snifter of Armagnac. The soft rumble of late Metro trains deep below us in the granite heart of Montmartre lulls us to sleep.

         

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La Cigale

A poster on a wall reads: “Ben Folds and a Piano,” at nearby La Cigale. It’s a well-known Parisian nightlife venue, even if the façade is badly ‘modernized.’ Inside there’s a gorgeous old theatre with intricate cast iron balconies and a stage front to recall the glory days when Toulouse-Lautrec was hanging out a few blocks down the street drawing posters for the Moulin Rouge. 

 

Matt Holubowski, a Quebecois, opened with magic on the guitar, sparks of harmonics, and a distinctive painful voice that’s hard to describe. Later in the lobby, we bought his new CD, and we shared Bob Dylan stories.

But the people were waiting for the manic energy of Ben Folds, who soon attacked a piano waiting in the spotlight. He spoke to the crowd with riotous black and white key work, pain and anger – personal but general, at being screwed by The Man – and they sang with him. After a long and furious crashing set on the piano, Folds assaulted an innocent drum kit – subtlety not a part of his nature – to rumbling applause. The evening ended with a standing ovation and the throbbing, sated, crowd poured out into the Parisian night. 

We walked about a block, to our cosy apartment overlooking the Pigalle.

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Atelier des Lumières

The “Atelier des Lumières was recommended by Catherine, our peripatetic friend and sometime Kino denizen. It was much more than the usual projected movie with an excellent soundtrack. The huge space of the old foundry swallowed a free-ranging audience and wrapped us all in an envelope of visuals that swept the 10-meter walls and carpeted factory floor with color while sound poured over like rainfall, ranging from Beethoven, Chopin, and Wagner, to Etude No 2 by Phillip Glass. It was an immersive and saturating experience into sound and image, like tumbling inside a huge kaleidoscope along with Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele, leaders of the Vienna Secession radical art movement, plus the later complex works of Friedensreich Hundertwasser. Both Klimt and Schiele died young in 1918, victims of the world-wide flu epidemic. Hundertwasser, an artist, architect, and environmentalist, was born a decade later, continuing in the Viennese modern art tradition until relocating to New Zealand. 

Abundant 60s references come to mind as color visions from 140 BARCO projectors swirl the entire space and a seamless sound track resonates throughout. Think, ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’; or the Byrds coloristic: ‘…and wander in the forest, where the trees have leaves of prisms that break the light in colors that no-one knows the names of’.’; or Joni Mitchell’s Chelsea Morning, ‘…and the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses.’ Just try to imagine what they could do with this show in Amsterdam….

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Pere Lachaise

 

And after that full-immersion, we plunge ourselves onto the famous slopes and woods of Père Lachaise cemetery, only a block or so away. Here in these leafy grounds, dozens of famous artists, writers, musicians, and performers have found their final resting place, along with dozens of ordinary souls. A raven perched among the markers seems appropriate for such a grey and drizzly day.

 

             

 

 

 
 

 

 

This city of the dead has a long history and the list of permanent residents is noteworthy: Colette, Chopin, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas, Balzac, Apollinaire, Georges Bizet, Delacroix, Daumier, Yves Montand, Simone Signoret – even Porfirio Diaz and Benjamin Franklin’s grandson William.

 

 

Numerous sad, crumbling old monuments in this jumbled city of the dead remind us that unless someone comes to attend our graves they too will crumble into soil or succumb to tree roots someday. Regardless, we all return to the fertile land as bio-mass to nurture the future. And our best ideas, if we’re lucky, may pass into what Robert M Hutchins called, “The Great Conversation.” 

 

 

OK, we also did the ‘60s thing’ and stopped by the grave of James Douglas Morrison. Someone said, “You can tell where it is by all the hippies around it.” Jim’s grave is not spectacular, wedged into a small and well-trampled spot between many other burials by a ‘gum tree’ — one of those trees that people stick their gum to for some reason. His tomb seems oddly anti-climactic after his short and flamboyant life.

Many others in Père Lachaise must have led flamboyant lives for their era, but that’s long forgotten as the artists and rogues of each new age concoct outrages of their own. And rarely do graves blaspheme the dead with factual accounts of their lives. That’s for the biographers and novelists and should not sully the headstones of the deceased. A bit of whimsy may suffice, however.

 

And while at Père Lachaise, how could we not go in search of the final resting place for a person listed on the roster simply as ‘Sex Toy?’ Below a large bronze placard emblazoned with “Sex Toy,” the name of Delphine Palatsi (1968-2002) is etched into the cold and mossy stone. Known around Paris as ‘one of the premier female techno-DJs of the 1990s,’ she began her career mixing at Le Scandalo, a club on Rue Keller in Paris. She mixed at venues for Louis Vuitton, l’Oréal, and the Cannes film festival, appeared in several films, and lived her manic life until 2002 when she died of a heart attack at 33 years of age.

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Giverny

It’s appropriate that we’ll depart Paris on a train from the Gare Saint Lazare to visit Monet’s home and garden in Giverny, since he often painted the old coal-chuffing engines arriving from Normandy in this very station. In his day, those giant and powerful machines were strong symbols of a new industrial age transforming much of Europe from its medieval past into a brave new future. The romantic old coal-burners are gone now – and the air is cleaner – but the Gare Saint Lazare still exudes some of its old magic.  

Monet was largely a self-taught rebel, ignoring his father’s wishes to join the family grocery business, and rejecting art classes to study with the masters. Michelangelo, Goya, Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso – the list of such artistic rebels is long.

 

Monet was known for his mastery of many subjects besides smoking steam engines. He’s mostly remembered for his peaceful and romantic scenes of canals in Venice and Amsterdam, the sailing boats at Argenteuil, and his beloved gardens in Giverny. His attraction in later life to a peaceful life in the countryside far from the clangor of Paris is understandable.

 

 

In less than an hour from Paris by train we’re at the Vernon station and boarding a bus for the short drive to Giverny. Then it’s a modest walk, on a crowded pathway, from the bus park to the Maison et Jardins de Claude Monet, where he and his family lived from 1883 to 1926.

Oscar-Claude Monet was a founder of French Impressionism – the term came from his painting Impression, soleil levant (Impression, Sunrise) first exhibited in 1874. He would paint scenes numerous times to capture subtle changes in light and the seasons of the year. He created his own landscape for painting in Giverny, where he lived for the last 43 years of his life.

Along the way to Monet’s home and garden we make the acquaintance of a friendly Chinese couple who are enjoying their own extended retirement wander in Europe. She’s very sprightly and a real spark who used to work for a German company in China. She speaks German, decent English, and Mandarin Chinese. He’s courtly but more quiet, and speaks no English. He was a manager for China Telecom. We find ourselves piloting our way together through narrow lanes to a very long line outside the entry door, but we’ll lose track of each other later, somewhere in Monet’s broad gardens.

 

 

The expansive gardens of Claude Monet are resplendent with flowers, just as we’d expect on such a fine warm day in springtime. The bees stay busy with the abundance of floral choices giving forth their bounty of honey.

 

 

 

Monet’s famous lily pond and arcing Japanese bridge are in a different
section, through a passageway under the rural road that runs beside his home and garden. The lily pond and woods are a fine place with hidden creeks and copses to lose ourselves among (along with a crowd of others) while tracing the pathways leading to the pond and bridge. 

 

 

 

Monet’s modest home is charming and inviting, as if he’s only gone for the day and expected back later for supper. Besides the walls covered with his art and collections, the kitchen is a romantic image of old Brittany. It’s easy to see why Monet spent his final years here.

 

Back in the gift shop, we recline on some very comfortable couches for an informative talk about Monet by Helen Bordman, ‘Executive Volunteer,’ formerly of New Jersey but now resident in France. Helen has collected a variety of stories and impressions of Monet’s life here in the little community of Giverny and she brought those days to life.

(For more Monet & Giverny: https://www.claudemonetgallery.org)

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Alas, it’s time to leave…

And what is it with the French, their art, their wines, their culinary traditions, their language – it’s probably the most romantic of all the Romance Languages. Strategically situated as they are, just across the Channel from those oddly charming Brits and just south of guttural tribes of Germanics, the French remain a fascination.

But in the end we must leave familiar Paris behind, and search out other challenges. Our original loose itinerary has semi-evolved so that we’re now heading through Germany toward the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Austria, and Italy. The old river port city of Strasbourg, lying just on the French side of the Rhine, will be our next stop. We’ll see you there! — PRW

 

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• For more of Paris from 2013 & 2016, see:

http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2013/07/summer-2013-sojourn-aaaah-paris.html

http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2016/08/summer-2016-paris.html

Summer 2018: Paris I

  After a fine and frivolous week in wonderful Amsterdam it was time to leave that special place behind and move onward. We packed our bags again and returned to Amsterdam Centraal to catch our next train. We were off to Paris on a fast Thalys train through the countryside at speeds of up to 301kph (187mph), with stops at Rotterdam, Antwerpen, and Brussels. 

 

For me, trains recall romantic visions of an earlier age, watching the changing countryside without fighting traffic, and with plenty of leg room. That opening scene from 1974’s ”Murder on the Orient Express” at the busy train station in Istanbul, crossroads to the world, is one of many that embedded un-erasable images of adventure in my memory. Trains are such a great way to travel.

In a few hours we arrived at Paris’s historic old Gare du Nord, dating from 1864. This is one of six major train stations in the city, the busiest station in all of Europe, and home to the London Eurostar. It’s a classic entry to the busy life of Paris, and its towering halls are the right place to begin showing Elyse and Rachael some of our favorite spots in this great city.

Carolyn had booked an excellent and nicely decorated 2 BR apartment just off Rue du Clichy and only two blocks from the Pigalle Metro stop, and we were soon settled in. There’s a fine view from the balcony looking down Rue des Martyrs toward the nice St. Georges neighborhood. And Denisse the owner, was more than charming. People sometimes consider the Pigalle area ‘dicey’ because of the sex shops and nightclubs, but a bit of the grittier side of Paris was fine for us.

 

 

So how does one even begin to explore Paris? There are so many places to start, and for me it’s probably the most interesting city in the world. We’ve traveled a bit, with still plenty of cities and countries we haven’t even been to. And there are times we prefer a quiet and cheap small town to relax in. But I’m often drawn back to Paris, its great walkability, its outstanding museums and parks, its deep history, its many intriguing neighborhoods, lanes, alleys, and squares where you can enjoy coffee or a glass of wine and watch the world go by. This is a special place, and there’s always something interesting to do here.

 

Montmartre

We’re staying just downhill from the old artist colony of Montmartre, so a good walk around on the butte seems like the right beginning. We could climb up several hundred steps, but a majority vote goes for taking the funiculaire. Later, we’ll walk back down by another route.

                 

At the top we bypass the touts selling cheap Eiffel Towers in front of Sacre Coeur and head for the street artists in Place du Tertre before going onward to the Musée Montmartre. The Musée is where Susan Valadon had her studio, and it’s now part of the museum. The studio was also a meeting place for her artist friends Modigliani, Toulouse-Lautrec, Picasso, and others who were crafting the modern art we know today. Her son, Maurice Utrillo, captured the Paris of those days in paint. And her relationship with the composer Eric Satie, who lived nearby, is still the stuff of romantic legend.

 

 

 

  A walk through these romantic streets takes us back to the lesser known Lamarck area where Carolyn and I holed up on our last visit. We stop at a favorite street café near the Lamarck-Caulaincourt station for a refreshing martini blanc (it’s not a ‘martini’) over ice with a lemon slice. We settle into our street-side chairs just as a fashion shoot begins. A handsome young model poses on both sides of the street near the Metro entry as the people of Paris walk by, and as most of the ‘café-istas’ ignore the whole process. When they move to the railing overlooking the city below, I get a shot with our former balcony (that upper one) behind the model.

 

We descend the old butte back toward our apartment, passing Le Bateau Lavoir and other artistic sites along the way. And then we settle in for a fine quiche at Les Artistes, just half a block from our flat, where Samuel keeps us well-fed and attended to. The day has been a fine introduction to Paris.

 

 

 

Champs Elysées

It’s a new day and Rachael needs a long walk, so she and I head out through back streets toward the distant Arc d’ Triomphe. Elyse and Carolyn will take the Metro and meet us there in a couple of hours, as we immerse ourselves into the heart of the city. We show up only about 15 minutes late and ready to proceed down the broad Champs Elysées toward the distant Louvre. Every sort of glamorous and too-expensive store, and some too-expensive cars, can be found along these broad sidewalks.

  

 

There are also plenty of beautiful older buildings and fountains along the way. We put some coins into the pot for a guy making huge soap bubbles at the Place de la Concorde, and consider taking a ‘Retro’ side-car tour of the city on a new Ural motorcycle. And there are still pond boats in the fountains, as I recall from years ago.

 

As we reach the shady and quiet respite of the Tuileries, it’s time for lunch and a cold drink. Afterward there’s a temptation to remain sitting beneath the trees, but we still have some ground to cover.

 

             

And finally we’re at The Louvre, that renowned cathedral of art, which will have to wait for another day. We’ve been too happily sidetracked by the ‘museum of Paris’ itself to spend time inside a major institution. A day later we return.

 

The Louvre

 

Entry into The Louvre, the world’s largest art museum, is through an underground shopping gallery, and past I M Pei’s famous inverted pyramid. We’re here for the Delacroix show – plus the whole experience of just walking these storied halls. 

Eugène Delacroix was considered the leader of the French Romantic School of artists, and later inspired Renoir, van Gogh, and Picasso. His massive, highly detailed, and action-filled canvases cover entire walls. A visit to Algeria and his fascination with ‘orientalism’ brought the color and drama of the Arabic world to the salons of Paris. And his exquisite etching of Méphistophélès for an 1827 edition of Faust showed his wide range of ability. 

 

 

And we can’t overlook his bare-breasted lady in “Liberty Leading the People.” She’s known as ‘Marianne,’ and her image has appeared on French currency, stamps and government documents. The painting honors the overthrow of Charles X in July of 1830. 

 

A comic poster in the museum café lends a bit of humor before we meander through the remaining majestic halls of The Louvre. It’s a walk through the history of Western Civilization expressed in art, divided conveniently into manageable chunks. The sheer number of masterworks on show here can be overwhelming, as they regularly display about 35,000 pieces of their vast collection. 

And of course, Leonardo da Vinci’s timeless ’smiling lady’ can be found among the crowd of admirers pondering one of the oldest questions in the art world: is she smiling really, or is that only a clever shadow on her cheek? 

 

After a long day of museuming we’re ready for another delicious dinner, this time at a nice-looking place called Roberta, in the Abbesses.

      

 

Royal Wedding

After a big museum day it was time for a break, and there happened to be a Royal Wedding going on. So we dressed up a bit and dropped into a friendly local Brit pub for a pint or two on a warm afternoon.  

 

 

We ordered pints of their “Bang Bang” ale, as it seemed to be appropriate – or nicely inappropriate – for the occasion of a wedding. And we settled in for the show.

The Royal Bride arrived in a vintage Rolls Royce as the Groom, and the rest of us, anxiously awaited.

 

          

The beautiful couple mumbled the required oaths and pleasantries, and much pomp occurred. And an African-American preacher gave a pulpit-rattling sermon that will be remembered by the world. Then they were out to the traditional coach and four to wave at the crowds, while the Queen made her own exit.

 

 

It was a long and ale-soaked afternoon when we left the pub behind, heading back to the flat and a good afternoon nap. 

 

The Musée d’Orsay & Eiffel Tower

Another day in Paris, another famous museum. This time it’s the great Musée d’Orsay, standing just across the Seine from The Louvre in the ornate converted d’Orsay train station. The old Paris-Orléans clock still graces the façade, interesting statuary stands out front, and the towering interior lends itself to a great variety of sculptures. Lucky Parisian kids get to study this art up close and personal.

 

This museum is one of our favorites; it seems more approachable than the Louvre as it concentrates on art after 1848. If you wondered where the Courbets, Corots, Renoirs, Degas, and van Goghs are hidden after walking through the Louvre, they’re over here on this side of the Seine.

 

Elyse and Rachael were drawn to the classics, while Carolyn and I mostly stayed in the Āmes Sauvages exhibition featuring surprising art from early modernists in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. Many of these artists were referencing the old myths and legends of the Baltic peoples, making them relevant to the present day. Sorry, no pictures allowed. Only the poster image...

Museum cafés can be a fine place to break for lunch (and they often have great views) before heading back to the galleries. 

 

 

 

Closing time finally arrives, and we take a long walk down the banks of the Seine. Late afternoons by the river are like a carnival, as families bring their kids along for some welcome together time. 

 

 

But we’re also making our way to dinner near a large Tower that we noticed somewhere off in the distance. Word has it that the Tower lights up at dusk, and some say it even sparkles. We find the Café Eiffel, only a block from the tower, and it almost has a view. It’s a good place for a sit, as a young couple does their wedding pictures just across the street.

The evening sets, and the Eiffel Tower comes brightly to life. And then it sparkles as 20,000 lights twinkle for five minutes every hour until 2am. It’s an impressive performance, well worth seeing, and a crowd gathers to cheer the Iron Lady every night. Later we pass lots of guys selling miniature twinkling towers on our way to the closest Metro stop, in case we need one of those around the house.

 

 

Saint Germain 

We have tickets for an evening organ concert at Notre Dame cathedral and decide to begin the day in nearby Saint Germain. The old used books and trinket stands along the Seine are a good way to start. Every artist, student, writer, and philosopher of Paris has thumbed through these books and art prints, and found treasures to keep. A dog in a houseboat on the river below is unconcerned and enjoying the world in a comfy spot.

We don’t get far into Saint Germain’s wonderful jumble of streets before we stop for a bite of lunch. Then a young couple doing ice cream shots inspires some of us to do the same. 

 

 

Around every corner in Saint Germain there’s another opportunity for shopping, classical music concerts, and general slothful behavior. It’s a great part of the city.

 

 

 

By the time we got to the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore, the afternoon rains had set in. Carolyn and I ducked inside for a couple of cappuccinos, but there was no place to sit or stand. So we sat outside and tried to pretend we weren’t getting soaked. Finally we gave up and stood with the crowd sheltering under the canopy. “I love Paris…when it drizzles.”

 

As the rain let up we wandered on, past The Cavern of the Forsaken, in search of dinner. And then it was time to make our way over the stone bridge to the island where the Parisii first settled here around 250 BC. We were on our way to the imposing gothic cathedral of Notre Dame and an inspiring evening of organ music, ripping and rumbling off her great old stone walls.

 

 

 

Notre Dame

  

David Higgs gently placed his finger upon the soft note that begins David Conte’s Pastorale and Toccata (1991), then he lifted his finger and paused to wait with a patient smile as a sudden and piercing siren faded outside into the Paris evening; a muted chuckle spread through the audience. With silence restored, he lightly touched the organ key again and resumed playing Conte. It’s a quiet piece, in contrast to some of the earlier ‘fireworks’ of Franz Liszt and Calvin Hampton in this evening’s program which ends with the fierce cords of Charles-Marie Widor rumbling our seats and shaking the ancient walls of Notre Dame. Ghostly blue light emanating from tall gothic arches behind the altar added its own element to the evening.

 

 

A concert performed on the 7,800-pipe organ in this fabulous space is not to be missed, and we recall a similar experience here 30-some years ago, with Cesar Franck at the keys. It was recommended by our good friend and organist, Larry Titman, who also mentioned there had been some concern then about damage to this iconic church from over-flights by the Concorde and other modern aircraft until studies showed that Notre Dame’s massive organ had long produced far more decibels than the aircraft.

 

Outside in the night, the ‘City of Light’ provides its own show that never disappoints. Each huge and magnificent building shows even better in the darkness and proudly displays the architectural wealth of this historic city. And also there are the city’s famous rats, nosing about for a bite or two that may have been dropped by a careless, or kind, soul. I only got a few fuzzy shots as they scurried by in the darkness, but luckily I found a batch of the fuzzy rascals in a shop window nearby.

 

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A Pause

At about this point in the trip Rachael says she’s having a hard time getting her head around all the different things we’ve done since leaving Florida on a ship about a month ago. This is our sixth country since then (Bermuda, Açores-Portugal, UK, Belgium, Netherlands, and France) and I understand what she means. But we’ve still got a few more days here in Paris before she and Elyse board a plane back to Albuquerque. Next up: the Centre Pompidou.

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Centre Pompidou

We board the Métro and head off again into the city. After a train change at the dazzling Arts et Métiers station, we emerge at the Rambuteau stop to face the eclectic-crazy and modernist Centre Georges Pompidou. Renzo Piano’s radical design, putting the building’s ‘innards’ on the outside, was a shock to the City of Light at its debut back in 1977, when it replaced the beloved Les Halles central food market. It was called “love at second sight” in National Geographic Magazine. And Le Figaro said, “Paris has its own monster, just like the one in Loch Ness.”

 

 

Back in the early 1980s, when Carolyn and I first visited the museum, it was the talk of the architectural world. But it seems to be weathering poorly these days, a victim of all that boldly exposed structure. The Centre houses the Musée National d’Art Moderne, which mounts major exhibitions every year and sees more than five million visitors annually. A quick ride up the iconic tubular escalators puts us right into the art-surrounded-by-structure concept of the hallways. We duck into the galleries for a wide-ranging tutorial on the past century or so of modern art. 

 

 

 

Later we break for a nice museum lunch on the upper deck, with a look-over at the fun and fantastical Jean Tiguely- Niki Saint Phalle water-activated creations in the Stravinsky fountain far below. Carolyn and I recall having a cognac up here many years ago, overlooking the city.

We look around the charming Marais district on our way back, and check out the Harley Davidson store; but we have tickets tonight for Au Lapin Agile and need to head in that direction. 

 

 

Au Lapin Agile

We stop for yet another delicious dinner – this is Paris, after all – on our way to an evening at Au Lapin Agile, a special place in the city.

A night at Au Lapin Agile puts us closer to a ‘French experience’ than most common tour venues. This is a century-old song hall where Modigliani, Toulouse-Lautrec, Satie, Picasso and the other radical Montmartre artist crowd used to hang out over a slug of brandy and sing the old songs.

It’s on a steep and cobbled pedestrian roadway just down from the Musée Montmartre, and there’s a crowd of folks out front in festive wear for picture taking. We thought they were on line, but they wandered off before the door opened at 9;30 p.m. for the evening show. Inside there’s a piano player in the corner, and an empty table in the center. We sit on benches around the edge of the room and sip cherry brandy while the benches fill. 

 

Soon the center table fills with eight people who arrive as friends out for an evening of song, and they commence singing together, in a variety of voices from fine to rough-hewn – and all in French. And sometimes one performs a separate song, while artfully playing a guitar or the piano. One young lady sang while she played the piano behind her back. First time I’d seen that done!

 

About four hours later we spill out into the cool Parisian night, well after the last Metro train has departed the nearest station. We were well-brandied as we trudged slowly upward over the butte of Montmartre, then down past the Bateau Lavoir, and through the labyrinthine Abbesses neighborhood to our apartment in Pigalle. It was about 2:00 a.m., and a night well spent.

 

Annick

We met up with our friend Annick and her youngest two daughters at the Trocadero, a broad plaza overlooking the Seine, with the Eiffel Tower beyond. Annick, a graduate of the Sorbonne, is an economist for the French Government, and it was good to see her and the kids again. Carolyn and I had stayed with her in her home for a week a few years ago.

Annick had tickets for a river cruise on the Bateaux Mouches, a great way to see the city from the Seine. As an old sailor, among the first things I noticed was a pair of beautiful old ‘lee-boarders’ tied to a quay. It’s a common type of boat found in shallow waters, as in the Netherlands, where it’s important to lift the large swing keel quickly to avoid hitting the bottom. 

 

Our trip progressed with spectacular views of the city and other large boatloads of tourists passing by. There’s lots of picture-taking as we pass the Louvre and the d’Orsay, a few oddities, and so many majestic vistas. People wave from historic bridges as we pass beneath.

 

 

 

 

Meanwhile the people of Paris go about their quotidian lives, enjoying their beautiful riverscape to the fullest. 

 

 

 

  Next up was a visit to the top floor of the Tour Montparnasse, the imposing dark office building that erupts from the beauty of Paris like a raised middle finger. It was because of this esthetic violation that space was made available in La Défense, at the edge of town, for modern skyscrapers. I have tried to ignore the Tour Montparnasse, but they say some of the best views of the city are from the top – because none of them include the ugly tower itself! 

I had to admit that I gained a different and valuable perspective from the top, looking down upon Montparnasse cemetery, the city’s intricate network of avenues, plus the Tour Eiffel – which also enraged some Parisians as an ugly intrusion, back in the day.  

 

 

        

It was a fine Sunday afternoon, well spent, in a city that never fails to fascinate. But Annick’s daughters were getting tired of the tourism thing and needed to prepare for school in the morning. Among final embraces, Annick gave us a copy of her recent book on the challenges of raising black children in a white society. We were honored by the gift and we’ll tackle the task of reading it, in French, after we return from our trip. We’re also expecting Annick and the girls to visit us soon in Kino Bay.

 

It’s been a long and memorable trip for the four of us, with plenty of sights seen, and fine extended time spent with my sister Elyse and niece Rachael. But after a month of travel, they needed to pack for their return trip to the US.

 

We top things off by deciphering yet another French menu, for a last fine dinner at Le Vrai Paris in charming Les Abbesses. Followed by ice cream cones!

 

 

And then, in the morning, there are final goodbyes to Elyse and Rachael as a taxi whisks them off to Charles de Gaule airport for a very long flight to the US. Bon Voyage!

 Up next: What will we do in Paris without Elyse and Rachael? — PRW

Summer 2018: Amsterdam

It’s a nice final morning in Bruges, sunny and warm, as we head to the train station and grab a quick breakfast. Signs on the walls look like they’d be a lot of fun to pronounce, if not understand; but both of those are far beyond me.

 

Soon we’re on a fast Thalys train through Brussels and onward past the woods and farmlands, greenhouses, and wind turbines of this productive land. It’s an elegant way to travel. A Belgian lady seated just across from Carolyn strikes up a conversation regarding current politics, and other mass delusions in Europe and the US. 

 

In a couple of hours we’re in Amsterdam’s clean and bustling Centraal train station. From this gorgeous old building we can book trains to just about anywhere in Europe, or hop on one of the convenient and frequent trams that stop just outside the main doors, and watch the charming old city pass by our window. We could search among thousands of bikes parked here daily for one that looks sort of like ours, or we can catch a free ferry to the NDSM-werf to see the old Soviet sub that’s still tethered over there. 

 

 

 

And we can even glance across the river Het Ij to check whether there’s a cruise ship docked in town. That gleaming white ship is sitting where ours was docked last night – while we stayed in wonderful Bruges!

 

   We catch a cab to our nice clean 2br flat on Govert Flinckstraat in the De Pijp district, an emerging area of artists and good food – and ‘coffeehouses’ that don’t specialize in coffee. In fact, there’s a ‘coffeehouse’ about ten paces to the left of our front door, and the Ibiza ‘coffeeshop’ on the corner, two doors to the right. In an emergency, we’d be well supplied, although the evening air often delivers the essence of pungent herb through our open windows for free. And who could have imagined we’d be right close to the European Lubricating Grease Institute (ELGI), if there’s a sudden need for those services. Plus, Rachael — with mom Elyse in tow — just found her most recent ‘favorite bar’ only a block away. And some sort of happy bird sings all day, wonderful, and fortissimo, in the backyard garden. Life is good.

 

 

 

 

Just round the corner there’s a cosy little place called Bij Paul, kinda in a basement, where we can order up a delicious Dutch breakfast with ham, good local cheeses, and fine healthy breads with jam. Paul’s ‘Drive in’ – it’s more a ‘stoop in’ – is that white window shelf to the right with a handy bench for waiting.

 

 

 

The morning after we arrive, there’s a big open market selling just about everything, on the next street over from our flat. Our flat has a nice little kitchen, and we soon overstock it with good food – even if we can’t pronounce a lot of the names!

 

We soon return to Centraal station to board an hourlong boat cruise through Amsterdam’s famous and intricate lacework of canals, passing numerous sites along the way and every sort of craft, from modern, to funky, to historic. Our Captain shows her skills in delicate pirouettes through the narrow bridgeways. For Amsterdammsters, the canals are a linear public park, enjoyed on any warm and sunny springtime day. Artists have long found paintable scenes along these canals.

 

 

  

 

 

 

The streets of Amsterdam are a constant fascination that’s best seen with a good walkabout. The central city is fairly compact, and it doesn’t take long to get most places on foot, with numerous enchantments, oddities, and outrages along the way. And each narrow house has its traditional center beam with pulley; they’re still used for raising furniture and goods to upper floors, bypassing those narrow stairways inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you’re somehow feeling compelled to learn Dutch, you can do that here. And maybe you won’t have to tell a judge that you didn’t know what ‘verwijderd’ meant.

So what is it with Dutch, anyway? Why are there are so many different ‘Dutch’ sayings in English: a half-door is a Dutch door, and going Dutch means splitting the cost. A Dutch uncle is that guy who always tricks his nephews, and you might get a Dutch rub across the head if you talk back to your Dad. We haven’t seen Dutch apple pie on a menu here, and nobody around here sells Dutch ovens, either. It goes on and on. But the Dutch are a fun-loving people with their own private language that nobody else even understands, and I think they’re fine with that. But you could take a course and try it!

 

With all those Banksy posters around town it was time for a visit to the MOCO Museum (which name does not translate well into Spanish!). After years as an urban provocateur, Banksy is still anonymous; yet his social commentary and art has earned him a place in the best museums, and a kind of stardom. Pieces of his graffiti on city walls have been carefully removed and restored by art conservators. And now he has top billing in Amsterdam, over the legendary Roy Lichtenstein. Seeing these two graphic masters together and comparing their works up close was a rare treat. 

 

 

 

 

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On the way to the MOCO, we walked through a huge bricked underpass and could hear what seemed to be organ music resounding. Upon getting nearer, we found two young accordianists, playing classics and holding passersby spellbound!

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Our perky Dutch friend Nathaly had the idea of spending a day at the ‘Rollende Keuchens’ (Rolling Kitchens) event in the Westerpark, to savor the current trends in Dutch fun, food, and drink. We’re always ready to drink and eat our way through any new cultural activity, and those fun-loving Dutch even had a frenetic stripper performing ancient cultural dances for us on top of a truck. Right near a fire-breathing dragon! They think of everything. 

 

 

 

The Dutch have been known for tulips ever since the Tulip Mania of the 1600s, so another day trip with Nathaly took us to visit the Keuchenhof gardens. Wandering for hours among 80 acres of every imaginable breed of tulip in the world’s largest ‘bulb-flower’ garden is a special experience. We were there over a long afternoon on the last day they were open for the season, and we didn’t get close to walking the whole place to see every kind of special – and even bizarre – hybrid there is around today. But it was still enough tulips to last me a long while.

 

 

Bikes are heavily used everywhere here in Amsterdam; a bike is the best way to get around, and very easy to park, in this crowded city. Studies in Scientific American say that bicycles are five times more efficient than even walking, based on calories used per mile. And according to various sources, that converts to between 1500 and 3000 miles per gallon. So Amsterdam, with more bikes than people, must have one of the highest transportation efficiency ratios in the world. And maybe the greatest variety of bike bells!

 

 

 

And there’s nary a flabby paunch in sight. At just a glance it appears that bike riding is a very healthy lifestyle, and most of the US could use a good bike to work now and then.

But bike riding here can be challenging and maybe a bit dangerous, if you don’t know all the complicated local rules of the road – and for that you probably need to be born to the skill. In other words, maybe you shouldn’t try it here if you’re not Dutch.

Our 2016 Amsterdam post has more about bikes and other things.

 

Ah, Amsterdam. Where a person can escape the fog of hysteria that obsesses the world, and just enjoy life. Here you can buy a nicely-rolled joint at the corner ‘coffeeshop,’ and enjoy it with your favorite local liqueur. Without fear of correction-Nazis beating down your door.

I have enjoyed a bit of the benevolent bud myself at times – and yes, I always inhaled deeply – but I actually prefer a good cocktail and a decent wine with dinner. We all have our favored escapes; and who cares, if it’s not harmful to others. 

After more than US$1Trillion spent persecuting countless young people and ruining their lives, drugs are now cheaper, more plentiful, and of higher quality than ever before. Yet the Phony Drug War persists. There’s so much money involved, that logic and science are not a consideration. It has become its own superstition, its own religion, and apostates are dealt with severely. 

There are some bad choices in the world, but marijuana is fairly benign (the CDC lists zero marijuana overdose deaths in the US). And it’s the worst sort of hypocrisy to be damning the weed while smoking cigarettes, or drinking liquor.

BTW: Portugal decriminalized all drugs 14 years ago, and has a far lower drug death rate than almost every other country. 

So we’ve had a fine week in Amsterdam, and we almost feel like dancing in the village square – if we could find one around here. But now we need to move onward again. Our next stop will be always-exciting Paris. — PRW

Summer 2018: From England to Belgium

 

Southampton, England

Four fine days at sea, after leaving the Açores, we rounded the Isle of Wight at dawn (I can’t even think ‘Isle of Wight’ without humming ‘When I’m 64’ by The Beatles) and cruised into The Solent, a famous venue for sailors, before tying to the dock at Southampton. On the morning of our 13th day after departing Fort Lauderdale, we had finally reached the far side of the Atlantic – at a port made famous by countless Masterpiece Theatre dramas where crowds waved to relatives leaving for the New World. It was also the departure point for the RMS Titanic in 1912, and this port was home to 4/5 of her deceased crew members. The tragedy is still remembered here. She would make two more stops after Southampton before leaving Europe for New York.

At the dock, a waiting bus hustled us off into the green southern English countryside on a tour to nearby Stonehenge. It was a bright and sunny Saturday morning in May, and it was also a ‘bank holiday,’ so we soon encountered traffic jam-ups as legions of Brits stormed the beaches for a rare day in the sun. 

Our affable driver soon opted for an exit from the traffic crawl to a welcome bypass route that took us through the leafy and pastoral New Forest, with its plentiful deer and its privileged free-ranging cattle, horses, and other livestock governed by Verderers and Commoners law. (It’s complicated but interesting)

 

 

We emerged from the woods near Salisbury, with its majestic cathedral spire (the tallest in Britain) dramatically backlit in the morning sun. There’s even a copy of the Magna Carta inside this towering pile of stone dating from the 1200s. But we’ll have no time for that, as nearby Stonehenge awaits.

 

 

At the Stonehenge parking lot we board a different bus for a quick trip ‘to the stones,’ lying just over the hill. C & I would love to just walk there on this wonderful morning, but we’re in a bit of a time bind on the tour. 

 

 Topping the hill and seeing those iconic stones in the distance is a singular experience. Friends have mentioned being able to walk among the stones ‘in the old days,’ but now we’re restricted to a somewhat crowded pathway at a modest distance from the ancient monument. Upon seeing the visiting crowds, we don’t really have a problem with that. Sometimes you get a much better view from a distance, and the view isn’t crowded with people. A bit of separation helps to bring out the majesty of the setting. One has to wonder what kind of hierarchy, persuasion, religious dictatorship, whatever, it took to get this feat accomplished around 5000 years ago. But, as they say, “Give me that old time religion.”

 

And the local raven clean-up crew hopefully awaits anything edible that may be carelessly dropped along the pathway.

After having scoped out the distance involved, Carolyn and I decide to take a brisk walk back across the moors to the parking lot. Something about the scene recalls that adventure of Sherlock Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles, and I’m glad it’s not a fog-bound and mysterious day. First we pass a ‘Free the Stones’ encampment but don’t have time to enquire about the issues involved. We assume it’s not regarding some infraction by the Rolling Stones, as they seem to have put most of that youthful exuberance behind them in their dotage. Just like the rest of us.

Bright yellow fields of canola (we’re told) shimmer in the landscape. And fallen moss-covered logs in the woods recall childhood memories of similar pastoral scenes from summer visits to cousins in Kentucky.

 

And soon we’re back in Southhampton for a walk-around in the small but charming Old Town center. One can imagine the Titanic here, moored to the dock before its doomed inaugural passage to New York (it’s hard to imagine any inaugural event that went more poorly); and there are poignant reminders here of that last visit.

The old stone sidewalks and streets of the city offer plenty of gorgeous sights and picture-worthy moments.

 

But the day is long, and soon it’s getting thirsty out. The ship will be making a late departure for our next landfall just across the Channel in Cherbourg, so we’ll look for a good place to wisely invest a few British pound notes in an evening dinner ashore. We’ll get our noses wet with a tall English ale, and then savor the tastes of recently-improved British pub food. And Rachael will be introduced to a large platter of ‘vertical’ fish and chips.

Later we make our way back to the ship, 'as the evening slowly falls across the sky like a patient etherized upon a table' (with apologies to TS Eliot); nightfall comes late in these northerly latitudes. And another fine and ridiculous towel animal awaits in the cabin where C & I will rest our heads. In the morning we’ll be in France.

 

Cherbourg, France

It’s not possible for me to think of Cherbourg without recalling that über-romantic 1964 movie where lovely young Catherine Deneuve made her stunning screen debut. (Here’s the steamy and heart-wrenching trailer.) 

I called the local box office back in 1964 to ask about showing times for “The Umbrellas of Cherbourg” and the lady on the phone couldn’t find the listing. Then she said, “Oh, you mean the ‘Umbrellas of Cherryburg’?” Albuquerque was a remote outpost in those days, far from the attractions of Europe. 

The movie was the ultimate date-flick at the time and was entirely musical with no spoken dialogue – just songs, scenery, and swelling background music. All in French. I was taking French in college at the time and imagined I might improve my skills somewhat by watching the movie, but I left the theater with a more realistic assessment of my language ability. And I still don’t speak much French, but France remains a fascination.  

 

  Cherbourg is a place I’ve long wanted to visit but never had the opportunity until Holland America posted it on the itinerary of the Zuiderdam’s 2018 crossing. It’s one of several reasons we booked this passage. We figured that the movie was still a major attraction and looked forward to finding the old umbrella shop and maybe buying an umbrella. But we arrived on a holiday, and the place was closed! After more than half a century of waiting. Well, that’s the breaks.

Cherbourg is an old port city on the bottom edge of La Manche, as the French call the English Channel. Sailing is a long time passion here and the harbor is filled with beautiful sailing craft. And since it’s a holiday, there appears to be a regatta in store. It’s always a wonderful sight when white sails and other non-motorized craft fill the waters.

Over the millennia this strategic location at the end of the Cotentin Peninsula has been occupied by Celts, Romans, Franks, Saxons, Normans, Vikings, you name it. This is where Napoleon’s remains were returned to France, and the site of the 1864 battle where the USS Kearsarge sank the Confederate ship CSS Alabama – witnessed by thousands of people who happened to arrive for the opening of a casino! And it was one of the last ports visited by the Titanic before her doomed voyage. From here, the ‘unsinkable’ ship made its last port of call in Queenstown, now Cobh, in Ireland. So our ship, apropos of nothing in particular, is visiting two of the last three port calls for the Titanic. 

Cherbourg’s harbor was bombed in WW2, but much of the medieval city survived; yet cruise ship tours focus more on the nearby Normandy D-Day landing beaches and the relics that remain. Post-war rebuilding made the city more industrial and less romantic than portrayed in Jacques Demy’s classic musical film. Still, the narrow streets of the old quarter retain plenty to fascinate a few errant day-wanderers. 

 

As with most French towns and villages there are small squares for families to enjoy. Sculptures grace many quiet nooks, and window displays of whimsical art are found here and there. And there was a clever recessed boot scraper to keep us amused.

On a quiet lane, we’re beckoned by a fine chocolate shop where the lady wraps each purchase elaborately before it goes out the door. The performance alone is worth the price.

 

The traditional and welcome afternoon beverage stop at an open-air cafe precedes more narrow lane explorations.

The doorway to an old gothic church beckons, and we enter beneath a battalion of voracious gargoyles. The inside is wonderfully intricate and coloristic. Artists have always managed to put their own vision into their work – if they could get it past the local bishop. And there’s a poster for the Guides and Scouts of Europe, a European version of the Girl Scouts. The poster shows a young teen pasted to a TV set above a healthy outdoorsy group of her contemporaries and asks, “For her, which do you prefer?”

 

 

We head back to the ship for our last night aboard, as we’ll be debarking in Zeebrugge, Belgium. We had planned to leave the ship in Amsterdam but, well, it’s complicated. We’ll explain later.

Elma, our cheerful and delightful wine steward, is there by the dinner table as always to make sure we’re completely well-watered. On the sea outside the broad windows of the dining room, other ships are also heading northeasterly for that narrow point between Dover and Calais. I imagine that if I awake at some dark early morning hour I’ll be able to see the lights of both cities as we pass through the notch, but that doesn’t seem to happen.

 

After a fine last dinner and a show on the Main Stage, we check our position on the chart plotter before turning in for the night, with yet another towel animal resting on the bed.

 

But not before we take down that last load of bathtub laundry we hung up before walking around Cherbourg. There’s no extra money in our budget for shipboard laundry service!

 

Bruges, Belgium

Bruges is impossibly cute. Her winding and well-preserved medieval streets lure you ever onward into a warren of corners and alleys lined with waffle shops and windows filled with chocolate extravaganzas you’d just like to dive into, but know you shouldn’t. 

Bruges is the fantasyland where we finally debarked from all the comforts of the ship that carried us over the Atlantic to Europe. We had planned to leave the HAL Zuiderdam at the cruise dock in the heart of Amsterdam. Then we’d roll our bags to the nearby Centraal train station and hop a tram to the apartment we’d reserved in the De Pijp neighborhood. But our request to leave the ship in Amsterdam was denied. We were told they already had their quota of ‘deviations’ for that port. (Four more ‘deviants’ are too much for Amsterdam?!?) 

 

The port city of Zeebrugge (‘Bruges-by-the-Sea’) and an overnight in Bruges was our only good choice; it’s just an afternoon train ride onward to Amsterdam. We rolled our bags off the ship for the last time and hopped a port shuttle to the Blankenberge station. After all the pleasures of the ship, we were glad to be footloose again. A quick ride on a spacious train from Blankenberge through orderly Belgian suburbs to the Bruges Central station put us near our hotel. We’ve been through Belgium before but never made time to visit, and now found ourselves blessed with an unintended overnight stay in one of the more beautiful small cities in Europe. We had no regrets. 

Bruges (from the Old Dutch brugga for ‘bridge’) was an important post-Roman trading port located on the ‘Golden Inlet’ at the lucrative crossroads between the northern Hanseatic League and the southern trading routes. The local Bourse is likely the first stock exchange in the world; and the first book in English, a translation of a French romance, was published here in 1473. Bruges declined after 1500 and became the main character in the novel Bruges-la-morte and the opera Die tote Stadt (The Dead City). The city survived both the First and Second World Wars with little damage and now has a population of 118,000, down from its medieval peak of about 200,000.  

One night in Bruges isn’t really long enough to fully appreciate this old historic city. Carolyn found us a good small hotel right in the center of things, and we couldn’t have asked for a better location. The sounds of daily life on the narrow streets below drift into our window like a movie soundtrack, mingled with the enchanting clip-clop of horses' hooves and carriage wheels on cobble stones.

The immensely charming streets of Bruges are not for low-calorie people looking for an all-organic experience. This is the place where well-intentioned resolutions are forgotten and your long-suppressed inner ten-year-old comes to the surface. And of course, there’s every kind of ‘Belgian waffle’ – called just ‘wafels’ in Belgium.

 

While the temptation is to gorge yourself mercilessly on every beckoning delight, there are many other enchantments in Bruges. Small wooded copses line duck-friendly canals that long ago powered the commerce of Bruges, and where they now offer boat rides through deep history. We overheard one lady say that her canal boat ride through these ancient ways was the highlight of her time here.

 

 

 

   A quiet cloister, with elderly nuns wandering through, offers a restful tree-shaded space for a few random patches of exuberant little springtime flowers. An ancient church graces another nearby street, and there’s a harp concert on schedule.

 

Besides sweet delights, the windows of Bruges are also where you’ll find plenty of finely crafted souvenirs, from tiny painted houses, corkscrews, and tapestries to the most intricate works of lace. 

 

 

And, if you somehow missed them before, there are even more chocolate and wafel shops to tempt you along the way.

 

 

But all days eventually end with a lowering sun around ‘O Beer Thirty.’ And among their many other blessings, the Belgians are well-known for their beer. They even deliver it to the pubs every morning from a beer tanker with a really long hose! Add a platter of hearty tucker to that tall ale and it will tide you through the long night. And all is well as the gentle night falls upon our weary shoulders. 

 

 

For soon enough the dawn will call, and it will be wafel-time again. With ice cream and sprinkles!

Next stop, Amsterdam. — PRW