Paris, March 2006: Day 5, March 18, 2006, Paris, France (Shopping around Hotel de Ville, Buddha Bar)
On this day, I didn’t mind missing breakfast or anything else because I was so tired.
We slept until
12 p.m. almost missing our rendezvous with Francesca and company at
12:30 p.m. Matthew and I were getting used to readying ourselves quickly now that we were used to
Paris’ weather and the likelihood that we would walk many miles before we arrived back at our hotel for the night.
We took the Metro to the Hotel de Ville station for lunch and met up with Francesca and her friend Stephanie, another Italian living in
Paris.
In the city of foie gras, escargot and brie, we opted for steaming hot plastic bowls of paella with fresh pieces of crawfish, fish, chicken and chorizo sausage. Before I left for Paris, I read that the city’s culinary reputation went far beyond its native French cuisine and into a wide variety of international fare, especially Spanish and Asian foods. From the taste of the paella, I realized why the article rated Paris so highly for its international cuisine. We ate the paella at some benches across the street from a curbside market in the midst of Hotel de Ville during a clear and cold Parisian Saturday of shopping.
The food energized me to face the large crowds streaming in and out of the department store BHV (Bazar de l'Hôtel de Ville) and other stores along Rue de Rivoli. From my observations, Parisians took shopping seriously. Shoppers had a look of determination as if they were checking off items on their mental checklists while trying to avoid sideswiping little old ladies with their shopping bags. Street-side sellers didn’t have as much tenacity, but more like a quiet expectation that someone would eventually buy their wears.
Our cadre of American, Italian and French speaking cohorts casually made its way through a variety of clothing stores. Our eyes were as big as saucers as we gazed on the treasure trove of fashion within the neighborhood, but there was one serious problem – there was nothing in Matthew’s or my size. Every perfect jeans, khakis, shirt or jacket we picked up was a European large which is the equivalent to an American medium. The more I tried on clothes, the more I swore to get back on a diet when I got back home. We left three stores disappointed. Stephanie then suggested that we head to Celio (4 rue Halevy), a moderately priced men’s and women’s fashion store known to carry items in non-European sizes.
We took the Metro to the Opera station and for a minute gawked at the ornate Paris Opera House. Our gawking soon stopped as we found Celio across the street from the opera house. The next hour was a complete blur as Matthew and I tried on almost every piece of “cool” clothing in our size. My roommate, Craig, always asks why doesn’t life come with a soundtrack? I never know how to answer him, but as I tried on clothes in the fitting room and paraded myself like a peacock in front of our group, I had “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred blasting in my head. I walked out with one shopping bag with a jacket and three shirts, but Matthew walked out with two shopping bags with two jackets, dress shirts, casual shirts and ties. I wonder what his soundtrack was?
The sun was starting to set and now as usual, Matthew and I were looking forward to the evening’s entertainment. Francesca casually mentioned that tonight’s festivities would include drinks, dinner and dancing at the renowned Buddha Bar (8/12 Rue Boissy d’ Anglas). I stopped in my tracks as the words “Buddha Bar” left her mouth in slow motion. I’m a budding fan of the bar’s annual electronic/house/ambient music CD release and shamefully admitted that I thought the bar didn’t exist, that it was just a cool name to slap on a CD. Francesca smiled in delight and told me that I was going to be in for a pleasant surprise. Our group then broke up to get some rest and prepare for evening’s events.
Around 10 p.m., we met up at the Place de la Concord station across the street from the American embassy. We walked 50 feet to a large iron door with the words Buddha Bar inscribed above it. I guessed that in the daytime this door was oblivious to passers by, but at night it called to those who craved the excitement, danger and exotic nature of the Parisian nightlife. The doorman opened the door and bid us welcome to the Buddha Bar. As we descended the stairs, I heard the legendary DJ spin Indian-inspired tracks to match the space’s Asian appearance. Much like its cousin, Barrio Latino, that we visited the night before, Buddha Bar is a multilevel space with a restaurant occupying the bottom floor, bars and dance areas occupying the second floor and a gift shop on the third floor. From the second floor I saw patrons dining by candlelight on exquisitely white table clothes over mahogany wood tables. I couldn’t see the entrees, but from the level of conversation and the sheer look of glee on their faces, I knew I was in for a gastronomic treat. Our reservation wasn’t until 12 a.m., so we found a corner with a couch and chairs to have drinks. The drink menu is extensive, but pricey. A draft beer costs me €8 and a mixed drink ranged from €10 to €17. I ignored my wallet’s cautious call and welcomed in the hedonistic atmosphere. As the evening progressed, the place changed from lounged to all out club as people began gyrating to the music within the confines of their bar stools and tables. I thought I was in a hazy, dimly lit dream, but our reservation’s call snapped me back to reality.
Buddha Bar’s main staircase descends to the middle of the bottom floor in full view of everyone eating making every party’s seating like a walk down the red carpet at the Academy Awards. As I was dressed in my newly acquired French fashions and I was leading the group, I went down the stairs with a slow and confident stride taking in the stares and wondered if onlookers thought that I was some celebrity. We were seated near the bar’s trademark two-story Buddha statue and were all abuzz with anticipation of a good meal and conversation. The meal didn’t turn out to be a meal, but just appetizers, dessert and more drinks. I was a little disappointed at not having the opportunity to sample the cuisine, but swore that I would return to do more damage to my credit card. I had the steamed dumpling sampler as an appetizer and the molten fudge cake for dessert. The dumplings’ succulent filling of pork and chicken was wrapped in a moist wonton shell with a hint of wasabi. The cake didn’t meet my expectations, but my love for chocolate overrode my criticism. With the music, atmosphere, food and alcohol coursing through my system, I wasn’t the best conversationalist, but the conversations that did take place were full of laughter and sudden outburst of song. Our waiter must’ve been scared to approach such a gregarious bunch because it took him almost 30 minutes to get our check, but the longer he took the more time it gave me to appreciate that I was in Paris, in the world famous/now real to me Buddha Bar, talking with Italians and French and experiencing life to a degree that I could’ve never imagined. Plus the evening wasn’t over yet.
After we concluded our dinner around 1 a.m., we met up with Stephanie’s friend, Josephine, on the second level for even more drinks and heavy dancing. Josephine had also brought along two visitors from Sweden and Denmark. Our group had grown into a mini-United Nations. We might not have understood what each other was saying, but that night we all spoke the international language of drink-induced group dancing, heavy flirting and Matthew and I fending off drunk guys trying to get too frisky with the ladies of our group. We partied until the house lights came on at 4 a.m. Fortunately, we had sweated out the most of the alcohol in our systems and didn’t enter the frigid night stumbling drunk.
As we walked towards the Champs Elysses, we continued our loud laughter and random outbursts of song. We kept stopping to translate, guess the next song or hold our stomachs from laughing too hard. I just had the best evening of my life and it was a fitting way to end my second to last day in Paris. Matthew and I walked the ladies to their bus stations to catch the night buses back to their respective places. We bid goodbye until it was just him and I walking along the Champs Elysses to a night bus stop along Franklin D. Roosevelt. At 4 a.m., the night buses were running every hour and the 35 degree weather with a 20 degree wind chill wasn’t agreeing with our club attire. We decided to take a taxi back to our hotel for €20. The ride was worth the money, not just in saving us from hypothermia, but the ride offered us views of a Paris full of light and energy still at almost 5 a.m. I saw why they named this city the “City of Lights.” Mostly every structure was aglow and the highway was lit with the stream of headlights and taillights. Maybe it was the remaining alcohol in my system, but I was feeling more relaxed amongst this late night hustle and bustle than any quiet evening at home from the past six months.
As we traveled back something felt weirdly natural, like living in Paris over the past four days felt like a return home. It was a feeling of leaving behind everything that troubled you in the past and experiencing something to jumpstart your future. A future destined for more trips to places like Buddha Bar, shopping for designer clothes, seeing some of the most beautiful structures in the world, engaging in thought provoking albeit misunderstood conversation and experiencing a day with endless possibilities. I thought of my home and what it meant to me, but soon came to the realization that my home wasn’t just a place to be missed. It was a feeling that I always had a place to return to find comfort and peace. Home was also carried in my heart, so where ever I went, I wouldn’t be too far away and in tandem, always be at peace. I could find home anywhere just as long as I loved what I did and thanked God everyday for the opportunity to experience the life He’s wanted for me.
Paris, March 2006: Day 4, March 17, 2006, Paris, France (Montmartre, Sorbonne, Palais du Luxembourg, Saint Michel, Marie, Barrio Latino)
Waking up late was starting to become a habit, but I wasn’t about to miss a free meal.
The package through Gate 1 Travel included breakfast with our hotel room every morning of our stay.
Although breakfast ended at
9:30 a.m. my eyes didn’t open until
9 a.m. I left Matthew slumbering and without caring how I looked, went downstairs to appease my stomach’s morning call to action.
Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.
It’s also one of the reasons why I appreciate the American appetite.
I’m used to getting all four food groups usually in the form of scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice, turkey sausage, fruit salad and a slice of tomato. On both my trips to
Europe, I’ve run into the European style of breakfast which is sometimes just coffee, bread, preserves and a piece of meat.
Mind you, I appreciate all cultures, but nothing comes close to a hearty American breakfast – well, maybe my mother’s ackee with saltfish, sautéed liver and fried festival. Breakfast at the Kyriad La Villette was no different from any other European hotel I’ve visited.
It was served buffet style in the adjoining restaurant, Cote’
Cote’.
I was lucky to catch the last few minutes of the buffet service. The waiter showed me where to get my utensils and left me to figure the rest out on my own. I piled a slice of ham, a croissant, a slice of cheese, preserves, cereal with cold milk, fruit cake and yogurt all on one plate.
I managed to get some good cups of coffee, orange juice and water before the staff cleared everything.
The restaurant was mostly empty with the exception of an elderly couple, so I chose to sit farthest away from the street-facing windows and in a quiet corner where no one else would see me devour the pile of food on my tray.
I’m not one to pass up a free breakfast, French, American or otherwise.
With my need for food satisfied I returned to find Matthew only half asleep. I asked him about the internet café he found the previous day during his search for a phone card.
He directed me towards a place five blocks away from the hotel due southwest down Rue de Crimée. I cleaned up, dressed and left him half snoozing. This was the first time we separated during the trip and it felt good to experience a new place on my own for a while. I ventured out into the busy streets of Rue de Flandres and headed towards my destination, alone, but full of excitement.
I passed the shop on Rue de Nantes with the great Greek sandwiches and headed down three more blocks until I hit Rue de Crimée.
In my initial observation about the area of our hotel, I saw many shops, markets and any other services that locals and travelers would need.
During this walk I saw more of the same thing, but appreciated the fact that I could easily get a toothbrush, baguette or designer shirt if needed.
I walked another three blocks down Rue de Crimée until I saw the flashing neon “@” symbol above a shop door – the international symbol for cyber café.
As I fumbled through my French, the attendant politely answered me in English and assigned me to a computer.
I only paid for 15 minutes seeing that I just wanted to check my e-mail for any important job interviews and my bank account to see if I had received my last paycheck from my former employer.
Unfortunately, all websites were in French and there was no way to change anything to English.
So, I did the best I could, checked my e-mail and my account, and promptly left using most of my 15 minutes trying to figure out if I was transferring funds or answering e-mails correctly.
Back on the streets, I decided to go into a Monoprix, a local supermarket, to pick up a big bottle of mineral water, again a luxury item to me.
I still wasn’t hydrated enough from the flight over coupled with the effects of the previous day’s tear gas.
Not knowing where bottled water was kept, I explored the store to find out that it not only offer food products, but clothing, small electronics and other products.
I liked the variety and availability, but had to restrain myself from falling into my “can’t just buy one item” syndrome.
I found a two-liter bottle of Evian and was wowed at the €2.50 price.
I usually pay almost $5 for a bottle of Evian back home.
Happy with another “smart buy” I headed back to the hotel to find Matthew awake this time and ready to head out to meet Francesca.
In my absence, Matthew arranged to have us meet Francesca in his old stomping ground, Pigalle,
Paris’ “red light” district.
During his study abroad trip four years ago, he and his classmates lived in the district which was near their school.
I thought he was studying screen writing not sex education.
We caught the Metro to the Pigalle station and emerged in heart of the
Paris’ equivalent to NYC’s
42nd Street, Amsterdam’s Red-Light District and other destinations of sex around the world.
You look any direction and all you see are businesses that cater to sex.
It’s ironic that high above this area sits one of the most magnificent churches I’ve ever seen.
We met up with Francesca in Place Pigalle and with no desire to hang around the sex shops we began a long climb up winding hills and stairs to the highest point in
Paris,
Montmartre.
Montmartre is a hill and community in northern
Paris, in the 18
th district, primarily known for the white-domed Basilica of the Sacré Coeur (Sacred Heart) on its summit, but also as a popular 19
th and 20
th century hangout for famous bohemian artists and musicians.
The artist community was still in existence during our visit, but was downgraded to artists in the middle of the main square selling their wares.
I was disappointed that the same place that inspired such institutions as the Lapin Agille and influenced the likes of Picasso, Renoir and Van Gogh was now just a historical district.
Despite my disappointment, I did enjoy my walk through history and the view from the steps of the Basilica of the Sacré Coeur was awe-inspiring.
The panoramic view of
Paris offered spectacular views of the distant
Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and even La Defense.
I wasn’t the only one captivated by the view; a group of school children were sitting on the church steps trying to draw the skyline.
I wondered if they knew how lucky they were to live in a place with such history, culture and beauty.
After taking in more sights, we headed downhill to get the Metro back to Saint Michel.
Along the way, I saw how modern day
Montmartre kept its historic heritage.
Development was at a minimum, but the historic buildings that once housed artist colonies now housed galleries, convenience stores and the occasional real estate office.
Matthew, who’s also a real estate agent, lingered at one of the offices trying to turn his vacation into a business trip.
After finding the nearest Metro station, we arrived back at Saint Michel to inspect the damage from the previous night’s riot.
The police still had a significant presence, but the crowd had thinned to onlookers, media and a few protesters gearing up for tonight’s rally.
Francesca and Matthew struck up a conversation with one of the officers and he warned us to stay away from any of
Paris’ major universities tonight and possibly during the remainder of our trip.
The warning was duly noted, but that just increased my sense of adventure.
We passed Sorbonne and further up Boulevard Saint Michel to the
Pantheon, a church built by France’s King Louis XV, but after the French Revolution was turned into a mausoleum for the interment of great Frenchmen and women (the remains of Marie Curie were interred their in 1995).
Directly east of the Pantheon is the Palais Du Luxembourg, home of the French Senate, and the adjoining gardens, the Jardin Du Luxembourg.
We strolled around for a while trying to figure out names of the statues of former French royalty and admiring a rather glorious Parisian sunset.
It was only fitting that we talk politics in front of the French Senate.
Francesca, like others around the world, held
America in contempt for the current conflict in
Iraq.
She has also taken our new immigration laws rather personally.
She might not like American policy, but she loves the American people that she’s visited in the past and would love visit them again.
I hope that things become lenient soon.
I don’t like the fact that I can travel mostly anywhere in the world to visit people in their home countries, but others can’t do the same to see me in my own home.
As the sun set, Matthew and I were growing anxious to see what tonight’s nightlife would have in store for us.
Unfortunately, Francesca couldn’t join us because of a previous engagement, but she did make reservations for us at a
Latin Quarter tapas bar called Les Pietons (8, rue des
Lombards).
Francesca walked us across the
Seine River passed Notre Dame to the Hotel de Ville,
Paris’ city hall.
We made arrangements to meet up at this spot the next day for some well deserved shopping.
We said our goodbyes and Matthew and I continued on to Les Pietons in the Marie area.
It took us a little while to actually find the restaurant.
Unlike NYC,
Paris’ streets aren’t setup on a grid system.
The system is setup more like a wheel with a center plaza and the streets outstretched like spokes, thus complicating our navigation.
In contrast, it creates a variety of hidden neighborhoods and a true sense of being off the beaten path.
We finally found the restaurant in the midst of other kitschy, but cool bars, restaurants and shops.
Because of our misdirection, we had missed our reservation, so we made another reservation for an hour later.
We decided to tour the neighborhood to see about finding a good bar for some pre-dinner libations.
One bar caught our attention with its tropical theme and red velvet walls.
It was rather crowded, but the drinks were worth the wait.
I had a mojito while Matthew had a margherita.
After the first sip we both stopped looked at each other with this goofy smile on our faces.
We had just found the best drinks we’ve ever had.
Well, I don’t know if he felt the same way, but I was definitely feeling that way.
We took in the surroundings and even struck up a conversation with the party next to us about a late night hangout for good drinks, dancing and a straight crowd.
They recommended Barrio Latino (
46 Rue du Faubourg St-Antoine, 12 arrondissement
). We thanked them for the advice and turned back to our conversation. We laughed over the recounts of the past two days so much that we almost missed our second reservation.
Unfortunately, our waiter made a mistake and instead of bringing us our bill, he brought a second round of drinks.
From my point of view I thought we were rather fortunate.
We quickly corrected the waiter, slammed down our drinks, paid for them and ran to Les Pietons as our reservation was called.
We sat in a dark corner of the restaurant near two large parties celebrating either a birthday or some other special occasion.
Les Pietons didn’t have as much as a “Latin” feel as other tapas bars I’ve visited, but seeing that we were closer to
Spain than in the
U.S., I forgave the restaurant’s interior designer.
I was appreciative of our good fortune of finding good Spanish tapas in
Paris.
Overall, the food was a toned down, but pleasing version of traditional tapas.
I was feeling adventurous, so I let Matthew conspire with the waiter for a totally unexpected order with the exception of having an empanada.
If Matthew can try calamari at any restaurant that sells it, I can try empanadas as well.
Surprisingly, for a noisy Friday night crowd, the service was quick and attentive.
Our menu included: fried calamari, beef empanadas in a flaky phyllo crust, pan seared chorizo served on a bed of risotto and potatoes sautéed with a light tomato sauce.
We topped everything off with a glass of the house sangria and another mojito.
By the time the meal came to a close we were a mixture of exhaustion, but enthusiasm about our next destination, Barrio Latino.
We caught the Metro back to the Bastille area and found the club rather easily.
Barrio Latino is a multilevel space designed by Gustav Eiffel (same person who designed the
Eiffel Tower) in the 19
th century.
The space remains an impressive structure with the top two floors dedicated to a restaurant and the bottom floor dedicated to a dance floor and bar.
It was a magnificent space decorated with a mix of Latin and 19
th century French motifs.
I tried to take the space in more, but I was becoming exhausted and the dance floor wasn’t too appealing with just one couple on it.
Matthew and I found some empty bar stools in the rear bar and ordered another round of mojitos and margheritas.
Every drink after the red velvet walled club was a disappointment and this round added to the hurt.
I expected that two popular spots such as Les Pietons and Barrio Latino, would have better quality drinks, but just because one pays €10 for admission doesn’t guarantee one a good drink.
After about an hour, the club started to pack out, but our bodies couldn’t take being up any longer, plus the Metro was closed at
12:30 a.m. which only gave us half an hour to get back to our hotel.
We walked back out to the dance floor, got jiggy for a few minutes and quickly made an exit.
Fortunately, we caught the Metro just in time at every transfer station and made it back to our hotel in 15 minutes.
When we got back to our room it only took us one minute to collapse in our beds and try to get some rest before our big shopping excursion the next day.
Paris, March 2006: Day 3, March 16, 2006, Paris, France (CDG, 19th District, Saint Michel, Protests, Bastille)
My eyes have never looked so bloodshot.
It was almost demonic looking.
I felt fine for most of the flight, but after waking up from breathing rather dry air for almost four hours I wasn’t the happiest traveler.
After a quick jaunt to the lavatory, I felt a little better, but longed for an actually shower and a gallon of water.
The captain was making his announcement about our decent into Charles De Gaulle Airport, so that meant a mad dash for the bathrooms by most of the passengers.
I was glad I went earlier because I was able to enjoy the breakfast service with a view of the rapidly approaching French landscape.
As I looked at the
Paris suburbs I was struck with a sense of familiarity.
This place looks like home or any other city in the
U.S. that I’ve flown into.
The only exception was the abundance of fields and vineyards, but you can get the same view flying over northern
California.
As we neared touchdown the contrast between my previous thoughts of familiarity began to dissipate.
The signs were in French.
The graffiti was in French.
Things were a bit sleeker.
There wasn’t as much traffic surrounding the airport.
With all my looking around, I forgot we were about to land.
It was the jarring bump of the landing gears hitting the runway that snapped me out of my observation.
In all honesty, the landing was much better than the previous night’s takeoff.
It was surprisingly smooth with the exception of some S-turns the pilot made.
I never liked it when massive amounts of steel, electronics, people and jet fuel made wide turns along a strip of asphalt no wider than a football field.
“Ladies and gentlemen welcome to Charles De Gaulle International Airport in
Paris, France.
The time is currently
10 a.m.” said the flight attendant over the loudspeaker.
We were finally here.
I looked back at Matthew who had a congratulatory smile on his face.
It’s been almost four years for both of us since we were last in
France, but it was well worth the wait.
We taxied
passed a bevy of other large airliners, some I’ve never seen before.
Air
Tahiti Nui?
I didn’t know
Tahiti even had its own airline.
One airliner in particular caught my eye.
Well, she’s not actually an airliner anymore. Air
France’s last
Concord supersonic jet sat posted on three pedestals as a testament to one of the most marvelous planes in aviation history.
It was one that I hoped to ride on in my lifetime.
Unfortunately, I’ll never realize that hope, but hopefully there’s something better on the aviation horizon.
We kept taxiing passed the terminals to a large holding area for a number of airliners, most not Air
France airliners.
We came to a stop and I was baffled to see a bus pull up next to the plane.
I suddenly remembered that our flight’s final destination was
Mumbai, India, so the
Paris passengers had to depart here to allow the plane to continue on.
I was a little peeved that we didn’t get a jetway because of the 32 degree weather outside.
It was no bother though because we only spent 30-seconds in the open air before we boarded the bus to the main terminal.
Matthew and I bowed goodbye to our flight crew, had our documents checked and boarded the bus for the terminal.
Having worked at a major international airport, it’s interesting to see its operation from the ground level instead sitting high above it in a plane.
Some parts aren’t as clean as you would’ve hoped, but just as long as it functioned I wasn’t about to complain…much.
We arrived at immigration to find our bags already on the carousel.
After we went through another security and immigration checkpoint, we entered into the main hall of Terminal 2A at Charles De Gaulle International Airport (CDG).
Now it was time to catch an overland train (RER) to central
Paris, but the train station was in Terminal 2C and there was only one moving sidewalk.
Thankfully we had rolling luggage.
We arrived in the CDG2 train station to buy our Metro passes for Paris, but the “convenient” kiosks were unfortunately all in French plus we could only buy the five-day passes at the customer service counter who’s line was longer than the previous day’s matinee at the “Lion King.”
Matthew and I were kept company by a couple who had also signed up for this trip through
Gate1 Travel.
We helped each other navigate the terminal and the Metro pass buying process.
We soon caught a train together and were well on our way to central
Paris.
I never turn down the kindness of strangers.
The outskirts of
Paris are as industrial and worn as
New York City’s, but I’ve learned a lesson about “older” cities.
They can’t help, but show their age and the infrastructure needed to keep them going and growing.
Although, the French graffiti did bring a certain edge to my French vacation fantasy, but that would soon prove to be the least edgy observation in this city.
The Paris Metro is a sprawling network of three major systems: the Metro (subway system), the RER (overland suburban rail system) and bus system.
It’s simple to navigate if you can read a map and signage.
My word of warning would be to be patient with the system and not to expect it to be as easy as one stop.
Our trip from CDG to our hotel in the 19
th district or arrondissement took three transfers totaling 30 minutes.
We finally emerged from the 7-line’s Corentin Cariou station and only had to walk three blocks along Rue de Flandres to our hotel, the Kyriad La Villette.
The area surrounding the hotel reminded me of Chelsea, but much more working class.
There was an art school nearby so there were a number of students going to class, shopping or just hanging around.
There were also plenty of grocery stores, restaurants, pubs, bakeries, banks, pharmacies and anything else that a traveler might need in very close proximity.
The 19
th district contains the Parc des Buttes Chaumont and Parc de la Villete both bordering the Canal Saint-Denise.
Villette is also the largest park and second largest greenspace in all of
Paris.
It is also home to the Cite’ des Sciences et l’Industrie, one of the world’s largest and most visited science museums. Our check-in went smoothly and we were soon presented with a moderately sized room just enough to fit two people, even though there was cot for a third person.
Matthew and I had the same level of excitement as our first day in NYC, but we fell into the same syndrome.
Within minutes we were both asleep.
I don’t know why I try to force myself to stay up and not rest while I’m traveling.
I guess I feel that I have to see everything before the day gives out, but sometimes you just can’t ignore your body.
If you do you can become cranky and not fully enjoy what you came to see. We woke up around
5 p.m. after about three hours of sleeping.
Actually I woke around
5 p.m., Matthew had woke up earlier to do some exploring on his own and to get a phone card to call his friend, Francesca, our resident tour guide for the entire trip.
On his outing he found a great Greek sandwich place a block from our hotel on Rue de Nantes.
Still in the same clothes from the plane, we left the hotel for Greek sandwiches and a phone booth.
Walking along Rue de Flandres and without opening my mouth, I felt myself starting to blend in to the rush hour crowd.
I was dressed mostly like anyone else and looked just the same.
I remember on my earlier travels to
Europe, I was afraid that I wouldn’t dress enough to fit in and that there wasn’t someone like me (race-wise) in the area.
I quickly learned two things: clothes are universal and the color of your skin doesn’t dictate your geographic location or language.
There are Black Scotts (
Scotland), Asian English, Indian French, etc.
I was circled by a direct contradiction to were I grew up, where most Blacks spoke English with a slight to heavy Southern twang in their accent.
I guess I’ve been in
Georgia far too long; I was beginning to generalize my own race.
I was comforted to look like any other Black Frenchman, although I didn’t sound like it.
Actually, I don’t sound like a typical Black Southerner and I’m very proud of that.
The Greek sandwich shop on Rue de Nantes was different from other sandwich shops I’ve been to.
First, everything was fresh.
Nothing was pre-cooked, came out of a plastic bag or out of a freezer, except the fries.
Second, they didn’t put the lamb meat on pita bread as most Greek sandwich shops I know.
Instead, it was on warm French flatbread.
That combined with a cool cucumber mint sauce, some good old fashioned Freedom…I mean French fries drenched in ketchup and a Perrier, I was doing the happy food dance.
This was a grand step up from the lamb I had on Air
India coming over here.
I also took this opportunity to practice what little French I knew with our waiter and Matthew, who’s slightly fluent.
I know the basics of basics, but I was glad Matthew was there because I don’t know what I would’ve eaten if it wasn’t for his translation.
Satisfied, we went to the nearest payphone to call Francesca.
Matthew and Francesca met while they were both at
Georgia State University, my alma mater.
He was studying screenwriting while she was on a semester study abroad from
Italy.
They became good friends and kept in touch over the years.
I could tell by the smile on his face when he heard her voice on the payphone that he was just as glad to see her as she obviously sounded to see him.
We decided to meet up at
6:30 p.m. in front of the Saint Michel station in the
Latin Quarter.
That only gave us 45 minutes to meet her, so we dashed back to the hotel, changed clothes and caught the Metro to Saint Michel.
Now, throughout this trip, I had the pleasure of seeing some of the most beautiful women while on the Metro.
They weren’t just the typical French woman, but the mixture of races had created some glorious looking beauties; Indian and Black, Anglo and Persian, Italian and Spanish, etc.
I must’ve fallen in love at first sight multiple times while on this trip, but I was always reminded that there was someone back home that I admired far beyond her beauty.
The Saint Michel Metro station is right across the street from the Seine River and the fountain of Saint Michel (for the archangel Michael), and on outskirts of the Latin Quarter, one of Paris’ “to be” places for students, good conversation, food and drinks.
Matthew spotted Francesca across the street, and as if it was something straight out of a movie, Francesca ran to Matthew and leapt into his arms with her legs wrapped around him.
I guess they were “really” good friends.
After an extended introduction we were off to celebrate the friends’ reunion at Café Latin (Rue Git le Coeur, across the street from the Hotel Villa d'Estrees at 17 Rue Git le Coeur).
Café Latin was a perfect place to begin our journey into the
Paris nightlife.
It’s a warm place with low lighting and a cherry atmosphere, resembling an English pub.
We toasted our trip with
Kronenburg and Guinness.
After getting caught up Francesca wanted to take us past her school, Sorbornne.
She was studying writing there for the past month until recent protests had turned violent and closed the school temporarily.
I had no desire to be in a protest, but I still wanted to see how a protest went on in the capital of all protests.
I got more than I bargained for.
We walked up Boulevard Saint Michel a wide avenue full of shops, brasseries and the occasional fast food joint, but for a Wednesday evening around
7 p.m., most were closed and some were even barricaded.
That should’ve been my first warning, but we kept walking.
Francesca explained why students where protested en route.
The French Senate had passed a resolution making it possible for companies to fire young hires after their first two years without any notice.
In effect it was making
France an “at-will” employment country.
This resolution was designed to spur the rabid unemployment percentages, but the youth saw it from a different side.
Their ability to secure a job after graduation assures their quality of life.
In effect helping them start a life and contribute to society.
The resolution allowed companies to take that ability away from students and now they were voicing their discontent.
In the distance I could see the orange glow of a fire.
We all thought it was a bonfire, but as the flames shot hire and the smoke turned obscenely black, we knew it was a car.
That was my second warning, but as Matthew and Francesca held back, I suggested that we go for a closer look and then leave if it was too intense.
We then passed a strange site.
In contrast to the violence ahead, revelers played bongos and danced in the streets.
Most came to protest, some came to party and few came to wreak havoc, but why do the few always seem to outweigh the many?
We got close enough to see police in full riot gear and water trucks poised to blast the crowd with water cannons; this protest had turned to a riot.
I’ve never seen anything like this before and it excited me.
My true adventurous side comes out when danger is involved.
I sometimes like to play with “fire,” but sometimes fail to realize that I just might get burned.
The crowd’s noise was deafening, but suddenly there was a hush amongst the voices.
I looked up to see fireworks go off, but the sparklers stayed lit while they hit the ground with a metallic sound.
Those weren’t fireworks, those were tear gas canisters.
The crowd realized this as well and started running away from the gas, but in our direction.
That prompted us to run too.
We had two choices: avoid the crowd or tear gas.
We decided to inconvenience ourselves rather then suffering a death by trampling and went for the gas.
We tried our best to avoid it, ducking around corners that weren’t too hazy, but the wind carried it in our direction and we were soon feeling the gas’ effects.
It starts with a burning sensation in the chest, almost like acid reflux and you start to cough.
The cough gets more violent as the gas moves to your throat which makes also makes you thirsty.
The gas finally moves to your nostrils, sinuses and eyes, and all the sniffling and coughing in the world can’t stop the burning sensation in your eyes and your nose turns into a leaky faucet.
We pulled our scarves over our nose and mouth to reduce the effect, but it was too little too late.
All three of us were coughing violently and stumbling towards the side of the road.
Luckily an owner of a movie theatre took pity on us and few other escapees, and ushered us into the lobby of his theatre.
We couldn’t find a bathroom to wash out our eyes, but we were at least grateful for filtered air.
Francesca and Matthew struck a conversation with the owner in French.
From the gist of things he agreed with the protesters, but didn’t agree with the violence that was spreading over the past few days.
The French welcome the raising of voices to bring about change, but not when it’s coupled with the complete disregard for order.
We saw police and rioters run by the theatre, and I prayed that this would soon be over.
I wish I’d brought my camera, but realized it was the best decision to the leave it at the hotel.
I would’ve been crazy to take pictures while a crowd was running towards me followed by police in riot gear.
I was on vacation not an assignment for a magazine or newspaper.
We waited for about 30 minutes until things had settled down. Francesca wanted to get a move onto the restaurant, but the theatre owner had just heard a report that the riot had spread so the police had blocked off that section of the neighborhood where the restaurant was located. Disappointed, we left theatre in search of an alternative. We took the Metro to the Pont Marie/Bastille area to find a restaurant Francesca had forgotten the name and location of. She remembered what the street looked like, but everything looked different at night. We went around Place de Bastille and then down Rue de la Bastille looking at a few places that seemed interesting. I was about to give up when I turned to see this brightly, but invitingly lit restaurant. I cocked my head to read the sign on the awning. Could it be? This can’t be the restaurant I wanted to visit that was featured in “Something’s Gotta Give?” This can’t be…Bofinger (5 rue de la Bastille)? It actually was. In our haste to find a suitable place to eat, we stumble upon the one place at the top of my list of things to do in Paris, and possibly the most expensive. We looked at the menu and I was a little weary at the prices, but, like most Paris restaurants and to my relief, there was a prix fixe menu offering a three-course meal including appetizer, main course and dessert for €29 (euros). Matthew suggested that we might as well go to the restaurant now since we were standing in front of it. Know what, he was right. We went in and were promptly seated in one of Paris’ finest brasseries. Another word of advice, go to popular restaurants during the weekdays when the crowds are at their lowest. You’ll still get excellent service, but won’t have to suffer long waits for a table or worse yet, make a reservation far in advanced.
Unfortunately, our prompt table came at a price. We were seated in the smoking section, thankfully next to a window, but still in the midst of powerful French cigarette smoke. I was raised around a smoker, Francesca is a smoker and Matthew didn’t care, so it didn’t bother us too much. The restaurant’s atmosphere was first class. The maitre d’ guessed that we were American and gave us English menus, but the service didn’t diminish as I thought it would. Within minutes the prompt waiter had bread at our table and wine menus in our hands. Francesca suggested a merlot that she often had, so we all had a glass. I also ordered sparkling bottled water, a luxury to me seeing that my water choices in restaurants back home are limited to whatever comes out of the restaurant tap. The merlot came in three generous glasses and lasted throughout dinner. It’s medium body, but fruity flavor had hints blackberry so it had enough sweetness to make it compatible with the first two savory courses.
From the prix fixe menu I ordered a roasted mushroom loaf in a light cream sauce as an appetizer, roasted duck breasts with creamed potatoes for the main course and the chocolate mousse cake for dessert. Matthew had the foie gras of duck with brioche toast, pork tenderloin in a béarnaise sauce and the chocolate mousse cake. Francesca was the odd ball and just ordered the schnitzel with sauerkraut. We enjoyed the restaurant’s atmosphere and our own light-hearted conversation until the food arrived. The mushroom “loaf” was a lighter consistency than a meatloaf, but one could taste the slow roasted process that they went through and the cream sauce balanced out the smoky flavor. Matthew seemed to be enjoying his foie gras of duck which, after a small sample, tasted sweeter than other foie gras that I’ve had before.
After we finished our appetizers our main courses soon followed. This is where the service impressed me. All of our dishes arrived with three separate waiters and was placed in front of us simultaneously. Even though Francesca ordered just schnitzel with sauerkraut, her dish was the most elaborate. First, a small tray with a brass sterno canister was placed on our table at the end of our appetizers. Second, her meal arrived in a covered silver tray with the rest our meals. Finally, the tray was placed over the brass sterno tray, the sterno lit and the covered lifted with flair to reveal a heaping mound of glistening schnitzel and pungent sauerkraut. I looked at my duck breast and had immediate meal envy, but the taste made up for the portion. The duck breasts were done medium well so they were still juicy with a pink center, but a chewy texture. The béarnaise sauce kept the duck’s sweet taste balanced with its robust flavor. The creamed potatoes were the only disappointment, but my expectations weren’t that high to begin with. I love a good conversation during dinner, but when good food is present, I love silence even more so I can enjoy the first few bites. As the meal progressed, we sampled each other’s dishes and also helped Francesca get through her food. Matthew’s pork medallions weren’t as savory as I expected, but the accompanying sauce helped elevate the dish’s overall taste. Francesca’s schnitzel tasted more like the turkey kielbasa my roommate gets at the supermarket back home. I was a little taken back, but ignored my inclination to ask the wait staff if this was real schnitzel. Sadly, the main course came to an end, but our stomachs were ever thankful. The dessert wasn’t far behind the conclusion of the main course. The chocolate mousse cake came on pool of raspberry coulee and met my wildest expectations.
Satisfied, we looked at each other and laughed at the whole situation. Here we were enjoying the service of a fine French restaurant when only a few hours previous we were running from a stampeding mob and suffering the effects of tear gas. I loved the irony of this evening, so with the last of my merlot I raised my glass and toasted this vacation and the many more ironic situations we would go through.
New York City, March 2006: Day 2, March 15, 2006, New York City, NY (Central Park, "The Lion King," Night flight to Paris)
This was my first vacation where I had nothing scheduled.
Sure, I had things that I wanted to do, but I adopted Matthew’s relaxed attitude and went wherever my interest carried me.
He and I were very different travelers until this trip.
I like schedules, maps and timetables, but he doesn’t mind giving the map to someone else, waking up at
noon and going wherever the best recommendation takes him.
We mixed both our styles during the trip; some days seamlessly, other days we got on each other’s nerves.
I eventually became the map/timetable reader, travel document holder and photographer.
He took on the role of finding something interesting to do that day and also to keep me from looking too much like a tourist.
I learned a lot from him this trip with the exception of over packing, but hopefully I’ll have my lesson learned by the next trip.
We got up around
11 a.m. groggy from the activities of only a few hours prior and from the movements of our roommates.
It started with the couple from
Iowa getting ready for their day’s activities and soon included one of the students from
Arkansas taking phone calls from friends he was to meet later in the day.
I was a little annoyed, but glad to be up on the second day of my vacation.
Mark and Ethan, the guys from
Arkansas, talked about this little grocery store that offered a bagel sandwich and a large cup of coffee for only $4.
I was intrigued at this deal seeing that I was so used to paying $6 to $8 for a coffee and a bagel sandwich at my former employer’s cafeteria.
I asked if Matthew and I could join them for breakfast and they agreed.
The store was across the street from the hotel so we braved the winter temperature dressed in hoodies and jeans.
The store was a narrow space packed to the ceiling with everything you’d find in a larger supermarket including a butcher shop and grill in the rear of the store.
I ordered a bagel with bacon, scrambled eggs and cheese, and a large coffee.
Within minutes I had my order in hand including my coffee mixed.
I kindly handed over my $4 and braced myself for what such an inexpensive breakfast was going to get me.
When we got back to the hotel and unwrapped the food, I was shocked at how much I got for so little spent.
The bagel wasn’t toasted so it gave the sandwich a better consistency.
The coffee was as good as anything I would get in a Starbucks or Caribou Coffee.
I was completely satisfied and happy about my “smart” buy, but thankful to Mark and Ethan for their recommendation.
This was the day we left for
Paris.
Our plane was scheduled to leave
Newark for
Paris at
9:50 p.m. later that evening, plus we had tickets to see a
2 p.m. matinee of the “Lion King” at the New Amsterdam Theatre.
We knew we wouldn’t have time to do anything after seeing the play knowing that we had to take the train back to the
Newark from
Manhattan, so with only about two hours before the play, we decided to tour
Central Park.
This required a trip on the famed or infamous NYC Subway, depending on your point of view.
Some people don’t like the Subway because of the musty condition and crowds of people trying to squeeze onto a train during rush hour, but I love the thing.
Growing up in
Atlanta where the mass transit system is very limited, I formed an instant appreciation for the NYC Subway.
It goes mostly everywhere within the NYC metropolitan region and is a cheap and sometimes faster alternative to a taxi.
It’s definitely an alternative to walking the over 20 blocks it took for us to get the edge of
Central Park.
After buying MetroPasses (subway admission passes) we took the C train from Penn. Station to
59th St.-
Columbus Circle.
Riding on the subway always interests me.
Some call the subway the great common denominator.
Everyone rides it.
I saw what seemed to be executives sitting next bag ladies, immigrants sitting next to tourists, housewives sitting next to students.
You could meet an interesting cross section of people on a major mass transit system.
The closer we got to
59th St. more executives boarded the train and I wondered why.
We got off at our stop and my question was immediately answered.
At the exit to the station stood the impressive twin towers of the Time Warner Center, home to media conglomerate Time Warner, parent company to CNN, Warner Bros. Studios and a host of other mass communication-related companies.
The glass paneled building reflected the clear sky and seemed to almost blend in.
It was a beautiful example of a big city skyscraper.
The
Time Warner Center is across the street from the southwestern most entrance to
Central Park, one of the world’s largest municipal parks and probably the most famous.
We were expecting throngs of people jogging, walking their dogs and simply using the park, but at
12 p.m. on a Wednesday in March our expectations were set a little too high.
There were some people in the park, but not as many as how it seems in the movies.
We walked along paths and up various hills and boulders in search of something besides paths, hills and boulders.
We found something of interest when we came
over one ridge to discover the Trump Ice Rink.
Unknown to each other, Matthew and I were both familiar with this ice rink from the movie “Serendipity.”
He asked me if I knew what movie this rink was in and when I answered he was a little taken aback.
“We spend too much time together,” he said laughing.
I guess great minds think alike.
One word of advice while visiting NYC in March, DON’T WEAR JUST A T-SHIRT WITH A PULLOVER.
My jeans kept my legs warm, but the moist winter wind was going straight through my pullover sweater and t-shirt.
It was warmer when we went out for breakfast earlier that day, but the more time I spent outside the more I experienced the day’s true temperature including wind chill.
To get myself warm, I walked briskly on the paths and tried to stay in the sunlight, but being in
Central Park among trees and going under overpasses wasn’t helping.
We passed the Balto statue, centerpiece to the movie by the same name about the sled dog team who delivered anti-toxin to a flu stricken
Nome, AK in the winter of 1925, and went down a few steps to the Bethesda Fountain and Terrace.
I knew about this fountain and terrace from various movies, most recently the ending scene in “Angels in
America.”
Ironically, a movie production was in progress near the fountain, but we didn’t stick around to be extras.
Upon our exit, we bumped into two missionaries visiting NYC from of all places…
Valdosta, GA. We talked for a few minutes about our recent travels and about missionary work in NYC.
We ended up praying for one another in the middle of the park.
I admired their courage to help spread the gospel especially in a place like NYC.
I hoped to do the same some day soon, not just in NYC, but all over the world.
I hoped that they remained in good spirits and saved a number of souls on their trip.
God bless them!
After we said our goodbyes to the missionaries, we saw that we were short on time in order to get to the
2 p.m. showing of the “Lion King.”
We were both tired and not in the mood to run to the nearest station, but we sucked it up and trotted to the
72nd St. station. After a short train ride, we were greeted at the New Amsterdam Theatre by an extremely long line of eager theatre patrons.
I wasn’t too happy standing in the wind, but I was on line to see the “Lion King,” said to be one of the best productions on Broadway…so I thought.
Our seats were definitely worth the $40 we paid being in the “nosebleed” section in the rear balcony, but they were still good seats.
I was eager to see this production of one of my favorite movies, but by the end of the production, I still liked the movie more.
Although the visuals,
costumes, music and singers were good, the production was line for line from the movie.
It didn’t have the same impact as the movie, but maybe it was an off day for the cast.
Overall, I liked the production and recommend it to friends, but I wouldn’t see it again.
We had four hours before our plane left for
Paris and we still had a 30-minute train ride back to
Newark Airport, so I was getting a little frantic.
Matthew almost had to physically stop me from running back to the hotel, but when he explained that we would make it to the airport with almost two hours to spare, I slowed down.
We got back to the Chelsea Star Hotel, packed our things, checked out and boarded the train to
Newark Airport.
My excitement started to build as the train pulled into the
Newark Airport station.
I couldn’t stop smiling as we got closer to
Paris with ever step, monorail ride, ticket counter and security screening.
Matthew was right; we did make it to the gate with a little less than two hours to spare.
I passed the time reading, talking on my cellphone to my grandmother in
New Rochelle, NY and gazing at the hulking 747-400 aircraft waiting for us at the end of the jetway.
This was my first time on a 747-400, the same type of aircraft as Air Force One.
I dreamed about the spacious interior and having a drink in the upper lounge, but as usual my dreams faced a bitter reality.
Just because a plane is the biggest in the world doesn’t mean you get the most space, airline just get more space to cram in more seats.
Air
India, our airline and the national airline of
India, filled every available space with a seat which wasn’t good for Matthew who’s 6’ 4” tall.
Luckily, the flight was no where near full so I was able to get an entire three seat row to myself and Matthew got a seat with ample leg room.
Strapped in and hydrated with the initial serving of orange juice and water, we pulled out of the gate and began our taxi to the runway.
I get really excited during take offs because I absolutely love them, plus I was taking off to go to
Paris – what a combination.
After a few minutes, we reached our takeoff position at the beginning of the runway.
The interior of the plane was slightly noisy with the obvious chatter of the passengers and the sound of engines using little power to taxi, but the sound became a deafening roar as all four engines came up full power, hurtling us down the runway.
I would’ve loved to put up my arms as if I was in a roller coaster, but I wanted to save myself the embarrassment.
The plane shook as we reached takeoff speed and I expected the shaking to stop as we left the ground, but it didn’t.
The first 30 minutes of the flight was probably the worst I’ve ever experienced on an airplane.
There must’ve been a great deal of turbulence because we shook and dropped for longer than I care to remember.
My knuckles were white from gripping the armrests.
At one point I saw Matthew pullout the safety guide.
I think he was looking for a parachute.
Thirty minutes passed and the shaking and dropping subsided to a slight shimmy now and again.
I started to relax, but was still a little anxious, that’s until my flight attendant brought me two mini rum bottles and some Coca-Cola.
I double fisted the drinks to slow down my pounding heart and soon found myself with a slight buzz, a little more relaxed and with the dawning feeling that in six hours we would touch down in
Paris, France.
The in-flight service was probably the best part of the flight, well for me at least.
My flight attendant was extremely nice and was very attentive to me and the other passengers in his section.
Matthew’s attendant was the complete opposite though the service was fast enough where her attitude didn’t warrant Matthew to lock her in a lavatory.
I for one love Indian food, but was weary about trying the airline food version.
Not that I’ve had any bad experiences with airline food, but when you are presented with the menu description of “roast leg of lamb with red wine and mushroom sauce, parsley potatoes and sautéed vegetables” you expect that.
I was presented with dry slivers of lamb with a sauce that didn’t taste anything near red wine or even mushrooms.
The potatoes and vegetables were okay, but I was thankful for the rather large dinner roll.
There weren’t any options to eat at the terminal in
Newark, so this was my only meal besides the bagel breakfast from earlier in the day.
I ate for necessity alone.
Still buzzed from my two rum and Cokes, satisfied from the lamb and with a darkened cabin, I positioned myself to spread out on my makeshift bed of three airline seats, pillows and blankets.
I started reading “Kitchen Confidential” by Anthony Bourdain, but the words soon turned blurry as the alcohol took its effect and I was soon asleep.
I woke up briefly an hour later to find the rest of the cabin snuggled up in their seats including the flight attendants snoring in their bunks.
I opened the shutter to see absolutely nothing, but just the blackness of a night flight over the
Atlantic Ocean.
I was glad to be heading towards
Paris even if the flight started rather bumpy and the food was mediocre.
I remember as a kid about being so fascinated with how fast time would pass when I slept.
We still had five hours of flying before would touch down at Charles Du Gaulle Airport in
Paris, so I closed the shutter and proceeded to speed up time.
New York City, March 2006: Day 1, March 14, 2006, New York City, NY (Times Square, "The Producers," Chelsea)
As we arrived into
Newark this was the first time I felt that I was just passing through.
New Jersey doesn’t hold me as “home” anymore.
Actually, I don’t think it ever did.
It’s not where my heart is.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore my
Jersey accent, love for pizza and the feeling of nostalgia while watching the Sopranos, but I enjoy calling
Lithonia, GA home even more.
I love the South’s pace of life, the people and the feeling of hope that I have everyday.
I could have that feeling of hope anywhere, but it’s more apparent in GA.
Looking at an unwelcoming sky, it was fitting for a native son, who has officially turned his back to his once called homeland, but the
New York City skyline beckoned in the distance and so the vacation had begun.
After a bumpy decent, my friend Matthew and I arrived at
Newark Liberty International Airport, down the street from my old home in
Nutley, NJ.
Newark is still the same after all these years, but we weren’t staying around to see if anything was different.
We were just passing through.
The airport is situated 30 minutes outside of downtown
New York City by train. For that reason, the train became our primary mode of transportation.
For $14 one can get a train ticket connecting Newark Airport Rail Link station to
New York’s Pennsylvania Station (Penn. Station).
It sounds pricey for a train ticket, but it is worth it compared to a taxi, rental car or bus ride.
After 30 minutes of clanking along tracks and through tunnels we emerged at Penn. Station, not as grand as Grand Central Station, but still a major point for all those destined for the Big Apple.
Since this trip was on a tight budget, we couldn’t afford the more expensive tourist luxury hotels, but we found the next best thing-hostel accommodations at The Chelsea Star Hotel (300 West 30th Street and Eight Avenue). The hotel is three blocks south of Penn. Station and 12 blocks south of Times Square, but everything is still within walking distance. The Chelsea Star Hotel doesn’t classify itself as a hostel, but most of its rooms share a bathroom and they have three dormitory style rooms for $25 per person per night. I tried to stay in hostels during my first trip to Europe in 2002, but opted for cheap hotels. This was my first time sharing a room and a bathroom with four total strangers. I admit I was a little nervous, so I decided to do a preemptive strike. Every person that came in the room, I greeted warmly and struck up a conversation. It was my way of building trust instead of saying “please don’t steal my stuff.”
I met a young couple from Iowa who were in NYC for the week to see the sites. I also had the fortune of running into two students from the University of Arkansas in NYC for a college newspaper conference. Matthew, I and the UA students struck up a dialogue quickly. I guess writers are glad to see that they aren’t alone in their struggle to get recognition. Matthew and I had a ton excitement for the first few hours upon our arrival to NYC, but as soon as the room became quiet, Matthew was snoring and I was fighting sleep. I tend to move around and try to distract myself, but after my head hit the pillow with the bed facing an open window to an unusually warm March day, I was out.
We awoke a few hours later refreshed and ready to explore Times Square. We knew Times Square was due north along 8th Ave. so we started walking until we hit something. It’s hard not to be a tourist when you enter Times Square. Before you enter the main part of the square you start to feel this excitement, almost a rush of energy. Everybody around you, who’s not a working New Yorker, has a smile starting to creep across their faces and as they get closer the smile turns to a dumbfounded, open-mouthed expression of sheer glee. The lights, sounds and sheer size of the buildings almost make it seem like a dream, but as soon as you reach out your hand to touch the MTV studios building, the Reuters building, Toys R Us and other famous landmarks, you realize that this is all real. We tilled around for a minute taking everything in and to also look for a Bank of America and Wachovia ATM to get cash for a hotdog. This would be Matthew’s first NYC hotdog (actually a polish sausage, but it’s still in NYC). I’ve had hotdogs in NYC before, but seeing him enjoy it brought back the memory of my dad buying me my first NYC hotdogs on a class trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art back in the fifth grade. That memory always makes me miss him.
After the hotdogs we ducked into Toys R Us on Times Square, the self titled “Center of the Toy Universe.” This was my second time in the store, but I still acted like it was my first time, especially looking at the X-Box 360, Family Guy and Transformer displays. After almost an hour we emerged from the store to try to catch the remnants of TRL at the MTV studios, but we missed it. We settled on the next best thing, the Virgin Music Megastore. Personally, nothing shocks me about warehouse style music stores. They all carry the same thing; it’s what you’re looking for that matter most. We weren’t looking for anything in particular, so we went through it rather quickly.
We had originally come to NYC to see Broadway shows, so we went off in search of our first show, “The Producers” at the St. James Theatre. The comedy is from the mind of Mel Brooks (“Spaceballs,” “Robin Hood: Men in Tights”) and originally starred Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick. Unfortunately, Mel, Nathan and Matthew were not in attendance, but the show was still a riot. It’s about two producers who come up with a scheme to raise millions to produce a flop, but the show becomes a success thus putting an end to the scheme. Dancing Nazis, a girlish Hitler and one Third Reich saluting pigeon couldn’t stop the audience from laughing till they cried both in the play and in the theatre. Simply put, I loved it!
We left the theatre for the hotel in order to change for a dinner out on the town. We chose to stay close to Chelsea and see what this fabled area held. The Chelsea district of NYC is named after the Chelsea piers south of West 23rd Street on Manhattans southwestern side. It’s known for being a gay leaning area, but from the looks of things it was rather tame. The hotel concierge, Rasean, recommended a “cute” place called Cafeteria for dinner on Seventh Ave. and 19th Street. I don’t like using the word cute to describe restaurants, but I soon agreed with Rasean’s description. We searched for a place that resembled a cafeteria style restaurant, but were pleasantly surprised to find a posh, but comfortably "cute" establishment that looked straight out of “Sex in the City.”
Cafeteria (119 Seventh Avenue) specializes in comfort food served 24-hours in a trendy atmosphere akin to the surrounding Chelsea district. The exterior is very unassuming, but as soon as you step inside you’re hit with warm browns and creams bathed in candlelight with large white couches serving as the wall seating. For a Tuesday night, the place was packed, but we were able to find a seat in five minutes. We weren’t that hungry from snacking throughout the day so we ordered light, so we thought. I ordered a bowl of the pumpkin bisque served with toasted walnuts. Matthew, as usual, ordered calamari. Both entrees were served with crusty French table bread. Once our order arrived we were shocked by the large portions. It was enough for us to skip entrees and head straight for dessert. Now, I’m a huge fan of bisques, especially the pumpkin, sweet potato, lobster and crab varieties. This variation was the smoothest I’ve ever tasted and the sweetest. They must’ve double strained the bisque and added condensed milk instead of heavy cream, so my appetizer seemed like a dessert as well. Doubling my pleasure, I shared a brownie sundae with Matthew which wasn’t as good as the bisque, but was still a nice way to top off our first dinner in NYC.
With our bellies full including two rather strong drinks each from the bar, Matthew and I headed back out into the night to see what else Chelsea had to offer. For most of this trip we relied on the recommendations of locals, waiters and concierges. Before leaving, we asked our waiter about any good spots to hang out, drink and dance in the area. He recommended a few clubs, but he talked up one the most, XL (357 W. 16th St., between Eighth and Ninth Avenues). We thanked him and stepped out into the night.
We found out that XL was a gay club, so we avoided it and went to a place recommended by a well-dressed group of young tourist, Lotus (409 W. 14th St., between Ninth and Tenth Avenues). Lotus fulfilled my fantasy of a cool New York hotspot with beautiful people, beautiful décor and beautiful drinks. It’s a narrow, but lofty place with the main bar lining the whole right side of the space and lounge chairs lining the left. The DJ sits perched above the madness in a brightly lit command center where he can gauge the crowd and receive the occasional request shouted across the room. The second floor covers the right side only, but is a quieter more secluded area for conversation and high altitude people watching. The music was mostly NYC hip-hop infused with a few pop songs, but as the evening wore on the music turned to the Dirty South. Ludacris started everything off, which is fine with me, but “Shake that Laffy Taffy” soon followed and I was angry for the rest of the night. Again, don’t get me wrong, I like Southern hip-hop. It’s catchy, but I came to NYC to get away from that and experience the Northern style of my youth. I guess popularity doesn’t follow geography. Southern hip-hop is hot now. I just know that I rather prefer Biggy Smalls than 36 Mafia.
We stayed in Lotus until 3 a.m. I was about to hail a cab back to the Chelsea Star, but Matthew stopped me because he wanted to walk back. I reminded him that it was 3 a.m. in downtown NYC. Is it safe?!? He apparently thought so because we braved 16 blocks and 20 degree Fahrenheit wind chill. It was worth it though. I never thought NYC could get so quiet. There was light traffic, but the city had this hush over it that I couldn’t explain. I guess even New Yorkers have to sleep. We got back to our rooms safe and sound, and with my fear of late-night NYC conquered. That was a good foreshadow for the rest of the trip because many of my misconceptions of late-nights in major cities were thrown out and replaced with great memories.
On this day, I didn’t mind missing breakfast or anything else because I was so tired. We slept until 
In the city of foie gras, escargot and brie, we opted for steaming hot plastic bowls of paella with fresh pieces of crawfish, fish, chicken and chorizo sausage. Before I left for 
The food energized me to face the large crowds streaming in and out of the department store BHV (Bazar de l'Hôtel de Ville) and other stores along Rue de Rivoli. From my observations, Parisians took shopping seriously. Shoppers had a look of determination as if they were checking off items on their mental checklists while trying to avoid sideswiping little old ladies with their shopping bags. Street-side sellers didn’t have as much tenacity, but more like a quiet expectation that someone would eventually buy their wears.
The sun was starting to set and now as usual, Matthew and I were looking forward to the evening’s entertainment. Francesca casually mentioned that tonight’s festivities would include drinks, dinner and dancing at the renowned Buddha Bar (8/12 Rue Boissy d’ Anglas). I stopped in my tracks as the words “Buddha Bar” left her mouth in slow motion. I’m a budding fan of the bar’s annual electronic/house/ambient music CD release and shamefully admitted that I thought the bar didn’t exist, that it was just a cool name to slap on a CD. Francesca smiled in delight and told me that I was going to be in for a pleasant surprise. Our group then broke up to get some rest and prepare for evening’s events.
