Last Tango in Paris

As promised (er, threatened), here’s the final entry for my one and only attempt at a real-time, travel blog. I’ve also included a small data storm of pictures that I pulled off my faithful Sony right before it died. (A small memorial was held, and the body was interred in Paris. Please, no flowers.)

I’ve also included some handy travel tidbits below for those of you who might be considering a trip. I learned them the hard way so you don’t have to. I’ve broken them up into the typical, travel related subgroups (Attractions, Lodging, Transportation, and Condiments) for easy reference.

Finally, if my particular brand of stupidity was something that appealed to you, first, seek professional help. Next, visit my website (mkarvinen.com) for links to other free projects, my book (available on Amazon), and my upcoming charity blog benefiting disabled veterans. But seriously, seek the professional help first.

I’d like to close with something French, but it’s been a week, and I don’t remember any.

Adios, amigos.

Hard Earned Parisian Travel Tips...

CONDIMENTS

Mustard:  I fell in love with French mustard. They don’t seem to have any of the day-glo, yellow stuff like we have here (ironically named French’s), as theirs is more of a grayish, yellow affair. Think Poupon (or just say it out loud--it’s fun). Anyway, the variety I particularly enjoyed was called “forte,” which translates to strong in just about every European language that I pretend to know. I suspect the forte equates to about 75% horseradish and 25% yellow. It’s possible there are some Hall’s Menthol-Lyptus lozenges added in for good measure. Regardless, the final combination ends up being a nasal cleansing, olfactory enema of a condiment that goes great with duck livers, salmon, and the little baby pickles that kept showing up on my plate for no apparent reason. I believe you can also smear it on your chest if you are feeling congested.

 

Incidentally, I even like the way the French say mustard. The word is moutard and it’s pronounced Moo-Tard, which sounds to me like the politically incorrect term for a cow with a learning disability. When my dog acts stupid (most of the time), I now call her a Moo-Tard. Thank you, Paris.

Ketchup/Mayo: The French love their potatoes. I love potatoes. It’s possible I am French. The French can’t decide, however, if they are more like the Dutch (who eat their fried taters dipped in mayo) or the Americans (with our well-documented ketchup addiction). The French are like middle children in this regard and tend to serve both, squirted next to each other on a plate with their fries. White condiments and condiments of color joyfully integrated on one plate is a Benetton-like, social experiment I can fully support. However, I did notice that the McChicken sandwich at the Paris McDonalds also came with both ketchup and mayo already on it. Ketchup on chicken? With or without mayo, that just seems gross, and it’s probably why the French aren't a super power.

Sauces: The French are known for their sauces. Every entrée has one. It is liberally applied and it is delicious. Don’t ask what the sauces are made of if you care about your cholesterol or if you are squeamish about less popular animal parts. Just enjoy.

Salad Dressing: Compared to their stance on sauces, the French go all bi-polar when it comes to salad dressing. Apparently they believe it’s important to actually taste the vegetables in a salad (yeah, whatever), and they distribute dressing with an eyedropper. Perhaps they feel that less dressing is healthier too, but in light of their stance on organ meet sauces (see above) and their habit of eating salad while chain-smoking cigarettes, I don’t think that’s really it.

Butter: There's only one pat in the entire city, and it's not where you are.

ATTRACTIONS
The Louvre: My father was an artist. Before the age of eighteen, I had already been to the Detroit Institute of Arts more times than I can honestly count. It’s one of my favorite places in the entire world, and it’s the absolute gem in the otherwise stinking pile of Paris-like, dog excrement that is Detroit. If you live in Michigan and you haven’t been there, you are a moutard.

Needless to say, I was extremely excited to go to the Louvre. Sadly, the reality did not live up to the expectation. Don’t get me wrong. The collection is the best in the western world, and I would have loved to rent a room there. Problem is, I am used to Detroit, where you can pretty much have the entire museum to yourself on any given day for quiet appreciation. I honestly think I’ve even turned out the lights as I’ve exited some rooms there as a courtesy. The Louvre is nothing like that. Even if you get there early, which we did, it’s only a matter of moments before the entire museum is jam-packed with tourists completely ignoring the “no flash photography” signs, and you are being forced to limbo under a sea of selfie-sticks.

Mona's that way.

It opens at 9:00. Be there at 8:30. Stand in the line for people without tickets, unless you tend to act like an adult and plan ahead. You can easily buy tickets when you get in. It’s about 12 Euros. Go right to see the Mona Lisa or the crowds will become unbearable. She’s in Denon Hall. Follow the signs (or the crowds). Run.

The Tower: Yeah, you gotta’ see it. It’s uber-touristy and crowded, but you gotta’ go. Absolutely go there early. The lines to get to the top are ridiculous. Although waiting is not without its reward. It’s entertaining as hell to watch the police chase away unlicensed souvenir vendors and petition clutching Romani only to have them return seconds later.

The Arc de Triomph: It’s a big Arch, bigger than McDonalds. It’s historic. It sits in the middle of an impossibly busy roundabout at the end of the Champs-Élysées (France’s Miracle Mile). You get to it via a tunnel underneath said roundabout. Go see it. If you’re feeling energetic, pay some Euros and climb the 400 steps to the top. Better yet, save your Euros for a visit to Pizza Pinos about a block and a half south east of the arch and order the salmon pizza.

Notre Dame: If you are a Catholic or a student of architecture or cheap, you should probably go see this free, French landmark. If, coincidentally, you are a cheap, Catholic, architecture student, this may very well be what heaven looks like to you.

ACCOMMODATIONS

We stayed at one place, the Hotel Notre Dame St.Michel. It was not cheap, but nothing in Paris is (short of bottled water, American whiskey, and hypothetical Catholic architecture students). Stay there. Ask for Simona. Tell her I said, "Bonjour." Thank me later.

TRANSPORTATION

The best way to see any city is walking. Bring good shoes. Patty and I swear by Keens. They're sandals, so don't wear socks with them unless you are German. They have mega arch support, they are lightweight, and you can hose Parisian dog poop off them relatively easily.

Learn the subway. It’s called the Metro. It’s very efficient, especially for a socialist country. If your American credit card does not have an integrated chip in it (mine didn't), it will not work at the kiosks. Coins always work at the kiosks. The larger stations have staffed booths manned by cranky civil servants. If they are not being complete assholes, they will take paper money and make change. Tickets are cheap. Buy 10 at a time.

Download a Metro map and carry it with you. The individual lines are color coded and either labeled with a letter or a number. Knowing the color and letter/number is not enough, however. You also need to know the name of the two cities where the line terminates at each end. This tells you the direction your Metro is going. Thus, if you determine you need to use the Red A line, you also need to know which platform loads for the one going west (toward Poissy) or east (toward Boissy-St leger). The termination cities are printed in bold on the Metro maps.

I don’t know if the individual tickets are good for a set amount of time or a set distance. Sometimes I could

use them up to three times, sometimes just once. My advice is to just keep sticking them in turnstiles until they stop working. Also, don’t throw them out while you are in the Metro system. You can be fined if you are not carrying it. We were stopped and checked.

A private shuttle from the airport to the city center can take anywhere from a half hour to an hour and a half depending upon time of day. Plan conservatively if you need to catch a flight.

And speaking of flights, if you happen to fly AirFrance, they seem to impose no limit to the number of free little bottles of wine they give you during one flight. They also give you free little bottles of cognac or brandy, but you have to ask. So ask. Ask the living shit out of them.