Paris

We arrived in Paris late and bought two one-week Metro Passes before finding our way to and booking into Hotel Moderne St. Germaine shortly after midnight. We were going to be there for the better part of a week and decided that the week pass was cheaper than having to buy tokens again; and besides, they were good for the Bus and RER as well, so long as we used them in the city limits.

We showered to wash the travel off us and watched a little TV to wind down. MTV. We only had six channels and all of them were French, so there wasn’t much choice to be had.

I showered again when I woke. I always shower when I wake.

Ste. Germaine

I received a call that morning from a guide we’d hired, Simon Godly, a retired Belfast cop who settled in France to pursue his two passions, Belgian beer and the Great War. We’d hired Simon to give us a tour of Vimy Ridge, something that ought to be a rite of passage for all Canadians, something that was especially important to me as my great-grandfather fought there on that fateful day in April during the Battle of Arras. We were to tour the Somme too, and that was a lot to see in one day, so we were going to have to get an early start. He told me what train I needed to take and when to take it and where he’d meet us when we got there.

I had no intention of missing the train the next day so decided to get my tickets early. It took longer than I expected, so it was a good thing I went when I did. I made my way to the Gare de Austerlitz to buy tickets. I practiced my feeble French while I waited, keeping watch on the cashiers to see how they reacted to purchasers. I’d heard that tourists were not treated kindly by the French, less so by Parisians. I decided that this one was nice, but not that one; this one was bored, that one numb. There was one of the five that I didn’t want to get. Go figure, she was the young and pretty one. She snapped at the couple already before her, she almost yelled. She was certainly not patient. But as the line crept forward, I could see that my fate was sealed. I prayed that one of the other cashiers would hurry up and be done first, but such was not the case.

Gare de Austerlitz

I was getting the bitch. There was no getting around it. I girded myself for impatience and discomfort. I was not disappointed: I found myself face to face with her unsmiling face.

“Excusez-moi,” I said, nervously. “Je parle un petite peu français…” I gestured so with my fingers, pressing my thumb and index finger together to show how little French I actually did speak.

She broke into a smile, washing away what impatience and anger she’d previously burned with, reached across to me from under the glass and took my hand and patted it. “That’s okay, dear,” she said in a husky, thick, but clear accent, “I speak English.”

“Oh, good,” I said, visibly relieved. “I was hoping to buy tickets to Arras for tomorrow, returning from Amiens that evening.” She was an angel, a paragon of patience and good grace.

I was reminded of Stephano in Venice and the way he treated Bev like a princess and me like I was something he’d scraped off his boot. I’d heard that Latin men treat all other men like they are a barrier to their access to women, whether those women are married to said man or not; I wondered if Latin women were of a similar bent. That French girl had certainly smiled at me and patted my hand and set me at ease, where she had growled and finger-pointed at the couple before me. Or was it just the woman? Was she flirting with me? Did she always treat men in a positive manner but not women? I don’t know. I was just thankful that she treated me so well.

Bev relaxed in our room. She was still tired from the late night, and still tired in the early afternoon, so she napped after we lunched.

Once she woke, we began discovering the 5e Arrondissement. Small steps, just the area around St. Germaine and the hotel and points close by. We began with a sort walk close to our hotel, one noted in detail in Lonely Planet guide I’d brought with me, Hemingway’s walk from his residence to his other apartment, his place of work, the route he set down in great detail in his book, “A Movable Feast.” Along the route were the Pantheon, St. Etienne du Mont Church, with its crypt of Ste. Genevieve and the picture of Jean-Paul II praying before her sarcophagus, and the best hot chocolate I’d ever had at the Brassarie Balzar.

The Pantheon was magnificent, a testament to Louis XV’s desire to celebrate his recovery from gout—I guess some good can come from self-absorption. Its crypts were a wonder of names: Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, the heroes of the city throughout the ages.

Afterwards, we looked for a good place to eat. We were in the Latin Quarter, a notable tourist area, so we expected everything to be open, and some things were, but not everything. We walked down to the Rue Mouffetard, a narrow street of stalls and markets and cafes and bars, its crossroads much the same. There were younger tourists about there and the shops reflected that, with younger, hipper fashions and accessories displayed that held little interest to Bev and me.

We finally settled o the La Petite Hotellerie, a little restaurant not too far from our hotel. Bev had beef and I had the duck, in case you’re wondering. The place had ambiance, one wall dominated by a full wall mural and another enormous painting in the back. Both depicted a dusky Paris in the late 1800s, all top hats and horses. The other side was a wall of bottles, fitting as the bar bisected the sides. One table in three smoked incessantly, in pairs and singles, sometimes in threes. They even smoked while they ate.

To bed afterwards. We had an early wake-up call. We had to get up at 6 am to make our train for the North and the trenches of Vimy Ridge.

Bev was more exhausted than ever.

We still had no idea she was coming down with the flu, though.