I just returned from a wonderful three week vacation to California, divided equally between Lake Tahoe, Lake Almanor, and the San Francisco Bay Area. Unlike two years ago, when I blogged about my vacation every day, I decided to write less, relax more. I limited my writing to simple updates to my Facebook status, which I could easily do from my cell phone while relaxing in a beach chair.
It was not my intention to create a record of my vacation, but that is what I produced! So without further adieu, I present, Chuck's Vacation as Facebook Status Updates:
July 18 Chuck is vacationing for three weeks in California
July 20 Chuck is swimming in Lake Tahoe. 12:22pm
July 21 Chuck is lying in the natural sand of Sand Harbor (Lake Tahoe) in the warm sun at 6300 feet. Aaaahhh... 10:02am
July 22 Chuck is mini-golfing. 10:15am
July 24 Chuck is climbing on enormous boulders in Lake Tahoe. 3:24pm
July 25 Chuck is running at 6240 feet above sea level. 11:40am Chuck is drinking a vodka-lemonade-pomegranate concoction on a floating dock in Lake Tahoe. w00t. 5:42pm
July 27 Chuck boating in Lake Almanor. 11:01am
July 28 Chuck is is swimming at Lake Almanor. 10:34am
July 29 Chuck is hiking in Lassen National Park. 10:14am Chuck 's shins are covered in a fine layer of volcanic ash. 4:35pm
July 30 Chuck is kayaking through thick wildfire smoke. 12:58pm
July 31 Chuck is being pulled behind a motorboat on an inflatable taco. 8:34am Chuck is eating really good pizza while the sun sets over Lake Almanor. 7:23pm
August 2 Chuck is in the San Francisco Bay Area, but misses the mountains. 6:03pm
August 3 Chuck is surfing at Cowell's Beach on a 9'4" spongey. 10:47am Chuck joined the group Settlers of Catan. 10:28pm
August 4 Chuck is on a ferry in the San Francisco Bay. 10:58am Chuck and his kids are playing on the grass in the San Francisco Embarcadero. 4:13pm
August 5 Chuck is playing with his kids at Civic Park in Walnut Creek, CA. 3:26pm Chuck is cooking linguine and clam sauce. 7:43pm
August 6 Chuck is swimming. 2:59pm Chuck is picnicking on Mount Diablo. 11:57am
August 7 Chuck and his kids are hiking in Muir Woods. 12:11pm
August 8 Chuck is eating Zachary's pizza. Yummmmm. 6:57pm
August 9 Chuck is flying from California to Virginia. goodbye, vacation :(. 11:13am Chuck is back in Charlottesville, but wishes he was still in California. 8:40pm
I want to get an early start but I end up sleeping until 8:15. I feel better though. I try to grab some breakfast in the Sheraton restaurant but after twenty minutes I am starting to wonder if I will ever eat. The place isn't full, and most of the people I see are eating from the over-priced buffet.
After a half-hour my french toast still has not arrived. I get ready to leave but then it arrives. It is mediocre. Not worth the wait. But at least it is hot.
The manager comps my meal.
I am excited to explore London for the first time. My plan is to first hit the Tower of London. I walk five minutes to the bus stop, where I ride another five minutes to the central bus depot at Heathrow's Terminal 3. From there, I take the tube on the Piccadilly Line, transferring to the line that eventually deposits me smack in front of the Tower.
I take the Tube over to the British Museum, stopping for some fish and chips along the way, just on principal :) The British Museum is big, although not nearly as big as the Louvre. Coolest exhibit: the Rosetta Stone.
The next couple of hours I explore the shopping district: Leicester Circle, Piccadilly Circus and Regent Street. Lots of people. Lots of shops. Very much -- maybe too much -- like Manhattan.
Okay I am way past finishing up this post so I am going to rush through the remainder of this day...
Saw Parliament. Very cool. Tried to go by 10 Downing but it is blocked off. Walked over to Buckingham Palace. Took some pics. Tube back to Heathrow Terminal 3. Bus to Sheraton.
I am too tired to go out to the Ministry of Sound show, so I eat dinner at hotel bar and blog about my week. Tomorrow (Saturday) I depart for the States.
We arrive at Heathrow but are about 10,000 feet too high, in a holding pattern. The UK was battered by a storm today that dumped the equivalent of a month's worth of rain in a single day. We eventually land at Heathrow's new Terminal 5, which has been open for just a couple months. It is clean and efficient, but I learn later that they are losing 900 suitcases daily. Yikes.
I sail through customs and meet IBMer Nigel, who was kind enough to drive me out to Winchester where I will be teaching tomorrow (thanks, Nigel!). Traffic is heavy. The greenery and gray sky makes Old England look very much like New England.
We pull up to the Winchester Hotel, a small but comfortable place with a nice bar in the front, where Nigel introduces me to two other IBMers, Richard and Martin. We share a pint (thanks, Richard!) and discuss the next day's planned activities.
Nigel departs; I check into my room. Upon entering I am pleasantly surprised that the in-room coffee service is actually a tea service! I have written about tea discrimination before, so coffee-drinkers, pay attention. American hotel owners: listen up. Check out this photo of my hotel room tea service. What do you see? TEA. Different kinds. A pot to boil water (yes, water for tea needs to be boiled, not just warmed). Notice that it is a pot for boiling the water, not a coffee maker. Have you ever actually tried to make yourself tea in a coffee maker? It tastes like shit. Now do you see the coffee? It is there. Look closely. YES, that's right. INSTANT coffee ("soluble coffee"). Would you drink that? Neither would I, if I was a coffee drinker. Just like I am not going to drink your crap Lipton-made-in-a-coffee-pot sewage.
While I'm on the subject, do you know what an idiot you sound like when you offer me more hot water for my teabag? A tea bag is used once. Would you want me to offer you more hot water for your nearly empty coffee mug?
Sorry... where was I? Oh yes. So Richard and Martin take me out to a local "gastropub" named The Old Vine. They explain that gastropubs have become a popular phenomenon in the UK. Basically it is a mix of old-style pub plus good food.
I like this place. It is crowded but we get a table immediately in the bar area. There is no table service so we order our beer and food from the bartender. Now I prefer to eat a mostly vegetarian diet, but in this place there is no way I am NOT going to order the wild boar I see on the menu.
A short while later, at the table in the pub in rural England, I chew my wild boar and drink my room-temperature gravity-fed ale, feeling very much like Henry VIII. Sweet.
Our next stop is Eclipse, a traditional pub in a building dating from the mid-1500s. I think that makes it relatively new around here. SMALL. Very friendly. Great beer.
I'm getting sleepy so we depart.
The next morning I awake and get breakfast in the hotel. They really know how to serve tea here :)
Richard and I leave to pick up Martin on our way into IBM's Hursley campus.
The class runs very smoothly. The network is perfect.
At lunch the choices are different. British. I eat Italian style :)
Martin guides me on a quick tour through the beautiful old Hursley building which contains a few interesting exhibits of early IBM technology, plus meeting rooms and other modern conveniences, like air conditioning.
After class I bid my farewells to Richard and Martin. Nigel drives me back toward Heathrow because I am staying in the Sheraton. I feel bad that I have the head-nods during the hour-long ride, but I'm exhausted; the week is catching up to me. I eat in the hotel and try to do some work.
I awake on Wednesday and quickly dress in my urban hiking gear: cargo shorts and comfortable shoes. I walk quickly over to the restaurant for breakfast, anxious to know what this place could serve for breakfast that could possibly top their dinner from Monday night.
Continental breakfast. Oh, well, that's okay. I see they have some croissants!
Meh. They aren't as good as the ones in Paris. Edible, but they aren't Cafe Pont Neuf :)
I finish and check out of the hotel, asking the desk manager to keep my bags for me until I return later. I meet my prearranged cabbie. We get stuck in traffic for a while, but he works around it. The fare is €33.
WTF??
Thinking it is a special morning-commuter rate, I pay with my Amex and descend into Estazione San Donato. I buy two tickets (one for the return).
Besides the Duomo one of the sights I want to see in Milan is the original Da Vinci painting, "The Last Supper" which is not painted on canvas but on the plaster wall of Santa Maria della Grazie church. I emerge 25 minutes later at Cadorna Estazione, find the church in my Milan tourist booklet and hike over a few blocks.
The tour is sold out. For the entire day. Noooooooo!
I add my name to a wait list in case of cancellations. Eventually the woman behind the counter calls me up and tells me a spot has opened. Awesome. I have about an hour to kill before my tour begins, so I head down the street and explore the surrounding neighborhood. It is a mix of low-rise business and residential that I am realizing is typical of European cities.
In one of the shops I buy a cool glass paperweight of the Duomo. I've needed one, so it's perfect. I return to the church and buy an audio guide because I assume the tour will be in Italian.
The tour is in English.
The room with the painting is in a climate-controlled room that is hermetically sealed with double-doors operated by a computer.
Da Vinci rules. An absolutely magnificent, huge, gorgeous work of art that, I learn, has undergone extensive restoration over the years.
We are herded out after only fifteen minutes to make room for the next group. I return the audio guide, explaining that the tour was in English. "We don't know what language the tours will be given in," says the woman behind the counter, which makes no sense to me at all.
I shuffle along with the rest of the tour group toward a bus. Hmm. I have a weird feeling about this. I peel off from the group and cross the street, watching them board the bus, then notice that they are all wearing similar badges. I realize that I crashed a private tour group.
I turn and head back toward the center of the city, intent on seeing the Castello Sforzesco. This landmark of Milan, although beautiful in its own right, is home to a number of Milan's museums. I poke around a while.
There are two more things on my Milan-to-do list: gelato and shopping. I have only about an hour before I need to catch the Metro back to San Donato. I duck into the first gelato shop I see and order a small lemon gelato. It does not disappoint. It exudes awesomeness.
I continue to walk toward the Galleria, delighting in every small spoonful. I start eyeballing the various boutiques, intent on finding something for Nancy that is affordable, but nice enough so that when she receives a compliment on it she can respond, "My husband bought it for me in Milan." :)
It takes the better part of an hour but I finally hit paydirt at one of the smallest shops I have encountered in the Galleria: Naracamicie. It has a VERY small collection, but I recognize the clothing immediately as totally Nancy's style, but very Italian too. Perfect. I select a stylish shirt and depart, waving good bye to the Duomo as I pass beneath its shadow and descend into the estazione.
From San Donato I grab a taxi back to the Borromeo. Fare is €10, confirming my earlier suspicions that I was ripped off. The hotel manager says that if I had taken down the cab number I could call the police.
Lesson learned.
I retrieve my bags and take the Borromeo's shuttle to Linate. My flight has been delayed because of bad weather at Heathrow. I sit at the gate, blogging about my week, occasionally checking out the hot Italian women that pass by.
I'm going to miss Milan.
From out the window of my British Airways flight, Lake Como is spectacular. Reminds me of Lake Tahoe. I make a mental note to save a lot of money to vacation there one day. Soon Lake Como passes and I marvel once again at the Alps. Later, I look down for my beloved Paris but clouds are everywhere.
BA is friendly and efficient. Suck it, US Airways.
I wake myself early so that I can go for a run. I am really looking forward to this, since I have not run since leaving the States. This hotel is quite a distance from central Milan, and is surrounded by what looks like abandoned farms and marshes. I step outside into the cool humid air and head out the Country Hotel Borromeo's driveway to the road. The sun is already bright but it isn't hot yet. A few small cars speed by me.
It looks like Virginia. Everything is green. It's humid but not as hot. Lots of undergrowth beneath the thin-trunked trees.
Suddenly, I see that there is no shoulder. Nothing. Not a bike path, or a curb, or even a few inches of grass. Nowhere to run safely. Crap. I turn around. Back toward the hotel driveway. Past it. Past the Holiday Inn next door.
Nothing. Literally nowhere to step.
Not to be denied, I turn into the Holiday Inn and circuit the parking lot, exiting to the right back toward the Borromeo. There is a chained-off dirt road just beyond my hotel's driveway. Hanging from the chain is a sign: GOLF ORSINO. Excellent, I can run through the golf course! I duck the chain and start building some speed. I curve left for about 100 meters and...
...come to a house with a gate. With barking German Shepherds behind it. Apparently the golf course is closed.
Merde! I mutter under my breath, then quickly correct my brain, which is lagging my geographical location. Merda!
I spin around and retrace my steps, ducking the chain and turning left back toward the Holiday Inn. Damn... this circuit can't be more than 1/8 mile. I sigh in resignation. At least I am outside, in the sun. I have needed this for too long, monotony be damned.
I must look really silly.
After about 2 1/2 miles the monotony starts to affect me, so I head inside. I shower and throw on my suit, and walk outside to meet Maurizio, a fellow IBMer who is driving me to the IBM office where the class will be conducted. As we pull into the IBM parking lot Maurizio points out a pile of rubble, explaining that it is the remains of the former IBM complex, which burned down a few years ago.
I wonder why the rubble hasn't been removed.
Inside the new, modern facility, I meet Simona and Paola, two other IBMers who have been working for the last two weeks to ensure that the hardware and network infrastructure is in place and operational. Their competence has made my arrival far more pleasant than it otherwise might have been. (Grazie Simona! Grazie Paola!)
The class goes very well. Eventually we break for lunch, heading to the IBM cafeteria. I pass on the big pieces of meat available, and grab some rice salad, a green salad, a fresh roll, a couple apricots, and a bottle of acqua naturale (non-fizzy water), and sit at the table with the rest of the class. The cafeteria is jammed. I look around my table to see what others are eating and notice that they have made similar choices. Then I look around at the other tables, checking out what other people have chosen. Same thing.
This is weird. Had we been in a cafeteria in the States I expect I would have seen pile-of-meat, pile-of-meat, pile-of-meat, pile-of-meat....
Italians eat like me! Not strictly vegetarian, but mostly so. A bit of prosciutto here. A tiny bit of sausage there. Healthy lifestyle. Awesome. I remember learning about the influence of Italian food (and French food and Chinese food) in California cuisine and realize that my chosen diet has not been entirely of my own making.
I feel very much at home.
The remainder of the class goes smoothly. Afterward I head out with Maurizio and Salvatore to downtown Milan for dinner. We take the Metro from San Donato station to the Duomo Station and emerge into the piazza.
Whoa. Damn. The Duomo is big. And ornate. The ornate features are themselves ornamented. No wonder it took 500 years to construct. The cathedral is not a testament to god's greatness, but to the ingenuity of humanity. I am overwhelmed with a sense of pride for the aesthetic genius of the designers.
Behind the Galleria is the most famous opera house in the world, La Scalla. I act Pavarotti.
Maurizio explains that the FileNet guys who used to have an office in this neighborhood recommended a good local pizza place.
The Castello Ristorante Pizzeria turns out to be awesome. We are each served a pizza that must measure 14" across but with a soft cracker-thin crust. My pizza is white, in the traditional Italian tradition. It contains (just) a few dots of tomato sauce, parmesan, olive oil, fresh chopped arugula, garlic, porcini mushrooms, and a bit of truffle. It is without a doubt one of the best pizzas I have ever tasted.
Our dinner is interrupted briefly by a discussion (in Italiano, of course) between Salvatore and the owner of the restaurant as to the quality of the mozzarella on his pizza. The owner leaves and returns shortly with a ball of fresh mozzarella. Salvatore wants me to cut into it and taste it.
The first thing I notice is the texture against my knife. Kind of spongy. A bit tough. Not at all like the dense, plastic-like substance that passes for mozzarella in Giant. Not even like "fresh" mozzarella you can find in Whole Foods, which I have found to be tasty but cuttable with a fork. No, this is different. I am on the verge of greatness. I can feel it.
Delicious. I don't want to even disservice this cheese by swallowing it. I add "real mozzarella" under "genuine croissants" to my mental list of things-to-find when I return to the States.
Salvatore explains that the mozzarella is Mozzarella di Bufala Campana made in his hometown of Naples using water buffalo (note: not American bison) milk.
We leave and head toward the Metro. I make a quick stop to purchase a Milan tourist map for tomorrow. I will not have much time before I have to depart for London and need to start planning.
Back at the hotel, I arrange for a taxi for the next morning to take me back to San Donato station. I have more exploring to do.
A few minutes later I am falling asleep quickly, dreaming in Italian.
My flight lands at Malpensa, which sits on the northwest side of Milan and is the larger of the city's two airports. I walk to baggage claim and immediately notice a couple of really hot women. Then I notice a few more. And some more.
Women in Italy are HOT. Hot in a way the Italian women living outside Italy are not. It must be lifestyle rather than genetics: constant walking, the availability of local fresh fruits and vegetables, very little meat/fat in the diet. Women -- and men too -- tend to be healthful. This combination of fitness and the proclivity to dress stylishly makes for some serious whiplash :)
I catch the Malpensa Shuttle to Linate, the smaller of Milan's two airports. Linate is very close to my hotel and to the IBM site. I doze for most of the hour-long ride. I wake as we near Linate and see that this airport is quite small compared to Malpensa. As I wheel my bags toward the taxi stand I am accosted by four different men who promise to take me to my destination for the great low rate of just €35, which even I recognize as robbery. I say to the real taxi driver: "Ciao. Vado a questo indirrizzo, [Hello. I am staying at this address]" and hold up my Blackberry so he can read the hotel's address.
Total cost of the ride: €6. That's more like it.
The hotel is about the size of a two-story Holiday Inn, but somewhat nicer. And cleaner. It is about 9:30 pm and I have not eaten yet. I walk down the corridor to the hotel restaurant. Hmmm... I grow a bit concerned. It looks about a step up from a cafeteria, but with tablecloths, but there is NOTHING else around. "Un tavola por uno per favore" (a table for one, please). Despite a nearly empty dining room they seat me next to the kitchen door. My consternation grows. I scan the menu... hmmm... actually this looks like a nice selection. I order the rare tuna medallions, a salad, and a glass of wine.
Ten minutes later the food arrives. It looks incredible. The salad is sporting a fistful of halved cherry tomatoes of the deepest red I have ever seen. The waiter adds salt, pepper, oil and a bit of a viscous balsamic vinegar. The medallions look perfect. The waiter drizzles a bit of olive oil on them.
One bite, and my entire outlook on this restaurant changes. The food is fresh and prepared perfectly. PERFECTLY. Later I would learn that I am eating in a four-star restaurant.
Hot women and awesome food. I think I am going to like Italy.
After dinner I realize that I still need to iron my clothes for the next day (Tuesday), when once again I will be teaching IBM software. My room doesn't have an iron. I ask the front desk for a "ferro de estillo" [steam iron]. Can't give me one, the manager says, but he can give me access to one. He hands me a key and directs me to a spare room used by housekeeping.
An hour later I lie in bed in the dark, repeating in my head Italian phrases from my Berlitz booklet while falling asleep.
I awoke and had a quick breakfast, then met Michel, who was kind enough to drive me to the IBM office where I was to teach IBMers, customers and business partners how to use the IBM Classification Module. The commonality among the participants was that they were all French nationals. Their understanding of English was good enough, however, to make my task a relatively simple one. I did my best to keep my language simple, removing idioms and acronyms that might not be immediately understood by non-native speakers. Feedback was very good, and I believe that everyone was impressed with the power of the software.
I departed for Charles Du Gaulle Airport at 4:15 (thank you again, Michel!) for an Air France flight to Milan. Waiting in the security line I noticed that the signs were in both French and English. This was somewhat surprising because the French are fiercely protective (and proud) of their language in a way that American's are not of English. In the United States you sometimes hear the wingnuts call for mandating English-only instruction and English-only ballots, but my interpretation of this is just racism and bigotry. Part of the American identity is that it has always been a mix of cultures and languages. In France, by contrast, I think the national identity is strongly tied to the French language itself. While walking (and Metro-ing) around Paris I saw no other language. None. Even in the Louvre, which draws artistically curious persons from around the globe, every placard on every exhibit was French-only. It is almost as if the French are saying, "We don't need you."
Pride in their language notwithstanding, not once did I witness the stereotypical snootiness of the Parisians. I made an effort to speak at least a little broken French; they made an effort to speak some broken English. I found the people to be friendly, helpful, and efficient.
As we flew into Italian airspace I peered out the window down onto the Alps. They are spectacular. After spending many many vacations in the Sierra Nevada mountains I did not expect to be so easily impressed by such a relatively small mountain range. I would love to bring my snowboard to the alps some day. Looks like some really challenging slopes.
Once again, Air France was clean, efficient and friendly. Suck it, United.
I awake early determined to make the most of my final free day. My plan is to get into Paris early enough to grab a quick bite before lining up outside the Louvre, which opens at nine. I catch the RER to Le Halles station and emerge onto a deserted Rue de Rivoli. I stroll over a block and head West along the right (i.e. North) bank of the Seine.
What I didn't count on was nearly everything being closed.
An occaisonal car would drive by but as I strolled next to the shuttered shops and cafes I pass only two persons. I finally come to an open cafe at Pont Neuf, aptly named, "Cafe du Pont Neuf." Now "open" is a stretch... chairs are being unstacked, the busboy is mopping the floor, and the proprietor is serving espresso to what were obviously two people he knew. So there I am, in my shorts and sneakers -- so American -- in the midst of a few acquaintances going through their Sunday morning ritual.
Not to be denied or intimidated, I sit on the barstool, look the proprietor straight in the eye, and say, "Cafe noir, s'il vous plait" [Black coffee, please]. He pours me one of the best espressos I ever tasted. Now, I am an Earl Grey drinker, not a coffee guy, but there was no way I wasn't going to try my hardest to be as French as possible at that moment. But it was really good.
I still need breakfast, so I ask for a menu, which he hands me, explaining that the kitchen doesn't open for quite a while. Damn. However, he brings out a basket of croissants, to which I helped myself.
Best. Croissants. EVAR.
Frankly, I have never been a fan of croissants. I think up until that moment every croissant I ever had was greasy and rubbery and bland. These croissants were warm, buttery but not greasy, light and just amazing. I have never tasted anything like them. My mission on returning to the States is to find a comparable delight.
I pay and leave, heading over to the Louvre in a great mood. When I arrive at the Louvre it becomes apparent that I am not the only person who had planned to arrive early, for there are about 500 people in line already. However, once the museum opened the line moved quickly and I am inside by 9:15.
Everything people told me about the Louvre is true, so let me simply repeat: it is huge. Big enough to get inadvertently lost in, and big enough to not see in an entire day, or maybe even a week. The exhibits are well-organized. Masterpieces abound. Biggest disappointment: the Mona Lisa. People are kept a good twenty feet away from the painting, so it is impossible to appreciate Da Vinci's multi-layered lacquer technique. Coolest exhibits [tie]: the Code of Hammurabi and Michaelangelo's "Dying Slave." Biggest surprise: flash photography is allowed. Weird.
I spend three hours in wonder then hit the cafe. Very limited choice, but it all looks fresh. "Une baguette poulet et de l'eau plate s'il vous plait."
Hey, cool, I'm getting the hang of (very) basic French :)
I'm due to meet my friend Maxime at 1 pm at the Musée d'Orsay, so I head over there. That line, too, is quite long, and I realize with a heavy heart that I will not have time to see the impressionists. To pass the time I walk around Paris near the Orsay. I check out the National Assembly building, then head down Boulevard Saint Germain. Maxime would later explain that Saint Germain -- his neighborhood -- is a quiet, wealthy, predominantly residential neighborhood populated by a lot of older Parisiens. In many ways it reminds me of some parts of San Francisco.
Maxime and I meet and he gives me a walking tour of the left bank (that is, the southern shore of the Seine), beginning with his favorite local cafe, where I once again indulge in espresso and croissants. Awesome. We walk down the rest of Saint Germain, past a few famous cafes where Sartre used to dine, and into the Luxembourg Gardens. The Luxembourg Gardens is the primary park of Paris, although it is far smaller than New York's Central Park. Since it is a Sunday afternoon, the park is busy with families playing. There are few tourists. One of the interesting sights in the park is a small Statue of Liberty, which was built as the model for construction of the larger statue in New York.
We decide to go to Montmartre. On the way to the Metro we pass the Pantheon, where some of France's most important people (Madame Curie, Voltaire, Rousseau) are entombed. It is closed, unfortunately, but like many of Paris' public buildings has beautiful architecture.
Montmartre is the biggest (maybe only?) hill in Paris, and is topped by the beautiful white-domed Basilica of the Sacré Cœur. Not as magnificent as Notre Dame, but still a beautiful building. From there we explore the nearby streets, which are all inevitably narrow and one-way. The mixed use of residential and commercial make this a very desirable place to live, even if it is a bit far from the center of Paris. Maxime has to depart but I stay to see La Bateau Lavoir where Picasso lived and painted. It sits on a small plaza with trees and benches and one of the famous Wallace Fountains that dot Paris.
The day is getting late but there is still more ground to cover. I catch a Metro from Abbesses Station to Varenne with the intention of spending an hour or so in the Rodin museum. D'oh! They are closing for the evening. So instead I walk East to Napolean's tomb at Invalides. What a monument to ego, or perhaps a monumental ego. You just have to see it to believe it.
It is now 6 pm and I am ready for some dinner. Maxime had recommended Cafe Janou in the Marais neighborhood, so I hop aboard the Metro again to the Chemin Vert station. There are a few people at the outside tables but no crowds, so I ask, "Je voudrais une table por un, s'il vous plait" [I would like a table for one, please]. The waiter tells me the kitchen won't open until 8 pm. Sunday night and it doesn't even open until 8?? This would never work in the US.
So with ninety minutes to kill I decide to return to my hotel, shower and change before returning. By the time I get back, the place is PACKED with a line out the door. However, being alone confers the advantage of not having to wait for a large table to clear. I am seated immediately at a tiny table directly inside the door.
I like Cafe Janou immediately. The staff is attentive, the clientèle happy, the environment noisy. Aretha Franklin and Beck are pumping over the noise of the crowd. Odd choices, yes, but it worked! I eat a magnificent French-style meal of scallops and risotto and their Janou Salad, followed by a raspberry tart. Every bite is exquisite. Thanks for the recommendation, Maxime!
After dinner I return to my hotel for the last time. My stomach happy, my feet aching, my head reeling. Tomorrow I would be the visiting American from IBM. But today, I am a Parisien. I can't wait to return.
I just returned from a wonderful three week vacation to California, divided equally between Lake Tahoe, Lake Almanor, and the San Francisco Bay Area. Unlike 
