Racing to Paris

We're going back. It's that simple. We just have to,  and no, I don't know why; we just have to go. Perhaps the answer lies somewhere between what we have and what we want, between what we need and what we feel, between stumbling through a life unimagined and one with limitless moments of imaginative opportunities.

For my part, I think it's as simple as simply wanting to be a flaneur -- and Paris is the one place that not only allows such behavior but in fact encourages it. To be a flaneur in Paris is a badge of honor, something worn with a smile amidst a stroll through the dark alleys of a darker past and along the boulevards of the bright lights of Manet, Morisot and Degas. 

So we'll fly into Paris, rent a car at the airport, drive somewhere south where we'll spend the night.  As we creep up on the Pyrenees we'll  meet up with Richard and Pauline and enjoy several nights of finding our way into the very, very dark past of humankind and, with any luck, get a chance to see the oldest art scribbled by a human hand.  And along the way we'll pay our respects to those men and women who suffered for their beliefs in the 13th century. We then say arrivaderci to R and P who will make their way back to the United Kingdom while we find our way north, spending a night somewhere yet to be determined. 

After arriving in Paris we drive straight to the Gare Austerlitz where we'll drop the car off. It's onto the Metro (the 5 to the 1), alight at Saint Paint  and then find our way to our apartment on the rue de Sevigne, in a building wedged somewhere between Saint Paul and the Musee de Carnavalet, in the midst of the glorious Jewish quarter. What an incredible place for a flaneur!

Life is short. Go to Paris. We are.

Wish you were there. . . 

Steve