Excited and a little nervous, we board our flight to Paris amid a crowd – the airplane is full; in fact, they are asking for volunteers to leave tomorrow instead. But we’re in luck, our seats are in an exit row on the right side of the plane, so we have gobs of leg room. The flight is uneventful, we even manage a few winks, and before long our descent into France begins. Kate has never been to Paris, and my experience is limited to a very brief 24 hour visit in December of 1997, while on business. So we have high hopes, a clutch of reservations, and a couple of guide books, the indomitable Frommer’s Guide to France, and a last moment purchase, Rick Steve’s Guide to Paris. Rick has a PBS series in which he travels Europe "through the back door", that is, opting for the budget approach while getting the most of every site. His Paris book features several walking tours, plus special guided tours of the biggies: the Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, and Versailles. He writes with humor and a thoroughly down-to-earth attitude, which suits us to a tee.

After a very brief tour through Customs, we grab a cab outside the Charles de Gaulle Aeroport and head into Paris, destination Latin Quarter, 11 Rue des Ecoles, the Familia Hotel. 250 francs later (for what it’s worth, a French franc is trading about 7 to the dollar, so we’ll let you do the math!), we arrive, dragging our two suitcases (on wheels, thank God) and two carry-ons. Voila, our reservation, s’il vous plait. Well, well, wouldn’t you know it – there’s a mess-up. I had made these reservations by fax way back in February. The process is deceptively simple. Fax in a request for reservations for certain dates. The hotel faxes back the availability and price. You fax back your assent and your credit card number. The hotel faxes back the confirmation. I had copies of the first 3 of these, as did the hotel. What went wrong, it turns out, is that the date of my final fax preceded the date of their offer – why? A 9-hour time difference. So the clerk sorted the faxes in date order and promptly assumed that I hadn’t answered their offer!! Fatigued and a bit muddled, we stared at the clerk in amazement. "But wait, Monsieur," he says, "we can put you in our sister hotel next door. Same price, same quality!" Hmmmmm. Next door is the recently acquired Hotel Minerve, so with some hesitation, but not a lot of options, we checked in. Our room on the 3^rd floor overlooked the street – it was small, but the bed was fine, the TV worked, it was noisy and a little warm since France has yet to discover air conditioning. We tossed our suitcases on the bed, shrugged our shoulders, and decided to stretch our legs. So off we went exploring.

Our hotel is a mere 2 blocks from the river Seine, and about a half mile from the Pont l’Archeveche, which crosses one into the Ile de la Cite, where sits Notre Dame Cathedral and a bevy of government buildings. So we snuck a peek at the Cathedral and walked down the Seine, enjoying the warm weather and mishmash of people. Following Rick Steve’s suggestions (hereinafter, "Rick"), we headed over to St. Germain des Pres, a bustling little area on the Left Bank with lots of cafes. We opted for the Café Bonaparte, where we ordered our first French meal (salade for Kate, a sandwich for me – Ok, it’s not gourmet), a beer, and a tiny café table elbow to elbow with everyone else. Predictably, smokers abound, a bit of a shock coming from aggressively anti-smoking California, but outdoors it’s easier to abide, so we people watched and chatted, trying to stay awake.

We strolled back in the direction of our hotel, by now early evening Paris time, but still quite light. We headed up to our room at 9 or so, beat but excited about tomorrow, since we had much to see.

To our surprise, the sun didn’t set until nearly 10:30 PM last night! This did nothing to help our jet lag, since our bodies were perfectly content to think it was 1:30 in the afternoon. So, despite our fatigue, sleep was elusive in coming. Many chapters of my book later, I drifted off – perhaps 2:30 AM. But today dawned bright and clear, and we headed downstairs for breakfast, which in typical French fashion, consisted of tea or coffee, a basket of bread (croissants, rolls), butter & jam, and orange juice. I missed my Raisin Nut Bran, but rediscovered the joys of fruit jam. Yumm.

Sunday, Paris, 10 AM, where else to find us but Mass at Notre Dame? We hurried across the bridge as the bells tolled their invitation, delighting in the soaring towers and awesome architecture. Somewhat to our surprise, there was quite a queue to get in, but we crashed the line and entered amidst the other faithful jockeying for a good seat. A sign: "Please respect the sanctity of this place by keeping voices down. Women should cover bare shoulders." And just below this, jarringly, "Beware of pickpockets". At Notre Dame??!! Yes, probably since it was built in 1163. Anyway, we found seats to the left of the transept, directly in view of the South Rose Window. Mass itself (Trinity Sunday), was an interesting mixture of Latin and French, with much incense and procession. Virtually every response was sung, virtually all in Latin. The gospel reading, a favorite of ours, from Matthew, "Know that I am with you always, even until the end of days". Oddly enough, in the wee wakeful hours of the prior night, Kate had mentioned to me that she often used this phrase as a mantra to relax and comfort herself when tense. To have it repeated here this day was a gentle reminder of God’s presence, and it evoked a broad smile from us both.

After Mass, with the organ still ringing in our ears, we strolled back to the Southeast tip of the island where a memorial is built honoring the 200,000 French deported by the Nazis during WWII. Simple, yet sobering. We then walked the length of Ile de la Cite, stopping off at Sainte-Chapelle for a visit. Built in 1248 by Louis IX to house the supposed Crown of Thorns, it is famous for its beautiful stained glass windows. The windows are designed to tell the story of the Bible, in picture format, as a teaching aid, since so few people could read in the Middle Ages. We had some small binoculars that proved very helpful in getting an up-close view of the details. I have to admit that the vast majority of the scenes were completely baffling, and many featured scenes of war and mayhem. But I guess, like today, this is what stood out in people’s minds!

Just around the block from Sainte-Chapelle is the Conciergerie, which is notorious as "death row" for over 2000 French prisoners during the Revolution in 1789, including the cake-loving Marie Antoinette. A couple of the rooms are made up "as was", to give you a sense of the jail. If you had enough money, you could buy a better room to hang out in, even private quarters. Of course, the end result is the same regardless, a cart trip along the Seine to the Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine awaited. Hmmm, I’m hungry. Let’s go eat some lunch!

There’s a basic problem in Paris – fast food, or more precisely, the lack thereof. Even as America has way too much fast food, France has far too little. In mid-tour, it’s nice to snag a quick bite someplace and get back to the oo-ing and ahh-ing, but this is tough when food is delivered exclusively in cafes and restaurants. But we remembered that at the Northwestern tip of Ile de la Cite, one of the ubiquitous tour boat operations is based, so we headed for Pont Neuf. Sure enough, a snack bar is in full operation, so I was able to scrounge up a baguette sandwich and a Diet Coke (aka Coca-Cola Light) for a few francs. We note that Pepsi is completely absent in France – I wonder how Coke got the exclusive rights?

We’ve been discussing when to see which museums, since many are closed on either Monday or Tuesday. Paris offers up a Museum Pass for sale that grants admission to virtually every site in Paris. A great deal, which is purchased in a 1,2,3, or 4 day contiguous increment. We opted for 3-day passes, starting today (Sunday). After some discussion, we decided to try the Musee d’Orsay first. So we walked over to the entrance (a very pleasant stroll down the left bank of the Seine) and popped in. This is where Rick’s guidebook proved invaluable. With perspective, some history, a smattering of humor, and very specific instructions (turn left into room 12, and look at this wall), he gave us a 2-3 hour highlight tour of the Orsay. You are guaranteed to see what everyone raves about, plus some of the important 2^nd class art, and he steers you clear of the really boring stuff. Since Impressionism is a real positive for both Kate and I, this museum was very easy on the eye. Full of Monet, Manet, Gauguin, Degas, and Renoir, we finally exited, and took our first subway ride back to the hotel for a much needed nap.

Somewhat refreshed, we headed out around 6:30 to track down some dinner. Rick has a recommended café in the Ile St. Louis that looks good, so we trekked across the Pont St. Louis to the "other" island in the Seine. Long the home of many famous artists and writers, the Ile St. Louis is a very exclusive Paris address. Characterized by narrow streets and nicely architected buildings, we were impressed with the upscale nature of the place after leaving our Latin Quarter hotel. However, much to our amazement, the recommended café is gone! Poof! Double-checked the address and map, but sure enough, a boarded up building is all that’s left. We’ll have to write Rick and let him know. So we decided to keep on going to the Right Bank and the Marais district, a real mishmash of interesting houses, hotels, cafes, and squares. We selected the Café Le Marche, for no particular reason, and sat down to a very nice meal of lamb broquets, potatoes, beans, a wonderful salad, and some vino. As usual, we were jammed in with every other diner, but we’re getting used to it. Ironically, not knowing their language is actually an advantage, since we’re not tempted to eavesdrop or get distracted.

Even with a leisurely dinner, it was barely 8:15 when we finished, and with full daylight still around, we figured we may as well take a boat tour. So back to Pont Neuf and the 9 PM trip down and up the Seine. Up to now, we had not seen the Eiffel Tower, since it is down the river and around a bend, so this time we got the full effect. Particularly from the river, the Tower seems to leap into the air. Our tour guide kept switching between English and French, but she managed pretty well. Each of the bridges (ponts) has a name and a history, so it was fun to hear all about each one as we motored beneath. Of course, the Pont de Sully is known as the "kissing bridge", but only as you go under it. A wish, a kiss, and all your dreams come true. We obliged, but my wish didn’t come true. The hotel was even noisier this night….

Yikes, and what a night! Our usual toss and turn routine finally settled down around 2:30 AM, and just as sleep was overcoming us, our next door neighbors came crashing into their room. Through the paper thin walls, we heard every utterance, every sentence, every kiss, every moan, every groan, until the cries of "Oh, Pierre! Oh Pierre! Oh Pierre!" penetrated our semi-conscious state. Katie gave me a look, and I cracked up, but not for very long. It was so ridiculous on the one hand, and so maddening on the other. We finally drifted off, when at 4:30, the phone in the next room began to ring. It went on for a good 3 minutes, once again bringing us awake, before subsiding into silence. Then, at 5:30 AM, the phone rings next door again, and the girl answers, quite indignant, "Where was my 4:30 wake-up call?!!" Then amid much crashing and slamming, the two stalk out at 6 AM, leaving us to wonder, "What next?" As the sun dawns, we finally crash and sleep until 9:30, figuring that anything is better than nothing.

Nevertheless, undaunted, we set out for our second day of Paris sightseeing, this time to the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees, two of the most famous sites in the world. Respecting our general fatigue, we took the subway this time and thoroughly enjoyed the well-laid out routes and frequent, fast trains. In no time we were climbing the steps of this beautiful monument and stepping out for fascinating views of the city. Paris, like Washington DC, has a height restriction in the downtown area, so from our vantage point a mere 164 feet up, we could see for miles. Even Katie was comfortable at this height. But she readily admitted that what was really neat about the view was not the buildings, but the intricate, maniacal circling of the cars around the Arc. According to Rick, this is the only place in Paris where a car accident is automatically deemed "no fault" and both insurance companies pay.

We strolled the Champs-Elysees (fortunately downhill) and enjoyed the wide sidewalks and fancy shops. The weather is quite warm, over 80 degrees today, so frequent water stops are necessary. We eventually ended up at the Louvre, our target for the afternoon’s events. There’s a large shopping mall under a portion of the Louvre, which featured a food court, so I bungled my way to ordering lasagna, fruit salad, couscous, bread, and some other macaroni thing. Ravenous, we inhaled lunch, hitched on our backpack, pulled out Rick and did the Louvre tour. Now you’ve got to realize that the Louvre is absolutely immense – with hundreds of thousands of art objects. There’s no way we could "do it" all. Luckily, Rick’s tour is decidedly short, sweet, and to the point, in this case, the direct route to the greatest hits. So, in the space of about 3 hours, we orbited Venus de Milo, said hello to Mona Lisa, and checked out some truly immense paintings. After awhile, it all runs together, so we began to make up captions for the figures – it gets pretty funny, especially since 90% are nude. A little punchy, we broke out in late afternoon and, since it was about 85 degrees outside, we joined dozens of other weary tourists by shedding our shoes and plunking our feet in the fountain. Ahhhhh, a true Paris moment. Americanized moments later by a woman who sat down near us, rubbing her feet, and announced, "Man, my dogs are barking!!" Some Italian youths started wading in the fountain, and as boys will be boys, in about 3 minutes flat they were soaked head to toe. Squealing girl friends followed shortly thereafter, helped in by the boys. What is it about fountains??

We put our heads together while our feet were soaking and made some decisions. On Wednesday, June 21, Paris is putting on a huge music extravaganza to celebrate Summer Solstice 2000. All night party time! Chalk it up to fatigue, but the thought of an all-night party in our condition is enough to cause stomach palpitations. We need to get out of here before then. So the change in plans is pretty simple – we’ll get the rental car a day early and head for Versailles, staying someplace on the outskirts of Paris. So, we tubed over to the Gare Austerlitz, the train station where the rental car awaits, and changed our reservations. No problem! While there, we also made our train reservations for the following week, since we were taking the high-speed train to the South of France and back. Lucky thing, since many of the non-smoking seats were taken.

After our customary nap in the hotel, we went back to St. Germain des Pres, site of our first night’s meal, and ate at a famous café called Deux Magots. After a nice light meal, we took the subway to Montmartre and Sacre Coeur, a church perched on the highest elevation in Paris. A little seedy, quite frankly, but the view was very nice, especially as dusk set in. Dragging our tails, we trained back to Notre Dame and plopped ourselves on the quai near Pont l’Archeveche to watch the tour boats go by. The night was warm, and the sun slowly set, finally casting us in darkness at 10:30 PM. Back to the hotel and tonight, a Sominex each.

A hot and street-noisy night, but sleep was less a problem. The front clerk perkily asks how we’re enjoying our stay in the hotel. Ummm, OK. Try to be nice, but what can you say? We’ve realized that we both need a refuge at night from the crowds, smoke, and noise. This place is more like a dormitory. Kate says that she knew this place was going to be a problem as soon as we checked in. "How’s that?" I asked. "All of the bugs flying around in the room," she declared. I should have known – too many French Flies are never good for you! Oh well, only one more night.

Today we decide to do Napoleon’s tomb, but first, since it’s right on the way, we’ll check out The Rodin Museum. Quelle surprise! Every so often, you come across a site that really entrances you. The Rodin Museum was delightful. The museum was Rodin’s home until his death and he was quite a prolific sculptor. The Thinker, the Kiss, Balzac, various studies of human form and figure, all tastefully laid out in the house and grounds. It was a very quiet relaxing atmosphere, and just what we needed. After a couple of hours, we went across the street to Napoleon’s Tomb. Snore.

Given that we were in the Rue Cler area, a favorite of Rick’s, we followed his advice and strolled down the avenue shopping at all of the fresh food stalls that make this street famous. We assembled our picnic of bread, cheese, fruit (cherries, nectarines, and apricots), and cookies. Drinking bottled water by the gallon (still hot today), we headed for the Eiffel Tower and plopped ourselves down in the park that fronts the tower. Chow down, make the backpack a pillow, and close my eyes on the looming Tour Eiffel to catch some winks. 30 minutes and one sunburned nose later, we staggered up and walked to the base of the tower. It was chaotic with tourists and school kids, so we decided not to wait in the very long lines today and try again on our return on day 14.

The rest of the afternoon was taken up by more street strolling, until dinner beckoned. We ate at a café on the Ile St. Louis, topping it off with sorbet cones and a repeat of last night’s seating on the Seine. The tour boats chugged past with everyone waving at us like we were long lost family, and we enjoyed people watching as couples drifted past, most with half-open wine bottles in their hands. Only in Paris can I imagine this scene occurring, with absolutely no concern about drunkenness or safety. In fact, not once did I encounter a drunk in any venue in Paris. Makes me wonder about our Puritan ways. At darkness, we headed back to our hotel.

Driven out by another raucous night at the Minerve, we dragged our suitcases onto the Metro and emerged at the Gare Austerlitz. Pleasantly enough, our car was ready and waiting, an Opel station wagon, practically new. A quick signature on the contract and we settled in, already feeling a sense of control just being in a car. Kate quickly assumed the role of navigator, one to which we have become accustomed in the last 24 years, and we zoomed off to find the periphery road around Paris. Our aim was to travel in a Westerly direction toward Versailles, so as we approached the Peripherique (as it’s called), we kept our eyes peeled for West (in French, "Ouest"). Well, this is France. To our utter bafflement, the only two options provided were "Interior" or "Exterior". Huh? Since there is no time for "huh?" in Paris traffic, I turned down a side street and we puzzled and puzzled until our puzzlers were sore. Kate finally got it. Interior and exterior are not destinations – this is where we were stuck – since how can a ring road go to the interior? Interior and exterior are synonyms for clockwise and counterclockwise respectively. It’s actually quite simple and logical. For the entire Peripherique, you never have to figure out what compass direction you’re heading in, just the clock-direction. We wanted to go right (clockwise), so we took the Interior roadway. Voila!

The road signs to Versailles were not ideal, and our little tourist map was proving to be more vague than helpful, but we muddled on and somehow made it to Versailles town center. I parked in front of the train station, and Kate executed Plan A – locate a hotel room in Versailles or close-by so that we could tour the palace without worrying about tonight. She hit the tourist info center and came out shortly thereafter, crestfallen. Apparently the Festival of Music extends to Versailles as well. Every room in town and surrounding area was taken. I could see Kate’s panic meter dial up a notch. We drove into the Versailles palace parking lot and the skies opened up, a real rain shower, which cooled the atmosphere outside nicely, but added to the gloom in our Opel considerably. OK, Plan B: see the chateau and then head in the general direction of Rouen to the Northwest. We were heading in that direction anyway, and surely we could find something along the way. Allons-y a la chateau!

Versailles is world famous, and rightfully so. Designed by Louis XIV, the Sun King, to be the best of the best, he succeeded. Although the interior rooms as seen today cannot match the opulence of his time, the building, grounds, statuary, and frescoes are all first rate. The Hall of Mirrors runs the entire length of the chateau’s mid-section and was the scene of the infamous Treaty of Versailles to end WWI (and sow the seeds of WWII). The grounds were extensively damaged by a storm in 1999 and many, many trees, olsd as the castle itself (early 18^th century) were downed. So it was a little strange to see whole groves of newly planted saplings – come back in 40 years! We walked the grounds as the skies cleared and ate lunch in a café at the foot of the Grand Canal. Since breakfast for me had been a box of raisins, this was a welcome respite. A little souvenir hunting followed, and we departed for points West.

We somehow managed to find the A13, our toll road, and zipped right along. Much like toll roads in America, access was limited – and to our surprise, once out of Paris environs, the countryside turns decidedly rural. Our Plan B, to find something on the way, was not going to be easy. Panic meter now at 5. So Plan C, let’s stop in Giverny, the town made famous by Monet, and surely something would be open there.

So we exited the highway and drove the charming backroads to Vernon and Giverny. After many wrong turns, we stumbled on the Info Center and made our inquiries. Once again, no dice. Desolee! So let’s review. After 4 nights in a sweaty, noisy hotel, we are sleep deprived, decidedly isolated, minimal language skills, no place to stay the night – emotions are a little on the frayed side. I thought that Kate would bite that lower lip right off. To hell with Monet, let’s move on to Rouen. Surely a town this big would have lots of hotels. I figured that prayer worked just as easily in France as in the USA, so I said a prayer for guidance and off we went.

Halfway to Rouen, I saw signs for a Rest Stop, the type you find along the Mass Pike – restaurant, gas, bathrooms, the works. Also noted the big "I" for information, a universal tourist symbol. We pulled in, walked up to the information counter, and found our angel. A sweet woman who spoke fluent English, she immediately began to give us recommendations. First, try the big chain hotels: Mercure, Etap, Comfort Inn, etc. She’d find the numbers, I’d dash off to the pay phone and toss in random numbers of francs until the phone worked. Nothing, nothing, full!! Apparently, the music festival was in Rouen, too! Kate had a desperate look in her eye, so I said to her, "we’re not leaving here until we have a place to go tonight." We confabbed with the angel, she suggested a town on the outskirts of Rouen. I called the first hotel on the list. Sorry, full. Exasperated, I asked the clerk if there was any rooms anywhere? She suggested a hotel down the street, so I called the Eden Hotel, and voila, they had a room! I reserved it hurriedly (by now it was about 6 PM), and our angel gave us detailed directions to the town. Panic meter down a notch.

The Eden Hotel is a basic 2-star businessman’s special on the edge of a large office park. In typical French fashion, however, it featured a full restaurant and bar. Our room was decent size, but the bathroom was an all-in-one prefab plastic unit with a shower stall that consisted of a drain and a moldy curtain – no enclosure whatsoever. The bed was soft. It was blessedly quiet. We were absolutely delighted. A nice meal, a walk around suburbia (almost got lost – sheesh), in bed and unconscious by 10:30 PM. Eden never felt so good.

We woke to cloudy skies and much cooler weather. We ate from the weird collection of food that constitutes a French continental breakfast – bread, some kind of Cocoa Puff cereal, ham, cheese, croissants, apple sauce, strong coffee, etc. Then off again in the direction of the Normandy coast. Since we are here a little earlier than expected, we dug out Frommer’s and discovered the Rue de les Abbayes, a winding road along the Seine that takes you past several ancient monasteries, some in ruins. Guided by a considerably perkier Kate, we ventured off the highway to recommended sites. The first was the Abbaye St.-George, in St. Martin de Boscherville. Built in the 11^th century, this abbey has been lovingly restored. Still intact is the church, the abbey walls, and the chapter house. We paid our 20 francs each and attempted to follow a by-the-numbers tour laid out in a guide book offered to us. The French are not good at guide books. You can’t find 1, 4 follows 7, and 6 is lost as well. You end up wandering around in circles, with studious frowns. Better to just appreciate the age, the views, and the history. One of the monasteries we visited was still in full swing with an ultra-modern gift shop selling everything from monastic hand cream to flute music. Kate bought some post cards. Actually, that’s about all Kate buys (what a good girl!). No, the truth is that we’re waiting to buy souvenirs on our last day in Paris. No sense hauling stuff around for 2 weeks, right?

We ran out of abbeys, so continued on to Honfleur, located just South of La Havre across the mouth of the Seine River. We uncovered a very quaint, medieval fishing village, and after a few obligatory wrong turns, also discovered our accommodations for the night, the Hostellerie Leschat. We were given a very nice room over the restaurant (hmmm). The hotel fronts a square where the local Church is located. Every 15 minutes, a loud bell cheerily tolls the time. A wee bit concerned about noise, I inquired at the front desk. "Oh no, monsieur, the restaurant closes at 9:30 PM and the bells are silent at 9 PM." OK, then.

So we walked around this very quaint village, I admiring the boats and Kate checking out where to eat dinner. You see, I eat to live, Kate lives to eat. None of the yachts appealed to me much, but Kate had cuisine gleams in her eye. We settled on a café next to the yacht harbor and had our first multi-course "menu" dinner. Start with a bucket of steamed mussels, main course of white fish with salmon stuffing and saffron flavored rice, all accompanied by mounds of bread. Top it off with fresh crepes and voila, you are well fed. As in Paris, the sun sets absurdly late, so we have fallen into the local habit of rising late, breakfast at 10, lunch at 2 or 3, and dinner at 8. We wrapped up our meal at 9:30 and since it was still light, took a walk in the town park. Many of the plants were similar (if not identical) to our own garden, so we took in some scents (a little homesick suddenly) and watched the sun set at 10:30 PM.

The bells were indeed quiet, although the restaurant was hopping. By midnight, however, all was quiet and we drifted off until 7 AM when BING-BONG, our church bell crashed in on us. Oh well, on to Omaha Beach, site of another surprise awakening some 56 years ago.

Bayeux is about 20 miles SW of Honfleur, and has a couple of distinctions. First, it is the home of William the Conqueror, who we all know as the last successful invader of England in 1066. His exploits are captured in the famous Bayeux Tapestry, which has survived in remarkably good shape from it creation in 1072 to its current location in a Bayeux museum. Many villains have had their mitts on it, including Hitler, so it’s a pretty remarkable story in its own right.

More recently, in 1944, Bayeux was the first French town liberated from the Nazis. Just 6 miles North of town is Omaha Beach, site of the US landing that cold June 6^th day. We had similar weather, cold, windy, and drizzly at times. Our first stop was Arromanches sur Mer, site of the D-Day museum. The focus was clearly international, no liberating country given unequal weight, which was good for our inflated American egos. The highlight, though, was a few miles up the road at the American Cemetery, made famous by Spielberg’s movie Saving Private Ryan. Over 9,000 gravestones mark the 10 acre site, all meticulously maintained.

Kate and I wandered through the crosses, mostly silent, occasionally remarking on a name or a date. Each cross was inscribed with the guy’s name, rank, place of birth, and date of death. 300 or so were labeled "Comrade in Arms – Known But to God". Most of the dead, the vast majority, were corporals and privates, enlisted men, kids really, average age 20. Being parents of 20 year old Joe, each cross was not just a poignant death, but a stab to the heart of a Mom & Dad back home. We learned later that over 60% of the graves were empty, since families in the US requested their re-internment on US soil. But the crosses remain, as they should, to remind us of the insane waste of war.

From there, we drove along the coast past the Omaha Beach Golf Course (oui, oui!) to the also famous Pointe du Hoc, a rocky outcrop looming 200 feet above the Channel that was scaled by 250 Rangers that fateful morning to knock out large German guns commanding the Omaha and Utah beachheads. The site was left "as-was" by the French to a large degree. The pillboxes housing the great guns are still there, pockmarked by bullets. Bomb craters, absurdly deep in places (20-30 feet) remain scattered over the top of the cliff. A couple of pillboxes are torn apart, with crumpled stone and wire jaggedly poking through. The heavy guns themselves are long gone, but the cold cliff remains. Only 90 Rangers survived.

So on to a little lunch and back to Bayeux for a look at that long rug (oops, tapestry). We found our hotel first, the Hotel d’Argouges, highly recommended by 3 different guidebooks, and rightfully so. We had a room on the top floor with slanted ceilings and exposed beams, a huge bathroom with a tub, and our first mini-bar (woo-hoo!). The hotel had its own courtyard and parking, well away from the street and the infernally noisy motor scooters, so we were as pleased as could be. Dropping off our stuff, we walked down to the Tapestry museum and did the tour. The museum opts for overkill on the history and description of each and every tapestry panel, but I’d rather get too much info than not enough. In the end, you simply read the tapestry like one long comic book as it tells the story of William the Conqueror and his heroic deeds. Without the tapestry, it’s very unlikely we would have remembered ol’ Bill, so we decided to eat at an inside restaurant tonight (how’s that for a non sequitur?).

Dinner was at a restaurant that featured Pieresau, a very interesting way of delivering food to your table. Kind of a variation on fondue, raw meat (beef, chicken or fish) is brought to your table on platters along with a large flat, very hot brick. You slap the meat on the brick and sizzle up your meal right there. The brick is cooling, however, so you have to move fast. It was fascinating to watch, but we had to shake our head – this would never get by in the health-conscious USA. Raw and cooked meat handled by the same utensils; undercooked meat practically a certainty, well, you get the picture. We skipped the brick and had a very leisurely steak dinner, 3 courses worth. Vegie soup (pureed, alas), steak and fries (never, ever, saw a baked potato in France), and a fruit cup for dessert. Total bill for 2 was $30 – not bad! Fully sated, a chilly breeze hurrying us on, we speed-walked back to our quiet loft and crashed.

A big travel day today, so we got up early and headed off to Caen, about 30 miles away. We found the train station readily enough and dropped off our Opel outside the Avis office. 20 minutes later found us on the train to Paris’s Gare St. Lazare in the Northwest section of town. We arrived right on time and lugged our suitcases on to the Metro for a quick ride over to the Gare Lyon, from which the high speed TGV train was due to depart for Avignon, our destination for today. Playing it safe, I had reservations on a 3 PM train from Paris, but here it was 12:30 and there was a train leaving at 1:15. So I leave Kate with the bags and find what I think is the right queue. It’s the usual hustle and bustle of a train station, so the atmosphere is tense. A guy standing at the window to my right is absolutely furious at the station clerk, working up to such a hand-waving rage that it was comical. Suddenly it’s my turn, so I approach the clerk and ask in my best French, "Parlez-vous Francais?" ("Do you speak French?") He smiled, "Oui, monsieur, un peu". I rolled my eyes, "Desolee, Monsieur – Anglais, Anglais!" We chuckled over that one for awhile. Anyway, the reservations got changed without a problem and we boarded the sleek looking train for points South.

The train has virtually no sway to it, so we whiled away the time reading and writing, dozing and stretching. The train is very fast, at times exceeding 180 MPH, but you have very little sensation of it, so in 3.5 short hours, you find yourself in Avignon. The usual wait for a rental car at the Avis booth, and we had ourselves a newish Renault. What a piece of junk after that nice Opel. The French build great roads, but crappy cars.

We drove a few miles South to San Remy and the most fancy hotel of our trip, the Vallon Valrugues, a 4-star sparkler costing us nearly $190/night. No other hotel we booked is more than $100, so this is indeed an exception. A stunning change from the 2-star hotels, enough helpers to never lift a finger, swimming pool, jacuzzi, elegant dining, air conditioning, king bed, full tub, the works. After a brief discussion, we decided to forego the usual café search in town and eat here. Frommer’s calls this place the best meal to be had in San Remy. So we reserved a table for 8:30 and pulled out our best duds (egad, panty hose, shoes, pants!).

Picture a garden terrace, surrounded by flowering shrubs and towering green trees. A breeze ruffles the white tablecloths as the slowly setting sun casts a pink glow over the scene. Waiters, bus boys, and wine steward bustle about in carefully choreographed movement. Every table features people dressed in suits, dresses, and other finery, enjoying each other’s company. Perhaps 20 tables in all, every one with expectant diners.

We begin with an appetizer tray of assorted canapes, many featuring olives, cheese, and other mysterious but tasty items. This was followed by a cold creamed cauliflower soup, served in a little silver jigger. Our first course, chosen because it sounded weird, was 3 large raviolis stuffed with an artichoke/lobster hash. Swimming in olive oil and butter with all sorts of garnish, it proved as delicious as it looked. We are granted suitable digestive time after each course, so far, an hour has past since we sat down. The pace is indeed leisurely, but not boring. The cheese girl, whose job is to wheel this enormous cart filled with over 30 different slabs of cheese to each table at the right time (between entrée and dessert), struggles to push this contraption into the right spot. Then out comes the big knife, the plates, and a serious discussion ensues about which cheese is which. 5 or 6 bite-size nuggets are dished up, and she wrestle the cart to the next table. Quite amusing and fascinating. Here’s one for you – can you name 30 different kinds of cheese? Kate and I got up to about 20, with outrageous cheating allowed (e.g., mild, medium and sharp cheddar are 3 cheeses?).

Our entrées arrive in due course. For Kate, pigeon with mushrooms. For me, rabbit with olives. New to each of us, believe me. Dinner rolls delivered each by hand. Beer follows beer (Ok, 2 total). We skip the cheese course – you’ve got to be kidding – but dessert is too difficult to pass up. Mini-soufflés, cookies, tarts, dipped cherries, all on a 3-tiered platter. Finally, after the last cup of decaf settles in, we’re out $100 and 2 ½ hours of sheer entertainment. We waddle off to our room for some serious snoozing.

2:30 AM. Napoleon’s revenge!! Our poor little American intestinal systems scream "Tout alors!" at this French invasion of butter, cream, olive oil, deep fried mushrooms, and Bugs Bunny. 6 flushes later (3 each), we looked at each other in dismay. Now we know why they eat the cheese….

With all of the gastro-intestinal disruptions of the wee hours, we slept in to well past 10 AM, missing local Sunday Mass. Kate was still a pale shade of green, while I carried a more puce color. So, with great reluctance, we checked out of our 4-star palace and drove back to Avignon. The city center remains walled to this day. Avignon, back in the 14^th century, was home to 2 legitimate and 4 "anti-Popes" as Church politics overcame any sense of spiritual and moral leadership. Both Rome and Avignon declared their Popes to be "true" until a Council was formed eventually that threw them both out. In the meantime, an elaborate Palace was built in Avignon to house the Pope and all his minions. This was the object of our visit, found after the usual twisting and turning. I must say this much for the French. Street signs are quite good. Add a Michelin map of the area (indispensable) and a cute navigator and the wrong turn quotient drops markedly.

The castle is in quite good shape as stone behemoths go, and our entrance fee rented us a little hand-held recorded tour thingy about the size of a cell phone. You enter the number corresponding to a plaque at each room on its keypad as you go. A pleasant English chap describes what you’re seeing and goes into excruciating detail on every little sconce and lintel in the North doorway. "And now, if you’ll look over to the South doorway, you’ll see…" Click! Next room.

Kate and I have been discussing how to spruce these tours up. I think that a re-creation of one or two rooms like we do in the US gives a better impression than asking you to imagine it. Kate likes it better as-is. Anyhow, the tour dumps you out on the other side of the castle and you join a motley crew of other tourists looking about and wondering "where’s the car?" 144 steps later, you stumble back to the town square, eat a typical baguette sandwich (well, I did – Kate was still green), and head off to Aix en Provence, about 50 miles to the East. Aix (pronounced "ex") is another ancient Roman town. We found our way to our 2-star hotel, Les Quatres Dauphins, smack in the old quarter. Streets were 15 feet wide and our room was up in the rafters. No air conditioning, but a tiny room, a fan, a bed, and a bathroom with a toilet that sounded like Kate’s stomach. It was hard not to feel let down. But the front desk girl was bright and chirpy, and after our requisite 4 PM nap, we wandered the town. Dinner was a simple affair of Salade Nicoise for me and half a cheese sandwich for queasy Kate. Of course, I didn’t eat the eggs, olives, or anchovies in my Nicoise, so I re-dubbed it Salade Aix.

Down to the end of our dainties (actually, Kate could go on forever), we dragged a suitcase full of dirty duds to the Lavatique. As you world travelers know, the best place to meet Americans in Europe is at the local Laundromat. Sure enough. We ran into a guy from Santa Monica and a retired couple on tour from Wisconsin. We shared stories of towns and people and discoveries – such a pleasure to hear and speak English to other folks. Kate needed some "girl talk" – fabrics, clothes, decorating tips, restaurants, etc., while me and the guys needed to grunt, talk sports, scrounge loose change, and get in the way of the women. Mission(s) accomplished, we dragged our clean duds back to the rooftop aerie and exited for a look-see at Arles, sort of a backtrack, but recommended by one of Kate’s new girl friends. Good choice, too.

Arles is on the Rhone river, features some incredibly well-preserved Roman ruins, including an amphitheater. Who needs Rome? Kate was back to her old self, so we "Romed" about and ogled the rock walls. McDonalds is well represented in these little towns (and resented too), but after a week on the road, it looked good. My American intestines sang with pleasure as I shoveled down 2 cheese burgers ("finally, here’s some junk we can handle…") and we strolled off. Ten minutes later, I noticed that my backpack was missing, and I raced back to Macs, certain it was gone. But no, there it lay on the chair right where I had left it, intact and untouched. Gulp.

Back to Aix for some mini-shopping since many stores are closed on Mondays. Of course, there was the store-that-had-to-be, a little boutique called Generation Aix. Yeesh. Feeling more chipper, we decided to eat at a famous café called the Deux Garcons on main street. Very crowded, but a beautiful night outside, so we put up with the tobacco smoke (every variety known to man) and had a nice steak dinner. We are now completely acclimated to the time zones here, so sleep comes quickly. What a pleasure.

Since we had a pretty good drive ahead, we got up at the ungodly hour of 9 AM and proceeded due East and South to Cannes. The toll road was fast and well maintained. I kept to the speed limit (130 kph, or about 80 mph) and many cars flew by, especially BMWs and Mercedes, but also Peugeots, Audis, and Opels. Our 1.6 liter Renault was running at a high-pitched 3800 RPM, so I held back. Somehow, we all got there.

Cannes is pretty famous for its film festival, of course, but is also a big port city. We arrived at Noon, and crept into town down the main access highway. Luckily parking garages were available and open, yet expensive. But what the hell. We walked the beach ogling the turquoise water and flamboyant hotels, while I kept a topless chick count. We grabbed some lunch and ate on the boardwalk – a beautiful, warm, sunny day.

After awhile, we made our way further East toward Nice and turned North to a little town in the foothills called Vence. Kate’s idea was to house us away from the noise of the beach in a more relaxed setting. Our hotel, a 3-star gem called La Roseraie (Rose Garden) hit the spot. The most immediate impression was the almost exact match of flora between the hotel and our home garden, even to the star jasmine over the trellis. A pool added to the setting, and this was just the outdoors portion. The hallways and room were all decorated in Provence fabrics and antique doodads that drew appreciative nods from Kate. This place had the extra touch, all lovingly and tastefully applied.

After a dip in the pool, we headed for town to see what was cooking for dinner. Vence central features a walled "old town", which has been carefully maintained. Narrow, winding lanes open unexpectedly on squares and interesting buildings. The town has thoughtfully affixed plaques with descriptions of the historical tidbits you’re seeing, so all along the wandering way, you can read about the sights – and in English too! The best way to decide where to eat in France is to "follow the crowd", i.e., eat at the popular cafes. Seems a bit Darwinian, I know, but it works. We caught dinner at a café right in the town hall square, and lo and behold, they had pasta! We had read that the closer to Italy we got, the more likely pasta would appear. I delightedly scarfed down spaghetti with meat sauce, my first pasta in 10 days. We struck up a conversation with a couple nearby. He was spending 6 months in Vence writing a book (shades of Peter Mayle I guess). Sounds like fun – Kate says she’d go along "in a minute". So let’s pick a good spot….

Today is to be a vacation day, not a sightseeing day. A day to bask in the sun on the Riviera, sip cocktails, read trashy novels, plunge into the sea, etc, etc. Breakfast is always provided by the hotels, but is not what we’re used to. Typically, you get tea, coffee, or hot chocolate, a basket of pastries and rolls, butter, jam, and OJ. The price varies from 40 to 70 francs ($6 to $10) per person and the quality is uniformly "OK". But the Roseraie was different. Fresh croissants, bread, home-made jam, eggs, ham, 3 different kinds of tea, stewed prunes, kiwi, fresh-squeezed orange juice, custard, and fruit tart. All served on blue and yellow china, with today’s copy of the Internat’l Herald Tribune. I was in heaven.

We dallied over breakfast a long time, then set out for Nice, just down the hill from Vence on the coast. Nice, like Cannes, is blessed with a sweeping expanse of beach front that runs a good 4-5 miles. Expensive hotels line the beach boulevard, which itself runs along the beachfront, separated from the sea by a wide boardwalk. The beach is not sandy, but more of a fine gravel – hard on the feet. All the hotels have carved out plots of beachfront with umbrellas, loungers, and patio bars that yes, you too, can enjoy for a price. Since we were on vacation, we bit. $30 later, we had our own loungers with umbrella, two towels, and 30 square feet of beach. I wrote in this journal, read my book, took a quick dip in the Mediterranean – very cool, clean, clear water, and watched the folks. Yes, topless is pretty typical, though not universal. The locals and the Italians drop the tops without hesitation and at all ages, 0 to 70. The tourists are much more hesitant, which evoked a lengthy discussion between Kate and I on what it "meant" when a group of American girls (college age) joined in, one by one, nearby. I thought it was amusing, but she was irritated. Clearly different standards at work. The European women are completely uninhibited and relaxed about it, which somehow made it OK. The American girls clearly were uncomfortable, yet did it anyway. Somehow this emphasized the wrongness – for them. Anthropological field day.

The day was warm, the sun hazy but hot, and we fulfilled our wish. We ate cookies, read books, and whiled away the afternoon. We tootled back up to Vence eventually, and settled in at the Roseraie for a final night.

All you James Bond fans know that Monte Carlo is a featured location of many films. Located in the tiny principality of Monaco, it features some of the most expensive real estate in Europe. I neglected to pack my tuxedo, so I put on a clean sport shirt, collected a visiting fashion model (Kate of course) and drove our pseudo-Mercedes to Monte Carlo. We took the high road, traipsing through hills, tunnels, and over spectacular bridges (Kate gasps and looks eyes-front). Then down the switchbacks into Monte Carlo. We parked in the Casino lot and got out to explore. Kind of a cross between La Jolla and San Francisco, all crammed on terraced streets from the Sea up the cliffs, Monte Carlo is dripping with jewels, banks, fancy cars, gorgeous people, and spectacular ocean views. We felt right at home! I even strolled into the famous casino and pretended that I had left my Aston Martin keys by the roulette wheel. Of course, at this hour, there was no one there to see my act, but I looked good in the mirror.

We buzzed off finally and took the low road back toward Nice. About halfway there, tucked up in a little cove is Beaulieu-Sur-Mer, a village "discovered" by the rich and famous back in the 1890’s. Real estate values shot up, along with a couple of ritzy hotels, and before you knew it, Del Mar is born. We checked into the Hotel Frisia, an American owned 3-star spot across from the harbor. We did our usual walk through town, then sat on the beach for our last hours on the Riviera. Sigh. This is a place I could return to!

That night we had a French moment. About 10:30 PM, getting ready for the sack, we notice a very loud, persistent barking near the hotel. Just wrapping up from my shower, I stick my head out the bathroom window to see where it’s coming from. And oddly enough, the barking is louder inside our room than outside. Huh? Bingo! The dog is inside the hotel. But where? Kate goes snooping off since I am dressed in a somewhat relaxed state, so to speak. She finds that the dog is in the room beneath us – obviously alone! Tout alors! Full of "outrage Francais" (you get the hang of it after 2 weeks in France), she stomps down to the front desk to report this disgraceful situation. Meanwhile, I’m monitoring Fluffy’s bark volume carefully while I watch the soccer game. So before Kate can build up any real steam, the desk clerk nods and pulls out a note from the inhabitants of Fluffy’s room instructing the management to take the dog down to the front desk if Fluffy gets noisy. So Kate and the desk clerk open room 226 and out pops Fluffy, a 13 year-old poodle so happy to meet her new friends. The clerk leads Fluff down to the main desk and Kate returns victorious. As for me, I was dog-tired.

We had an 8 AM train to catch in Nice, not to mention a car to return, so we beeped ourselves awake at 5:45 AM and hit the road. Nice, by the way, is a corruption of the original Roman name for the town, Nike. Yes the same Nike we just do it with. Car dropped off successfully, ham and cheese sandwich for breakfast (me only, Kate absolutely blanches at the thought), and on the train for Marseilles, where we switch over to the high speed TGV for our jaunt North through Avignon and up to Paris. By 3:40 PM, we had arrived in Paris for our final night.

We headed for the Right Bank this time, the Hotel Mansart, just around the corner from the Place Vendome, a very ritzy address indeed. Since we had yet to do the Eiffel Tower, we strode off one last time across the Seine and down the river to the Tower, arriving around 6 PM – perfect timing. We rode up to the second level together, where Kate called it quits. She was feeling some vertigo after a day rocking in the train. I continued up to the top and did the obligatory salute to Paris at each compass point before descending once again to Level 2. From there you can take the stairs all the way back down, which I readily did. I was intrigued by the metal work and the whole thing was put together. Nothing like walking down the interior of the South Pillar to get a great perspective.

Dinner was a café treat at the Café de la Paix next to the Opera House. We went simple, salad and sandwich (my third of the day, but you know why), and topped it off with a banana split. A fitting topper to the trip.

Well it’s possible. We actually slept a peaceful night in a Paris hotel. The extra star, the Right Bank, now we know! With a 1:30 flight, we took our time, and had a cab pick us up at 10:45 AM. He figured we were late, I guess, because he drove like a maniac the whole way to Charles de Gaulle airport. I didn’t mind terribly, since I knew that this was as exciting as this day was going to get! We were an hour late getting off the ground for air traffic control reasons (what a completely uninformative reason), and as usual, the plane was crammed full. Right behind us, we had the pleasure of a one-year old that knew only two modes, quiet or shriek-like-a-banshee. Even with earphones on, this kid would pop you an inch off your seat with one of these screams. Fortunately, s/he was quiet after 7 hours or so.

4 hours later, we descend into Los Angeles, sun still shining brightly since it’s only 4 PM PDT. A little puddle jumper later and we’re in San Diego – ahh, home. Joe was happy to see us, the mail was 2 feet high, the cat jumped when she saw me, and that bed looked greattttttt!

Next year, Italy?