No. Its just some device. A faint peeping had worked its way into my sleep. It sounded like a cry for attention from one of my lesser gadgets, probably my watch, which told me that it was 2 AM, but wasnt peeping.
My daughter, Laura, and I were on a journey to connect with distant relatives in Yorkshire, England. We decided to add a little glamor to the trip by first spending a few days in Paris. I booked us into the Grand Hotel Dechampaigne on the Right Bank a few steps from Pont Neuf. From its name, I imagined Dechampaigne would have an elegant entrance with Art Nouveau doors, a lobby with a massive chandelier, and bellhops tripping over each other. In reality, Dechampaigne was tucked into a back alley, its glory days, if any, long passed. Its vintage elevator was big enough for two people who knew each other well, and the ride to our cramped room on the fourth floor took five minutes. Our bathroom was so small that we had to step out of it
To allay Lauras fears about the fire alarm I stepped out into the hallway where the faint peeping was now clearly discernable as a loudly blaring fire alarm. (I need to get my hearing checked.) Thirty seconds later Laura and I were quickly descending a staircase crowded with panicked people, all in their pajamas. On the first floor we were met by the hotel the other way. He told us to return to our rooms, that the alarm had been triggered because someone on the third floor was smoking a cigarette. Probably a Gauloise. I thought to myself. So French.
Our daily routine was this: in the mornings: cafe Americanos and croissants at a sidewalk cafe, wander the streets for a few hours, stop at another sidewalk cafe for Americanos with crepes, more wandering, a dinner at a bistro with lots of wine and unpronounceable but delicious food, then home to watch Office reruns on At each of these meals Laura would pull out her pile of art supplies and begin painting or drawing whatever caught her eye. She would quickly
Several cafes were decorated with flowers and hanging hats as shown in this remarkable painting by Laura.
transform pools of colored ink haphazardly splashed across her page into a beautiful image of the scene in front of her. People at neighboring tables would crane their necks to watch her. A waiter was sure he had seen her work on Instagram. I would pay the tab, then quietly slip away for an hour to let her work.
Going to Paris in late September seemed like a brilliant idea. I pictured Laura and me wandering the empty halls of the Louvre, our footfalls echoing, pausing in front of a Delacroix to admire the flaring nostrils of a war horse, the anguished expressions of wounded rebels, or Lady Libertys exposed breasts. In reality, our morning in the Louvre could better to rush hour at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Pausing in front of a painting was not on the menu. As soon as we entered we were eager to leave. Chaotic battalions of tourists with American accents moved en masse from one painting to the next. I had to shoulder my way through crowds at each painting to catch a quick glimpse before being shouldered away by the next art lover. No one was masked.
we went there were throngs of American tourists. My last visit to Paris was back in 1979. I remember wandering into Shakespeare & Co. to look at photographs of my literary heroes. I was eager to introduce Laura to this literary pantheon, but now theres a queue to simply walk into the store, get a stamp that says you were there, then leave.
Back in 79, I was adamant about not visiting the Eiffel Tower. To me, this was the epitome of bourgeois tourism. My opinion hadnt changed since then, but as a father, I couldnt say no to my daughters request to see the tower at night from a boat on the river. Ironically, this turned out to be kind of cool. Up close the tower is impressively huge. Every hour theres a light show. Bright lights flash up and down the tower.
