This Paris trip snapped into focus one night watching the tv show “Vikings.”

“Let’s stay there.”

An island in the middle of the Seine. The historic heart of Paris. Seemed pretty much perfect, and as it turned, it was.

BTW left to right: Ragnar, Floki, Bjorn,Lagertha, and Rollo. Some are fictional characters. Some were the real deal. Rollo, the guy, without a shirt, to the far right became the first ruler of Normandy. His brother Ragnar, to the far left, was a legendary Viking king.

Both were likely relatives of mine – though curiously not through my Finnish side but through those nice proper midwesterners – the Warenne branch of the family.

The Vikings did sack Paris in 845. And purportedly the Vikings were led by Ragnar and the French did pay them off with mountains of silver.

Today, the island is known as the Île de la Cité or “Island of the City.”  Home of Notre Dame and the historic heart of the Paris. Took this photo of the island from one of the bridges off the adjoining island, Île Saint-Louis, where our hotel was located.

Just noticed the bride in the lower center.

Paris is that sort of place.

This map is one of our cards from “City Walks Paris” 50 Adventures on foot – a set of walks recommended by our trainer Mia, who lived in France for a year.

I would guess we knocked off seven. 43 to go.

The river Seine divides Paris into the Right Bank (up) and the Left Bank (down).

Across the river to the north of the islands is the neighborhood of Le Marais. Across the river to the south of the islands is the Latin quarter, which we crisscrossed many times.

We did venture about a bit further to the West and North of this map – on foot. We never used taxis, buses or the metro. We walked, and walked a lot- 5 to 9 miles a day.

Our hotel, Hotel Saint-Louis en l’Isle, was located on a corner, 4 streets NW of the number 1 on this map, on the Rue St. Louis en l’Ile. Just across the bridge to Notre Dame.

Photo to the left is Notre Dame from the bridge to our island.

There were aways crowds at Notre Dame. 14 million people visit each year. Rightly so. A masterpiece of French Gothic architecture.

Been here seven centuries.

While there are always crowds at Notre Dame, our neighborhood on the second island, only 5 minutes and a bridge away, was remarkably quiet.

Some tourist bustle in the middle of the day, but otherwise remarkably tranquil. Residential. Folks live here.

Our hotel had been a 17^th century town house. It was small: 20 rooms; five floors.

As per plan, we had one of the two rooms on the top floor.

Up underneath the eaves. Like an artist’s garret.

That’s Sharon on our dormer balcony.

Reading. Of course.

The next photo is the same balcony.

Another angle. Including a sliver of the Seine, and the Parthenon (dome), up on a hill, in the Latin Quarter, in the distance.

One night Sharon called me out onto the balcony to take a look.

The Seine was glowing with lights, while at the same time, the sky above was  pitch-black, glowing with stars.

We really liked our hotel room.

It felt just right for us little people.

You can’t see it here, but Sharon is about to sit down in a chair with legs about a foot long.

The exposed wood beams were hand-wrought and pegged. Lots of character and history.

Our room felt a bit like a treehouse.

There was another mini-balcony off the bathroom, which had a different glimpse of the Seine.

And different views into neighbor’s homes at night.

And vice versa.

We were always sure to close our shades at night.

There was an elevator, which only stopped at a landing between floors. Thus serving two floors, sort-of. We could get to our room with the elevator up a short flight from level 4/5. An intimate elevator, perhaps 3’ x 4’.

Best way to get to a treehouse.

Before our trip, my Mom told me to look for a side yard at Notre Dame. When she visited more than 40 years ago, she arrived on her own with our dog Tammy (above). No dogs were allowed inside the cathedral, but someone let her put Tammy in the Notre Dame’s side yard. When my Mom returned the gate was locked, Tammy was howling and no one was around. All turned out well, but that’s another story.

To the left is the wall of Notre Dame above the side yard where Tammy was fenced-in.

The stone detailing is remarkable. A curious mix of familiar pious saints and strange medieval, nightmarish fantasies.

The gargoyles reminded me of dragon’s heads mounted on the prows of Viking ships.

 

Today there is a big open plaza in front of Notre Dame.

It hasn’t always been this way. Up to the mid-1800’s this area was a rabbit warren of narrow busy streets lined with houses, shops and churches. Aggressive city planning with Napoleon’s backing set today’s stage.

If you look carefully at the paving patterns in the plaza, you can see the outlines of the old neighborhood buildings, outlined in different colored paving stones. Nice touch.

This bronze plaque is right in front of Notre Dame Cathedral.

Kilometre zero.

The point from which all French roads originating in Paris are measured.

I was sure the plaque was on the other side of the plaza, perhaps in the center of the outlying road or next to that manhole cover beyond.

“Sharon, go ask that policeman (in French) where it is?”

“Oh it’s back in front of the cathedral- where all those people are are taking turns posing (right in the most obvious place possible).”

Hmmm. There’s a moral here somewhere.

Below the big open plaza in front of Notre Dame is an archeological crypt. One of my favorite places.

Folks have lived, worshipped and done business here for thousands of years. Buildings were knocked down and spaces filled in. Excavations in the 1960s and 1970s uncovered remnants of these times gone by.

Rather than remove the ruins or re-bury them once again, these remains were left in place and a roof added which is today’s plaza. Since the ruins are 20 feet below the plaza grade today, this ghost world lives on below the feet of the tourists above.

Romans, Vikings, and the pious walked these streets and drank in these taverns.

This borrowed picture was taken from the top of the north tower of Notre Dame. Every day we walked by the line of folks waiting to climb the 422 steps for this view. We were tempted, but thought better of it.

We were celebrating Sharon’s 6 month milestone after hip replacement. No need to push things.

Perhaps next visit.

We had told our Swiss friend Stefan of our Paris plans.

He said he’d come see us in Paris, if he could.

We didn’t expect to see him, but we did.

Stefan and girlfriend Cheryl caught the 4:30 AM train from Switzerland to Paris.

They walked into our hotel lobby at 9:30AM.

After breakfast at a local cafe we all headed out to see the sights.

Our first stop  was St. James Tower.

The tower is all that is left of a once grand church built by the butcher’s guild in 1523 as a starting point for pilgrims setting out for the shrine of St. James at Santiago de Compostela in Spain.

Here we are at the base of the tower.

In my mind’s eye, I can see us here someday, ready to set off for Spain on our pilgrimage.

Few today actually start in Paris. As it roughly doubles the 400 mile ± trek across Spain. My cunning solution is to bike to Spain and then walk. I like the idea of a tandem bike. Affectionately known as the “divorce-maker”.

We shall see.

After St. James Tower Sharon, Stefan, Cheryl and I worked our way northeast  along the north side of the Seine. One of our first stops was the glass pyramid of the Louvre Museum for this photo op.

We continued towards the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the south western entrance to the Jardin des Tuileries.

As you can see here in the Jardin des Tuileries, the leaves weren’t out yet. When we were planning this trip, I kept thinking, “Springtime in Paris,” flowers, birds chirping and the like. We were a bit early.

May 1 might be more like it.

We picked the second week of April because we could celebrate both my 65th birthday and Sharon’s graduation from physical therapy following her surgery.

After passing through the Jardin des Tuileries, we came to the Place de la Concorde. We could see the Eiffel Tower and up the Champs-Élysées. Tempted for a second I thought better of it. It was time to double back.

We turned right and north which brought us by one of the Ladurée bakeries.

The Ladurée bakery was founded in 1862. “Ladurée’s rise to fame came in 1930 when his grandson, Pierre Desfontaines, had the original idea of the double-decker, sticking two macaron shells together with a creamy ganache as filling.”

We each picked out two of our choice. Stefan and Cheryl most graciously picked up the tab. Ground zero for macarons. And Yes, they are as good as they look.

We bid out goodbyes to Cheryl and Stefan a few blocks before the metro station at the Place de Bastille. The closer we got, the more police we saw. The borrowed photo below captures the look and feel.

“No Sharon, we don’t need to find out what’s up. Let’s just turn here, and walk away.”

On our return to the hotel we asked our friend Bernard at the front desk what was going on. He shrugged. “Oh just a bunch of folks on the dole, protesting for more money.” Another day of political theatre in Paris.

Half the time Bernard would be sitting where Denis is here in this borrowed photo. We had heard about Bernard from Tripadvisor reviews. Many found him charming, but he rubbed a few the wrong way.

My favorite comment was from a couple who had asked Bernard to make them dinner reservations at 6:00PM. Bernard’s response: “Only children eat at 6:00.”

Very French.

So after a couple of days, Sharon decides to practice her French on Bernard. She asks him (in French), “Are you the inestimable, very kind and friendly Bernard?” He knew exactly what was up.

He wouldn’t answer. Sharon insisted. Finally he got up from behind the desk, came out and gave her a mock curtsey.

The next morning we were heading out to the Orsay Museum. We told Bernard of our plans. He told us that the museum was closed, “because they were painting the doors.”

Another guest overheard our conversation and said, “Thanks for the info, we had been planning on going to the Orsay today.” Bernard didn’t blink.

Neither Sharon nor I believed Bernard, so we went to the Orsay anyway. It was open as usual. On return, I told Bernard, “the construction is over at the Orsay.” A blank look back. He had forgotten our earlier conversation. “The doors are all painted.” A flicker.

There are no (interior) doors in the Orsay. Only open galleries.

We liked Bernard. On my (65th) birthday, when we walked through the lobby, he would sing happy birthday under his breath. When we asked about a good café, he got up from his desk, and … walked us up the street to his favorite.

Leaving the lobby empty. No one to cover the phones or the wide-open front door. A bit crazy, yes.

Very French.

All the other staff, liked Bernard too, we could tell. He would joke with them and help with whatever they were doing, running up and down the stairs. A very spry 60 years old.

On our last day, as he was helping our young female driver with our bags, I told Bernard, “The key is not to believe a word you say.”

He answered, eyes twinkling, “I’ve talked to you guys too much.”

****

In preparation for a hoped-for trek around Mt. Blanc in Europe. Sharon took four community-center night school courses in French, which is the equivalent of perhaps 2 college level courses. Or about 1/2 of basic French grammar. All the course titles included the word “Beginner.”

Bernard said that Sharon was doing well with her French. But that was Bernard.

The young woman who drove us back to the airport said the same thing. Could have been an ingratiating compliment- but I don’t think so.

The test was the shoes.

We travel light. Only one pair of shoes each. Sharon’s disintegrated on day 3. Literally. No hope. Bernard pointed us down the street to the closest shoe store. And off we went. Photo below.

The woman in the store spoke zero English. Sharon chatted away in French. Various shoes appeared and disappeared. The lady laughed at Sharon’s jokes. 20 minutes later we left with new shoes that fit just right.

No blank looks. Just nods. Test passed. I don’t know how Sharon does it, but she does.

On top of it all, even I could hear Sharon’s accent improving in only a week. In a month she’d be unstoppable.

Here in Cambridge, at Whole Foods, Sharon has made friends with a number of clerks from south of the border. They chat away in Spanish. I get a nod now and then.

A favorite is Gloria. Gloria is from El Salvador.

We know all about Gloria’s family. She knows all about ours. My Spanish is good enough to catch the general drift of the conversations.

One day Sharon complimented Gloria on her earrings. Gloria tried to give them to Sharon. Very Latina. “No, no, no…”

Gloria thought Sharon was from somewhere in Central America. She wasn’t sure from where. “¿Tampa, en los estados unidos (USA), really?”

I wasn’t surprised.

A mimic’s ear backed by a fearless intelligence goes a long way.

This pic is Sharon in front of the Musée National du Moyen Age or the Museum of the Middle Ages or the Cluny Museum. We really liked this place and would like to come back when all the galleries are open.

Many were closed for renovation. The current building is a 15th century mansion built over an excavated Roman-era bathhouse. Truth be told I was partial to the Roman spaces.

Our second visit was for a medieval music concert on period instruments in what remained of the the Roman bathhouse.

The musicians were great, and had no trouble dealing with the rather unruly guy who had somehow found his way into the paid performance.

As he was being hauled out, no one missed a beat. Neither performers nor audience. I thought,

“Heckling medieval artists.

Very French.”

Our next-door neighbors in Cambridge were spending the year in Paris.

We got together to say hello. A highlight of our trip.

Fred grew up in Paris .

Deirdre is working on her Harvard PhD.

Their daughter Bea (Beatrice) has discovered ponies.

And Otis (the dog) is living the good life.

Paris is a good place to be a dog.

Otis is our buddy. We had bonded in Cambridge.

He recognized us immediately. Otis is not an easy dog, but he is with us.

We met up in the Jardin du Luxembourg (Park) by the Médici Fountain (borrowed photo).

Otis was a bit nervous around the fountain. Earlier in his life, he had a rather traumatic near-death experience involving a bridge over the river Seine, an an ill-advised leap, an unexpected plunge, a desperate swim, and a just-in-time rescue.

The crowd cheered.

This 2010 portrait of Otis was drawn by a friend of Fred and Deirdre’s, who works for Pixar.

Every dog should be so lucky.

Reminds me of “The Fantastic Mr. Fox” if you’ve seen the movie.

Deirdre found Otis in Chicago on doggy death row. The clock was ticking down.

We had heard the story of Otis and the Pont Neuf bridge and decided to take a look.

The bridge is on the downstream side of the island with Notre Dame.

Fred, Deirdre and Otis were walking across, when Otis spotted a bird above the railing. Otis leapt, clearing the 3 foot + railing with ease. That was the good news.

The bad news was that he then found himself 40 + feet above the river Seine in mid-air.

Down he went, disappearing into the depths of the murky green water. But back up he bobbed, paddling for his life. Deirdre started screaming. Fred took off running.

Fred made it through the park to the very tip of the island, down the last stair into the river, and plucked Otis from the water as he was swept by.

A cheer went up from the restaurant barges, folks in the park, and folks on the bridge.

Every time Fred tells the story he invariably mentions two things. First, he didn’t know that Otis could swim.

Second, that the water ruined his most-fashionable tennis shoes.

Very French.