xxxxx... That was the code to enter our appartement on Rue Place Dauphine. Situated along a triangular park,. We were above a restaurant and cafe about 500 meters from the police station and the court house. Also there was the conciergerie where they kept Marie Antoinette aux Austriche before her execution by guillotine a short distance away at Place de la Concorde. Across the street from our appartement was a nice little restaurant called La Rose de France. We ate there with actor Ethan Hawke. In actuality, he ate with who we presumed was his wife, baby and in-laws, but he seemed quite nice.

Apparently I choose not to converse with anyone who doesn't speak English. So I told the gorgeous woman on the moped who stopped me on Pont Neuf, I think to ask me for directions. Or, perhaps, she wished to proclaim to me her undying love. I'll never know, much to Porter's amusement.

We were headed in a light rain to l' marche on rue Berlin de Poisses for Coke and biere when this lovely apparition before me appeared, as if she stepped out of a Chanel advertisement. I don't even know precisely what she said before I stammered, to her horror, "No ... parlez-vous Anglais." Of course, what I met to say was either "Do you speak English?" or "I speak English," the latter which should have been "Je ne parle pas Francais."

Instead, I flubbed it big time. I'm fairly certain that it is not a good thing when a Parisian woman covers her mouth and looks away in horror after you say something incredibly stupid. What a colossal boob. She could have been the woman of my dreams; the one with whom I settled down and made babies. Instead I made myself out as the ugly American. Oh la la.

Tripe, Tripe Baby

Spiral French staircases can be hell. Try navigating one after a bottle of Muscadet, or, for that matter, an over-sized traveler's luggage. I've done it with both, and trust me, neither is a pretty sight. But, then again, you're in France. Life could be worse.

Still, life can have it's unfortunate accoutrement; for example, andouillette. Not to be confused with the Creole spicy sausage that adorns jambalaya or gumbo, I learned at the renowned Paris restaurant Balthazar that andouillette is trip, or the stomach lining of a farm animal. In this case, I think it was a pig.

Porter won the prize for the worst plate choice of night No. 1, and, as it turned out the entire trip. He knew he was in trouble when he cut into the plain, grilled sausage with no sauce and it unraveled like fingers loosening their grip. He uttered, "My God, this smells horrible," before taking a bite. He told me it actually tasted much worse. Somehow he gagged down half of the approximately six-inch long sausage.

Indeed it was horrific. Being the adventurous traveler I am, I tried a bite. course, it wasn't until later when we consulted one of Bill's books on French food that we discovered the true meaning of andouillet. If you ever go to France and you encounter "Andouillette AAAAA" on l'menu, it's probably best to pass. Come to find out, the "AAAAA" denotes a French society of gourmet tripe lovers.

My saumon, or salmon for you non-Francophiles, was better, a bit over-cooked but definitely palatable after 12 hours spent in the air, five of those spent drinking or sleeping in three different airports over the past day.

Meanwhile, words cannot express watching Bill play air cutlery as he nearly fell asleep at the table while cutting his asperges blanc (white asparagus). God, was it tasty. I've never had more tender, succulent asparagus in my life. Just another experience.

C'est la vie!

There Are Worse Things in Life

Spiral French staircases can be hell. Try navigating one after a bottle of Muscadet or for that matter oversized traveler's luggage. I've done it with both, and trust me, neither is a pretty sight. But, then again, you're in France. Life could be worse. Still, life can have it's unfortunate encoutrements; for example, andouillet. Not to be confused with the Creole spicy sausage that adorns jambalaya or gumbo, I learned at a Paris cafe how tripe tastes - and smells. Porter one the prize for worst plate decision of night no. 1. My saumon was better, a bit overcooked but definitely palatable after 12 hours spent in the air and about five in three different airports over the past day. Meanwhile, words cannot express watching Bill play air cutlery as he nearly fell asleep at the table while cutting his asperges, or asparagus. It was all certainly better than my meals on British Airways making the trek over via London.
Just another experience. C'est la vie!

BTW...

Yes, you might have noticed the time lag in my dates, as by now I've already concluded my travels. Well, I didn't want to spend my entire vacation on the computer. I do enough of that every day at work. And this was NOT work. But, never fear, I did keep up my blog. The iPhone is a great thing. So I will work over the next couple of days to move those writings over to this site.
So stay tuned.

Day 1: LA to Paris by way of London

Having to wake up early for a flight is never my idea of fun, unless, that is, I'm headed somewhere fun.
Paris definitely applies.
My 9 a.m. flight dictated that I had to get up around 5 that morning to shuffle my bones off to the airport. So when my phone rang at 3:30, my first thought in my stupor was, "Oh my God, I missed my flight." Or my ride was downstairs wondering where the hell I was.
Luckily it was neither but instead the automated flight update from American telling me my initial leg to Miami had been delayed by nearly four hours. Not good, as that would mean I'd miss connecting flight to Charles de Gaulle.
So up I went to my computer to retrieve the AA customer service number so I could figure out what the heck to do.
After the lady who answered, that is after, of course, I was on hold for 10 minutes, I was given several options, all of which were horrible. Fly to Dallas at midnight, get to Miami around 8 in the morning, and then head on to Paris after waiting in the airport for 10 hours. No.
How about the same flight to Dallas and on to Miami, then heading to New York's JFK around noon before connecting to Paris. Double no.
But wait, the next option sounded best, although either way I cut it I'd lose a full day in Paris. Fly to London non-stop and then wait about an hour before taking a puddle-jumper to the city of lights and get there by 6 p.m., still 9 hours later than I originally planned. But, especially on an awards flight, beggars can't be choosers.
The rest of the day went off without a hitch, and I was lucky enough to sit next to a nice couple from San Jose. The husband offered me an Ambien, which worked wonders right in the middle of watching the movie "The Messenger" with Woody Harrelson. Next thing I know, the flight attendants are serving us our breakfast meal as we approach Heathrow. Now that's flying (if you can't afford business or first class).
The only snafu I hit during my hour layover in London was having to check Bill's bottle of Jack Daniels, which I purchased duty-free at LAX before leaving. Thankfully it didn't break in my backpack. Oh, yeah my luggage.
For about two minutes, I thought they lost both of my bags. At Charles de Gaulle, after passing through customs, everyone's luggage comes down the carousel...except mine. In my best (or worst) broken French, I ask for a lost luggage form and begin to fill it out, when one of the baggage guys walks up to the American desk with, voila, my bags. Now it was bound to be a great trip!

Vivez Dur!

So it begins. My dear friends Porter and Yorba Travis, brothers extraordinaire, and I are but a mere month from what will truly be an adventure of a lifetime. We tend to share a lot of those.
It's just what we do.
Indubitably.
Airline tickets, round-trip coach with a three-hour layover in Miami.
Check.
Apartment on Il de la Cite over looking the banks of the Seine.
Check.
Awesome times await.
Oh daddy, you better believe it! (Daddy Travis, Esq., that is, our wise benefactor)
May 12, 2010, a Wednesday morning, will find me awaking earlier than my usual 6:15 cattle call to make my way to Paris for 11 days and 10 nights that is sure to test my mettle, deprive me of sleep, tempt my tummy, and intoxicate me with the red wine and women of the most romantic city on Earth. It's apropos, mon cherie, that the funnest single guys I know head to a land most people visit for their honeymoon. Instead, we shall leave no stone unturned in search of the world's best party.
Over the next month and a half, we will certainly have stories to tell and photos to post. You're invited to tag along (virtually, of course) to see what situations we can get ourselves into.
Au revoir for now!