Note to self: don't write the above entry into your daily journal if you are king of France, living sumptuously in the gigantic Palace of Versailles. Especially if your foreign wife, when told that the masses of poor in Paris have no bread, answers, "let them eat cake."
That entry ("today: nothing") is what King Louis XVI wrote in his personal journal on July 14, 1789, an apparently inauspicious day in Versailles, a world away from Paris. In Paris itself, the masses were storming the Bastille, setting in motion the French Revolution that destroyed the monarchy, decimated the nobility, set the stage for Napoleon's rise, and caused the foolish king and his out-of-touch queen to lose their heads to the guillotine. July 14 is celebrated in France as Bastille Day, their biggest holiday and the kick-off to their summer vacation season, which ended last week with the rentree, or re-entry.
What with yesterday's big march around the Louvre, and a French lesson with Marguerite again, we were exhausted last night. Once again, as we walked back from the Louvre, I was sure that someone had moved our hotel several miles further to the east. This morning we slept in and lounged around the hotel, then went out into the Marais to check it out one more time before we re-locate to the St. Germain des Pres neighborhood on Thursday.
As I mentioned before, Beth caught a cold the other day, and now has developed a nasty dry cough. Not nasty because I think something terrible is going to happen to her, but nasty because I'm a light sleeper already, and several night-time coughing jags kept me awake. I don't think Beth even woke up for most of them. It doesn't seem fair.
What is fair is that here in France, you can waltz into a pharmacy, talk directly to the pharmacist, and get a lot of medications that would require a prescription in the States. I know I'm cutting my own throat here, but this is a very convenient thing. Since I mostly do surgery and take care of surgical patients, I wouldn't really lose my job if everyone in the States could sidle up to a pharmacist and ask for some Amoxicillin or cough syrup with codeine. For 10 euros ($12.50), we got 8 oz. of generic robitussin AC and some Tessalon Perles. Not bad for a semi-socialist country.
While poking around the Marais, we popped into an interesting shop where the proprietor has a beautiful pool (about the size of an average dinner table around) with large goldfish and shubunkins in it. The fish are 6-8 inches long, almost a big as the ones we have in our outdoor pond and fountain. It was fun to see the fish, and to talk to the proprietor who clearly took pride in his special feature.
As I talked with him about our shared interest in goldfish and fountains, it struck me: I'm having a real conversation with a real live French-speaking person without using any English, and he actually understands me! It was gratifying, and to my great pleasure, he told me that he thought my French was quite good. He actually said it twice, and looked like he meant it. He then proceeded to tell me that most Americans burst into his store and immediately blurt something out in English, assuming that everyone everywhere speaks English and wants to speak English.
I told him that, whenever we visit a country whose language is other than English, I try to learn at least the simple polite phrases to honor their language and culture. It's my little way of bridge-building. With so many nuts and hotheads out there trying to divide and destroy, I figure I can make a little effort to reach across the language and culture barriers and find some common ground. Besides, when I ask for it in French, I think the waiter cuts me a bigger piece of tarte au pommes, and that ain't bad at all. Try it.
Curmudgeon's corner: what with all this reaching across barriers and all, there is one barrier that France could do with a lot more of: a real, bona fide non-smoking section at restaurants. Oh, the law says that every cafe, bistro, and restaurant has to have a designated non-smoking area, but that particular law is clearly enforced by Inspector Clouseau. Friends who have made the mistake of asking for a non-smoking table have been shunted over by the bathroom or near the kitchen by the big swinging door, and then summarily ignored by the waiter as a punishment for asking to be excused from fumigation.
Tonight we ate at one of our very favorite Parisian restaurants, C'Amelot, near the Bastille on rue Amelot (thus the camelot pun). It is a great restaurant, with a new menu every week based on what the chef feels is most fresh and appealing from the market. You could go week after week (I wish) and never see the same dish on the menu. This is very bad for my friend who shall remain unnamed but who always orders exactly the same item (3-cheese cheeseburger) every time we eat at a certain restaurant. But this is very good for me, because I love trying something new almost every time I go out to eat.
Anyway, back to the Curmudgeon's Corner (it's really hard for me to stay annoyed here in Paris): Beth smelled cigarette smoke (she can smell it blocks away), and we began to look around to see who was smoking. Imagine our surprise (and dismay) when we realized it was the chef, puffing away in the kitchen like a smokestack. But then the soup and tempura came, and all was forgiven. By the time the chocolate volcano and rice pudding with caramel sauce came, I would have flicked my bic for him if he'd asked (after I lectured him on the dangers of smoking of course).
Seriously, though, smoking is a much more public nuisance than in the States, and it is my impression that more young women and the same number of young men smoke here compared with the States. Women especially are reluctant to quit because they know they'll gain weight, and obesity is tolerated much less here than back home. I guess there's always a price to pay, but in the long run, being a little "enrobed" and smoke-free is healthier than smoking and staying thin.
Tomorrow: the Elysian Fields and Grand Palais...
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