Episode 28: The Only German Restaurant in Paris

September 20, 2012

The only difficulty with leaving San Francisco’s Internaltional Airport at 7am is that you arrive at Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport at 6 OMG’clock in the morning. This might not be bad if you possess the primal recessive gene that allowed a cave man to sleep while a T-Rex trounced outside his cave; I am not, however, one of those fortunate few. I occassionally fall dead asleep in my plane seat while the plane is at the gate. I can even nod off while the plane taxis. But the second the plane leaves the runway, I’m awake. Bugger!

So, because you haven’t slept for the entire trip, you land in Paris feeling like the plane landed on you, rather than the opposite. Then comes the chaos of immigration. In the United States, thanks to the terrorists, you might have to surrender your passport, fingerprints, a photo, your blood type and possibly your first born — but at least it’s orderly. Neatly formed, civilized, lines. In Paris, Immigration Control is more like a rush hour multicar pile-up. There are people everywhere, all trying to get through the one lane left unscathed by the accident. After not sleeping, it feels like the toothpicks that had been holding your eyes open have been removed and your fellow travelers are now using them to stab you. Ahhhh, the City of Love. Bienvenue à Paris!

Judy and I were beat, there was no food in the terminal, and the taxi line was quite long…just standing….waiting….trying to avoid the toxic cloud of cigarette smoke created by the 10 people who needed an immediate fix after the long flight. We were already missing California, specifically, the laws that confine smoking to designated areas. Why do the French smoke so much? Don’t they know that each puff is deadly? I was certain that it didn’t improve the taste of wine.

Judy and I were finally assigned a taxi for the ride to our Paris home, the Seven Hotel. From the pictures on the web, it looked promising — a plushy kinda art-deco mod motif. (even though it sounds like it should be sandwiched between a Motel 6 and a Super 8). Since we had arrived at 8 in the morning, our room was not ready. It was summer in Paris—the city was jammed to capacity. Nevertheless, we checked in, left our luggage behind, and headed out into the Parisian morning.

Honestly, I can’t quite remember what we did, probably because my brain cells were noodles from the lack of sleep, but I’m sure it involved wandering aimlessly. Eventually, though, we ended up in the Latin Quarter at the back of the Pantheon.

Being a tourist landmark, the Pantheon also meant that food would be nearby. Starving, we meandered from restaurant to restaurant trying to make up our minds about where to eat. Up and down the street we searched for the right restaurant, then up and down again. We just couldn’t come to a decision. Strangely, we finally settled on a Bavarian restaurant. Normally, we’d have no trouble picking a decent place to eat, but at this moment we just couldn’t do it. Here, in of the capital of wine and cheese and bread to die for, we ended up nibbling strange peanuts and eating what Napoleon’s chef imagined the Kaiser’s food should taste like.