Uruguay via Buenos Aires 2005 Part 2

My unexpected trip to Uruguay in May 2005 continues as I leave the capital Montevideo, which I found oddly deserted and subdued, and head toward the summer playground of Punta del Este, but in winter, and the UNESCO World Heritage town of Colonia del Sacremento. 

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Punta del Este marina – the one beautiful moment there

Punta del Este, the international jet set summer playground, was my next destination.  I figured I might at least be able to afford to stay there in winter, when in summer it would be booked out months in advance and too pricey for my wallet.  Since it is supposed to be such a popular vacation spot, I imagined beautiful white beaches and a lovely town with quaint attractive buildings.  Two and half hours away by bus and I was about to be terribly disappointed.

[From my diary:] This morning as I headed out of my Montevideo hostel to Punta del Este I could sense a change as I might be heading for adventure.  The bus terminal was modern and I had no problem buying the ticket or finding the bus.  We departed and arrived on time.  As we drove, the sun came out and I had high hopes it would remain so.  But here I am not in Punta del Este and it is overcast, the sky almost uniformly white. 

Punta del Este 3I found the hostel fairly easily (well, after many wrong turns and bad directions) and then set out have a walk around the town and some lunch.  I walked down the deserted main street, again feeling things weren’t quite right.  The town might be like any resort/beach town in the off seasons, think Ocean City, Maryland or Kitty Hawk, North Carolina in winter.  Very, very quiet.  Though Punta is supposed to be glitzy and expensive and trendy, I saw only old, worn out cars parked along the streets.  I had some less than fabulous pasta at a small cafe and then headed back to the hostel to get some guidance.  The girl in charge of the hostel was out and a man came downstairs.  He told me he didn’t work there but he’d been there for months and maybe he could help me.  My guess is that he was Uruguayan or Argentine though his English was almost accent-less.  I asked, “What is there to do here?”  “Sweetheart,” he said, “there isn’t anything to do here.”  I was amused at his “sweetheart” address to me.  It came off sounding rather cheesy and awkward, like he was just trying out its effect on foreign women.  He proceeded to tell me that I should have come with a friend or a boyfriend (thanks for making me feel alone buddy) and that he was there with “his girl” and they would be watching a video that night, maybe I might join them?  He pointed out to a beachfront from through the hostel front window.  “See that beach,” he says, “in the summer it is so crowded with people you can’t see the sand.”  I said that having a beach that crowded would not necessarily be a boon to everyone.  I asked about Cabo Polonia, where there are sand dunes and the country’s second largest sea lion colony.  Oh, don’t go there, he tells me.  Because it will be absolutely dead, there will be nothing to do.   “In the summer,” he says, “it is beautiful.  They have a naked beach and you can drink and smoke anything you want.  You can do anything you want there.”  Uh, we clearly have different ideas about what is “beautiful” and “fun.”  I wanted to see sand dunes and sea lions and enjoy stark natural beauty, not a bunch of drunk, stoned, naked people.  Such a shame to miss all that, I know.

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El Mano

I decided to just walk around the point.  It was sunny and not too cold and the walk was so much prettier than the Rambla.  Here at Punta and nearby Maldonado are where many wealthy Argentines keep large summer homes.  The walk reminded me very much of the walks along the ocean at Monterey, California for the climate and the architecture.  Each house was pretty and unique.  There was also a small port from where, in summer, boats head out to Isla Gorriti and Isla de Los Lobos, and in the winter the fishermen were selling fresh fish.  Sea lions swam around the colorful boats.  Around the point I slowly walked, with only a hopeful stalker bicyclist aiming to ruin it.  He biked past me several times.  At one point I must have made the mistake of saying “hola” while smiling.  He biked on ahead and then parked and got off to sit on the stone wall.  As I passed he smiled at me and patted the wall next to him.  Forget it buddy I said (okay I really said I don’t speak Spanish and he indicated that he didn’t care by shrugging his shoulders) and I walked on.  Around to the sculpture “El Mano” or as it is known in English, the Hand in the Sand – what appears to be five fingers of a giant hand, either reaching out of the sand or the last gesture of someone sinking away.  I thought it reminded me of the Planet of the Apes and the Statue of Liberty sticking out of the sand at the end.   I wanted a picture of me by one of the fingers, but there was no one else around.

Back at the hostel I have my dinner and watch a movie with Sweetheart’s girl.  I hit the sack early because I planned to leave Punta del Este as early as possible.

[From my diary:] My hope was to make the 7 AM bus to Colonia, but I slept long and woke up just five minutes to.  I had to settle for the 8:45 AM, which would get me to Colonia at 2:30 PM.  The bus ride was uneventful, I slept in shifts.  The sky cleared, then darkened, then cleared again. 

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Scenes from Colonia

I arrived at Colonia del Sacramento, the oldest town in Uruguay.  Founded in 1680 near the confluence of the Rio Uruguay and the Rio de la Plata by the Portuguese and later ceded to the Spanish, Colonia as it is known is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  Though it too seemed lost it time, it seemed more appropriate for it to be so.  I am not sure which time Colonia is supposed to be lost in, but it was by far my favorite place in Uruguay.  The weather was beautiful – when I arrived I first changed into a lighter weight long-sleeved shirt and my fleece and returned almost immediately to take off the fleece.  It was sunny and warm – around 70 degrees despite the leafless sycamore trees with their fallen dried orange leaves littering the streets as evidence of the early winter season.  There were actually some other tourists in Colonia, most probably on a day tour from Buenos Aires – located just across the river, 45 minutes away by fast ferry.  I liked the no pressure strolling around the cobblestone streets – some of them of very roughly hewn stone without much attempt at placing them closely and smoothly together – looking into shops.  No one pounced on me as soon as I entered the stores.  No high-pressure salesmanship.  I was almost disappointed.  In Asia I would have been lured, even pulled, in from the street and drawn into haggling for items I had no desire to buy.  But in Uruguay, the lack of customer interest or even customers at all seemed unimportant.  There was something aggravating and yet also pleasant in this lackadaisical approach to sales and life.  Things were unhurried and in Colonia it felt so very appropriate – with the eclectic mix of Portuguese and Spanish colonial and early 20th century with hints of the 21st – there did not appear any desire to rush the town into the modern era.  There were horse drawn carriages, 1920s and 1930s vintage cars, along with what I would guess to be early 50s vehicles.  A 2005 model would have been the outlier, not the norm.

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Door knocker in Colonia

I strolled for several hours through the streets, climbing up the lighthouse and along the ruined walls of an old fort, to finally stopping for an early dinner at a small restaurant with a view of the sunset over the Rio.  I was the only diner and I sat outside in the warm air enjoying the view and a steak.  The only disturbances were a dog that wished to share in my meal who was shooed away by the two waitresses who sat glumly across the street on the curb watching over me, and a poorly dressed old man who sold me two band-aids for five pesos.

It seemed almost too calm and relaxing.  Why wasn’t I more pleased that the dogs were not attacking me? That the band-aid seller was not more persistent and aggressive?  This holiday seemed unlike so many I have taken.

Back at the hostel I was savoring the last few pages of the book I had brought.  I had tried to ration the pages – I had not expected to have much time to read, and certainly not to finish the book.  I should have brought two or three books with all the time I had on hand.  Mostly I had spent the time I could have been reading in another favorite hobby of mine – sleeping.  I slept on the plane, on the boat to Montevideo, on the buses to Punta del Este and Colonia.  And still I could go to sleep early at night.  It was as if I was making up for all the less than adequate sleep for the past few months – and still with all that sleeping, I could not stave off the end of the book.  Three days left and a long flight back and I was finished.  But just then the woman sharing the dormitory came in.  I explained that I was leaving Colonia the next day but was debating between the 9:15 am ferry to Buenos Aires or to spend another quiet day in the town and take the 5:15 pm; however, having just finished off my only reading material I was inclined to leave in the morning.  She told me I should take the way back via Carmelo and Tigre.  I had no idea to what she was referring, and she told me there is a slower boat leaving from a town about an hour’s bus ride north of Colonia.  The boat would wind its way through the Parana River Delta and arrive in the suburban town of Tigre, from where I could then take a bus or train into Buenos Aires.  The idea of a more adventurous and less conventional way to return to Argentina appealed to me.

Colonia

Beautiful Colonia del Sacramento

And so the next day at 11:30 I took the bus north to the small river town of Carmelo.  I had about an hour to walk the town and buy provisions for the boat.  Again it was beautiful weather, so although I circled the same 10 blocks at least twice and I did not find anything of particular interest in Carmelo, I felt rather excited to be there.  The boat ride was again uneventful and relaxing, but this time I felt content because I could look out the windows at the brown river and the life along the delta.  I could step out onto the back of the boat and feel the sun and wind on my face.  It felt delicious, almost undeserved.  Within two hours we pulled up at the dock in Tigre and those heading onto Buenos Aires boarded the company bus.

Uruguay via Buenos Aires 2005 Part 1

In 2005 I was working in Washington, D.C. in my first post-graduate school job.  I had only been working for a few months and really wanted a holiday, but had not banked a lot of money or time off.  I also love me a random, new, out of the way destination, but somewhere I could cover a fair amount within a short period of time.  And for some reason, I honed in on Uruguay.  I do not remember why only I had not been there before, I had found a flight, and there was enough, but not too much, for me to see in a week.  This trip was most certainly something out of the ordinary.  Yet this was 15 years ago and I am surprised by how little I recall of the trip, not the beauty of Colonia del Sacramento or the travel challenges I ran into that led me to originally call this email story “A Series of Unfortunate Events.”

MontevideoWhy would I want to go to Uruguay?  This was the question posed to me by just about everyone to whom I mentioned my trip.  Why not go to Argentina? they asked.  Well as just about everyone knows I like to take holidays that are a little different.  I do not necessarily want to go to someplace that everyone else is going.  However, looking up some statistics, I came across a website that said that Uruguay receives more international tourists than Argentina, Brazil, and Chile.  This actually left me rather puzzled.  Really?  Where were they hiding?  But I think I may know how this happens, if you count every Argentine that goes over for a weekend of shopping, then Uruguay may indeed have more “tourists.”  I’d be willing to bet that 80-90% of tourists to Uruguay are Argentine or Brazilian, another 10% are the international jet set and celebrities a la Naomi Campbell, Leonardo di Caprio, and Claudia Schiffer that descend on glitzy Punta del Este in the summer.

But those realizations came later.

On a Friday afternoon, I began my unexpected holiday to Uruguay.  I had little expectations really, I just wanted to get away, but the excitement was building.  And quickly it was dashed.  Despite the existence of a direct flight, I had found a cheaper option through Chicago.  Unfortunately, this did not work out in my favor.  The flight was delayed out of Reagan National and, due to storms, also delayed landing in Chicago.  As we circled Chicago O’Hare, my overnight flight to Buenos Aires took off.   There was chaos in Chicago, many stranded passengers, and it took time to finally speak with customer service only to learn the next flight was 24 hours later.  I spent the first day of my vacation holed up in an airport voucher hotel dining at various O’Hare airport restaurants.

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Montevideo shopping street with a view of the old city gate leading to Plaza Independencia

I have to revise my plan.  I am dejected.  I think maybe I do not even bother going to Uruguay, because I am flying into Buenos Aires my plan is to take the boat to Montevideo.  I have no idea when the boats to Montevideo depart.  We touch down a little early at 10 am.  I think noon would be a good time to have a boat and I figure I might be able to race across town on a bus and get to the boat in time.  But I figured wrong.  The boat leaves at 11:30 in the morning.  I find this out around 10:45 in the morning when airport information informs me they tell me it will take 40 minutes to get into the city…  The next boat is at 3:30 pm.  I am momentarily stunned that my “plan” ( i.e. that was to have no plan) is not working.  Usually, I am very lucky when I travel.  This does not feel particularly lucky.  I concede defeat and book the bus.  I arrive at the port around noon.

My “plan” also included not acquiring any Argentine money; I figured I would just purchase the bus and boat tickets with a credit card and speed ahead to Uruguay.  But unfortunately, now I had three hours to kill in Buenos Aires.  In the boat terminal, there were neither open money changers nor left luggage facilities.  Very traveler-unfriendly.  I buy my ticket and ask if I can leave my bag at the travel office.  They say no but tell me to try at the information desk.  They also say no and tell me to try at the check-in counter.  He also says no.  But I am tired of hearing no, so I go back to the travel office and put on my sad traveler face and one of the guys goes over and bullies the check-in guy to let me leave my bag.  One little triumph.  A minor fortunate event.  I have two hours before I have to come back for boarding.  It is overcast and a Sunday.  It was as if I had flown into a Stalinist state during the Cold War.  There are not many people out and they are huddled in their coats, the shops seem half-empty on Avenida Florida, supposedly Buenos Aires’ main shopping street.  I change US$10 so I can pay for lunch.  I sit reading my book until it is almost time to return to the boat.  It has started to rain.  I am not in a particularly good mood, but then I think I am in for some adventure with the 2 1/2 hour boat ride ahead of me.

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Uruguay dining equals MEAT

Instead, the boat journey takes 3 1/2 hours and it is completely uneventful.  It is so overcast outside all we see is white from the windows.  No view.  It grows dark while the boat putters on.  I fall asleep for two hours.  When we finally arrive in Montevideo it is dark, around 7 pm, and it is raining.  I am one of the first ones off the boat only to have to wait for what seems a ridiculous amount of time for the luggage to come out and for everyone to file through the bottleneck through the x-ray machine.  There is no money changing places.  I am puzzled by this seemingly key tourist service lacking.  If it had been daylight – when I thought I would arrive – I would have walked some way from the port, but the guidebook says to definitely NOT walk in the port area after dark.  Suddenly, I am standing with two German guys who are going to a hostel.  I become one of their group.  I don’t know how it happened, I think a woman offering tourist information lumps us together.  That is fine because they seem to know where they are going.  There is a huge line waiting for taxis and no taxis to be seen.  The German guys suggest we walk away from the crowd and we hail a taxi just entering the port.  We pile in together and our driver proclaims we are lucky to hail his taxi because he says not so many Uruguayans speak English.  The Germans have an address.  We arrive at a building with no sign and buzz the doorbell.  It turns out to be a little retro hostel called Red Hostel.  Walls painted red, a small living room of sorts in front of the service counter.  Sofas, bean bags, a lit fireplace, low lights, and three computer terminals.  I get a dorm bed; there are only two other girls in the room and they are not there at the moment.  I never do meet them.

The next day I decide to head out into Montevideo, heading first for the Ciudad Viejo or Old Town.  I’m looking forward to the cobblestone streets and colonial architecture.  I decide to walk the whole way, a few dozen blocks is not too much for marathon-walking me!  But first I must finally get some money and pay for the hostel.  Walking down the main street, I think Avenida 7 Julio, I notice that nothing particularly stands out.  The stores are nondescript and actually many are not even open although it is by now 9 or 10 am on a Monday morning.  This is the capital of the country, where at least half of the 3.5 million Uruguayans reside, and yet there is very little bustle.  There are people on the sidewalks, there are cars and buses, but it just does not feel right to me.  I come across the main square,  Plaza de Independencia.  There is a large statue of Artigas, the Uruguayan independence hero, upon a horse.  The Plaza is almost empty.  A line of colorfully dressed school children is having a tour.  Two other tourists stop to take a picture.  I decide to follow the kids.  We pass through the old gate to the city.  I take a picture.  We are then on the main pedestrian shopping street but again it seems oddly deserted.  I feel as if I am transported back to Tallin in Estonia where years ago I also stepped off a boat from Helsinki to arrive in a town with a pretty central old town but surrounded by depressing Soviet-era buildings and boulevards and although the weather is nice, the people seem braced, huddled, unfriendly.  Except, this time I am in the Old Town of Montevideo and this one is not nearly as nice at Tallin.  There is a lot of construction, but it does not feel industrious.  Does this make sense?  I have the feeling that I am in a town that was long ago abandoned and people are now only beginning to return and rebuild their lives.

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School kids pass by Artigas statue on Independence Square

At the port, I decided that although it is just before noon, I might as well have lunch to give myself something to do.  And this is supposed to be the place to have lunch and not dinner because it is not safe here after dark.  It is not particularly cold, but the warm fire in the restaurant feels nice.  [From my diary:] So far my impression of Montevideo is not too favorable.  Thre are plenty of people living on the street, in doorways, in parks.  There is a dejected feel here.  Actually, the restaurant where I am eating is quite nice – a roaring fire to grill meats and vegetables.  Lots of wood and brick, warm, dark colors.  It feels very nice in here.  If only the music were not U.S. eighties hits.  That seems off, but again hardly surprising that the soundtrack to this trip (in the taxi, in the hostel, in the restaurant, in the shops) is American music.  I order Lomo or filet mignon.  I am in Uruguay after all and beef is the national dish.  Both Uruguay and Argentina are known for their beef, the ranches, and gaucho (cowboy) culture.  The steak is wonderful and I begin to cheer up.  This was all I needed, a good meal and now I can sightsee happily.  I go into the old market which is full of small restaurants with bar stools around large grills.  Meat, meat, meat hanging everywhere, cooking.  It smells wonderful.  I imagine the heat from the grills might be too much in summer, but it is just right now.  I head out and decide to go to the National Museum.

After a few confusing turns, I find one of the four buildings of the National Museum and go inside.  It seems nice enough but seems a strange collection.  There are no English explanations, but really there seem to be few explanations at all, even in Spanish.  There is a room of what I guess is of early man in South America.  Maps of the migration across the Bering Strait and through North and Central and South American.  A life-size version of an early indigenous man.  Some pottery and bones.  Another set of rooms have paintings from the colonial periods and early independence.  One room is dedicated to Artigas the hero.  But a “room” might be misleading as it was really a small alcove with a bust, a painting, and a mural with his words.  And strangely there was also another room with modern black and white photographs pasted onto three-sided cards on a table in the center of the room with a CD of new age music which seemed to alternate baby cries with erotic moans and heavy bass.  I have no idea what that room was supposed to signify.

I went in search of another of the four buildings only to find it padlocked shut with no sign indicating anything whatsoever about the reason for this.  Okay, fine.  I decide to take a walk along the Rambla, the road along the other side of the peninsula.  The guidebook said that this was a pleasant walk and one traveler had described it as the highlight of their trip to Montevideo.  That person was clearly drunk, drugged or had had an even rougher start to holiday than I had.  As I crossed the four-lane highway I had to be extra careful of the Monday afternoon traffic, barely making it across when the one car came barreling down the road towards me. Again I wondered if there had been an evacuation of the city and me and only a few other souls were unaware of this.  It was sunny and the sea/river was a bit rough.  It usually cheers me to see the water but the ugly high rises in the distance just did not do much to lift my mood.  I was beginning to feel sleepy and decided to just return to the hostel for a nap.

That evening I went out for a free performance of tango being offered at the Montevideo Cultural Center.  I found the building just in time and found a seat in a small crowded room.  It was like a small chapel in an old school, narrow, with pew-like seating.  Again even though I was in a room full of people, I felt as if we were lost in time, in a forgotten era.  I sat and waited for the singing and dancing to begin.  I sat there for 30 minutes and it never did start.  There was an announcer who brought two guys onto the small stage and they sat behind an old grand piano and chatted.  Occasionally the audience clapped and I joined in.  It was like watching a radio talk show.  I started to wonder if I had, in fact, wandered in on a town hall meeting and the tango was going on somewhere else in the building.  I thought to ask the guy next to me, but then the game would be up – I would be found out to be a phony, having just sat through 30 minutes of dialogue I could not understand.  I just got up and left.

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Horse-drawn garbage cart

Back at the hostel, I watched a movie with other guests while I planned my escape from Montevideo the following day.  My favorite part of Montevideo was NOT the Rambla, but instead two other things – my first exposure to the children’s school uniforms, which seem a cross between a lab coat and a painter’s smock: knee-length white lightweight polyester coats with large pockets, buttoned in front, with pleats on the girls’ uniform, topped by a large blue bow at the neck.  Add a black French beret on their heads and they would have looked the part of the quintessential French painter.

The second thing I liked was the horse-drawn garbage carts.  Throughout my walk around Montevideo, I distinctly heard the clop clop clop of horse hooves on cobblestone.  At night, on the wet pavement and in the semi-deserted streets, the sound romantically echoed of the past.  Finally, on the second evening while heading back to the hostel I caught sight of one of them, the driver leaping off the cart to grab bags of garbage and hoist them onto the back of the cart or tie them to the sides.  Even though the site of large plastic bags tied all around and piled high is not the most attractive sight, I could not help but feel a little delighted to find the source of the sounds to be something so every day as the garbage man, in the most un-everyday kind of way.

The Gift of Paris

Paris 13Following our epic adventure to Lapland (here and here) with our friends CZ and Little C, I surprised my daughter C with a trip to Paris as an early Christmas gift.  C loves Paris.  Even before I took her on her first trip to the City of Lights, C was already enamored with France and its capital thanks to several of her favorite Disney movies set there (Aristocats, Beauty and the Beast, Ratatouille) and several episodes of the Little Einsteins. 

In the Helsinki airport, I sat C down and told her I would be revealing her early Christmas present.  I had made hints for days and she was giddy with excitement though confused how I had managed to hide a gift from her and why I had checked our luggage without handing over the present.  I turned on my phone’s video camera and proceeded to tell her we would not actually be flying back to Malawi that day but were instead going to Paris and Disneyland!  Instead of the shouts of excitement I had expected, C sat there confused and stunned.  Hmmm…looked like the Mom of the Year trophy I had thought I would clinch had slipped from my fingers.

Lucky for me, as we flew across Europe C decided to forgive me for taking her to Paris and by the time we were landing she was thoroughly thrilled to be heading to Disneyland.

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Disneyland Paris’ Hotel Cheyenne

The previous time we had headed to Paris in the Spring of 2018 we had also stayed a few days at Disneyland Paris.  This time I opted for another one of Disneyland Paris’ hotels, the Cheyenne.  Although it seemed to be the final drop off location for the Disneyland Paris Magic Shuttle from the airport, we very much liked the whimsical, Disney-touch to a wild west theme.  The whole hotel complex was laid out like a western frontier town.

And we did what most people do when they go to Disney–we rode the rides, we watched the parades, we had our pictures taken with people dressed up as our favorite characters.  We also do what you might expect of people in our situation — Americans who spend the majority of their time in the developed world and have just come from the frozen north — we reveled in the Christmas-y and American-ness of it all.  We took full advantage of our hotel benefits, arriving early for the Extra Magic Hours and staying until closing.  We got to do everything we wanted and more except for riding Crush’s Coaster, which either had lines of over an hour wait or was not running.  But we just shrugged it off — we can give that a try next time we are in Paris, along with the other new attractions expected in the next few years.

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Great winter weather and Christmas themes greeted us at Disneyland Paris

After our 2.5 days at Disney it was time to head into Paris proper, and immediately we came face to face with the France outside of the Disney bubble.  Like during our last visit there was yet again another transportation strike affecting the metro and RER trains.  There then went my plan to take public transportation into the city so we called an Uber and enjoyed the roads with everyone else.

Once squared away in our lovely hotel near the Paris Opera, we grabbed some lunch and then took a leisurely stroll down to and through the Tuileries Garden to the Louvre.  C absolutely loves to draw and had recently had a brief course in some European artists at school, so I thought she might enjoy a visit to the largest art museum in the world.  I had read the best time to take younger children to the Louvre was during the evenings hours the museum offers twice a week, so Wednesday worked for us.  The weather was perfect, a little cold, but not nearly as cold as Finland, and the light of late afternoon just beautiful.  This was my fourth time in Paris, but I never tire of the majesty of the historic heart of this city.  C loved spending time in the Louvre; we caught the highlights — the Mona Lisa, the Coronation of Napolean, the Winged Victory of Samothrace, Venus de Milo, and Egyptian antiquities — and C found a few favorite paintings of her own.  I really loved seeing her make careful selections in the gift shop based on the art she most enjoyed.4 Beautiful Paris evening

On our second day in the city, dawn broke beautifully.  With the metro schedule up in the air due to the strikes, we would spend the day walking.  Our first stop would be the Arc de Triomphe, a 45-minute walk from our hotel.  There were no lines, something that seems almost unheard of in Paris, so we headed right up to the roof.  Despite the overcast skies and some rain, the view was still spectacular, even dramatic.  I felt really happy to be in Paris with my girl.

We walked on to the right bank of the Seine at the Pont de l’Alma where we got some lunch in a lovely corner restaurant.  My initial plan was for us to continue on to the Eiffel Tower, but we had already done quite a lot of walking, so instead, we headed to the Bateaux Mouches for a guided river tour.  This was something we had planned for last time but had been nixed due to floods rising the Seine water level too high to get under some of the bridges.  It was nice to get out of the cold and sit back, relax, and enjoy floating past the beauty of historic Paris.  C liked the sweets I bought her, sitting down with her toys, and occasionally looking out the windows.

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The T-Rex art installation at the Bateaux-Mouches pier

The weather had cleared by the time the boat returned; it was lovely for a walk.  But as we headed up Rue Royale, just off of the Place de la Concorde, I caught a couple trying to steal my wallet.  The sidewalk was narrow and I could sense the people behind us were walking very, very closely.  I figured they wanted to pass, so I pulled C over to the building wall to let them by, and in so doing pulled my handbag, which was over my shoulder, back to my side.  And it was then I noticed that the zipper on my bag was undone and my wallet half-way out.  The couple–a very tall man and a petite woman, both dressed very well–immediately began to play out a ridiculous drama, pointing at shop signs in an exaggerated manner and then they ducked into the nearest store.  But I walked only a little ahead of that shop and sure enough, they popped back out within 30 seconds.

There were no police around.  They had not succeeded.  There was little I could think to do.  I rooted around in my bag and could not see anything was missing.  But I felt violated nonetheless.   The whole rest of the walk back I could not stop obsessing about what had just happened, what could have just happened.  And trying to explain this to C – why people would do this and about my reaction.  I have been many, many places in the world, at least 90 countries, and only once did someone succeed in pick-pocketing me – in China.  On two other occasions, in Jakarta and Rome, someone tried but I caught them.  I feel as if this is a good thing, and yet the whole situation only left a bad taste in my mouth.

Once back in the hotel room, I did not feel like going out again.  But we did not like the room service menu, so I opted to head out to the supermarket around the corner.  I felt irrationally fearful; I clutched my bag to my body.  But just before the supermarket, I saw a family–a man, woman, and their two children–sitting on a blanket preparing to sleep for the night, and something possessed me to ask if I could buy them something.  They did not speak more than a few words of English, so could not ask, but through hand signals, we worked out that the mother and the older daughter would accompany me.  They moved quickly through the store, I expect fearful that if they took too long I would change my mind.  When I found them in the back of the store, they had two full baskets.  I could see they also were worried I would make them put something back, but I just motioned them to follow me.  I paid for everything and we stepped outside.  The girl thanked me and then threw her arms around my waist and hugged me fiercely.  In broken English, I learned she was nine years old and they are from Syria.  I had a lot of conflicting feelings, so much sadness, anger at the pickpockets and the circumstances that brought this young family to the street.  These were different sides of Paris.

Paris 12

An exquisite view from Eiffel

The next day, our last full one in Paris, we were going to try to get to the Eiffel Tower.  The day started out overcast again, but the temperature was comfortable and we had a pleasant walk.  About 20 minutes out I logged on to the Eiffel Tower website to buy our tickets and saw they were all sold out!  Oh no!  I felt bummed– the second time to the city with C and both times we did not go up the Tower.  But once we arrived there, the line to buy tickets at the cashier was not long.  I guess so many people now opt for the skip-the-line-admission option that it can actually be possible to sometimes just walk up, wait ten minutes, buy your tickets, and ascend.

We opted for the lift up, walk down option.  Perhaps one day when C and I return we will go to the top, but I had heard the best views were really from the second level.  And once again we were rewarded with a change in the weather and stunning views across Paris.  I could feel the bad feelings of the day before evaporating with the sun.  C was a champ, she took the 674 steps back down in stride, even after all the walking we had already done.  We headed back across the river and dined in the very same establishment we had the day before, and it was just as wonderful.  Then we strolled back towards the Tuileries to visit the Christmas market.  I was happy to see the Roue de Paris (the Paris Ferris Wheel) that had been removed from its semi-permanent location at the Place de la Concord soon after our last visit had made a comeback in the Christmas market.

Paris 17The market was fun, festive, and chock full of many, many goodies.  C wanted to play fairground games as I have only once before let her do so.  After many, many tries she finally won – a cellphone holder.  Ha!  And then we hopped aboard the Roue for a few spins with a different view.  This time we could look over the Tuileries, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the Louvre, and the grand buildings along the Rue de Rivoli, again also with spectacular afternoon sunlight.  And as we left the market to head back to our hotel a double rainbow appeared.  It was a glorious end to an overall wonderful trip.

The following day we slept late and then caught a taxi to the airport (the hotel informed us that the Roissy bus to the airport would likely not run given it was a Yellow Vest protest day).  It was okay.  I did not want to run into anything else that might taint the memories of this trip.  Because I was pretty sure C had by then much forgiven me for giving her the gift of Paris.