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!