Day Eight July 17

So then we had one last day to "see Paris." Ha!

We decided to start with Notre Dame, so we took the metro up and wandered over to the cathedral, fully expecting to go inside, until we saw the enormous line.

Just then, one of Les Cars Rouges rolled up and we took Penny's advice and jumped on board. It combines an audio tour with transportation since it stops at various places and lets you on and off. It was the perfect solution for getting a taste of Paris.

So here we are riding around on the top of the doubledecker bus clicking our hearts out at the views of Paris the grandiose.

The Alexander III Bridge was particularly grand against the stormy sky.

The Champs Elysee was getting buried under metal barricades and bleachers for last leg, when the sprinters dash up the cobblestones.

Since I've had a Tour de France obsession for years, it was a wonderful sight.

The other end of the race didn't yet have bleachers--just the Arc de Triomphe with all the victories against Austria listed around the top. That must have pleased the Germans during the war.

The tour had said there was a small museum inside, but we were darned if we could spot how to get across the heavy traffic going around the outside.

After lunch on the Champs Elysee (at McCafe--which actually had a very good chicken sandwich on a baguette and perrier--and les toilettes), we got back on the car rouge.

So as we rode along, brilliantly I said to Liz, hey, that French guy looks like George Washington--two minutes later the recording pointed out it was George Washington. How nice to meet a familiar face in a foreign land.

Of course George seemed rather small and quite pedestrian (or equestrian) compared to the Parisian bravura. Here is les Invalides just glowing.

While touring about, we hit the souvenir shops, where I was startled to find Rosie the Riveter! And not just once! What the heck!

As you can tell, we were also startled by the prices, especially when the exchange rate was around 64%

By this time, Liz was ready for a nap before dinner, so I went off to see if I could locate where the expatriates had lived. I knew it was very near the hotel (my Ph.D. was on the memoirs of Americans in Paris between the wars so I had some of the addresses).

First stop was to find the rue de Fleurus. Gertrude Stein lived here at the height of her influence. It was just two blocks from the hotel. Her apartment was 27 rue de Fleurus, which is still the same building, except now there are 20 apartments in it. A woman came home from work just as I was staring at her house.

I also checked out number 35 rue de Fleurus. This is where Hemingway moved his first wife as he was separating from her to take up with wife number 2, Pauline--the rich wife. In later years he got very sentimental about this apartment and Hadley and his first son, Bumby.

Except of course, this is clearly not that apartment but something much newer, next to the Cyber Cafe.

Avidly studying my map, I realized I was right by the Luxemburg Gardens, so I made a quick swing through.

You could rent a yacht to sail on the basin and the stiff wind was sending them across in full sail. It made me sad since there's yacht basin in a park near me in Chicago, but it's fenced in as a hazard and no one plays there.

From there, I found the rue Notre Dame des Champs and headed off in search of expatriates. It turned out to be a thoroughly French residential neighborhood. I heard a lot of English and German in the gardens but definitely nothing but French as I wound down the twisting street.

Here's the house where Ezra Pound lived when he was hanging out in Paris and being a bad influence on Hemingway.

I continued along, feeling more and more out of place with my camera and very un-French self. Half of the buildings were modern. Of course it had been working class with no modern plumbing in the 1920s and 1930s, so it's not surprising that some of the buildings seemed eminently replaceable.

As the street twisted and turned I started to get quite disoriented. It was clearly going to rain, and I still really wanted to find ground zero for the expats--the corner of the Boul. Raspail and the Boul. Montparnasse, so I gave up on finding Hemingway's first apartment at number 110. He'd pretty much described it as a dump, so I was losing hope that the original one was there even if I did find it.

I'd gotten so turned around that I studied my map on every corner, trying to decide which way to go. Oddly, no one stopped to offer help. I often get tourists in my neighborhood and I always ask if I can help if they are standing holding the map.

Luckily, I was quite near the corner (figured Hemingway wouldn't be far from the bars!). I hadn't realized that all the big ones were literally next to each other. Le Dome (which now serves seafood), La Rotonde, Le Select (advertising a Bar Americain)--they are still side by side by side. Sure made 1920s bar hopping convenient. Since the apartments were so tiny and poor and dreary in the 1920s, all the social life went on at the cafes, especially Le Dome, which allowed unaccompanied women. La Rotonde across the street had thrown all the women writers and artists out and lost the expat business.

At that point it really started to rain (notice the man in blue running under the awning), so I headed back to the hotel.

Day Nine July 18

Day Nine and the first busload was heading to the airport and home. A lot of the people staying on came out to say goodbye to those of us who were leaving.

It really was a remarkable trip made remarkable by the people who were on it. Thank you!