Walking with the Dead

Below the streets, I walked alone through darkened chambers lined with the bones of the dead. Hollow eye sockets gazed out at me as I passed by skulls that were artfully arranged.

I was deep in the Paris catacombs, having passed the iconic sign letting me know I was entering the realm of the dead.

The experience was at once spooky, fascinating and fun. I was surrounded by thousands of dead Parisians. We’d all walked the same part of the world, but what a different world it must have looked to them.

I looked at a couple of skulls, wondering who they might have belonged to. There’s no way to tell – the catacombs contain the remains of noble and pauper alike, and no one’s bones are marked.

What was the Louvre to these people? To me, it’s the world’s best art museum. To them, it might have been during its time as a royal palace. Were they with the revolutionaries who burned a wing of it? Or were they older? It’s possible they saw the Louvre further back, as a fortress on the Seine to prevent waterborne attack.

They probably walked on the same lawns of the Champs de Mars where I spent so much time, but they were never there to see the Eiffel Tower – built long after they died.

The catacombs themselves were made when workers needed stone to build some of Paris’ magnificent buildings. Not the Haussmann buildings you see today, but the older buildings.

In the late 1700s, the French had a problem: cemeteries in Paris were full to bursting – literally. Occasionally, an overloaded cemetery would, say, burst through a wall, filling a cellar next door with decaying bodies.

It was a public health nightmare.

So the French decided to reinter the remains in the existing catacombs. The process took several decades, and it has left us with one of the world’s macabre tourist attractions.

When I lived in Paris in 2009, the catacombs were closed due to vandalism. They’ve since reopened, but with added security measures.

When I walked out of the catacombs, my camera bag was searched to make sure I hadn’t stolen any bones.

To think someone would steal the bones doesn’t exactly surprise me, but it is disappointing. Walking among the dead, it’s clear that the bones were placed in their current location with some degree of reverence, and priests were on-hand during the relocation as well.

Many of France’s elites may be buried in the Pere Lachaise cemetery, but so many others rest in the catacombs. Rumors of ghosts stalking the corridors are popular, and it’s easy to see why.

To reach the catacombs, take the Metro to the Denfert-Rochereau stop and exit to the street level, where you will see the entrance.

Hundredth Post - My Five Favorites

After 99 previous posts, I have a few I particularly like, so I'll just list them here.

I'm not sure if I like them for the merit of the writing, the subject matter or from remembering the experience, but they stick out to me as my favorites. Click on the bold text for the original article.

Paris Throws a Party
This was my first blog post, and I originally wrote it as an assignment for my column and review writing class in college. I had a habit of procrastinating, and that assignment was no different. I wrote it an hour before it was due in The State Hornet newsroom while the fire alarm was going off over my head and my editor was interviewing me for a copy editing position (no joke). It worked out, since I got an A on the assignment, I got the copy editing job and the school didn't burn down.

Bruges: Belgium's Jewel
In the movie In Bruges, the characters hate this canal city that was the financial capital of Europe in the past. I happen to love it, and I plan on returning. It's tied with Rothenburg ob der Tauber for my favorite small town in the world.

Prague at Dawn
I really enjoyed Prague. It had a special appeal as it was my first trip to a former Communist Bloc country. Wandering around the city by myself an hour before dawn and watching it wake up was a unique experience, and one I hope to replicate the next time I'm in Paris.

A visit to Normandy
Having minored in European history in college, and having been interested in World War II before that, Normandy always held a special fascination with me. Growing up, I never thought I would get the chance to visit the battlefield.

The Mad King's Fairy Tale Castle
Schloss Neuschwanstein is the epitome of a fairy tale castle, and it should be at the top of the list for anyone visiting Germany. Disney based a castle on it, and it has graced thousands of postcards, TV shows and movies. The views from the top of the Alps and the nearby lowlands are fantastic, and a walk across the wood-planked bridge nearby isn't for those with a fear of heights.

The Taste of Travel: French Cuisine

I stared at the menu, trying to decide if I should go for it.

It was dinnertime on what will probably remain the oddest Christmas of my life.

The morning had started in Paris with a breakfast of croissants, baguette and comte Noel cheese in my hotel room on Rue Cler with my family. Following that was a trip to the Arc de Triomphe and a walk down the Champs Elyseés, with stops at the only stores open that day - Peugeot and Mercedes dealerships (which were oddly crowded). A trip to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery followed that, and I had just come from the Sacre Coeur church in Montmartre.

I laughed as I thought about how going to the red light district - our next stop for the evening - would somehow fit in with the mix of things we'd done that day.

I wasn't sure, however, what I should do about dinner. I was holding the tourist menu - a set price for a selection of food that isn't always a deal - and deciding what I would have. The main course was easy. I was going to savor a steak au poivre with French fries. I thought ice cream sounded good for dessert, and a carafe of red wine would accompany the meat well.

It was the starter that was holding me up. I didn't really want a crepe, and French onion soup is...eh. I thought the salad would be good, but it seemed like something I would get at home, and therefore had no appeal to me (something had to make the meal memorable).

I was vaguely aware of the server taking my family's orders, and when he came to me, I ordered the steak, the ice cream and...the escargot.

"Ah, he is the French one!" the server said.

My sister curled her lip, my dad laughed and my mom looked at me with disbelief.

At home, I can be somewhat picky. I really do hate tomatoes if they aren't mashed into oblivion as part of a pizza sauce or diluted by the broth of minestrone soup, I'm mildly allergic to cantaloupe and I typically stay away from bell peppers, ketchup and mustard.

Part of travel, as far as I'm concerned, is trying the foods of other cultures. When I went to India, I had almost no idea what I was eating most of the time, but I ate it all. On a trip to Italy, I tried tripe (before I saw a rather disgusting video on how cow intestines are processed to make that particular dish). Most recently, in Reims, I'd eaten homemade foie gras - despite that I'd sworn I'd never eat a liver, since it's inherently stupid to eat something that filters out all the bad stuff we ingest.

By the time I was starting to have second thoughts, it was too late. Our server set down a pan full of six snails - sans shells - in a garlic, olive oil and pesto sauce.

"Aren't they usually served in their shells?" I asked.

"Oui, but we have a lot of tourists, and they don't always know how to use the fork to get the snail out, and it's bad when they get thrown across the room," the server replied.

It seemed sensible, albeit much less fun.

The server left, I picked up my fork and stared at the slimy little things I'd stepped on so many times in my life. I wondered if I could really bring myself to eat them, but knowing my whole family was watching me, I speared one of them on my fork. The skin gave a little resistance, then the fork slid in easily, the same way it feels when stabbing a sausage.

I rolled the little blob around in the sauce, hoping this would be one of those foods that has no real taste except for what it's dipped in, and brought it to my mouth.

Initially, I wanted to gag, but as I pulled it off the fork, I forced myself not to think about what I was eating. It almost worked. The taste was fine - it was the texture that induced the choking sensation I felt as I swallowed.

I looked over at my mom, told her it didn't taste bad and suggested she try one. The rapid head shaking told me that wasn't going to happen, and my sister looked like she wanted to be somewhere else, so I popped another one in my mouth.

When I swallowed my third snail, I offered one of the three remaining to my dad, who decided he'd give it a go. That made one less that I had to eat, and I secretly wished he'd ask for another, but he didn't, so I ate the last two.

I was left with a pot of olive oil, pesto and garlic, which is perfect for dipping bread in, but when I offered my mom a piece of bread with the sauce on it - something she would never turn down at home - she refused because snails had been in the same pot. My sister was in the same boat, so I ended up eating it all.

The steak au poivre was fantastic, the French fries were what you'd expect, and the ice cream was also delicious. In sticking with the odd theme for the day, the power in the restaurant went out three times during our dinner, and the server told us it was a warning because they hadn't paid their bill. I'm not really inclined to believe him, but he said it so seriously that I thought it just might be true.

In any case, he wasn't the stereotypical rude Parisian waiter (I actually haven't found one). His English was excellent, and he enjoyed poking fun at us in a friendly way. When my mom asked if something on the menu was good, he replied, "No, that one we have had on the shelf for three months, and we're hoping someone buys it."

Having worked in restaurants for seven years, I thought that was a fair answer.

The restaurant, Au Pichet du Tertre, was very good, and is just off the main artists' square in Montmartre. Despite its location, prices were decent, with the tourist menu including a starter, main course and dessert for 12 euros. (The address is 10 Rue Norvins).

Paris as the seat of the EU Presidency

The European Union has a rotating presidency that changes every six months. Most travelers to Europe probably couldn't care less, but being in Paris while France held the presidency (from July-December, 2008), there were a couple noticeable changes to the city's landmarks.

Far and away the most obvious was the Eiffel Tower. Normally a brownish iron framework lit up at night in standard, yellow-hued lights, the French had decided to use their most famous landmark to advertise their leadership of the EU - by lighting it in blue and affixing a circle of stars to it to represent the EU flag.

I really didn't care for the new look, and I'm happy to say that it is now back to its old self. Had this been my first time to Paris, I wouldn't have felt the same sense of awe upon seeing Gustav Eiffel's masterpiece. To me, the blue Eiffel looked out of place, but I still thought the concept was kind of cool. The French Tricolor would have looked better, but that wouldn't have conveyed the right political message, and it was definitely interesting.

Far more interesting, for me, was what the French did to the Assemblée Nationale. Essentially the French equivalent of Britain's Parliament building or the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C., the National Assembly houses the legislative branch of France's government in a columned building across the Seine from the Place de la Concorde.

What was interesting about the National Assembly was that the French had decided to use it as the canvas to show off Europe's greatest strengths and the work being done to solve some of the world's problems. This was accomplished by two film projectors on pillars on the Pont de la Concorde that faced the building. Blinders set in front of the projectors ensured that one shone on only the columns while the other shone only on the wall behind the columns.

At times, the columns would show different pictures from the back wall, with wheat grass rising on the columns as video of windmills - touting clean air and eco-friendly farming techniques - played to convey the message. At one point, the French Tricolor showed on the columns while the backdrop was blue.At other times, the images were combined to show something as a whole, like Delacroix's famous painting, Liberty Leading the People. A scene from the Revolution of 1830, the painting is considered by many to be the first modern political painting. It celebrates the people rising to fight for their liberty. I'm guessing it was put on the video program to remind people of the turbulent past that is largely behind Europe as it forges into the future.


Oddly enough, Delacroix's painting included Lady Liberty holding a gun, and just about everyone else is armed. Here, however, the French seem to have sanitized the image. Perhaps they aren't all that eager to remember the turmoil of the past.Even though I didn't care for the Eiffel Tower's new look, it was nice to be in France and see what the French did to celebrate their leadership of the European Union.

Travel Tips: The Metro/Subway/Tube/Underground

I was lucky. My first experience with subterranean trains was in England, where everyone speaks my language, and the polite automated voice kindly reminds everyone to "Mind the gap" when entering or exiting the cars.

Living in suburban California, where we haven't exactly embraced public transit, I would have been at a serious disadvantage had I needed to navigate a city's metro system in, say, India.

For those of you who haven't had experiences with how to use metro systems, I will use the Paris Metro as an example. Everywhere I have been that has had a metro has operated it in the same basic way. It's kind of like math in that it's the same everywhere you go, but unlike math in that I can understand it.

The first step to using a metro is to know where you want to go. Maps invariably hanging in the stations will let you know where you are on the net of train lines and stops in the city. All you have to do, if the spot is not marked with a tourist-friendly red X, is look at one of the signs sure to be around the station, then find it on the map. The photo below is one such map at the Bir-Hakeim stop in Paris (if you look at the little picture of the Eiffel Tower and then look down and to the left, the white dot on the map is labeled "Bir-Hakeim" - enlarge the photo so you can see it).

Once you have determined where you want to go, you need to find the best way to get there. That will often involve changing stations. In this case, I wanted to go to Montmartre and the Sacre Coeur church. (At the top portion of the above map near the number 4). The closest stop is Anvers, on the blue line. Bir-Hakeim is on the medium green line.

To get to where I needed to go, I had to find where the two lines intersected. Following the medium green line upwards, I saw that it crossed the blue line at the Charles de Gaulle - Etoile stop, essentially the stop for the Arc du Triomphe.

To make sure I went the right way, I noted that Etoile was the last stop in that direction on the medium green line. The opposite line was Nation. Think of the metro line as a two-way street. One side goes the way you need to go, and the other side doesn't. Once you are on the platform, you don't want to run across the tracks when you realize you are on the wrong side (it's also probably illegal).

To help you, signs above, on or in front of the walkways will let you know which direction the train is heading. In the photo below, Bir-Hakeim (Tour Eiffel) is at the top, blocked in blue so you know it is that station you are at. The arrow points down, toward Nation - the terminus of the line. This is not the way I wanted to go, so I chose the opposite staircase. Note that all the stops in between are listed on this sign. That is not always the case. It is best to look at the larger map and remember not only the stop you want, but where the line terminates.

I took the next photo on the platform. The sign simply says "Etoile," indicating that this train is headed in that direction. It also tells me that the next train is one minute away, and the one after that will arrive in six minutes.

It can be helpful to know how many stops are between you and where you need to be, in case the car is crowded. You really don't want to be comfortably ensconced in a chair, surrounded by your luggage, and miss your stop because you waited too long to get up.

Smaller maps in the cars are often present to let you know the order of the stops. The white dots indicate that that stop is an intersection of two or more lines, and you can change trains without purchasing another ticket.

Etoile, my destination for this leg of the trip, has a white dot because several lines intersect there. You will always know which station you are at by the big, impossible-to-miss signs on the station walls, as in the photo below.

Once at Etoile, I followed the signs to the blue line. Anvers is not at a terminus (you can refer to the map at the top of this post to see that). From Etoile, I need to go in the direction of Nation, as Anvers lies on the blue line between Etoile and Nation.

Incidentally, the medium green line had also ended at Nation (the way I didn't want to go). It is the same stop, but you can see from the map why I went the way I did.

Once on the Nation line, it was just a matter of waiting for the Anvers stop, getting off, and walking to Sacre Coeur.
Using the metro is almost always better than using a taxi, as long as it gets you where you need to go. Tickets are very cheap, and it really is the most efficient way to move (providing the workers aren't on strike). If you have a ton of luggage, as in more than you can carry up and down stairs, then maybe the metro isn't the best for you until after you drop it off.

Do make note of the time the metro closes. I had an unfortunate experience in Rome one time where the metro and city bus lines shut down at 9 p.m. and I had to walk a considerable distance back to my hotel.

Photo of the Week: Job Security

I took this photo near the Pompidou Center in Paris a month ago. I didn't take it because of the funny broom with it's fake green plastic rushes, or as an example of a Parisian maintenance worker.

I took it because it made me laugh. He is smoking while sweeping up a pile of cigarette butts. I suppose that's one way to maintain your job security.

Napoleon's Tomb

Rising high in the aftermath of the French Revolution, Napoleon Bonaparte, of humble Corsican birth, would rise to lead France's armies to triumphant victories and staggering defeats. He also revolutionized French law and schools. He has long been a hero of France, and his elaborate tomb in Paris is one of the sights that every visitor should really see.

Built at Les Invalides (pronounced "lays on-vah-leed"), the former hospital and retirement home for wounded soldiers, Napoleon's tomb occupies the place of honor in a symbol of the glory of the French military.

Unlike popular belief in some countries (notably mine), the French were historically an extremely warlike people. From the ancient times to the Crusades and the wars they started naming based on how many years they took to fight (The Hundred Years War, the Thirty Years War, the Seven Years War) to the Napoleonic Wars and through World War One, the French have always managed to field an army and mix it up. World War One sapped much of their will to fight for a time, but that does nothing to diminish the rich history of the French military, and Les Invalides is one of the best places to explore that history.

I won't focus on the excellent museums for this post, but will say that they include ancient artifacts, room after room of arms and armor, artillery pieces, tanks, machine guns and hundreds of uniforms. Even if you're not at all into military history, it's worth a quick breeze-through. If you get a museum pass (you really should), it won't even cost you any extra.

Topped with an ornate gilded dome, Napoleon's Tomb was built to resemble the Pantheon, and when it is lit up at night, it would satisfy even the ego of the legendary Napoleon.

Even though he abandoned his armies in Egypt and Russia, the notoriously short Emperor of France was revered by his troops. On his return from his exile on Elba, French soldiers were sent by the restored Bourbon monarchy to stop him. Napoleon addressed them, asking if they would really fire on their beloved leader. One of the soldiers supposedly dropped the ramrod of his musket down the barrel, where it clanged, showing the firearm was unloaded.

Even after Waterloo, the French military adored Napoleon. His mark can be seen throughout the city, in part of the design of the Louvre, the Arc d'Triomphe and, of course, his tomb.

As I walked through the door the first time I visited Les Invalides, I wasn't sure what to expect. The inside of the building was reminiscent of a church, but adorned with military displays and the tombs of other great French military leaders, most notably Marshall Foch, leader of the French armies in World War One.

Walking to the railing surrounding the circular hole in the ground floor, I gazed down on the red marble tomb that holds the remains of one of the most intriguing men in history. The tomb itself sits on a pedestal, which is surrounded by statues of angels. At the base of the tomb is an inlaid wreath of laurel leaves, resembling the emperor's crown. Outside that are the names of his most famous battles, including Austerlitz, Jena and Friedland. They were battles in which he revolutionized warfare, and gave the relatively new French Republic something to rally around.

Rotating displays on the ground floor contain artifacts from the man. The first time I was there, orders he issued to his elite Imperial Guard were under display cases, and diagrams of their uniforms sat nearby. The next time, Napoleon's own gray cloak stood in a case with one of his swords and hats. Most recently, a portrait of the general and some of his personal notes were on display.

I walked down the stairs to the subterranean level where his tomb stands, and I read the names of the battles, recognizing most of them from history books or movies. I looked again at the tomb, and suddenly really wished I could somehow talk to the man inside, who had accomplished so much, be it the Napoleonic Code of laws, revolutionizing the French school system or perfecting the divide-and-conquer strategy, in such a short time.

As I headed out, I stopped to look at Marshall Foch's tomb, with an effigy of him held aloft by poilus (literally "hairy ones," poilus was the nickname for French soldiers in World War One). It struck me as ironic that Napoleon had been such a problem for Europe that an elaborate alliance system had been formed to prevent a repeat. That alliance system had, in turn, been directly responsible for the escalation of World War One, which left one-third of French fighting-age men dead.

Napoleon plays such an important part in French history that his tomb should be at least in the top-15 things to see when you go to Paris. I happen to like it best at night, when the lights reflect off the golden parts of the dome. It is visible from most of the high places in the city, including Sacre Coeur and the Eiffel Tower.

Photo of the week: Notre Dame at Night

This is the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. I took this photo two days before Christmas, and you can just see the Christmas tree in front of the cathedral. Notre Dame was started in 1163 as a result of the debacle that surrounded the blessing of the Second Crusade by Pope Eugenius III, when the previous church was inadequate and led to squabbling and fighting between the French and Italian priests. The squabbling turned into a brawl as each faction argued over who would keep the elegant carpet laid on the floor, and the French King Louis VII was even hit in the face when he tried to break it up.

Built on the Ile de la Cité, the largest of the islands in Paris, the site for Notre Dame was chosen not only for its centrality to the major trade route that was the river, but also for the metaphor comparing Christianity to a ship steering for harbor. The Ile de la Cité resembled the rear of a ship, and the ship eventually became the main symbol on Paris' coat of arms.

The site of the cathedral is not a new one, as a Roman temple was originally built on the same ground. The ruins of that temple, as well as other Roman ruins, can be seen by walking down the staircase located at the far side of the empty space in front of the cathedral.

One of my favorite things to do in Paris is just walk around the center of the city at night. It's perfectly safe, and the monuments, churches and governmental buildings are well-lit, providing for great photo opportunities and letting you know that you're in Paris, the City of Light.

Misadventures - The (Way) Overpriced Lunch

Walking through Paris, with its rich culture and seemingly endless supply of the best-looking pastries and desserts I’ve ever seen, it’s nearly impossible to go a day without indulging in something. After all, I know I’ll walk it off.

Sometimes, however, it’s more than calories that add up.

On my second trip to Paris – as in “I should have known better” – my family and I happened to be walking around the square where the Bastille used to stand. I was prattling on about the part the storming of the infamous prison has played in French history when we happened to pass by a pastry shop.

The display case in the window drew us like moths to a flame. Cheesecakes, éclairs, chocolate cakes, macarons, strawberry pies and a host of other delicious-looking desserts called our names.The prices seemed fairly reasonable, with just abut every dessert being less than five euros. Did we see the sign that said – even in English for us stupid Americans – “take away prices”? Nope. We even took a picture of it, but who would expect us to even notice the sign with all those desserts distracting us?

The French, apparently.

We each decided what we wanted, and ordered from the counter.

“Would you like to sit inside?” the woman asked.

We looked at each other, peered through the window at the cute little elevated seating area overlooking the obelisk in the center of the intersection and thought, why not?

Once we were seated, the stereotypical Parisian waiter waltzed over to us and smiled, then took our order in perfect English.

A moment later, our mouths were salivating as plates were set in front of us. The Cokes we ordered each came in a little glass bottle, accompanied by a glass with a slice of lemon and, luxury of luxuries – ice. That should have been a warning.

Seriously, if you’re in Europe and your server speaks flawless English, the signs are in English and your drink comes with ice, don’t order another thing.

Oblivious to what was looming at the end of the meal, we ate like Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette before the Revolution. My cheesecake with raspberry sauce was the best I’ve ever had. Most likely because I was eating it in Paris, but it was definitely excellent.

My sister enjoyed every last bite of her strawberry cheesecake, and my parents laughed as they cleaned their plates.

I drained the last of my soda and sat back, satisfied and thinking I could get used to this kind of lunch.

Then the bill came.

I did the math in my head. We’d ordered the cheap desserts, and they should have totaled 12 euros, give or take. Add in the beverages, small as they were, and I thought we were looking at another 10 euros, tops. Then the pittance for the service charge that is almost always factored in, and we’d be good to go.

I never expected the bill to be 44 euros. We stared at the scrap of paper like cavemen contemplating a TV, our mouths comically open.

Flagging the server brought him hustling over, a small miracle in France, where meals can last for the better part of an afternoon.

“Yes, but you sat down and ate in here,” was the end result to our disbelieving questions.

How glad was I that dad was paying? Factor in the exchange rate, and that little snack had actually cost us just under $60.

What could we say? They put a sign out, in English, and we were the idiots who suddenly lost our literacy, not them. There was nothing for it but to leave the money on the table and beat a hasty retreat. At least we knew for next time.

It didn’t help any that, walking to the closest ATM, we passed the shop next door, which happened to stock the same basic selections. Not only were they cheaper, but they advertised no extra charge for sitting inside.

Ah well. C’est la vie.

The Taste of Travel: Crepes in Paris

At the intersection of Rue Bonaparte and Boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris is one of the most famous cafes in the city - Les Deux Magots. It also happens to be the site of my favorite crepe stand.

When closed, the stand looks like an oversized transformer housing, its green walls giving no clue as to what’s inside. When it opens, however, the walls become shelves and sun shades, and the aroma of cooking crepes mingles with the scent of popcorn to announce its presence.

The first thing I ever ate in Paris was a crepe from that particular stand after a Eurostar ride from London. I remember being tired and hungry on the way to see Notre Dame on the nearby Ile de la Cité and stopping there.

These days, many places hawking crepes, especially to tourists, are just nuking a few they pulled out of a box that had recently been in the local grocery store. This man working this stand, however, made them fresh.

I chose a Nutella crepe, and the friendly Parisian went to work. First, he poured a pancake-sized puddle of batter on a crepe pan, a flat, black surface heated electrically, and then spread it around with a wooden tool as thin as a ruler with a dowel serving as a handle. After only a few seconds, he flipped it over, and topped it with Nutella, a chocolaty hazelnut spread.

By the time the Nutella was spread, the crepe was done cooking, and he rolled it up and wrapped it in wax paper before handing it to me.

I took my first bite, and it was fantastic. The golden brown hue of the crepe evidenced its perfect cooking, and the warm Nutella oozed out as I ate it. It was almost too sweet, as the crepe was like a thin pancake with too much sugar and the Nutella was like a Hershey bar, but it was still great.

When I’d finished it, my mouth was coated with Nutella, and I needed something to drink. Water just wasn’t going to cut it, so I went to buy one of the sodas the man was selling…and he gave it to me.

A free soda might not sound like a big deal, but it was my first time in France, and I was expecting someone to be rude. Coupled with the fact that sodas are ridiculously expensive over there (I want to say €3 for a can is about average in the touristy areas), I couldn’t believe it.

On that first trip, all myths of the French being rude were debunked as far as I was concerned. The people were friendly to a fault, and being in such a perfect setting, the French capital quickly became my favorite city in the world.

Two years later, I was fortunate enough to return to Paris, and I made sure to pick up another crepe across the street from Les Deux Magots. I found other places, especially in the Rue Cler area, where I could get a crepe made in front of me, but the ones made in the green stand at the intersection of the Boulevard Saint-Germain and Rue Bonaparte are still the best.

Misadventures: Surrendering to the French

The first (and hopefully only) time I had automatic weapons pointed at me was in Paris, during La Fête de la Musique in 2004.

I was standing under the Eiffel Tower, of all places, when I saw a trio of French soldiers lounging a few yards away. As I had a few friends in the U.S. Army, I wanted a picture of their French counterparts for the next time they started with the French surrender jokes.

Bad idea. Very, very bad idea.

As I raised my camera, the officer turned and saw me. In a voice that boomed above the sounds of the nearby concert, he shouted, "No! No photo!"

That would have been enough for me, but the two enlisted men with him both spun, raising their rifles as they did so. The next thing I knew, I was holding both hands above my head with the camera dangling by the strap. It was a tense moment for me as I hoped I wouldn't be on the news the next day as the victim of a tragic accident. Fortunately, the two soldiers weren't trigger-happy, and left me with nothing more than severe Gallic glares.

When I told the story to my friends in the American military, they laughed.

I learned the French phrase "Ne tire pas" - just in case.

Paris Throws a Party

The red light flashed in the elevator. I couldn’t read the French words, but I was pretty sure it said something about overload. Nevertheless, the French operator sat there, expressionless. What the hell, the elevator was made in the late 1800s, so what could possibly go wrong?

Fortunately, nothing went wrong, and I made it to the top along with the very full elevator car. I was shielded from the windows by the mob of people, so when I stepped out onto the viewing platform, the sight took my breath away.

Paris by night is beautiful – especially from the top of the Eiffel Tower. But this wasn’t any night in Paris. It was the summer solstice, and Paris throws a party. Countless small bands were performing throughout the city, at every café in what the French call "La fête de la Musique."

The main event, however, was across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, at the Trocadero. The palatial building was alive with light, resembling the Aurora Borealis with the ethereal effect of moving, multi-colored lights shining through the smoke around the stage.

A solid block of people clogged the bridge, and all vehicle traffic was closed around the concert. Turning to another side, the sounds of the concert still filtered up the 900 or so feet to where I stood. I gazed down the Champs Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe, fully lit. On Montmarte sat the proud dome of the church of Sacre Coeur, in the heart of the artists’ district.

As the clock struck midnight, the Eiffel Tower exploded in flickering lights. Thousands of flashbulbs went off at random over the entire surface of the tower. This happened every half-hour for 10 minutes, but it seemed more of a spectacle as I stood atop one of the most famous structures in the world.

Finally, it was time to come down, and I rode the same elevator, with the same warning light and the same undaunted operator. Once on the ground, I wandered through the gardens and fields at the tower’s base. It was Paris as Paris is supposed to be experienced. I was carefree, and nobody seemed troubled or worried. Most people had alcohol, so I joined them and bought a French beer (I know, but I wasn't into wine at the time).

Wandering back to my hotel at two in the morning, I was amazed at how many Parisians were still out. The restaurants were all open and, for the most part, full. I wanted to stay out all night, but I had a train to catch in four hours. I’ll just have to go back next year.