Moveable feast for the eyes, belly & soul

Living in Paris, if only for a week, must be just about everybody's dream – at least for writers and artists like ourselves. Our family got to savor that fairytale. This was my third visit, so I focused on what I had yet to do. Unlike London and Dublin, however and to my girls' dismay, I had not drafted a detailed plan for The City of Lights, except for some notes. New venues such as London and Dublin required extensive and careful planning and, well, frankly, we had an entire SEVEN days in which to explore.

I had researched Paris apartments for over a year. Some would call it an obsession. I wanted the best location and best amenities at the best price. I had bookmarked a classic timbered-and-ancient cottage in the Bastille and another Rococo-French style abode in the outer arrondissements near Montmatre. But I never book the lodging til I have the plane tickets and, by the time airfare hit the sweet spot, these gems were long gone. So I exhausted myself once again, thoroughly enjoying the hunt. I e-mailed several owners back and forth until, deciding in my heart of hearts that I did, indeed, want to be in the Latin Quarter. It's where Hemingway and Fitzgerald wrote eloquently, lived large and were artistically inspired as so many after and before them.

I finally selected a fourth-floor apartment on Rue Linne owned by a Washington, D.C. couple. The price was right, it was in a quiet corner of the Latin Quarter and offered separate beds for my daughters. While the pictures on airbandb.com were somewhat lacking, a certain character filtered through. The space had beautiful parquet floors, an adequate kitchen, living room and master bedroom with balconies over a quiet courtyard and enough hot water for showers. The metro was a half-block away; the apartment was flanked by small markets, a larger one within one block; and the girls could walk to cafes by themselves. Better yet, it was $1,074 for the week with fees and cleaning.

I was grateful to share the results of my scavenging with our friends and neighbors who are now enjoying the apartment. We brought home the zany set of keys for them.

Arriving in the evening on the easy Eurostar from London, we picked up a few items from a friendly grocer. Somehow, I got to speaking very basic German with one of the clerks, who kept directly me to yogurt. Finally, he asked if I was from Holland and the girls and I giggled, understanding why he had made the assumption. We were after milk and when we didn't recognize it on the shelf in a box, he grinned and picked up a bottle from the refrigerator. "Americans like fresh," he offered. Ouch, were we that obvious?

Rousing ourselves late the next morning, I led the entourage to the tangled streets of the pedestrian Latin Quarter via a quay along the Seine to feast our eyes on Notre Dame. To tame our bellies, we settled on a sit-down creperie (Genia) for luscious panini and light pancakes. I ordered the special with tuna and cheese and a dessert crepe with Nutella, an instant favorite. We sauntered through bookstores and Luxembourg Gardens the rest of the afternoon. Freshening up, we attempted to eat at two restaurants frequented by the Lost Generation. One was way out of our price range and the other way too crowded, so we kept walking. My 13-year-old, who is always hungry, wanted to stop anywhere. I knew the budget and thought we could do better. Finally, when we all were on the verge of the hangries (when you get so hungry you get angry), we happened on a Rue de Bac corner eatery: Cafe De L'Empire. I ordered a seafood salad, overflowing with mussels, salmon and clams. We were all quite happy with the service, food and price. It fortified us to make our walk to the Eiffel Tower. Directly, it's about a 3.5 mile jaunt, but we never walked anywhere much directly. That's the beauty of the Latin Quarter's ambling streets, left untainted by Georges-Eugène Haussmann, the architect whom Napoleon directed to transform Paris' Medieval streets into something more grand.

For the girl's sake and my husband's, who had not experienced the Eiffel Tower, I quietly traipsed past the majestic Esplanade des Invalides and army museum toward the tourist attraction. I had visited in broad daylight with my mom and sisters, when it had been plagued by vendors and kids on carnival rides. The night-time transformation shocked me. The light show taunted a joyful crowd, gathering in pockets and popping champagne, easily available from street vendors. The structure beamed dazzling gold against black velvet; the energy was electric. I would not have missed it, near midnight, for anything. We indulged Lily's sweet tooth with a puffy pink cotton candy in its shadow. Her expression mimicked what all of us felt.

Letting whisps of Lily's treat melt on our tongues, and as the throngs died down, we headed toward what we thought was the Metro, stumbling onto the RER train platform. No big deal as our tickets worked for both, except, prompty at midnight, a crew member shouted they were closed and directed us to the nearest Metro. We followed the swell of the crowd, grateful not to walk back. This little inconvenience would foreshadow a larger train incident.

Quaker country to cafes, crusty bread & luscious views

Last day in London and I had an agenda: spend us much time as necessary at the Friends Library with a book written by a Quaker ancestor in 1661, visit the Elgin Marbles at the British Museum and meet up with my family to board the Eurostar for Paris. They were gonna hunt up a tardis (blue British police box that fronts Dr. Who’s giant time-traveling vehicle).

Our London neighborhood

I’d packed up and taken my bags with me, schlepping through the tube and depositing them in a locker for 1£ at the Friends Center. I’d only had one negative experience riding the tube and that was when a man offered me “help” navigating the touch screen for topping off my oyster card, which we found the most convenient and cost-effective way to travel all over London. Never more than about 8 euros a day for travelling during peek times, a little less for non-peek. Had we been staying longer than 4 days, we would have considered the week travel card. Kids under 15 gets all kinds of discounts. Anyway, as I was working through the transaction, the man who’d approached me pushed me through the computer screens and on my way. When I scanned my ticked to enter the tube, the gate wouldn’t open. Fortunately, a patient tube worker asked me how long ago I’d topped off. We walked over to repeat each step when the unhelpful stranger emerged waving my $5. Apparently it’s a regular scheme. The man had neglected to tell me to swipe my card one last time after I got my cash. If you don’t, it negates the transaction and spits your cash back out. Saved by the patient guard, I wasn’t too annoyed at the man. Only 5 euros and, perhaps, he needed it more than I. It all happened so quickly that I had no time to think, just be on my way.

No problem this time, except lifting my bag up and down the steps and unpacking its pockets to shove in into the slender locker, so I would be free until time to collect it and meet my family at San Pancras and the Eurostar entrance.

Friends Library

Beyond the doors of a bustling international center, the Friends Library is quiet and understated. Tabitha was so helpful, telling me it would be 10 minutes before they could get the book for me. So, I lingered and looked around a bit. I fingered the actual card catalogue, fairly rare these days and, soon, she emerged with a very small book nestled on a pillow, carefully and loosely tied with muslin strings. Tabitha unwrapped the ties, showed me how to use the strand of clay weights to gently hold pages down and flip through the book using an acid-free sheet of cardstock.

Old-fashioned catalogue

It was hard to believe the actual book, the one I have heard so much about most of my life, was now in front of me. It was so small, yet a real book; not the pamphlet I had expected that is typical of Quakers. Just me, the book, a pencil, my phone and journal.

I was so very careful at first and took my time reading, then sliding the paper to turn each page. As it became more familiar, I became a little less timid and touched the edge to flip through, something Tabitha said was fine. The publication is composed in two sections: King and To the Reader.

The title was somewhat breathtaking:

To all that are

UNREGENERATED

A

CALL

TO

Repentance from dead works

To Newsness of life

Bu turning to the light in the

Conscience, which will give

The knowledge of God in

The face of Jesus Christ

Dorothea's book

Obviously Dorothea Gotherson was not a journalist with a knack for short headlines, yet she cuts right to the core. She was addressing King Charles II, who had been restored after the execution of his father in the English Civil War and the tyranny of Oliver Cromwell, about the state of England as well as individuals. She asked Charles to not think it below him to read the words of a woman, that she wrote out of love and concern. She begs and prays for England at all levels to turn toward the Light from Darkness.

What thrilled me most, however, were the details of her life and how she came to Quakerism. She is a descendent of Henry III and lived an uppercrust life, though which much affliction until she encountered a people “of one heart and one mind.” After she addresses the king, she calls on all others: “merchants, drunkards, clergy as grey hair judges, and all ye Ladies of England, who walk with stretched-out necks, and wanton eyes … oh, foolish sons and daughters of England.”

She genuinely wants them to be pure of heart and walking with God. I wish I could know what effect her words had. It was hard for me to walk away from her book. I know somehow, some way, some day, I will return to it.

Tabitha, the librarian estimated it would take about 200 £ to restore the book’s binding. She let it rest with me while I perused a book with a chapter on Dorothea.

Elgin Marbles

Leaving Dorothea physically behind, I walked to the British Museum for a quick peek at the Elgin Marbles. As I stood among them, removed from the Parthanon, I was uneasy, feeling they were displayed out of context, but also knowing many more had been exposed to their beauty had they not been. A sign remarked on their controversy, stating they were subject to grafitti and erosion when Thomas Bruce, Earl of Elgin and British ambassador, obtained them by permit from Ottoman authorities. He and his cronies stripped about half of the Parthanon’s sculpture, for which the British Parliament officially paid a few years later.

I didn’t have time to view the Rosetta Stone as my husband and one daughter did, but headed back to the Friends Center for a homey and quick lunch, then to collect my bags and meet my family for our chunnel-train to Paris.

Paris arrival at Gare du Nord/Tad Barney

Our Paris bedroom view

We had booked early enough at $65 each to earn four seats with a table. I’d grabbed cheese, bread, wine and juice at the station so we could enjoy the ride as the young Englishwomen had shown us on the last train. We zoomed out of London with one stop in Ashford to collect a handful of business men. The darkness of the tunnel zipped by and came to represent all of the time we would spend undergound riding the subways in London and Paris. As we admired the rolling French countryside, which we thought looked much like Ohio, the conductor announced a train strike would begin tomorrow morning. We blew that off thinking it wouldn’t affect us, this being our last train ride.

We grabbed a few groceries from a friendly and very small market, then opened the big blue door to our courtyard and began the 75-step climb to our pied-à-terre. Exhausted and happy, we threw open the windows to a wonderful view of Parisian rooftops and slept like logs.