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Published: August 8th 2007
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F-in Bahlee It’s moving day. Mom, Bob, and Bett are switching apartments to the one they originally wanted (but was not available) on Rue Claude Pouillet. This new one is bigger, with a full kitchen and adjoining breakfast room, a foyer, a real living room, a larger bedroom with a queen-sized bed, and a bathroom with a combination washer/dryer. The new spot is only two blocks away from their Rue de Levis apartment, but our move is delayed by three hours. Hmm, three hours to kill with five of us in a “miniscule” (say with French accent) apartment. I pop “Billy Elliot” into the DVD player (thanks to Leroy who figured out how to make it work), and we three ladies proceed to cry our little eyes out. “F-in bahlee, Billy. Bahlee is for lasses, not for lads!” For those unaware of this great little film, bahlee = ballet in Northern England speak. Mom can’t peel herself away from the TV, so the two of us are left to do final checks in the old apartment and move the last of the stuff. Once at Claude Pouillet, we can get on with our lovely (and rainy) day.
Moulin Rouge, Montmartre, Déjà vu
Bett and her café viennois with chantilly Sacré-Cœur, Arènes de Lutèce, and Rue Mouffetard
First things first, we need something in our bellies, so after walking near the Rome metro stop, we stop at Place de Clichy and sit outdoors in a café. Mom is excited to do what she has seen other Parisians do, which is lunch on the outside tables where all the chairs face the street. After all, you’re not out there for fresh air (so much cigarette smoke everywhere), you’re there to people watch! I order the soupe l’oignon (which we call French onion soup), Bett gets the croque madame (which is croquet monsieur with a fried egg, how funny is that!), and Leroy gets the omelette that he always get at this brasserie. We also enjoy more cappuccinos - one of *many* such that I think we have to enroll Bettina in the Betty Ford clinic for caffeine freaks. Next we take the metro to the Moulin Rouge, that oh-so-famous red windmill that is a worldwide symbol of debauchery, can can girls, artistes numbed by absinthe, green fairies… and Ewen MacGregor and Nicole Kidman. Okay, okay, I am a ridiculously huge fan of Baz Luhrmann’s frenetic film, and I can’t help but
Moulin Rouge
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir? sing, “I will love you, until my DY-ING DAAAAAAAAYYYYY” in my head all day. Snap a shot in the rain, and back in the metro we are. Sacré-Cœur is our next stop, and the beautiful church atop a hill does not disappoint. We make my mom walk up the steps (none of us wanted to take the bus and the funicular wasn’t working), but she is rewarded with a spectacular view of Paris. We won’t reprimand her for taking pictures in the church (not allowed) since she thought her €2 donation would make up for it. Besides, she wasn’t the only one (oh, bad tourists!).
Next, we walk around Montmartre to visit the Dalí museum store but skip the museum itself. Then the Place du Tertre where portrait artists are congregated and more than willing to draw or paint your likeness. I can’t help but shop for prints, especially the Moulin Rouge posters by Toulouse-Lautrec and the one with the black cat (chat noir). I’m sure you’ll all recognize it should you see it. More walking, past the only vineyard in Paris where they still drink the wine every year to kick off celebrations and right up to the
Lapin Agile, a show/comedy spot that pokes fun with puns at a painting with a rabbit jumping out of a pot (lapin à Gill as opposed to lapin agile) and that is the title of a Steve Martin flick that my mom loves in which Picasso meets Einstein. And then down some more cobblestone streets lined by buildings with flowerboxes on the balconies, back on the metro to Cardinal Lemoine.
We are here to see the Rue Mouffetard, a street famous for food shops and markets. But it starts to rain, so we duck into a café and do our usual holding pattern with beer, wine, fries, and crème brulée. Indulgence. When it dries a bit, we’re off walking again and finally make it to Mouffetard after a peek at the Roman Arènes de Lutèce. Once there, Leroy enjoys some Häagen-Dazs (didn’t he just eat?), and a magnetic force pulls me into a nearby épicerie to stare longingly at some tins of foie gras. The friendly shoplady says something in French, and I give her my memorized and automatic introduction - “Bonjour, parlez vous Anglais?” She responds with the requisite “un peu,” and we’re off to a good start.
But then, how do I ask her how to serve the foie gras? Is it the searable kind or the pâté version? Leroy comes to the rescue, and before you know it, I walk away with a tin (and Bett leaves with two!). We contemplate dinner at one of the fondue restaurants (particularly since I’m dying to try escargots again in the hopes that I’ll have the real thing and not its rubbery American counterpart, and because I wouldn’t mind a little foie gras that isn’t in a tin). Instead, we decide to grab some wine, bread, and cheese and make a nice dinner at home. Leroy likes the plan well enough, but grabs a sandwich Grec for good measure. Bett and I can’t find a fromagerie for the life of us, even though our guide book depicts Rue Mouffetard with a photo of cheese. Bread and wine is a success, and we head home to enjoy the fruits of our labor.
Denzel Speaks Great French With cheese and bread in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, Bett, Leroy, and I watch “Out of Time” in French. Bett and I are, of course, clueless, but
the movie isn’t too hard to follow. We don’t finish it though. Leroy and I head home exhausted once again. I’ve volunteered to shepherd everyone to Musée d’Orsay tomorrow so that Leroy can have a day to himself in his beloved Paris, so it’s definitely bed time.
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anonymous
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That falling picture is trippy!