There’s no doubt that I had a fair amount of European business travel during the eighties. I went to Paris a few times, and on one memorable trip to Paris I decided to take a week’s vacation and fly across to London. I had been to Paris and Strasbourg quite a few times and had seen a lot of France. Not only had I seen Paris, but I had also seen a lot of the outskirts. On this particular trip, we had gone to dinner at the European promotion manager’s house and met his wife. Then, he took us on a tour of the French countryside. We drove around to all these little villages, stopped in bars and tiny little restaurants and tried different wines and beers (normally I’m not a beer drinker). I was trashed by the end of the night. Originally, Miss Headcase and her mother wanted to meet me in Paris, but I had always wanted to see the UK. I’d had enough of Paris. I won.

Deep inside, I knew I shouldn’t have left the London hotel reservations to Miss Headcase. I don’t know what I’d been thinking. When the taxi pulled up in front of what she’d chosen, I just looked at her. “What the fuck is this?” Her mother chimed in by asking if she was out of her mind. We went inside. There wasn’t even a private bathroom in this place. It was shared and it was filthy. I told Miss Headcase that there wasn’t a chance in hell we were staying there for even one night. We ended up staying in a little place in Earl’s Court, a funky section of London with a lot of little Indian and Italian restaurants, and a ton of Australian tourists. It was fun. Better still, the food in the area was good. In fact, aside from eating at the pubs, I’d recommend you not eat at British restaurants. These people simply cannot cook.

Prior to leaving Paris, I got some sage advice from my European counterpart, Dieter. He said in his German accent, “Whatever you do, don’t order beef. It’s like eating shoe leather by the time they’re done with it.” I took his advice.

After settling in, the first thing I wanted to do was visit the original Hard Rock Cafe in London. The Hard Rock may be no big deal now, but back then it was huge. We waited nearly 45 minutes to get in during a cold October rain. The great thing about the Hard Rock in London is that they actually have umbrellas chained to the fence so that you don’t get wet while you’re waiting to get in. I’ve been to the Hard Rock in Paris, but it pales in comparison to the UK location. It’s like a musical museum. When I was young, I was really into the British music scene, mostly because of my obsession with The Beatles. Don’t get crazy…not Gerry & The Pacemakers or the Dave Clark Five. It was The Stones, The Who, The Kinks and Cream…that collection of British rockers.

Admittedly, I was leery about the food inside, but I worried for nothing. It was basically pub food, and pub food is the one thing you can count on in the UK. The best thing about it was the stuff they had from The Beatles.  It was totally impressive. This is where I got my black leather Hard Rock jacket, courtesy of Miss Headcase’s mother. In spite of my issues with Miss Headcase, I always got along with her mom. She bought it for me as an early birthday present.  The leather jackets at the Hard Rock today are all motorcycle style. Not my favorite. Mine is the old bomber style. Love it. I still wear it, worn though it is.

The royal whatnot

The next day, the weather cleared. That almost never happens in London in October. In fact, the rest of the week was clear and the temp hung around the high sixties. We decided to go to Buckingham Palace. Now, I’m not big on British royalty. Why are they royal? Because they’re rich? Some of these people have been the biggest assholes in history. But I have to tell you that Buckingham Palace is amazing, and the changing of the guard is something to see (if for nothing else to see how damned constipated these guards truly are).

You’ve got to work real hard at it but, if you make a big enough fool of yourself, you can actually get these guys to laugh. I did, but I had to put myself in the idiot zone to accomplish this feat. People who know me absolutely know I’m not afraid to go to the idiot zone for a laugh. I figured I’d never see these people again in my freakin’ life, so why not make a fool of myself.

After Buckingham Palace came Piccadilly Circus, which is almost like Times Square (only a hell of a lot better, frankly). It brings together five of the busiest streets in London and is dominated by neon signs, an amazing thing to see at night if you like that Vegas feel. (Personally, I’m not a Vegas fan. Been there on business, but that’s a different post for a different day.) If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a big music fan. The first Virgin Record store I ever went to was in Piccadilly and it was absolutely huge. I got lost in that place for hours.

Funny thing about the statue in the middle of Piccadilly. It seemed to me a wierd place to put a statue of Cupid. That’s what I thought it was. So, I decided to research it a bit while I was there. Apparently, the statue is often identified as Eros because it looks like Cupid (known as the God of Sensual Love). What I found out  is that it was intended to be his twin, Anteros, the God of Selfless Love. It was created as a tribute to the philanthropic efforts of the 7th Earl of Shaftsbury. I love figuring out this stuff and I thought this story was pretty wild.

Next stop, Carnaby Street

Being as enamored of the whole ‘Sixties’ thing as I am, I had to pay a visit to Carnaby Street in the Soho district. This was the place to be in the Sixties, the fashion and music center. Not only did designers like Mary Quant hang out there, but so did The Beatles, The Small Faces, The Who and The Stones. They played at the Marquee Club, then just hung out and socialized or went shopping on Carnaby.

I’m not that big into fashion and never really have been. I guess the U.S. equivalent of Carnaby would be Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, which had a feel I like much better. It wasn’t so glitzy and trendy. It was more counterculture…less “mod” and more “hippie.” Still, Carnaby was interesting to see and, as it turns out, although completely unplanned I visited during their sixties celebration.

Greenwich Mean Time and British food

One of the more mundane trips we made (and I can’t even remember actually where this is kept) was to see the clock by which all others are set in the world. You know, it’s the whole Greenwich Mean Time thing. There wasn’t much to see there, with the possible exception of the observatory. However, eating in this little slice of heaven provided the best example of why you should never eat anything prepared by the British.

They had these little mini apple pies at one restaurant we went to. It is rare that I eat apple pie (or any kind of pie for that matter), but it just so happens that this pie was supposed to be the restaurant’s calling card. I decided to try it. They put it down in front of me piping hot and it smelled great. Really. Then, just as I was about to dig in, the waiter leaned over me and poured this disgusting hot vanilla pudding over the top of the pie. So much for that idea. Never, my friends, eat British cooking. I don’t care how desperate you are.

Coming home

Generally speaking, there’s always some kind of excitement around me and airports. At the time we took this trip, there had been some kind of terrorist attack against a U.S. property somewhere in the Middle East. I can’t remember exactly where it was or what it was. That meant that flying was tricky.

Miss Headcase’s mom was a real estate agent. She was really good at it. I’ve always said she could probably sell shit to a fly for a profit. She had a great personality, which is one of the reasons she and I remained friends until her untimely death. On this trip, she had decided to buy silver bars. Somehow, she left one in one of the carry on bags I was holding. When we got to the scanner, it immediately registered on the screen and the bonehead observing the inside of the bag assumed it was a bomb. Need I say more?

WTF?

I’ve often told people there are only two places I could live other than Boston. One is Washington, D.C. The other is San Francisco. I took one great business trip out to San Francisco during the late nineties (could have been 2000, not sure). I know the photo I’m using here in the intro is one of those typical San Francisco photos that you see everywhere. But I have to tell you that there is nothing quite like driving over the Golden Gate Bridge in the early morning hours. Instead of staying in a hotel during this trip, I stayed in a condo in Tiburon. Millipore had just purchased a life science instrumentation company (don’t ask me the name; I don’t remember) and I was tapped to work on the new literature and communications plan. I had been friends with Linda, who was the Director of Marketing, so I stayed with her. It was so much better than a hotel. On the way into the city, I had a great view of Muir Woods, and the fog over the bridge as the sun rose was just unbelievable.

I remember that the meetings I was involved in were really irritating, although I can’t remember all the details. But I do know that I had one sweet time in San Francisco. One of Millipore’s best graphic designers, Lisa, had fallen in love with an engineer named Bill. They had moved out to San Jose together and were living in an artist’s loft. She was the first person I contacted when I learned I’d be making the trip. I decided to get there on a Friday, before the weekend. It worked out well because Linda and Lisa also knew each other, and it gave them a chance to see each other again. I had rented a car, so we met near The Presidio and just hung out watching the old Italian guys playing Bocci. Then we all had lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf (and pretty much managed to get trashed in spite of the fact that we were eating).

On Sunday, Lisa and I planned to hook up again. I drove out to her place in San Jose. Not only was she a designer, but a painter. The whole top part of the loft was just filled with huge half-done canvases. I remember thinking this would be the perfect outlet for me; that one of the things I came close to doing when I returned to Boston was give up my apartment and get myself an artists loft somewhere in Cambridge. It never happened, but it was tempting. After we hung out for a while, she said, “Come on. Let’s go. We’re taking Bill’s car today.”

I remember thinking that I couldn’t figure out why, but I was about to find out soon enough. First, we took a trip down Lombard Street, or the Crooked Street, whatever you want to call it. That was interesting enough. But then, Lisa drove to the top of this incredible hill that just had dips in the road all the way down. “Ready?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I knew instantly what she was going to do.

“We’re taking a risk here,” she said, “but I haven’t been caught by the cops once yet.”

“Yeah,” I said, “with our track record, Lisa, today could be your lucky day!”

She started laughing and just gunned Bill’s car. We must have gone bouncing down that hill at about fifty miles an hour, bottoming out his car like there was no consequence.  Apparently she did this with everyone who came out to visit and, clearly, Bill didn’t mind.  More testament to the fact that love makes you stupid.

We were hanging out at their loft later in the day and I mentioned that the one place I had to get to on this trip was The Castro. I had friends who had lived there before. I also had friends who lived in Provincetown, even though it’s positively desolate in the middle of a New England winter, and friends who summered on Fire Island.  The Castro, however, was the stuff legends were made of.

The gay comfort zone

The Castro is like no other gay mecca on the planet. I had left Lisa’s late that afternoon and decided to go right in by myself. After I broke up with Miss Headcase, I took a week long trip down to Provincetown by myself to clear my head. Going to The Castro alone was not a problem for me. It’s incredibly comfortable and everyone is incredibly “out.” It’s a great feeling. Is it a shame that there have to be places like this? Yes and no. Everyone in America should be able to feel comfortable with his or her sexual orientation and gender identity. Honestly, however, places like The Castro and Provincetown are also cultural meccas, and that’s an important thing for the LGBT community…just as the North End of Boston is a cultural mecca for the Italian community, and Southie is for the Irish. How cool is the Castro? My political favorite, Rachel Maddow, grew up there and went to Castro High. Harvey Milk, one of my heroes, was known as the unofficial mayor of Castro Street.

Anyway, I hung around the Castro most of the day checking the area out and I thought it would be absolutely amazing to live there. The one place I absolutely had to go to was Twin Peaks, undoubtedly one of the most famous gay bars ever. It was the first gay bar in the nation with fully open plate glass windows. No hiding. That’s what I liked most about it. It was like telling the world this is the way it is. If you’ve got a problem with it, it’s all yours. The people hanging there are a bit older (as is the staff) and, instead of the pulsating video bar music, it’s just a great place to sit and meet people, shoot the shit, and watch the rest of the world go by at the intersection of Castro and Market.

Ah, but all good things must come to an end. By about ten, I was headed back to Tiburon. I had meetings in the morning and certainly didn’t want a hangover.

One last highlight Yeah, the next three days were taken up by meetings and business dinners. Honest to freakin’ God, you have to wonder why how this company ever made money. Their ideas about how to spend their communications budget were absolutely absurd. Try this one on: They spent somewhere on the order of $30K to produce an ad — just production (writing, photography, films, etc). Then, they spent a mere $18K running the ad, which is a frequency of about three times. What was worse, they ran the ad one time in three different journals. What a colossal waste of money. Here’s the rule of thumb: If you can’t run the ad at least six times in one journal (but preferably 8-10), don’t bother running an ad at all. It’s like pissing in the wind.

They were really irritating me. I’d listen to them. Then, I’d say something unbelievably sarcastic. Then, Linda would reach over and pinch my leg. I don’t have much patience for stupidity, and I really have no patience for these marketing clowns who think they understand marketing communications just because they have marketing in their titles. And I know Linda knew I was right because she had her hand over her mouth and was laughing while she was pinching me.

On my final day there, I was free all day. There was one other place I absolutely had to visit, and that was Haight-Ashbury. Somewhere in my vast collection of sixties memorabilia were several posters from The Haight. This was another one of those places that stood out in my mind from the sixties. I wanted to see what it looked like thirty years later. There are still some places reminiscent of that flower-power,  acid-dropping, ganja-smoking era…places like Pipe Dreams and The Love of Ganesha. However, much has changed. A lot of the old shops have been replaced by high-end boutiques, Internet cafes, second-hand stores and trendy restaurants. I would much preferred to have visited thirty years ago.

I stuck around for an early dinner at a place called The Citrus Club. It was basically an Asian noodle shop, and I love that stuff: Simple food, reasonable prices. It reminded me of a place I used to love to go to in Harvard Square called Ma Soba. When Thalia was really little (still being carried around in a Kelty Pack), I used to take her there and she’d eat the hottest freakin’ noodles you could give her.

After this day of walking around, I was pretty wiped out and headed back to Tiburon. I was flying out the next day so that I could be home for the weekend. I felt like I had been gone for a long time.

Okay, so I’ve been missing for a few days. Just a load of painful personal drama. Everybody’s got it. I’m trying to keep my shit together through mine after running my heart over a jagged little edge. And that’s all you’re ever going to know on this subject because I happen to love very deeply the other party in the equation. No bitterness here. And absolutely no regret. Just sadness and quite a bit of emptiness.

Anyway, you can consider this a rant. I’m considering this a rant.  Now, I know my name isn’t the simplest of names but you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work it out.

Several days ago I received five pieces of mail addressed to someone at 25 Pamela Lane. Here is what I got:

D Della pinia

F. Piana

F Deborah Piana

Mr. Francis DellaPiana (this was especially charming, as they managed to change my gender as well)

Now, I don’t know any of the above-named people. None of these letters were mailed to me. Therefore, I kindly marked each of these envelopes with the appropriate “Addressee Unknown” statement in bright orange marker and handed them back to the mailman. I mean, if these people want money, they’re going to have to do better than that. My name is simple: Deb Della Piana. Spell it just the way it sounds. Nothing complicated here. It’s even more adventurous when the phone rings.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this Miss Della Pinia?”

“Who?”

“Miss Della Pinia?”

“Nope. Sorry. Nobody by that name here. Bye.”I get these calls all the time. Usually, they are bill collectors (or the Electric Company, in my case). Now, I have already spent money with these people, so you’d think they would at least get it right. But, noooooooo. Not even the clowns I’ve already spent money with can get it right.

The very least we should expect in this economy is that those chasing us for payment will get our names right. I mean, it’s the decent thing to do. But it doesn’t seem that decency is much in vogue these days.

On Sunday, before flying out to Strasbourg, Louise and I hooked up with another co-worker, the vice president of the Intertech Division. We’ll call him Allen. He was just a down to earth guy. He got along with Louise and I, so we expected to have a great time. He had wheels and we had ideas. We started by heading off to the Arch de Triomphe. Now, picture this. Allen and Louise in front in this little Renault. I’m in the back. So, Allen says, “Louise, hang out the window with this video camera when I enter the traffic circle.” (By the way, the photo is an aerial view of the traffic circle.)  There’s no entering the circle slowly, so Allen just floored it and blew in, with Louise hanging out the window filming traffic in the circle, waving wildly including a few waves at the police. She was laughing so hard, she almost lost the camera.

We found a place to park, and visited the Tuileries and the Louvre. The Louvre is a very weird place. It’s almost quiet, even though it’s full of visitors and you can hear the faint buzz of conversation. But everybody’s talking quietly and respectfully. We walk into this room and stop in front of Venus de Milo and Louise blurts out, “They call this art? It doesn’t have any arms!” Allen and I had a buzz on and we just burst out laughing.  He leaned over to Louise very slowly and said, “Louise, shut up.” And then we started laughing again. It was just unbelievable. Eventually Louise settled down and we made it through the museum successfully.

Louise, Allen and I ate at the Hard Rock Cafe in Paris, then we headed out to the airport for our hour flight to Strasbourg and short drive to Molsheim where our meetings would begin the next morning. We’d have more adventures there!

Assault on Strasbourg

We arrived in Strasbourg and Louise rented a car, another mutant little Renault like the one Allen had rented in Paris. We immediately drove to the Hotel Diana. We had to get to sleep before the morning meetings and we were both wiped out. There’s a story behind the Hotel Diana. It was owned by the family of Dominique Baly, who just happened to be a vice president of Millipore. To say that the company got great rates was an understatement. In return, the Hotel Diana received repeat and regular business. During the 80s, we were sending a lot of people back and forth from the Molsheim plant. The Hotel Diana was getting a lot of business. We were continually running into people we knew in the lobby. the ride there was uneventful. We parked the car, took our luggage and headed up to our rooms where we promptly fell asleep.

We had meetings all day Monday, then we returned to the hotel for a nap. We would be going out with the European communications director that evening. Here’s where Louise’s excellent driving adventure began. We went back to the plant to pick up Dieter about seven. Louise was driving too fast as she came into the parking lot and immediately drove the car into a ditch. Of course, right in front of the very large glass windows for everyone to see. It required a very large tow truck to get the car back out of the ditch and, mercifully, Dieter drove that evening.

We were in the French countryside now. There were small villages and we spent the first few hours driving through some of the more interesting villages and sampling different wines. The food was also completely different than the food we had in Paris. Here, the food was not as sophisticated. There were more hearty offerings, like stews and coq au vin. And dogs could eat at the table in restaurants here in Oz. That would be Louise’s next flash point. We walked into a dark restaurant and sat down. It would take a few minutes for Louise to see the small family with the dog right next to us. The dog was sitting at the table and eating with everyone else. She finally saw it.  Here’s how the conversation went:

L: Are you kidding me?

D: What?

L: There’s a dog over there. That’s totally unsanitary. I’m out of here. There’s no way I’m eating here.

D: I beg to differ with you. You are indeed eating here. Cut the shit, Louise. When in Rome…

L: I’m not in Rome. I’m in France and these people are disgusting.

This went on for several minutes, and then she finally settled down. She even ate there and enjoyed her meal.

The meetings ended on Wednesday and we were scheduled to fly back on Friday. We had Thursday as a personal day, so Louise and I decided to head into Strasbourg to do a little touring. We parked the car in a lot and headed out on foot. The first sign that this would not be a normal day was the moment that Louise got trapped inside a port-a-potty. The ones in France were incredible. They were like little roadside toilets. Well, Louise locked herself in but couldn’t get herself out. First she was upset, then she started laughing hysterically. When this started, the whole thing started rocking and the two of us were in the middle of Strasbourg laughing. I finally got her to calm down and she managed to figure out how to use the inside lock. She got out, thankfully.

We spent the rest of the day just hanging out in this very interesting town. We decided to catch an late afternoon dinner so that we could get back to the hotel early and get some sleep before flying out on Friday. To say that Strasbourg was beautiful would be an understatement. It really was. The atmosphere was very different from Paris. We were in the French countryside fairly close to Germany. The prices in the shops were much more reasonable and the people a hell of a lot friendlier.

Unfortunately, may of the parking lots and your access to them look the same. When it was finally time to go back to the car, neither one of us could figure out where the hell we parked it. We spent an hour on foot before giving up and deciding to head to the police station. These guys were great. They volunteered to drive us to each parking lot until we found the car. We got into an old Renault with the policiers. Louise sat in the front and I ended up in the back seat sitting on a milk crate. And they drove like fucking maniacs. We were bouncing all over the place. About an hour later, we found the right parking lot and they dropped us off at the car.

We got back to the Hotel Diana just fine and Louise managed to park the car without falling into a ditch. We slept well and headed out the next morning. I had a blast, but it was good to be going home again.

Ah, yes. There’s business travel, then there’s business travel. I have made several business trips to Paris in my lifetime (all for Millipore) and some of the experiences have been more outrageous than others. One one trip, I went with Louise. She had been the department secretary, but had recently been promoted to International Promotions Coordinator and was now working for me.  The trip would be in two parts, first we’d spend a few days in Paris at meetings then we were scheduled to fly to Strasbourg and drive out to our offices in Molsheim for the rest of the week before flying home. Instead of flying out on a Sunday, Louise and I decided to leave on Friday night and spend the weekend in Paris. To say that I have a bad taste in my mouth for the French would be accurate, but I know that’s because I had great misfortune in my career at the hands of some of the biggest assholes on the planet. They just happened to be French assholes. I have to say that Paris is one beautiful city and, for the most part, the people are charming. (Except the waiter in that outdoor cafe on one trip who didn’t get a freakin’ tip because he was just plain rude.)

I’m not going to lie to you. When you traveled for Millipore, you traveled well. They always put you up in the best places. On this trip, we were staying at the Trianon Palace Hotel at Versailles. It was a beautiful place, there’s no question about it. There’s also no question that Louise was a whack job to travel with and her first point of excitement was the bidet in the room.  Originally, I told her that you were supposed to wash your clothes in it. At first she took me seriously. Then she looked at me and said, “No sir. Right?” It was then that I explained what it was to her in my own peculiar fashion. “It’s something used by cultures who don’t belive in showering every day. And it’s not for your feet.” She finally ‘got it’ and then you couldn’t get her off the stupid thing. It was like a three-year-old with a new toy and, after a while, you just had to wonder.

I remember vividly that Louise woke me up pretty early on Saturday morning. I can remember the conversation pretty vividly too, and I was still more than half asleep.

L: Hey, are you awake?

D: Sort of.

L: What’s that noise?

D: Sheep.

L: Here?

D: They have sheep in France. Where do you think they got the phrase, “Tete de mouton?”

L: But here?

D: What do you mean, here?

L: At a hotel?

D: This is France. They do things differently here. Hell, they could be staying here. Who knows.

L: Well, I don’t think they should have barnyard animals on hotel grounds. It’s disturbing to wake up to that sound.

Louise was funny that way. Animals were, of course, subhuman and, therefore, not allowed in certain places. Louise’s animal rule no. 1: No barnyard animals on hotel grounds. Unfortunately, the Trianon Palace didn’t see it that way and sent the sheep out to graze directly under our window. We would have Louise’s animal rule no. 2 later in the trip.

Once people talk me awake, there’s no hope of my returning to sleep. As it is, I require very little even at my advanced age. I’ve been like that all my life. The sun was just coming up, so I decided to sit up and read. I remember I had brought this great Rita Mae Brown book with me, “Six of One.” A lot of people think of “Rubyfruit Jungle” when they think of Rita Mae, but “Six of One” was my absolute favorite book by her. But I digress. Adult ADHD.

Anyway, I read and then I ordered breakfast. I’m not much of a breakfast eater, but the continental breakfast at Parisian hotels is right up my alley. Simple. Really strong coffee (Louise called it Mud in a Cup) and hard rolls with butter. Simple. I have to be in the mood for eggs (and the wacky thing about that is that I never seem to be in the mood for eggs in the morning), and cereal is boring. Louise smelled the coffee and decided to wake up and then she ordered breakfast. Then, it was time to shower and head out to see what we could see.

First stop, Versailles itself. All I can say is, “Wow!” I mean, this place was immense and ornate and incredible. You know, I have a limited memory of the inside of this place, but the gardens were just beautiful. It was pretty warm when we took this trip, even though I can’t remember for the life of me what month it took place.  I think it might have been late Spring or early summer because the gardens were in full bloom.  I’m glad we saw the inside first because had we started in the gardens, I may never have made it to see the inside. We walked around the gardens in the sun for what had to be at least an hour just talking. Then, we decided to hit Paris.

We knew other Millipore people would be arriving in the evening, so we decided to skip car rentals for now. We opted for the Metro, and what an adventure. We were two obviously American tourists without a command of the French language on the Paris Metro. Now, mind you that I took seven years of French. Seven. I could understand it when spoken to, but do not ask me to speak it back with any kind of proficiency. Louise, of course, had her phrase book which would prove to be totally ineffective. We were clearly winging it and going for broke, but we finally made it. The first thing Louise wanted to do was the Eiffel Tower. I had been to the tower twice before, but Louise had never been. Can’t do Paris without doing the Eiffel Tower. We went all the way to the top and, man, was it windy. It’s always windy up there, but it was incredibly windy on this day and, while it was warm on the ground, we were freezing up there.

We spent the rest of the day there walking the Champs Elysee, going in and out of stores. That’s not my idea of how to explore a great city like Paris, but some people just can’t stop shopping. In all fairness, shopping was what the Champs Elysee was all about; I’m just not interested in fashion and junk like that. I can do that at home. I wasn’t going to argue on this count because I had plans for after lunch and I was just going to take Louise where I wanted to go without asking her. We at lunch at a restaurant on the Champs Elysee called Hippopotamus. Then, it was my turn.

I paid the tab, hailed a cab and grabbed Louise. “Come on. Let’s go. I have a plan.”

Spending the afternoon in Montmartre

We jumped in a cab and I told the driver to take us to Montmartre. The French cabbies are radical. We somehow got stuck in nasty Saturday traffic in Paris, so the guy just drove over the median strip in the middle of the road and went a different way. He did it right in front of a policeman and the guy didn’t even blink. One thing’s for certain, we got there quickly and didn’t waste any time hanging out in traffic.

If somebody told me I was going to Paris and the only place I could visit was Montmartre, that would be just fine with me. It’s the one part of Paris I might even consider living in. If you go to Paris and do not visit Montmartre, then shame on you. It’s wonderful. It’s loaded with artists and scuptors, galleries, restaurants and shops that have all kinds of offbeat stuff. I’ve always been into places like that — Provincetown and The French Quarter in New Orleans come to mind. They are two of my favorite places. And Quebec City — but the old Quebec City behind the walls — not the other side.

I told Louise the best way to take in Montmartre was to forget the maps they give you at the souvenir shops. Just walk around. You’ll find everything. The first place I took her was to the famous steps. They are on every postcard and poster in the city. In fact, I bought a poster of it myself on my last trip to Paris. I had it framed when I got home and it was at home hanging in my apartment in Melrose. Yeah, I was working in the corporate world and I was doing great, but I really am not a corporate type. I was successful at Millipore at the time I was there because it was a pretty cool company at the time. I did things my way. They didn’t give a damn because I just got it done. I really still wanted to be an artist, and I know that’s why places like Montmartre turn me on. Still do.

Louise was pretty hooked from the get-go as well. We spent hours there just walking around and taking things in. We talked to a few artists and shop keepers. These folks were pretty down-to-earth. They had no problem conversing with you in English if need be, which is very different from the downtown Parisians. I find there’s great disdain for Americans there, and I’m not sure it’s unfounded. We do tend to have that swaggering American attitude even though the European culture has been around a lot longer. I’m told it’s worse now since France refused to help in Iraq. No doubt you remember those nasty bumperstickers “Iraq first. Then France.” Sometimes American humor is decidedly not funny. And France was right, by the way.

We ate dinner in Montmartre. I can’t remember the name of the restaurant for the life of me, but I know I grossed Louise out by eating snails for an appetizer. Hey, I like snails. What can I say? I grew up eating Perriwinkles (anybody but me remember those?). Perhaps the most famous structure in Montmartre is the Sacre Coeur Cathedral. I told Louise we couldn’t leave for the hotel until we saw it. It is just beautiful, as I’m sure you’ll agree. After we toured the inside, we decided it was time to get back since we were taking the Metro. Didn’t want to travel around like fools in the dark. Besides, tomorrow, more people were arriving and we had plans to finish off Paris before heading to Strasbourg and Molsheim.

Unfortunately, you will have to wait for Deuxieme partie. Ha!