Samedi - Christmas Eve

 Saturday and Christmas Eve. Annie and I went to the designated pick up point for our prepaid  Lanôtre mini cakes. We only bought four of them, anticipating not much room left after a generous Christmas lunch. Then off to Monop supermarché to buy wrapping paper, cellotape and napkins. We bought Christmas crackers from Marks & Spencer and some sprigs of holly from a young female street vendor. She tried to make us buy two bunches but we were too smart for her and bought only one for ten euros.  Not much later, we came across a young man selling holly for five euros a bunch. We weren't so smart after all.

Back to the apartment, dumped our purchases and then set off with the boys for Mont Martre to buy the meat. I used my limited French vocabulary to seek out pork, veal and turkey. Pork and veal, oui, but le dinde? Non!  Alas, no turkey, only chicken in the bird line. We ended up buying the pork and veal, and some prawns from the fishmongers. Then, shopping buggy in tow, Michael and Steve
headed back to our local supermarché for the vegetables and drinks.

Annie and I spent another hour browsing the alleys of Mont Martre, and checking out the location of Le Basilic, our destination for lunch on Monday, our last day in Paris.

The rest of the afternoon was spent at the Christmas Markets along the Champs Élysées, seeking out little gifts for each other.

After wrapping our offerings, and making a date with the boys to meet at La Scossa in Place de Victor Hugo at 7.30pm, Annie and I set off for the local church on the other side of the Place. When we passed by earlier in the day, there were three armed militia standing on the front steps and a guard at the door. Not a good sign in anyone's language. They were gone however by the time we arrived,  so we ventured inside, a few minutes early for the six thirty pm mass, as stated on the outside notice board.  There were no pews as such. Instead, rows of straight backed wooden chairs lined either side. We sat one row from the front, placed our coats, bags and gloves on the chairs next to us, turned our phones off and generally settled in. Suddenly, the young man seated directly in front of us swivelled around and eyeballed me with a ferocious stare. Androgenous in dress and features, he looked uncannily like the sadly departed Prince. He eventually turned back to the front and we sat as quietly as humanly possible, so as not to evoke the wrath of this keeper of reverence.

We sat and we sat. The church was in semi darkness but we could see a priest moving about near the altar. Daring to look around, there were perhaps half a dozen people dotted about on the chairs. Then, abrubtly our front row watchdog picked up a little paper bag from the floor and walked towards the cordoned off area in front of the altar. He stood there for a while, then came and sat down again. Very perplexing and slightly worrying, given the armed guards scenario earlier in the day. After a few minutes, our friend gathered his little paper bag, and his chic leather gloves and left the church.

By this time, we realised that preparations were in progress for the upcoming mass, obviously a time change because it was Christmas Eve. So we finally got up and left, sufficiently pious for having sat in ignorance for half an hour. The Syrian family seated against the building next door gratefully received our small change we had saved for the collection plate.

The four of us enjoyed our meal at La Scossa.  It was a bright and cosy atmosphere, in stark contrast to the gloom of the church. The fact that it was the only restaurant open in La Place Victor Hugo and their prices were sky high did little to quell our excitement at spending Christmas in Paris. A moment of disquiet for Annie and I however, as our Prince lookalike swanned past our table, complete with full length black wool coat, chic gloves and little paper bag. It seemed incongruous that this pillar of piety should be mingling with mere mortals eating, drinking, and being very merry.

We spent our last waking hours on Christmas Eve playing Euchre. For once, Annie and I won, a dubious reward for our spiritual intentions.

Vendredi - day six

Friday -  we awoke to Steve's coughing and spluttering, the first of our troupe to fall victim to a French virus. Although not feeling the best, Steve rallied enough to walk about 4 kms of the Champs Élysées to Angelina's Restaurant, famous not only for fine cuisine but for it's hot chocolate. Steve's son and his family rate it as the best hot chocolate in the world. So it was a must. When we arrived, not only was there a queue for those who had not booked, but a group of eight pushed their way in front of us. We were left outside in the bracing breeze for another 5 minutes before being ushered into the elegant interior to a table for four. I couldn't help but feel slightly smug as we passed by the group of eight, standing to one side, still waiting for a large enough table.

As it was already 12.30pm, we decided to have lunch, followed by hot chocolate. After our meal, trés delicieux all round, Steve went the whole hog, Annie and I shared, along with a small citrus tart. Michael declined, satisfying his palate with a fingerful. The chocolate was rich and smooth, and together with the cream, was an almost outrageous indulgence. A gastronomic experience not to be missed but not one to be repeated often.

As we left, Steve was flagging fast, so he and Annie caught the Metro back to the apartment. Michael accompanied me on my quest to find See Concept, a company that makes magnifying reading glasses. I bought a pair in Paper Bark bookstore in Albany. They are a product of France and, as Paper Bark did not have any spares of the ones I have, I decided to buy direct. We set off on foot, armed with photos of google maps which had said it would take us twenty one minutes to our destination. An hour and twenty minutes later, after many wrong turns around the Place de l'Opéra,
we finally arrived at the right building, only to find the enormous wrought iron gates locked. As we stood there pondering our next move, a man laden with rubbish bags came out, so we ducked inside. A fruitless move, as See Concept was on the second floor and access to the lift was by security code only. Defeated, we exited the building and managed to navigate our way back to the apartment via the Metro.

A quick google of See Concept outlets revealed dozens of them all over Paris. I found one in Ave Victor Hugo, and voilà, a new set of specs.

Jeudi - day five

Thursday morning saw the boys off before daybreak to Gare du Nord and on the train to Saint Quentin station in the north. There they were met by their tour guide Olivier and taken to Pozières to trudge through the battlefield of the Somme.

Anne and I ventured out at a more leisurely pace. Off to the Louvre we went, fully intending to do some sketching of our own. However. the Louvre was buzzing with crowds, not as much as five years ago but enough to make it difficult to find a nook to sit and copy the masters. We wandered through the various rooms housing the Egyptian collection. This took the better part of two hours. Although very fascinating, we were starting to feel malnourished and went in search of the café. The Egyptians hadn't finished with us though.  We descended endless steps, following the exit signs but each "sortie' led to another room housing even more gargantuan exhibits than the one before. Finally, when sphinx and sarcophagus seemed to close in, we emerged, suitably overawed.

After a so-so salad with fries at the cafë, we headed for the Renaissance galleries. Even though we toured the Louvre five years before, none of the sheer magnitude and brilliance of the works was lost as we wandered about, absorbing as much as humanly possible.

 And of course the ultimate pilgrimage to Mona. Last time we were fifty deep back in the pack trying to get a look in. This time we shouldered our way to the front to give due reverence and get the best possible photo.

A quick visit to the gift shop, then back on the Metro to the apartment to cook dinner for our menfolk returning from the trenches.     

Mercredi - day 4

Anne's significant birthday dawned (at 8.40am). Steve was up early and headed off to the supermarché in the half light to buy croissants and a beautiful bouquet of roses and tulips for his bride. Again the boys commandeered the kitchen, cooking up a storm of poached eggs, bacon, sausages and tomatoes.

After breakfast, our little troupe headed off for Mont Martre, via the Metro. We got off at Blanche station and firstly called in at the Moulin Rouge ticket office where, as a phone call the night before confirmed, my wayward glasses were waiting. Then we commenced the lengthy climb upwards along cobbled streets towards Sacré Coeur.

It was bitterly cold, so we stopped at a café in Place Mont Martre for coffees and hot chocolate. There  were artists dotted all over the square - amazing portraits and landscapes, no amateurs here. At the back of the square is the Galerie Mont Martre which is currently exhibiting pieces by the likes of Cévé and Dali, and many others. Breathtaking work by such famous hands. Not what we might want on our walls or coffee tables but awe inspiring all the same.

Then it was onwards and upwards to visit Sacré Coeur. The boys stayed on the parapet overlooking the vast spread of Paris below. As Anne and I entered the church, we were zapped by a security wand, bags searched, for the umpteenth time. Far from being an imposition, it leant a small measure of comfort to being in a very touristy public place.  Sacré Coeur was as every bit impressive as all the other religious monuments that I've seen around the world. I had coins this time, so I lit a candle for my sister Carole.

On the way down, we stopped at a little shop where Anne and I each bought a jacket, just like that.

Back to 9 Rue Leroux, a small baguette for lunch, then off to the Vog salon in Ave de Victor Hugo for a shampoo and blow dry in preparation for the birthday dinner. We had ducked in on the way to Mont Martre and made an appointment for 3pm.

As we entered the salon, our coats were deposited in a cloak room (cupboard) and then we were whisked downstairs for the shampoo part of the deal. While there, they persuaded us to have a little cut which we agreed to. This of course doubled the price of the transaction but the end result was well worth it. My fellow was Alfredo from Mexico City. He spoke a little English, so combined with my little French, we had quite a jolly conversation. Annie and I felt renewed when we left, quite glamorous in fact.

Donned in our glad rags, we called Uber for a cab. By the time we emerged from the building two minutes later, he was waiting for us. Off to Restaurant 58 situated on the first tier of le Tour d'Eiffel. We were a whole hour early and so wandered in and out of tourist shops trying to keep warm. As it was already dark, a light rain falling and gusty winds, we decided against ascending to the lofty most point.
When finally seated, we enjoyed a trés delicieux dinner with accompanying wine. Steve got chatting to the young couple seated next to us, having overheard the Scottish brogue. Anne"s brother in law Gordonis from a town north of Edinburgh called Kirkcaldy. These two, on their honeymoon, come from the next town. A small world! They joined in the birthday song for Annie as she blew out the obligatory candle.

Mardi - Day 3

Tuesday was shopping day. Michael and Steve went exploring for butchers and bakeries. Anne and I went seeking fashion on the Champs Élysées. After finding some tops and trousers to supplement my wardrobe, we had lunch at a delightful restaurant called Le 68, inside the Guerlain Perfumery. We were escorted down a marble staircase, seated and then were waited and feted for the next hour. Not only did they allow us to share a club sandwich and a Caesar salad, they served the halves as completely separate dishes. After a glass of wine and so much food, we declined dessert. However our waiter was not to be denied. He presented us with a complementary tray of truly delectable petit fours. We forced them down. It was a relaxing interlude from the busy street above.

After lunch, we walked a good length of the Champs Élysées to the Christmas Markets to have a look.  Too pooped to walk back, we caught the Metro instead. There was a 5 minute delay at one of the stations due to an 'incident'. No clue as to what, just announced as an incident. A reminder of uncertain times.


Back at the apartment, our menfolk cooked us a meat and veg dinner, followed by another round of euchre. Anne and I have yet to win a game.

Lundi - second day

Monday morning saw Michael and I venturing out for an 'early' walk at 8.30. Daybreak is officially around  around 8.40am so even though the roads and pavements were busy, the light was dim and eery, a pre-dawn fog. We found our way to the Champs Élysées and walked towards the Arc de Triomphe. It was about 2 degrees, very bracing, so we wound up at a little cafe just around the corner from the apartment to have coffee and croissant, all the tastier due to the cosiness of the café.

Our day of sightseeing commenced with the Arc de Triomphe. We walked along Rue Victor Hugo to the base, Anne and I making slow progress, so many shop windows to peer through.  Due to various knee and ankle ailments, the four of us used the lift to ascend this impressive structure. The views all around are breathtaking and we spent some time gazing out across the landscape of Paris.

Our next stop - Notre Dame. Five years ago, time was limited and the entry queue was incredibly long. This trip however, very little queue and time is on our side. The interior is breathtaking, and although not completely silent as the signs request, the atmosphere within is fairly subdued and respectful. For two euros you can light a candle for loved ones.  I had no money on me so I made a bargain to donate four euros to the poor in exchange for two candles. I found a deserted nook and with a statue of Christ overlooking the dubious deed, I lit them, one for Mum, and one for Dad. I'm not sure of the significance of this practice; for me it was a special moment to remember them both. 

The sign clearly indicates no photos to be taken inside. As there were quite a few offenders about, I snuck in a couple.

Monday night - Moulin Rouge. I might add a note here that although we have managed to navigate the Metro in a fair to middling fashion, we decided to take no chances and catch an Uber to the show. Fascinating how you order a car online and within a couple of minutes, it appears at your door. Although the traffic was insane, we arrived intact and in plenty of time. Entertainment during dinner was a couple of singers accompanied by a band. Dinner was lovely, considering the amount of people to be served en masse. The main show commenced after the last plates were cleared. What a spectacular show. Not only are the performers young, fit and  pleasing to the eye in their extremely scant costumes,  they are incredibly talented. Our boys' eyes were on stalks for a while. The whole performance was mesmerising. Again, no photos were allowed. The waiters were on the alert and swooped on those people caught out.
I've just included a few web pics to give an idea of the grandeur if it all. Although the woman swimming with the snakes was a bit spooky.

After the show,  we decided on the Metro for the return journey. Given the volume of traffic, even at 11pm, it seemed the quicker option. When we got back, I found I'd left my glasses at our table. Together with a dropped glove somewhere in the labyrinth of the Metro, a bit of a clumsy day pour moi.

Dimanche, our first day

After hugs and greetings all round, a quick tour of our lovely apartment and a shower to revive, we were ready to embrace Paris. There was a bit of a dilemma when Steve couldn't find his passport. The last time he remembered seeing it was at the money exchange at Charles de Gaulle airport. A few frantic phone calls achieved nothing. So instead of a leisurely group outing, the boys took off on the Metro back to the airport. Understandably Steve was in a bit of a state.

Luckily, his passport was alive and well and returned to him intact. He blamed the man who had served him when he and Annie arrived the day before. Steve had handed over a wad of dollars, only to be told there was a  sixty euro commission on the transaction. When Steve asked for his money back, the man refused. He said Steve either had to pay the commission or take out a Visa card with some of the money on it and pay no commission. Time was ticking and their driver was waiting (not Nigel). So in anger and in haste, the transaction was completed but the passport wasn't handed back.

The boys returned to the apartment, passport in tow. Unfortunately, Michael tangled with an exit gate at a Metro station on the way back and ended up with a graze the size of a twenty cent piece on his forearm and a blood soaked brand new pullover.

In the meantime, Annie and I hit the cobbled streets of Paris to check out the shops. We spent a lovely afternoon browsing and then had café crème and macarons, très delicieux.

We had dinner at a bistro on Rue Victor Hugo, just around the corner. Very nice, very French., although our waiter's name was Kevin. Back to the apartment for a night cap and several games of euchre.  Off to bed, day one over.

Arrival at Charles de Gaulle Airport

Our plane landed about 7.30am. By the time we passed through border control and collected our bags, an hour had passed. Not so bad really. As we exited the inner bowels of the terminal, we passed by the host of drivers lined up to the left of the exit, scanning their placards carefully. No Crawshaw. We went further afield, then back to the wall of drivers , still no luck. Michael finally phoned the company and was told that our driver was near the information desk. Well, no he wasn't. By this time another thirty minutes had slipped by. In desperation, Michael went back along the line of drivers and happened to glance across at the hordes of relatives waiting to greet their loved ones. Yes, you guessed it. Our unkempt, unshaven hulk of a driver was slouching in the throng, yawning his head off, sporting this sign -

It's a fair bet that he hadn't arrived when we came out. Either that or he wasn't  holding his sign up for all  to see. The other placards were electronic or neatly typed. Needless to say, he blamed us for "not looking properly!"  A bit awkward on the way out of the terminal, given his surly attitude and the usual language difficulties on our part.

Unfortunately, we were barred from leaving the terminal due to a security scare. Unattended baggage somewhere. We stood around for another forty minutes while police, military personnel  nursing artillery, and bomb detector dogs roamed the deserted end of the terminal. Our driver's Peugeot was parked very close to the exit so we had to enjoy his delightful company for longer than we would have ever wished. Eventually the all clear was given, the barriers removed and we were able to proceed  With our bags stuffed inside a boot littered with rubbish, we set off  for Paris.

If we thought the worst was over, we were slightly mistaken. Once clear of the airport, our man Nigel ((I eventually asked for his name, I think that's what he said) planted his foot and very quickly we reached a speed of one hundred miles per hour along a clear way. When Michael asked him to slow down, Nigel just snorted. Luckily, he had to merge right and we could breathe again. Only just, as Nigel spent a good deal of the time on his mobile, all the while playing the same rap song on his iPod over and over again, and mumbling along when he wasn't on the phone. Oh joyous journey.

Eventually, he deposited us at our apartment in Rue Le Roux. As we gathered our tattered selves on the pavement, Steve popped his head out of a window on the second floor and greeted us with a smile and a "bonjour!" Such relief to see a familiar face.

Perth Departure

As we entered the departure section of Perth International Airport, the immediate standout was the
small army of pint sized humans, all queued up for Air Mauritius flight MK 441. Admittedly they
were attached to various regular sized humans, but there was an eerie sense that at any given
universal signal, they could, and would, form as one giant  wailing, flailing mass and reduce the rest
of us to the floor in the foetal position of abject terror. Indeed, even before the flight, small pockets of them practised manoeuvres, urging each other on, incessant screaming, whining, running, manically
giggling and so on. It crossed my mind that we had broken the primary rule of travel - always do so
outside of school holidays, or pay the price of temporary insanity.


One particularly trying little toddler sat behind us, treating one and all to his limited vocabulary - "mama", "dada", "yucky" for a full half hour prior and during take off. Apparently he didn't like the seat belt. He's probably too young to appreciate that having all that legroom in a seat of his own is akin to first class. Most toddlers have the indignity of being strapped to a parent's seat belt. Mind you, having little arms and legs didn't stop him from pummelling not only the seat directly in front of him but those on either side for good measure. I know from the lofty heights of grandparenthood, it's easy enough to raise an eyebrow, give a knowing look, a slight shake of the head and/or a tut-tut. Every now and then though, the mists of time lift, long enough to recognise those desperate faces and haunted eyes of today's parents, shackled to miniatures of themselves for what seems like an eternity. Long enough to remember our less than perfect children, and, more shamefully, our less than perfect parenting. Thankfully, the curtain drops again and we can sink back in to the relative comfort of selective memory.

Early on in the flight, unfortunately I regressed back into toddler like behaviour myself. The seat belt sign had barely flickered out when the young man in front practically planted my TV screen in my lap. I think I pummelled the back of his seat slightly and roughly raised the table top to hopefully
reciprocate the discomfort. Very childish. My only defence could be that we don't travel all that often
and it takes me a while to get in to the zen state of mind required for the up close and personal
experience of economy class.

I thank the universe, and Michael's forethought, that we forked out a hefty sum to fly the second leg to Paris in business class. We had use of the top premium lounge at the Mauritius Airport, food and drink aplenty. Now here we are, lying down for the better part of twelve hours as we hurtle through the darkness towards Charles de Gaulle Airport.

Two pics taken at Mauritius airport.