These messages are from a series of e-mails written after our vacation to Paris and Italy, in the summer of 2002. The events recounted in this internet diary occurred on Friday, June 21.
--Jim McQueen
Friday morning we went over and picked up the kids, then all rode the metro to a station that connected with the suburban trains -- the RER. There, we bought tickets out to Versaille. Tickets in hand, we headed off, and when we reached the first turnstile I absent-mindedly began sending the kids through.
Scott was the first boy through the turnstile, and after he passed Nancy pointed out that we were headed the wrong direction. Scott tried to use his ticket to come back through the turnstile, but all he got was a red light and a buzzer. I had him just crawl under the turnstile. We found the right entrance and got on a train to Versaille, but using that ticket once in the wrong place had screwed up the system. Scott spent the rest of the day jumping over turnstiles.
At Versaille we had lunch at a café near the train station, then walked a block to the Château de Versailles. Inside, we took a tour of the state apartments, and gawked at all the gilded artwork.
Love,
Jim
At Versailles, part of the tour was the grandest room, Hall of Mirrors. When we reminded Sean that the Treaty of Versailles had been signed in that room, he said, "So?"
When we finished the tour of the state apartments, we took a look at the enormous gardens. We were getting tired, so when we found a little tram to ride around on, we grabbed it. The tour took tourists to two other famous mansions in the gardens, the Grand Trianon and the Petit Trianon. The tram was comfortable enough that we didn't get off at either.
The tour's third stop was at the Grand Canal. It looked pleasant and cool by the water, so we climbed down from the tram. We found a snack stand and bought ice cream and cold drinks, and rested in the shade of Louis XIV's back yard.
Love,
Jim
P.S. I think I left my new $150 sunglasses on the stone edge of this canal.
Late Friday afternoon we took the RER train from Versailles back to Paris. (Scott had to jump the turnstile at both ends.) We returned to our apartments, showered off the day's touring, and walked over towards Mom and Susan's apartment for dinner.
It turned out that Friday evenings in our neighborhood are something special. Our first hint was at a café along our path, where a woman was playing an acoustic guitar, and singing French folk songs. A small crowd had gathered, spilling a little bit off the sidewalk and into the street. People ignored traffic, which had to slow and avoid the listeners. Continuing to the apartment, we passed one or two more small crowds where passers-by had paused to hear musicians.
With Mom and Susan, we found an outdoor café (no music at this one) near Les Halles for dinner. The onion soup and vin ordinaire in today's photo are typical of several of our meals. (The catsup and coke are typical of the boys.)
After dinner, we all retired to our apartments. As we walked back, we were wandering through a wonderful mix of music. It seemed like every café and restaurant had a band outside for Friday night. One place had techno-disco pounding so loud you could feel it in your body cavities. Another had old-time rock-and-roll blues (in French).
We passed a Kurdish restaurant playing loud, middle-eastern music while men danced in a circle, arm in arm. (There was an odd aroma in the air at that one. Sean was aghast when I told him that's what marijuana smelled like.)
As we reached home, I remembered our London vacation. Friday night in Paris was just as surprising as the Charlotte Street party had been, two years before.
Love,
Jim