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Getting to Paris...
Jun. 8th, 2011 07:58 pmThe plane left pretty much on time last night, and we found ourselves seated in the company of what appeared to be some kind of youth string orchestra (more specifically, the violin section). While struggling to stow our gear, it occurred to me that violin cases appear to have been designed to occupy overhead luggage space in the least efficient manner possible; one case will make a volume at least equal to itself suitable only for soft items like jackets and duty-free purchases.
After arrival, I tried calling our contact from the airport once we had gotten past passport control and customs, but never got connected (that I am aware of), though I'll have to check my credit card bill to be sure. Galina and I ended up taking a cab into town, and I used the driver's personal cell phone (an iPhone) to get in touch with our local landlord. Along the way, we got our first taste of Paris traffic.
Our digs for the foreseeable future are on the Boulevard de Malesherbes, doubtless in honor of an eminent personage who—according to the occasional street sign—died in 1794.
Learning that an eminent French figure died in 1794 is a little like finding out that a famous Russian died in the late 1930s. In the case of the Soviet Union, one thinks "purge"; in France, the word is "revolution." Supporting evidence for my guess came from a street sign that identified Malesherbes as a minister to Louis XV and counsel for the defense during the trial of Louis XVI, which did not turn out well for the king, who was guillotined in January of that infamous year of 1793. According to Wikipedia, the 73-year-old Malesherbes was himself arrested in December of that year, along with his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren, and they all went to the guillotine four months later.
End of history lesson.
Our apartment is a one-bedroom setup with a teeny, tiny kitchen and a bathroom in which the toilet bowl is six steps up from the "main level" of the apartment, in a niche in which someone of my nearly 6-foot height cannot stand upright. The apartment entrance is down one floor, at the end of a creepily narrow winding staircase; the peephole in the door was built for the use of a contortionist, as far as I could see, because one must descend to the bottom step, sit down, and lean forward to look through the device, which sounds easy enough to describe, but is far from simple to actually do.
The view isn't much, but it's ours.
Work popped into the inbox while Galina and I were out shopping. I should get to it.
Cheers...
After arrival, I tried calling our contact from the airport once we had gotten past passport control and customs, but never got connected (that I am aware of), though I'll have to check my credit card bill to be sure. Galina and I ended up taking a cab into town, and I used the driver's personal cell phone (an iPhone) to get in touch with our local landlord. Along the way, we got our first taste of Paris traffic.
Our digs for the foreseeable future are on the Boulevard de Malesherbes, doubtless in honor of an eminent personage who—according to the occasional street sign—died in 1794.
Learning that an eminent French figure died in 1794 is a little like finding out that a famous Russian died in the late 1930s. In the case of the Soviet Union, one thinks "purge"; in France, the word is "revolution." Supporting evidence for my guess came from a street sign that identified Malesherbes as a minister to Louis XV and counsel for the defense during the trial of Louis XVI, which did not turn out well for the king, who was guillotined in January of that infamous year of 1793. According to Wikipedia, the 73-year-old Malesherbes was himself arrested in December of that year, along with his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren, and they all went to the guillotine four months later.
End of history lesson.
Our apartment is a one-bedroom setup with a teeny, tiny kitchen and a bathroom in which the toilet bowl is six steps up from the "main level" of the apartment, in a niche in which someone of my nearly 6-foot height cannot stand upright. The apartment entrance is down one floor, at the end of a creepily narrow winding staircase; the peephole in the door was built for the use of a contortionist, as far as I could see, because one must descend to the bottom step, sit down, and lean forward to look through the device, which sounds easy enough to describe, but is far from simple to actually do.
The view isn't much, but it's ours.
Work popped into the inbox while Galina and I were out shopping. I should get to it.
Cheers...
