Something Unique - Paris

There is no such thing as a forgettable trip to Paris. From the novice overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the experience through to the jaded regular who probably maintains an apartment in the 7th arrondissement all have their reasons to love, hate or tolerate the city. All are in agreement that, rich or poor, cynical or optimistic, traveling to Paris is never anything less than a big deal.

I used to enjoy wrapping up a trip to Paris by shopping for one thing the French create like no other culture in the world: toiletries. Just like the endless selection of French wines, cognacs and champagnes there is an equally bottomless supply of authentic "French milled" soaps, cosmetics, perfumes and colognes. Shelves overloaded with exotic sounding names, brands and fragrances stretch through entire departments at major stores such as La Samaritaine just along the Seine and directly across the Pont Neuf Bridge from the island of Il St. Louis.

The current building has stood since 1933 although the company itself first opened in 1869. Not simply a retail department store with a killer location, Samaritaine is also famous for its the rooftop cafe that every local knew offered views of the city few tourists knew about. Through eleven floors was the kind of luxury merchandise taken for granted by Parisians and coveted by every once-in-a-lifetime tourist in town.

Another retailer that used to be elusive in the United States but is now seen just about everywhere is Sephora. The flagship store on the Champs Elysees when it first opened was simply a must stop of the kind that had to be seen to be believed. It was never a "big box" retailer in size. Sephora drew part of its fame from the number and variety of fragrances for men down one side actually matched the number and variety of fragrances for women on the other side of the store. The real treat was seeing all manner of new and established products not available back home.

The ultimate highlight of the store for me was the central area that held dozens upon dozens of bottles and vials of pure oils, elixirs and essences of everything on the planet that had a beautiful smell. The idea was, if it were possible to not find something you liked from one of the major brands then you could design your own fragrance from the selection of goodies on hand. Right alongside the essence of virtually every flower known to man was every fragrant wood, citrus fruit and aromatic grass you could think of; men were not overlooked in the effort to find something unique for the unique individual at Sephora.

It's been a while since I've been in Paris. Samaritaine is closed but supposed to reopen this year. I'm told that Sephora no longer offers the create your own fragrance station. Certainly their exclusive cache has become as common as a suburban mall, too, sadly, going so far as to partner up with JC Penney! One thing I found, though, that neither Samaritaine or Sephora ever carried is a very unique cologne indeed. A friend discovered it in Amsterdam but it is tied to a major jewel house in Paris by way of Russia. It is only available at their store in Paris that I have found along with one retailer in Hong Kong. I've seen ads for it on offer through Amazon but please. Seriously?

No store I have ever gone to has the slightest idea what I'm talking about and, though it is challenging to keep the cologne in stock, I like it a lot that few other people have the slightest idea how good it is and what they're missing! Find it if you can!

Gotta go.

What Did He Say?

I'm old enough to remember when the Godzilla movies were first run in the theaters. Not the first one, mind you, but the later versions that got gleefully campier with each new edition to the franchise. The special effects even then were cheesy beyond reason but at the ripe old age of eight it was all great fun. I may have mentioned previously that I never could figure out how they managed to rebuild Tokyo so quickly after one of the big guy's walks through the center of town.

What made it more palatable to my young ears and certainly to larger audiences of the time was the fact that all of the dialogue was dubbed in English. At the time we kids were too young to care that the words didn't match the movement of the mouth supposedly uttering the dialogue. Nor did we concern ourselves too much with the fact that the American accents were no match for how the language WOULD sound if the Japanese actors had in fact been speaking English in the first place. None of that was the point. Godzilla was the point! Or whatever other foreign film, French, German, Italian, Brazilian, whatever was being watched by whoever was watching it.

I'm older now. And I've traveled a bit. Few things delight me so much as the sound of a language complete different from my own. It matters not that I understand precious little if any of the sounds I am hearing, I simply enjoy the rhythm and cadence of the language in its natural form. The rapid fire, almost hurried staccato delivery of Japanese or the smooth as silk but equally fast sound of French in full voice is part of the fun of being overseas. Why shouldn't it be THE only soundtrack available in a foreign film?

On business recently in Los Angeles I flipped through the channels until I found the NHK Network, the Japanese channel that broadcasts much of its programming in that language. Couldn't understand a word of it but I used to also travel to Japan for business and, now that I live in Texas, rarely if ever hear the language in these here parts! I didn't need or want sub-titles, I just wanted to hear the language. In a foreign film I get distracted if I hear some disconnected language and accent that has nothing to do with the setting of the story. I prefer subtitles!

Don't get me wrong...I enjoy foreign films quite a lot but admit that I need to be in the mood to devote up to two hours in the dark to reading while rapidly shifting my eyes to the action on the screen so I can put the two together. I felt, however, that the experience was richer to watch "Y Tu Mama Tambien" in the original Spanish or "Central Station" in Brazilian Portuguese than waste time wondering if the voice-over talent hailed from the accent neutral environs of Nebraska! Hearing the language simply makes me want to know more about the language, the culture and the country, to go there one day if I haven't already gone and long to go back.

"Das Boot" in German? It flat out would not have had the same impact in its initial release if the U-Boat crews were speaking the Queen's English, I'm sorry.

So, having seen films in Japanese, Mandarin, German, Xhosa, Portuguese and Spanish, are there any good films in Russian or Arabic out there that I should know about?

Gotta go.

Paris - The Second Day

I'm nine years old one Summer weekend oh so long ago. We were living in Germany and Mom snatched on the idea to take us to Paris for the weekend. By the end of the first day, after not wanting to go at all, Paris was turning out to be pretty cool.

Our visit to the Louvre to see the "Mona Lisa" was unsuccessful but there were other treasures and treasured moments to be had, to be sure. Nine year olds get a delightedly embarrassed kick out of seeing naked statuary and I was no exception. The only problem I had was with the security matron at the top of the stairs.

"Excuse me, please. Where is the 'Winged Victory?'" I asked of her politely. The lady looked at me and answered. A confused look spread across my face. German and heavily accented English I'd heard before but this I was hearing was quite unintelligible to my young ears. I looked at Mom, she looked at me, caught the lady's smiling gaze, then looked back at me to explain.

"She only speaks French." Most times kids simply accept the word of their parents at face value, no questions asked. This was different.

"But she's Black!" Incredulous I was as all the Black people I'd ever met to that point were either friends or relatives.

"You're Black American, she's not. She's Black French and you are the foreigner in her country." My first lesson in world politics and cultural diversity. We found the Greek masterpiece, snapped off a photo and pressed on.

We loved the Metro with its quiet rubber tires and artwork at seemingly every other station. My sisters and I loaded up on "Malabar" bubble gum, then all the rage for its ability to hold its flavor and snapping resilience longer than "Bazooka" ever could. Mom liked the rose windows at Notre Dame. Even if we wanted to, which we didn't, it wasn't in the budget to try wine, champagne, snails or truffles either on purpose or by accident.

The last night in France found us out for an evening of French theater, known then and now for its edgy, more relaxed approach to the human body. All Mom knew was that we had tickets to a show, we kids of course knew even less than that. It was billed as an evening spectacle like no other in the finest of French tastes. Josephine Baker once played this particular venue, the Folies Bergere so that made it good enough.

As much as I didn't want to go to Paris I was sold even less on the thought of live theater. Mom had plenty of reserve persuasion left to keep me cooperative and in to our balcony seats we went, mine with a partially obstructed view. The music wasn't to the taste of pre-teen ears and, of course, what plot or commentary there may or may not have been was in French so for us the evening would be all about the visuals.

Nice visuals. Ball gowns, boas and breasts filled the stage at every turn, huge Ziegfield-like processions down ornate stairs, more buxom-ness hanging from chandeliers and me on the edge of my seat trying to peer around the support column in front of my seat for a better view of the entire stage.

Legend has it that Mom yanked us out of that theater before the show was over. That memory is unclear but I do recall catching no end of grief from my sisters who made much hay out reminding me how I didn't want to go to Paris in the first place, how I didn't want to go to the theater.....oh, shaddup, already!

Gotta go.

Paris - The First Time

"We're going to Paris this weekend," Mom announced one day after I'd gotten home from school. We were living in Germany at the time as a typical military family stationed overseas. To help pass the time and offer intriguing diversions for the wife and kids stuck at "home" far away from home, "AAFES," the Army & Air Force Exchange Service, organized short excursions and weekend getaways around Germany and the rest of Europe. Even for a career military family much that was on offer, while not extended vacations, allowed one and all to see parts of the world that would otherwise be way off the financial radar, especially for the families of the enlisted men and women.

Problem is, I cared precious little about any of that and didn't want to go! I had very important plans that weekend, like any good nine-year old would. I was going to hang out with my friends. Kickball games, hide-and-seek, marbles, one or two good bags of candy and maybe tormenting the younger sister if I could fit it in to the calendar. The argument I knew I would lose continued.

"I want you to see it," she argued. "Send me a post card," I fired back.

My protestations were met with the to be expected resolve of a strong willed mother not afraid to use an open palm to garner cooperation from willful children. Off to Paris we went, the overnight bus taking about 11 hours from Stuttgart to the heart of France. At least my friend Donald showed up on the same trip, he also persuaded by his mother and picked up at the next stop from our place before the long ride.

We loved our hotel room, though I cannot remember where it was. None of us had ever seen a bidet before and logically concluded it was simply a flat urinal while the toilet was only for #2. As compelling as the bathroom was we had only two and a half days to get in as much of the City of Lights as possible, part of a tour group with children in tow. This very trip is how I learned all about "power touring," up at dawn, run-and-click, run-and-click with the camera, eat at restaurants only when the sun went down and back at the hotel for a few hours of sleep no earlier than 11PM.

Into the streets we went where we learned quickly that traffic only watches the traffic lights, not any wayward tourist still trying to cross the road when the light turns green. We marveled at the number of public pay toilets for humans but how no one seemed to worry about the lack of any provisions for their pets. What were those men in lime green uniforms and plastic green brushes doing all day?

I won't say that Mom is afraid of heights but our budget no doubt played in to the decision to only ascend to the second level of the Eiffel Tower. "That's high enough," she would say, an eye on her purse and glad she had the upper hand over us kids. The view was no less spectacular and, we decided as compensation, more realistic because everything appeared its regular size instead of miniaturized from the greater height at the very peak. If we saw anyone kissing we were young enough to run for cover, scream "koodies" and keep going.

This Paris visit wasn't turning out to be that bad!

Gotta go.

Going Graving

Why is it a "must see" part of any tourist trip of Washington, D.C. to include time at Arlington National Cemetery yet any other part of the country or world visiting graveyards can be viewed as downright creepy? Same thing in Europe where one can hardly consider going without taking in the crypts of Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, all manner of Parisian and Roman Catacombs or even the US National Cemetery at Normandy on the coast of France. Millions of people pay big money to come from all over the world, myself included, to visit the last resting place of the Kennedy Brothers and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier yet few of them wander or even know whom in their own area might be sleeping peacefully just across town.

Graveyards never creeped me out as a child because I never hung out with the kind of friends who wanted to tell ghost stories by the light of a flashlight held under the chin by the side of a tombstone. I was fascinated with them just the same for the simple fact that people were under the ground, as if in some eternal spa, stretched out in their finest clothes and undergoing some long term beauty treatment. Yea, that just got a little macabre, didn't it?

Anyway, the notion of visiting burial grounds in to adulthood stems from still wanting to pay my respects to notable people along with the fact that standing graveside is quite often as close as I'll ever get to some of them in real time. They can't go anywhere and in most cases the entourage of hangers-on and private security have long since died with them or latched on to some other living soul for their livelihood. Add in the fact that most cemeteries and mausoleums do not charge for admission and there's no such thing as a bad seat. Just don't expect them to perform while you're there.

One meaningful visit to a fallen personal hero was the chance to express my condolences and gratitude at the grave of Brian Piccolo who's story was so movingly told in the film "Brian's Song," still a Top 5 favorite movie of mine today.

Thanks to websites such as FindaGrave.Com a particularly enjoyable trip took me one bored Saturday from my then home in Chicago to visit James Dean in his hometown of Fairmount, Indiana. I put a tank of gas in the car and drove through the heart of die hard America, the kind of deep rural country where only people with relatives go. I learned some things along the way, including the fact that Jim Davis, the creator of Garfield is from the same area!

Luther Vandross in New Jersey, George and Martha Washington as well as Abraham Lincoln, Frank Sinatra and Sonny Bono (same small cemetery) in Palm Springs, Marilyn Monroe in Los Angeles, even Buddy Holly in Lubbock, Texas, the list goes on. I never met Michael Jackson in person and he now lies in a restricted area of Forest Lawn in Glendale. Still mourning the loss nearly a year later I have to be thankful at least that I saw him once in concert.

Only, of course, in the middle of 73,000 people, he didn't see me.

Gotta go.

Magnum Soapus

"Soap is soap, as long as it's cheap and you're clean" say the masses and this is the very statement that has kept Ivory in business for 125 years. My family staple has always been Dial, the preferred brand of my mother but others have snuck in to the rotation from time to time. I don't recall resisting bath time too much growing up, any more than I gave Mom a hard time over dinner as long as she didn't serve lima beans or liver. It was a particular delight to soak in a tub of hot water and absorb the different fragrances in to my skin.

I love soap. Don't ask me why, I just do. My earliest fascination was reading about the legend of the Titanic and the level of service provided on this magnificent ship during her fateful maiden voyage. The article highlighted Vinolia Otto Toilet Soap as being exclusively offered to First Class passengers. I wasn't thinking whether or not soap of any kind was offered to Second or Third Class on the boat - I only knew that from the picture it bore a resemblance to the rounded oval I was using at the time by the makers of Vel. My left-brained imagination simply allowed that I was using the same product.

In my professional life I have worked as a day laborer moving furniture, fast food and field sales, jobs where the end of the day can't get there fast enough for the chance to unwind under some water and lather the day's troubles away. On those days when I was particularly grimy from dirt, grease, soot or had really stunk up the joint there was nothing I wanted more than a long, cleansing shower and a full bar of soap of which half would be used before I finally felt human again. During cold weather I'd come home with frozen feet, ice in my goatee, numb skin and tingling fingers, all wrapped in two to three layers clothing and socks that were equally soaked through. Oi, the sounds of ecstasy that came from my shower on those days....

While traveling around the world there came a natural curiosity with what kinds of toiletries were used in other countries. As a child growing up in Germany "Fa" was a sentimental old favorite and I also came to enjoy Yardley's Oatmeal and Almond. From Italy comes the Alchimia Soap line which features natural ingredients infused with essences of rich florals such as Hydrangea, Cornflower and Tuber Rose. I don't bathe with those so much as use them for air fresheners in clothing drawers and for the car.

Friends in New Zealand think I'm mental because I have been known to ship home boxes of Knight's Castille as a durable every day soap over the domestic brands. They remain equally as perplexed when I said that soap from a different country serves me like food in reminding me of good times from another corner of the world.

I felt that I had hit the jackpot when I discovered Roger & Gallet's Oat Milk from France but that was before I went to Japan and was introduced to Kao White. Kao is as every day in Japan as Dial is the United States but I have never come across another bar of soap that seemingly lathers at the mere suggestion of water. Thick, billowing clouds of the stuff all around me with a mild fragrance that lingers long in to the day. The fastidious Japanese are known for multiple soap and rinse cycles in their daily toilet and with Kao at their ready disposal I can easily understand why.

Imagine my delight when in Paris I discovered the high end toiletry counter where "triple French milled" really meant something. Oh my God. I didn't know where to begin but I knew where I would end up once I saw those prices; hey, clearance merchandise in Paris still beats off the shelf back home! I wonder what they use in Russia.

I'll spare you the discovery of liquid body wash but I've often wondered what happened to Vinolia Soap from the Titanic? It is still made and sold in the United Kingdom today. Hmmmmm....

Gotta go.

Sister Who?

Dallas, where I live, has a "twin" city although most of the fine citizens of Ft. Worth might disagree. They may say that there is precious little between the two that could be described as even fraternal much less identical. In some cases twin cities are connected even within the airport code that serves the area, like DFW, MSP or BWI (Baltimore/Washington). I even know what Quad Cities are thanks to Moline, Davenport, Rock Island and Bettendorf clustered on either side of the Mississippi River dividing Iowa from Illinois.

What I haven't quite gotten my mind around is the concept of the "Sister City." Online I found a definition that says, in general, that it is a cooperative arrangement between two areas intended to foster cultural and commercial ties. In some cases there's also an aesthetic similarity between the two regions. Most developed nations have commercial interests in the San Francisco Bay Area, certainly far more than Wellington, New Zealand but the latter is nothing if not the spitting image of its larger American twin, this of course in addition to being the capital of a country.

So the question is, and there are really two, how are sister cities determined and do the people that live there, the ones that are the target of all this effort, actually know anything about the other town or towns on the list? Texas' European history is centered heavily around German and Czech immigrants, so is that part of the reason behind Brno in the Czech Republic being selected as a sister city to Dallas?

Sister Cities International is a website based in Washington, DC and used to promote economic and civic ties between cities all across the country. It's almost like an online dating service for urban centers, even including a page titled "Cities Seeking Cities." Hmmm..."Single Urban Town seeks Industrial Commercial City. Must like hard workers, have diverse cultural attractions and be willing to develop deep economic relationships."

And I'm going to stop there before it looks as if I've written way too many of those things! That London, England is a sister city to New York City is a no-brainer. One can also divine politics as well as economics in other sister cities to London such as Berlin, Moscow and Johannesburg or between Beijing and Washington, DC. If I were a citizen or a leader of Denver, though, would I have picked Brest, France, or Potenza, Italy and not Zurich, Switzerland instead? Brest is on the very western tip of France, a seaport looking out on the Atlantic Ocean and home to barely 150,000 people.

Zurich, on the other hand? About the same size, surrounded by gorgeous mountains, major economic engine of the region, on and on and oh, people in both cities have at least heard of the other. Ask someone in Denver about Brest and you might get an anatomy lesson.

Being a resident of Dallas/Ft. Worth, I wondered what some of the sister cities are. Try Mbabane, Swaziland, Saratov, Russia and Cairo, Egypt. Cairo?!

Gotta go!

Working the Graveyard

Call it an "acceptable" fascination as compared to a fetish or obsession but I have been curious about graveyards since I was eight years old. I'm not alone in this because a trip to Washington, D.C, for example, is not complete without visiting the "other" Kennedy Compound at Arlington National Cemetery. Likewise in London where, saving a coronation, Westminster Abbey is arguably of little real interest beyond the hundreds of notables interred in crypts and the very floor of the building.

A French friend of mine invited me over to visit his new place in Paris one year which, of course, I couldn't resist. While I was on vacation he would be working but offered a few tips outside of the normal attractions to occupy my time until we could meet up for dinner in the evenings.

Directions in hand and a quick rundown on how to change trains in the massive Paris metro system and I was off to Cimitiere du Pere Lachaise, the largest graveyard in the French capital. He rattled off a few names that I would know to peak my interest but the best advice he gave was merely to walk around and see how many names I could recognize as well as simply enjoying the designs and architecture of the various crypts.

"Findagrave.Com" lists 340 noteworthy individuals laid to rest at Pere Lachaise but failing to rest in peace. No less than three metro stations bring visitors to the various entrances of the sloped necropolis which can pose a decent challenge to some in getting around the various levels and small hills within. An entire day can be spent here assuming there is nothing better to do or new to discover in Paris but, like any museum, pre-planning or an expert tour guide can fill an enjoyable and reasonable couple of hours.

The architecture lives up to billing in the various markers, from wall plaques in the crematorium and simple markers all the way up to the over the top creations such as the lipstick covered memorial to Oscar Wilde, all in various states of maintenance and disrepair. The faithful are undeterred. Permanent foot traffic and impromptu testimonials have prompted varying attempts at security for the resting place of Jim Morrison. Likewise, pictured here, is the grave of an otherwise unremarkable man by the name of Victor Noir caught up in remarkable events and paying the ultimate price for his engagement.

The bronze was sculpted to depict Noir as if he had only just fallen from the gunshot wound that killed him. Whether or not gunplay caused arousal in the man is hard to say. The lifelike rendering of his image, however, and especially his prominent, well worn package, have gained him lasting fame for those who desire children, a spouse or just some good old fashioned prowess.

Only in Paris.... And no to the neophytes, Napoleon is not here. He has his own special corner of the city under the golden dome of the church at Les Invalides.

Gotta go.

The Statement

"Crikey, mate, I've never been there!" I call it "The Statement" and it speaks volumes in both directions of the conversation. There's appreciation for traveling to a given destination mixed in with a measure of regret and envy in never having taken the trouble. On the other hand there is the sense of having unintentionally shown up the local in their own home town, state or country. To be sure, there is also a darker side to "The Statement" as well, of the "Why on earth would anyone want to go there" variety.

Recently I was in New Zealand on vacation and had planned to explore new parts of the country that I'd not seen on previous visits. Included on this trip was a visit to Cape Reinga at the far northern tip of the Northland peninsula. The Cape is where the Maoris believe their spirits leave the country in the afterlife for their original home islands of Hawaii. It is also the place where the Pacific collides with the Tasman Sea in sometimes violent and spectacular fashion. The friends I was staying with in New Plymouth tilted their head to one side...and gave me The Statement!

San Franciscans rarely set foot in the East Bay unless on their way to a sporting event in Berkeley or at the Coliseum. Typically, though, they're passing through at top speed to the playgrounds of Reno and Lake Tahoe. In their minds Oakland has nothing that San Francisco doesn't have in spades so if for some strange reason a tourist mentions visiting Oakland as part of their itinerary, they'd get "The Look" AND The Statement. The once eager and now bewildered tourist has lost respectability just because they were curious about Lake Merritt and Jack London Square.

Even in one's hometown it's possible to receive both envious and disapproving reactions to go along with The Statement. Certainly it is never expected that anyone would travel in to questionable neighborhoods if they don't actually live there yet I can't count how many times I've heard something like the following: "You know, in all the years I've lived here (Chicago/Boston/Washington D.C.) I have never been there (the Sears Tower/Martha's Vineyard/Arlington Cemetery)!"

I have always had a hard time imagining that any place of personal interest hasn't already been explored by everybody who lives there. Visiting the Eiffel Tower in Paris is a lifelong dream for millions of people yet to say one has been to France yet never visited the tower is the ultimate travel-related non-sequitur. How could you not? Then I discover that Parisians themselves avoid it like the plague all summer long because it is infested with foreign tourists and even worse, provincials from the rest of the country!

It is a tall order indeed to try and visit every landmark, attraction and place of interest in the world. I am blessed to live in a country rich in natural and architectural beauty but I admit to never having seen the Fall colors in Vermont, Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon. Yet. When it's my turn to utter The Statement rest assured I speak with admiration and excitement for the traveler making the journey. Then I add a little extra, to let them know they've met a kindred spirit by simply saying:

"It's on the list!"

Gotta go!

A Fistful of Firsts in France

It was the Summer of 1976 and time to fly home from Germany for a family reunion. We were booked on TWA’s Paris to Washington/Dulles service in both directions with connections at the shining new airport north of the city, Charles de Gaulle. Oh, how this was going to be a fun day for this young aviation enthusiast!

In the first of many firsts our originating flights were on Air France and included flying on easily the strangest thing with wings I had ever seen in my life. The unimpressed, seen-‘em-all gate agent informed us it was a French “Caravelle,” a short-to-medium range bird seating 80 passengers with Rolls Royce engines, perfect for a typical intra-European service.

The pioneering Caravelle featured a host of cutting edge designs, including the first “clean wing” concept by having the engines located in the back. Not seeing the engines wasn’t nearly as jaw-dropping, though, as the triangle shaped windows that distorted images around the edges like a magnifying glass! This strange magic may not have looked like a typical airplane but it sounded and flew like one, landing us safely at Charles de Gaulle, the mother lode of all firsts.

Aeroports de Paris set the bar early for cutting edge designs that deviated from mere bunkers with bridges. The terminal was a living test bed for the future with its bundt cake design, glass-encased escalators suspended in mid-air and tunnels dipping under live taxiways only to rise again to seven attending satellites. This new gateway to Paris was indeed striking although the arresting form did not translate in to efficient function and, as we know, was not repeated.

Once Mom was settled at the TWA gate with time to spare before boarding, we took off back down the tunnel to savor actually being under an active taxiway. The tunnel itself offered new things for us as well, such as the longest moving sidewalk we had ever seen, the smooth walls with indirect lighting from underneath the tiled flooring and those hypnotic advertising “eggs” with images flashing on either side.

When we got to the other end and made to go thru security back to our gate the agents asked us for our passports. Oops. Seems we’d re-entered the country on our sight-seeing dash thru the tunnel. Neither spoke the other’s language but wayward international passengers have been in the airport worker’s job since Lindbergh. “Mom,” is a universal word and us frantically pointing up the tunnel was all they needed to fetch our more than miffed mother with the documents needed to process us back “out” of France in time to catch our flight to Washington.

TWA offered “Strange Magic” by E.L.O. on its popular hits channel but the strangest and most wonderful magic of all was the Caravelle and that mesmerizing bundt cake terminal at Charles de Gaulle.

We couldn’t wait to do it again!

Gotta go!

Toursts! Behaving Normally

“Blend in,” they say. “Don’t dress, act or look like a tourist.” Travel agents, guide books and even the government are constantly harping on ways for people to get along overseas. In this first of a six-part series on the different ways tourists stick out no matter what, Rule #1 is never expect your daily routine to be the rule of thumb anywhere other than your own home town, even in your own country.

Everybody is a tourist when they leave home but I kind of feel that nobody ever acts like a tourist. Rather, they simply act like they’re at home and then get confused when overseas brochures describe a destination as a “home away from home” or encouraging tourists to “make themselves at home.” That said, the rude foreigner shoving a camera in someone’s face and forcing them to pose is a bit much but what, or rather who, makes a rude tourist?

"Time" magazine reported on a survey conducted by Expedia recently to determine which country could claim the worst behaved citizens abroad. This time around it was the French who were called out for the third year in a row by 4,000 hoteliers around the world for being cheap, arrogant and not willing or able to speak the host language.

The French! Japan, a culture world-famous for manners and saving face, whose people wouldn’t dream of embarrassing themselves as guests or hosts, ranked the best.

Yahoo! picked up the story where it reported that the survey further suggests that perhaps the problem is the French, some 85-90% of them, rarely leave home. Home? That’s just nuts.

Air France flies just about everywhere on the planet and I’m pretty sure not just for foreigners. Further, if only 10-15% of the population flew, how do you justify the size of Air France's global network on the less than 10 million French that do travel?!

The survey’s own findings also show that the average Frenchman gets 37 days of vacation yet budgets his funds to cover all of those days. The average American, on the other hand, barely uses all of his 14 days but throws money around big time when he does. With 37 days and a global airline at their disposal it appears that the French travel more than the survey gives them credit for. How else could they be so memorable?

Why the French get a bad rap seems easy to see. Everybody wants to go to France, the number one tourist destination in the world with over 90 million visitors a year. When the French do go abroad they probably travel most often to places where the language and customs are exactly the same as they are back home. "Home." There's that word again!

French influence touches every corner and climate of the planet: Caribbean colonies, Quebec, from Cote d’Ivoire and Morocco in Africa to Lebanon, over to Vietnam and Laos and across the Pacific to New Caledonia and Tahiti. All over the world tips are automatically included in the bill, there is a high service culture and everyone speaks the language. Even southern Louisianans know how to cuss in Creole, right?

The comeuppance is that even with the convenience of a former empire the French apparently need to get out a little more and leave their comfort zone at home. As do we all.

Gotta go!