2024 So Far - Random Stuff, Books Read & The Watches I Wore

 

 

This section below was written sometime back in June...

 

It's been a busy 2024 so far and time has definitely flown. 

Back in late January, my wife and I were feeling a little worn out and we figured we could use a quick break. We visited Ho Chi Minh City back in 2019 - ahh, the days before Covid - and again last September, and we felt that a week of not doing anything in sunny climes would be just the ticket. So we booked it and jetted off just before Good Friday.

Up above is a photo of the Independence Palace (also known as the Reunification Convention Hall), which has been left virtually intact since the 1970s. And it's all absolutely beautiful!

The Cabinet Room, seen here with its magnificent board table where ministerial meetings took place. I was stunned by the sheer breadth of these rooms. The entire palace is made up of these spacious areas, each made to be used for differing purposes and events.

The palace was rebuilt and completed in 1966 after the original palace (built in 1873) was damaged by a bomb attack by dissident Republic of Vietnam Air Force pilots and its overall design is representative of the era and heavily influenced by a Vietnamese aesthetic. 

We had no firm plans for this trip. No major sightseeing, no straying too far from our hotel. We spent the days walking around, visiting a nearby shopping centre, talking about future plans, our jobs, the kids, and we basically took things easy. It was nice not to be at work for a while.

And once again, I must've eaten something slightly dodgy because I ended up with a gut-ache on the last couple of days, but I didn't let this spoil the trip. I just ate a little less, and stuck to soups and easy to digest stuff.

 

There's a chain of cafés named Runam and we were within walking distance of three of them. They make this fantastic steak called BÒ ÚC NƯỚNG ĐÁ. I'm not even going to attempt to pronounce it and, since I cut and pasted it off their online menu, I'm not gonna switch it to lower-case because I'll lose the accents and tone marks above each letter, which I'm sure will vastly change the meaning of the name.

Example - when we were in Ho Chi Minh City back in September/October last year, my wife and I went to get a massage. 

I got onto Google Translate on my phone in our hotel room and quickly punched in the sentence; Please do not massage my feet. I had an operation on them last year.

We found a respectable massage/beauty salon in a nearby street and made our way in. I showed my message to the young lady who would be treating me and she looked at it and laughed. We explained my recent bunion operation to the owner of the place and she instructed my masseuse not to work on my feet. 

Later that afternoon, once we were back in our hotel room, I translated the Vietnamese phrase that I had shown the masseuse on my phone back into English and it read as; I am a magician. I had to send my brothers to another dimension.

That explains the giggling, bless her. 

Somewhere along the line, Google Translate had removed the accents and tone marks from the letters in the phrase and completely (and I mean completely) altered the meaning. Chances are high that I must've hit a wrong key somewhere. 

Either that or I'm a magician who sent his brothers to another dimension.

 

Okay, back to the steak at Café Runam. This steak was a 250gm piece of Angus beef served on a hot stone. I had mine served with sautéed potatoes and a mushroom sauce on the side. This stone stayed hot throughout the duration of my meal. I could feel the heat coming off it as I ate the steak. I rested a potato on the stone and it continued cooking. It was a filling steak, for 530,000.oo VND, which translates into about $31.ooAUD (about $21USD). I could have eaten these every day. 

Next time, I just might. 

In the photo above, you can see a slice of tiramisú, which can be had for the princely sum of just over five Aussie dollars. And by 'just over', I mean $5.01.

Next to this slice of cake is a coffee concoction that my wife tried. In a wide tumbler, some black coffee, with milk, with a lot of ice, topped up with a thick coffee-flavoured cream. And served with a little round shortbread biscuit.

Also in the frame is my Seiko Prospex Divers 200m, the solar-powered watch that I brought for the duration of the trip. Set-and-forget reliability.

It was a nice relaxing holiday, just the kind of quick break that we needed. 

And, despite the gut issues toward the end, I'd go back in a heart-beat. 

The people were very friendly, the sun was out, we did a lot of walking around, and nothing hurt. My feet didn't ache at the end of the day. Maybe it was the heat?

I had a disastrous typewriter transaction in February. Not wishing to relive it in any great detail, since its now pushing seven months since it all first occurred, I'll be brief;

* I bought an early '60s Antares Domus typewriter on eBay from a Seller in the UK.

* It arrived a couple of weeks later, packed in a re-used card-board box from Amazon, with a flattened edge and one corner slightly torn open.

* The typewriter was in its carry-case inside this box. The carry-case was wrapped in one single sheet of brown wrapping paper.

* I opened up the case, took the typewriter out of it and, as I did so, the carriage slid quickly over to the left. 

*Hmmm, I thought as I placed the machine down on my desk and slid the carriage return lever over to the right.

*No dice, the carriage didn't wanna play along, and it kept slipping back to the left. 

*Next day, I contacted the Seller and explained the situation. He offered to refund me some of the money that I paid for the machine. Is it of any use as it is?, he asked.

*Yes, I replied. As a paperweight. I basically have a three-legged greyhound here, I added. I then explained that I might be able to get it repaired by a fellow who's worked on my typewriters in the past, but this would no doubt be a costly endeavour. The typewriter repairman was Tom, the guy who has worked on nearly all of my typewriters. The wild card is that he last fixed one of my machines back in 2015. He was 68 years old back then and A) I'm not sure if he was still in business, and B) Lord knows what it would cost to get this done.

* I was thinking about getting a full refund, but the Seller explained that the item had been shipped through eBay's Global Shipping Program, so any discussion regarding shipping cost refund would have to be directed to eBay. 

* This was all getting complicated and convoluted. And, to be honest, I wasn't in the mood to have to pack this typewriter up again to send it back to the Seller. 

* I thought about keeping it and 

The Facts & Figures

The typewriter cost me 45GBP, which translated into about $90AUD.

Shipping was about 82GBP, which worked out to about $170AUD.

Total outlay so far was $267.79AUD. 

 

Okay, back to the point-form explanation;

 

* Seller offered me a refund of 50GBP, which was decent of him, I suppose, since this is the amount that he received. He didn't pay for postage, it was done through eBay's GSP. They basically paid for the shipping. 

* I wasn't finished with the Seller, though. I told him my main issue with this whole transaction was how poorly packed the item was, despite the fact that it was in a carry-case. A little more care and attention on his part would have possibly resulted in my receiving a properly working typewriter, as advertised. 

* He told me he had done all he could do. 

*Cool. I left Negative Feedback on eBay, explaining it all withing the confines of Feedback word limits and he countered my Feedback with a reply stating that 'the buyer had used eBay's Global Shipping Programme'-

* What!? I had no choice but to use eBay's GSP. No other shipping method or option was offered. 

* Like I say, it was getting convoluted and I didn't wish to prolong this saga any further. With this Seller, I left it at that. 

* It was time to tackle the next stage of this situation.

* I called Tom The Typerwriter Man and was glad to hear that he was still in business. Not so glad to hear that it would cost me $250.oo to get this machine fixed. 

* I dropped it off to his workshop. He remembered me from way back, which was nice. We chit-chatted for five minutes or so, and he told me to call him in a couple of weeks. He used to be the Authorised Distributor and Repairer for Antares typewriters back in the day, so I figured the machine would be in safe hands. As mentioned, he's worked on every one of my typewriters, bar one, so I had full faith in him. 

* Called him two weeks later and he said it was ready for pick-up. I headed over to see him and picked up the machine. He discounted the price down to an even $200.oo.

* I got the typewriter home, set it up, and fed a sheet of paper into the platen roller and started typing out that sentence about the quick brown fox. 

* This Antares Domus worked well enough, with a feel like an ultra-portable Olympia SF or Splendid 99, but not quite exactly like one. 

* And then it did that annoying joining up of twowords! I hateit when thathappens. It didn't do it often, and there's no rhyme or reason to it. It's just one of those things, to do with the escapement or space-bar. I wouldn't know exactly, since I'm not proficient with the inner workings of these things. 

Needless to say, I'm about $470AUD in the hole with this thing, which on any given day, is a $120.oo typewriter. 

So, I left it alone since I picked it up from Tom's workshop. And nothing against Tom. This might be as good as this machine will get. Or maybe my typing speed is the cause. 

Either way, it's all been a poor experience from the get-go. 

So, I think I'll donate it to a place in the city that people visit to create zines and such. They already have a few typewriters, so maybe they'll appreciate one more. 

Could'a sworn I said I wasn't gonna go into any great detail with this. 

Anyway, onward and upward. Fast-forward to the first week of September, and picking up from the typecast that started this post...

Wristwatch-wise, the Rolex Explorer got a lot of wear since my last post;

 

That's a small slice of mint-flavoured Turkish Delight. Dusted in icing sugar, it goes nicely with an espresso.

READING

I have to say I haven't been churning through books the way I did last year. Twenty-twenty-three saw me go through 12 novels and 3 novellas. This year seems to have stagnated considerably. 

I read a Marlowe novel called The Second Murderer, by Scottish crime writer Denise Mina. I have to say that finally, somebody - besides Chandler - got Philip Marlowe right. And I think it's great that it took a dame to show the boys how it's done. 

Hard to know when the story is set. It could be late 1930s or possibly mid-1950s. There are a few mis-steps, such as somebody being referred to as a 'railroad magnet' instead of magnate, but I think this has more to do with poor editing rather than writing. So impressed with it I was, that I had planned to write a letter to Ms Mina or her agent, but I think it might need a re-read before I do this, as I had some questions I had wanted to ask about it. 

The story concerns Philip Marlowe's search for a missing heiress. Mina does a great job with Marlowe, making him a much better facsimile of Chandler's character than other male crime writers who made attempts over the last four decades. Although, I've yet to read Robert B. Parker's two Marlowe books, entitled Poodle Springs and Perchance To Dream.

Mina's book captures Philip Marlowe's solitary nature and sharp mind, and she illustrates a seedy and down-town vision of Los Angeles in this tale. 

Yep, I'll definitely have to read it again. 

What else, what else. Oh yes, I was struggling to get through Bullet Train by Japanese author Kotaro Hisaka. My main bug with it is not the story itself, but the use of present tense narrative. I've never been a fan of the he-does-this, he-does-that form of storytelling. One review praises its use, saying that it adds to the immediacy and pace of the story. 

Maybe I'll get back to it at some point. Because, unless I really don't like a book once I've started it, I hate to leave it unfinished. 

After reading so much fiction last year, I thought I'd take a stab at non-fiction throughout 2024. I bought a Humphrey Bogart biography a few years ago. This book was begun by Ann M. Sperber, who had previously written a very well regarded biography on Edward R. Murrow. 

She conducted around hundred-and-fifty interviews throughout the 1970s and '80s with people who had known or worked with Bogart, from childhood friends to movie industry names from both sides of the camera. Sperber died in 1994 and her manuscript of the book was continued and completed by Eric Lax and published in 1997.

The result is an exhaustive and very well-written biography, a rich portrait of a man with complex and varying sides to his personality. He could be quite cruel and cutting, more-so after a third Martini, yet he could also champion the underdog. Bogart had a privileged upbringing in upstate New York, the son of a surgeon and a famous illustrator. 

He spent ten years working on the New York stage on Broadway and had no prior acting lessons. He was known to complain about a lot of things, earning himself the nickname "Bogie The Beefer". 

However, he was also punctual every day, and would be in his dressing room with the script while the lighting guys rigged up the set. Then he would arrive on-set to deliver his lines in a couple of takes. 

He spent a majority of the 1930s on the New York stage and delivered a great performance as escaped convict Duke Mantee in The Petrified Forest in 1935 during its theatrical run. Leslie Howard was the star of this stage production and he soon purchased the rights to this story so, when Hollywood came calling, Warner Bros. signed him up for the screen version and he stipulated that production would not commence until Bogart was cast as Mantee in the movie. The studio wanted to cast Edward G. Robinson as Mantee, but Leslie Howard was adamant about Bogart. The studio relented in the end, but Bogart's career would be marred by his ongoing contract battles with studio head Jack Warner.

All in all, it was a thoroughly interesting book.

 

The Tudor Ranger got a little time on the wrist back in May. Not sure if this one will stay or go, to be honest. For now, it's a keeper, but my fickle tastes may change at any given moment.

 

Another book that caught my eye was A Waiter In Paris, by a fellow named Edward Chisholm.

As the title suggests, this book is about a waiter in Paris. Our  narrator is a young Englishman with aspirations of becoming a writer. Currently living in an apartment in Paris with his girlfriend,  she soon tells him that she's landed a job at a gallery in London and plans to leave in a couple of weeks and would like him to go back to England with her. He has no plans to return to the UK, figuring that he'd like to follow in the footsteps of George Orwell and Ernest Hemingway, hoping to be inspired by the City of Lights. 

Of course, he hasn't really thought things through and by month's end, he's living out the remainder of the soon-to-expire lease on the apartment, with around 200 Euros in his pocket and no other possessions to his name.

In a country where he doesn't speak the lingo, either. 

So, he sets out to get a job in a restaurant, but without any hospitality experience or French speaking skills, he winds up as a runner in a small and seedy - but busy - bistro where the waiters work very long hours and try to cheat each other out of tips and scraps of food. It's a very bleak position that he's put himself in and the book outlines his attempts to find someplace to live and sleep while trying to earn enough money to buy a packet of cigarettes. All the while, the other waiters (and one of the managers) view him with distrust and contempt. 

The introductory chapter felt a little clichéd, but it soon showed itself to be a very well written book. Made me go out and buy Orwell's Down And Out In Paris And London, which I'll tackle some other time. 

 

I've also been slowly working though a book called The Notebook - A History of Thinking on Paper, by Roland Allen. It's a history of how notebooks were first used and their evolution throughout the centuries and how they derived and expanded from early accounting practices and ledgers in Florence and other cities of the world throughout history. Some chapters are slow, to be sure, but it has been an interesting read. 

Other watches worn since March...

 

The 1982 model Rolex Submariner 5513 has been worn sparingly so far this year. I've found myself reaching for the Tudor Black Bay 58 more often. 

Whilst this Rolex was a Grail Watch for decades, I've found myself babying it a little in recent years. Its plexiglas crystal is more prone to scratching than modern sapphire crystal, for one thing. 

This has had me thinking about whether or not this particular watch will stay in the collection. It has a deserved iconic status in the history of dive watches, without a doubt, but I view my watches as things to be worn and used. That's what they are for, after all, so if I find myself being a little too careful with a watch, then I begin to rethink its place in the collection. This will require a little more thought and consideration. If I do decide to move it along, I'll first have to give some serious thought to what will replace it. And, just as importantly, if not more so, whatever I decide to do, there can be no regrets. I've been down that road and it sucks. If or when the time comes to sell this watch, I'd better be damn sure. 

For now, though, it's a stayer.

 

And here's the watch that usurped the Submariner's place at the top, the Tudor Black Bay 58. An instant classic (in my view) on the day it was released in 2018, this watch has sold like crazy in the ensuing years. 

Not much I can fault with this watch. My only quibble is the clasp, or rather, the length of it. It doesn't perfectly follow the curve of my wrist, which has more to do with the small diameter of my wrist than it does with the clasp itself. Still, I managed to fit an after-market half-link to the bracelet and this alone has improved the fit of the watch. It now fits about 95% perfectly. 

Good enough for me. 

I've had this watch since Boxing Day 2020, so it may be ready for servicing in about a year or so, but something tells me it may still be a few years away from requiring attention. 

The Rolex brand gets a lot of well-deserved and earned attention. It makes some phenomenal watches, without a doubt. However, Tudor is nothing to sneeze at, as far as I'm concerned. While watch snobs will refer to the brand as 'the poor man's Rolex', one needs to remember that Tudor was devised by Rolex founder Hans Wilsdorf to be the Rolex-type watch for the working man. Tudor cases, crowns and bracelets were supplied by Rolex, while the actual movements were out-sourced. This helped make Tudor watches affordable and they were always considered the sister brand to Rolex. 

This has changed over the last ten or twenty years, as Tudor and Rolex have put a little separation between them, but this here is a brand with its own history, classic models, and personality. 

 

The 36mm Omega Railmaster has gotten a new lease on life since I put a new bracelet on it. It was a convoluted process and I wasn't sure it would work, but it involved using the parts from two different after-market bracelet manufacturers in order to arrive at a look and fit that I was happy with. 

I like the simplicity that you get with a simple three-hand watch. No date, just the time.
 

Okay, I think I'll wrap it up here for now. There's more that I could write, I suppose, but I'm running out of steam as well as inspiration right now. 

 

I hope you've been well this year so far, and thanks for reading!

October 2023 - The Eventful Month - Part 1| Short Trip to Saigon & The Watches I Wore

Alright, in an effort to reduce the spaces between posts, I've just posted the previous one and jumped right in to beginning this next one. 

 

I started this post on Tuesday, November 7th. Melbourne Cup Day. I didn't place any bets. I gave up on it a few years ago when a horse was being led back to the stables after the race and some idiot in the crowd waved a flag as it went by. This spooked the horse and it reared up and caught a leg on the railings between the track and the crowd. 

It injured itself so badly that it had to be put down later that afternoon. 

So no, I don't consider it 'the sport of kings' anymore.

The Trip

I mentioned in my last post that my wife and I were feeling a little burnt-out and maybe a short trip might be a good idea. Last holiday we had was back in March 2019, when things were simpler. Nobody was hand-sanitising or wearing masks on public transport. There were no 8:00pm curfews or lock-downs of the entire state. The elderly were not being admitted to hospital with persistent coughs, never to return home again. 

Travel bans had eased up back to pre-Covid levels. And we needed a short break from our hectic work schedules.
We decided a six-night stay in Ho Chi Minh City/Saigon would be a good idea. No major plans for sight-seeing. This would be a cruisy holiday where we would take things easy, get massages every day, and get around at a gentler pace. I arranged it through a travel agent in the city and the trip was booked for the first week of October. 

And, me being me, I spent some time deciding on which wristwatch I would be taking with me. 

I've had this solar-powered Citizen Eco-Drive Nighthawk for about five years and I've usually worn it for those occasions or purposes where it might risk getting knocked around a little. Handyman stuff around the house, bike rides, etc. This watch was what collectors refer to as a 'beater'. A watch that you'd wear when you don't want to risk damaging something more expensive or treasured. 

Because I hadn't worn this watch much in recent years, I decided to move it along and promptly sold it on eBay for about $35 dollars more than what I paid for it. 

A few months earlier, I had purchased a Seiko Prospex Solar Diver 200m (Ref. SNE585P) from a local jewellery chain because I liked the idea of a solar-powered set-and-forget quartz wristwatch, which would take over the beater duties of the Citizen Nighthawk. This would be the watch that I'd take with me, along with the Longines Expedition watch that I got back in 2011. I figured I might as well take something that was a little more dressy, for dinners out while we were away. 

 

Excuse the crappy photo. I adjusted the bracelet on the Seiko watch, but I wasn't entirely happy with how secure the links would be, so I switched it over to a rubber strap. That way, I could also adjust the fit of the watch throughout the day if my wrist swelled up a little in the heat during the trip. 

So, wristwatch(es) sorted. Next up, some reading material. I brought along a copy of a Mick Herron stand-alone novel titled Nobody Walks. This book is not part of his Slough House series (see previous post), but it does contain some characters from that series. In the end, I didn't end up getting any reading done. 

I had also brought along a notebook, with the view to writing a bit of a travel journal while I was away. I did do some writing - with mixed results - but I found that whenever I had the time to sit and write, I didn't really feel in the mood for it. 

My wife, meanwhile, had brought along some study notes that she planned to read and collate for an assignment, as part of her Master's Degree, which is in its final stages. 

 

All set. So here below is the transcription of my half-assed travel journal. For the sake of giving it a jaded ex-pat washed-up journalist vibe, I'll switch to Courier font. In Italics. 

And, with the benefit of hindsight, I'll probably add a little more than what I wrote at the time. 

Yes, I'm sure it's cheating.

 

Monday October 2nd

                The drive out to Melbourne Airport was calm and quiet. Our flight was booked for 11:30am departure. Our driver arrived on our doorstep at 8:00am. We used a limousine service rather than a cab. This costs about forty bucks more than a SilverTop, but you get a spacious car and the driver helps with your bags. We were travelling in a late model Mercedes-Benz and it was a very smooth ride. Looking back, I think next trip we'll probably just take a train into the city and then catch the SkyBus to the airport from there. It'll be way cheaper. And we can manage our bags ourselves. 

Got to the Departures Terminal with plenty of time to spare. We'd already done the online check-in the night before, so we proceeded to the shorter queue and checked our suitcases in, once again thinking that we may have over-packed.  

Mrs. Teeritz and I discussed ways of being slightly more savvy travellers while we sat in the airport's Brunetti Cafe with a couple of lattés. We haven't travelled enough to get good at it. 

 

By the way, excuse my handwriting. I'm writing this at 39,000ft. 

Destination is about 4,000 mls/ 6,400 km 

Time to Destination - 7hrs, 50 mins

ETA - 3:36pm

4 hrs behind Oz

- Flight a little tiring. Feeling sleepy.

I have to admit, I don't fly well. It doesn't make me nervous, but it does tend to knock me around a little. My tinnitus flares up a little, my ears block up due to the cabin pressure, perhaps. By the sixth hour, my head began to pound a little. I popped a couple of Panadol and counted down the remaining two hours, as I unwrapped a couple of sticks of gum to deal with the blocked ears prior to landing at Tan Son Nhat Airport in Ho Chi Minh City.

After getting our bags from the carousel, we got into the queue for immigration/arrivals and we were soon dealt with by an officious and very competent clerk who stamped the dog-eared page in my passport. I had purposely put the slight fold in the top corner of the page. It already had the stamps from our previous visit back in 2019 and, for the sake of continuity, I was hoping he'd stamp the same page. Which he did. Cool!

Stepped out of the airport terminal building into the warm Saigon air. It was overcast.

We caught a cab to the hotel* and I was again reminded and amazed by the way traffic operates in Saigon. Probably 70 or 80% of it is made up of motor scooters and it's an intricate ballet of two and four-wheeled vehicles which negotiate around each other at any given time. Our cab driver relied heavily on his horn, as he closed up gaps in traffic before too many scooters zipped up ahead to block his path. Red lights at intersections are a suggestion, it seems, as some scooter riders check left and right before stealing their way across, with little regard for approaching cars which have the right of way. The cars slow down to let them pass, anyway. You hear regular short beeps from scooter and car horns, but I have to say I didn't hear the screeching of tyres or the sound of crunching metal at all during our time there. 

Checked-in to the hotel at around 5:30pm. We were taken to our room and we sat down on the bed and made loose plans for the rest of the evening. We decided, as per usual, to head out and go for a walk to get our bearings. And to look for an ATM teller machine for some funds.

The one thing that took us a bit of getting used to again was the exchange rate. One Vietnamese Dong doesn't translate into any meaningful amount in Australian dollars. 

Basically, 10,000 Vietnamese Dong (VND) equals about $0.65 Aussie cents. So I had to jump onto XE.com more often than I wanted to. Since I carry pen and paper, I quickly jotted down a handy reference;

VND                           AUD

1,000,000                    $65.oo

   500,000                    $32.50

   400,000                    $26.oo

   300,000                    $19.50

   200,000                    $13.oo

   100,000                     $ 6.50

     50,000                     $ 3.25

     20,000                     $ 1.30

     10,000                     $  -.65

I didn't end up using the money clip, opting instead for a small leather RFID blocking credit card holder which contained my bank card, AMEX card, and whatever cash I might carry. This wallet was small enough to fit into my front pockets. I did feel weird carrying three million Dong, even though it only equated to about $195.00 AUD. 

We got back from our walk and decided to hit the small bar on the 1st floor of our hotel. After a quick look around, we took a seat at a low table. This would be where my wife would do most of her study while we were away. The waitress brought over a cocktail menu. I had a quick glance through it and didn't see the drink that I wanted. No big deal. I'd just order it anyway. 

She came back to us about five minutes later and I asked for an Americano cocktail, which is basically one measure of Campari, one of sweet red vermouth, and then topped up with soda water, in a glass over ice. The waitress had a little trouble understanding my order. So, I ended up ordering a Negroni instead, which was listed on the menu. I don't mind Negronis, but it's a very on-trend drink at the moment and I like to take the road less travelled. 

It arrived about ten minutes later. Not bad, but I couldn't help thinking that they may have used Aperol instead of Campari because it had a light orange hue to it rather than a darker blood-orange colouring.  

Later in the evening, we went up to the 24th floor where the roof-top bar and pool were located. The floor below was where the gym and day spa were situated. It was good to find the spa, because we had planned to get daily massages during this trip.

We resolved to make a booking next day. We got to the bar and I ordered a Gin & Tonic. My wife doesn't drink. The air was warm as we sat there looking out at the cityscape under the night sky. Saigon is known for a plethora of roof-top bars and many of the hotels have pools on their roof-tops. That way, lower floors can be dedicated to rooms. 

After this, we went for another walk down the road from the hotel and found a Runam Café on a nearby corner. We visited one of these cafés the last time we were here. It's a small chain, but they make excellent coffee. Truth be told, you really cannot get a bad cup of coffee in Saigon. Every place we visited made a great cup.

 

Tuesday October 3rd

                                             Got up around six am. My body clock is in business for itself. Went down to breakfast buffet. One thing that we began doing about ten years ago whenever we travel- always see if a buffet breakfast is included with the hotel room rate. You can sometimes eat a big breakfast, since there's so much to choose from, and virtually forego having lunch later in the day. 

My wife ordered a latté and it arrived soon after. It was very milky. We suspect that the coffee was Nespresso. It had no kick to it. No major drama. This city has more coffee places than Melbourne. A lot more. 

My wife likes her first cup of the day to be strong. I have to agree. Your first coffee should be an ignition key that wakes you up. 

Headed out for a walk after breakfast and we ended up at a café called Shin Heritage, which we visited a few times when we we last in Ho Chi Minh City. We had a couple of coffees, to make up for the lacklustre ones that we'd had at breakfast. After that, we kept on walking and soon got lost. Again, no major drama. Stopped in a another Runam Café and checked Google Maps on our phones**. Turns out we were 300 metres away from our hotel. We had a couple of cool drinks at this café. I had a Strawberry and Blueberry smoothie and my wife had a Lemon and Mint cordial. 

Later in the afternoon, we headed up to the hotel's day spa for a massage. It was in a quiet, dimly-lit room. I opted for the one-hour full-body massage and felt like jelly by the end of it. 

We had the same the following day.

As I said earlier, this travel journal of mine was half-assed. A couple of days into the trip and I wasn't really keeping tabs on what we did. This probably had more to do with the fact that we had no real plans for this holiday besides walking around the neighbourhood and taking things easy wherever possible. As such, the journal and our photo-taking took a back-seat to us just being there with no definite aims set. 

One day three, we headed out. There are a couple of things that are abundant in Saigon. Cafés and roof-top bars, as already mentioned, and day spas. These spas all vary slightly in terms of services that they offer. Some do massage only, others offer manicures and skin treatments. Most of them have doorways that are situated on street level and you'll usually see two or three ladies sitting on stools outside trying to drum up business, with a casual "Hello, Madame" to my wife as we walk by. 

One such place had an entrance hall with a scooter parked inside it. Two ladies were sitting outside and they greeted us as we walked by. We stopped to look at the pamphlet that they offered us. Foot Massage Acupressure, Facial Reflexology + Head Massage, Manicure Polish, Foot Massage with Paraffin, Special Acne Treatment(!), Pregnancy Massage(!!??), the list went on. And on page three, A Body Relaxing Oil Massage for three hundred and fifty thousand Dong, which worked out to about $21.00AUD.  

We booked two of those for later in the afternoon. Twenty-one bucks was better than the sixty that we had paid at the hotel's day spa. And how bad could it be?

Later in the afternoon, we walked over to this day spa and were ushered up two flights of stairs in this wonderful old building to a group of small rooms. We pointed to the 60 minute Body Relaxing Oil Massage on the list of options and then were led to two tables in another room where we disrobed down to our underwear. Always leave your underwear on, thrill-seekers. Removing them sends a completely different message. That was not what we were after. And I got the impression that this was not that kind of place, anyway.

 

As regular readers may recall, I had bunion surgery on both feet back in September last year. Then, in March this year, I fractured a metatarsal bone in my left foot and have been feeling some pain in it ever since, due to the fact that I walked around with this fracture for ten days or so before getting it attended to properly. As a result, I think the fracture didn't heal properly. 

As a result, I didn't want my feet touched during the massage, so I  showed my masseuse a Google translated sentence that I had prepared before we arrived. In English, it was; "I had both feet operated on last year. Please do not touch my feet."

She read the Vietnamese translation and giggled. She had very limited English, so we explained it to the older masseuse - who spoke better English - and she explained it to my one. 

Later that night, I re-translated the Vietnamese sentence back into English and it read; "I am a magician. I had to send my brothers to another dimension."

Once we stopped laughing, I re-wrote the Vietnamese sentence in Google Translate one word at a time and got vastly different English translations each time. 

Vietnamese has numerous symbols above various letters. I had a feeling they would have different meanings. Back in my hospitality days, a customer told me that the Vietnamese word 'toi' could be pronounced five or six different ways, each with a different meaning. 

A quick question on Google yielded this answer;

Vietnamese has an extensive number of letters with diacritical marks to make tonal distinctions.

 

There you have it. That explained the giggling. She must've thought I was crazy.

 

Anyway, I once read that when you're getting a massage the idea is to relax and just focus on the area that is being worked on. I lay on the table, with my face in the cut-out and began to relax as my masseuse worked on the back of my neck and shoulders. My wife was on the table alongside mine and I heard her masseuse say; "You are very strong." Lady Teeritz does light workouts throughout the week with the weight set that we have out in the car-port. She has sometimes recounted to me the story about actress Linda Hamilton who, when she began training prior to filming "Terminator 2: Judgment Day" in 1991, stated that she wanted to get 'a better back than Madonna's'. 

 

By the end of it, I could have fallen asleep there and then. I felt like jelly. My eyes were bleary as I gingerly got off the table and got dressed. My wife felt the same. We had found our preferred place for massages for the remainder of our trip.

 

During our time in Saigon, my left foot didn't really hurt all that much. Was it the warm weather? I also thought that the high humidity in Vietnam might affect my asthma, but I found no issues with my breathing while we were there. My wife said her eyes didn't feel as dry as they do back home. Her hair did go a little frizzy, though. Not something that I myself had to worry about.

We didn't take many photos this time around. We figured we'd take a holiday from doing so. Therefore, I'll just include a few pics from the time we were here back in 2019. For atmosphere.

I wanted to visit the Hotel Continental again. This is where author Graham Greene stayed, in Room 214 while writing The Quiet American in the early 1950s. Maybe we'd have a drink at their Bar Du Jardin. This time around, the bar was closed to the public. So we headed to the gift shop, which was also closed, and I asked at the reception desk if they still sold the coffee mugs with their logo on it. I had bought one the last time we visited. 

They informed me that these were no longer available. Ahh well...

Here's a shot of the Opera House, a grand old building located near the Continental Hotel. This time around, on the evening we walked by, there was a large crowd gathering outside waiting to be ushered in for some performance that night. A newly-wed couple stood on the steps to have some photos taken, while other random visitors took selfies nearby, with the facade of the Opera House in the background. 

 

At some point during this trip, two things happened to me; my stomach began feeling a little dodgy and I got some kind of skin rash on my forearms and neck. 

My wife and I retraced events, to see if we could determine the cause. We narrowed it down to the day before. We had been walking around the city streets and by around 2:00pm, I was feeling quite hungry, to the point where I was a little light-headed. We had yet to try any of the street food vendors and as we stood on a street corner looking for some place to eat, a young man approached with a laminated menu and I took a quick look at it. Some type of barbecued pork on a skewer. Yep, that would do. My wife's appetite in hot weather tends to diminish, but I was quite ravenous by now. So, the young man led us upstairs to a large dining room and we took a seat at a large table. The place was empty. Was that a sign? I ordered two of the pork skewers and a lemonade. My wife didn't have anything. 

The skewers arrived soon after I placed the order. They were nice. "Are they hot?", my wife asked. 

"Just above warm", was my reply. 

"Be careful, T", she added. 

Once I was done, an older lady brought me the bill and a refresher towel in a sealed sachet. I was feeling the humidity, so I used this towel to wipe down my forearms and the back of my neck to cool off a little. 

Next morning, I felt a little queasy at breakfast and just had some buttered toast and fruit. Looking down at my arms, I noticed a reddish rash and it was slightly itchy. My wife saw that the back and sides of my neck looked pinkish and goose-bumpy. Playing detectives, we reasoned that maybe the warm pork might not have been a good idea and the refresher towel was probably not free of parabens, which I'm allergic to. 

The street food in Vietnam is generally safe to eat, as long as it's hot. Another tip would be to eat from a street vendor where the locals are eating. I'll know for next time. 

So, my appetite took a nose-dive for the rest of the trip. 

We had our massage in the afternoon and while my masseuse was working on my shoulders, I felt her pause for a moment and then felt a finger drag slowly along the back of my neck. She then left the room. Was she getting an axe? 

She returned a few moments later and a felt a cream being applied to my neck and rubbed in. Within a couple of minutes, the itchiness subsided.

 

Friday October 6th

                                             Haven't really kept a travel journal this trip. Too tired or busy. That's okay, though. This holiday was all about taking things easy. Got back onto cigarettes, with very mixed results. I said to my wife a while ago that I'd only smoke when I travel. Silly idea. Takes too long to get off them once I return home. My handwriting's crap, by the way. 

 

Needless to say, a few ugly Australians staying in town, so Mrs Teeritz and I are being our usual selves by counteracting their poor behaviour. We had a quick lunch at My Bahn Mi, a small place that specialises in these pork or chicken filled bread rolls with lettuce and seasoning. A couple came in and sat a few tables away from us. The male was a large, heavy-set guy with close-cropped blonde hair. He ordered a beer. A few minutes later, the waitress brought over a beer bottle in one hand and a frosted tall glass in the other. As she attempted to place these items on the table in front of him, this fellow snatched the bottle from her hand while pushing her other forearm away, indicating that he didn't want the glass. He then polished off half the bottle in one swig and said to her; "Haven't you got bigger bottles?"

The bottle in his hand was a standard 355ml. Very poor behaviour, buddy. Very poor. 

I don't know why it's so hard for some people to remember that they are a guest in a foreign country and should, therefore, present the best of themselves. 

Then again, maybe that WAS the best of him.

 

My appetite was a little better, so I figured I could eat a chicken Bahn Mi without any issues. 

For dinner, we went to the Runam Café near our hotel. My wife ordered a salad and I just ordered some fries. Her plate arrived about fifteen minutes later. Another ten minutes went by. Then another five. My wife called the waitress over and we mentioned that we had ordered some fries also. Shortly afterwards, the manager came over to offer his profuse apologies for the delay. We said it was fine, no problem. Being a hospitality industry veteran, I know that these things happen. We assured him that it was no major drama. He apologised again before retreating. 

My fries arrived about five minutes later. All good. Afterwards, we ordered coffees. A latté for my wife and an affogato for me.  

'Affogato' means 'drowned' in Italian. You basically take an espresso coffee and add a small scoop of vanilla ice cream to it. Drowning it. The ice cream melts, resulting in a creamy golden brown coffee. 

They brought the coffees over. My affogato had a small scoop of vanilla ice cream in it, a little smaller than a golf ball. Then the waitress put another small bowl down in front of me. It had seven or eight more scoops of vanilla in it, with some maple syrup drizzled over it. 

"You sure you'll manage?", my wife asked me with a raised eyebrow as I dipped my teaspoon into the ice cream.

Saturday October 7th

Our final night in Saigon. My handwriting is on holiday also, it seems. 

Today was good. 90 minute massage, light lunch and then to the Rex Hotel for a beer at their roof-top bar. Hot day and not much cooler while we sat there talking about future travel plans. Slow walk back to the hotel. Mrs Teeritz has been the best travel companion.

Wonder if I'll try an egg coffee before we leave? My stomach has been a little stand-offish this trip. I may have lost a kilo.  

 

We had no firm daily plans during our time in Ho Chi Minh City/Saigon this time around. We had gotten a little burnt-out by our respective jobs and this trip was all about taking a breather and recharging our batteries. 

This trip pretty much did that for us.

*We caught a cab to the hotel...

                                                                         

The driver took us for a ride. Really took us for a ride. I was watching the meter while he drove. Towards the end of the journey, it was showing around 2 million Vietnamese Dong, which worked out to about $125AUD. Ouch! 

Feeling head-achey still from the flight, and reasoning that the Aussie limo to Melbourne Airport back home cost a little more, I figured this was a standard cab fare here in Saigon. First mistake. I should have remembered that a lot of things in Saigon are cheaper than back home. 

As we stepped out of Tan Son Nhat Airport, a young lady in corporate black trousers and crisp white shirt asked us if we wanted a taxi. I replied "Yes, a Vinasun taxi, please". Vinasun is one of the few authorised cab companies in Vietnam. She led us over to a cab rank and a driver quickly helped us with our bags. 

"Does the cab have a meter?'', my wife asked me under her breath.

"You have a meter?", I asked the driver as he came around and held the back passenger door open for me.

"Yes, yes, have meter", he replied as he made his way around to the driver's seat.

Second mistake - the cab didn't have the Vinasun livery across its doors.

So, after a half-hour drive - which felt longer than I remember -  where he steered with one hand while checking his cell-phone with the other, we arrived at the hotel and I counted out the Vietnamese Dong that I had brought with me. This money was left-over from our previous trip in 2019. I counted it out. One million eight hundred thousand VND.

Not enough.

"You have Australian dollar?", he asked, a little too hopefully. I had a hundred and ten bucks in my wallet. I handed it over to him while I asked my wife if she'd brought any AUD with her. She hadn't. 

Then I remembered my mobile (cell) phone. I keep it in a leather flip-wallet and, behind the phone itself is an emergency $20 note, designed to get me a cheap lunch and coffee if I ever leave the house without my wallet. I don't do the pay-with-your-phone schtick that I see 90% of people doing these days. 

I fished this folded note out from behind my phone and handed it over to him. The fare was $120AUD and I gave him $130.00; "And ten for you",  I said. 

Seven days later, when it was time to head home, our hotel's Concierge ordered a Vinasun taxi for us. The driver helped with our bags and got us to the airport in about 20 minutes. Then he turned to me and said; "One hundred fifty six thousand."

Had I heard him correctly? Hundred and fifty six thousand VND? That worked out to about twelve bucks AUD. I asked him again; "One hundred and fifty six? Thousand?"

"Yes, one, five, six", he replied.

I gave him about 220,000.oo VND, which covered the cab fare and left him with a four dollar tip, which seemed to make him happy. He fished our cases out of the boot (trunk) and bid us farewell. 

I stood there at the terminal. My wife said; "What's up?"

I explained the cab fare.

"You're joking. Oh my God!"

"Bastard", I said, referring to the driver who took us to our hotel a week earlier. "That bastard", I repeated.

"Do you know how many meals a hundred and twenty bucks would have paid for?", my wife said, shocked. "How many massages?!", she added. 

"That's it T, we're too old to be rubes like this. The bastard."

I hope that driver has ten kids to feed, and I hope they ate well that night. 

So, hepcats, if you need a cab from Tan Son Nhat Airport in Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City, ALWAYS look for a Vinasun taxi.

**Stopped in a another Runam Café and checked Google Maps on our phones...

 

Our mobile phone provider used to be Optus. However, they had a massive data breach last year and, for me, this was the final straw. I switched over to ALDImobile, run by the German supermarket chain which opened up here in Oz about a decade ago. My wife had already defected over to them over a year ago. 

Only thing was that ALDI doesn't have International Roaming from Vietnam. Strangely, though, they DO have Norway. You know, for all the Norwegians who call Australia on a heavily regular basis. 

No huge drama, we thought. We would FaceTime our kids while we were away...until it dawned on us that my wife and I have iPhones and the kids switched over to Android-powered Samsung Galaxy and Google Pixel phones earlier this year.

Another travel-rookie mistake! In the end, we wound up using Instagram video calling with our daughter, just to stay in touch with the kids while we were away. 

And we used free Wi-Fi wherever it was available. 

Which would explain the absolute bombardment of Spam emails I've been getting since we got back from this trip. I'm laughing as I write this. 

Either laugh or cry, buddy.

Laugh or cry.

Next trip, we'll get a couple of $200 dollar data cards for our phones from the Post Office and use them while we're away. A little more research required before then. 

Time to become a little sharper when we travel. 

That damn cab driver! 

Thanks for reading!

The Teeritz Clan's European Trip, Part 1 - Paris: "Effing Hell, All The Cliches Are True!"

Prologue

August 20th, 2016

                            Paris. The City of Lights. The city that I've visited through countless movies my entire life, from "Casablanca" (1943) to "G.I. Joe - The Rise of Cobra" (2009). 
The city with a tonne of history and a tonne of promise. And yet, I don't know what to expect.
Suppose I'll find out soon enough.

It would be a big trip for us, and it would be some time before we'd be able to travel to this extent again. Of course, if we were going to go to a country in Europe, it would make sense to visit another country as well.
You see, Paris was not the main focus of this trip, but merely the first leg.

(Warning: Some coarse language ahead)

                                                                  ***************************

This trip had been on the cards for some time. A few days after my Mother's funeral in April 2012, I called one of my Aunts in Italy. "When will you come to visit me?", she asked.

In all honesty, I hadn't given much consideration to traveling to Italy back then. I had recently switched jobs and my new gig was a real drag, the kids were young and the thought of a trip to Europe was perhaps the last thing on my mind. We had outgrown the house we were living in and all thoughts (and expenses) were directed towards doing some renovations with a view to getting a larger house at some point.

It was maybe a year later that my wife said to me; "We should think about going to Italy. It's important for the kids, to give them some idea of continuity with their grandmother. It would be good for them, and you, to meet your Auntie. And God knows we could all do with a trip."

Not much more was said. We devoted our time and energy to fixing up the house and putting it on the market. Once that was done, we began looking for a new house, which we ended up buying about 18 months ago.

Towards the end of 2015, life had calmed down enough to the point where the idea of an overseas trip began to sound feasible. We checked our finances and figured that we could do a trip without punching too big a dent into our savings. So, we planned a trip.

Since we would be going to Italy, the idea was to choose one other country to visit. No point going all the way to Europe and just seeing one place. 

We chose France as the other destination to visit. My wife looked into AirBnB and spent an exhaustive amount of time checking out places to stay. We sat down and planned the trip; five nights in Paris, five in Rome, and six nights in my parent's home region of Abruzzo, over on the Southern coast of Italy, across the Adriatic Sea from Croatia.
We would stay in my Mother's home town of Pescara. This would be the "beachy, relaxing part of the holiday" after what would surely be a whirlwind trip through the cultural riches of Paris and Rome.

The trip was booked for September 2016. This would put us on the tail-end of the European summer, but from all reports, there would still be plenty of sunny days in early autumn.  

And so, 2016 rolled around soon enough. I landed a new job in March and promptly told my interviewers that I had a three-week trip booked for September.
They quickly looked over at the planner/calendar on the wall; "Yep, that's not a problem."

Fast-forward to mid-July and I reminded my manager of my upcoming trip. He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then; "Oh yeah...I forgot."

And then he added; "Is this gonna be a regular occurrence?"

'Not on what you pay me', I thought to myself.

September 6th- My final day at work for a while and I was busy tying up a few loose ends. With regard to the day before you go on holidays, somebody once said to me; "Don't start nothing, don't finish nothing."

I understood what he meant and so I did as much as I could before I left the office that last day, but I knew I wasn't going to do it all. Everyone at the office told me not to worry. They'd handle things while I was away. 

Good enough. 

September 7th- I made sure that I had forgotten nothing as I planned and packed my suitcase. In retrospect, I had once again packed too much. Gotta learn to travel lighter.

September 8th- The flight to the Abu Dhabi stop-over would take off at 10:00pm that night. We were all packed and all set. A house-sitter would be coming over to look after the house and our cat while we were gone. She turned up at 6:45pm. Our limo driver was due to show at 7:00pm. Now, we ain't millionaires, but for twenty bucks more than a taxi cab to the airport, we got a driver with a comfortable and smooth-handling late model Mercedes-Benz, and he would help us with our bags in and out of the car, and he would be at the arrivals gate in three weeks to collect us when we land. 

We gave the house-sitter a bunch of hurried instructions and told her to make herself at home for the next few weeks; "Just lock the doors and feed Madame. And take things easy."

It was a smooth and trouble-free drive out to the airport. We checked-in our luggage and had about an hour to kill before we had to be at the departure gate for our flight. Stupidly, we went to Cafe Vue for coffees. Two years ago, we had a snack at this cafe before our flight to Thailand. My wife had a chicken breast sandwich and later felt sick in the stomach on the flight. You'd think we would have learned something from that experience, but no. 

This time around, I ordered two cafe latte and a hot chocolate. And then I got the bill. Eight bucks for a hot chocolate, $5.20 for a cafe latte that tasted like lukewarm milk with the barest hint of coffee flavouring.  
'What is this, a kid's drink?!', I thought to myself. Needless to say, I didn't finish it. Actually, yes I did. And I still didn't get my money's worth.  
"I realise it's a business, but I really feel like I'm paying their fucken' rent", I said to my wife as I took my final sip.

If you ever read this, Mr Bennett, your airport cafe is an extreme rip. 

Not much to say about the flight. I don't really fly well. Also, the difference in time zones meant that the dates in this post would be slightly askew, since I didn't re-set the time and date settings on my camera. So, as I write this post, I'm finding it tricky to remember exactly on which dates we did certain things. Both my wife and I kept journals of the trip, but the entries were fewer and fewer as the time went along. Too busy doing things rather than cataloguing them. Still, between the two of us, this post should represent a fairly accurate account of this holiday. And I'll be relying on my wife's legendary memory, too.

We landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, grabbed our cases, then a cab to the apartment we would be staying in for the next five days,

The road from CDG Airport to the city's outskirts looked very similar to the road from our own airport in Melbourne. To me, anyway. Long stretches of highway with light industrial buildings along the way. However, as we got closer to the centre of Paris, it finally began to feel like I was in another country.

Prior to this trip, I'd said to the kids; "Just remember, everything in Paris and Rome will look different to what you see here in Melbourne. The streets, the cars, the buildings, everything."

Although, I don't think I myself was truly prepared for how different these two European cities would be to the one where I was from.

Traffic was fairly heavy, but it moved along. On various streets and intersections, I saw groups of Syrian refugees sitting on footpaths, with crude cardboard signs held out.

This was now starting to look like a different Paris to the one I was expecting to find. No striped, long-sleeved t-shirts, Gitanes, baguettes and berets, oh no.
This Paris was a reminder of the entire situation that Europe currently finds itself in, with porous borders that do little to stifle the influx of immigrants from war-ravaged corners of the Middle East.  

We soon arrived at our apartment, located in the 2nd Arrondisement. It had a security entrance and was located on the third floor of a building in a short side-street. Our host met us out on the street and let us in before telling us that he had a bad back and would not be able to help with our cases.
"No problem", we said. 

And then we lugged the cases up three flights of tight, circular stairs. By the time we got into the apartment, our host wasn't the only one with a bad back. Thankfully, we would only have to do this once more, when we checked out.

We were shown through the apartment; "It has all the staples", he said, as he opened pantry doors in the kitchen. Upon closer inspection later on, I found a near-empty bottle of olive oil, a sticky container with some sugar left in it, and half a 250gm bag of coffee. 

"Maybe by staples, he actually meant 'stationery' ", I said to my wife.
I didn't find any actual staples either, for that matter.

We then freshened up and washed away 24 hours of Economy seating, in-flight meals (I had the lamb with vermicelli rice. Pretty good, actually) and recirculated air before hitting the streets to scope out the neighbourhood and find some place to grab a quick bite. It was about six pm. 

It was still light, the late afternoon sky was still blue, and, after landing in this city a couple of hours earlier, I was beginning to settle in to my surroundings and I came to a sudden realisation;

I absolutely friggin' loved Paris!

This is a city that was rebuilt back in the mid 1800s, following a directive from Emperor Napoleon III to his Prefect of the Seine, Georges-Eugene Haussmann.

Here's a more detailed account, courtesy of wikipedia;

Wikipedia | Haussmann's Renovation of Paris

Much was done to the city in order to create more housing for her citizens. For me, the most striking feature of these streets is that many buildings don't tend to exceed five or six stories. What this does is it gives the streets a lot more sunlight. It gives us all a lot more sky to see. And it means that you get some wonderful views of Paris.

Georges-Eugene Haussmann's visionary undertaking created a city that took the health, well-being, safety and quality of life of its citizens into consideration. I saw no skyscrapers and, from what I'm told, they are all pushed out of the city centre and are to be found on its outskirts. 

I have to say that I never got sick of looking at these beautiful buildings. From apartment houses to museums, this city contains some breathtaking architecture.

We found a cafe at a busy intersection and had a bite to eat. Thankfully, our waiter's English was better than our French, although my wife knows enough of the language to get by reasonably well in conversation. As we sat there eating, I watched the after-work traffic zip by. My God, so many Vespas on the streets of Paris. And most of the cars that I saw were either black or silver.  Yes, trust the French to coordinate the colours of their cars to match their wardrobe. Lots of traffic on the roads, but no shriek of car tyres or blare of car horns. Everybody drove politely. Made a refreshing change from where I'm from.

Oh, I should mention that the overall mood at the airport when we landed seemed a little sombre. No doubt the recent terror attacks on the city have had an effect. However, security is very tight here, and France appears serious about putting an end to these threats.
After dinner, we had a little more of a walk around before returning to our digs to grab an early-ish night. We were still a little frazzled from the flight and we wanted to start this holiday properly the next day.

Saturday, September 10th
                                          Today, we headed out to the Musee Militaire at Les Invalides. It was my wife's idea to try and fit one major activity into each day of this trip. Lord knows that there is much to see in Paris and only being here for five days meant that we would miss out on some things.
Upon entering the gates of Les Invalides, I saw two heavily-armed guards as I headed to a trestle table to show the contents of my bag to another guard. The guards cradled Famas assault rifles in their arms.
Nous prenons ces questions très au sérieux.

The Musee Militaire is a permanent exhibition which houses items and artifacts associated with France's military history throughout the centuries. Bear in mind that this is a country that honours its history, and this is something that you see on every corner of every street. 
To say that this exhibition was impressive would be an understatement. 
France has kept everything.

The collections of armour were vast. Absolutely amazing. There was an array on display in store-rooms behind glass windows, and to the side, one could see wooden shelves stocked with helmets, chest plates and gauntlets. You could be forgiven for thinking that France was preparing to invade England. Again.

The firearms collection alone could supply an army, and to see these weapons up close and in such well cared-for condition was truly breathtaking. The intricacy of their design and decorative embellishments were astounding. It would have almost been a shame to fire one of these things in battle.

And the attention to detail was staggering. Would have been a hell of a job making these suits of armour. Can you imagine the thought processes that would have gone into the design of these things? Having to make subtle changes to the shapes and joints in order to allow the widest range of movement during the heat of battle? While still providing protection for the wearer, making sure that no vulnerable part of the body remained exposed.

It's one thing to create something that has a specific use. It doesn't have to have any decoration because it is not used for ornamental purposes. It's designed to perform a particular function. Which is why I found it all the more incredible to see just how much decorative work had gone into these suits. Sure, they were probably made for members of royalty who were going into battle, but I still found the level of detail absolutely amazing, considering the cruder production methods that would have existed back then.

And when I got to the end of the first part of this exhibition and made my way to the exit, this was waiting outside;

I took the photo at an angle because I wanted to get the jousting pole in the frame. We continued on through Les Invalides and stopped at the cafe located on the premises. We ordered some ice cream for the kids and two espressi for ourselves, and I was disappointed to see the waitress walk over to a Nespresso machine to prepare our coffees.
We drank up and paid the bill because we wanted to get to the second half of this exhibit, the area where the wars of the 20th Century were represented.
It was another incredible display. Super-cool seeing a German Enigma machine.

 For some reason, I thought the Allied Forces had only ever captured three of these during the War.

A quick check on Wikipedia shows that quite a few of these were acquired throughout that conflict. Still a buzz seeing this classic symbol of wartime espionage up close.

And, of course, no military museum is complete without some sort of armoured vehicle;

And, given that this corner of the exhibition  concerned itself with 20th Century conflicts, there just had to be a typewriter on display somewhere. (Thought I'd try a larger font size to compensate for all the white space.) 

It was an amazing display and if/when I return to Paris, I'll go through it all again, at a more leisurely pace. Unfortunately, I would be long out of Paris by the time this next exhibition began:

Merde! That would have been grand.

Oh, I forgot the order in which we saw these!  My wife reminded me that we saw the first part of the military exhibition, then we stopped for the crappy coffee and then we visited another section of Les Invalides where the former church is located. This next pic is courtesy of wikipedia;

  
(pic taken by Daniel Vorndran/DXR)

It is here where Napoleon Bonaparte was entombed;

This is his coffin. Nowhere on it does it have his name. The scale of it was truly extraordinary. And directly above this sarcophagus is the domed ceiling;

My God, only day one! Okay, moving on. This was an amazing place to see. If you ever get to France, go to this museum. It is, in many ways, a truly humbling experience.

                     

On the way back to our digs, we crossed one of the love-lock bridges that cross the River Seine. Despite my film noir/hardboiled exterior, I'm a sentimental old fool (is 50 considered old, you young punks?), so I naturally found this practice to be delightfully whimsical. Some of these bridge sections are covered in padlocks, attached by people in love from all around the world. The custom is to throw the key into the river after attaching the lock.
In 2015, city officials ordered the removal of these locks, as the sheer weight of them could lead to structural weakness, but this has not deterred some people, who have found ways to get around the new measures put in place to prevent any further locks being put on the city's bridges.

Pics or it didn't happen.

And this was the typewriter. I don't know the brand. May have been a Japy, but this could just be me inventing a memory of something that never happened. That happens sometimes.

Here's the note that I typed out. Ain't gonna win any awards for originality. And did I say that I used a page out of my Moleskine notepad?  
Memory is sketchy. 
I wonder if this note is still stuck on the ceiling of that tiny alcove? Maybe next time, I should bring some drawing pins. And a little more imagination.

We had dinner in the early evening and then headed back towards the Seine for a river cruise. It would be an hour-long trip that would take us along the river right past the Eiffel Tower. However, I didn't want to see this famous landmark in this way.

Naturally, it was always part of this trip to go and see the tower, but I wanted my first close-up view of it to be from the ground. I wanted to experience the grandeur of it, and I felt that this could only be done as you approach it on foot and the sheer scale of it reveals itself to you as you get closer.
And so, I resisted the urge to look up at it as the boat skimmed past. I put on my sunglasses and busied myself writing these passages that you are now reading (yes, I wrote it all in past tense, including mention of the fact that you are now reading it) into my Moleskine.

The boat soon made a slow U-turn and we were headed back to the jetty where we first boarded. On the return journey, my wife and I noticed all the people that were scattered along the banks of the Seine. There were little clusters of people sitting cross-legged, engaged in conversation. Or debate, as I saw some of them waving their hands in the air while they spoke. Couples sat close together,  dark wine bottles clearly visible between some of them. Others blew out plumes of cigarette smoke.
Further along, we heard tango music as a man in denim swung a girl around a make-shift dance floor. She wore a skirt and sweater. There were trestle tables near them and many people watched as they danced.
My wife said to me, sotto-voce; "Fucking hell, all the cliches are true!" It was uttered with admiration. I knew exactly what she meant. I had already seen numerous couples embracing and kissing, framed in the shadows of Art Nouveau apartment doorways. I had seen various French men and women walking the streets in  late afternoon,  dressed in sharp casual corporate-wear, some with a cigarette dangling insouciantly from their lips. And they all seemed to exude an air of nonchalance that we don't see much of back home in Australia.                                                                        

For quite a while now, I've been thinking that stress can be a real killer, and I've resolved to try dealing with it a little more effectively. So far, so good (to an extent), but it seemed to me that the people of France have a better outlook on it. I'm sure they worry about their jobs, mortgages, health, relationships, etc, as much as the rest of us. It just appears to me that they don't let it show so obviously.
More power to them, and I resolved to try taking a leaf out of their livre. 
It was a warm evening. The sun was setting, the weekend was winding down for the people of Paris and they were just taking things easy for the last few hours of their Sunday.
It was nice to see. La vie est belle.

Monday, September 12th
                                          The plan this morning was to head over to the catacombs;

The Catacombs of Paris (French: Catacombes de Paris,   (help·info)) are underground ossuaries in Paris, France, which hold the remains of more than six million people^[1] in a small part of the ancient Mines of Paris tunnel network.

(Thanks again, wikipedia!)

We hit the street and started walking, with a view to hailing a cab as soon as we saw one for hire. We never saw one, and so ended up walking for ninety minutes till we got to the Catacombs entrance. On the way, though, we stopped at a typically French cafe to get a caffeine recharge and a glass of water.

We got to the building where the catacombs were meant to be, and then spent a few minutes circling the building until we found a very discreet entrance. Which was closed. The catacombs aren't open on Mondays.
Okay, Plan B. Always have a Plan B, folks. We didn't have a Plan B.
No matter. Lady Teeritz and I huddled and discussed our next move.
The Pantheon?  Too far away.
Notre Dame? No, madame. We'd already passed it earlier and the line to get in was way too long. Our plan with Quasimodo's workplace was to get there early in the morning and avoid the queues of selfie-sticks with iPhones on one end and idiots on the other.
Besides, we had pencilled in Notre Dame for another day.
"What about Galeries Lafayette?", suggested my wife.
"Okay, cool, done", I replied.

Galeries Lafayette is a shopping centre. We caught a cab (yeah, finally. Thanks!) and the driver was a cool-looking guy in jeans and white t-shirt. He had wavy grey hair and wore glasses. He basically looked like a film star in his third decade of stardom, Richard Gere-style. He spoke a small smattering of English and, between this and my wife's basic French, a conversation ensued. It was all very friendly.
He dropped us off near the entrance to the centre.We walked in and had our bags checked by security. Once inside, it looked like any other large, upmarket shopping precinct, with cosmetics kiosks for Chanel, Mac, Yves Saint-Laurent, etc, all scrambling to separate ladies from their hard-earned Euros.
But then, you look up towards the ceiling and;

It all begins to look like the balcony seating of a 17th Century theatre. Now, we weren't really there to shop, so we took the escalators up and up until we arrived at the cafeteria. It was getting on for 1:15pm and we were starving.
The cafeteria here offered everything from a sandwich to a steak. I had fish, nicely grilled while I waited.
I ordered an espresso afterwards and quickly downed it before we headed up the the rooftop. Here's the sort of views that we had from up there. From the rooftop of a department store. 
I'll say that again- A DEPARTMENT STORE;

We slowly made our way back to our apartment, making a few stops along the way. We stopped off at a nearby Monoprix store to grab some cheeses and stuff so that we could have a relaxed and early dinner. Monoprix is great. Anyplace where you can buy a Rhodia notepad and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin is a-OK in my book. Downstairs, it's like a Target store. Alongside this, there's a bakery, and upstairs, a supermarket for groceries and alcohol.
I once read that the French don't tend to do big grocery shopping, but rather, they prefer to do 'top-up' shopping throughout the week, buying only what they may need for a particular meal. Anyone who's lived there, please correct me if this is not the case.
Anyway, we got back to the apartment and had a quick and informal dinner before making a twilight visit to the Eiffel Tower.
Yes, thrill-seekers, it was time.

We got down to the street after our meal and hailed a cab. No ordinary cab, by the way. Nope, this was a black, late-model Mercedes-Benz, driven by a small man who may have been Ethiopian. He looked around sixty, with a thin moustache and dark eyes, and he wore a dark suit and tie with a crisp white shirt. He looked perfect.
The trip took about 20 minutes. We drove through a tunnel that felt familiar to me. Strange, since I'd never been to Paris. Well, not in this life, anyway. It looked like the one where Princess Diana and Dodi Al Fayed perished back in 1997, along with their driver, Henri Paul.
Moments later, we passed through another one and the familiar feeling felt stronger. The cab driver then said; "Lady Diana accident here."
Of course. I recall the endless news footage of the tunnel.
And I felt the hair on my arms stand on end.
With my fraction of French, I replied; "In une Mercedes noire."
The driver tilted his head slightly and raised an eyebrow, as we continued along.
In a black Mercedes- Benz.

As we approached the Tower, our driver opened up the sunroof to draw our attention to this landmark and Lady T said to the kids; "He hasn't looked at it yet. He keeps averting his eyes." 
Avert my eyes I did. I didn't want to see the tower from a boat the day before and I didn't want to see it from a cab tonight, even if it was a Merc. It was actually quite difficult not to look at it. I could sense the Tower in the periphery of my vision. It was compelling me to turn and look at it. A 300 metre, wrought-iron visual siren-song.
Like I said, I wanted to see the Tower for the first time from a certain perspective.

The driver pulled up at the entrance gates. The place was jammed with people. Hawkers selling bottles of warm water, selfie-sticks (how I learned to absolutely hate those things!), and ,bizarrely, these little sling-shot contraptions that fired a ball up into the air that would reach the apex of its ascent, then split open and gently float back down to earth on fluttering propellers. How very French...not!
I paid the driver (and tipped) as I carefully avoided looking up to my left. I took a few steps before my resolve weakened. So, I turned to look at the Eiffel Tower and it looked breathtaking!

I stood there staring up at it, reaching for my camera as a flood of movie scenes overlapped through my mind. Roger Moore's Bond chased Grace Jones up its staircase in A View To A Kill, aliens vaporised it in Independence Day, a climate catastrophe covered it in ice in The Day After Tomorrow, it converted into a steampunk's dream in Tomorrowland, and even Russian terrorists toppled it in Call of Duty- Modern Warfare 3 on the Playstation 3.

However, make no mistake. Once you've seen this thing up close, nothing will ever destroy it.
The spell was broken by my son saying; "Dad, come on, Mum and ***** are waiting!"
Of course, I couldn't stand there all night. We had come to get to the top of this tower, not to stare at it from below. I took another look at the throngs of people everywhere. The cynic in me hoped that I wouldn't see the worst of human nature tonight. People can get selfish and rude in situations like these. Happily, there was nothing to concern myself with.

We queued up to get checked by security before getting into a longer queue for tickets to enter the tower. It was a warm night and, above the railings that herded us towards the ticket booths, there were  long metal tubes with what looked like steam emanating from them. It was only as you got closer to them that you felt a soft spray of water mist over you. These things were designed to keep everybody cool while they waited in line. I thought it a polite gesture on the part of the French. Merci.

We got our tickets and boarded the elevator that would take us the the first floor, at a diagonal angle alongside one of the tower's legs, before boarding a second elevator that would take us up to the observation deck at the top. Because, let's face it, there was no way I planned to walk up the 1,700 steps to get there.

It was, naturally, crowded on the top deck once we got there, but all you have to do is wait a few minutes and a gap opens up on the grille-enclosed edge of the deck as people move along. By now, it had gotten dark and the view was unforgettable;

And that's why they call it The City of Lights, folks. I took a bunch of photos, but the limits of my photographic skills were plain to see. I probably should bone up on photography one of these days.

We stayed up there for about an hour. I took snaps of the wife and kids, and the kids took snaps of my wife and I.
A lady from Mexico offered to take a family photo of us, which was nice of her. Annie Leibovitz was nowhere to be found, so I handed this lady the camera. I checked the photos later to find two extremely blurry shots of the Teeritz family at the Eiffel Tower. Ah well, I'm sure she meant well.

My daughter pointed to a young couple in a tight embrace. The girl had a small, black velvet-covered box in her hand.
She must have said 'yes'.

Afterwards, I asked the family if they would like to join me for a drink or coffee, so we stopped off at the small corner cafe near our apartment. It was a still warm, so I opted for a gin & tonic. The kids had Oranginas (like Fanta, but with a slight bitter aftertaste) and my wife had an espresso. 
Must say that I could see the appeal of these cafes that are dotted all over Paris.

Tuesday, September 13th
                                          I briefly toyed with the idea of heading back to the Eiffel Tower, but as time wore on, I thought about the queues and decided that it might not be such a great idea after all. My wife would try taking the kids back to the catacombs, since we missed out on them the day before, but I'll admit that I had no real desire to see them.
So, off they went, while I took a stroll to see where I ended up. I stopped at a Tabac and had a coffee. The Tabacs are everywhere. They all sell cigarettes and lottery tickets and they all have coffee machines and seating areas. I walked around a little more before heading back to the apartment.

We headed out later in the evening to grab dinner someplace. No firm plans, so we just walked until we found some place that looked interesting. We ended up at a small Turkish restaurant. Nothing fancy, it looked more like a take-away place, but the staff were friendly and the food was wonderful. They were deceptively small portions, but surprisingly filling.

Wednesday, September 14th

                                              Today was the day we would pay a visit to the Ile de la Cite,  for it is here that the Cathedral of Notre Dame is located. On a tiny sliver of island in the middle of the River Seine. We got there reasonably early and the crowd wasn't too bad. Although, once inside, I found it a little too crowded for my liking. Not only that, but seeing a whole lot of people in there snapping away with point-and-shoots and iPhones, actually began to put me off a little, but I couldn't pinpoint exactly why. I found this to be an impressive church, to say the least.

One thing about these church visits; while I'm in no way overly religious, I do have a respect for the extraordinary levels of engineering and building skill that would have gone into the construction of these houses of worship. My wife, who is a greater lapsed catholic than I, has an interest in old churches, from an historical point-of-view, so this is why we visited so many of them on this trip.

AND THEN SHE SAID...

Whoa there! Yes, Mr T, I am lapsed, but it's not all history-based (my forays into churches). I still revere the process of worship and faith and there's a church on every corner in Paris (and Rome too, for that matter) and they ALL have amazing pieces of art, beautiful marble floors and some quiet. 

It felt like a mini museum (less the crowds, hassle, charges and tourists) you could go in and out of at your leisure. That's amazing in such a big city and these buildings were loved and used. (Just didn't want to seem like some freaky history nerd there, I'm a bunch of fun!)

Yes, ma'am. Yes you are.


I looked around inside the church for a few minutes. My wife came up to me moments later and said; "I just lit a candle for your Mum and Dad, Tee." 
Bless her. One thing I did in every church that I visited on this trip was light a candle for my departed parents.
Because they would have liked that.

To say that Notre Dame was impressive would be an understatement. I'm certain that experienced travel writers have said it better than I ever will. I marveled at the sheer size of this church and the attention to detail and the level of craft that went into this house of worship. I took a few photos;

Throughout this entire trip, I saw places that had been built three, four, five hundred years ago, or more. And here I am, from a country that was officially founded in 1788.
Not to sound too trippy, but that kept blowing my mind.
It's not that I was surprised by it all, but seeing it up close really brought it home for me and it was astonishing to see such perfectly realised and preserved architecture still standing strong.
                           Below is a detail of some of the extraordinary stained glass of Notre Dame.

I didn't take a lot of photos here. I can recall looking around and seeing people inside Notre Dame with selfie-sticked iPhones and tiny point-and-shoot cameras and I instantly felt like I was desecrating this particular church by being so 'touristy'. I capped the lens of my Olympus.
There would be other churches to take pictures of before this trip was over.

Later, we headed outside and debated whether or not to go up to the observation deck of this historic church. By this stage of the trip, I was experiencing cultural overload and was beginning to get locations mixed up. So much history in this city!
My wife and daughter were feeling a little fatigued and my son wasn't sure if he wanted to go up a bunch of stairs to get to the deck.
So, we passed, figuring that we'd do it the next time we visit Paris, whenever that will be. Although, maybe we should have gone up there because the view would have been worth it;


Photo courtesy of and downloaded from www.wikimediacommons.org.
Attribution listed below;

Yep. Would have been cool. Who doesn't love a gargoyle, after all?

Outside Notre Dame, 25% of the Teeritz family took turns taking photos of the remaining 75% of the Teeritz family until a young blonde gal from the United States offered to take a pic of all four of us. Very nice of her, so we reciprocated by taking a few pictures of her outside the church. She was from the MidWest and was traveling alone. Very polite young lady.

We decided to take a rest-stop at a cafe across the road from the church. Military presence was extremely high at this Paris landmark;

I had a coffee and sat there watching people go by. Not all of them were carrying Famas assualt rifles. 
We took our time, figuring that we had all day, even though this was our last full day in Paris. We would be taking a flight to Rome later the next day.

We  decided to check out the BHV Department store.

As we made our way in the store's general direction, we saw this --->
It was a recharging station for hybrid cars. I had to marvel at the fact that this country was taking steps to assist owners of these kinds of cars. Not sure how one of these would go here in Melbourne. One day, perhaps.


We got to the BHV Department store and I had a quick look at sunglasses, but didn't see any worth pursuing. I was on a passive hunt for a pair of Persol 714 or 649 frames, like the ones Steve McQueen wore.  I'd seen a pair at an optometrist in another part of the city, so it looked like I'd be going back there at some point.

After this, we passed the St Gervais church, so in we went. Again, I was staggered by the artwork and statues found within;

That evening, we went out to a traditional French brasserie to have a traditional French meal. That was the plan, anyway. My daughter ordered pasta, I had a steak, can't recall what my wife and son ate. Actually, she tells me that they both had roast chicken. It was a great meal and the service was excellent.
                                                               

Walking back to our apartment, I saw this.

"All men die, but only some live." 

Existentialism on a street corner. Man, even the graffiti in this city is profound.

In the side street near our apartment, we saw a couple of  working girls plying their trade. One of them looked to be in her 60s. We had passed by her before. My wife commented that her skin was beautiful, and her perfume was fantastic.

Our host had told us a few days earlier that these ladies are very sharp-eyed and will often notice if there are suspicious characters in the area, especially if school children are nearby. He also mentioned that this older lady had once nursed his son when he was a baby. He added that these ladies don't like having their picture taken, not that we were planning to do so, anyway. I can understand why this would piss them off.
Truth be told, I actually have more respect for a prostitute than I do for a real estate agent. My wife just read that line and said I was doing prostitutes a disservice by mentioning them in the same sentence as real estate agents. With a prostitute, what you see is what you get, she said, whereas real estate agents are so full of bs.

Anyway, this was our last night in Paris. Walking back to our apartment, I asked if anyone would care to join me for a final drink in the City of Lights. My wife and son were tired, so they headed back to the apartment. My daughter and I took an outside table at the cafe 20 metres from the door to our lodgings. She had an Orangina and I had a gin & tonic, along with a Lucky Strike. When in Paris...

We sat there on this warm night and talked about the trip. She had had a wonderful time on this holiday so far, and I must say that she didn't complain once about all the walking that we did. I would imagine that there were times when her feet must have ached due to her having to take more steps than the rest of us, but I never heard a peep out of her. She was good company as we sat there chatting about the things we'd seen over the past week and the things we were yet to see on the remainder of this trip. It was a nice way to spend the last evening in Paris.

Thursday, September 15th
                                           Our departure flight for Rome's Fiumicino Airport was at 4:05pm. We got up reasonably early that morning and my wife and I made a quick pit-stop at the Monoprix to buy some bits and pieces for the apartment. Things like tissues, toilet paper, sugar, etc. We cleaned up the place, which was easy, since we didn't make a noticeable mess to begin with, emptied all the perishable food out of the refrigerator and put it all in a plastic bag. The plan was to give it to the first homeless person that we saw out on the streets.

"The Pompidou Centre!", exclaimed my wife. "We can leave our bags here for a couple of hours and take a quick look at it.", she added. 
I was a little tired, and the cultural overload of this city had worn me down a little, I must say. However, we were here in Paris, and the Pompidou was a five-minute walk from the apartment.
We'd make a quick trip to it and take a look.

It was an impressive building, to say the least. It's funny, but I'd always thought it would be some old 18th century structure. How wrong I was, as we entered this futuristic-looking facade.

We hadn't gone to many galleries. I wanted to get to The Louvre, if only just to stand next to the pyramid structure on the outside. I blame The Da Vinci Code (the book, not the movie). Dan Brown painted a very vivid picture in my mind of how this glass pyramid looked, and I wanted to get a first-hand view of it. It would have been interesting to have seen the Mona Lisa, without a doubt, but I had heard that trying to get a look at this painting would involve moving past it among a throng of other tourists just to catch a glimpse of it.
Either way, there's always next time, I suppose. We'd only scratched the surface of this astounding city.
There were some impressive artworks on display at the Pompidou. Paintings by Dali and Mondrian, for example. Although, I was only looking at them half-heartedly by this stage because I had one eye on the time and I kept thinking about our flight. We made our way up to the observation deck to get some wonderful views of the city. It was a cloudy day, but it all still looked impressive;

We headed back to the apartment afterwards to get our suitcases and say goodbye to our host. He informed us that the pedestal fan (which sat in the corner of our bedroom) had been broken. This was odd considering the fact that we didn't use it at all during our stay, and we told him so. I got the impression that he didn't believe us. I was tempted to let him know that I had left a fresh full bag of coffee in the kitchen, which was more than what he had left me, but that would have put a dampener on the trip.
We left positive feedback about our host on AirBnB. Yes, we were a little too generous.
He didn't end up leaving any feedback for us, l'idiot. My wife e-mailed him when we got back to Australia and asked him if he'd left us feedback and he gave us some line about how he'd missed the deadline for leaving comments. Not only that, but he actually replaced the packet of premium-quality toilet paper that we had bought for the apartment's next guests with a cheap-assed pack of single-ply recycled paper. Something I noticed when I used the bathroom of this apartment one last time before we struggled down the stairs with our suitcases. Our host has a bad back, remember?
"Hey, can we change the feedback", I asked my wife later.
"No. What's done is done."

Anyhow, we'd had a wonderful travel experience here in Paris and I wasn't going to let this little hiccup spoil it. And, as centrally located as his apartment was, we had already decided that we would stay elsewhere when we came back to Paris.

We quickly found a cab and made our way to Charles de Gaulle Airport. One the way, we passed by the Gare Du Nord train station. Man, I would have loved to have taken a closer look at that!
Next time. There will be a next time.

OBSERVATIONS

The French
                   Forget whatever you've ever heard or read about the French people being rude or arrogant. I did not experience one instance of this whatsoever. Everyone we encountered or dealt with was polite and friendly, and those who spoke a little English were very helpful to us.
Of course, as with anywhere that we've ever traveled to, it has always helped to know simple phrases such as "Hello", "please" and "thank-you". A little bit of manners goes a long way. We've always started off polite and we've never had a problem.

Obviously, I'm no expert on the people of France after having visited this city for only a week, but they gave off an air of a calm and relaxed attitude. I noticed the cafes doing a brisk trade at around six or six-thirty pm most evenings, as people mingled at curb-side tables over an espresso. Some folks stood at chest-height round tables nursing a coffee and small biscuit, with a burning cigarette waving in the air like a miniature baton as they engaged in conversation.
People walked briskly down the streets after work, but nobody looked like they were in a mad hurry to get home.
'I could get used to this', I thought to myself on more than one occasion.

The Beggars and the Homeless
                                                    There were a lot of them in Paris. I saw a Syrian family camped out on the footpath on our first day in the city. While we were out walking the next day, they were nowhere in sight.
While hurrying back to the apartment one day to get ready for dinner, I saw a very thin old lady lying on the footpath of a side street. She was eating some grapes from a plastic container. Her skin was very tanned, her grey hair matted, and her clothing was dirty and torn in places.
Some young jerk walked past her and said; 'Bon apetit.'
Maybe not all Parisians were charming. 
Out late one night, I was stopped by an old beggar who put his arm around my shoulder and then pointed down to his bare feet. "Look, look", he said.
I looked down. He had six toes on his right foot.
I gave him a couple of Euro coins, resisting the urge to say; "Pfft, that all you got? I have bunions on both feet that would make you shriek in horror."
I was stopped by a couple later that night. The man said something to me in French. I gave him the old "Excuse-moi, mais je ne parle pas francais", as taught to me by my wife at the beginning of the trip.
I offered him and his female companion a cigarette. They were now both standing at right angles to me. I didn't like their placement, since I couldn't keep a sharp eye on the both of them. He declined the smoke, but asked me for my lighter instead. Playing it safe, I handed over the green plastic BIC disposable. He thanked me and they went on their way.

Many of the side streets smelled of urine, I have to say. Perhaps the beggars were working overtime. Well, as long as they're keeping their fluids up. But even this didn't diminish this experience for us.
I'd go back to Paris in a heartbeat.

We made our flight to Rome on time. The plane took off and we settled in for the five-hour flight to the next stage of this trip.
So far, it had been a wonderful experience.

And I did manage to snag a pair of Persol 649S sunnies, too.






Thanks for reading!

TO BE CONTINUED...