My feet were happy with the rain today, because Road Scholar provided taxis to take us to cooking school  in dry comfort.  It was coming down hard this morning and we would have been soaked in the three blocks it takes to get to the subway.

Our chef for today's cooking lesson was a big tall guy who doesn't speak English well, but that didn't stop him from demonstrating everything so well that we had no problem following him.   

He had us slicing shallots the proper French way we learned a few days ago, and trimming and cutting green beans in half.  He put about two tablespoons of olive oil into a sauté pan and got it very hot before tossing in the thinly-sliced shallots.   He sprinkled salt over the shallots, cooked them until they were wilted, and then added the sliced green beans.   He stirred them to evenly coat the beans with the oil and mix in the shallots, then he added about a half-cup of water, covered the pan with a lid, turned the heat down to low, and told us, "Approximant dix minutes!"  holding out both hands with all ten fingers stretched out.

Next, he brought out trays of small boneless beef steaks , about three-quarters of an inch thick -- I don't know what cut they were, but they seemed very good quality  -- and showed us how to use a small, thin, very sharp knife to make small slits in the sides of the meet and insert sprigs of fresh thyme.

When I first saw him from a few feet away, I could see that our chef was a "big tall guy" but it wasn't until he was demonstrating for me how to make the slits in the meat, and could see his hands against the light working surface, that I knew he was black.  His hands were very nimble and graceful, and moved almost too fast for me to follow.

At the stove, he heated olive oil in a sauté pan until very hot, and then put the steaks in, which had been salted on each side.   He kept the heat on high and cooked the steaks on one side for about four minutes before turning them.  

At this point he went back to the green beans, stirred them and added a little more salt, ground some black pepper over them, and turned the heat up a little.

Then he went back to the steaks, which had about two more minutes to go.  He swirled about a tablespoon of herbed butter into the pan (each sauté pan had four small steaks in it), basted the steaks with the herbed butter and pan juices, and then removed the pans from the heat.  

He piled a mound of the hot green beans onto each of our plates, then placed one of the steaks on top of each mound and spooned some of the cooking juices over all.

It was a very satisfying meal with good crusty bread to mop up all the juices and red wine.   A simple meal, but with the best-quality ingredients.  The green beans were tender and flavorful, and the steak was juicy and tasted great with the thyme and herbed butter. (Andy said, "it's pretty rare" (not "raw" this time!), but he ate the whole thing with relish and admitted it probably wouldn't have tasted as good if it had been well-done.)

The chef had already made the dessert before we had arrived, and now we were served -- profiteroles!   They were filled with ice cream and covered in a very good chocolate sauce.  Andy was a happy camper, especially when I gave him mine to eat, too.

Because it is the Labor Day holiday, the Musee des Beaus Arts is closed.   It is just as well, as neither Andy nor I feel good today (I woke up with Andy's sore throat this morning).  And none of our group was interested in doing a walking tour in the rain.  So we all headed back to the hotel for an afternoon off.  I think we all needed some time off, as Andy and I are not the only ones in our group with sore throats and headaches.

We have used up all my Alka Seltzer Plus Cold tablets, so Andy and I stopped at the pharmacy a few doors down from our hotel.   They didn't have anything like Alka Seltzer Plus Cold, but we bought a small box of something that the pharmacist said should help.  "Take one tablet three times a day," she said.   I have no idea what they are, but I've had two so far and they do seem to be working.  

We're on our own again for dinner tonight, and this time Andy and I wanted better than the salad and sandwich shop we went to last night.   And again because of the Labor Day holiday, not many eating places are open, including the hotel restaurant.   But there is a little brasserie open not far from the hotel that we decided to try with a few of our tour fellows.   We didn't need reservations because we decided to go early  (remember, in France, any time before seven is very early for dinner), and the place was practically empty when we arrived around 6:30.

With my sore throat, all I wanted was a bowl of hot soup.  When Andy read "French onion soup" on the menu, he didn't have to read any further.  

It came steaming hot with the crusty cheese on top still bubbling from the broiler.  There was a little carafe of Madeira mixed with a beaten egg yolk that came with the soup, and our waiter lifted up the crusty topping and poured in the Madeira and egg yolk under it.    The soup was full of hearty robust beef and onion flavor, and the bread, Madeira and egg yolk gave it a very satisfying richness.  The crusty cheese was classic, and the perfect topper.

There were five in our dinner group, and one other person chose the French onion soup along with me.  Andy and the others ordered salads, and Andy also got a plate of sautéed vegetables that was good, but none of the others were as happy with their meals as we were with our French onion soup.  With some red wine, it was absolutely the perfect meal  for us.

I should have passed on the rum baba dessert, though.  It was a big sponge cake over which the waiter poured a copious amount of spiced rum.  The fumes alone were enough to get the rest of our table high.  It wasn't quite what I expected.   For one thing, I thought the cake would be more dense, like a pound cake, and for another, the rum was straight rum rather than a light rum-based syrup.  The whole thing was very alcohol-y and I didn't finish it.

Tomorrow we have our last cooking lesson, and get to visit a cheese shop and a silk factory.  I'm especially eager to see the silk factory.

Silk used to be a major industry here in Lyon from the 16th through 19th centuries, but silkworm diseases, the Industrial Revolution and the advent of modern fabrics like nylon and other polyesters have led to the demise of most of Lyon's silk factories.  

Apparently there aren't many of the old silk factories left, and I am looking forward to significantly improving the economy of the one we see tomorrow.  Grin.

Short shots:

Our hotel:

The Hotel Best Western Charlemagne is an OK three-star hotel but Andy and I are less than impressed with the hotel's stated provision of room service.   Not only is the hotel restaurant completely closed on weekends and holidays, but room service is only available when the restaurant is open.   This isn't helpful to guests who are tired and need some rest and respite from constantly eating out.   No hotel restaurant or any room service at all for three solid days (apart from the morning breakfast buffet, which is a good one) is not good.

While the hotel is reasonably navigable with a cane (or guide dog), it's impossible for anyone in a wheelchair to even get in the front door, as there is a six-inch step up from the sidewalk through the front door into the lobby.   You have to navigate three steps up to an elevator to get down to the basement level where the breakfast buffet dining room is located, and then after you get off the elevator there are three more steps and then two flights of stairs before you actually reach the dining room.

On the plus side, our room is spacious and I love that we have a little balcony and a sliding glass door opening out onto it.   Our balcony overlooks a side street and a church across the street.  The church bells chime on the quarter-hours from nine in the morning to ten at night.  The church evidently operates a school because there is a playground within the church grounds and we can hear the sound of children playing at regular intervals.

Street cleaning:

We've noticed that Lyon street-cleaning machines seem to operate almost every night.  Emmanuel said yes, they do, otherwise the city would smell very terrible from all the piss and vomit spewed onto the streets every night.

Drunk driving in France:

Emmanuel said that French law is very strict against drunk driving.  He said drunk driving used to be a major problem a couple decades ago, but since laws were passed against it, the problem has largely ceased, "although it can still be a problem outside of the city on country roads," he said.

It made me remember our Easter holiday feast with Ingrid and her family in Gothenburg, Sweden.   Her husband Thor and son Bert picked us up at the hotel and drove us to Ingrid's home in Bert's car, but we went back to the hotel after dinner on the tram, with Ingrid's daughter Ann.  Thor told us we'd have to go back by tram, because we'd all been drinking, and it wouldn't be good for anyone to drive.   The laws against drunk driving are very strict in Sweden, too.

Oingt is dangerous.  It's a lovely little village perched on a hilltop, very old and picturesque, and full of twisting hairpin-turning stairs of old worn uneven stone.  With no railings.

The stairs were no problem, visually.  Or maybe I should say, "blindly."   I could find them just fine with my cane.   But with no vestibular balance function and no railings to anchor myself, it was deadly dicey navigating those old stone stairs.  Then there was a steep incline with no steps, and again no railing, that was the worst.  It was a good thing there weren't any more such obstacles to deal with after that slope, because I was absolutely and utterly done after getting down to level ground.

I've never felt so vulnerable, so disabled.

As I write this, I understand now that the vulnerability I felt was simply sheer fear of physical injury, much more intense than anything I've ever felt from not being able to see or hear well.   A fall down those steps could -- would -- have caused serious injury.

So.  I didn't fall or even twist an ankle, and I lived to tell that tale.  Now I get to tell about our lunch at La Table du Donjon.   If last night's dinner was the best meal for me so far,  this lunch was Andy's.

We started off with a salad of greens and bite-sized pieces of marinated, grilled duck,  dressed in a mustard vinaigrette and topped with a puff-pastry biscuit.  This was our second encounter with duck and, again, it was deliciously robust and juicy. 

Emmanuel said duck is very popular in France, and we can see why.  The meat is dark, like beef, but with an inherent juiciness and tenderness that most beef cuts don't have.   I'm hoping we'll be working with duck at one of our next cooking lessons.

After the duck salad, we were served a lamb shank braised in red wine and I think garlic and rosemary (maybe a little tomato paste too).  The meat was falling cleanly off the bone and so tender it could be cut with a fork.   Andy was in heaven.   Lamb is not my favorite, but this was so good I have resolved to make braised lamb shanks more often at home.  

Along side the lamb was a pasta and cheese dish, but this was no Kraft's Macaroni and Cheese Dinner.  For one thing it was real cheese (a hearty-flavor cheese, not a cheddar but something like it, and I thought I tasted some parmigiana too), and it had an interesting curry-type of seasoning I couldn't identify.  Whatever it was, it was so intriguing I kept eating small bites to figure it out,  until I put my fork down to an empty space on the plate because there were no more bites to figure out.   That seasoning remains a mystery.

The dessert was the perfect finale for Andy.  It was profiteroles again, three of them, one filled with mango sorbet, another with hazelnut gelato, and the third with vanilla gelato, all sitting together in a pool of darkest chocolate sauce.  The flavors were wonderful rogether.  The profiteroles were not as big as the one we had last night, but still, three of them made a huge dessert.  I ate only a few bites of mine and Andy happily finished it off.

Oingt is so small -- only about 600 permanent residents -- that there's no way the village alone could  provide the business to keep La Table du Donjon open.  Emmanuel said the restaurant has a stellar reputation far and wide,  and a steady stream of patrons regularly drive out from Lyon and the surrounding countryside. 

Andy said the countryside below Oingt is beautiful, full of vineyards.   If it had not been so very windy and cold, our whole group would have lingered outside to enjoy the views.   The views, in fact, are why the Romans built Oingt more than a thousand years ago, as a military outlook and garrison protecting the approach to Lyon, which was a Roman stronghold at the time.  The Romans also introduced viticulture to the Beaujolais region.  Much of the village is built with a local limestone that has iron oxide in it, which gives the stone (and the village overall) a glowing golden color,

We would love to spend more time there on our next trip (but I'll skip the stone stairs, thank you).   The village has several interesting sites, and In addition to the La Table du Donjon restaurant, there is a little art glass shop I'd like to visit again.  It had beautiful glass bowls, lamps, bottles, and other objects.  The textures and shapes were a feast for my fingers, and Andy and I would have bought something if we'd had more time.   

Like I said, next trip.

It was windy before we went inside for lunch, and even windier when we got back outside and walked to our van.  Our next stop was the Chateau Montmelas,  about a twenty-minute drive from Oingt.   It was so windy at the Chateau that our tour guide there took us right inside the castle as soon as possible, saying she was going  to skip the outside walk around the castle.   We liked this plan -- that wind was wicked.  "But the good thing about the wind is that it brings the rain," she said.

That was the farmer in her talking.  In addition to the castle, the Montmelas family owns vineyards and makes wines, and it was obvious that as much as she hated the gusty wind,  just as we did, she would take the wind to get the rain her crops need.

Chateau Montmelas, like Oingt, is more than a thousand years old, and originally built as a military outpost.   Sometime in the 15th century it was converted into a real castle and residence.   In the 1800s it was remodeled to look more like a "fairytale castle," our guide said, with towers, crinols and other additions.   Members of the Montmelas family still live in the castle, and not all of it is open to public view.

The parts that we did see have been restored to their pre-19th century condition as much as possible.  The restoration work is a never-ending task, depending on available funds and expertise.  In one room there was an exquisite parquet floor made with oak,mahogany and ash,  a unique combination of woods.  It  needs repair, but the Montmelas family  has not been able to find anyone with the expertise to tackle the job.   In another room that had been the bedroom of one of the past Montemelas lords, the ceiling was covered with beautiful paintings that had blackened with age.   Our guide told us they discovered the blackening was simply cigar smoke, which had actually helped to preserve the paintings, so that when they got all the smoke residue scraped off, the paintings were in excellent condition.

We were not allowed to take any pictures.  "We were robbed," our guide explained, "and it was so easy for them, because they had been in before, taken pictures, and they knew exactly where everything was and what they wanted.   So, we cannot allow photographs anymore."

Our guide shared stories about some of the family ancestors whose portraits hang in some of the rooms we saw.  There were  kidnappings, murders, gambling scoundrels and heirs from the wrong side of the sheets, all those scandals and skeletons that every family has (and hides).  She also talked about how, during the French Revolution in the late 1700s,  when many lords were killed and castles destroyed, the Montmelas castle was spared because its lords had made a point of paying their workers well, and providing them with good medical care.  "So the workers and villagers protected the family and the castle," our guide said.

I would have liked a few hours -- a few days, even -- to just wander around and get a feel for the place.   Except for the wine-tasting room we visited after seeing the inner castle,  everything I saw was dark -- which is understandable, as the walls are very thick stone and even the enlarged windows  can't bring in much light.  And it smells very old and musty.   

The wine-tasting room looked modern, except for the very deep windows.   The walls were plastered and painted a soft white, so that it was well-lit.   We tasted whites, roses and reds. I was surprised how much I liked the two roses I tasted,  but there was a red that I liked best, the Chateau Montmelas Beaujolais Nouveau.  It was very reasonably priced so Andy and I bought a bottle to have in our room.   I won't have any problem finishing it off before we leave Lyon!

It felt like a long day when we left Chateau Montmelas and headed back for Lyon.   Andy's still got his sore throat and sinus headache, and he was so tired and feeling so lousy that he went down for a nap as soon as we got back to our room.  

He slept for three hours.  I am sure there was some jet lag effect kicking in there along with the sinus cold.  I hated to wake him at eight, but he had said he wanted to get some dinner, even after our big lunch in Oingt.   We are on our own for dinner  tonight and planned to get a light dinner at the hotel restaurant.

But it was closed.   Who ever heard of a hotel restaurant not being open for dinner on a weekend night??

There was a little salad and sandwich shop across the street, and we didn't have the energy to go any further than that.  It was just a carry-out kind of place that happened to have a few rickety tables and chairs in front of the order counter.  I'd give it a negative two for ambiance, but my tuna and olive salad wasn't bad, and Andy said his chicken and pesto panini was good too.   He decided to try their tiramisu for dessert.  I had said I'd share it with him, but after one bite full of Cool Whip (in France, too!  I was appalled), I refused any more.   Andy ate the whole thing and regretted it later.

If that travesty of a tiramisu is the only regrettable thing we eat here in France, I guess we'll survive. 

On our way back to the hotel we stopped at a little grocery store (here in France, small grocery stores are called  "casinos"), and picked up some green tea bags and crackers to snack on in the room.   Just as our Chateau Montmelas guide said, the wind brought the rain, and It began sprinkling as we left the store, then started raining hard just  before we got back to the hotel. 

We will get rain for the next two days.  Tomorrow is the French Labor Day holiday.   We have a cooking lesson and a walking tour that is supposed to include the  Musee des Beaux Arts. 

Short shots:

It's Oingt, not Oing:

I left off the T in my previous letter, but I was right about the pronunciation.  It's "wen" and both the G and the T are silent.   My iPad's annoying auto-correct feature keeps trying to turn "Oingt" into "owning" or "owing to" and once it even came up with "ingot." 

Tuna and olive salad:

It was a canned tuna in my salad, but still very good.  I couldn't help remembering a cooking demonstration by Biba Caggiano that I'd seen years ago, during which she prepared a classic risotto and also a really good appetizer with tuna.   We were surprised to learn that it was canned tuna, and Biba said it was an Italian brand.  She  also said she would never use American canned tuna, because "it is only good for cat food."

Our cats do like American canned tuna.

Laundry:

I'm nineteen days on the road and getting tired of the same two pairs of pants and three shirts.   I wouldn't mind just one more shirt, but I have to admit, I have enough as it is.  I've found that washing out whatever needs washing at the end of the day is best.  I can always find hanging places for one shirt, one pair of pants, one pair of undies and a pair of socks so that  it all can dry out overnight.   And I have discovered that the towel warmer racks are absolutely excellent for slow-drying wet clothes overnight.

Our room has a bathtub -- oh joy! -- and my favorite way to wash my clothes is to toss them into the bath with me.  It's an efficient use of water and works very nicely, thank you very much.

Well, we are a lot more tired than  we realized, and slept right through the food market tour this morning.   Andy said he woke up when our phone rang at 7:35.  It was Emmanuel,  and Andy told him we weren't feeling well and would catch up with the group at the cooking school after breakfast.  He went back to sleep until about nine, and then woke me.

I think I'm just tired -- I've been seventeen days on the road now, after all.  The extra sleep was good and I felt OK when I got up.  Andy, however,  felt lousy with a sinus headache, sore throat and the beginnings of a congested cough.  I gave him some of my Alka Seltzer Plus Cold tablets, and by the time he'd showered and dressed, he was feeling better.   We are bummed we missed the market tour, but we needed the rest.

Linda and Bill flew into Lyon from London last night, and we met them for breakfast at the hotel buffet.   They loved Bath but Bill hated driving in England.   They have rented another car, though, and are driving up to Autoire, a little village about four hours from here.  Bill expects driving in France, on the right side of the road, to be a lot easier than driving on the wrong side of the road in England.   They'll be back in Lyon on Wednesday and then we'll all head to Barcelona Thursday morning.

We had a nice catch-up with them over breakfast, and then caught a taxi to the L'atelier des Chefs to meet up with our group for our second cooking lesson.  

It was a real lesson this time, and I was impressed with our teaching chef.  He is in his 40s, about five nine with a close-cropped beard,  bald head, and big limpid dark brown eyes.   And a lot of patience and good humor with all of us crowding around.

First, we learned how to cut vegetables like a French chef.  He showed us how he uses a peeler to shave off thin strips of carrot, and then cuts them into very thin matchstick pieces.  He peeled a torpedo-shaped shallot down to the root end, which he left  intact while slicing the shallot in half lengthwise, and cut it into very thin long slices.  Finally he cut off the root and discarded it.   Leaving the root intact holds the shallot together and makes it easier to slice, he said.  He had us cut a green apple into very thin julienne slices.   Then he showed us how he wanted us to peel large whole raw shrimp ("break the heads off first,  then peel them from the bottom side up"), devein them and chop them into quarter-inch slices.

When we were done with all that, he gave us each a few squares of what felt like cellophane.  It was cooking film.  He had us put one cut-up shrimp on the bottom, cover the shrimp with some of the very thin slices of shallot, carrot and apple, top it all with about a half teaspoon of a salted curry seasoning, and drizzle two tablespoons of coconut milk over it.   Then we gathered up the edges of the cooking film and tied a string around it, to make a little bag of the shrimp and veggies.  He said the bags would go in the oven at about 325 degrees for about fifteen minutes.

He taught us how to make the perfect pastry cream, using the saucepan full of water and the flat-bottomed flared stainless steel bowl.  He beat the whole eggs with the sugar in the stainless steel bowl, gradually added in the flour,  and then the milk.  We cooked it over boiling water,  whisking constantly, until it began to thicken.  Then he added some vanilla powder (not liquid extract, but powder) and mixed that in well,  took the bowl off the heat and added at least a half cup of butter, pat by pat, letting the heat of the custard melt each pat and whisking  it well in before adding the next. 

After he transferred the pastry cream into a bowl and placed a sheet of plastic over it to keep it from forming a skin, we got to scrape the bowl clean.  That cream was so good I would have snitched a big spoonful from the bowl he put in the frig if I could have gotten away with it.  

He lightly toasted several sheets of phyllo dough in the oven, flattening the phyllo layers between two cookie sheets, to make them extra crisp.  (That's when I figured out he was making Napoleons.)

And I got to make the caramel sauce for the Napoleons.   A sauté pan with about a cup of white sugar slowly cooked over medium heat, until the sugar began to melt and bubble at the edges.  When the edges are well melted and beginning to brown, it's time to lift up the pan and swirl the melted sugar around to mix it and get all the sugar to melt evenly.   He wouldn't let me use a spoon, "because when you stir, it creates cold spots and the sugar clumps."   So I swirled and swirled until the sugar was all melted and golden brown.  Then we added about a quarter cup of butter, and swirled that well into the melted sugar.  Finally we added about a cup of cream.

At this point I was allowed to stir,   There was some clumping, but "just keep stirring, the clumps will work themselves out," and they did.   I ended up with a lovely thick and smooth caramel sauce.  

Then we made a risotto, using the same basic technique I learned from Biba Caggiano's cookbooks, only our teaching chef used olive oil and shallots instead of butter and onions.  After the wine and broth had been cooked into the risotto, he  had us add about a teaspoon of squid ink, which turned the risotto almost black and gave it a delicate shellfish flavor.

Then he turned to the cod filets.  There was one for each class member, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, and one and a quarter inches thick.  And very fresh.  I could detect absolutely no "fishy" odor.   He heated about two tablespoons of olive oil in a sauté pan until it was very hot, and dropped the filets into the hot oil.   We let them cook for five minutes before turning them over to reveal nicely browned and flaking fish.  He turned off the burner and took the fish off the stove, setting the pans aside.   

He went back to the risotto, heated it up again, and swirled in about a quarter cup of butter, and then a half cup of grated parmigiana cheese.  

By now the little shrimp bags have been cooking in the oven, are done and now sitting on the counter, steaming hot.  We were all sent to our big long table with one of these bags on a small plate, and a glass of wine.

That thing was melt-in-your-mouth delicious.   The shrimp was sweet and succulent, and the onions, apples and carrots were tender and added just the right texture and sweet tangy flavor along with the coconut milk and salted curry seasoning.  The sauce was so good we were mopping up every bit with good crusty bread.    Andy and I could easily have eaten two or three of them.

But we had to go finish preparing our cod and risotto.  Our chef had the cod back on the burner, and was melting small scoops of butter creamed with herbs and seaweed in with the cod.   We basted the filets with the olive oil, herbed butter and fish juices for about three minutes, and then took the pans over to our dinner plates.  A small mound of risotto had been dropped onto to each plate, and now we spooned the cod filets on top of the risotto, drizzled some of the cooking sauces over,  and garnished it all with a sprig of parsley and a thin slice of lemon.   The whitish cod and dark risotto made an especially attractive presentation with the garnish.

Then we got to eat it, with some more wine, of course.  It was absolutely excellent.  The cod was light and flaky and perfectly seasoned with the herbed butter, and the risotto was perfect.

While we were savoring our perfect cod and risotto, another cooking class had come in, and were making up our pastry cream, caramel sauce and toasted phyllo layers into Napoleons.  I could have used more pastry cream and caramel sauce in mine, but it was delicious anyway, and now I know exactly how to make Napoleans. 

Andy liked our shrimp appetizer so much he went into the cooking school store and bought a big roll of the cooking film.  It's a great technique that will work well with scallops and just about any kind of fish, even chicken or other meats.  I told Andy I am sure I can use parchment paper if we can't find the cooking film at home, but he was determined to have it and willing to pack it.    (I can guess what he's going to want for dinner very soon after we get home.)

And again, through the entire lesson, Andy was my eyes and ears, leading me to wherever the action was, making sure I knew exactly what was going on and that I had everything I needed for whatever job I was assigned to.

Another walking tour was on the agenda for the afternoon, but Andy and I decided to pass and get some rest before dinner.  We thought we were on our own for dinner tonight, but Emmanuel announced a last-minute change and said we were going to get an extra dinner on the tour, at Paul Bocuse's cooking school.

After our wonderful lunch, I wasn't sure I'd be up for dinner, but fortunately the French eat dinner late, and I had my appetite back by the time we were served dinner around 8:30.  We started off with a purée of eggplant with a mix of seasonings I can't describe, topped with strips of seared ahi tuna and garnished with capers.   It was so good I was hoping Andy wouldn't like his so I could eat his, too.

"The fish is raw," he told me when he was describing it to me.  

"Andy, the term is 'rare,' not 'raw.'" 

"Yeah well it's raw."

But he surprised me by eating all of his, raw fish and all.

Our main course was breast of duck, served with greens, a few small potatoes, and a whole pear that had been peeled, cored, and poached in spiced red wine.  It was our first real taste of duck, and we loved it.   The duck was tender, juicy and full of robust flavor.  The poached pear was the perfect accompaniment with the tangy spicy red wine sauce.  I detected coriander, cardamom, cumin, allspice and cinnamon.  It was an inspired combination, and we both ate every bite.

After I cleaned my plate I was ready to die a happy death with the rest of my wine and then maybe a decaf cappuccino, when we were served the dessert.  That dessert was like getting to heaven without having to die first.

It was a profiterole (cream puff), that had been dusted with specks of hazelnut brittle, and filled with a rich and silky caramel pastry cream.  (I think it was simply a good pastry cream with caramel sauce incorporated into it.)  More hazelnut brittle had been sprinkled into the cream, and the whole thing was served with a small scoop of vanilla gelato on the side.

I do think that dessert is my all-time best I've ever tasted, and I'm sure I can recreate it at home.  I already know how to make ice cream, cream puffs and pastry cream, and after today's cooking lesson I can make a mean caramel sauce too.   And the  nut brittle part should be a piece of cake.

It was late when we got back to the hotel, almost eleven.  Our day doesn't start tomorrow until 10:30, so we'll sleep in a bit.  Tomorrow is a field day, a trip to Oing (pronounced "wen" -- the G is silent), a tiny little village about an hour from here, and then a castle and winery.

Short shots:

Butter:

Yep, the French use a lot of butter.  However, I have yet to  encounter any shortening, margarine or other hydrogenated oil.  The cooking school kitchen pantry contains no corn oil, no Karo  or Mrs. Butterworth's syrups, no Cool Whip, no CheezWhiz,  no Hamburger Helper, no cake mixes, no marshmallow cream, no Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, no Entenmann's awful slimy icing-covered pastries, no Rainbo or Wonder Bread or any other Kleenex bread, absolutely nothing of any of that ilk.   

I have seen no soda pop served with any meals here.

And so far the only fat people I've seen here are us Americans.

I think the French are on to something.

Wine:

And yep, they drink a lot of wine.  But I notice the wine here is not as  strongly alcoholic as California wines.   The wines I've had here are lighter and really do go very well with food.

Paris may have stinky subways, but they sure have terrific train stations.   I wish we had made time to get more of a look around at Gare de Lyon, where we caught our train to Lyon yesterday morning.    They told us at the hotel we only needed to be there twenty to thirty minutes before departure, and it didn't occur to us to allow for more time to enjoy the station itself.  

Gare de Lyon is spacious and airy, very clean, and very busy but does not feel crowded.  There are several shops and cafes all around the main terminal, and Andy said some of the cafes looked really nice,  much better than food court stalls or carry-out stands.    So next trip, we make time to enjoy the station too.

Linda was absolutely right when she told me the French take their train travel seriously and put a lot of their public money into making it comfortable and easy to use.  The Eurostar was nice, but not as nice or easy as train travel within France.  I can't get over how easy it all was.  We simply got out of our taxi, walked into the station,  took a couple minutes to look around and get oriented, and then walked straight to our train and got on.  No stairs, no  escalators, no security checkpoints, not even a turnstile to pass through.  

Andy bought us first-class tickets again, so we were up in one of the front cars of the train.  It was a TGV duplex, and we were up on the top deck in the roomiest most comfortable train seats I've ever encountered.  You could truly stretch out and take a nice nap in those seats.  It seemed like no time at all when we pulled into Lyon two hours later.  

And again, it was so easy.  We just got off the train, walked through the station out to the street, and found a taxi.  The ride to the Hotel Best Western Charlemagne was about a half-hour, and we were all settled into our room  with a couple hours to spare before our Road Scholar French Cooking in Lyon tour orientation lecture and welcome dinner. 

We're a small group, only sixteen of us, and all Americans.  Andy and I are the only Californians.  Everyone else is from New York or the Midwest.   I am not surprised  our group is mostly women.  Andy is one of only four men (all husbands of one of the women), and then there is our guide, Emanuel.  He's a tall dark Frenchman with Spanish blood, and speaks French, Spanish and English in a rumbling bass that I love listening to but have a hard time understanding.  I'll get used to it.

Apart from advising us to always take advantage of any restroom opportunities presented to us during the week's activities "because public restrooms are practically nonexistent here," the most important thing he told us last night was how to do a proper French toast.  You raise your wine glass to your partner, he said, "and it's very important to look them in the eyes.  Then you say, 'Chee-chee!' and clink your glasses."  

"Chee-chee" is what it sounds like, anyway.  Andy says it's spelled something like "tschi-tschi."   There's no real translation for it, according to Emanuel.  We might not have learned what it means, or how to pronounce it or spell it,  but we all sure enjoyed practicing it all evening.

It looks like all our cooking lessons are going to be at a cooking school by the name of "L'atelier des Chefs," or "Chefs' Workshop."  When we arrived there this morning for our first lesson, we were each given a top-quality chef's bib apron, black, with the cooking school and Road Scholar logos embroidered on front and our first names at the top.  Very nice.  Andy looks very distinguished in his.

So there we were, all dressed up in our spiffy black chef's aprons, chatting over coffee at the long table, waiting for our cooking lesson.   Today we were going to be making appetizers and then eating them for lunch.  A school chef appeared at the head of the table, told us to  "Do your best," and disappeared.  

Well, OK then ... So we went into the kitchen, which was a haze of shiny stainless steel mixed in with pits of dark shadow and shards of bright light.  With Andy's help I learned the layout well enough. There are half a dozen work stations (each about as big as the island in my own kitchen), a huge professional eight-burner gas stove, a wall of ovens, a wall of refrigerators and freezers, a large sink  and counter for the big clean-up jobs and a few sink-and-faucet stations for smaller jobs and washing hands.  Each work station had a different assortment of food items, and apparently we were to create an appetizer  out of whatever was at our station.   

I had a moment of sheer panic.  What in hell am I doing here, there's no way I can handle this, I can't see worth beans, I can't hear worth beans, I haven't got a clue what is where, there's too many people in here and I'll end up stabbing them all with my knife, I don't even know what we're supposed to do, it's time for me to check out of here, good bye and no thank you.

But Andy got right down to business. "OK, here's the onions," he said, taking my hand and putting it on the onions, and then on to the carrots, green apples, a leafy green that he said was "some really dark-looking cabbage," fresh ginger, "and some kind of sausage."

"Chorizo," someone said.

"Yeah, cho-what's-it," Andy agreed.

My brain clicked on, and in my mind I was beginning to caramelize sliced onions with chopped chorizo sausage and thinking about adding  julienned cabbage and carrots, and maybe some apple and fresh ginger--

But Andy was pulling me by the hand over to another table loaded with other ingredients, both sweet and savory, including basic working  ingredients like eggs, flour, milk, and butter.  And a stack of very thin, cooked crepes that we were supposed to use.  OK, crepes then, I can fill them and roll them up and cut them into pieces.

"I know what I'm going to do," I told Andy, "I need to get back to the  work station."   I was happy with the knives -- hefty and solid in the hand, and very, very sharp.   I set Andy to cutting the sausage into quarter-inch dice, while I sliced onion.  I needed small bowls to put my ingredients in, and began feeling around the work station.  

"What do you need?"  Andy asked.

"Bowls," I said, "to put all my chopped stuff in."

They appeared, and Andy assured me, "You just tell me whatever you need." I had him slice the cabbage into thin strips, and put them in the same bowl with the carrots I'd julienned.  The peeled diced apple went into a third bowl, and when Andy finished peeling and mincing an inch of fresh ginger root, that went on top of the apple.  

"Anything else?" Andy asked.  

"Can I get some fresh Italian flat-leaf parsley?"

I could.  When Andy got the leaves stripped off the stalks ("Do I need to chop them?"  "No, the leaves are fine."), I told him I needed to get to the stove with a heavy sauté pan and  some olive oil.  The pan appeared and so the oil.   I drizzled about two teaspoons, no more, of the oil into the pan, got it hot, and threw in the onion and sausage.  "Don't you want more oil?" Andy asked.    

"No, the fat in the sausage will be enough."  I sauteed the onions with the sausage over medium heat until I began to catch that mellow caramel odor, and Andy said they were a golden brown.  Then I added the julienned cabbage and carrots and let them cook for about three minutes, then added the apple, ginger and parsley.

I tasted, and decided it needed a bit of crunch. I was thinking along the lines of water chestnuts but Andy found some chopped almonds, and those worked fine.   Andy ground some fresh black pepper into it, I sprinkled about two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar into it, and then tossed in a handful of grated parmigiana cheese.

That tasted all right to me: a nice meld of the onion and sausage,  the cabbage and carrots were good supporting base flavors, the apple and ginger gave it a tang and some zing, the parsley and balsamic brightened it all up and the parmigiana rounded everything out.

Now we went back to the work station, where Andy helped me spread this filling onto two big crepes and roll them into logs.  We cut them into sixteen pieces (one for each class member), set the pieces on a cooking sheet, and drizzled a bit of olive oil over each.  "What temperature and how long do you want these in the oven?"    
I really didn't know, but I said (as though I knew perfectly well); "Three fifty for ten minutes."

Then I was all done and wondered what to do next.  I saw Andy talking to some of our classmates and moved over to his little group.   The school chef was there too, and Andy turned to me and said, "They want to know if you want to make a sweet appetizer."

"A sweet one?  Do I have time?"

Yes, I had plenty, so Andy took me back over to the table with all the supplies, and we found pralines, toasted hazelnuts and almonds, and shredded coconut.  And some really excellent dark chocolate.  Hmmm.  Maybe a creamy nut filling and add some chocolate.  "Is there any mascarpone cheese I can use?"

Yes, there was mascarpone, and I was handed some.  I set Andy to work chopping up the nuts and the pralines ("Don't you want any sugar?"  "No, the pralines are the sugar.").   I was surprised to find a couple of my classmates joining in on the chopping, and we soon had a nice pile to mix into the mascarpone with the coconut.  I tasted it, and decided it needed .... Something.

"Can I get some Amaretto? Or some other nut liqueur?"  Yes, I could, and a bottle of Amaretto was handed to me.  (By this point I wasn't sure I was learning anything but I sure was beginning to like having whatever I asked for appear like magic.). I put in just two capfuls of Amaretto, tasted again, and that was just right.

Now we went back over to the stove to melt the chocolate.  I asked for a double-boiler, but the school chef didn't know what I meant.  Andy described in his rudimentary French how I wanted to melt the chocolate over hot water ("Melt chocolat sur water chaud?").

"Ah oui, oui!"  And the chef brought me a pan full of water to put on the burner, and a flat-bottomed, flared stainless steel bowl to set into it.  Perfect.   In fact, better than my Farberware double-boiler at home.  I added just a touch of cream to the melted chocolate, and we went back to the work station. 

I spread the mascarpone mix evenly over two crepes, using my hands.  This was a totally tactile operation for me because to me the mascarpone mix was invisible against the crepe, which in turn was invisible against the light working surface.    Andy drizzled the chocolate on top, and we rolled up the crepes to make logs again.  Andy and one of our classmates cut them into 16 pieces, drizzled a little more chocolate over each, and sprinkled the tops with a few sliced almonds.  

It turned out that Andy and I were mistaken in thinking we absolutely had to use the crepes (or almost everyone else ignored that direction).   Our class created quite an assortment of appetizers, ranging from beef and salmon tartares  to a tossed salad with a Ceasar-type dressing to a shrimp and cheese omelet, simple slices of fruit with cheese and a garnish, even a fresh chutney served on a cracker with cheese.  

All the trays of all our creations crowded the big long table and made an ample feast, along with plenty of wine.  I tasted everything, and while I liked some things more than others, it was still all good, even the beef and salmon tartares.   (And I noticed that not everyone tasted everything.)   The beef tartare was surprisingly good, with lots of minced onion and ginger, fresh black pepper, and I think a dash of mustard.  The salmon tartare was good, too, chopped with ginger and lemon, with a dollop of tangy cream on top.  My personal fave was a pear and Brie tart with pistachios.  My little sausage and cabbage rolls turned out well,  and my nutty mascarpone rolls weren't bad either.  I got a lot of compliments on both of them, and there weren't any leftovers.  

If I were to do those again, I'd use wonton wrap or phyllo dough for the cabbage rolls, and I'd put the mascarpone mix into a crust, maybe a dark chocolate crust.

It wasn't quite the cooking lesson any of us expected, but we all did well anyway, and I had a great time in spite of wanting to bolt in panic at the very beginning.  There was no way I could have done it without Andy's help, and I told him so.  He told me I was the only one in the class who'd made more than one appetizer.

"Really?  I guess I acquitted myself well then," I said.

"Mary, everyone was standing around watching you," Andy said.  "You did better than just acquit yourself."

We walked off all those appetizers after lunch with a walking tour of Old Lyon.   The buildings are all the same gray-white or light beige stone,  in the same general architectural style, and mostly the same  height too.   Emanuel said the uniformity is a result of the early Roman Empire influence.  "The saying is," he told us, "'If you've seen one old Roman building, you've seen them all.'"   

The interesting part of the tour for me were all the narrow cobblestoned streets with hidden doorways and passageways that opened up into secret courtyards.  I also enjoyed spending time at an old cathedral with many stained glass windows (I could only see whitish light but in my mind I was able to add in the colors when someone gave them to me).   The cathedral was also full of incredibly beautiful stonework and high aches, statues and paintings.   It was nice sitting in there,  resting my feet and listening to the choir music while drinking in all I could see. 

I wondered about the financial and human resources that went into building that cathedral -- they had to be incredible, indeed must have been astronomical.    And this is just one of countless churches and cathedrals all over Europe.  It occurred to me that in order to understand how the Catholic Church could spend so much money on cathedrals instead of using the money to improve living conditions for its members, it's necessary to remember that in that era, physical life on Earth was supposed to be hard.  The church building was a representation of the glory of God and spiritual life in heaven.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of lives, what kind of history, we'd have today if the Catholic Church had put a lot more of its wealth into improving the quality of life for its members, rather than into gilded cathedral roofs and stained glass windows.

But then, I thought, that's not really a fair question, because it doesn't account for that ineffable and inestimable value of the art -- the spirit in the art -- to the quality of our lives.  Those treasures back then are still incredible treasures today.  And in today's world, we're sure not creating beautiful masterpieces for the centuries to come the way they did back then.

A few others in our group shared my cathedral respite, as we decided to sit out the hike up the tallest hill in the city to visit a cathedral up there.   I thought about going, because that cathedral supposedly has beautiful mosaics, but my feet are still in bad shape.  Our walking tour was only supposed to be a mile or two, but I'm sure it was really three or four, and it was at least another mile for Andy and the others who hiked up the hill.  Andy said he thought it was two miles total, up and back.

He said the view from the top of the hill was gorgeous, and that the cathedral up there is even more beautiful than the one I visited.  But, he added, considering the hike and what I can realistically see, my decision to skip that part of the tour was a good one.

We were all tired by the time we got back to the hotel via the Lyon metro and tram system.   My feet were very unhappy and when I learned that we were all supposed to take the metro again to our dinner, I told Andy we were taking a taxi.   Another couple joined us, and even Andy was glad to get off his feet for the rest of the evening.

Tonight's dinner was at L'Est, a restaurant located in what used to be the easternmost railway station in Lyon.  The main thing I noticed about the restaurant is that the walls were dark, but the place was well-lit so that the pristine white tablecloths positively glowed.   And the white napkins had a little buttonhole in one corner, so that you could attach it to a shirt button for a good cover.

It was like trying to see in the fog with bright lights.   Between the glare from the bright white tablecloths  and then more glare from all the bright white shirtfronts across the table, I had to keep my sunglasses on.  In fact, I just closed my eyes for almost the entire time we were there.

But I had no trouble cleaning my plate.  I ordered grilled salmon, which was perfectly done and came with perfectly sautéed melt-in-your-mouth fresh spinach.  I don't remember what Andy ordered except that he was not as happy with his meal as I was with mine.  

Tomorrow starts early:  we all meet in the lobby at 7:30 a.m., and will go with Emanuel and our teaching chef to a professional market to pick out all the ingredients we'll be cooking with later.  Andy and I are looking forward to that, even if we'd rather not have to get up so early for it.

Short shots:

Lyon metro and tram:

Lyon's subway system is not as old as the one in Paris, and is much cleaner and more user-friendly.  The closest subway station is about 4 blocks from our hotel, and we take it three stops to the L'atelier des Chefs, which is about two blocks from the subway.  I notice that when we walk into the entrance of any station, we're hit with a whiff of air freshener, usually a pleasant scent and not overpowering.   I suspect that without the air freshener, Lyon's subways would stink as much as Paris' system does.  Andy says he's a few homeless people huddled near the entrances of a couple of the stations we used today.   But so far, no dog poop.

The tram operates at ground level and is also very user-friendly.  It stops at the subway station (different level than the subway trains, of course), and it also stops a couple blocks closer to our hotel than the subway.

Everyone uses the subway and tram systems here, buses too.  Emanuel said not many people drive private cars here; it's too hard to find good parking,  gas is expensive, and public transit is cheap and very good.

Graffiti:

Andy's been commenting a lot on how much graffiti there is all over Lyon -- in the subways, on professional buildings, just everywhere.   That's one thing I'm glad I don't see much.

"It doesn't look all that big, does it?"

When I saw it from the tour bus at a distance, that iconic lacy black arrow looked just as I imagined it would.   As we walked right up to it, however, it just didn't look very ... I don't know -- imposing, I guess.   I thought it'd look more massive from the ground when we were close up to it. 

Up until that point, we'd been lucky with the weather -- it was cold and windy but at least it was dry.  But as soon as  we got in line to go through security and buy tickets to go up, the wind picked up, and for the first time on the whole trip I wished I had my warm gloves.  I'd packed them but never needed them until now, not even during the snow flurries in Sweden.  But that cold wind in Paris was something else.   It really got miserable when it started raining hard.  

If there's only one thing you do in Paris the first time you're there, it's gotta be the Eiffel Tower, even in the rain.   In a way the rain was actually good because there weren't many other tourists as determinedly crazy as Andy and I were, to stand out there in the windy cold pouring down rain, inching our way along that snaky queue with all the hairpin doubling-back turns. 

If you want to take the stairs all the way up, it's cheaper than taking the elevator.  But even Andy was willing to pay extra for the elevator tickets.   In spite of the rain keeping the crowd smaller than usual, we still  had to wait a couple turns before we could get into the elevator.

There are at least three levels to the Eiffel Tower that are open to the public.  The first elevator stop is maybe a third of the way up,  at the  top of the base level, where there is a kind of balustrade where you can walk around.  The second elevator stop is almost all the way up, and opens out to a viewing area that's enclosed with glass windows so you can see out in relative comfort.   Another comfort measure is the heaters all along the perimeter.  It was so cold everyone was crowding around them.   Posters all along the perimeter are full of interesting factoids and photos, including some of Sarah Bernhardt, Buffalo Bill,  and other famous people who were among the first to ever climb the Tower when it first opened.  (No elevator for them, nor nice heaters and protective glass windows either -- those all came years after the Tower was first built).  

There were signs noting how far the Tower is from other parts of the world.  I think it's something like 8,900 kilometers from New York City.  One poster informed us that Thomas Edison designed the first electric lighting system for it, and there were several photos showing how the Tower had living quarters when it was first built.

I couldn't see much, of course, but Andy did a great job of reading and describing everything to me, and he had a good time taking in the view all around.   He could pick out the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe and other Parisian icons, and said the roofs of the city are almost all uniformly red clay tile.  The Seine was a nice deep blue.  I liked that.  (I really was disappointed that the Thames was such a gloomy muddy color.)

He found a stairway up, presumably to the very very top, so I said I'd stay warm while he went up.  He came back down and told me it was only about fifteen steps, "and there's a little gift shop up there and you can get champagne."

"OK, let's go," I said, "If there's one thing I should do on the Eiffel Tower, it's have a glass of champagne at the top."  I mean, really.   A blind lady's gotta get some joy out of a view she can't see.  

So we went up, and I had my little glass of champagne.  Andy was a killjoy and wouldn't get a glass  to toast with me,  but I savored mine anyway and sent up a silent toast to Linda, who I knew would have been right in there with me, toasting with gusto.  (And making me squat for a selfie.)

It stopped raining and the sun came out while we were up there.  It was so deliciously warm, standing there in the sun, like having a cushy soft blanket thrown over my shoulders.   Now everyone abandoned the heaters and crowded into the spotlights of sun.

We went into the gift shop and Andy helped me pick out an Eiffel Tower refrigerator magnet for Linda, to add to her collection.   It was probably made in China, but oh well.

As we headed back down to the elevator, Andy found another set of stairs.  These led down to a landing that had  nice restrooms, a couple of gift shops, and a couple of food and drink vendors.   

Just to look at it, you'd never know all this stuff is in the Eiffel Tower.   There's a lot more in it than down on the ground at the base of it, in fact.    On the ground there are just a couple of food vendors and touristy souvenir shops, and the only restroom is a stinky Porta-Potty kind of hole in the ground with walls around it (and no toilet paper.  If we'd known the Tower had nice restrooms upstairs, we both would have waited!). 

In addition to gift shops, food and drink vendors, and nice restrooms, the Tower itself is crammed with radar and communication equipment.  The French seem to have done a good job of making the most out their lacy black arrow.

The Eiffel Tower is best appreciated from a distance, I think, rather than within it or even at the top of it.  Now that l've had my champagne at the top, I  have no need to do that one again.  I don't think Andy does either, unless he wants to rectify his failure to make the appropriate commemorative ablutions, and go back up to get himself a glass of champagne.  

So, having done the Eiffel Tower, we decided we were done with the bus tour.  It was another one of those big red double-decker tour buses, and like the ones in London, the top decks are open to the elements.  Unlike the ones in London, however, the Paris tour bus drivers don't give you any live commentary.    Andy was disappointed in the taped commentary he picked up through the headphones.  He said it didn't give much information and  was mostly music. All in all, we didn't get much out of the Paris version of the big red double-decker bus tour.  

But at least we did the Eiffel Tower, and neither of us needed a guide to tell us when we were driving down the Champs de l'Elysee and under the Arc de Triomphe.   As in London, there was nothing to indicate there'd been a recent terrorist attack there.  And again, I felt spooky.

We took the subway -- in Paris, it's "the Metro" -- back to our hotel.  The Metro station was a lot farther than Andy thought, and it was far more walking than I should have done on my bad feet.  It was pouring down rain again when we got out at the station near our hotel, and by the time we got back to our room I was totally done for the day.

My feet hurt so much I didn't even want to go downstairs, so Andy went over to the superb little bakery across the street and brought back some wonderful quiches for dinner.   Those quiches were so good we plan to stop there again tomorrow before we head for our train to Lyon.

It's been such a short time in Paris.  We only just got here yesterday around noon after a nice relaxing ride on the Eurostar train.

Getting to the Eurostar was a piece of cake if your feet didn't hurt.  We got on the tube a couple blocks from St. Ermin's, went one stop to Victoria Station, transferred to another train, went a few more stops, and voila, there we were at St. Pancras station.  

Once we got to St. Pancras, it was a hike up and down escalators and stairs and finally a long straight walkway (at least a couple city blocks long) into the Eurostar terminal.  We passed security (similar to but still easier than going through airport security), cleared customs, and had a little waiting time before we could board our train.   I was very happy to sit down and get off my feet.

Happily, Andy bought first-class tickets, so at boarding time we got to use a less-crowded boarding ramp and were seated in one of the first two cars.  We had opposing seats with a table between us, and could set up our laptops and even plug them in and charge them up.   The seats were very comfortable, and we were served a nice breakfast.

The ride through the southern English countryside toward the Channel did not take long.  It all looked gray and more gray to me, but I could imagine how green  the gently rolling countryside really was.  Then we went into the tunnel, and were back up and speeding through gently rolling French countryside before we knew it.  

The entire ride lasted less than two and a half hours, and we only had to be at the train station about forty minutes before departure.    Plus it took us only fifteen minutes to get to the Eurostar terminal.  If we'd flown, the flight would have been about an hour shorter than the train ride, but we'd have had to be at the airport two hours ahead of time and it would have taken us an hour to get to the airport In the first place.  Then, when we arrived in Paris, it would have been at least another hour and a half to get our bags and then to our hotel.  When the Eurostar arrived at Paris Nord, we walked off the train with our baggage, found a taxi within minutes, and arrived at our hotel  about ten minutes later. 

Do the math, and it's a no-brainer.  Three hours and forty-five minutes to get from St. Ermin's in London to the Hotel De La Porte Doree in Paris via train, versus five to six hours by air.  And it's way more comfortable on the train.  Even the toilet rooms are bigger, cleaner, and easier to use than on an airplane.

The Hotel De La Porte Doree is a cute little hotel located close to buses, subways, and major train stations, in a delightful  neighborhood full of little shops of all kinds and cafes and restaurants.   After we checked in, we set off to explore and find some lunch.  We found a little brasserie about a block away, and we split a lentil and ham salad with egg (the egg on top of salad is a very French thing, especially in Lyon, and it's surprisingly good).  It was just the perfect late lunch to tide us over until dinner at the little restaurant around the other corner from our hotel.   

In France, unless it's a brasserie which is open all afternoon between lunch and dinner time, restaurants don't open for dinner until  seven, sometimes seven-thirty, and most people don't eat until eight or nine.  That's a nice way to do it, if you stay up later and get up later.  But if you're used to the early rise-and-shine thing with dinner at six and bedtime before midnight, French time can take some getting used to.

The bakeries here all seem to open early and stay open late, and there must be two of them along with a chocolate shop or two on every block.  As well as two produce and grocery stores mixed in with all the other little clothing, eyeglass, pharmacy, bicycle, and what-have-you shops.  There's even a Midas muffler shop almost next door to our hotel.   After Westminster and all the mostly uniform gray-white stone and red brick,  this neighborhood is like a flower garden that includes a few flowering weeds along with the rose bushes.  I'd love to live here for a month or two and get to know every little nook and cranny.

Our hotel is full of little nooks and crannies, too.   One of the littlest nooks is the elevator, which is only eighteen inches wide and about four feet long.  If you're wearing a backpack, there's no room to swing a kneazel in there, as Hagrid might say.  

There's not much room to swing a kneazel in our room, either, as it's tiny, but it's lovely and for two nights, it works. It's on the first floor (the first floor above the ground level, that is; at home it'd be on the second floor) and our window looks right out onto the street.   (Yes, it opens!)  You can see where all the wrought-iron trim in New Orleans came from.   Several buildings in this neighborhood, including our hotel, have decorative wrought-iron grills with flower boxes adorning the  windows.

Dinner last night at "the little restaurant around the other corner" from here was wonderful.  I had a bouillabaisse to start with, and then my main course was a beef bourguignon (classic French dish with beef, bacon, mushrooms and red wine).  Andy ordered some kind of lamb, which he almost always likes, but after he tasted mine he wished he'd ordered the beef bourguignon, too.  (And he doesn't like mushrooms!).  

It'd be nice if we could go back there tonight, but, as I said, I'm done for the day and not walking anymore anywhere.  We definitely need to come to Paris again and stay a lot longer.   I'd stay here at the Hotel De La Porte Doree again, too, as long as we get a bigger room next time.

Short shots:

Parting flavors:

When we left St. Ermin's yesterday, we stopped at a little breakfast and lunch place on the way to the tube, because Andy wanted to try one of their breakfast fruit smoothies.  He chose a combination of berries, coconut milk and other stuff he doesn't remember anymore.  I tasted it, and was surprised he liked it.  it wasn't very sweet -- in fact, it was the sort of thing he usually does not like.

I had avocado and chorizo sausage on toasted sourdough.   The avocado had been mashed with a lot of lemon, and the chorizo was not the Mexican chorizo I'm used to.   It tasted strange at first, but after the third bite I liked it and had no trouble eating the whole thing.

This trip has expanded both our palates.

Hotel De La Porte Doree:

The woman who owns the hotel is from Sacramento.  I learned about it from my friend Rita Sudman who has stayed here.  Interestingly enough, after I booked our reservations and told Linda about it,  she said she has stayed here before, too.  It is a good hotel at a reasonable rate and great location, both for the neighborhood itself and for getting out and about on good local transit.  The hotel breakfast buffets are excellent, too, and the staff is very friendly and helpful.

The Metro:

Paris' subway system is effective and extensive, but not the most pleasant to use.  For one thing,  it's disability-hostile.  Even if a wheelchair could get down to a train platform, there's no way to get on the train because you have to step up about six inches from the platform onto the trains.   There are no announcements of the stops -- everyone is expected to keep track on their own -- and you get ten seconds max to get on and off.

And for another thing, it stinks.   Andy says he didn't smell anything but I often caught strong Porta-Potty and sewage odors.   And once, while we were on a platform walking to our train, Andy suddenly steered me around an obstacle that he told me later was a pile of dog poop.

Disability consciousness:

On this whole trip so far, disability accessibility is overall lousy, and it's easy to see why.   It's an impossible task \to bring everything up to a standard building code when you're working with architecture and infrastructure that's hundreds, even thousands, of years old.  

So far, I have not encountered a single other white cane user, although I did see a few wheelchairs in Amsterdam.

I notice some different attitudes.   In Copenhagen, for example, big red double-decker bus tours are free to blind customers.  The Brits didn't give me any free rides, though.  (Not that I'm asking for any.).  And when Andy tried to get a refund from the tour bus company here in Paris when he learned that none of the buses here provide live commentaries (I can't pick up the taped audio commentaries), they refused.

The Paris Metro is NOT disability-friendly but that doesn't necessarily apply to its riders.  Every time I got on the Metro (or almost any other public transit anywhere), someone almost always offered me a seat right at the door.  It's nice to know simple humane courtesies are still universally in practice.  

I was interested to notice a huge monument honoring French soldiers who were disabled in the Second World War.  From what I could see of it from the tour bus, and gather from Andy's description,  it's a large circular or oval park, with a big building in the center, and a constant honor guard.   I don't remember the details of the building that Andy described to me, but I do remember the bullets.  I could see those.  They were shrubs trimmed in the shape of bullets, and rose out of the surrounding green lawn like sharks breaking water from the deep.  

It is good that France honors its disabled veterans, and I wonder how the disabled veterans feel about that monument

Parisian color:

It seems almost everyone in Europe, Paris included, wears mostly black.  Sometimes I feel like Polychrome of Oz peeking through a black mesh curtain when I'm gadding about in my purple leggings under a royal blue parka ornamented with a Laurel Burch scarf in all the brightest jewel tone colors of the rainbow.

Today when we were talking to a woman at the tour bus company about getting a refund (and being refused, albeit nicely), I wondered if maybe in Paris the new color was khaki.  She wore khaki leggings, a khaki jacket,  and a beige scarf around her neck.

Then I wondered if maybe it was all really gray instead of khaki.  "Hey Andy," I said, "what colors is that woman wearing?"

"Who, the one we were just talking to?"

"Yes."

He took a good long look.  "Well," he said, "I suppose her pants are a kind of deep pink, no, more like a dark salmon color."  I looked at him, astonished that his color discernment has evolved to the point of distinguishing "deep pink" from "dark salmon."  He took another look at the tour bus lady.   "And her jacket is a mustard yellow."  And he said her scarf was "soft purple."  

I looked at the tour bus lady again, and lo and behold, there she was in a happy riot of dark salmon, mustard yellow and purple.  That made me happy.

I'm even happier about Andy's color discernment.  There was a time when, if I asked him if this was blue or green, he'd say, with utter absolute finality, "it's blue."

"But does it have any green in it?"

"Well maybe a little.  There are kinda green specks."

"So is the green in this a teal green or more of a grass green??"

Upon which he'd sputter in exasperation, "Mary, it's blue with some green in it and that's all I can tell you!"

Metro shopping:

I don't care for the Paris Metro much but there is one station I'd cheerfully visit again.   I don't recall the name, but it's the one with the little  shop that sells silk scarves.  Andy saw it as we were exiting the station, called it to my attention, and helped me pick out two scarves.  One has hummingbirds and dragonflies on it, and the other is a Laurel Burch scarf, featuring her signature cats in all the jewel tone rainbow colors.   The shopkeeper had the Laurel Burch scarf in a black background and a deep purple background.  I was going to go for the black but Andy and the shopkeeper both said the purple was better.

So the Paris Metro serves up sewer smells, dog poop and silk scarves.   Only in Paris, I guess.

On to Lyon tomorrow.