We really are in the Old World, aren’t we? I had kind of a time warp experience this morning. As the din slowly grew louder outside, I first thought that maybe a circus parade was making its way up our cobblestone street. But then I saw that it was an honest-to-goodness Organ Grinder. I had never seen an organ grinder in person before. The Grinder was walking along slowly, pushing his wheeled organ and turning the hand crank all the while. I was a tad disappointed that he was sans singe (no monkey). The surreal part was watching the modern Parisians bustle by the Grinder while talking and text messaging on their cell phones…
In the same vein, I was awoken by the cacophonous clanging of bells outside a few days ago (Cathy was kind enough to let me sleep in). I didn’t rouse quickly enough to see what it was, but Cathy said it was a guy pushing a cart. I’m betting it was the Sharpener (I’m sure there’s an actual name for this), the guy who goes through the neighborhood with a grindstone and sharpens knives and scissors and such. It’s too bad we missed him, because the knives in our apartment are really dull. Hopefully it won’t be too long before he comes around again.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Yoga.Paris.Mat
Apart from the Tour de France, the French are not known for their love of sport or grueling physical exertion (although a Frenchman has not won the Tour in many, many years). The “classic” French sporting activities -- race-car driving at Le Mans, perhaps, or skiing the Alps – don’t evoke intense bodily engagement. Admittedly, soccer has become a national craze, especially after the 1998 World Cup and 1999 European Cup wins by the French National team, but your average Parisian does not engage in intentional physical exertion.
And yet, there seems to be an emerging interest in Yoga, at least here in Paris. Several studios advertise in the bi-weekly FUSAC (French-USA Connections), a compendium of French and Anglophone classified ads. Now that I have been to two of these yoga studios, I can say with confidence that they are overrun with Americans. Indeed, many of the teachers are American. While I find this slightly disturbing, I am glad to have found a studio close to home that offers a rigorous practice (In yoga terminology, you don’t take a class, you practice the discipline of yoga.).
I first attended a free trial class in the heart of Paris, up four flights of stairs that reminded me of the lofted dance studios my mother used to take classes at in New York City. An American woman greeted me in French and asked me to sign in. It was determined that I shouldn’t take the advertised free class, as it was meant for people who had never taken yoga before. Having logged about five years of fairly serious study back at home, I was pleased to be placed in the “normal” course. Strangely, all students were asked to wait together in the foyer until a bell was rung and the classroom assignments announced.
The normal course was assigned a room that turned out to be much too small, so we picked up our stuff and changed rooms. This was my first time taking yoga in a space specifically meant for that purpose. In addition to the inspirational (French) posters and photos of yogis decorating the walls, we were offered towels, blankets, and pillows to (literally) support our practice. Incense was burning and the lights were soft.
And then it began. Our instructor, a chubby, mature woman, did not participate in the class or demonstrate at all, but offered direction and a fair amount of individual attention, not all of which was welcome. In fact, she was rather harsh in her commentary to those who failed to execute the postures correctly. She reminded me of the stereotypical, chalk-throwing French teacher who sneers at her students for failing to speak the language perfectly. It was a bizarre combination.
During the 90-minute class, we did quite a few sun salutations and some breathing exercises, with long stretches of shavasana (the corpse pose, which is used for relaxation) in between postures. I was irritated by this, being used to working hard for almost the entire class and then ending with a final relaxation. On the up side, we did attempt head stands and the fish pose, which are both rather advanced. It was cozy to pull the blanket up around me for the last few minutes and really relax, and I enjoyed the chanting at the beginning and end of the class, but generally speaking I was underwhelmed.
So I sought out a second option, Bikram Yoga Paris. Bikram is this nutty yogi in Beverly Hills who developed a special practice (it’s probably trade-marked) that has become something of a phenomenon in New York. One of my yoga buddies from Forest Hills tried it out with positive reviews some time last spring. I decided to give it a whirl.
There are several components to the Bikram practice:
1) The room is heated to promote muscle warmth and toxin release (not to mention tons of sweat). Therefore, everyone must have his/her own mat and bath-size towel to soak up their own moisture.
2) No talking in the studio. Period. Unless the teacher speaks directly to you.
3) 26 specific poses are practiced in sequence, beginning and ending with breathing exercises. Standing postures are done first, including plenty of balancing and back-bending, followed by lots more back-bending and stretching in the sitting and prone postures.
4) A short break in mountain pose (tadasana) occurs at the completion of each set of standing postures, while a short break in shavasana takes place in between the floor exercises.
5) Each pose is performed twice and the goal is to hold for five breaths or so the first time, and somewhat less the second. For example, Rabbit Pose for 5 breaths, shavasansa, Rabbit Pose for 4 breaths.
6) Everyone is encouraged to drink water during the class, but only at specified times. The goal is to replenish some of the lost fluids and stay hydrated, but not to cool the body down.
Well! I have never, I mean never, perspired so much in my life! The poses are rigorous, and work smoothly together. I am soaked to the skin after each session, and my towel appears to have just come out of the washer. I am not kidding. The beauty part of this studio is that it’s just about 6 minutes from our house, so I don’t have to worry about commuting on top of the class commitment.
I’ve met two of the teachers so far. One is a tiny, very flexible French woman who verges on being a contortionist. She takes her job seriously, but doesn’t enforce the class regulations too strongly. She took the first class I attended and I remarked on her lovely expression of several of the postures (that’s yoga-speak for she was really good). The other teacher, Rob, is a young, freckly American guy who wears OP trunks. He’s surprisingly strict during class (no talking! Don’t drink yet!), but genuinely very nice on the outside (the instructors also act as receptionists and take money, etc.). His French, however, is remarkably bad, both in his pronunciation and in his grammar. I sometimes have trouble understanding his French because of this, or am not clear if he’s talking to the whole class or to one individual person. He does usually pepper what he’s saying with English, fortunately for us Anglophones!
After two classes, I signed on for a one month subscription, enabling me to attend as many classes as I care to for a single price. If I’m not bored silly by these 26 postures by the end of the month, perhaps I’ll continue…
And yet, there seems to be an emerging interest in Yoga, at least here in Paris. Several studios advertise in the bi-weekly FUSAC (French-USA Connections), a compendium of French and Anglophone classified ads. Now that I have been to two of these yoga studios, I can say with confidence that they are overrun with Americans. Indeed, many of the teachers are American. While I find this slightly disturbing, I am glad to have found a studio close to home that offers a rigorous practice (In yoga terminology, you don’t take a class, you practice the discipline of yoga.).
I first attended a free trial class in the heart of Paris, up four flights of stairs that reminded me of the lofted dance studios my mother used to take classes at in New York City. An American woman greeted me in French and asked me to sign in. It was determined that I shouldn’t take the advertised free class, as it was meant for people who had never taken yoga before. Having logged about five years of fairly serious study back at home, I was pleased to be placed in the “normal” course. Strangely, all students were asked to wait together in the foyer until a bell was rung and the classroom assignments announced.
The normal course was assigned a room that turned out to be much too small, so we picked up our stuff and changed rooms. This was my first time taking yoga in a space specifically meant for that purpose. In addition to the inspirational (French) posters and photos of yogis decorating the walls, we were offered towels, blankets, and pillows to (literally) support our practice. Incense was burning and the lights were soft.
And then it began. Our instructor, a chubby, mature woman, did not participate in the class or demonstrate at all, but offered direction and a fair amount of individual attention, not all of which was welcome. In fact, she was rather harsh in her commentary to those who failed to execute the postures correctly. She reminded me of the stereotypical, chalk-throwing French teacher who sneers at her students for failing to speak the language perfectly. It was a bizarre combination.
During the 90-minute class, we did quite a few sun salutations and some breathing exercises, with long stretches of shavasana (the corpse pose, which is used for relaxation) in between postures. I was irritated by this, being used to working hard for almost the entire class and then ending with a final relaxation. On the up side, we did attempt head stands and the fish pose, which are both rather advanced. It was cozy to pull the blanket up around me for the last few minutes and really relax, and I enjoyed the chanting at the beginning and end of the class, but generally speaking I was underwhelmed.
So I sought out a second option, Bikram Yoga Paris. Bikram is this nutty yogi in Beverly Hills who developed a special practice (it’s probably trade-marked) that has become something of a phenomenon in New York. One of my yoga buddies from Forest Hills tried it out with positive reviews some time last spring. I decided to give it a whirl.
There are several components to the Bikram practice:
1) The room is heated to promote muscle warmth and toxin release (not to mention tons of sweat). Therefore, everyone must have his/her own mat and bath-size towel to soak up their own moisture.
2) No talking in the studio. Period. Unless the teacher speaks directly to you.
3) 26 specific poses are practiced in sequence, beginning and ending with breathing exercises. Standing postures are done first, including plenty of balancing and back-bending, followed by lots more back-bending and stretching in the sitting and prone postures.
4) A short break in mountain pose (tadasana) occurs at the completion of each set of standing postures, while a short break in shavasana takes place in between the floor exercises.
5) Each pose is performed twice and the goal is to hold for five breaths or so the first time, and somewhat less the second. For example, Rabbit Pose for 5 breaths, shavasansa, Rabbit Pose for 4 breaths.
6) Everyone is encouraged to drink water during the class, but only at specified times. The goal is to replenish some of the lost fluids and stay hydrated, but not to cool the body down.
Well! I have never, I mean never, perspired so much in my life! The poses are rigorous, and work smoothly together. I am soaked to the skin after each session, and my towel appears to have just come out of the washer. I am not kidding. The beauty part of this studio is that it’s just about 6 minutes from our house, so I don’t have to worry about commuting on top of the class commitment.
I’ve met two of the teachers so far. One is a tiny, very flexible French woman who verges on being a contortionist. She takes her job seriously, but doesn’t enforce the class regulations too strongly. She took the first class I attended and I remarked on her lovely expression of several of the postures (that’s yoga-speak for she was really good). The other teacher, Rob, is a young, freckly American guy who wears OP trunks. He’s surprisingly strict during class (no talking! Don’t drink yet!), but genuinely very nice on the outside (the instructors also act as receptionists and take money, etc.). His French, however, is remarkably bad, both in his pronunciation and in his grammar. I sometimes have trouble understanding his French because of this, or am not clear if he’s talking to the whole class or to one individual person. He does usually pepper what he’s saying with English, fortunately for us Anglophones!
After two classes, I signed on for a one month subscription, enabling me to attend as many classes as I care to for a single price. If I’m not bored silly by these 26 postures by the end of the month, perhaps I’ll continue…
Saturday, October 4, 2003
Cell Phone Saga (Part II)
While you can use your credit card to buy practically anything in France, cell phone service is not one of them. They will only give you a wireless contract if you have a bank account. Well, having just moved to France a few days before, we didn't have a bank account. But we did have an appointment at the bank to set up an account a couple of days later, so we would have to wait a couple of days more to get our cell phones. Disappointed but not discouraged, we remained wireless-less. A couple of days later, we did manage to set up a checking account at the Credit Lyonnais, one of the many banks here. They are probably best known as the sponsor of the Maillot Jaune, the Yellow Jersey, which is worn by the race leader in bicycling's premiere event, the Tour de France. We only chose them because they have a special arrangement with NYU to make it slightly less impossible to open a checking account. Normally, you would provide every type of documentation you could think of, including a proof of address, which would generally be, and here's the Catch-22, a phone statement! However, the opening of the account went rather smoothly, as we were able to use our lease as our proof of address. The nice man at the bank explained that the bank does not issue starter checks, but printed up a form called a RIB (pronounced reeb) that is widely accepted as proof of banking account. Armed with our RIB, we marched off down the street to Bernard at Orange to get our cell phones. Bernard, however, informed us that while a RIB is one of the required documents to set up our cell phone accounts, they also require a physical check or ATM card. Skip ahead 2 more weeks, with multiple calls and drop-ins at the bank to see when and if we would ever get either a bank card or a checkbook. Every contact revealed a different arrival date for these elusive objects, but we did manage to find out in the process that it takes about a week before the account is validated because it has to be presented to and approved by the Central Bank of France. Only then can the local bank go ahead and order checks and bank cards.
Finally the day arrived when our daily call to the bank branch hit paydirt. Our ATM cards had arrived (the checkbook had yet to come)! We picked up our cards, but discovered that our PIN numbers would be sent to us in the mail and, of course, we had not received them yet. With some trepidation, we arrived at the Orange store near our apartment and to our relief confirmed that we did not need the PIN numbers for our cards to set up accounts. In our multiple previous visits to the Orange store, Cathy had picked out a simple but popular Nokia phone. I had found a small flip-phone that suited me. Of course, now that we were actually ready to buy the phones, the flip-phone had been sold out and discontinued. Crestfallen but determined, I chose another phone, only to be told that while they had it displayed, they no longer carried that model either. The rep tried to sell me on a much more expensive flip-phone, but by that point my intuition was tingling and I had the feeling we just needed to get out of there. So we left and walked two doors down and stumbled on a practically unmarked independent cellphone retailer. We went in to find a small crowd at the counter and one of the three Algerian fellows behind the counter yelling angrily into a (landline) phone. He would pause momentarily to answer somebody’s question and then would continue his tirade into the receiver. Looking around, it was immediately apparent that as opposed to the immaculate and structured Orange store next door (think any newer Verizon Wireless or SprintPCS store in the US), this place was a dump. It was dingy, there were no displays, and the whole place was badly in need of a paint job. We were standing there taking all of this in, when the guy stopped yelling suddenly, looked at Cathy and said (in French, of course) “If you’ll wait just two minutes, you’ll get the best deal in town!” Turns out he was right. After emphatically slamming down the phone he had been screaming into a few minutes later, he handed me a sleek Samsung flip-phone (without knowing I was looking for a flip-phone) with a hi-res color screen, infrared port, the works. He handed Cathy a more compact and nicer Nokia than she had chosen at Orange and informed us that it was tri-band, which meant that it would work in the States as well. We couldn’t believe it when he quoted us a price of 20€ each for our cool new phones. Soon we were getting into the details of setting up the same plans that we had selected at Orange, when it occurred to me to ask Cathy to ask if there were better plans available (all of the wireless companies have pretty much the same coverage area). Our guy's answer? "Bien sûr", "But of course". Could he have told us this 20 minutes ago when we brought up the Orange plans? Sure, but the French do not offer unsolicited information because they assume you already know it and do not want to risk offending you by telling you something you already knew. So you have to ask questions, a lot of very specific, detailed questions that you wouldn't normally think to ask. Doing so actually serves a beneficial, dual purpose: You get the information you need and you strengthen your relationship with the proprietor, which is also very important. You give the proprietor a chance to show off his expertise and solve a problem for you. The French LOVE to solve problems for others. Then they bend over backwards to help you. But I digress (again). Half an hour later we walked out of the place with great phones and the best subscriptions available and overall a memorable experience.
Finally the day arrived when our daily call to the bank branch hit paydirt. Our ATM cards had arrived (the checkbook had yet to come)! We picked up our cards, but discovered that our PIN numbers would be sent to us in the mail and, of course, we had not received them yet. With some trepidation, we arrived at the Orange store near our apartment and to our relief confirmed that we did not need the PIN numbers for our cards to set up accounts. In our multiple previous visits to the Orange store, Cathy had picked out a simple but popular Nokia phone. I had found a small flip-phone that suited me. Of course, now that we were actually ready to buy the phones, the flip-phone had been sold out and discontinued. Crestfallen but determined, I chose another phone, only to be told that while they had it displayed, they no longer carried that model either. The rep tried to sell me on a much more expensive flip-phone, but by that point my intuition was tingling and I had the feeling we just needed to get out of there. So we left and walked two doors down and stumbled on a practically unmarked independent cellphone retailer. We went in to find a small crowd at the counter and one of the three Algerian fellows behind the counter yelling angrily into a (landline) phone. He would pause momentarily to answer somebody’s question and then would continue his tirade into the receiver. Looking around, it was immediately apparent that as opposed to the immaculate and structured Orange store next door (think any newer Verizon Wireless or SprintPCS store in the US), this place was a dump. It was dingy, there were no displays, and the whole place was badly in need of a paint job. We were standing there taking all of this in, when the guy stopped yelling suddenly, looked at Cathy and said (in French, of course) “If you’ll wait just two minutes, you’ll get the best deal in town!” Turns out he was right. After emphatically slamming down the phone he had been screaming into a few minutes later, he handed me a sleek Samsung flip-phone (without knowing I was looking for a flip-phone) with a hi-res color screen, infrared port, the works. He handed Cathy a more compact and nicer Nokia than she had chosen at Orange and informed us that it was tri-band, which meant that it would work in the States as well. We couldn’t believe it when he quoted us a price of 20€ each for our cool new phones. Soon we were getting into the details of setting up the same plans that we had selected at Orange, when it occurred to me to ask Cathy to ask if there were better plans available (all of the wireless companies have pretty much the same coverage area). Our guy's answer? "Bien sûr", "But of course". Could he have told us this 20 minutes ago when we brought up the Orange plans? Sure, but the French do not offer unsolicited information because they assume you already know it and do not want to risk offending you by telling you something you already knew. So you have to ask questions, a lot of very specific, detailed questions that you wouldn't normally think to ask. Doing so actually serves a beneficial, dual purpose: You get the information you need and you strengthen your relationship with the proprietor, which is also very important. You give the proprietor a chance to show off his expertise and solve a problem for you. The French LOVE to solve problems for others. Then they bend over backwards to help you. But I digress (again). Half an hour later we walked out of the place with great phones and the best subscriptions available and overall a memorable experience.
Thursday, October 2, 2003
Cell Phone Saga (Part I)
Whaddya gotta do to get a cell phone in this town? Well, quite a lot, it turns out. But at least in our case, it turns out with a happy ending.
Soon after our arrival in Paris, we decided to go about obtaining cell phones for ourselves. We had already planned to do this, as we had become accustomed to our phones living in New York and knowing that "mobiles" were even more ubiquitous here in France. As it turns out, it was going to be a practical solution as well, since at that time we did not have a working land-line phone in our apartment (that's for another blog). So we went down the street from NYU's Paris digs to Orange, the mobile telephone company that is monopolistic France Telecom's wireless division. Why the company is called Orange, I have no idea. Now while France Telecom has a virtual stranglehold on land-line phone service in France, they do have some competition in the mobile market. Exactly two other companies, SFR and Bouygues Telecom, round out the Big Three. All three companies have their own storefronts, just like the ones you would see for Sprint PCS or Verizon Wireless in the U.S. And similar to the States, there are independent operators who sell phones and service for several of the different companies. One of them here in Paris is called "The Phone Store" (that's not a translation). Anyway, we went into the Orange store and spoke to a nice young man by the name of Bernard. He explained that we could get cell phones with or without a subscription. The phones without a subscription tend to be quite a bit more money, since you have to pay practically full price for the phone and the SIM chip that goes into the phone only has a certain number of minutes on it. On the upside, once you've used up a SIM chip you can go buy another one at practically any Tabac, which are like little convenience stores that sell cigarettes and among other things, phone cards. But since we were going to be here awhile, we wanted to get the less expensive and more convenient subscription. So we discussed a few of the different phones with Bernard. With a subscription, there are phones to be had (with color screens even!) for less than 10€ (~$10). I should mention here that wireless phone service is set up a little differently here (in France and the rest of Europe) than in the States. You don't get nearly the number of minutes for the same price, but all incoming calls are totally free. I seem to remember years ago that the fledgling cellular industry in the US tried a similar structure but quickly realized that it wouldn't work.
We chose a couple of phones and figured out what plan we wanted, and went with Bernard to set up our accounts. We had assumed that it worked the same way as in the US, where all we needed was a credit card. Well, no.
(to be continued)
Soon after our arrival in Paris, we decided to go about obtaining cell phones for ourselves. We had already planned to do this, as we had become accustomed to our phones living in New York and knowing that "mobiles" were even more ubiquitous here in France. As it turns out, it was going to be a practical solution as well, since at that time we did not have a working land-line phone in our apartment (that's for another blog). So we went down the street from NYU's Paris digs to Orange, the mobile telephone company that is monopolistic France Telecom's wireless division. Why the company is called Orange, I have no idea. Now while France Telecom has a virtual stranglehold on land-line phone service in France, they do have some competition in the mobile market. Exactly two other companies, SFR and Bouygues Telecom, round out the Big Three. All three companies have their own storefronts, just like the ones you would see for Sprint PCS or Verizon Wireless in the U.S. And similar to the States, there are independent operators who sell phones and service for several of the different companies. One of them here in Paris is called "The Phone Store" (that's not a translation). Anyway, we went into the Orange store and spoke to a nice young man by the name of Bernard. He explained that we could get cell phones with or without a subscription. The phones without a subscription tend to be quite a bit more money, since you have to pay practically full price for the phone and the SIM chip that goes into the phone only has a certain number of minutes on it. On the upside, once you've used up a SIM chip you can go buy another one at practically any Tabac, which are like little convenience stores that sell cigarettes and among other things, phone cards. But since we were going to be here awhile, we wanted to get the less expensive and more convenient subscription. So we discussed a few of the different phones with Bernard. With a subscription, there are phones to be had (with color screens even!) for less than 10€ (~$10). I should mention here that wireless phone service is set up a little differently here (in France and the rest of Europe) than in the States. You don't get nearly the number of minutes for the same price, but all incoming calls are totally free. I seem to remember years ago that the fledgling cellular industry in the US tried a similar structure but quickly realized that it wouldn't work.
We chose a couple of phones and figured out what plan we wanted, and went with Bernard to set up our accounts. We had assumed that it worked the same way as in the US, where all we needed was a credit card. Well, no.
(to be continued)
Wednesday, October 1, 2003
The Happiest Place in France (Part II)…
After the Space Mountain adventure, I picked up panini (a grilled flatbread sandwich, usually with cheese and ham) while Meredith and Bill attempted to ride the Orbitron, which unfortunately broke down and was taken off-line. So instead of eating in that line, we ate while waiting for the Disney railroad. Boy, did we wait! Finally got around to Frontierland and rode Thunder Mountain (using both the FastPass and the Baby Switch) then did Phantom Manor (Paris’ answer to the Haunted Mansion) and got some ice cream on the way to our FastPass appointment with Peter Pan. I must admit, it’s quite beautiful. After It’s a Small World (a perennial favorite!), it was nearly time for the Princess Parade, so I staked out a viewing spot while Bill and Meredith rode the carousel again. I had to fend off an imperialistic group of Italians, but managed to keep the stroller from getting squeezed out. Bill and Mer got back just in time.
Meredith loved the parade, as she saw Mickey and Minnie, Cinderella and her fairy godmother, Aladdin and Jasmine, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Ariel, and Belle all in one compact parade. The music was the same repetitive inanity from the last time we visited Disney-Paris in 1999, but no matter. Following the parade, we hoofed it over to ride Dumbo, for perhaps the longest wait of the day, and then scrambled over to see the live show, Mickey’s Showtime, in Discoveryland (a.k.a. Tomorrowland). There wasn’t a seat in the house, but Bill found Meredith a spot on a staircase with a decent view of the action. Again, she loved it – Mickey and Minnie were joined by Poomba, the Alladin Genie, Baloo, Goofy, and Chip and Dale as well as some “human” friends. Numbers from Hercules, Hunchback, Jungle Book, Lion King, and Pocohantas were tightly performed with some high-energy dancing (need I mention that? Is anything at Disney low energy?).
By the time we left the Visionarium, it was nearly 6 o’clock and we were ready to sit down and eat. We looked over a couple of the in-park dining options, but decided to try something in Disney village (sort of like Paradise Island in Florida). We wound up at King Ludwig’s Castle, with a Medieval Germanic theme, which turned out to be a pretty nice meal for all of us. At some point during dinner, Bill realized that we never went to look at our Mickey pix in the Town Square. The park was due to close at 8 o’clock, and even with a push to get our check, it was probably 5 of 8 by the time we left the restaurant.
We booked it back toward the park, swimming upstream all the way (throngs of “guests” were leaving, of course), and frantically searching for the re-entry gates. They were basically all closed by the time we got there, but one had not been completely closed. Using our best powers of persuasion (an attitude that is loved and respected by the French), we explained that we had to get back in because we never got to see our pictures. I have to admit I was surprised to find that it worked, and we were readmitted to the park. The lights had been turned on by that time, giving both Main Street and the Castle at the end of the strip a lovely glow. A helpful cast member called up our Mickey pictures for us (everything is digitized) and we decided to spring for a print. Although that store was clearly closing for the night (we had to get assistance in order to exit the shop), many others were in full swing and there was no noticeable attempt by anyone to get people to leave the park. I guess the rides had stopped operating, but it was a beautiful evening to be out and at this point, having had a break from standing and a decent meal, Bill and I definitely had caught a second wind. We wound up doing a fair amount of shopping, both in the Park and, later, back in Disney Village. Meredith was incredibly well-behaved (in fact, she was great all day!) for such a late evening. We bought her a Minnie t-shirt and a little stuffed Thumper, and also found some great wardrobe items for ourselves. The evening return to the Park felt like a gift, a special addition to our visit.
Since we have these annual passes, we will of course be returning, but it’s hard not to feel that Meredith’s first trip to Disney won’t remain among our favorite memories of our time in Paris. Who needs the Louvre, anyway?
Meredith loved the parade, as she saw Mickey and Minnie, Cinderella and her fairy godmother, Aladdin and Jasmine, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Ariel, and Belle all in one compact parade. The music was the same repetitive inanity from the last time we visited Disney-Paris in 1999, but no matter. Following the parade, we hoofed it over to ride Dumbo, for perhaps the longest wait of the day, and then scrambled over to see the live show, Mickey’s Showtime, in Discoveryland (a.k.a. Tomorrowland). There wasn’t a seat in the house, but Bill found Meredith a spot on a staircase with a decent view of the action. Again, she loved it – Mickey and Minnie were joined by Poomba, the Alladin Genie, Baloo, Goofy, and Chip and Dale as well as some “human” friends. Numbers from Hercules, Hunchback, Jungle Book, Lion King, and Pocohantas were tightly performed with some high-energy dancing (need I mention that? Is anything at Disney low energy?).
By the time we left the Visionarium, it was nearly 6 o’clock and we were ready to sit down and eat. We looked over a couple of the in-park dining options, but decided to try something in Disney village (sort of like Paradise Island in Florida). We wound up at King Ludwig’s Castle, with a Medieval Germanic theme, which turned out to be a pretty nice meal for all of us. At some point during dinner, Bill realized that we never went to look at our Mickey pix in the Town Square. The park was due to close at 8 o’clock, and even with a push to get our check, it was probably 5 of 8 by the time we left the restaurant.
We booked it back toward the park, swimming upstream all the way (throngs of “guests” were leaving, of course), and frantically searching for the re-entry gates. They were basically all closed by the time we got there, but one had not been completely closed. Using our best powers of persuasion (an attitude that is loved and respected by the French), we explained that we had to get back in because we never got to see our pictures. I have to admit I was surprised to find that it worked, and we were readmitted to the park. The lights had been turned on by that time, giving both Main Street and the Castle at the end of the strip a lovely glow. A helpful cast member called up our Mickey pictures for us (everything is digitized) and we decided to spring for a print. Although that store was clearly closing for the night (we had to get assistance in order to exit the shop), many others were in full swing and there was no noticeable attempt by anyone to get people to leave the park. I guess the rides had stopped operating, but it was a beautiful evening to be out and at this point, having had a break from standing and a decent meal, Bill and I definitely had caught a second wind. We wound up doing a fair amount of shopping, both in the Park and, later, back in Disney Village. Meredith was incredibly well-behaved (in fact, she was great all day!) for such a late evening. We bought her a Minnie t-shirt and a little stuffed Thumper, and also found some great wardrobe items for ourselves. The evening return to the Park felt like a gift, a special addition to our visit.
Since we have these annual passes, we will of course be returning, but it’s hard not to feel that Meredith’s first trip to Disney won’t remain among our favorite memories of our time in Paris. Who needs the Louvre, anyway?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)