The Seething Streets of Europe

The Arc de Triomphe stands at the head of the Champs-Elysses, the Parisian avenue famed for its shopping venues. We took a metro to the avenue’s foot, Place de la Concorde. A convertible gray Ferrari zoomed past, testament to the wealth of the area’s clientele. I couldn’t pull out my phone in time to snap a picture, but I did get one of a subsequent Lamborghini for hire:

A missing letter from a protective eyewear shop tickled my sophomoric sense of humor:

Dressing for Europe

Nestled in some twisty streets beside the Louvre, Les Caves du Louvre contains wine cellars that once connected to the Louvre. When Paris built its metro, it claimed large swaths of these cellars for tunnels and stations, divorcing a few sections from the palace. Les Caves du Louvre bought the separated property in 2015 and set up shop. The cellars’ history grants them rights to the name. In addition to storing and selling wine, Les Caves du Louvre offers wine tastings and tours through its cellars.

Mona Lisa’s Smile

The museums of Paris showcase some of the world’s most creative and irreplaceable works of art. They guard most of them with the sort of twine you’d use to string up a badminton net, strung at ankle height about a foot from the wall. The level of trust startles you. You walk up to paintings daubed before Shakespeare ever penned a word, realizing you could easily run your fingers or a jelly donut across them. Your mind screams for bulletproof glass, laser beams, Indiana Jones-type spikes conspicuously tensed on springs to defend the art. Some works, of course, get more protection than others. The Mona Lisa has smiled from behind bulletproof glass since the 1950s. The cake thrown by the wig-wearing man last May was wiped off in minutes. For most paintings, drawings, and statues, however, you could easily reach out and touch. The rarity of patrons destroying masterpieces should restore some faith in humanity.

Meeting Paris

I don’t know why I feared the French. Mon dieu, they’re lovely. They may not be sweet-tea-syrupy, y’all-come-back-now-y’hear Southerners, but neither do they sniff with distaste when Americans walk near. As we walk into shops, exhibits, or restaurants, we hand each other a bonjour and a smile. We sprinkle merci and au revoir liberally, fall into English for the rest, and have received kindness and grace at nearly every turn. Laura and Tina are already looking at real estate here.

Europe: The Final Countdown

In three weeks, we board a Embraer E175, which is apparently an airplane and not a coffee grinder, and fly to JFK. We’ll fill a few hours dining, lounging, and slouching across chairs designed for discomfort. Just before our nerves snap from ennui, we’ll file onto an Airbus A330-300, which is precisely what it sounds like, with 286 other travelers. Next stop? Gay Paree.

We’ve been planning this trip for over a year. None of us have ever been to Europe, and we’re hoping not to perpetuate the Ugly American stereotype. We’ve signed up for Babbel, bought and read shelves from Rick Steves, and ordered adapters from Apple for our phones. We’ve learned not to wear shorts in cathedrals or shirts with logos. My wife even ordered me some scarves, as if a ribbon snaked under my chin would prevent me from ordering a blank vine with poison for dinner. I told my French coworker that I’d be wearing a beret, and he snorted and said I’d be the only one. I guess I’ll have to resort to toting a baguette everywhere to blend in.