Category Archives: Europe

Gone to the dogs…

I see so many shops called Le Chat this or that in France, but so far I’ve only seen three cats. Wild, bedraggled and very un-pampered.

Dogs, now that’s another story. They are everywhere. In shops, beside us in restaurants (yes, even the posh ones), at breakfast in the hotel. Wait… they are guests here?

Two take the lift to the second floor after breakfast this morning, leading their owners. This is taking “a man’s best friend” to a whole new level.

Perhaps it’s true. Somewhere on a distant planet in another galaxy, we are being observed by an alien dog race, intent on studying our behaviour, plotting to take over the Earth.

How else do you explain us brushing and pampering them, letting them sleep on our couch or in our beds, feeding them a gourmet diet – and picking up their poo?

Perhaps, someday, they’ll be taking us for walks and carrying black people-poo bags to clean up our indiscretions. Hmmm, somehow I think that might be beneath them.


From Paris to Port en Bessin

our Paris address…

Au revoir, Paris

On Friday, we said au revoir to Paris with some sadness, but also with a sense of relief that we actually made our way out of the city – in peak-hour traffic (at 10 am…), without a scratch.

Sylvia, our fabulous GPS voice that gently yet insistently guides us, is our new best friend. Gagged (well, bagged) since we left home, she is suddenly wonderfully vocal – and faultlessly directs us out of what is essentially a spaghetti-bowl of roads circumnavigating Paris.

You know those days when technology really lets you down – and winds you up? Today is not one of them.

Bonjour, Port en Bessin

After sticking to the toll roads until Leviers, we convince Sylvia that we really do want to take the narrow, meandering pathway to Normandy. Thanks very much.

After Paris, Normandy’s wide open spaces are a surprise – and the villages along the way are breathtaking. Literally at times, when we squeeze between ancient stone walls and around blind corners.

Sylvia finally leads us into Port en Bessin and to our hotel – which is facing the fishing port or face en port. This fishing village is beyond picturesque, and it’s easy to lose track of time here…

Copyright: Louise Ralph

Port en Bessin, Normandy

We suddenly realise it’s six o’clock – and the sun isn’t even thinking about setting. Time to find the seafood restaurant a local has recommended, while Sylvia has a well-earned rest.


Strolling the Louvre

Ce n’est pas la Joconde…

It’s no wonder the Mona Lisa (La Joconde) has that enigmatic smile. The madness she’s seen…

Tourists jostle to get close enough to her to get a snap. Others work their way to the front row and immediately turn their back on her.

Their quest is to be photographed with her. They check their friend’s photography efforts (gotta love digital), nod and walk away…

I pause for a moment to look into those serene yet knowing eyes.

I have someone’s elbow in my ear… and is that a camera almost resting on my head? The price of being short I guess.

Mais non, ce n’est pas la Joconde soit. C’est EB…

The magnetic Mona Lisa is unperturbed. Long after the snaps feature in slideshows and photo albums, long after the memories have grown tired, she will be here. Ever the celebrity.

Down the hall, a young woman holding a lime green-covered iPad is walking towards us – well, almost over us.

She is spinning slowly, taking in the artwork through the screen.

Every now and then she peeps out from behind it.

I guess there are ways and ways to see the Louvre…


Flâneurs à Paris

EB on the rue St. Louis en l’Isle

I’ve discovered there is a word for people like us who like to explore places on foot: flâneurs or ‘strollers’.

Although we did master the Metro today, nothing compares to  wandering the streets of Paris.

Negotiating cobblestones and catching the delicious smells that waft from the boulangerie (and the not-so-delicious from god knows where).

Drinking in the shapes and colours of buildings that will outlive us all.

Hearing l’enfants laughing and playing somewhere behind a school’s high stone wall or the piercing ee-aw of police sirens on some urgent mission.

Or stopping to people-watch and savour double expresso avec du lait sur le côté. 

Eiffel Tower

la dame de fer

But let’s back track to Sunday… possibly the worst day we could pick to see the Eiffel Tower – an engineering masterpiece but, mon dieu, the lines.

There was no way EB was going up there if he had to wait in a line of more than a hundred people. So we took the stair option to the second floor… then stood in line for an hour to get the lift to the top.

Gustave Eiffel’s winning design for the entrance arch to the 1889 World’s Fair, the Eiffel Tower was originally built to be torn down. Even so, the protests began as soon as work commenced on the latticed iron tower in January 1887.

Nicknamed la dame de fer (Iron Lady), very few Parisians appreciated their city skyline dominated by this apparent monstrosity.

Today, it’s said to be one of the most recognised monuments in the world – and one of the most visited. Surrounded by hot, bothered tourists anxious to get to the top, I’m easily convinced.

Needless to say, we flâneured (is that a word?) out of there pretty quickly and recovered over a glass or two of Ruinart, my favourite French champagne. Ah Paris, voilà ce qu’est la vie.

Getting around and getting the knots out…

If you’re not completely insane and you like to wear something other than sensible walking shoes, taking a Batobus (boat-bus) is a good option and gives you a different perspective of Paris. It’s hop-on, hop-off at eight different stops along the Siene. A five-day pass cost us €21 each. A day ticket is €18.

After a long day on your feet, relax  with a brilliant Thai massage at Nuad Thai Sabai on the Quai de la Tournelle (Metro: Pont-Marie, Sully Morland or Jussieu).


Eat, sleep, play… in Paris

St-Germain des Pres From the moment EB and I stepped out of our quaint, oh-so-Paris apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis this morning, I knew I was ‘home’.

It just felt like the right fit for me in every way, and I immediately felt myself relaxing.

I love the way women dress here – relaxed, understated and not a nose-bleed-height heel in sight. Except on tourists who are willing to risk their ankles on the uneven cobblestones.

And in spite of the bad wrap Parisians often get, we’ve found them friendly and helpful. They don’t gush and they don’t try to impress, but they seem comfortable in their own skin and I like that.

Best of all, after years of having conniptions over conjugations, I’m finally speaking French without hyperventilating… ordering breakfast, asking a man on the street for directions (and even understanding the answer!), and buying supplies at the marché.

Later, exploring the deliciously charming streets of St-Germain de Prés and nearby Left Bank neighbourhoods, I could very well have been in heaven.

At the end of our first day in Paris, EB has already walked my legs off… and hopefully the day’s indulgences.

I suspect tomorrow will involve, among other things, not taking the lift up the Eiffel Tower. As if 88 stairs up to our apartment isn’t enough already. Not that we’ve counted.


The count down begins…

Only a week and a bit before Frankly (aka the Energiser Bunny or EB) and moi take off for our French adventure. Can’t wait to shake off the busy-ness, take a deep breath and bolt…

Did I mention I hate packing? Grrr. I was obviously traumatised as a child, when my mum and dad went psycho at each other before every camping trip. Mum always wanted to take the kitchen sink, apparently.

In those days (ancient as I am), cars didn’t have seatbelts or airbags. But mum made up for it. Us kids had so much stuff jammed around us, they’d have had to dig us out if we’d ever had
an accident.

So. Packing. Tell me it gets better with practice…