Paris 2010

(PARIS) – Assuming things are back to normal after a mini-strike leaving numerous travelers stranded at Charles De Gaulle Airport, Daphne and I will be returning to Boston tomorrow afternoon -- back in time to join Dennis for dinner. Paris is even more wonderful than it was 25 years ago – when my first grader and I, hands tightly clasped, boarded the RER each morning in a Paris suburb before transferring to the Metro.

We would then spend an entire day searching for all the obligatory monuments, museums, and eateries. Those were the days of favorable exchange rates, and Daphne and I also spent a lot of time in stores selling expensive shoes and leather purses. As my map reading skills are limited, and I never took French in school, it sometimes proved difficult to get directions back in the early ‘80’s.

Now a very self-reliant young woman, Daphne speaks some French, and prefers figuring things out for herself – despite the fact that Parisians we have approached for directions could not have been more helpful. One woman who gave us directions to a local department store apologized for knowing “just a little” English.

Rather than feeling anxiety, I now realize that getting lost or encountering curve balls is just part of one grand adventure. Emerging from the metro at the famous Pere Lachaise cemetery -- where Daphne and I had hoped to see the graves and elaborate tombstones for centuries of celebrities -- we are permitted no further than the gate.

The cobblestone paths are coated with ice, and two securities guards ignore our pleas that we will be fine with our boots. An elderly woman – perhaps a grieving widow hoping to visit her husband’s grave – takes issue with the guards, also to no avail. Daphne translates for me. One of the guards is telling the woman that if she slipped and fell on the ice, she would have to be taken to the hospital.

The neighborhood surrounding Pere Lachaise has florists selling floral displays in the shape of crosses, and shops where head stones can be ordered. Seeing three people walking toward the gates of the cemetery with flowers wrapped in paper, I feel sad. Perhaps it’s the anniversary of a loved one’s death, and yet they, too, will be forbidden entry.

Fortunately, Daphne has read the Guide Michelin, and planned for us to see the charming homes of La Campagne a Paris, just a short walk from the cemetery. Originally built for the working class, these town houses are probably frighteningly expensive today. The door of one home is decorated with a wreath made of Granny Smith apples, and we stop to snap photos.

My daughter is pleased to be taken to A Priori The in the Galerie Vivienne for delicious brewed mint tea and a tart made of raspberries and almond paste. But she is now our official tour guide, and I’m relieved to experience this role reversal.

We embark for a nighttime walk to the Eiffel Tour – not withstanding the fact that I’m usually in bed by 9, and generally dislike going out at night. Daphne insists it’s best to photograph the tower when it’s lit up. She says that if we stick around, we can see a spectacular light show.

There was no Internet on our first trip to Paris, and certainly no Web 2.0. Now Daphne and I spend a certain portion of each day in the lobby of the WiFi zone of the Hotel Castex. We are communicating with her husband, Etan, via Skype and Facebook, and he insists that we are making a big mistake if we don’t go to Versailles.

I tell him we spent hours inside Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors back in the ‘80’s. My response doesn’t satisfy Etan, who fell in love with the gardens last November. Yesterday was snowing, and after a bit of slipping and sliding as we walked to the Chateau from the RER station, we arrived to see the gardens covered in snow.

Yes, some of the sculptures were wrapped in green canvas for the winter. But I don’t think we’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. We walked the gardens for a few hours, returning to Paris only after Daphne said her feet were frozen.

Via Facebook, we have also gotten suggestions from one of my rowing friends, Patrice. Now living in Northern California, he happens to be traveling through France at the same time we are, and suggests we not go home without sampling the candied chestnut ice cream at Berthillon on the Ile-Saint Louis. Opting for three scoops, I also get a rich chocolate laced with fresh orange, and salted caramel.

Daphne, seemingly disciplined enough to stick with fresh fruit sorbet, insists that I try the cherry, along with the pineapple, and lime. Her resolve weakens after tasting the candied chestnut ice cream, and she asks if we order a third dish. Maybe after a visit to the Maison Europeenne De La Photographie.

Dennis has assured us, via Facebook, not to worry about overindulging. We can walk off the calories. From his lips to G-d’s ears!