We Arrived.

Just now in the apartment.

As we climbed the circular wooden steps to our Air Bnb on Rue de Repos, I screamed le mort! le mort! or at least my hands and legs did as I thought I was going to die from the effort and that the first day in Paris would be my last on earth. Ironically, I realized as I lay on the first available horizontal surface in the large and lovely apartment on the fourth floor, that de Repos referred to the state of those just over the walls from our place where lies Jim Morrison, Chopin and a whole lot more who climbed stairs once too many.

But I survived the haul which came at the end of a journey that began in St Louis and included a stopovers in Baltimore and Rekjavik as we traveled via IcelandAir. In Rekjavik we were treated to a long line of tired fellow passengers who were herded onto a bus which took us out into the predawn tarmac and into a chilly moveable gangway and the lowing herd moved slowly onto the plane where Kathy had the good sense to spring for a couple of exit row seats which afforded extra leg room.

The flights passed as long flights do: large portions of boredom consumed while magically being transported across the seas at five hundred miles per hour.

Once released to the nation of France from Charles DeGaulle Airport we made our way to the train and, thanks to a helpful suggestion from a watchful Frenchman in a bright yellow uniform that we should, yeah, get on the train that was standing next to us, doors about to close, if we wanted to get further along on our journey. We had packed an extra rolling bag so we had several of them to move and he noticed that we seemed confused into momentary paralysis, augmented by trying to sleep sitting up since the day before and being spoken to in Icelandic most of the way.

We were whisked to the Gare Du Nord, basically a sort of Penn Station of Paris and now determined to use my Duolingo French (ba-bing!), we asked some more of those friendly men in yellow vests, but ended up ignoring their rather confusing directions and ventured onward to find open turnstiles and the words Phillipe Auguste in the list of stops along the number 2 line.

This bit of native determination brought us to the 11th Arrondissement and very close to the apartment. Rolling our modern bags across ancient cobblestone streets was serenaded by the pounding of a construction crew who had set up operations directly in our intended path.

The beautiful, spacious fourth floor walk up is located close to the Cimiterie du Pere Lachaise in which the bones and memoria of many names recognizable from history and Trivial Pursuit (Heloise and Abelard! Hello, High Middle Ages class -- as well as a scene in Being John Malkovich featuring a puppet humping a wall, but I digress)

So that brings us back to the climb to the apartment which was something out of Tensing Norgay's biography which I endeavoured to achieve in two major ascensions without rest or oxygen. But, as I said, worth the trouble, because the apartment is fantastic.

We had decided in spite of the relative exhaustion to avoid collapsing in repose and instead ventured out to explore the neighborhood and, of course, have some wine. We stumbled a short block or two and found a bistro called Le Nouveau Carrilon (something to do with keys? Not sure yet, they have key drawings on the ceiling and I haven't gotten to that level of Duolingo) where the friendly North African type owner/staff poured us some fine bordeaux and we finally clinked glasses and considered ourselves arrived.

After a couple of rounds, we walked a few blocks, marveled at the copious amounts of food and places to sit and eat and drink. Venturing up the Rue de Charonne near our apartment, we found a wonderful patisserie with chocolate pastries as well as a baguette, a wine shop with a helpful sommelier (two bottles, thanks) and then I noticed a sidewalk sandwich board style chalkboard with a list of cheeses and an arrow pointing down a side street. This turned out to be Edmond's cheese and charcuteries shop where we came upon several folks sharing glasses of wine surrounded by a refrigerated shelf of cheeses and a small display case of meats and sausages. We blundered in like Americans but realized that this would be our cheese shop while here and left Edmond's tiny shop in possession of a small soft round of cheese and some cured sausage made of "black pork and duck." His English was as good as my French so we had a cheerful moment.

Trundling home with our prizes and, weary from the day, we got into one of the bottles, marveled at the fragrant cheese, the perfect baguette, the absurdly wonderful sausage and finally passed out.