We had become familiar with the restaurants on our street, some of which I have referred to in this blog, but I think it was today that we ventured across the street to the lavarie, or laundromat. Beginning on Sunday, we would be on the road with the tour group for several days, so this would be a good opportunity to catch up on laundry. All of the signs in the lavarie were in French, however, which I was having trouble translating, and at one point we somehow started a washing machine filled with soapy water but no clothes. From a tiny room in the back of the laundry, a woman suddenly emerged, her black hair tied high in a scarf and a twinkle in her eye. I told her, as I have been telling many Parisians so far on this trip, “Mes excuses! Ma Francais est tres mauvais.” She said, “Oh no, Monsieur your French is good! (I always loved hearing that!) It is my English that is bad!” But somehow we reached across the language barrier of bad French and bad English and managed to complete a load of laundry.
Today Martha had scheduled for us a luncheon cruise on the Seine on one of the many boats that cruise up and down the river. It was an experience we had been looking forward to, and our appetites were keen.
I always think of that lovely,
bittersweet Judy Collins song when I think about the Seine,
and it was going through my mind this morning:
My father always promised us
That we would live in France
We'd go boating on the Seine
And I would learn to dance
I sail my memories of home
Like boats across the Seine
And watch the Paris
sun
As it sets in my father's eyes again
We arrived in plenty of time, and had seats at a table for
two directly on the water. Our attentive
waiter began the luncheon with a glass of champagne, and then brought some very
good white wine with the appetizers, and then some very good red wine with the
main course and the dessert. I wish I had
taken more detailed notes about the food!
Let me just say that, while we do not often eat “gourmet” food, Martha
and I have had our share of delicious dinners at restaurants near and far, and
without a doubt this was the best lunch I have ever experienced. Healthy, absolutely
delicious, and beautifully presented.
Photos never do justice to good food but I tried anyway.
While we were eating and drinking, our waiter described to us the sights we were seeing along the river, parading slowly by us as we passed under one beautiful bridge after another, one of them I am sure the Pont des Arts, our humble lock dangling from its railing and our key in the water below us.
Did we attempt the three-mile walk back to the hotel? Merci, non! We took a taxi – there seemed to be a great many of them waiting for diners to emerge from the boat.
At this point, let me mention the taxicabs in Paris. We had taken several so far, and they were invariably terrifying. The road is filled with bicycles, motorized scooters, and other cars, all entering intersections at the same time and by some miracle exiting unscathed. The horn is used sparingly, but very effectively. We have seen roundabouts in the UK, and they are becoming more common in our country now. The "roundabout" at the Arc de Triomphe was simply a broad, six- or seven-lane circle of cobblestones, unmarked by any lines, into which taxicabs hurtled around in a counter-clockwise direction, narrowly avoiding one another. Absolute chaos! We would learn from Bruno (our tour guide) in a few days time that he had a French driving license, and that the test was simply to drive around the Arc de Triomphe five times and survive.
The day was not finished, however. “A trip to Paris would not be complete,” Martha had told
me a few weeks ago, “Without . . . a visit to a cabaret!”
What good is sitting
Alone in your room?
Come hear the music play
Life is a cabaret, old chum
Come to the cabaret
I was not sure what to expect. I envisioned petticoated can-can dancers and
a burlesque music hall environment. So I
was glad that Martha had found, not the overwhelming three-hour-long Moulin Rouge experience, but a
smaller, equally historic cabaret called the Crazy Horse. It’s
website said: “Le Crazy Horse Saloon or Le
Crazy Horse de Paris is a Parisian cabaret known for its stage shows
performed by female dancers and for the diverse range of magic and variety
'turns' between each show.” It had been founded
in 1951, and was known for spectacular choreography.
The girls were, well, shall I say . . . athletic, and they were not entirely nude, but very close to it; it was not for children or for the prudish. But I have to say that it was at all times tasteful, not lewd, celebrating the beauty of the human body in a series of performances that almost reminded me of the Cirque de Soleil. And it was very funny as well. I took this photo of our hostess before she warned us all that no photographs were allowed. “Enjoy with your eyes, not with your phones!”
After the show, we went next door and had some delicious pizza at a genuine Italian restaurant called Cantina di Luca. And what a surprise, again! – a delicious, generous-sized margherita pizza and two glasses of fine rosé wine for only €25.00, No tax, no gratuity. Paris is filled with expensive white-table-cloth restaurants, but as I have said earlier, one can dine very well here on a budget. There is another song about Paris, a World War I-era song – I think Judy Garland covered it – that I thought of after having visited the Crazy Horse:
How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm
After they've seen Paree'
How ya gonna keep 'em away from Broadway
Jazzin around and paintin' the town
How ya gonna keep 'em away from harm,
That's a mystery
They'll never want to see a rake or plow
And who the deuce can parleyvous a cow?
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