Oui, Oui, Oui, All the Way Home

We touched down at Detroit Metro yesterday afternoon, officially closing out our great Parisian adventure. Well, my cell phone said it was afternoon anyway. My body clock, on the other hand, is so messed up from chasing the sun westward, I'm pretty sure that if you stare into my eyes you will see a blinking, digital 12:00 am. Air France's liberal, free wine and cognac policy didn't help either. 

Viva La Dehydration!

But it's the morning after now, a CD purchased from a French street guitarist is playing in the background, vacation laundry is making its way through the machinery, pictures have been downloaded, Dog is not letting us out of her sight, and grocery shopping, banking, and a visit to the dry cleaners are on the agenda. By midday, the routine will have already re-consumed us, and the memories of France will begin to blur along with my pathetic attempt at their language. 

Sad? Not really. Melancholy? Perhaps a better word.

Paris really surprised me. Although it was on my bucket list, to be perfectly honest, it was no where near the top. The whole trip came together on little more than a whim, our persistent and generic wanderlust, and, most immediately, the desire to bust Uncle Joe's balls on another continent. (I'm pretty sure that I mentioned that I'm a dick.)

But Paris gets inside of you a little bit (probably via duck). There's something funky, slightly pretentious, oddly carefree, liberal, and yet traditionally respectful about the whole vibe. I'm still processing it, but it is definitely the kind of place that I think stays with you forever. The history, the architecture, the wine, the food, the culture...it's truly like no place I've ever been before. We'll visit other places first, but I wouldn't object to returning if the opportunity presents itself. Not even a little bit.

This is almost my last post on this inaugural attempt at a travel blog before I pull the plug. I'll post some final pictures later in the week along with some useful tips we picked up along the way. The goal was to entertain, but what the hell, I figure I might as well throw a little utility your way as well. You've been kind.

Thanks for following along, the e-mails, comments, and Facebook posts. I was surprised at how many people ended up getting on board. And thanks to Uncle Joe & Aunt Carol for bringing a little American accent into the end of our trip just about the time we were getting homesick for it. And thanks to Gretchen and Alan, our other fourth-quarter, American travel mates who led us to a fabulous and final meal and tried to convince us that vacation pictures should be completely devoid of human and/or plant life.

Au revoir pour le moment.

The Last Picture Show

This is probably the last time I'll get to abuse the hotel wifi...

The US actually gave the French this smaller replica as a Thank You for the big one in New York. Talk about putting no originality into a gift. 

The Salmon Tartare on the river cruise was amazing, but I just hope it wasn't harvested from the Seine. 

Fly four thousand miles, take pictures of food. Yeah, that's about right. 

We have this exact same picture of us in front of the Rodin outside the DIA in Detroit. We're groupies. 

April in Paris. Now we have to go back to snowblowing in Michigan. 

Some other amazing building that my American history education completely fails me on. 

From the Eiffel. 

Proof. 

La femmes

Gettin' our Pope on. 

Parisian speed bump. 

Our last sunrise...

Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

So I've cracked the Enigma Code that is the young, Romani girls who keep flocking to us with clipboards every time the French police are out of sight. It's always the same drill. With lightning like reflexes and a big, Amway-selling grin, one will split off from the pack, walk up to me (never Patty) and ask, "Do you speak English?" In the beginning, she would seemingly materialize out of nowhere and catch me completely by surprise while I was gaping at yet another amazing French landmark or buzzing from yet another duck-fat high. Reflexively, I would say, "Yes." But even if I politely said "No," the next scene is already scripted.

Petition Girl will stick a grubby clipboard in front of me with a sheet of paper that is printed in French and has a number of signatures on it. She will ask me to sign it without any explanation. I can make out the words "children," "handicap," and "deaf" on the French form, but beyond that I don't know if I'm signing up to support disabled children or to simply buy one on installments. Since I am a graduate of the Groucho Marx school of "I would never join a club that would have someone like me as a member," I decline the enrollment offer, wave her off, and we keep walking. She is not so easily dissuaded, though, and she continues to buzz around us as we walk, tapping her clipboard with her pen and telling me to "please sign." I continue to say no. This continues until the tone and volume of my voice reach a threshold that is threatening, and she disappears before our very eyes. It's annoying and time consuming but otherwise harmless. This happened over and over the first few days of our vacation.

What's the goal here? Obviously they are attempting to prey upon my generosity and my ignorance, but where's the hook? Where's the payday? At first I thought they were trying to slow me down or even stop me, similar to the way hyenas will pick out a gazelle from the herd and use their cunning to disorient it so the pack can surround and dismember it. And although I'm sure that can be one option, this wasn't the case in Paris, as my hindquarters (and wallet) are still very much intact. And as I've had time to watch them work on others, it is obvious they are solo agents in this particular scam.

Here's the deal. If you are green enough to sign the petition, they will then point to the names above yours and specifically to the dollar amounts next to those names that you probably didn't even notice before. And if you thought it was hard to get rid of them before, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Through a series of Oscar-worthy theatrics, broken English, and Jehovah Witness-like persistence, they will try to get you to make a similar donation. They may even imply that since you signed you are obligated to pay by French law. Fake tears may even be shed. It's surprising how many people will eventually cough up Euros out of guilt, fear, or just their desire to make them go away. Oh, and I assure you, no money is being raised for disabled children.

And although I know of no way to keep them from approaching, short of consistently swinging a 3 foot Katana sword in front of you as you walk, I did stumble upon a very effective way to shut them down before they get going. When a young Romani approaches and asks whether I speak English, I look her straight in the eye (very important), pause for effect, and then say, "No, not a single word."

They disappear immediately.

European Vacation

Patty's Aunt and Uncle had been touring Italy since before we got to Paris. When their tour ended yesterday, they flew here and joined us for the last three days of our trip. Aunt Carol's daughter and son-in-law came along for the ride too. And if that all sounds a wee bit Rockefeller, believe me, it's not. We're all just a bunch of blue collar schmucks who just happened to coordinate some very atypical vacation days.

Anyway, when Uncle Joe was eighteen and overflowing with the kind of stupidity, bravado, and bodily fluids that are appropriate for that age, he spent a lot of time in Paris on the U.S. Army's dime. I'm pretty sure this was back when dinosaurs freely roamed the Champs-Élysées and the French still kinda' respected us for clearing up their whole Nazi thing. One of his goals on this trip (aside from spending quality time drinking Manhattans with his favorite nephew-in-law) was to revisit his old stomping grounds and maybe have a drink at the bar of the hotel where he spent a suspicious amount of time for someone on an enlisted private's salary. You know, for old time's sake.

So in spite of the miserable head cold he picked up in Italy, the quest was on. After three Metro transfers, a couple thousand stairs, a half dozen blocks on foot, and the life of most of my iPhone battery, we found ourselves standing at 81 Rue de Boetie in front of the Hotel de Boetie. I don't know about everyone else, but I was kinda' excited. I was about to witness the prodigal son returning to his whore-y roots, and if that's not the kind of event someone like me can get behind, I don't know what is.

One problem, though. The Hotel de Boetie was boarded up and closed for renovation (Sorry folks, the moose out front should have told you). All six of us stood around the only locked door on the entire street and just stared at the sign in disbelief. Perhaps we should have called first. Joe looked like a little kid who just watched two scoops of ice cream tumble from his cone and fall on the sidewalk. Even I felt bad (and I'm a dick).

We found the next bar, and I tried to buy him a shot of Crown Royal as a consolation. As luck would have it, the bar was out of Crown Royal, too. Damn, the dude could just not catch a break!

They say you can never go back. Technically you can. You'll just have to settle for Wild Turkey.

And the Cow Says, "La Moo."

It's official. I am the fattest person in France. It doesn't matter whether you measure it in the made-up, metric units they are so fond of over here or not, and it's not just negative, self-conscious, body-image hyperbole either. It's empirical fact. We've walked all over this city, and if there are people bigger than me here, they must keep them locked away from the public view. I'm guessing it's at the school where they also teach Parisians how to clean up after their dogs because obviously no one goes there.

I'm trying though. I have walked roughly a half marathon every day since we've been here. I've subsisted on little more than high-protein duck parts and lukewarm mineral water. I've lost ten pounds (67 decimeters) in six days (3.2 grams). And yet compared to the Parisians, I am still a grotesque, lumbering Godzilla of sweaty, New World meat stumbling over cobblestone rues and randomly screeching out  "parlez-vous Englais!" like blasts of angry, lizard fire-breath.

But it's not just the people of France that are small in comparison (as I watch them point up at me in abject terror when I pass by and momentarily block out their view of the sun). It seems that everything about Paris is specifically designed to fat shame me. For instance, the interior dimensions of the elevator in our chic little boutique hotel are exactly 1 Mark Karvinen deep x 1.5 Mark Karvinens wide. I have to enter it sideways. If I were carrying something small, like a carryout container with leftover duck, for instance, I'd have to send the duck up first. Alone.

The bathrooms are delicate, 3/4-scale dioramas where the shower is basically a Water-pik dangling over a marble punch bowl, the rolls of bathroom tissue are single-serving, so to speak, and I have to sit on the toilet side-saddle because it's placed 3/16ths of an inch (700 degrees celsius) away from the side wall. The first day here I ripped the flush handle off the dainty, little toilet in the lobby by simply trying to flush it with my massive, American cheeseburger grabbers. I'm basically Lenny from Of Mice and Men unintentionally leaving a trail of crushed bunnies up and down the Seine.

I felt better for a second last night though. We were walking back to our hotel after dark, and I thought I saw the shadow of someone up in the distance that was about my size. As we got closer, however, it turned out to be a false alarm. 

It was the Louvre.

Pix, part deux

I'm getting lucky with the hotel wifi, so here are some pix while I can.

Jardins galore!

Bucket list item: Have picture taken next to giant pink tree.

Nailed it.

McSpresso.

Pepe Le Emu.

Even the French hate Power Point handouts.

If you went through the trouble of having stickers printed, well, sorry, but you kinda' do.

We went to see Jim Morrison's grave site, but when I saw that Margaritas had died, I kinda' lost it and couldn't go on.

Stopped at a cafe and had a pate party with Patty.

Parisian high fashion.

Where Le Superman and La Wonder Woman are headquartered.

Harry's New York Bar, where Hemmingway hung out and got drunk. (But then again, where didn't Hemmingway hang out and get drunk?) 

Zoom in on the patches under the lights if you're from Oakland County.

Just so you know, if these posts start getting real weird...

Change is Good

So we have trekked about forty miles so far, consumed our own body weight in duck by-products, and have made the Metro subway system our complete bitch. Paris? Yeah, we've got this. However, there are some things I may never understand about this city.

I can buy a gigantic, two-litre bottle of natural mineral water in the most expensive, touristy part of the city for a measly thirty-one cents American. I can buy Jack Daniels whiskey for about 20% less than I can buy it directly from a liquor store in Tennessee, the state where it is distilled. I can use a kiosk in the lobby of the McDonalds here to order and pay for a happy meal in five languages and pick it up at the counter without having to know a word of French. And yet I can't trade a kidney for a cube of ice in this city. I know from experience that ice is not particularly popular in Europe, but I honestly believe Parisians, specifically, are more averse to floating chunks of ice than Titanic survivors. I suspect their transplanted organs are even delivered lukewarm.

I'm also having a hard time understanding the French disposition. We all know the stereotypes, and I have travelled to enough countries to know that national/ethnic stereotypes, in general, are about as useful as the morons that cling to them. And yet...yesterday, I wanted to shove an entire handful of Metro tickets down one French woman's crepe hole after she went all sacre bleu on me for just assuming that she could break my massive, 5.00 Euro note with my ticket purchase. When I gave her the 5 spot for a 3.10 fare, she demanded in angry French that I produce a .10 Euro coin to make her change-making job (in other words, her job) that much easier. While I patted down my pockets, providing her with the universal body language expression for "I have no coins," she actually yelled, in perfect English, "Hurry up." There was no one in line behind me, and I could tell she was using the power of her position and the safety of her locked glass booth to intentionally antagonize me. Because she still had both my tickets and my money, I was unable to show her another universal body expression that instantly came to mind.

After I took a few deep breaths, I remembered the number of times I've had similar irrational and unprovoked outbursts from employees of the Wayne County Register of Deeds or the City of Holly Building Department. This had nothing to do with being French. This had everything to do with being a civil servant. Another stereotype? Perhaps, but some things do appear to be more universal than others. C'est la vie.

Today we are off to do some shopping (note to self: bring exact change), and hopefully find another way to eat duck. I'm addicted. I'm going to have to find a Ducks 'r Us when we get back home or start ordering it from Amazon.

Worth a Thousand

The hotel wi-fi has finally given birth to some bandwidth, so I'll try to get some pictures up while I can...

Everything is so ornate here. This is either the entrance to the Grand Palace or the 7-Eleven.

Selfie de Triumph!

Everyone here has selfie sticks but me. I have a 32" sleeve length. I prefer clicking it old school.

We found Lady Liberty's stunt double.

Parisians like to play with fire.

Apparently, Lowenbrau makes cars here.

This is what I felt like after I ate the whole thing.

The whole thing: Smoked salmon and brie pizza for lunch.

It's not what we saw, it's what we Seine.

Meh.

Notre Dame. Still looking for their football stadium though.

A Super 8, this is not.

That's not how you spell my name, Frenchy!

Duck bacon (or pigeon) salad. Yummy regardless.

Attack of the Euro Oui-knees!

It's Pronounced 'Re Cahn Oh Sahnzzz'

Note: Sorry, the picture uploads are experiencing techical difficulty. I'll work on it. 


As it should be, this trip is the polar opposite of our real life: we have lots of time and absolutely nothing is planned. And even though there's something quite liberating about being adrift in a foreign city with a population of over two million, mostly fashionable residents, I guess it is just in our nature to try and impose some control over our predicament, to come up with a plan. So without regard for language barriers, street signs showing absolutely useless metric distances, herds of Romani trying to sell us untaxed souvenirs, and the forewarned land mines of sidewalk dog excrement, yesterday we put on our good walking Keens and set out to do a little pre-vacation reconnaissance.

After logging over 10 miles (approximately 427 deciliters, I think) on foot and another 15 miles (9 kilograms) on the subway, our known world has expanded tremendously, and I think we're ready to begin this vacation. Our first adventure beyond the hotel bar wasn't so much about sight-seeing as it was about mapping. Basically, we are like Lewis and Clark, but with iPhones and hand sanitizer.

Since we didn't linger at any of the famous attractions we stumbled upon, I'll wait to discuss those later in the week when we give them their proper due. Yesterday was drive-by tourism at its finest and all about overview and first impressions. That being said, here's a snippet of those impressions so far...

• Mark Twain once said that travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness. He was so right. Already I've had to revise my world view, as I now know that the Burger King breakfast menu is no longer a benchmark for what constitutes a good croissant.
• Wrapping an exaggerated French accent around an unholy mix of first semester college Spanish, community college Italian, and sixth grade French makes you virtually incomprehensible to the Parisian population at large. I am like Inspector Clouseau speaking in tongues.
• Bar tabs in French are particularly shocking until you remember that Europeans use their commas as decimal points. At which time, they are just garden variety shocking. Regardless, we really need to learn to say when.
• My friend Lara was right about the ever-challenging piles of dog shit on the Parisian sidewalks. But since I'm from Detroit, I'm used to being preyed upon by packs of feral dogs as I walk the city. So, relatively speaking, the French are once again more sophisticated in this regard.
• Duck, or duck fat, has been a major component of every meal I've eaten since I got off the plane. I'm not complaining, mind you, as duck (or its rendering) is very tasty. The problem is, I haven't seen a single living duck here yet, only pigeons. Hmmm, to paraphrase the great philosopher, Charlton Heston, maybe Soylent Green isn't Daffy.

That is all for now. Today we head off to the Arch de Triumph and Moulin Rouge after first stopping by Starbucks for a Venti (17.3 meters) of Cafe Americano.

Delta Winning Hand

Delta Airlines, I'm sorry. 
When you've been together as long as we have, it's easy to take one another for granted. Familiarity breeds contempt, and, yes, I know that I am guilty. I said some things. You said some things. But does it really matter who was wrong or who was right? All I know is that I'm sorry, and I hope we can move past this.

OK, gotta' admit, I was fully prepared for this first entry to be a cranky, scathing review of the eight-hour flight across the bumpy Atlantic. I don't sleep on planes. Never have. By the end of an international flight I'm undoubtedly sore, sleep deprived, and ankle-deep in the detritus of mini liquor bottles and peanut wrappers that pretty much defines my in-flight, long-haul activity. (Although, if we're being perfectly honest, that also describes me after a twenty-minute commuter flight between Flint and Detroit). Regardless, I was fully prepared to spend the final two, grueling hours of my flight huddled over my iPad immaturely lashing out at the very peanut-filled hand that had fed me through four time zones.

But I just couldn't do it.

Maybe jet lag has me off my game. Maybe maturity brings with it a more unflappable sense of calm. Maybe this was the Delta exception that proves the rule. (Maybe I can't stop starting sentences with the word "maybe.")

The truth is, from the moment we checked our bags at the gate in Detroit until we walked off the gangplank in Paris, I felt like every employee at Delta that we interacted with was actually treating me like a customer, a valued customer. Sadly, in the past, their treatment toward me has typically ranged from somewhere between the extremes of "inconvenience" and "pariah." I never blamed the employees, mind you. That's a classic, tell-tale management problem. I used to tell my business students that a well managed company is easily identified by whether you want to love or loathe their employees.

Delta, gotta' say, I'm kinda' smitten with all of you right now. Management seems to have made some changes and the ground troops are rockin' it.

Merci beaucoup!

Tomorrow: Lots of Paris pix and back to my typical, a$$hole self.

Paris: The City of Deductions

A travel blog? Yep. That's what I'm doing now.

Why? Oh, let's say it's because it perfectly weds my passion for the written word with my eternal love for traveling and experiencing new cultures and environments. Let's definitely not say that it's because I promised my wife an anniversary trip to Paris, and now I'm trying to make the whole damn thing at least tax deductible, if not free.

Call me a romantic.

Anyway, April 16th is the big day we hop on a smelly, uncomfortable Delta jet and head toward the land of ridiculous accents. The plane won't start off smelly and uncomfortable, I hope, but I've flown Delta international before. After 300 plus people spend nine hours digesting airline food, the fuselage pretty much looks and smells like a fraternity house toilet rug during Rush Week. I love to travel, but let me tell you, teleportation technology can't come fast enough.

It's my plan to regularly blog while I'm in Paris and take you along on all of our little journeys. That's the plan anyway. It's distinctly possible, however, that I just might be having a little too much fun drinking French wine and trying not to pronounce the "r" in Louvre to be tied to a computer. We'll see. I also plan to be adding crappy, iPhone photos as I go, but you may want to check my website, mkarvinen.com, in early May for the (hopefully) better pictures I'll be taking with a real camera.

Stay tuned. Sign-up for updates. Follow me on Facebook. Support my advertisers.

And until this thing gets going, au revoir (Yep, kind of a silent "r" in there too).

m. karvinen