7/13/18
Slept fitfully on plane, watched better part of “An Inconvenient Sequel,” synchronizing my streaming with Benjamin. Landing at 8:30h local time, blew through customs, waited for bags and negotiated the RER/Metro to hotel. Paris is lacking in basic functional assistance, of note; it must be especially difficult for a wheelchair-bound person to get around.
Temporarily homeless,, we spent a few hrs on a Sienne tour bateau before at last checking in. Barely time for shower/changing, we again negotiated the Metro to Le Marais, home to many trendy cafes. We chose one almost at random (turned out that neither synagogue was all that close by), walked towards the Sienne and ate at cute Cafe Le Louis Philippe. Boeuf bourguignon, mushroom egg noodles, cheese plate and tiny ravioli. Ate a whole lot.
Left the restaurant by alternate patio entrance (love that), people-watched and took photos of each other as we walked towards synagogue (could not gain entry, should have called ahead).
Walked 7 miles today.
Jour 2
Slept way late, got up and out just in time for breakfast downstairs. Prior to that, watched some of official Bastille Day theatrics on the telly, including an embarassing mishap of two police motorcycles colliding during some close action biker choreography. President Macron suppressed a smile and applauded as the bikers picked up their bikes. Judging by his expression, the bandleader was not amused (later, the Trois Couleurs jet flyover was marred by an extra couleur, making red-blue-white-red).
Walk to L’Arc de Triomphe took way longer than expected. Parade was over by the time we arrived. Benjamin got to climb on a LeClerk battle tank and Danielle spoke with a soldier. Danielle was suffering from the walk and we sat down for some appetizers and hydration, chatting with a local man who gave us some info about finding “les petit bijoux de Paris,” and where to stand for the fireworks.
Took the Metro to the Louvre. Line was way long, so (after sitting in the courtyard for eapresso and yet more water) we set out on what was to be a failed bid to find the Louvre’s rumored second entrance, passing through Tuileries on the way. From here we took a cab, thru charming and chic Montparnasse, to the Catacombs. Ninety min wait. We closed the place down, staff sweeping us along as we went, me protesting that the guide book says they had a half hour to go before closing. Making my usual joke, “nous dormirions ici ce soir,” the gentleman (now a veritable guide, as we had begun asking him a litany of questions for our trouble), said, “vous pouvez dormir ici, mais c’est très cher.” I asked how much and he said, icily, “vous ne payez pas avec d’argent!” The kids loved that (I translated for them).
By that time we were done. Took Metro heading back to our hotel and got as far as
the Eiffel Tower when train stopped, announcing station closures along our route. Stepped out to grab a cab: Wall to wall people. So, dinnertime. Pizza and pasta bolognese at a highly emotional Greek place. Streets were even more of a madhouse when we finished. Had to walk way far to be outside the radius of closed thoroughfares in order to able to catch a cab. 30+ min ride. Caught a glimpse of the fireworks, which started at 11:10pm. Some jerk was honking in standstill traffic, attracting the attention of a heavily armed policeman. Fine, I thought, he will tell the offender to cease. Oops, the culprit was our driver. I could not make out everything he said, but I did catch the word <> The cop cast us a suspicious glance in the backseat before letting us go.
As the meter hit 33€ I checked my wallet to find I had only 30€. He generously turned the meter off and drove us a bit more until it was no longer practical to stay in the cab. We bid the driver thanks and walked the remaining kilometer to our hotel.
Jour 3:
Petit Déjeuner at l’hôtel. Métro to ? and pleasant walk to Ile de la cite. First stop La Conciergerie. What was to have been a brief stop before St Chappelle became a 2-hour excursion through 700 yrs of Parisian history, through the reign of Napoleon III. Take home message: Democracy is fragile, the spectre of dictatorship is ever- present (it comes in the guise of Public Safety), and no one is incorruptible. Most emotional moments: Reading the devastating poem by M__, a nameless victim of the Terror, and visiting the shrine for Marie Antoinette, including the painting of her last communion and, etched in marble, the excerpt of her letter to her son.
St Chappelle: Glad we decided to go upstairs. Wow. But where is the reliquary?
Notre Dame:
Wow.
And I found the Reliquary of the Crown of Thorns. Knowing it was somewhere in the Cathedral but not knowing exactly where made its discovery all the more dramatic. It did not take me long to realize I had a job to do, namely: say kaddish for Rav Yehoshua b. Yosef, possibly for the first time in 2000 yrs. Doing my best to avoid avodah zarah (if that was at all possible, given the circumstances).
Lunchtime, local eatery across the street. Picked the smaller of the 2 places there. By 4:00 P.M., things started to deteriorate rapidly as game hour approached. We sought to beat a hasty retreat but found ourselves leaving Île de la Cité at nearly 1800h. Security presence became more prominent with heavily armed police and guardsmen. We tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to find a Metro station with a ticket machine and were forced above ground again and again. Tricolor-waving revelers, faced-painted hooligans and other assorted assholes buzzed up the Champs Elysees and other major boulevards in noisy motorbikes and riding on the hoods of cars. Metro fares were waved at last, and we were allowed in, but service was halted moments later and we were again forced above ground, where we hailed a cab. Got far as the FDR rotary, where traffic was seized amidst a cacophony of honking. We had to bail and seek the relative safety of the sidewalk. A man played the bagpipes while weaving though the standstill traffic on (I think) a hoverboard. We ducked into a chocolatier for a few minutes (good chocolate) before girding our loins and heading out again. With all the cheering, celebratory horn honking, air horns, cherry bombs randomly going off, flares and smokers, and the gunning of engines, the Champs Elysees was more chaotic than the previous night’s Bastille Day revelry, looking and sounding like the scene of a demonstration riot. Jogging across the Place de l’Etoile was downright frightening, as we sought to dodge crazed bikers who were coming around the circle with any number of trajectories. Poor Danielle was shouting and afraid, admonishing me for not getting us back to the hotel sooner. Victor Hugo was also a mess, with the same mayhem as elsewhere. Things calmed a bit on the side streets closer to our hotel, but folks were still joyriding up the narrow lanes. A dumbass with a gold colored AK47 squirt gun doused Danielle and me – it was she who first realized it was wine and not water with which we were hit.
Our plan was to clean up in the hotel and sneak out somewhere close for a late supper, in hopes that the revelry might have died down. What we found on street level at night was something close to utter chaos. Google led us to one after another open-but-not-serving establishment (met a nice couple from London waiting in a line of people trying to convince an SOB bouncer to let them in. People were spilling out of the place, and he kept maintaining that they had no space available). The bikers were still out in force on avenues that were closed to traffic. We passed several people passed out on sidewalk corners. Lots of people singing drunken renditions of a song that, while unrecognizable, did not seem to be the Marseille. Eventually were forced to give up and, making it home again, made a meager dinner out of our remaining berries and 2 packets of mixed nuts.
The following day, we found that we had escaped the worst of the night’s offerings, which featured riot police, water cannons and baclava-clad idiots throwing rocks at the authorities. Two people died nationwide, and 2 children seriously injured in celebration-related misadventure. Vive la France.
Day 4:
Breakfast at hotel. Think we are done with it, included tho’ it may be. Headed out to Montmartre via Pigalle, walking up the narrow streets past artsy shoppes (most closed due to Lundi) and trendy cafes.
Jardin
Painting and porcelain figurine for Danielle for short money.
Church
Sacre Coeur,
Rotunda
View
Espace Dali
Danielle’s portrait.
Lunch
Steered away from Dali exhibit by several local artists who advised us to “go to Barcelona.” We did not take their advice [ed.: yet], as the exhibit was interesting and Danielle enjoyed it.
Nougat place.
Metro back.
Nap
Dinner on Rue Boisssiere, “Ristorante Solomio.” Small place, well appointed, friendly, attentive service and excellent food.
Day 5
Decision on Louvre vs Versailles, with or without Rodin Museum, was left to breakfast. Decided to forego our hotel’s modest breakfast buffet for local brasserie in Victor Hugo. Mistake. The waiter understood neither my French nor my English. They had 2 pris fixe options: chocolate croissant (for which they had a peculiar name, now forgotten), bread and butter/jam (I read on-line that authentic French kitchen does not pair bread with either), coffee or hot cocoa (the latter which we declined but waiter served it anyway), and juice with or without bacon and eggs (sunny side up, turns out, and who makes eggs that way anymore? Of course, I have seen steak tartare on 5 menus in 5 days here, so I should not be surprised). Painfully high bill that I sought to forget (along with the paltry offerings) as soon as I paid it.
I will not go through every aspect of the process which brought us to the gates of Versailles at 1600h; suffice it to say that there were delays on the Metro (some due to construction, some self-inflicted) an interminable bathroom line and a 1-hour ticket holder’s line in the sun-drenched courtyard. Kept ourselves busy with conversation with nice Montrealier who, with his girlfriend, was beginning the last leg of their Brussels-Bruges-Amsterdam-Paris trip. Danielle did her crossword puzzles and Benjamin waited patiently. We all applied sunscreen. Future-reference: buy tickets in advance, avoid busy days, and bring SPF umbrella.
The royal rooms are dazzling to behold but unnerving as well. Layout was like my old high school, with corridors of 3-walled rooms, the 4th side open to the hallway. We saw only one small library belonging to a princess. Most other rooms seemed to be for various varieties of sitting. Wall artwork is generally portraiture and mythologized battle scenes. Marie Antoinette’s rooms were all under renovation.
Throne Room was conspicuously shy one throne. Hall of Mirrors and adjacent antechamber were naturally stunning, and quite gaudy.
A quick ‘net search helped us to steer clear of the in-house restaurant (comments split between “overpriced, overblown,” and raves about the hot chocolate). Located a pizza shoppe downtown where we had a house salad with goat cheese/balsamic/avocado) and pizza Niçoise (anchovies, etc.)
Failed in first serious attempt at climbing Arc De Triomphe. Long line in hot, stuffy tunnel kept getting longer with no movement x 7 minutes. I reconnoitered and found a woman at the sole open ticket window, talking, gesticulating, while ticket seller intently listened, furrowing his brow, checking a stapled document, etc. How hard is it to sell one 12€ ticket? I yelled (with false cord gravel I hoped adequate to the task), “Hey lady, hurry up, there’s a long line of people waiting!” She shot a glance and responded with and East End brogue, “You don’t have to stare at me, and you don’t have to shout. I’m doing the best I can with my situation!” I nodded but continued to stare until she finally cast a skyward glance and took her situation elsewhere. I said to no one in particular, “Because ‘MERICA!” However, line still did not move. Benjamin theorized that there was more to each interaction than merely selling a ticket. Line had more than doubled in length in 15 minutes with little movement, so we bailed.
Finally got home and headed out again a bit later for local Chinese: Chez Zhang. Another waiter who could not initially grasp the concept of une carafe de l’eau. Had satay beef, chicken-ginger-onions, and vegetable fried rice. All very good. Sat outside eating 2 tiny ice cream cups from next door before heading back.
Day 6 travel day
What was planned:
Up at 8h30
petit déjeuner 9h
Pack by 10h
Checkout, leave bags.
Take Metro at 11h to Louvre
11h30 Louvre x 2 hrs.
2h déjeuner on the go
14h30 Metro to Trocadero.
Pick up luggage
15h taxi to Gare de l’EST
15h55 train to Muenchen
What actually transpired:
Breakfasted at hotel and headed out to the Louvre on the Metro. Having found basic entry tickets sold out on the museum and 3rd-party websites, we were left with an expensive, timed guided tour as our only option. Running our typical few min late, I checked my email for a phone # to notify our guide and discovered a cancellation with apologies. We were nonetheless able to use the ticket invoice to gain entry to the Louvre mall atrium (called, “Le Carousel;” thus solving the mystery of the “carousel” that we were unable to find a few days earlier). Our Louvre projected ticket expense thereby fluctuated from 15€ to 168€ and back to 15€.
Our trip thru the museum was efficient and successful. We saw the temporary Delacroix exhibit, Venus de Milo, Mona, and a raft of old favorites, in-person for the first time. A quick bite in the food court was perhaps a bit less quick than it might have been and we arrived back at the hotel 15 min late for our taxi. No matter, that still left us 45 min to get to Gare de l’Est for our train to Munich. Ok, 40 min. Encountered heavy traffic en route and arrived a full 20 min late for our nonrefundable seats. Quel dommage. The SNCF office that was not closed for construction had a line out the door. In a fit of pique, I used a kiosk to purchase more nonrefundable tickets for the following morning (06h30. Oop-là, I thought it meant 6:30pm for the same day. So far, I had spent 1000€ on tickets for already-departed or wrong-day trains. Dubious investments. We hopped on a then-departing Germany-bound train with a plan to let either Hashem or the Kaiser sort it out. Feelings of guilt and anxiety as we found a nook for our luggage and huddled into some 2nd class seats. Benjamin wondered if we would be arrested. I said certainly not, and he replied that yes, the authorities would probably wait until we got to a station to haul us off to jail. In fact, a commotion as heavily armed police interrogated a fellow in the vestibule between train cars. <<qu’est-ce qui se passe?>> “That guy? He does not have a ticket.” Uh, oh.
Our cabin mate was a nice young Yehudi named Eli. We spoke for a couple of hours in a 50/40/10 combination of English, French, and Hebrew (not counting the few Yiddish words I taught him). His parents lived in Boston years ago, while his father was attending dental school at BU. He has 6 children, Baruch Hashem, eldest Danielle’s age, and had been travelling alone for a 3-day holiday, now heading back to his home in Strasbourg. He was reading a book about the origins of Hebrew. Eli took a look at my tickets and assured me he would handle the matter with the conductor. Which he did, brilliantly, getting us a full refund for our original tickets and the “child card” rate for D and B on the current train [editor’s note: we never got a refund]. Next step would be to exchange the tomorrow tickets for an itinerary to Munich, which we would do à la gare in Strasbourg. There, Eli once again informed me that he would do the talking. Anything I said would only undermine his depiction of me as a clueless tourist. The ticket clerk offered us a 50% refund and 87€ seats to Munich. I was to photograph his screen, as the tickets would not show the train times or train numbers. First leg was Offenburg. Eli walked us to the platform and bid us au revoir. We offered our deepest thanks for his kindness and assistance as we boarded.
Looking at the cities scrolling on the petit écran in the train vestibule, I realized with creeping discomfort that the train was headed nowhere on our new itinerary. And neither our new tickets nor the photo of the clerk’s screen had the train number or time for the first leg of our journey, although we know it was departing in a matter of minutes. Off the train and onto the platform we lept and, back in now-familiar crisis mode, we ran along the platform, luggage in-tow. The next few minutes were among the most uncomfortable of the trip to-date, as we sought un tableau or écran avec train times and numbers. D’accord, track 25. More running. Shouted at a passing conductor: <<Ou’ est vingt-cinq?>> He pointed at the most distant platform relative to our starting point. Approaching the train and, expecting it to pull away any moment, Benjamin burst forward in a remarkable dash to the door, saving the day. We boarded and pulled out bags up behind us and the doors immediately closed. Danielle commented that she likes how it feels to relax after having exerted herself.
Offenburg > Stuttgart > Mannheim > München. First leg was most enjoyable; conductor offered us a Kinder cabin, which we shared with a young mom and her baby. We settled in and emerged to find some Mittagessen. An attractive young lady who had offered me the seat adjacent to hers was now sitting next to a handsome young man. She smiled and shrugged.
This train had a dining car. A father and son offered us their booth; they would move to the 2-person table. Deutsche sind freundlich. I ordered my first beer in Germany and discovered what “Radler” means (it means “cyclist” but, given the beer was 2.9%, I think it means light beer). Thirty-minute layover for next train, right across platform. Another bit of anxiety as the final leg was only a 7 min layover and our platform was “down and to the right.” And some more anxiety on the final train as my broken German (and perhaps the naïveté evinced by my question and/or demeanor) aroused the suspicion of the Hausfrau whom I queried about the food car location. She kept looking back at us through the ride and I developed all manner of paranoid fantasies about her, her dim-faced Aryan son, scabby, bloated husband and tottering father-in-law. Their bland conversation seemed to concern fatigue and falling asleep at odd times.
Munchen Hauptbahnhof is in no way walking distance from our hotel in the Altstadt. Our cabdriver was a friendly Moroccan man who loves Munich. Friendly and professional hotel manager Chung (pronounced “Choong”) speaks German with native fluency.
Usual grumblings associated with late night settling into new hotel room and bed.
Munich Day 1
Slept late and journaled.
Hofbräuhaus für Mittagessen. I keep feeling like a dumb tourist. We sat in the famed Biergarten and listened to an oompah band. I tried to say in German, “Do you have an English menu,” (“Haben Sie ein Englischer Speizerkarter, bitte?”) but what came out was probably more like, “I am an English-speaking foreigner, Menu?” Benjamin liked his roast chicken and I my sauerbraten. I suspected the stuffing was Stove Pot. Danielle got bread and cheese along with a big pretzel which made her feel sick. The pretzel was like the kind you get on the corner in Manhattan, only not warm and a little stale. Danielle also got a gingerbread cookie. First 4 ingredients were sugar. She loved it. I got a pint of house blonde and it was nothing special. Perhaps I should try their summer seasonal or dark next time.
Asked some local kids “Wo ist Marienplatz, bitte,” and they pointed us in the wrong direction. A kind bystander set us straight. No, HE was the troll, and a THIRD party pointed us back in the correct direction. We were all of 50 meters away.
We walked around Marienplatz looking at the Neu Rathaus and waiting for the Glockenspiel – which we would miss that day. Wandered around town.
Asamkirche is make-your-brains-fall-out baroque gorgeousness. And mercifully small. Fortunately, there were no priests around at the moment to take my confession and the urge to do so passed soon after stepping out.
We walked down a strasse of medium-end stores and found the Jewish museum.
Met and spoke with a group of deaf young men, one of whom dressed in the style of the Haredi. That fellow was the teacher or counselor of the others. could not read lips, although his friend was able to do so, and provided some interpretation. We also communicated by typing in Hebrew and English on his phone. They were from LA and world be returning stateside that night.
Stepping outside, we found a small group of about 12 well-appointed Yidden on the plaza, chatting in advance of Minchah. I went up to one fellow who was not engaged in conversation and asked him about the restaurant in my rudimentary German. Surprise, he is an Israeli guard. Introducing myself to him in German was what Pacino in Carlitto’s Way would call a “bad start, Jack.” I immediately, if clumsily, switched to Hebrew and he smiled at my surprise: “You can’t tell! I look natural!” Meaning: he had at least one concealed weapon on his person. We said we would return for dinner and let him get back to work.
The only kosher restaurant in the Altstadt, Einstein, is co-located with Ohel Jakob Shul. To enter the building, one passes through two sets of bulletproof glass doors, with a metal detector (and presumably, hellfire for interlopers) located in the antechamber. As he checked my passport, I offered the guard a few lines of my Bar Mitzvah parshah to demonstrate my Jewishness (and, I suppose, my annoyingness). He hurried us through. Synagogue is to the right and restaurant to the left.
No point in speaking Hebrew to the waiter, who was not Israeli but Hungarian. His abrasive sarcasm was balanced by the female server, who was warm and friendly.
Danielle ordered linguini with tuna and got linguini with meat sauce in a deep saddle-shaped bowl (I may have made a mistake in ordering). I offered her my fish and chips and we swapped dishes. Both were delicious. Could not tell if the dipping sauce was a condiment or side dish. We chose the latter and, with the imprimatur of our server, ate it. Benjamin got a lasagna which he enjoyed. The place was empty as we arrived and other guests were trickling in as we finished. Asking for bentschers was futile, no matter what language. I snagged a few: Hebrew with German transliteration and translation. Made for an interesting picture. They also had Russian bentschers. We said a quick Birkat HaMatzon. Asked waiter if we could take our leftovers home. “No,” came the reply. Seriously, the guy was a b–ch.
Munich Day 2
Got up and out in time to catch our 9:40am fast train to Nürnberg, picking up breakfast of lemon cakes and mango slices for B and D in the Hauptbahnhof (I had muesli with yogurt). Caught a cab to our meeting spot with our pleasant and knowledgeable guide-Frau, for a 90 min walking tour. Kaiserschloss, Albrecht Dürer Platz, St Siebalds Kirche (we were fortunate enough to catch a few minutes of Pacabel’s Tocatta on the organ), main square with aptly if unimaginatively named, “Beautiful Fountain.” We each turned the Golden Ring and Danielle and I each revealed our wishes. Benjamin preferred to keep his confidential.
Lunch was at Albrecht Dürer Hof, a little place that came highly recommended by a climate change-denying OCD patient, some months earlier. Benjamin had spinach lasagna, Danielle roast chicken and I an appetizer plate. This was not our most successful culinary endeavor (I mistook the butter for cheese slices) although Benjamin liked his lasagna and I the homemade mustard. Had a pint of dark beer, naturally. We walked clear across the Altstadt to Nuremberg Hbf, stopping at the curiosity shop of a large Aryan man and his mom, the former sporting thinning, bleached blonde hair and a massive Odin tattoo on his massive left arm. He seemed to specialize in war memorabilia (pickelbaum, toy soldiers and tanks, and a Hitler figurine spotted in the back by Danielle). He had a display case of old passports he was selling for 25€. He looked tired as I produced my Grandfather’s passport, and invited him to read the swastika-stamped script indicating the stripping of citizenship. More tired still as I showed him my German passport and explained that my kids are also citizens. I think the message was clear – not all Jewish passports ended up in his display case and not all their owners in smoke. We beat a satisfied, if hasty, retreat.
Picked up some homemade Lebkuchen, marzipan for Papa, and strawberries, much-needed water and found our train. Our first class seats had us separated between kid car and main cabin, obliging us to poach a main cabin seat to stay together. I spoke with a young German fellow about Trump; he fully expected to be unable to visit the US as the travel ban is expanded to encompass more nationalities.
We skipped services at Ohel Jacob and went to dinner a local brewhouse, Schneider Weisse. Knocked it out of the park: Danielle had latkes and fried catfish, Benjamin Bayern meatloaf and I Wienerschnitzel (my first veal in 15+ years). And a pint of 8.5% blonde, one of about 8 homemade brews on tap.
Quickly skipped though the drizzle back to hotel.
Munich Day 3
So much to choose from, so little time. Wir Frühstückten at a soup kiosk in the Marktplatz. OMG, Danielle got scrumptious noodle soup with pancake strips, “an Austrian favorite.”
A preliminary plan for the BMW museum fell though as I got us on the wrong train. Ju jitsuing, we decided that we were, in fact, on our way to the Alte Pinotek Museum. This proved a phenomenal choice. Titian, Tintoretto, Lippi, Brughel, Rembrandt, Reubens, to name a few, along with one stunning El Greco and my first Vermeer. The Neu Pinotek will need to wait for another visit. Late lunch at shabby Indian joint, delicious.
Dinner was at a Bierhaus recommended by our concierge. Another brilliant meal. Best sauerbraten of my young life (put Hofbrauhaus to shame).
mhanaupsychmd 