Dijon provided an expedient way to get to Paris on the fourth of my Thanksgiving trips with both Chris and Dan. Otherwise, we would have had to wait until 2018 if our alphabetical-order scheme for picking places lasted. It didn't. A "magic owl" marked a walking tour in our gastronomic destination nearly 300 kilometers southeast of Paris.
First, we took possession of a roomy, rented apartment in the Marais district for use as home base. Madonna had just released Confessions on a Dance Floor, her disco comeback, which made proximity to gay clubs in the French capital even more imperative, no matter that all of us had reached the half-century mark.
During earlier visits to Ville Lumière in 1963 and 1975, I didn't recall seeing "poetic storms of suburban youth"
. . . or street art. Paris definitely had changed from the city my mother had loved more than any other. One needed to look no further than our French provincial living room in El Paso for evidence.
A very pleasant friend of Dorothy helped us purchase metro tickets. His nearly bald pate offered an irresistible contrast to the permed hair in front of him.
Travel makes even tackiness photo-worthy and occasionally prophetic. Years later, I ended up going to Hatshepsut's tomb in Egypt, I was prohibited from photographing the famous bust of Nefertiti and I was conned into buying some mint oil at Thutmoses perfumery.
Apparently, not all mesdemoiselles are chic.
After visits to Père Lachaise cemetery (where I took too many photos) and the Louvre (where, somehow, I took none!) Dan, Chris and I decided to climb the Eiffel Tower.
During our slow but steady ascent, we passed a dummy positioned to amuse the tourists who took the crowded elevator.
The misty sky had darkened completely by the time we got to the second viewing platform. With limited visibility, there didn't seem to be much point going any farther.
Fine weather the next morning provided the perfect backdrop to capture the modernity of Centre Pompidou.
Musical compositions by Igor Stravinsky inspired these colorful statues by Niki de Saint Phalle in the fountain outside.
After buying a manicure kit in a leather wallet and a luxurious woolen scarf, I enjoyed a cup of thick hot chocolate in the Marais, practically a meal in itself.
We feared a French labor strike would interfere with our 90-minute train ride to the capital of Burgundy. It didn't. I eagerly showed off my new scarf in front of the Pompon bear in Darcy Park.
Glazed terracotta tiles, positioned geometrically, adorn many of the city's colorful roofs.
Some townhouses date from the eighteenth century.
Porte Guillaume looks like a knock-off of a more famous Parisian landmark but it actually predates the much grander Arc de Triomphe by 50 years.
I always get naked before stomping on grapes. How come Lucy didn't? It would have made clean-up so much easier.
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| Place François Rude |
One of us must have had a medical emergency. This crew at the pharmacy certainly didn't conform to the stereotype of French unfriendliness.
My archives suggest an obsession with photographing art began at the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Dijon. Unfortunately, I hadn't yet learned to take a picture of the label for identification purposes.
Dan had made a lunch reservation at Stephane Derbord, although the restaurant name seems to have changed since then perhaps because of the chef's demise. A Michelin star may have been the attraction.
Despite Dan's advice, I refused to pack a jacket. The maitre 'd provided one and threw silk leaves on the tablecloth, too. That last part is a joke. They already were in place.
Fine dining always had been well outside my budget. While the tastiness of the dishes could not be disputed, they all looked like dessert to this cheap philistine.
Needless to say, the hot chocolate in the Marais had been a lot less expensive even if it didn't come with bragging rights.
We spent the remainder of the day wandering the streets.
Chris had arranged a late-afternoon tour of the historic town hall, where the French national motto (liberté, égalité, fraternité) is engraved behind Dan, minus the accent aigu.
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A guide who took great pride in his Dijon residency escorted us to the roof for views of a city whose origins date to the Neolithic period. Civilization began with a Roman settlement.
By the Renaissance, Dijon had blossomed into a major European center of wealth, culture and scientific inquiry.
Many of the town hall's architectural details have remained intact.
Clock-winding keys were exhibited inside. A French labor strike is one surefire way to stop time, at least in government offices.
Digital technology made it possible to photograph upholstery and fabric in tight close-up for my "abstractions" file. A Duke of Burgundy may have plotzed on this chair.
Another less remarkable gourmet meal awaited us back in Paris. My sullenness, perhaps due to a mild case of PTSD, did not endear me to Dan and Chris.
But they did agree to tour the catacombs the day before we flew home. Would you believe more than six million Parisians are buried in a network of tunnels first used to mine limestone?
I don't recall what was being photographed here. It now looks like an allusion to the flames of Hell.
Afterward, we dined at a nearby bistro. Inexpensive, simple food, cheerfully served-- my kind of restaurant.
As if the catacombs hadn't been macabre enough, I decided to squeeze in the Montparnasse cemetery on my own. Is it weird that I found the celebrity graves more memorable than the other sights I encountered on the scenic way home, all of which I'd experienced on other occasions?
I'm reminded of a story that Uncle Robbie used to tell about my attitude, even in childhood. He took me to Rye Playland during one of our periodic family visits to White Plains and couldn't believe my apparent lack of enthusiasm about a fire works display. "I've already been to Disneyland," I explained, already blasé at age ten.
More ABC Thanksgiving Travel:
*exceptions make the rule
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