Return from France, Two Myths Destroyed

As Andrew dropped us in the wee hours of the morning at our flat, we had a sense of actually coming home.  The flat looked gigantic in comparison to our room at Hotel Agora St. Germain, where you couldn't swing a chat.

Let me debunk a couple of French myths before chronicling the week.

The first, the food.  Granted, we didn't eat at Argent or any three star Michelin restaurants, but the ravings about French food seemed to us to be a bit overdone.  Our best meal was at The French Open, followed closely by a wonderful meal at La Maree Verte.  Granted, grabbing a baguette and a hunk of cheese was a fine alternative to lunch.  And we nearly died drinking hot chocolate at Ladurre and Les Deux Magots (think drinking a liquid candy bar and you get the right idea), ditto the macaroons at the forner locale.

The second myth is the rude Parisian, or the rude French in general.  Didn't see it.  Not once.  The only man who didn't speak any English to us couldn't speak English.  Now, we did go to France armed with a few rudiments.  Bon jour, bon soir, sil vous plait, pardon, merci, and a few useful phrases.  We managed to order most of our meals in French.  The efforts were appreciated, and rewarded with hospitality and warmth.  The Parisians are a bit more formal.  Monsieur, Madame strongly recommended.  But everyone, from our waiters to the hotel staff, to people we met casually were all quite nice.

Here is an overview of the week:

• Luxembourg Garden
• The Church of St. Sulpice (ah, The Da Vinci Code)
• The Pantheon (Victor Hugo, Alexander Dumas, Emile Zola, Andre Malraux all buried there)
• The Louvre (yes, Mona Lisa is smaller than you'd expect, yet no less magnificent)
• Pompidou Center (rather violent feminist temporary exhibition tempered by the icons of  modern art, Picasso, Gris, Calder, Chagall, et. al.)
• A Seine river cruise (skip it, skip it, skip it)
• Musee d'Orsay (bridges the Renaissance and Old Masters of the Louvre and the modern art of Pompidou with an stunning collection of Impressionists, Gauguin, van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Cezanne)
• The Arc de Triomphe (disappointing, and not only because the grave of France's unknown soldier does not have a permanent honor guard)
• The Champs d'Elysees (soon to be festooned with the cyclists of Le Tour)
• Musee Rodin
• Versailles (the palace, the gardens, the Triannon area)
• Montmartre (including Le Bateau Lavoir, the Laundry Boat, where Picasso and a hoard of other artists lived)
• Notre Dame

...and, The French Open.

Thanks to our friends from Vinci Park, we had wonderful seventh row seats at Court Suzanne Lenglen and admission to Club Des Loges, a clubhouse that featured a full bar, several restaurants, and its own gift shop.  Because of the weather we spent too little time in the former and far too much time in the latter.  It was, as our friends here in Glasgow are found of saying, "pissing down rain."  Oban and Sancerre for yours truly and Lynn did a lot to assuage the disappointment of seeing barely five sets of tennis.  We saw Andy Roddick beat a determined Blas Kavcic in four sets, and then Marion Bartoli and Olivia Sanchez begin their match, soon to be suspended due to darkness.

One of our most memorable moments at the Open was lunch at Club Des Loges.  Our waiter was simply spectatcular.  After my halting explanation of allergies, in French "Je suis allergique aux oeufs et aux noix" he went out of his way to find subsititutes for the fixed menu.  Of the items on the fixed menu, I could eat exactly none of them.  "Do you trust me?" he asked.  I did, and he delivered.  He was assisted by two 15-year old boys who understood much more English than they admitted to, often laughing at the conversation we were having with our new best friend. 

Our only sniff of any anti-American sentiment came from patrons at one of the restaurants.  A German couple and a Canadian couple went on about America a bit.  While I held my tongue, I did not refrain from what I hoped was a withering glance.  Their comments were stereotypical and demonstrated their shallow grasp of our immensely complex country.  The chiding soon stopped and they moved on to other subjects. (While at the Open, in the rain, I wore a baseball cap from one of my reunions, the cap has 75 USNA and an American flag on it.  Wore it proudly.  Received not a single comment or rude stare.)

While I am not suggesting that Parisians or the French absolutely love America, it is rather apparent that they do love Americans, and they adore the American dollar.  The language we heard most other than French as we walked the streets, ate breakfast at our hotel, sat in restaurants or cafes, was English.  And American English.  The tourist is even more valued now, driving a moribund economy.  We come and we spend.

The list of single malts sampled has expanded to seven. 

The quest continues.

Note: Our visit to The Louvre was greatly enhanced by The Teaching Company's course Museum Matserpieces: The Louvre, taught by Professor Richard Brettell, University of Texas at Dalls.