Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 25, 2010

Danse a la Ville, or How I Learned to Embrace my Inner Introvert and Dine Alone without Feeling Awkward

My trip to France came together in a rather unexpected way; the opportunity essentially fell into my lap. Unfortunately, since my husband needed be at work (we were just back from our Laos and Vietnam trip a few weeks earlier), I would have to go on my own.  At first, the pack-animal in me was desperate to find other people to join me. I tried recruiting friends to meet me in Paris, but no one was able to clear their schedule and jump on a plane. I looked into joining up with a group bike tour in France for the week, but the Vietnam trip had severely depleted the vacation fund. In the end, it became clear that the simplest and most economical choice was to just spend time in Paris by myself.

To be honest, I didn’t think much about what it would be like until I was en route. People would ask me what I was going to do, and I would smile and say “Have a great time.” I didn’t spend time formulating plans. I figured one of the benefits to traveling alone was that I could do what I wanted, when I wanted. Traveling solo was a little outside my comfort zone, but it also presented some great opportunities, most notably, the opportunity to travel without an itinerary.

One thing I knew I wanted to do was go to museums. I loved the idea of being able to go to a world-class museum without having to drag along reluctant family members.  No one asking “Can we leave now?”  Just me, alone with my own thoughts, meandering along, taking my own sweet time. It sounded heavenly.

I also wanted to be able to spend some time working on a photography project I’d started a few months ago: taking pictures of people in paintings. It all started when I was at the Art Institute in Chicago with the kids. I’d been taking some pictures of the kids, then I started taking pictures of the paintings they were looking at. For some reason, I started focusing in on the secondary characters in the backgrounds of paintings. Why were they there? What value did they add? What might their stories be? I combed the Art Institute taking pictures of the nobodies in the backgrounds of some of the world’s most famous paintings. It became an interesting endeavor. In some paintings, the background subjects were carefully crafted and fully fleshed out. In others, they were merely the suggestion of people, shapes without faces.  Why put a person in a painting but not bother to give him or her a face? Conversely, why spend so much time creating a person only to tuck him or her away in a corner?  I had a great time photographing people in paintings in Chicago. I figured Paris would offer ample opportunities to continue the project. My main destination was not the Louvre, but the Musee d’Orsay. Alas, the d’Orsay does not allow photography. Well, I thought to myself, I’ll just bring the camera and see if I can get away with it.

As I got to the d’Orsay, I immediately headed to the Impressionist paintings. In particular, I was looking for some Renoirs. I found what I was looking for, Renoir’s Danse a la Campagne, a colorful scene of a couple dancing. Attention is easily drawn to the couple, their facial expressions, their dress. It appears they are sharing an intimate moment alone, in a garden, probably after eating dinner. Then, however, you notice two small faces in the lower left corner, another man and a woman. The man is looking off to the side, but the woman is watching the couple dance.  The faces of the observers are small and not easy to see at first, but there they are, added for a reason only Renoir knows. His companion piece, Danse a la Ville, shows a similar scene of a couple dancing, but they are alone, no audience can be seen.

The two paintings hang next to each other in the Musee d’Orsay, which makes the issue of the audience in the first painting that much more prominent. Why is that couple tucked in the corner in Danse a la Campagne? To show that the scene is not private?  Then why is there no audience in Danse a la Ville, even though that couple is obviously dressed for a night out on the town, presumably in a public location? What was Renoir getting at? That the anonymous life of the city affords more privacy? That in the country there is always someone watching your every move? Who knows? I’m no art scholar. I am just someone who likes to go to museums because they are quiet and no one bothers me and the paintings are pretty. When it comes to the deeper meaning, I have no clue. But I do like to take pictures. Unfortunately, everywhere I turned there were big signs on the wall stating that photography was forbidden.

I thought about discretely trying to snap a few shots, but the galleries were all carefully monitored by ever-present security personnel, so I didn’t even dare get my camera out of my bag. I tried to clandestinely get some pictures using my phone. They were lousy. In the end, I bought a postcard of Danse a la Campagne at the museum gift store. Not quite what I was after.

The day was not a total loss, though. The museum was wonderful, even without photographs, and what’s more, I had plans for the evening.  After so many nights of anguishing over eating alone, I finally had dining companions. I was meeting up with friends who were traveling to Paris after being in London. They were arriving that afternoon on the train, and it was their first time in Paris. I told them I would take care of our dinner reservation.

Now, Paris is full of fabulous restaurants. You could live there a year, eat out every night of the week, and still never hit them all. When it comes to picking a restaurant for dinner, it is almost hard to go wrong. But I knew what I wanted: nothing fancy, nothing too high-end, just a simple and delicious duck confit in a small, cozy setting. I had to go to Le Florimond.

I had been to Le Florimond on my last trip to Paris, stumbling upon it by accident. My husband and I were on our way to do some sightseeing when we were caught short by a rainstorm. We decided to skip whatever sights were on the schedule and take refuge in a restaurant for an impromptu lunch date. I, as usual, ordered duck confit (my favorite), and it was the best I’d ever had. The wine, the duck, the rain, the gracious greeting we got from the host, Laurent, made for a magical afternoon. Suddenly Le Florimond was my favorite restaurant in Paris and I couldn’t wait to go back.

Alas, since I was traveling alone on this trip, I hadn’t mustered up the courage to go there. Le Florimond is a tiny restaurant, probably less than 10 tables, and all of them are tightly packed together. It is certainly not a place where a solo diner could simply blend into the background. So, when I had the chance to make reservations for dinner with my friends, I knew where we had to go.

Laurent was, as usual, gracious and welcoming, as was our waitress (whose name I didn’t get, unfortunately, but she was wonderful). The duck confit was as good as I remembered. We had a long, luxurious, relaxed dinner. Laurent made fun of my bad French. We laughed. We ordered another bottle of wine. We devoured the cheeses. It was delightful.

Several days later, on my last night in Paris, I wanted to go back to Le Florimond one last time, but since I was once again dining solo, I wasn’t sure. Dining inside the restaurant, sitting alone at a table mere inches from the couples around me, did not seem like fun. However, I just had to have that duck confit one more time.  Once again, my traveler’s schizophrenia took hold of me: I wanted to go to Le Florimond, I didn’t want to go to Le Florimond. I wasn’t sure what to do. Finally it dawned on me that if the weather improved, I could eat outside in one of the three tables on the street. It would be less awkward than sitting inside, and I could get my much-coveted duck confit.  I kept a hopeful eye on the sky.

The weather cleared over the course of the afternoon, so as evening rolled around I strolled over to 19 Avenue La Motte Picquet. When I walked in, Laurent apologized profusely that he did not have a table for me. I said that was too bad, since he has the best duck confit in all of Paris. As if he read my mind, Laurent asked if I would like to eat outside.  “C’est parfait.”

I sat down, ordered my duck confit and vin rouge and watched the street scene unfold before me. I watched families stroll by, observed a young woman park a SmartCar in a parking space the size of a postage stamp, noted the numerous couples walking arm in arm. I must have started a trend, because before I knew it, the other tables out on the sidewalk were full as well. Although I was still a mere inch or two away from the couple behind me, I was facing the street, so I didn’t feel like I was crashing their date. Until they started talking.

They were an American couple, and quickly I ascertained that they had just recently arrived in Paris. They were discussing what they wanted to do over the next few days. Although they were having a private conversation, I could clearly hear every word. Suddenly it dawned on me that I was the observer in their painting – I was the background person in their own little Danse a la Campagne (or Danse au Restaurant, as it were). I was the one making their otherwise private moment a public event.  I am like a woman in a Renoir painting!  Granted, I am not quite as pretty, vibrant or colorful as a woman in a Renoir painting, but hey, close enough. I filled the role nonetheless. I was the woman tucked in the corner, making their private moment public. This became even more clear when they started discussing the menu and what to order.  I heard one of them say “Maybe I should try the duck confit, but I’m not sure.”  Well, I could not keep quiet any more. “It is the best duck confit in all of Paris and you have to try it! Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Of course, the ice was broken and we struck up a conversation. They had just arrived in Paris from London where they had been on a group tour (which sounded horrible, by the way.)  We chatted for a while about what they planned to do with their time in the city. The woman confessed she was terrified of the Metro. I suggested they try the Velib bikes as a way to get around. She seemed terrified of those, too.

As I was trying to convince her that the Metro was perfectly safe and she shouldn’t worry so much about crime, in a fit of bad timing, someone tried to steal my phone.  A man approached from the street with a sheet of paper, asking for help translating some writing. I waved him off, but he persistently held the paper in front of me while he surreptitiously grabbed my phone off the table with his other hand.  As he walked away, I immediately noticed the phone was missing and yelled “Hey!” Fortunately, he did not run. The would-be robber just calmly turned around and handed the phone back to me. Then Laurent came out and gave him quite a scolding. The guy shrugged and skulked away. The woman from California was horrified.  I think she was ready to get on the next plane back home.

I settled back to being lost in my thoughts and let the couple get back to their semi-private dinner. It was my last night in Paris and I was sad to leave. Although traveling alone had been challenging, it had also been incredibly rewarding. I was leaving Paris with more confidence in myself.  Yes, my petty fears – fear of feeling awkward, not knowing what to do, feeling foolish – had all come to pass, but it turns out that they didn’t kill me. It is ok to feel like an idiot. It is ok to get lost. It is ok to need help.

In the end, I had learned to trust myself. I had figured my way around, I had mastered the Velib bike system, I even went dans la piscine.  One of my best moments in Paris had come earlier that day when I was on my clunky Velib bike: an Asian tourist came up to me and asked me (in French) if it was expensive to rent them. I said (in French) no, only 1 Euro to start and then another Euro every half hour. He then asked if he could take a picture of me. So there I was, sitting on my ungainly Velib, smiling for this man’s photograph, and it occurred to me that I had become the expert, the tour guide. I had arrived fairly clueless, but I was leaving with slightly more knowledge and experience. Although there had certainly been moments of painful awkwardness, there had also been many moments of quiet contentment. I was leaving Paris satisfied and comfortable with myself. I was reluctant to go.

Finally, I wrapped up my lovely meal at Le Florimond and wished the American couple next to me a pleasant stay. Laurent came to bid me goodbye. I walked away, not sure when I would be back again. But I hope to be back there soon. A little duck confit and vin rouge, perhaps a table overlooking the street, and all is right with the world.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 20, 2010

Things I Have Learned

Do not wear a skirt with a long slit while riding a bike on a windy day in Paris. Or any city for that matter.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 18, 2010

I Dine Alone

 

"Hmmm, where should I go for dinner?"

 

While it could be argued that the most meaningful moments in one’s life are the moments shared with loved ones, there are also some things that are more pleasant when you do them alone. Standing in line is one of them. Going to a restaurant in Paris for dinner is not.

I took a day of my time here and went to visit Versailles.  As it turns out, every other tourist within 500 miles had the same idea.  The line to buy tickets was endless.  I wondered briefly if it was worth the wait, but since I had nothing better to do, I took my place in the queue and waited.  I stood listening to the conversations of the people around me. I had some diverse company. Lots of Italian tourists, several older English tourists, a lot of young(ish) American couples.  It all made for excellent people watching.

Ahead of me was an Italian family with very unhappy children. I don’t speak Italian, but I did not need a translator to discern that somehow the wife held the husband responsible for either a) the long line, b) the children’s crankiness or c) both. The poor man didn’t stand a chance. His only option was to apologize blindly and try to keep the children under control.

Meanwhile, the older British couples kept wondering if they were in the right line.  They debated the issue endlessly back and forth between themselves. Finally, they sent a representative off to find more information while the remaining members of the party held their place in line.

The young American couple behind me simply played on each other’s irritation.

“Good Lord, this is going to take forever.”

“Probably an hour.”

“At least an hour.”

“Maybe two.”

“Totally.”

“Are you sure that Museum Pass thingy doesn’t work here?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Can’t you ask someone?”

“Who should I ask? This is the line for the ticket office and I don’t see an information booth.”

“Well, what is the point of that Pass if it doesn’t work?”

“Honey, it works elsewhere, it just doesn’t work here.”

“Well this is ridiculous. Just ridiculous.”

“Honey, what do you want me to do?”

Clearly, the inmates were getting restless. I, on the other hand, had all the time in the world. No where to go, nothing better to do.  Standing in line or sitting in a cafe, it’s all about killing time. I was quite complacent about the whole thing.

Had I been with someone else, however, a host of other emotions would have invaded. Regret that we hadn’t arrived earlier. Concern that I hadn’t brought enough snacks and/or diversions for the kids. Worry that we’d be late for dinner. Anguish that we’d simply made a bad choice and came on the wrong day. Indecision over whether to stay in line or go back to the tourist office to buy tickets there. Irritation at the entire predicament.

But I had none of those. Other than occasionally wishing I could sit down, I basked in the warmth of the sun, took in the view, people-watched, and wrote this post. My main concern was that my battery on my phone would die before I got to the ticket window. While waiting in line, I had a chance to study the sociological phenomena playing out before me. It would have been a nice grad school research project. How do people react to the task of standing in line and how does the size of the group impact their experience?

I was in line for close to two hours, so I had plenty of time to conduct my research. Here is what I concluded: large groups, five or more, fared best. They were constantly engaged in conversation, frequently laughing and smiling. Due to the large number in the group, they could converse together as one unit or break up into subgroups of two or three. Groups of 3 or 4 also fared well but slightly less so. Frequently one member of these smaller groups was left out of the conversation, fated to staring off into space and wondering “Who really gives a crap about Versailles anyway?” Couples fared the worst. They engaged in the most bickering, sighing, rolling of eyes, and in general they showed greater signs of irritation than the other members of the crowd. Young American couples on their honeymoon seemed to be the worst. Solo travelers like me simply hung out and watched it all. So, the moral of the story is, unless you have a big, fun group, go solo.

Dining alone, however, is a different matter altogether. Dinner out at a restaurant is supposed to be a relaxing, enjoyable experience, especially in a place like France where dining has been elevated to an art form. Dinner in France is about the experience as much as it is about the food. And the experience when you are alone doesn’t quite measure up.

Parisian restaurants tend to be, well, let’s say “tightly packed.” Tables are mere inches from each other. The thought of sitting down alone in a small, cozy, romantic restaurant felt….pathetic. I might as well wear a sign saying “Big Loser Who Must Dine Alone in Paris.” Lunch wasn’t so bad, since it is generally a quicker, less intimate affair. But dinners in Paris are long, luxurious and romantic. Not quite as appealing when you have just yourself for company.

And yet, a girl’s gotta eat. On some nights (namely Saturday night, also known as Date Night pretty much across the globe), I knew eating alone would feel awkward, so I stuck to a baguette-based picnic in the park, and then chatted with my husband via Skype once I was back at the hotel, my version of a romantic dinner on this trip. But it was Paris; skipping the food scene for a night or two was fine, but more than that would be a crime. So I needed to find the right spot: a place with a good menu (preferably with my favorite item: confit de canard) but an atmosphere where I would not feel like I was crashing everyone else’s romantic date.  Fortunately, most nights I was able to find the magic combination: a restaurant with outdoor seating (so I could sit and stare at the street scene around me for entertainment), an appropriate table available (in a corner or by the door, not wedged between two romantic couples) and a desirable menu. Yes, sometimes I was drowning in self-consciousness and felt I was sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the kissing couples around me. But when that feeling hit, I would simply order another glass of red wine. French wine, it turns out, is a panacea.

So, the moral of the story is: if you go to Versailles, buy your tickets in advance. If you go to dinner in Paris alone, get a table facing the street and go for the second (or third) glass of wine. Or better yet, call me. I’ll be happy to meet you.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 17, 2010

A Pied

If you read my past posts from Laos and Vietnam, you know that I love to run in new locations. Although biking allows you to cover more ground, running is the perfect way to really soak in the surrounding sights (especially at my running pace, which is slow as a snail).   I like sneaking up on early morning scenes, watching people beginning their daily routines, barely registering a passing jogger on the street out of their peripheral vision. I love seeing kids on their way to school, dogs taking their sleepy owners for walks, weary workers walking to their daily grind. Most of all, I simply like the feeling of my feet pounding the pavement, as if I am literally connecting with my environment. Each foot strike seems to declare “I am here, I am here.”

Running in a new location has two stages. The first stage is the “settling in” stage, where I am trying to get my bearings and figure out decent running routes. The runs in that first stage tend to be shorter and less relaxing, mainly because I am trying to not get lost and/or killed crossing the street. The second stage is the “honeymoon” stage. The runs tend to be long, relaxed, luxurious. In the honeymoon stage I am familiar enough with the area to know roughly where I am going and how to get back, but the scenes around me are still new enough that they are exhilarating and make me want to keep pushing forward. I always want to see what is around the next corner, over the next bridge, up ahead in the next mile. As a result, I always go a little further than planned.

Running in Paris was true to the formula. I had done a couple of short runs to get my bearings, now I was in the honeymoon stage (a very appropriate stage for Paris where everyone either is on their honeymoon or is acting like they are, but that is another blog post altogether).  After taking some time to map out possible routes, I decided the best course of action would be to run along the Seine. It would afford ample sightseeing oportunities, and I figured the river would be a good landmark to help me keep my bearings. Out one side, back the other. How hard could it be?

I ran along, my feet declaring “I am here” with each step. The sun was partially hidden by haze, the light was golden, the river was quiet. Every time I thought about turning back I decided to press on just a little further. What’s more, there seemed to be a lot of police activity, so I hoped I might stumble upon something interesting. Eventually, I decided it was time to turn around or my legs wouldn’t make it back to the hotel. I crossed the river and headed back the other side. That is when I ran thick into the police activity. Road closed. Everyone, including pedestrians, diverted. I have no idea what was going on. Visiting dignitary? Terrorist threat? Civil protest? Heck, it’s Paris, it could be all three.  I was diverted into the small side streets of the Latin Quarter. Instead of running along the quais of the Seine, suddenly I was running past people drinking their morning coffee at their corner cafe. In some areas, I practically ran between the cafe tables. Instead of just running past people and their dogs, I was running between people and their dogs. I was running around people on their way to work, having to hop onto the street to get out of their way. I had to be careful not to trample over little old ladies out picking up their daily baguettes.

It being the Latin Quarter, I was the only one up and running at that hour. And of course I got lost. I kept trying to turn back toward the river, but I kept encountering the relentless police barricades. Police in Paris carry some serious hardware, so picking an argument about why the streets were closed didn’t seem like a wise idea. I simply ran on.  Finally, I managed to make it back to the Seine and along to my hotel. I had run a mile or two longer than planned, but I felt good.

After doing some errands and taking care of a few business items, I was left with an afternoon stretching out in front of me. Unfortunately, by this time it was raining. Hard. I thought it might be a good day to go to the Louvre. When I got there, however, I realized that the entire population of continental Europe had the same idea. Apparently, every tourist decided the Louvre was the place to be.  Too crowded, too chaotic. I kept going. I decided to do some shopping, if only so my friend Heidi wouldn’t excoriate me for going to Paris and coming home empty handed.  I picked up a few items, and then I noticed that it had stopped raining. I turned and looked skyward to see the sun trying to break through the clouds. Steam was starting to rise from the pavement; the sun was starting to cast vague shadows. The clouds were breaking, the sky was turning clear blue. I knew where I needed to head: Sacre Coeur.

I considered hoping the metro or grabbing a Velib bike, but walking felt right. Even as the streets started to gain elevation, plodding along with one foot in front of the other seemed to be the way to go. I leaned into the hills as I started to ascend. I passed through the Place du Tertre, teeming with artists. I finished the climb up to the steps of Sacre Coeur and took in the view, the city stretched out before me.

But was that enough? Of course not. I had to climb the dome up to the top. A sign on the way in warned that it was 300 steps. I counted to see if the sign was accurate. It was. The view at the top, however, was worth it. I took in the view of the city, almost as if looking down on Paris from heaven. Then 300 steps back down.  Emerging at street level exhausted, I once again thought about hopping the Metro back home. But, again, it felt like a walking evening. I liked the rythym of my lumbering pace as I weaved back down towards the river. I knew I would be too tired for a full-blown restaurant dinner, so I stopped and picked up the four major food groups (bread, cheese, wine, chocolate) and had an impromptu picnic while watching the sun set.

I watched dusk wrap up the city. The haze over Paris turned to an ever deepening shade of purple, with charcoal gray finally seeping in. The light on the buildings changed from golden, to mauve, to aubergine, to obsidian.  I took in the beauty around me and I was overwhelmed by one thought: “My feet are killing me.”

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | June 15, 2010

Parisian Lost and Found

I got lost in Paris. And I don’t mean “got lost” as in got carried away, became immersed in my surroundings, became one with the city. I mean, quite literally, I couldn’t figure out where I was.

According to my training schedule, I was supposed to go for a long run. However, between jet lag and disorganization, I wasn’t feeling fully motivated. I was running along the Seine trying to get my head in the game when I looked across the river and noticed the road along the Seine was filled with cyclists and roller-bladers. I had forgotten it was Sunday, and on Sunday the road is closed to automobile traffic. I immediately knew what I had to do: ditch the run, get a bike and head along the river.

If you have been to Paris lately, you know that they have this wonderful Velib program, a low-cost, public, self-serve bicycle rental program. Bikes are located throughout the city, you pay a small amount at an automated kiosk to rent them for a short time, and you can return them to any Velib kiosk, located throughout the city, when you are done. It took me a little while to figure out how to work the system, but before I knew it, I was on my clunker and coasting down the road.

I spent some time watching other cyclists in order to figure out the traffic-rule norms, because I always try conform to the local customs. Yes, I know cyclists all over the world technically should follow the rules of the road according to the letter of the law, but I also know that generally doesn’t happen.  I wanted to see what the standard acceptable behavior was in Paris regarding red lights, sidewalk riding, lane usage, etc.  Not surprising, since it is Paris, it was pretty much a free for all (although it was very orderly compared to Hanoi, thank heaven).

After internalizing the local riding standards (in other words, realizing that I could pretty much do whatever I wanted within reason), I decided to explore the surrounding neighborhood. Well, perhaps saying I “decided” to explore the neighborhood would be overstating my intent. I inadvertently explored the neighborhood. I kept getting stuck in the right turn lane and was too chicken to move out to the left lane. I figured right, right, right and straight would be the same as turning left, correct? Ah, wrong. So very wrong. I kept finding myself in various “places” or near attractions that I could identify, but I had no idea how I got there. Sometimes I simply had no clue where I was.

The nice thing about being by myself was that I didn’t really care. If I had been with someone else, I would have felt a twinge of compunction about getting so terribly lost. But since I was the only one affected by my directional mistakes, I didn’t feel bad at all. In fact, it was rather enjoyable. I biked down little streets I never would have ventured on otherwise. I saw some sights from completely different angles. I almost ran into a lamp-post while trying to ride and sightsee at the same time, but other than that there were no mishaps. After several thoroughly enjoyable wrong turns, a couple of sheepish wrong-ways and many quick u-turns, I finally made it to the Seine and down along the river.

Parisians and tourists alike were out in full force. As you would expect in Paris, there were hordes of young couples holding hands and kissing. There were families out and about, parents strolling along slowly while children weaved ahead on small bicycles. There were hundreds of adorable, pampered little dogs running about, pooping at will with no one picking up after them. There were cyclists, roller-bladers, runners, and some guy running with something similar to Kangoo Jumps but much taller (the footwear, not the guy, although he might have been tall too, I didn’t really notice).  At various points along the banks of the river, people had stopped to have picnics in the warm afternoon sun. And because its Paris, there were, again, lots of couples kissing.

I decided that a river front picnic was a capital idea, so I hopped up to the surface streets, deposited my Velib, and picked up a Camembert sandwich. God Bless the French for thinking up the Camembert sandwich. I returned to the river bank, found an empty bench (no small feat), and enjoyed the scene on the Seine.  The Bateaux Mouches, crammed with tourists, passed slowly by, with passengers waving enthusiastically from the upper deck (clearly, they were not French).  Several private passenger boats glided past. On many of those boats there were, naturally, couples kissing. Good Lord, don’t you people ever take a break?

The sun was high in the sky, but a thin veil of clouds kept the temperature steady and mild. A light breeze floated down the river. The sounds of people chatting, children giggling, and waves lapping mingled together into a background hum. After finishing my Camembert sandwich and making a mental note to incorporate them into my regular diet back home, I went up to stroll along the upper road of the Seine and peruse the bookstalls. Most of the titles, of course, meant nothing to me. However, part of the fun was watching other treasure hunters searching the displays, intently scanning the spines of the books and suddenly grabbing one off the shelf for closer inspection. Book hunters are the same everywhere.

Eventually, I found another Velib kiosk and continued my bike ride. I followed the road along the Seine until it merged with the surface streets. I continued east a little further out of the city center, since I had nothing better to do. Finally, as the afternoon waned on, I turned and headed back to my hotel. Fortunately, I knew where I was going for the most part, and I managed to navigate the roads effectively.  As the song says, I once was lost, but now am found. Which is a good thing, I wouldn’t want to get lost again and miss dinner.

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