Ah, Paris.

Dijon

Having descended from our alpine adventure, we set our sights north. After a botched attempt to find a hotel or hostel room in Lyon, we found ourselves at a campsite in the Beaujolais region of France - home to many a world-renowned vineyard. We took the time on our way out of the area the next morning to drive along the tiny back roads, taking in the rolling hills of vines laid out one after another after another, spreading into a wonderfully rhythmic vista of perfect green rows that are finished here and there with a bright rosebush.

We spent the afternoon wandering the small city of Dijon. The city centre is quite pretty, and we spent some time in the fine art museum which is housed in the gorgeous old ducal palace of Burgandy. And obviously we bought mustard, which is Dan's favourite food. At the end of the night, we had our most elaborate meal yet - escargot (in an adventurous moment) and fish for me, beef bourginon for Dan. At 60€, it was also thus far our most expensive meal.

The next day we meandered north through the back roads and eventually found Meaux, where we said goodbye to our beloved steed and without mentioning that we had definitely ruined the breaks, grabbed a train to Paris.

Along the way, we found the source
of the mighty River Seine: this tiny
stream, bubbling up through the grass.

Paris did not disappoint. Glamorous and gritty, authentic and overwhelmingly touristy, Paris is everything it promises to be. Both the hostels we stayed at were in Montmartre - the hill looming in the north, and in the late nineteenth century, the haunt of the city's artistic community. (Our first hostel was just a few doors down from a house once owned by Vincent Van Gogh's brother, where the artist stayed early in his career.)






In our four-and-a-half days in the city, we were able to see a number of major attractions. We climbed up to the Sacre Coeur, the basilica commanding a phenomenal view from the top of the Montmartre hill. We walked out to the Père Lachaise cemetery,where we visited the graves of Oscar Wilde, Proust and Jim Morrison, wandering among the tombs both broken and dilapidated and dutifully preserved, the tree-lined avenues creating gentle quiet despite the tourists flitting about on their various homages.

We walked through the gardens and the courtyard of the Louvre, admiring the intricate details of the grand architecture, but in as I'd been inside the museum on my last visit to Paris, and we are both very interested in impressionist and post-impressionist art, we opted to spend a day exploring the much more manageable Musée d'Orsay. We did the same with Notre Dame, the Arc de Triumph and the Eiffel Tower - admired each from the ground without paying to go in or up.

The morning of Friday the 20th of May, we met my parents at Gare du Nord and checked into our new hotel. After a brief time to settle in, we began our week-long historical voyage.

Throughout my childhood, many of our vacations involved either the family hobby of historical re-enacting, or visits to colonial forts and battlefields from every North American war or a combination. This would be no different. (Although at 24, I certainly enjoy and seek out these sites and museums more than I'd once thought I would. For me thirteen-year-old self, this would have been a painful trial)

In the hall of mirrors

We started by visiting the tomb of Napoleon at the Musée d'Armée, taking in as well the exhibits of medieval suits of armour. Our final day in Paris, leaving Dan behind nursing a cold, we ventured out to the palace of Versailles. The first part of the afternoon, I spent with my Mom and Dad wandering through the elaborate, never-ending splendor of the gardens. We wandered through the series of small gardens, sheltered by hedges and each centered on a sculpted fountain, through the breezy tree-lined boulevards, and by the giant expanse of the grand canal. I left them to enjoy the whimsical madness of Marie Antoinette's fake peasant village while I made my way back to the palace to find Dan. We explored the palace in the late afternoon - unbelievably elaborate, crowned by the hall of mirrors, dazzling in its excess with hundreds of gold-rimmed mirrors and gold-covered statues, throwing the light around the room to beautiful effect.

The next morning, we picked up a car at Gare du Nord. Although this time it was Dad driving, I was back in the navigator's seat with my trusty atlas of France in my lap - thankfully, though, sandwich making duties had now been delegated to the back seat. With minimal agony we found our way out of Paris and we were headed northwest to Normandy.

S.