Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

It’s cold in Nice this winter, colder than we remembered from our last visits in January, colder than average for this time of the year. Some days are cold and cloudy, some days are cold and clear, but so far they have all been cold, with the high temps barely reaching 50 F.

Not that the weather stops us from our daily rounds. A day without a stroll along the Promenade is a day without ambition. On Saturday, we planned to go up Castle Hill via the elevator, but found that, like so many others in Nice this winter, it was closed for repairs. So we walked around the hill along the Promenade to the Port, where we found no new impressive boats, except for Elements, the Saudi maxi-yacht that has been berthed there since the fall.

When we travel abroad, our ambition is to accomplish one thing a day. On this visit, we have been overachieving, sometimes doing two things in a single day. Of course, it helps that the Cours Saleya vegetable market is only five minutes in one direction, and the Monoprix grocery store is five minutes in the other.

We are never far away from food. Restaurants abound in Old Town, even with many of them closed for January. Within minutes of our apartment, we can choose from Nicoise, French (not the same as the aforementioned), Italian, Mexican, British/American, Turkish, Afghan, Tunisian, Indian (many), Thai, and one of the great oyster bars in the world, Cafe Turin, where you can choose from a half a dozen different types and prices on the shell. You should never go hungry in Nice.

In addition to our fabulous dinners at high-end places like Bar des Oiseaux and Citrus, we have dined on local cuisine on the streets and in the parks that ranges from just filling to fully delicious. And of course, there is the French croissant, purchased for one euro.

We have found pamplemousse (grapefruit) in the Cours Saleya and regular grocery stores, juicy, deep pink to red, tart and delicious. For the first few days we saw no berries of any kind in the market. Then, one day they all showed up–strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, raspberries–for anywhere from three to six euros.

Eggs are more expensive in the markets, but retail for less than three euros for 10 at Monoprix. Eggs here in France are sold in packages of four, six, ten and 12, and they are offered at all sorts of price points depending on how green, bio and humane the chickens were raised. We are accustomed to a couple of choices in the U.S. In France, we can choose from about ten difference options, depending on how much we are willing to pay.

On Sunday, we did what we always do. We started with a fine dish of eggs and lardon over toasted baguette slices with brilliant red strawberries on the side. Then we walked over to Wayne’s to chat with our Russian server over her excellent Bloody Marys served with Worcestershire and celery salt on the side. Sarah, the Irish wife of one of the partners who own Wayne’s, popped over, and we caught up experiences over the last months since we had seen each other. She had a good excuse–she just had a baby.

Tragically, Wayne’s was closing for most of the week for deep cleaning and restoration. The staff would be having their annual party at Waka Bar overlooking the Promenade Monday night. We would have to fend for ourselves.

But this was Sunday, and we reverted to form for dinner. Lynn had found a recipe for grilling steak in a skillet on a stove, and we found a beautiful if quite expensive steak at our little boucherie that looked for all the world like a New York strip. We purchased a container of potatoes dauphinoise from the rotisserie store to accompany the steak, and by golly we were ready for our traditional Sunday steak dinner.

Lynn’s recipe worked perfectly. Following the directions to the word, we added nothing to the pan but the steak, patted dry after salted and chilled in the fridge for 45 minutes. Deploying the splatter screen we had found earlier in the day at Maxi Bazaar, I turned the meat every two minutes in the skillet, and the steak seared perfectly on both sides without releasing enough smoke to set off the alarm that had been installed right over the hob.

It was not as thick as a steak at home, but that worked just fine for skillet grilling. The flavor and texture that resulted were just what we wanted in a steak. I doubt any restaurant in Nice served a better steak that Sunday night than what was on the plate at 3 rue de la Condamine.

Cimiez Park is one of our favorite spots, and one we never fail to visit whenever we stay in Nice. This time around, our goal was the Matisse Museum, which we had not seen in a couple of years.

We had tried to go up the day before, but the national transit strike shut down all the buses in Nice except for the tram, so we waited in vain for the 5 bus that never arrived. However, on this day, we were not to be denied, and we boarded for the very pleasant scenic ride up the hill through the huge Belle Epoque residential buildings that line blvd Cimiez on both sides.

Matisse donated his entire personal collection of paintings, drawings, illustrations and sculpture to the City of Nice, where he lived on and off from 1917 until his death in 1956. At various times, he lived in the Palais de la Mediterranean hotel on Promenade des Anglais; the Charles Felix building on the Cours Saleya steps from our apartment in Old Town; and the Regina Apartments right down blvd Cimiez from today’s museum.

The museum is located in the Villa des Arenes, a 17th century Genoese building that is part of the huge Cimiex park complex. The museum collection includes 31 paintings, 454 drawings and engravings and more than 130 other objects from the artist’s personal collection. Matisse is buried in the cemetery behind the Franciscan monastery at the top of Cimiez Park, so it’s as if he watches over his legacy personally.

Lynn was not terribly excited about the temporary exhibit by contemporary artist Agnes Thurnauer, although I found it fairly interesting. She created alphabets of three-dimensional letters in glass, aluminum and other materials that are on display around the museum. She also wrote a series of letters to Matisse in 2021 and 2022, which is a bit bizarre, since he had been dead for more than a half a century by then.

Regardless of the qualities of the temporary exhibit, the permanent collection rotates because of its vast size, and the visit ends with a reproduction of Matisse’s legendary Piscine, created for the Barnes Museum in Philadelphia. Here at the Matisse Museum, the huge cutouts of swimmers have been recreated in actual size and placed in a special room of the precise dimensions as the Barnes. It’s worth the 10 euro price of admission alone.

The museum visit doesn’t take long, and the day was beautiful but cold, so we strolled up to the monastery to take a quick look at the extensive gardens to see how they looked in the winter. Remarkably, many of the roses were still in bloom, although small and faded in the middle of winter.

As cold as it was, the outdoor cafe was bustling by the time we walked back, now hungry ourselves. Lynn commandeered a small table while I ordered a panini and a beer for us to share. We didn’t need to eat a lot, since we were planning dinner at Citrus, arguably the best foodie restaurant in Nice, certainly in Old Town.

And Citrus did not disappoint. The wine was excellent, the service was friendly, and most importantly the food was splendid. We started with the onion tatin, essentially an onion prepared like Beef Wellington but with black boudin between the onion snd the pastry crust. Lynn commented that she didn’t think it was hot enough, but I noted that many of our meals this trip from the Queen Mary 2 to Paris to Nice have not been served that hot. Maybe it’s winter or everyone is trying to save a bit of energy while cooking.

The rest of our dinner was equally good. Lynn’s pork shoulder came in two large pieces, and she could eat only one, so it went back home with us. My steak was a sirloin tip that was cooked exactly as I had asked. And the accompaniments to both our dishes were as tasty, well prepared and artistically presented as the main attractions.

Our only regret was not ordering the escargot appetizer too. But the would have been too much. We will leave that for our next visit.

After our exertions of travel and entertainment the day and night before, we slept in for our first full day in our apartment. The sun doesn’t rise here in the middle of winter until about 8 a.m., so the sky stays dark, and the neighborhood is quiet. There was nothing to wake us up, so we didn’t.

Our opening-day chores awaited. Lynn needed vegetables from the Cours Saleya market and some sausage from her favorite boucherie so she could make our first home-cooked meal in two weeks–her splendid sausage and peppers with fresh ravioli. The peppers were mammoth compared to what we see at home, the vegetable were as beautiful as ever, and we did not notice any sign of rampant inflation. But the market was almost deserted. Less than half the stalls were open, and customers were scarce.

Vegetables bought, there was wine to be purchased. I walked over to the large Caves Caprioglio and picked up some of their specials, including one wine from Corsica that looked like it had potential but turned out to be a bit disappointing. The rest we knew would be tasty, mostly from the south of France.

For lunch, we found a new place around the corner from our apartment, Vitito, an Argentine restaurant that just opened in November right after we had left Nice the last time. Vitito specializes in empanadas. They offer seven different types, and you can order either singly or what they call the Groso, four of the seven with chimichurri sauce and a glass of wine for 20 euros. That was plenty enough for us. The Argentines who own the place are hanging on through the dead period of January until Carneval starts next month.

And Nice is indeed dead, more so than it was when we were here last January. Place Rosetti, the central square in Old Town, is deserted. The three glaciers, which usually have long lines, are shut down, as are three of the four restaurants that are usually full both inside and outside.

Stores and restaurants all over town are closed with signs that announce cong´é until the end of January or early February in time for Carneval. There is a palpable sense of quiet all over Vieux Nice because there is a palpable lack of tourists. We rarely heard American or British spoken.

Even the restaurants that have remained open are nearly empty for dinner. Bar de Oiseaux, our favorite and the first we visited, was an exception. It filled up while we enjoyed another wondrous meal in our assigned table watching the four-person kitchen work its magic.

We started with a most interesting appetizer of four oysters in a tart sauce of lime topped with a foam of celery and apple. Essentially, this was oysters a la Key Lime pie. It was unique and delicious. For our mains, Lynn had the exquisite ravioli in a pecorino sauce, and I dug into a veal confit that melted in my mouth.

We noticed the next day that Bistro d’Antoine, one of Armand Crespo’s other restaurants was doing just fine as well. And when we walked by Cave de Cours Thursday evening to check in, they reported they were busy as well.

Apparently M. Crespo has figured out the antidote to January.

We have been grabbing lunch at little places around Old Nice. We bought moussaka and quiche at the little rotisserie next door to the Caves and brought that home one day, then stopped in at a little tourist spot off the Cours Saleya the next.

Lou Kale offered basically a tasting of Nicoise standards for 10 euros. My planche including servings of pizza, pissaladiere, socca and toasted baguette slices with tapenade. None were especially good, except the tapenade. My pissaladiere had never seen an anchovy, and Lynn sent her pizza slice back to be warmed up. She did wind up with the best dish among the two of us, beignets of zucchini that were right out of the fryer, light, tasty and crispy.

Our Thursday shopping included a huge daurade at the St. Francois fish market, where I was able to communicate that I wanted it filleted, separated from the backbone, the head cut off and the cheeks cleaned out. The fish wasn’t cheap at 26 euros, but it will give us two meals with leftovers. Daurade is sort of a Mediterranean equivalent of sea bream, very tasty yet mild. Lynn would later sauté it in butter and pepper just like home.

Our other shopping included stops at kitchen stores and bricolages, which are roughly a combination of hardware and home furnishings in one store. “Bricolage” means DIY in French idiom. Lynn had been searching for a dish drying pad for the kitchen sink, and finally found the perfect item at Brico Nice near the Post Office.

Along the way, we would stop at various stores, where I would buy some warmer socks, since I had left behind the expensive heavy socks I bought several years ago at Massey’s just for European travel in the winter.

I also stumbled into an interesting menswear store that featured very stylish underwear for very stylish men of a difference persuasion than mine. But they also had some really fine winter shirts on sale for 22.50, and I needed one more nice corduroy shirt. So I tried on the shirt in the little fitting room overlooked by an oversized photo of a large, ripped guy wearing the briefest briefs I had ever seen. Clearly I was not this store’s prime audience.

Thursday was cold but beautiful, so we decided on a bus ride up to Cimiez Park and the Matisse Museum, which we had not visited for a couple of years, although we go to the park every time. The museum had two temporary exhibits related to Matisse that both looked worth seeing, so off we went to wait on the 33 bus.

Which never showed up. I had noticed that downtown seemed eerily quiet, with even fewer people on the streets and little heavy traffic. After waiting at the bus stop for nearly 15 minutes, I realized that all the transit workers in the entire country of France were on strike that day. January 19 was the day of a nationwide strike over pay and Macron’s plan to raise the retirement age from 62 to 64. Mon dieu! The horrors!

Our trip from Paris to Nice was about as benign as a journey across France can be.

We arose at 6 a.m. to be ready for a taxi from our hotel to Gare de Lyon, just a few minutes away. But you just never know on a Monday.

Miraculously, we were ready to check out in little more than an hour, and the elevator thankfully worked after being out of service overnight. The elevator was so small that I sent Lynn down with the two suitcases, and I followed, just in case. I could walk down the five flights of stairs, but Lynn’s knee would not appreciate that at all.

Our Uber driver showed up right on time, and in only 15 minutes we walked into and up Gare de Lyon, one of the largest stations in Paris. We found ourselves with nearly an hour to wait in the cold air, so we retreated for breakfast to one of the many little restaurants at the train tracks.

Gare de Lyon has three different halls of tracks moving some 150 million people through every year. Opened in 1849, it’s the second largest station in Paris after Gare du Nord. We waited with everyone else craning upward to watch the large signs indicting which track our train would board from. When our track 23 was posted, the entire crowd bolted for the entrances.

Lynn got caught in the crowd two steps and people behind me, so when I had a problem getting myself through the security gate, I had to pull her through with me. The French commuters were none too helpful and none too pleased with our plight.

We were seated I coach 8, and I led us down the tracks for three cars until I realized that our coach was the very first one closest to the gate. So we swam upstream back to our coach, knowing we would likely be the last people on board and therefore constrained to find space for our large bags. 

But luckily most of the travelers heading south were packing light, so we were able to squeeze our bags on the rack without too much effort by moving the ones already there on their sides. And then we worked out way up the aisle to find our seats. To my delight, we faced forward for the trip to Marseille, which was the majority of the five-hour ride.

Second class on French and most other European trains is more or less the same as first class in the U.S. The seats are wide and comfortable, with large windows to view the scenery going by at nearly 200 mph. We had charging stations for our devices, and the bar car was not too far away. I ordered a chicken salad baguette and two bottles of wine for lunch as we sped through the French countryside and finally far enough south to escape the clouds and the rain.

As we pulled into Marseille, I assumed that most passengers would depart there, since Marseille is the second largest city in France. I was wrong. Most of our fellow passengers were heading to various stops along the Cote d’Azur.

Strangely, as we pulled out of Marseille, the train did not turn around, so we spent the best part of the trip facing backwards in our seats. And the views of the Med were on the other side of the car. But I endured.

After passing New Orleans’ sister city Juan les Pins, we stopped in Antibes. (Don’t blink or you will miss Juan les Pins.) The next thing we knew, we were pulling into Nice Ville, the end of the line.

It took all of 30 minutes to wheel our bags out of the train station, two blocks to the tram for three stops, off through Place St. Francois, up the slight incline, and to our door at 3 rue de la Condamine.

We were home. 

We worked together to haul our large heavy bags up the steep 12 stairs to our apartment. While Lynn did preliminary unpacking, I walked out to the grocery for the next morning’s essentials of eggs, milk, lardon, cereal and cheese. Providentially, we had tucked away a bottle of wine in our owner’s locker for this very purpose. 

And then it was off to dinner at Wayne’s. I needed a Wayne’s cheeseburger. Lynn ordered their soup of the day, which is served in huge bowls, piping hot and always rich and thick. We were just finishing when the night’s band, Sons of Guns, came in to play. They were enjoyable. In fact, so enjoyable that we stayed for a couple of glasses of Havana Club 7, the last purchased by one of the band members himself. As they worked through their second set, it was time for us mature folks to head out, and we strolled back to our apartment.

It was good to be home.

Our last full day in Paris was chilly but clear, and our mission was to visit both Jardin des Plantes and Luxembourg Gardens. Normally this would be a two-day affair, with one park each day. But we were out of time. We sucked it up and made them both on the same day.

And we were glad we did.

Luxembourg Gardens is where Hemingway used to take his son Jack to capture pigeons (so he wrote). It is the quintessential Parisian green space in the 5th that stretches from the busy streets near the Sorbonne and the Pantheon all the way down to Montparnasse. It is the Tuileries of the Left Bank.

On the north side of the park, the French Senate building looms over the green space. It too was under renovation on one wing. Even in the dead of winter, flowers bloom around the large basin, and parents take their children around to romp and play.

Most months of the year, little sailboats are rented to the kids from a small shack, but not in the middle of winter. Instead, private owners brought out their personal RC boats to sail and motor around the basin. Some were fanciful homemade craft; others were serious race models.

We enjoyed our short stay at Luxembourg Gardens, watching the boat owners, the kids, their parents and assorted couples strolling the grounds. The crowds were smaller for sure, in the winter, but Luxembourg Gardens draws them out anyway, just like us.

But we had more pressing and important issues since it was, after all, Sunday. So we took the short walk back to the Pantheon and The Bombardier, a proper British bar that knows how to make a proper Bloody Mary. It was also an opportunity for a quick British lunch, so I ordered their excellent fish and chips, and Lynn had the chicken tenders with Thai dipping sauce, sort of British, I suppose.

And then it was back to the hotel for a quick rest and down rue Lacepede to Jardin des Plantes. We really did not expect what we found.

The Jardin had been transformed into a winter wonderland, a Celebration in the Oaks starring LED-lit, silk structures of bugs and plants. Instead of gardens, it was an insectarium of educational features spread through the length and breadth of the central grounds.

We wandered up and down, as mesmerized as the kids. It was true sensory overload. We were so lucky, because this was the last day of the exhibit. But now we understood why the entrance near the river had been closed off, because after dark they charged admission.

Finally, after gorging ourselves through the maze of color, we started back to the hotel and found a hill near the Lacepede entrance that was topped by a metal pergola. It wasn’t so late or so cold that we couldn’t walk the path up there, and we were rewarded with a view of the impressive metal structure that overlooks the gardens. I’m sure it is more scenic in the spring and summer, but it was an interesting perspective even in winter overlooking the park.

Back at the hotel, we began early preparations to leave the next day for a five hour train ride to Nice. But first, we had one more must-do–a visit to George and Pomme D’Eve to watch NFL football.

To our surprise, the place was full. Normally when we arrive at 7 p.m. on a Sunday, we are the only customers. Not this time. The room was full of people waiting for an improv night. George explained that he learned that people now want to interact with other people now that they are free from the bondage of Covid. So he has scheduled comedians and improv groups like this one at earlier times than he normally is open. Business is coming back, he said, after some two years of struggle, most of which he was forced to shut down entirely.

We enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine with some quiet conversation while the improv class was going on. We offered our regrets on leaving so early. But we promised to return on our next visit to Paris, as we always do. Pomme d’Eve is all but home.

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped off for a pizza right around the corner from Pomme d’Eve at a place we have visited on a number of occasions, La Campannina. The entire experience, including the service and the food, was the worst we have ever had in Europe. I’ll say no more, because it was so painful. But we’ll not return there, and it was a most disappointing way to leave a wonderful city.

Saturday started cold and windy with the promise of rain. That promise of rain was fulfilled not too much later in the day, which turned out to be as uncomfortable as forecast. But conditions did not stop us from our rounds around Paris, notably thanks to the BatoBus.

We started with a short walk to the Metro stop at Place Monge to take the 7 line across the river to the Marais and one of the museums sponsored by the City of Paris. They are all free to visit, except the Catacombs, where visitors line up hours before entrance to walk through the macabre underground caves holding the bones of literally millions of Parisians whose remains were transferred to the vaults from the late 18^th century to the middle of the 19^th. But we have seen that before, and the bones don’t change after all these centuries.

Our goal on this non-Chamber day was the Musée Cognacq-Jay, displaying the huge collection of 18^th century art and furniture amassed by Ernest Cognacq, the founder of the Samartaine department store (which incidentally re-opened while we were last in Paris less than two years ago). Cognacq and his wife, Marie-Louise Jay, gave their personal collection to the city as a museum in their name. It was originally located in an annex to their legendary store (think the Bloomingdale’s of Paris), but then moved in 1990 to the Donon, an old hotel in Marais, which was extensively renovated to house the collection.

The Metro stop was a pleasant walk of several blocks to the museum or as pleasant as the weather conditions would allow. Getting there is half the fun, because the Marais is now quite the trendy neighborhood in Paris, with young people strolling the streets lined with stupidly expensive clothing stores. We found the Cognaq-Jay right past the Musée Carnavalet, the museum of the history of Paris, which we had visited last time we were here. 

Inside, the Cognacq-Jay collections are gathered on four floors of the old hotel (sorry, no lift). While 18^th century painting is not my favorite, it does have some historical interest in explaining the manners and mores of the times. And some of the small personal objects like watches and gadgets were quite fascinating, as were many pieces of furniture displaying exquisite marquetry. They don’t make them like that anymore. 

The museum only took about an hour to walk through, and the rain was temporarily in abeyance, so we took the opportunity to walk over to Place des Voges, the beautiful square in the Marais that is a normally lush park surrounded by four symmetrical apartment buildings resembling the Pontalba. But not now.

Place des Voges is undergoing extensive renovation itself. Barricade fencing stretched around the interior of the square, so we were forced to walk around rather than through the park to reach the other side and the Metro. And by now, the rain was returning. We ducked into the St. Paul Line 1 Metro stop, which would take us to Paris’s ornate Hotel de Ville, their City Hall. Even in the misty rain, Hotel de Ville is something to behold. Parts of the building date back to 1533 and King Francois I, protector of Leonardo da Vinci. 

Only Parisians would erect an edifice like that to house the mayor and assorted bureaucrats devoted to creating regulations to make the lives of regular citizens as miserable and complicated as possible. 

Today, sure enough, standing in front of the ornate Renaissance building are the Olympic rings, ready to show off Paris to the world in summer 2024. We walked across the courtyard (under renovation, wouldn’t you guess) and down to the riverbank and the BatoBus stop where we saw the boat leave before we could quite get there. A cold wait of 19 minutes later, we boarded the next boat and enjoyed yet another cruise up and down the Seine all the way back to the Notre Dame stop where we had started the day before. 

Now it was truly raining, so we ducked into a souvenir store where Lynn could buy a stocking cap in the hope of keeping her hair reasonably dry and tucked away from the wind. Raining or not, we needed to find a place to eat, because it was now mid-afternoon, and we were running on a shared croissant from 8:30 in the morning.

We found Cosmo, a little bistro on rue des Ecoles, a street we have walked so many times. Neither of us remembered seeing this place, but it was friendly, dry and warm, so we shared a huge meat and cheese planchette (12 euros!) with a glass of wine each. Just what we needed for our larger Italian meal planned that evening.

I made reservations at Terronia, a terrific Italian restaurant right around the corner from us and down the street from our old apartment on Jussieu in front of the Sorbonne Curie College of Really Smart Kids in Paris, the MIT of France.

We had been to Terronia a few times before although not at least since 2019. But we were greeted like family, and gleefully took the table closest to the kitchen, where we could watch the three magicians in the kitchen pump out incredibly delicious Italian dishes.

Our servers were two gorgeous young women, one from Milan who is working on her master’s in politics, the other who is working on her master’s in philosophy but has been dating the chef for the last 15 months, so she is not likely to become a wandering philosopher in France. The combination of pleasant servers and a frenetic but cheerful kitchen created one of the great restaurant nights that we will remember for a long time.

The tiny place filled up quickly, and the kitchen ran non-stop but not so fast that the chef could not serve us personally and commend us on our choice of pasta dishes. We passed on an appetizer, although I was sorely tempted by the octopus carpaccio. But we had long since learned that Europeans eat vastly greater quantities than elderly Americans do. For instance, the German couple sitting next to us each polished off an appetizer, a full main dish and a dessert. Of course, they were much younger. 

Our polite decline of dessert did not stop Emilio. He personally brought out two plates of the lightest, airiest cake we had ever tasted, studded with small bits of dried fruit and dusted with powdered sugar. It is normally served at Christmas in Italy, but they told us that Emilio likes to make it for his favored guests. This dish was, to paraphrase Stanley Tucci (now canceled by CNN, by the way), “incredible, wonderful, the best I have ever tasted.” In other words, it was really good.

If you find yourself in Paris, you must dine at Terrronia. It is the Bar des Oiseaux of Paris. And if you ever read this peroration, you know that is the highest restaurant praise possible.

Our first morning in Paris was dark. We didn’t wake up until dawn, which in the middle of winter in Paris comes after 8:30 a.m.

Our plan was simple—grab a croissant down the street, then head to Notre Dame to see the progress of restoration. After that, we would buy a two-day pass on the BatoBus for the best roundabout tour in Paris, right past and in front of all the major spots you want to see.

Reconstruction of Notre Dame remains actively underway, although the visual panels surrounding the site have not changed since we saw them about 15 months ago. But it was easy to see the actual construction progress.

The huge wooden braces that support the flying buttresses are now in place all the way around the church. The original twisted, burned scaffolding has been completely removed, and new more elaborate, almost delicate scaffolding surrounds the damaged part of the building like a web of steel.

The front wall and towers have been scrubbed clean so that the stone is no longer a dingy gray but a handsome beige. The crowds of tourists are still there, taking photos of the towers, when the damage is on the other side of the church. We remarked at the number and size of the guided tour groups walking through the plaza in front of the historic cathedral. Most seemed to be narrated in English, and none make note of the Crypt right in front of them.

We circled Notre Dame and walked back across the river to catch the BatoBus that would take us right in front of all the major attractions we, like every other visitor to Paris, must see.

Our first stop was the Louvre, where we walked through the middle riverside entrance to find the Arc and the Tuileries under major reconstruction. Obviously, the French are getting the place ready for the Olympics in less than a year and a half.  

Napoleon had stolen the horses from Venice’s St. Mark’s Basilica back in 1797 and had them mounted on the top of his Arc. They were later returned to Venice, and the current sculptures of horses and chariot were erected during the 19^thcentury. Now they are in desperate need of renovation.

Additionally, all the stone sculptures of soldiers that line the facades of the Arc are being restored after more than a century of pollution, revolts, fires and foreign occupation.

We walked through the Tuileries, where the entire grounds are under repair. The fountains and their basins are empty, preparing for installation of new mechanics. Much of the grounds on either side of the central walk have been cleared for replanting new trees, because the chestnuts are dying off, victims of lack of biodiversity. Even the entrance on the Place de la Concorde side is being restored. 

Luckily, one of the two dining pavilions was still open for lunch, and by then, we were hungry and cold. The outside tables were empty as expected, but we were greeted by the friendly staff inside and seated right away. Our timing was fortuitous, because by the time we finished our lunch, the small dining room was filling up fast.

Lynn ordered the onion soup, which was thinner than normal but still tasty, she declared. I ordered a simple croque monsieur that was served with a generous helping of frites and a salad. It was plenty to hold both of us to dinner at La Forge later that night.

We strolled out of the Tuileries to Place de la Concorde and Napoleon’s obelisk that was “gifted” to him by the Egyptians. After he conquered them, of course. As we walked out, I longingly gazed at the entrance to Monet’s L’Orangerie museum, which had no line at all. It was beckoning me. But we had to move on, I was told. 

Our task at that moment was to locate the Place de la Concorde BatoBus stop, which is closer to the Pont Alexandre III than to the traffic chaos of Concorde. 

We reached the stop just as the boat was pulling up, and we boarded the nearly empty BatoBus for the short ride to the Eiffel Tower. The BatoBus stops directly underneath the Eiffel Tower, the closest place to reach Paris’s favorite icon. Passengers simply walk off the boat, up the stairway, and cross the street to reach the Eiffel Tower. The nearest Metro stop is blocks away.

We turned left to enter at Gate 2, where we walked through security and then into the courtyard underneath the massive structure. Remember, it’s free to walk in. Tickets to take the elevators to the upper levels range from 18 to 28 euros depending on how high you want to go. If you’re willing to climb the steps to the second level, the price is only 11 euros, but you can only buy those on site. And, even in the windy cold weather, the lines were long. In fact, it was so windy that access to the top level was closed. As I have mentioned before, a better deal is the top of Tour Montparnasse, which gives you an interactive 360-degree view of Paris below.

But I suppose Tour Montparnasse is not Tour Eiffel. 

After our short walk through the sparsely populated area underneath the structure, which itself is undergoing continued maintenance and painting, we walked out the opposite direction through Entrance 1 and back to our BatoBus for the pleasant, sheltered ride back to our neighborhood. 

We wanted to walk back through the Jardin des Plantes, but the nearest entrance was closed off, and we were not willing to walk all the way down to the Austerlitz end to enter. So we just proceeded up the street along the wall that separates Paris’s science college from the park. We had put in our regular 3-5 miles on this day, so we didn’t feel the least bit guilty or lazy.

Dinner was to be at La Forge, our very favorite restaurant in Paris. We walked over to rue Mouffetard, our very favorite street in Paris past the Tournbride where we had dined the night before and past the shops selling wine, cheese, groceries, vegetables, fish, meats, clothing and various restaurant cuisines. We are not the only people in Paris who love rue Mouffetard.

La Forge is located at the lower end of Mouffetard in a warm, friendly building whose interior looks like an old stone farmhouse in central France. The proprietors welcomed us warmly, asked why we hadn’t visited in so long and escorted us to a delightful table for two in the corner.

They still offered their delicious Cote du Puy Beaujolais Morgon on the wine list, which I eagerly ordered. We were shown the English menu, which did not adequately describe the beef bourguignon, which was actually made with beef cheeks. I was thrilled. The dish was even more thrilling, so rich I ate the gravy and debris with a spoon.

Lynn ordered the duck confit, which would come out firmly pressed and crispy throughout. She was thrilled too.

Our delicious plats were preceeded by an appetizer of melted St. Marcellin cheese in a crock served with two lengths of toasted baguettes. St. Marcellin is a somewhat rare cheese, produced only in a small corner of southeast France named Dauphine. (How appropriate!) Its legend is that it was the favorite cheese of King Louis XI more than 500 years ago, and when you taste it, you can understand why. 

Sadly, after only one night at the Royal Thames, we had to say goodbye to our club. There just wasn’t enough time for a longer stay. 

Our Eurostar train left for France at midday, so we weren’t rushed to get out. We enjoyed breakfast at the club, then grabbed a taxi for the short ride to St. Pancras, where the Eurostar starts and arrives in London from its various European destinations like Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam and others.

St. Pancras now is a major international travel hub, so the security is correspondently tight. To even enter the waiting area, passengers must scan their tickets, then go through the usual security line, which is somewhat more relaxed than a typical airport. The next step is to go through French passport control and once through that, one more passport recognition station before entering the major waiting area. 

We were early, so we had a choice of seats to wait, but the huge station filled with hundreds of passengers for the trip to Paris. We made our way with the crowd up the flat escalator, and when we reached the platform, I immediately turned to walk to our coach—in the wrong direction.

We turned around dragging our luggage upstream through the crowd milling in the opposite direction until we could find our coach 11. Of course, by then, most of our fellow passengers in Coach 11 had already started to board, so there was no space on the luggage rack for our bags, which were way too large and heavy to be hoisted up the overhead racks. I worked all the way to the opposite end of the car, where I found plenty of storage space for our luggage, so we hauled it on the rack and settled into our seats.

Second class on the Eurostar is about the same level as first class on most commuter trains. The seats are leather, wide and comfortable, and there is a charging station under each row. Unfortunately, we forgot to bring any sort of compatible converter. What were we thinking? No British or European plug on a British and European train? 

The ride across was comfortable and pleasant. I sprung for two wines and a ham and cheese baguette. Before we knew it, we were in France. There is no sign that says Welcome to France as you emerge from the Channel. The only way to know you are in France is to see the wine barn whose sign on the side is in French rather than English. Next thing you know, you are pulling through the suburbs of Paris and into Gard du Nord. It’s quite a nice ride.

Gare du Nord has solved its shit show of illegal taxis that we endured and almost fell for the last time we pulled in on the Eurostar. As our crowd spilled out of the train, we were guided by a phalanx of large, armed security guards to a legal taxi line outside the station, where we waited in a relatively short line and boarded a taxi that took us to our hotel in the 5^th, the Hotel St. Christoph on rue Lacepede. We wound our way through heavy rush hour Parisian traffic along rue Magenta and a row of wedding shops offering every sort of male and female formal attire you could imagine. They line both sides of the street for blocks.

Nearly 30 euros later, we reached our hotel. The receptionist welcomed us warmly, and we took the tiny elevator up to the fourth floor and our room, spacious by Parisian standards. We semi-unpacked, since we are only there for a few nights, then ventured out for a dinner at Turnbride on rue Mouffetard, where we were greeted with familiarity.

Our meal, as always was delicious. Good to be back in France.

We had deposited our luggage in the hallway before going to bed, and sure enough it had disappeared when we awoke at 6 a.m. Wednesday morning. Our departure was scheduled for 8:20 a.m., so I dressed quickly and headed out to the King’s Court for one last run through the trough. 

The omelet station was reduced to a single location, so I ordered my last fresh breakfast on the ship, then took a croissant and a couple of strips of bacon back to the room for Lynn. At 8:15 a.m. we walked out of our room for the last time. By then, it seemed like home after eight days and nights.

Down on Deck 3, we joined a couple of hundred passengers disembarking for buses to Heathrow, Gatwick, Paddington and Victoria (ours). Our bus to Victoria was held up for about a half an hour while the crew searched for two missing passengers. They finally showed up, and the elderly American husband admitted that they had overslept through their alarm because he had stayed up until 3 p.m. to watch the docking. His selfishness and lack of responsibility cost the rest of us time and convenience; luckily in our case, the Royal Thames would wait for us.

The trip into London took more than two hours through the traffic, as our route took us right past the Queen Mary Reservoir, where the Royal Thames Yacht Club sails the Cumberland Cup every other year. We reached Victoria Station shortly after, departed our bus, grabbed our bags and had no wait at all for a taxi to take us to the club.

Despite the forced delay, we were still just a bit early, and our assigned room was not ready, so the friendly desk agent simply gave us a different room. We felt most gratified that he welcomed us by name as soon as we walked through the front door, even though we visit only a couple of times a year.

We arrived at an awkward hour of mid-afternoon, without enough time to do any sort of real exploration beyond the immediate neighborhood. Instead, we walked through the misty rain to Harvey Nichols across the street, where we laughed at the prices of menswear, such as 350 pounds for a t-shirt. Not a Burberry or other luxury branded t-shirt, mind you. Just a regular cotton t-shirt.

We retreated to the comfort and relative bargain of our club, where I made dinner reservations at Osteria Romana two short blocks down Knightsbridge. Before leaving for dinner, we walked down to the Britannia Bar, where again we were greeted by name and asked for our order.

As I waited for our bartender Romano to prepare our drinks,

ian, another member, walked up and asked for a shot of rum flamed on top to cure his laryngitis. Romano’s cigarette lighter was ineffective, so I suggested he go up to the kitchen to get the chef to come down with his blow torch. Sure enough, that worked, and the run burned off alcohol until Ian, the afflicted, put it out and drank the medicinal Mount Gay. 

Meanwhile, Lynn started chatting with Ian’s wife Kerry, who related that she runs not just any old marathon but ultra-marathons through the Sahara Desert and the entire width of Costa Rica. We need to tell our marathon-loving friend Jill Kenyon about this.

While Lynn and Kerry talked, Ian and I compared sailing notes. Our little jaunt around the Caribbean back in 1995 paled in comparison to his voyage from Grenada to Bali across the Pacific in their 57-foot boat with their four young children. They now live in Wimbledon and also spend half a year at their home on the Cote d’Azur just west of Nice. More things in common between us, except that their experience is on a much higher level than ours, like the difference between a Roman candle and a moon rocket.

Their friend Emily, who had just flown in this morning from New York for legal work, finally made it to the bar, where we continued our conversations about living and working in multiple continents and cultures. They left for dinner upstairs, asking if we would like to join them, but we had to decline, since Osteria Romana already had my credit card and would have charged me for a no-show.

But no sooner had they walked out of the bar when Vice Commodore Tony Hanna came over from the other side of the room, accompanied by Rear Commodore of Sailing. Another drink, more stories, and more invitations to sail in each other’s regattas. It was becoming more tempting by the moment to stay at the club, but common sense and Lynn prevailed, and off we went down the street to Osteria Romana.

The restaurant proved to be as delicious as we had ever remembered. Service is impeccable, their wine list is extensive and reasonable, and the dishes are huge. Lynn and I split a salad big enough food dinner by itself, and then split the tagliatelle in a sauce of beef, lamb and pork cheeks. Decadent.

Two gentlemen were dining at the table next to us, one from Parma, the other a Canadian-British citizen, both of whom apparently work in London. From what we could tell they were having a semi-business meeting, but we engaged in a pleasant conversation anyway. The Parma resident declared Osteria Romana the best Italian restaurant in all of London. That was high praise coming from a knowledgeable source, and it validated our admiration of Osteria Romana.

We awoke as the ship entered the English Channel, less than a full day from the end of our crossing. Our speed had slowed down considerably to 10 knots or less as we made our approach through the shipping lanes of the Channel to land in Southhampton at 0330 the next morning.

The last day at sea is always a bit melancholy, knowing the voyage is ending and it’s time to pay attention to chores like packing and finalizing arrangements for transit to London. 

Our task on this day was to begin the packing, because our bags need to be left outside our door before 11 p.m. It’s an essential part of getaway day, and not my favorite. Saying goodbye to your stuff before you go to bed is never comfortable. At least we now have Air Tags in the suitcases, so we can track them inside the terminal to load on the buses.

After the rich meals of the few days, we ate a light(er) breakfast in the Carinthia lounge and salads for lunch in King’s Court in preparation for our Last Supper in the Britannia, which we know will be rich, sumptuous and accompanied by a full bottle of wine. In deference to an early awakening the next morning and a late packing this night, we chose a 7 p.m. reservation. 

Lynn wanted to finish her book in a more humid atmosphere to rejuvenate her face, so she walked up to the indoor pool on Deck 13 while I caught up e-mail in the library. Even there, where a row of computers is set up. the ship’s Internet service is balky. Safari was having trouble connecting, so I switched to Chrome for initial hookup, then back to Safari for regular browsing.

When I strolled upstairs to the indoor pool to meet Lynn, I realized our money shot was right there on the deck under the ship’s name. Lynn was none too happy to walk out into the wind and the fog to get the photo, but we were exposed to the elements only a few minutes as a helpful Cunard associate took our photo. Then Lynn chased back into the relative warmth of the pool pavilion while I explored more of the upper rear deck, including the helicopter pad that had come into use earlier in the passage to evacuate a sick passenger.

Shortly before 3 p.m., we went down to the Main Lobby to hear the passenger choir, a tradition of Atlantic crossings. Fellow passengers sign up early in the crossing and practice an hour each day for performance in the Main Lobby in front of their fellow passengers. The singers are coached by the professional entertainers who put on a show during the voyage. A small crowd gathered on the second and third levels of the lobby to hear the choir sing a half a dozen numbers ranging from traditional spirituals like Amazing Grace to Broadway tunes. I was not sure who had the better time, the singers or their professional coaches.

Back to our room, we (Lynn) packed most of our clothes in preparation to leave our luggage out in the hall after dinner. She is a master at that. We were soon ready to dress for dinner early and walked down to the Carinthia Lounge for a last performance by the Irish folk duo of Shane and Brendan. They would be leaving the ship as we do, but they go on tour of Riverdance in Germany, while we head to France.

Our last dinner was fine but repeated some of the small things we do not like about the service in the Britannia. First was our table placement. For at least the second time, we were seated at the end of a table adjacent to a busy traffic area and waiter station, which added to the noise. Earlie in the week, it was so bad, we asked to be moved and were given a table just one row removed from the clatter of silverware and plates. 

Our second peeve is the wine service. Our waiter came to the table for our food order, which we have learned to hold off until the wine arrives. The sommelier arrived, we ordered, and then—nothing. Assuming the wine cellar is in the hold of the ship, we still could not understand what can take so long to fetch a bottle. Meanwhile our waiter hovered nearby, eager to take our food order. Cunard needs to work on its service sequences.

But dinner was fine, if not outstanding. We ate our final desserts, such a rarity for us. We finished our Last Supper and walked up to the Carinthea Lounge to hear Shane and Brendan one last time. They are great musicians and entertained the small crowd of fans for one last time before we all leave the ship. They were off to Germany for a month-long tour of Riverdance.

And that was it. We repaired to our room for final packing and stacking our bags in the hall to be removed overnight. They would leave the ship the next day before we would.