by Nick Taylor and Barbara Nevins Taylor

When we started to plan our our trip to Greece last summer, we looked at the possibilities and Barbara said, “This may sound crazy, but why don’t we go through Paris?”

It did sound crazy, but not for long.  We looked for flights on AARP Travel, where we’ve found some great deals, and we learned of an airline called La Compagnie.  It owns two airplanes, equipped for business class only, and they stopped their Newark-London flight because they said, “route economics remains fragile.” Brexit anyone?  So they highlighted their Newark-Paris route and promoted it for $1,299 round trip.  Without the promotion, it would have cost twice as much or more. Stops in Paris seemed like taking a bonus vacation.

We settled into our sleeper seats after La Compagnie 103 took off on the night of June 17.  It felt a little like riding on a big private jet with a bunch of strangers. We landed at Paris-Orly the next morning, a Tuesday, at 11.

A little while later, we sat in the back of a taxi headed for the city where we hadn’t been for years.  The countryside gave way to leafy suburbs and then dense city streets and familiar landmarks jogged memories about how much we loved the times we’ve spent in Paris.  We entered the Left Bank from the south, crossed the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and our taxi dropped us at the Hotel d’Angleterre Saint-Germain on Rue Jacob where we’d reserved for two nights.

This funkily elegant old hotel lets you know with a photo on the wall that Ernest Hemingway once stayed there.  Not much has changed since then.  Over the king-sized bed in our room on the second floor, massive dark wood beams ran like a music staff along the ceiling.  A couch and chairs faced windows that overlooked the small courtyard off the lobby.  The windows were open.  There was no air conditioning, just a fan.

On our way to explore we met fellow Americans, from Washington D.C. taking a break in the garden.

We chatted for a bit and then went to reacquiant ourselves with the neighborhood. We’d made a lot of memories in those streets. One night we dressed for the red carpet — Nick in a tux and Barbara in a Giorgio di Sant’ Angelo gold and black costume — and dined at La Tour d’Argent overlooking the Seine.  We met another American couple there, and after dinner we all walked to Ruby’s Samba Club on Rue Dauphine just off the river.  The place was packed but we looked so good they had to let us in, and we danced deep into the night.

This time, walking east on Rue Jacob, we looked up a side street to see a children’s clothing store called Finger in the Nose.  

Barbara had made our restaurant reservations before we left New York.  Investigative reporter that she is, she asked for recommendations from her French Tai Chi classmates at their studio in Chinatown and also from our friends with French passport stamps.  

That first night we reserved at Pramil, a favorite of artist Pierre Clerk and Linda Mandel, who split their time between New York and Bordeaux.  We napped a bit to bring our circadian rhythms up to speed and set off for the other side of Paris.

The warm summer night brought Parisians to the streets and the cafes that line them with life and talk and laughter.  Our taxi ride reminded us that our memories may lie in the Left Bank but a lot of Paris is vibrant in far-flung arrondissements. 

Our trip took us across the Seine and through the Tuileries Garden past the Louvre to the 3rd arrondissement.  We stepped out in front of Pramil on Rue du Vertbois.  No outdoor tables here; the sidewalks were too narrow. We were about to become familiar with “bistronomie,” a small affordably priced bistro with inventive cuisine, often created by chefs with classical training.  

The long room contained two rows of tables divided by a center aisle.  We sat down at a table for two and ordered a bottle of Sancerre.

Nick started with baby asparagus baked with parmesan cheese over bresaola ham. Barbara had a salad of shrimp with ice plant — a relative of kudzu that got its name because it sparkles in the sun — and cherry tomatoes.  

For his main Nick chose boneless rabbit with artichokes and kalamata olives, and Barbara ordered a veal steak with mushrooms and pureed potatoes.

While we enjoyed a dessert of roasted apricots and cherries with ice cream on the side, Alain Pramil, a former physics professor with a passion for food and fresh products, came out of the kitchen to greet diners.

We told him our friends were regulars when they were in Paris and we felt glad they had sent us to him.  Glasses of dessert wine appeared while we waited for a taxi, and when it arrived we weaved across the sidewalk and climbed in.

We barely made the 10 o’clock breakfast cutoff the next morning.  Travelers should know that if you book directly through the hotel’s website, breakfast is free. We had reserved through booking.com, and paid ten euros each. We’ve learned that some hotels want you to book directly with them so that they don’t have to pay the fees. And some will give you special deals.

After breakfast we hailed a taxi and told the driver we were going to the Foundation Louis Vuitton Museum. Hearing our superb French accents, he took us to the Louis Vuitton flagship retail store on the Champs-Elysees. 

Fortunately, the store was on the way to its namesake’s foundation museum in the Bois de Boulogne, the sprawling forest and park on Paris’s western outskirts. We rode out the Champs-Elysees, rounded the Arc de Triumph, and after a few minutes entered the park. Suddenly the greenery cleared and there stood the Frank Gehry-designed museum.

Its glass curves sparkled in the sun and seemed poised to leap across the pool and green landscape like a ship straining under full sail in a stiff breeze.

Inside, the billowing sails dissolved into painstakingly joined angles of wood and steel under the glass. Steps led to terraces and overlooks that showed a different Paris.

We began with a climb to the top and spotted peacocks picking for food in the bushes below. Look to the right above the sign.

On the west terrace, Adrián Villar Roja’s living sculpture, with its organic elements, changes with the seasons and that caught our interest.

We headed back down into one of the museum’s first floor  galleries and lingered with the works of 20th century modernists. A young girl stared up at Joan Mitchell’s “Red Tree” from 1976.  Gerhard Richter’s “4600 Farben” splashed colored squares against the wall.  Robert Breer created a moving dome called “Float” that creeps glacially into fields with other artworks, as it did with us against Jesus Rafael Soto’s “Grande scripture noire,” and then moves on to create new combos.   

We moved downstairs, where Olafur Eliasson installed forty-three vertical mirrored columns that reflect their painted sides and the wall beside them and dance in the pool below.  The installation, called “Inside the Horizon,” was part of the museum when in opened in 2014.

Beyond the sculpture just outside, water spills down a wide set of shallow steps in a waterfall-but-not that seems hypnotic.

Pulling ourselves away, we walked from the museum into the adjoining Jardin d’Acclimatation. Families with children gathered at the animal enclosures, others boarded the carousel and rides that spoke of the sweetness of childhood.

 We enjoyed the sweetness in the air of this lovely park,  ate a quick lunch and went off in search of a taxi. 

A Turkish Airlines ad adorned the side of the first car in the taxi line. We got in and met Alexis Vettier. He spoke good English and explained,”It’s my car and me. I don’t have to work for anyone and this is a good way to make a living.” We had plenty of time to get to know him as we crawled back to the city center on Paris’s car-choked streets.  He said that although he grew up in Paris, he had moved his wife and kids out to the suburbs where things were less expensive.  The airline ad supplemented his fare income.  When he finally dropped us off we’d arranged for him to pick us up the next morning for our flight to Athens out of Charles de Gaulle airport.

Nick went back to the hotel to rest and Barbara went shopping. The hot weather made her crave something light and breezy.  She had spotted on Nina Kendos shop on Rue de Buci and the cool colors and floaty styles called to her. The small boutique was filled with women of a certain age looking for comfort and color. 

Barbara’s Tai Chi classmate Albert Delamour, an artist, had recommended a restaurant called Chez Paul.  We got dressed and stopped at a sidewalk bistro for champagne, then waved down a taxi.

Chez Paul was a twenty-minute taxi ride to Rue de Charonne in the 11th arrondissement. 

The hostess Valery came out from behind the bar and greeted us with a warm smile and seated us at an inside table.

The traditional bistro proudly says it dates to 1900 and it took us back into vintage Paris in the best way. The two rooms were filled with locals, which we took as a good sign.We started with snails and a bottle of Sancerre from the Loire Valley. 

Meat dishes dominated the menu.  We pondered ever so briefly the Saint Antoine’s temptation — breaded and grilled foot, snout, ear and pig’s tail — and head of veal with gribiche sauce, before Barbara ordered a rabbit stew and Nick chose steak au poivre. 

Two brothers sat at the next table and we began an easy conversation when they heard us speaking English.  They grew up in Paris and the brother visiting from Seattle had longed for a Parisian entrecote. So there they were.  The Seattle brother said he was working on a new project, secret, for Amazon.  His older brother opened child care facilities for a franchising company and the younger was trying to convince him to move to the states. “Better business opportunities in the U.S.,” the younger brother said. 

We left Chez Paul happy and sated and went off in search of a taxi back to the Left Bank. The next morning Alexis, the taxi driver, picked us up and we were off to Charles de Gaulle airport and Athens. And you can read about our travels in Athens here. 

Our Second Bonus Vacation

Eleven days later, on July 1, we landed back at Charles de Gaulle. While we’d been in Athens, the Peloponnese Peninsula and Corfu, France and the rest of western Europe had endured a scorching heat wave. People died, and Paris had opened public cooling rooms.  Greece wasn’t exactly cool, but we always had a breeze from the sea or the mountains.  On our return the worst of the heat wave had worn itself out.

Alexis picked us up, as we’d arranged by email, and we plunged into the traffic crawling toward Paris on the multi-lane A-1. In Paris earlier, in Athens, and now again in Paris, we saw cars choking city life. Electric bikes and scooters darted between and around clotted traffic arteries and seemed to be taking over city streets.

An hour and a half later, Alexis dropped us in front of the Hotel des Marroniers on Rue Jacob. We like this street and the neighborhood because it reminds us of our street in New York’s West Village.

We pulled our bags into the lobby and received a key to a room too small to open them.  When you tried to get into the bathroom the door you hit the other person in the butt. But it was air conditioned.

We managed, bumping into each other every time we turned around, to get dressed for dinner.  And we tried to smile and be sweet.

We filled out a note on the hotel’s website and asked for a larger room. And then put it out of our minds.

A ten-minute taxi ride took us across the Seine, past the Louvre and into the 2nd arrondissement to Verjus at 52 Rue de Richelieu.  It’s one of the best of the bistronomie restaurants that wed bistro casual with gastronomic refinement, usually in multiple small portions.  Chef Braden Jenkins and his partner Laura Aidran, two Americans, started the restaurant after entertaining diners in their home and calling the arrangement Hidden Kitchen.

Verjus almost goes incognito.  There’s a tiny sign, and a staffer with a clipboard waits outside a gate into an alley and checks your name on the list before she lets you in. 

We walked up the alley and into a little jewel box: small tables unadorned except for napkins and flowers; a red banquette along one wall; each seating close but somehow intimate.

The prix fixe menu included five courses for 78 euros, and wine pairings for an additional 55 euros.  You could order a la carte but we went whole hog.

The young, friendly, attractive wait staff made us — and probably the whole dining room — feel like we were sharing a delicious secret. It was that good. 

We got up early the next morning because we planned to visit Giverny and Monet’s garden.

Nick had booked a tour that started with a train ride at Gare St. Lazare at nine. He thought. Before heading for the train station, we double-checked and saw we were supposed to be there by eight. Our hearts weren’t in it after our late dinner.

We also found a note from Judith, the hotel concierge. She responded to our online request for a larger room.  “All our rooms are small. But this is a different configuration,” she wrote. That did it. We blew off Giverny and walked to Cafe Deux Magots on Place St.-Germain des Pres for coffee and croissants and sat people-watching until we could shift to our new room.  

The traffic on the boulevard revealed the new realities of urban transportation.

We saw more bikes, electric bikes and scooters darting past the cars inching along the traffic lanes. Even people coming from the nearby Metro station carried scooters, unfolding them and going on their way when they reached the street.

If tourists want to dodge traffic, too, they can rent electric bicycles or scooters to explore the Paris streets. Check out Freescoot for electric bikes and Rent&go for electric scooters.

 

Back at the hotel, we unpacked in our more spacious room and hit the streets again. We walked east and north until we reached the Seine across from Notre Dame.  If any building anywhere seemed to wear the armor of permanence, it was this one.  But our view across the river told us different. The Gothic cathedral, a virtual cornerstone of Paris since the 13th century, was draped in scaffolding after the April 2019 fire that destroyed its roof and central spire.

Its iconic south rose window, a forty-two-foot circle of intricate stained glass that was damaged in the fire, lay invisible behind the skein of platforms. We descended from the street and lingered on the riverbank as the bateaux mouches, the tourist boats that ply the Seine, gave their guests an even closer view of the cathedral.

We walked along the river for awhile, climbed back to street level and headed toward the Musee d’Orsay. We stopped on Rue de l’Universite at a bistro of the same name for lunch.

 Slices of smoked duck breast over green beans made a perfect lunch.

Barbara’s back started to act up. So we put off our museum trip. She retreated to the hotel for a lie-down with a rub of CBD, and Nick went wandering. Turning away from the river on Rue de Seine and crossing Blvd. St.-Germain, the dome of Luxembourg Palace, where the French Senate meets, seemed like the place go.

 Cafes and small art galleries lined the street on the walk south, and a right turn on Rue de Vaugirard led to an entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens.

The perfect landscaping and design showcased the summer flowers in their glory. The sound of tennis balls on a hard court called to Nick but instead of a vigorous match, he found a couple of guys hitting with a kid and moved on.

Barbara found the CBD worked and we caught up with each other at L’Atelier d’Artistes on Rue de Seine and spent some time admiring the delightfully absurd collages of the late Czech artist Bohumil Stepan.

We stopped at a bistro for a glass of wine, browsed some more galleries, and returned to the hotel on Rue Jacob to get ready for dinner. Le Chateaubriand on Ave. Parmentier in the 11th arrondissement was another recommendation from Barbara’s Tai Chi class.

Despite its name, which sounds like a traditional steak house, Le Chateaubriand, is part of the bistronomie movement along the lines of Verjus, offering a fine dining tasting menu in a relaxed and casual atmosphere.  It boasts one Michelin star.  

We skipped the accompanying flight of wines this time, and more than made do with a Cheverny Blanc (a blend of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc) called La Bodice.

Hearing American accents at the next table, we began a a conversation with fellow New Yorkers, a young couple who live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and run a graphic design business that they started. On the other side of us a young French couple celebrated an anniversary.

July 3 would be our last full day in Paris, and we started it again over coffee and croissants at a corner table outside Deux Magots and people watching.

Then we headed to the Musee d’Orsay for a taste of the museum’s strong suit, its Impressionist and post-Impressionist paintings. We made the mistake of failing to order tickets online. So while we waited to buy our tickets, we glimpsed the reverse evolution of human posture as small screens take us back to all fours.

Inside the museum, you walk right into reminders of the train station the museum had been before it opened in 1986, like the huge clock on a restaurant wall.  

The galleries took us into the world of the Impressionists. Paintings by Edgar Degas, Camille Pissarro, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Claude Monet, Edouard Manet, Toulouse Lautrec and others.  The pointillist works by Georges Seurat and his student Paul Signac seemed to call to Nick, especially the worker-oriented art that reminded him of WPA work done in the states in the 1930’s. 

And the Musee d’Orsay was so much more.  It’s called a little sister to the more famous Louvre, but it seemed to be several museums under one large roof.  Sculptures on the main floor barely registered as we passed through on our way out to the street.  And we completely missed the mini-tour of Paris you can take as you cross a glass floor looking down upon a model of the city.  Fortunately, our Facebook friend Fredric Alan Maxwell captured it. 

We left the museum with regret and a promise to return soon.

We wanted to try one of the restaurants in the Marche Saint-Germain, but it was mid-afternoon and they were closed. We backtracked to Huguette, a seafood bistro on Rue de Seine close to Rue Jacob, where we ordered frito misto and steamed mussels and drank, for a change, just water.

Barbara had an appointment for a blow-out and Nick rested at the hotel before we spiffed ourselves up for our final Paris dinner of this trip

We’d reserved at L’Apibo, another bistronomie recommendation of our friends Linda and Pierre. It was in the 2nd arrondissement, not far from the Louvre, in the Rue Montoguiel neighborhood in central Paris. Our cab driver told us the obvious, when he pulled up. “It’s there. I can’t go down the street,” he said.  And we stepped out into a vibrant scene of boutiques, bars and restaurants that line a pedestrian area also known for some of the best fish and meat markets.

Minutes later we were seated at an outside table, a bottle of Sancerre in front of us and identical dishes on the way — ceviche of split prawns with fava beans to start and a house favorite, boneless sea bass filets, to follow.

If you look closely at the photo you’ll see Barbara near the window enjoying her Sancerre. After splitting a dessert of chocolate mouse we found a street the allowed cars and got a taxi back to the hotel.

Our flight was supposed to leave at 10:30 in the morning of July 4, but it was cancelled and we had a 2:30 p.m. flight instead. That gave us a final morning of people watching outside Deux Magots. Then we picked up our bags at the hotel and said goodbye to Paris as we headed to Orly.  Until the next time, which can’t come soon enough.