Breakfast began by meeting Carmen and her naming all the birds she could be. I admit to becoming worried when she decided she could be her own prey. And the die was cast when her owl was more WooHoo than Who…
Our taxi ride involved the requisite too many bags with a women driver who drove stick, cuddled her dog, booked rides on her radio and negotiated French traffic: impressive…
Our wait for the train was relatively stressfree and soon we were aboard. The train was relatively empty so Carmen did not have to face 4 hours of backward travel. Carmen and I played footsie for a cour of hours, mostly due to her ‘hot’ ass and my cold feet… long story.
After a while I finally finished my book and mosied down to the bar car. I picked up some limonade and Schweppes for the lazy girls. Back in my seat I finally caught up the blog and decided to grace L and C with my charming wit.
Now I’m bored.
So Paris Montparnasse. Our third Parisian train station. Taxi to our hotel and discover that Carmen is finally sick of us. Or of Paris. Or of wine… No… Couldn’t be the wine. Anyway, she decides to bail on our plan to invade Les Invalides. We arrange to meet and strike out for our friend, the metro.
I picked the wrong stop and we got turned around until a helpful native pointed out the way. Les Invalide is a 17 century hospital for soldiers built by Louis IV. It houses a beautiful church for the soldiers and the architects build a spectacular gilt-domed chapel for the king on the other side of the altar so he could attend the services without offending propriety. In the 19 th century the chapel was converted to Napoleon’s tomb after his body was brought back from Corsica. We afe back in the real crowds now and it is much more of a chore to care about what we are seeing. Still and all it’s certainly helping me define grandious.
There is also a a series of army museums there. Since we had limited time we opted for modern and traced the French military from their defeat in the Franco Prussian war through to WWII. Unfortunately they kicked us out before D Day so I don’t know how it ends. : )
As when I was taught my military history class by an ex British marine, I am struck by how much of our sense of what happened is coloured by our American influences. This museum didn’t tell a different story so much as emphasize aspects that aregenerally ignored on our side of the pond. For that matter, it also dispense with much of our British influences as well. I would love to go back if I had time.
We scurried back to our hotel and met up with C for pizza and pasta. The place we picked was run by a strange strange fellow who definitely hadn’t heard of the sexual revolution and who’s idea of service was to make bizarre references and whisk things on and off the table. Needless to say we didn’t stay for desert.
Back at the hotel it was blog posting time and a couple of hands of crib. Tomorrow: Versaille!