Gone Fishing

Come 5am Saturday morning I'll be pointing the rusty van towards Orillia to rescue BandGeek from 'band camp'. Assuming she has not gone feral and does not require medical intervention, we'll continue northwards for a week-long sojourn at Dee's family cottage - located in the environs of Parry Sound, Ontario.

This is all to say, I'm going off-grid for a week or so. With my dearth of posts in last few months, this is unlikely to be noticed. But let me leave a little something behind:

We have a neighbour cottager who has been living on the bay year-round. He keeps sane by keeping a blog. And, no, it's not post after post of "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy".

The venerable JediBoy has dipped his toe ever-so-slightly into the land of Machinima. It's a first effort, okay? Okay?

Now for the Ick Factor. Verne Troyer - he of Mini-Me fame - made a sex tape. Inevitably, it has been released into the wild. A bit of Googling will find a clip. OMFG. Just....OMFG. But you know you'll peek, won't you?

So long for now.

How Bill Gates Made Me Smile Warmly

While Kerouac had something else in mind, I'm sure, I recently took an odd little road trip of my own that I'll never forget. Nor will I ever remember it exactly as it happened. Really, all I'll ever remember is the lump in my throat, a surprise discovery at 120kmh, and Bill Gates' handiwork.

The Beginning: My oldest spawn - known 'round these parts as BandGeek - was nominated by her school to attend something called a music leadership camp. She was obviously excited (along with proud Mom and Dad) about the opportunity to spend a week away from home - with other teenaged grownups - getting some professional music instruction. On the other hand, she quickly grew tired of the "last summer at band camp..." jokes that seemed so necessary to me. It's true - we are merciless at our house.

And so it was that last weekend found me driving BandGeek, 3 of her school chums, and their assorted backpacks and instruments some 3.5 hours north to OELC. Up the mighty-yet-boring 401 we went, across the bland 407, merging onto the fearsome 400, veering northeast on 11 past Orillia and, eventually, down a single winding lane that stops at Lake Couchiching. The time flew by for me, listening to these 15 and 16 year-olds making their own fun and even including Old Crazylegs. It is a rare occasion that I get to see BandGeek in her natural setting - not my daughter, but her own secret person - and I loved it.

The Middle: We were met at the camp gates by a teacher/counsellor and given our instructions. First was a stop at the registration tent to be checked-in and given cottage assignments. Next was a visit to a small building where the obligatory camp shirts would be dispensed. After that, the boys in my charge would proceed down one path to settle in while I would escort the girls down a separate path to their own cottages. This would leave the kids an hour to explore the grounds before their first 'camp meeting'.

In all of this, something emerged the ether - I was leaving BandGeek on her own. She'd be gone for a week - a long way from home and without parents or any other family nearby, keeping her safe. This was a 'first time'. I marvelled at that thought for a minute, but I didn't let it bother me. She's a good kid, an independent kid, and she'd be okay.

Ssoon she hugged me good-bye and whispered, "I'm going to miss you, Dad". Then the lump - out of nowhere - was hard in my throat crowding my tongue. I choked it down. I told her I'd see her in a week and assured her (and me) that it would be fun. A moment later, she was off with her friend to explore.

The End: I walked along the shore of Couchiching back to the van, with nothing left to do but go back the way I came. I had no more purpose now, other than to call home and let them know I was coming. A few klicks down highway 400 with the van cruising at a comfortable 120kmh, I slid a newly-burned Peter Gabriel disc I'd ripped from one of my old cassette tapes. The first notes of In Your Eyes played, and there it was - a sound out of step. It was a 'wrong' sound, but a familiar trill that I couldn't quite place even though I knew it shouldn't be there.

Gabriel rasped through the chorus and then the sound was there again. A trill, followed by another trill, and soon several more. Then it was clear to me. It was the 'MSN sound'. It was that little warbly trilly sound when someone you're chatting with on MSN says something while you're chatting with someone else. It was BandGeek. I remembered she was using my PC to chat with friends while the PC was also recording the Peter Gabriel cassette. I'd messed up the process and somehow recorded all the sounds on the PC - not just the cassette. While I was reasoning this out, there was an explosion of trills. BandGeek must have in fine form that night - jungle drums and party lines for the Internet Age. I laughed out loud.

I suddenly felt better, less anxious. BandGeek was there with me when I least expected it and sorely needed it. I resolved to bug her a little less about wasting hours on MSN. And I resolved to hug her tight when 6 days would bring me back to Couchiching.

'V' is for.....Ventilation?

I hate buying clothes. Strike that. I hate having to buy clothes - going out deliberately to shop for an article of clothing. With the possible exceptions of underwear and jeans, wandering around stores looking for something to wear generally feels like a criminal waste of time that invariably ends with bad feelings all round. I chalk it up to the fact I spent my formative years (far) East of Adelaide where genuine Levi's were for fancy boys with real money.

So, of course, I was shopping for clothes last weekend. In a little less than 2 months we'll be traipsing through a Central American rainforest and, according to Dee, I'm woefully under-clothed for the expedition. I've seen National Geographic and I know the lack of modesty shown by the locals down there, but Dee has seen too many Tilley Endurables adverts to let me off the hook.

Out I went - and I think I did pretty good, too. I got myself a lovely pair of overpriced NASA-designed jungle pants that can turn into shorts. They're made of space-age materials that block the Sun's evil rays and, apparently, never get wet. One of the dozen or so tags on the pants uses the phrases 'wicking action' and 'extreme punishment' quite a bit, so I'm pretty stoked to see the kinds of adventures I'll be having when I wear these pants. I'm thinking: Kathleen Turner (the '80's version) and golden idols or something.

I also picked up a couple of shirts put together by the same Nobel-winning scientists. They're even separate colours - pretty unusual by guy standards. But here's my beef: I can't find V-neck t-shirts anywhere. I like V-necks. They ventilate well, they don't feel constrictive, and they afford an oppotunity to display a bit of chest hair when the need arises. But these space-age polymer shirts are, like, crew-neck or something. When I wear them I spend all my time pulling the front of the neck opening like some kind of lame Rodney Dangerfield impersonator.

Perhaps they'll keep jungle spiders from falling down my neck. Oh, the sacrifices I make for eco-tourism...

Something For Everyone As World's Collide

I don't know what to make of this actual headline:

Daughter of George Lucas in Auckland fight

Somewhere, I imagine, the gods are laughing at us.

Because You're Never Alone

My Innertube friend, Kid Dork, had a Very Bad Day recently - so this post is for him. The rest of you can chat amongst yourselves for a bit. This will only take a minute.

KD, you obviously had a karmic meltdown on Monday. So here's your silver lining: you made me feel much better about my own Monday. You see, I spent Monday in jury duty. Just a whole day of sitting around, really. Normally, I'd appreciate a day away from the Evil Megacorp who pay me to implement their evil designs. But this was actually a day off that was inconvenient because I have a billion deadlines that would drive me to work a bit in the evening.

Not cool.

To make matters worse, the courthouse air conditioning was busted. Even the fans we're offline, so there was absolutely no movement of air - save the occasional fanning of legal pads from listless legal types. The high points: lots of free ice water and I was not selected for a trial jury on this, my second trip to jury duty.

Still - there was no spilling of Tim's liquid energy and no one rammed my ancient minivan. So thanks, KD. You've given me perspective.

And for that, here's a little pick-me-up I'd been saving for a special occasion. I hope you don't already have one. Enjoy!

I Am In Freakin' Awe

There are Star Wars fans and then there is Michael Kaminski. Out of pure love for fandom, he's written The Secret History of Star Wars. It's free, it's 500+ pages, and it's pretty damn good stuff. I wish had that kind of motivation, but here I sit working up the energy to wash the dishes.

Super Happy Fun Seizures

In a recent post, Mr. Dork opined on the joys of perusing magazine racks. I'd normally supply a link, but I'm lazy and Mr. Dork has too many posts to sort through in order to find something so specific - although he's certainly not on the same level of blogpost-proliferation as a certain Mr. Goodness. The latter is a subject on which Mr. Dork has also seen fit to make comment and I'm sure that if anyone Out There is interested they could just point-and-click their way through his blog on that count, too.

So, magazines! They're fun to find and the next best thing to finding them is having them find you. And so it is that 4 times a year my cherished Make magazine finds me - or, rather, my mailbox. I've probably blogged this subject, too, so you have free rein here to look it up.

Anyways, a few issues back Make included plans to construct a device called The Brain Machine. This gizmo is based on the premise that targeted frequencies of light pulses and sound can produce altered states of consciousness. The science (or lack of it) contends that the brain's alpha, beta, delta, and theta wave-states are consistent with varying levels of relaxation and concentration. While an EEG can certainly measure these brain responses, the Brainwave movement contends that these states can be induced through light and sound.

So it was that JediBoy asked if we could take on this project. It only sucked up a few hours of our time to build and probably set us back a mere $35 in parts. Jediboy got to learn a bit about soldering little pieces of wire to a circuit board and manipulating software on a chip. The results (seen above) have a certain geekiness that just screams for some background Theramin music.

The software that runs our Brain Machine is more-or-less a script that generates blink rates for the LEDs in the eye lenses and binaural sound frequencies through the headphones. All this blinking and humming is generated at different rates for varying durations to take a Guinea Pig through different stages of relaxation and concentration. Out-of-the-box, the software runs through a 14-minute cycle of brain-scrambling, but this is all customizable to whatever effect you might want.

The real questions on your minds are, "Did you make contact with a higher consciousness? Was L. Ron Hubbard right all along?". Alas, the effect of the Brain Machine is quite unexpected and not entirely clear altered-consciousness-wise. Something does happen, but I'm not sure what it means.

Consider the effect on your vision when you close your eyes and then rub them vigorously with the balls of your hands. For many people, this produces vivid black-and-white geometric patterns. Imagine this in Technicolor with 3D effects and a strong sensation of motion (the good kind, not the bed-spin kind). The Brain Machine is kind of like that. And when the script changes from one brain wave state to another, your sensory experience changes immediately, with new colours, new motion, and new patterns.

It's a fun experience, and we may experiment some more with the software and see what other effects we can produce. But I can't say that the experience leaves me with even the most fleeting ability to operate on a Vulcan's brain. But I'll keep trying. I assume I'll recognize Xenu when I see him.

Lock Up Your Mice

After last year's trama with poor Maple, I'm pleased to introduce you all to the latest four-legged resident at Casa Crazylegs. At nearly 14 weeks of age and weighing in at an astonishing 2.2 pounds, meet Mika.

She's a true Siberian cat - with Mom and Dad both hailing from the former Soviet Union. Like Maple before her, Mika has proven herself to be hypoallergenic as far as Dee is concerned. And as expected, Mika has made herself quite at home and we have all been dutifully trained to provide laps to sleep upon and bits of string to leap upon - all for the asking. We couldn't be happier.

Rocketeering Redux

Last Autumn we shot for the Moon and ever-so-slightly missed the target. Truthfully, we didn't so much miss the target as come up short - by about 1.2 billion feet less the 30 feet our rocket managed to travel.

It was all great fun, but there was effort in constructing the launcher mechanism and the rocket, itself. We've got too much skin in the game to walk away so we're taking things to the next level this Summer - faster, stronger, more dangerous. We have 2 simple goals:

1. Fly higher. A lot higher.

2. Get rocket-eye-view photographic evidence.

Let's start with number 1. In thinking about how we could fly higher, we turned the question around and wondered, "Why didn't we fly higher last year?". The answer was clear - pressure. We couldn't supply enough air pressure inside the rocket to give us maximum lift. The fact is, a 2L soda bottle - which acts as the 'engine' for the rocket - is capable of withstanding internal pressure upwards of 150psi. This limit, however, is more of a design goal for manufacturers of these bottles and can be dangerous for rocketeering.

Here's the physics: A liquid-filled 2L bottle that exceeds its pressure limit will rupture - but not explode. Since there is minimal air in the bottle, there is no scenario whereby high-pressure air is looking for low-pressure air and creating an explosion in the process. In the world of water rockets, the bottle is about 2/3 full of air. Exceeding the pressure limit here can be A Very Bad Thing in that you'll be rebuilding your rocket, maybe rebuilding your launcher, and maybe picking shards of rocket-stuff out of your belly. There are better ways to die, I think.

After some Googling, we've determined that 100psi is a good target to help us increase our rocket altitude. It is possible to throw a rocket 300 feet in the air at this pressure. In our flights to-date, we have been using a bicycle pump to pressurize the rocket and managed to squeak out a measly 30-40psi. A bicycle pump is just not powerful enough to achieve our 100psi target. In the heady world of high-pressure water rockets, some manner of powered air compression is de rigeur. I decided we needed something small enough to be carried into a field and powerful enough to manage launches at 100psi. In short, we needed some manner of portable battery-powered air compressor.

And here's a fun fact: Under the right conditions, a water rocket launching at 100psi or better creates enough launch thrust to (theoretically) break your finger.

Kismet shined us last week in the corporeal form of the Canadian Tire flyer. The Airman Inflation Station - a portable, rechargable, handheld air compressor - was on sale at half-price. We picked one up and charged it up overnight - with this past Monday evening slated for backyard pressure testing. Jediboy acted as ground crew and set up the launcher and rocket as if we were going fly. We uncoiled the 20 feet of tubing from the launcher and took our rather inadequate cover behind a cedar tree. The Airman, screwed onto the air valve at the end of the launcher tubing, hummed to life in our hands.

The gauge's needle swept smoothly across 20, 30, then 40psi. The pace slowed down at 50 and it was a full minute to get to 80psi. Things seemed to stall out and I feared that maybe the Airman wasn't up to the task. But the needle crept higher still. Over a grand total of perhaps 4 minutes, the gauge was showing 100psi while the rocket remained intact - if not turgid - on the launcher. The only sign of stress was 2 small drops of water tracing a path from the O-ring that seals the rocket 'engine' on the launcher. Success!

While the temptation to pull the launch cord was almost overwhelming, we knew it would not be smart to launch our reborn rocket from our backyard. So, our next step will be to move everything over to our neighbourhood school's field for a real test. We're waiting for good weather - dry, little wind - for this next step. So many other things can go wrong with launching a water rocket: launcher collapses, rocket veers off verticle, parachute fails to deploy. And all of these risks get magnified as rocket thrust increases.

We can't wait.

Euro Day 14: It's Terminal

Saturday, July 21, 2007. The end is nigh. Like drunken revelers waking up on the morning-after-the-night-before, we dragged ourselves from our beds to watch Paris awake just one more time. The thought of going back to the Real World seemed a bit sad and boring. But at 11:40am that morning, we would be buckled into Air Canada flight AC881 to take us from Charles de Gaulle airport back to CanadaLand.


Since we had booked our extra night at the Hilton through the good folks at Adventures by Disney, they would also be supplying us with a lift to the airport. Alex had given us the rundown during the previous evening: be in the Lobby by 8:30am and she would connect us with the driver that ABD had contracted. No fuss, no muss.


The morning went smoothly with packing, breakfast, and checkout proceeding sans problem. At the appointed time we were in the appointed place looking resolute and stoic for the trip ahead. By 8:45am I was getting antsy at the clear absence of a driver. While I always appreciate punctuality, my bigger fear was that we were in store for a repeat of the ABD misfire at Heathrow a week earlier. Just when I could feel the butterflies in my stomach starting to sprout claws, fangs, and a taste for flesh - our driver pulled smoothly into the Hilton loading lane. Relief!


With utmost courtesy and efficiency, the driver stowed our bags and invited us to our seats. We quickly said our final goodbyes to Alex and the Parisian minivan joined the morning traffic. Our driver made a point of double-checking that we were, indeed, heading out on Air Canada. I silently smiled in relief knowing that we were in good hands.


It did not seem to take much longer than 20 minutes and we were there - Charles de Gaulle airport (CDG). The driver deftly pointed the minivan through the inevitable airport construction sites and motioned towards the terminal entrance. Our bags retrieved, we gave our thanks and beelined it to the doors. Our standing goal at any airport is to rid ourselves of our bags right away, and then camp out in a restaurant or at the boarding gate for awhile. Never rush, never stress, never be late.


Inside Terminal 1 at CDG it looked like any other large airport terminal. As Veteran Travelers, we naturally sought out a directory so that we could find the Air Canada check-in area. No directory could be found and, instead, we had to rely on a Friendly Face at a nearby 'information desk'.


Air Canada, it seems, is located at Terminal 2 - not Terminal 1. The ABD driver had screwed up.


The killer butterflies made a return fly-by of my internal organs as the Friendly Face explained how and where we could catch a shuttle to Terminal 2A. Like a row of ducks, the four of us pulled our suitcases back through the terminal out to the shuttle stop. The shuttle stop was not quite what we expected. Rather than a signposted area where people waited in orderly fashion for well-marked transportation, the CDG shuttle stop was simply a stretch of construction-ravaged pavement covered by giant amoeba cleverly disguised as 200 anxious travelers all trying to get away from Terminal 1.


Once in awhile a bus would appear in a magic cloud of construction dust, and the crowd would lurch forward to (1) quiz the driver on where he was going and (2) push their way onto the bus if there was a hint the bus was going somewhere useful. We Four exchanged glances that said "How are we going to survive this?". Into the crowd I pushed - using my shoulder-slung carry-on as a plow whilst my family followed in the human wake behind me.


We made it to the leading edge of the amoeba. Now we could only wait and play the game. One bus came within 5 minutes and it did not take long before the news rippled through the crowd that this one was headed to Terminal 3 - no good for us. Through the din I was able to pick out the odd bit of English and was able to surmise that those voices intended to go to CanadaLand, too. While I'm always the most patriotic of souls, this time I could not afford to be Canada-nice. These voices were competition. I resolved to help them if I could, but not at the expense of my family. The bus was to be Sanctuary. Our Sanctuary.


10 minutes passed and I was caught looking the other way as the murmur of the crowd turned into a roar at the appearance of another dust cloud-shaped bus. Hopeful lemmings with their matching luggage surged towards the front of the bus. I could only imagine the moral decisions the bus driver was making at the moment, but I was positive he was considering plowing through crowd just to hear the satisfying snap of bones and silencing of shrill voices.


All of this provided an opening for We Four. The crowd, intent on speaking to the driver, had all but ignored the rear door. And that's where we were standing at that very moment! Burdened with the thoughts of never, ever seeing Terminal 2, I hoisted myself and my luggage onto the bus and hoped beyond hope that it was headed to Terminal 2. I interrogated the passengers as I deftly pulled my family up the stairs and into the small patch of land I staked out on board. Luck smiled on us. We were going to Terminal 2.


As the doors were shutting, a hand appeared from outside and grabbed the door. My first thought was that my fellow Canucks were expending their last, best chance to get on board. But, no - it was a different family and the father (attached to the hand in the door) was yelling excitedly in some Oriental language to his family, or maybe to the driver, or maybe to us. Before I could think about my actions, I pulled him inside. There was still enough room in the rear door stairwell for 3 - maybe 4 - more bodies. He, in turn, pulled his family in behind him - not 2 or 3 or even 4 passengers. By my count, this was a family of 7 who had improbably found a way to balance themselves and their luggage on 2 steps in an overloaded bus with a very bouncy suspension.


Any flaws in the bus's handling or the driver's ability were more than made up by the fact no one on the bus could move. Quite simply, we were relying on a totally organic suspension system made up of human beings fueled by airport sweat and fear. 7 minutes later, the doors opened at Terminal 2A. We ungracefully exited the bus, suitcases navigating the steps and curb at crazy, dangerous angles. We smelled the air like we'd never smelled the air before. Here was freedom and Air Canada.


From that point on, the trip was like any other airport experience. CDG is badly laid out and expensive and under construction. After checking in and then getting something to eat, we encamped at the boarding gate to await the inevitable Air Canada scheduling disappointment. True to form, our flight was delayed and no one at the Air Canada gate could tell us why or when we would be leaving. It felt like home again and reminded us why we usually avoid Air Canada whenever we can.


90 minutes later than planned, we took off - across water, across time. At Toronto Pearson airport we still had 30 minutes to catch our connecting flight back to London, Ontario. The functionaries at Air Canada, however, would not permit us to board our connection since 30 minutes was not enough time to transfer luggage, etc. We were given a new flight and found ourselves en route to our final destination (another) 90 minutes later than we had planned.



From there, into the minivan that Dee's sister was kind enough to drive out to the airport for our arrival. And then, the familiar ride through the streets of London - and home.


Epilogue:


For those who've braved narcolepsy and read all previous 21-ish posts on the topic of Euro Tour 2007, my thanks to you! They are as much a testament to the Ego Of Blogging as they are a reflection of the fun I had in writing them.


Many of the regular visitors here in the last few months have come from the family of Disney enthusiasts over at http://www.disboards.com/ - all with a special interest in Adventures by Disney. I hope I've given you a taste of what you're looking for and have answered some of your questions. Nevertheless, I'm always happy to answer more questions - here or over there. My final word - we loved what ABD had to offer on this tour! Notwithstanding the screw-ups with the airport transfers that bookended our week, we found the tour pretty darn amazing and worth every penny we spent. And, in fact, we plan to partake of the ABD Costa Rica tour (Path to Pura Vida) in August of 2008!


And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Euro Day 13: Be Our Guest!

Warning: I haven't had any time to get a video together for this post. On the rather ego-driven assumption that people like grainy home movies showing other people doing interesting things (or what's a Youtube for?), I'll have an update to this post within a day or two. In the meantime, you may proceed....

Update: Okay, there's video goodness below. Just scroll to the end. And don't say I didn't warn you.

Friday, July 20, 2007 - our last full day in France. It was inevitable that there would be a sense of melancholy at the end of our Adventure by Disney. We planned for this by adding an extra day to our itinerary (ABD offers an extra night accommodations before or after the tour). Disneyland Paris - or DLP for those hip to the lingo - would be the salve to ease our pains. We had originally planned to add a few extra days to our vacation and stay at DLP. In fact, many of The Gang did just that. DLP sticker-shock (and some iffy logistics) ratcheted those plans down to a day-trip to DLP. For those Intrepid Readers who've emptied their wallets at the venerable DisneyWorld - understand that DLP is in a whole different universe of 'spending'. Europe is expensive. DLP can be breathtakingly expensive.

The day started with another Hilton breakfast buffet, and a chance to say some more goodbyes. Faces that were strange just a week before were now familiar, and we were sad to see the last of them. Our plan: be at DLP somewhere near 10am when the gates open and the rope drops. Since we only had one day, we'd make the most of it with a blitzkrieg of the park highlights. DLP has many attractions that can be found at our old friend DisneyWorld, we reasoned, so we'd generally avoid those in favour of 'the new'.

DLP is easy to get to from Paris - about a 40 minute trip on the RER. We walked to the CDG Etoile metro station by the Arc. Return tickets were purchased easily and soon we were on the RER A line bound for DLP's very own station: Marne-la-Vallee-Chessy.

This merits a cautionary tale. At most Paris subway platforms you'll notice video screens hanging from the ceiling. Don't ignore these! While you might be catching the RER A train - for example - the train might not be stopping at every station on the route ahead. As each train arrives, check the video screen (your train with be obvious) and make sure it will be stopping where you want to go. We almost learned this Douglas Adams-inspired lesson the hard way.

The subway ride was uneventful and sparsely populated, and 35 minutes later we emerged from the subway car straight into DLP. It was just after 10am and the crowds were largely non-existent. It was comforting to know that our tried-and-true DisneyWorld tactic of arriving early seemed to apply half a world away at DLP.

DLP is actually 2 parks: Disneyland Park and Walt Disney Studios Park. We opted to hit Disneyland first and ride as many rides as possible before any lines materialized. Our luck continue to hold as the only barrier to riding the rides was our rumbling stomachs. By Noon we had done everything in our Disneyland plan. Before foraging for lunch, we made a point of re-visiting Pirates of the Caribbean to make dinner reservations at Blue Lagoon (more on this later).
Our lunch was found at a reasonable recreation of Toy Story's Pizza Planet. While the rather vast space was largely devoid of other organic lifeforms, the counter-service food was actually very good. This served to further deepen the mystery of how take-out food in France was so superior to the vacuum-molded styrofoam we take for granted in North America. As we exited the dimly-lit pizza joint, we noticed that - well - nothing had changed. The crowds still had not materialized. Not even a little bit. Perhaps Europeans sleep late, drink espresso at cafes, and only then saunter through the DLP gates with a faux-grimace for the bourgeois entertainment that lies ahead. Or maybe no one ever comes.

Next up was Disney Studios - a smaller, leaner avatar of the DisneyWorld version who's name escapes me since it's always changing. Yeah, that one. It turned out that the Studios park has some of the same rides and shows as its big brother. But, like Disneyland, it has a few unique wrinkles of its own such as Crush's Coaster. There were 2 rides under construction - Tower of Terror and a Cars-inspired ride (I think these are both up-and-running now). In all, there wasn't much to see and do for us, and we had pretty much 'done' the park by 6pm.

The ungodly expensive and beautiful Disneyland Hotel
has a private entrance to Disneyland Park just for its guests
(and special VIP Fastpasses for all the rides).

We hightailed back over to Disneyland for our 7pm reservation at Blue Lagoon. This restaurant had been touted as a 'must do' on a few websites, and that was our only reason for trying the place. Blue Lagoon it actually part of the Pirates of the Caribbean (POTC) ride experience - a feature not found in the Florida or Anaheim versions of the ride. It overlooks a part of the ride such that patrons can watch boats float by their tables. Ultimately, it's about living inside the POTC experience, just for awhile. Since this is one of my favourite rides (I love the immersiveness of the it all), Blue Lagoon sounded fun. Sadly, the Internet naysayers were right. While the ambiance was way-cool, the service was so-so, the menu was sub-par, and the prices were too high. One more pea under my mattress: I have a strong suspicion that guests who stay on-site at DLP get preferential seating (and service) at Blue Lagoon. All things considered, avoid this place.

Entrance to Main Street USA - European style.

With our disappointing dinner behind us, we hit up some more rides. We had intended to head back into Paris by 9:30pm, but it wasn't happening. The crowds were thin and we partook of more rides than we had planned. We even ran into one of our Adventure friends (David from Philly), which meant we had to visit for a while and further press our luck time-wise. With a few souvenirs left to purchase, we made a quick trip into the Disney Village shopping area. BandGeek found her coveted French Mickey Mouse (think: beret) - and we all said a little prayer of thanks under our breaths.

The Castle (with a real dragon in the
dungeon that you can visit!)

From there, it was back on the RER and back into Paris with 2 sleepy kids in tow. Once at the hotel, we ever-so-sadly did the bulk of our suitcase packing. The pixie dust cloud that had surrounded us for the past few weeks seemed to thin and I swore that I could almost see the real world through the haze. Tomorrow, we were going home.

Main Street at dusk.

And now - mini-review time!

Disneyland Park: Beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. Very compact. Many of the rides are familar to Disney geeks, but they have their own personalities.

Disney Studios: Not very much to offer (some expansions under construction). Really feels like a sad imitation of DisneyWorld. Needs time and more attractions.

Awesome Rides: Thunder Mountain - pretty much like the original, Crush Coaster - be a turtle in the swirly ocean currents, Space Mountain: Mission 2 - it has a freakin' loop, Rockin' Roller Coaster - always a good time.

So-So Rides: Indiana Jones - just a coaster, Star Tours - like the original

Sucked Mightly Rides: Pirates of the Caribbean - felt contrived somehow, Phantom Manor - pale imitation, Pinocchio - didn't get the point.

Crowds: Disneyland was pretty devoid of crowds - and my theory is that the preponderance of rides for smaller tykes seems to keep the lines shorter for the big-kid rides. Disney Studios had longer lines for sure, and on Crush's Coaster we actually waited almost an hour in line (well worth it, I might add). On the whole, nothing like DisneyWorld in July.

Euro Day 12: High Society

It's Thursday, July 19, 2007 - so it must be time for a trip to Versailles! As we boarded the shuttle bus at 9am, we were warned that the 18km trip to this fabled chateau could last up to 45 minutes due to Paris' notoriously heavy morning traffic. As luck would have it, most Parisians must have slept late and we were able to reach our destination in a blistering 20 minutes.

Upon arrival in the chi-chi town of Versailles, Sylvie and Alec narrated as the coach did a quick spin by some local sites. The main theme: Versailles is a fairly wealthy and exclusive place to reside, and still bears the echoes of France's great aristocratic families. We soon departed the coach and spent a little while strolling through the (seemingly deserted) town center - pausing for awhile at Louis XIV's Notre-Dame 'cathedra'. My impression was that the town is picturesque enough, but lacks anything particularly distinctive. I was to be proven wrong, of course.

Sylvie led The Gang on the short stroll to Chateau Versailles. As we entered through its ornate main gate, my jaw nearly hit the ground. The entrance square is a massive field of something akin to cobblestone and guarded on 3 sides by the Chateau, itself. The right words are elusive, but panoramic and awe-inspiring probably come close. If King Louis was looking for a way to impress his visitors (and he was), then he had succeeded in spades.

Mere mortals line up in the square, hoping
to get inside the Chateau someday soon

We had a few minutes to kill as The Gang waited to enter the Chateau at the reserved time. I - along with Dee and JediBoy - strolled through through a nearby archway and suddenly found ourselves in the 'backyard' - the entrance to Versailles famed gardens. While we could see the canals and manicured greenery, we could not fully comprehend the massive scale of the gardens from this vantage. All we knew was that the garden's precise geometry extended into the horizon and into forever.

First glimpse of the gardens

We hurried back to The Gang and found ourselves in tour-mode (after yet another half-hearted security check) inside the Chateau's State Apartments. With Alec as our guide and professor, we saw the Throne Room, various salons named for Roman gods, and - of course - the newly-restored Hall of Mirrors. It's interesting to note that the Hall of Mirrors - much like the Chateau's grand entrance - was designed by Louis to impress and intimidate his visitors. With the entrance at one end of the Hall, and the King seated at the other end, visitors would have to traverse a long corridor full of (then-expensive) mirrors and windows all designed to reflect candlelight and sunlight. Louis was, indeed, the Sun King.

Marie Antoinette slept here

It's also interesting to note that the extreme ornateness and opulence of the Apartments soon became rather ordinary. Perhaps it was sensory overload, or perhaps I was channeling my Inner Aristocrat. But it was a wonder that anyone ever lived here. Sadly, many of the Chateau's furnishings - the things that people leave behind to say they stopped somewhere for awhile - have long been dispersed by descendants of the Revolution.

It was nearing lunch by this time, and we would be sitting down to our dejeuner at a small restaurant named La Flottille, a jewel hidden in the Chateau's gardens. We hopped aboard a tram for a bumpy tour of the gardens on our way to lunch. It was here that the scale of the gardens started to become apparent. We spied many lane-ways, paths, outbuildings, and fountains - all surrounded by geometrically manicured greenery. I marveled that so many large trees could be kept to such precise shapes and I imagined the Dr. Seuss-inspired devices employed for this purpose.

At La Flottille we sat outdoors at long tables under a large awning. In true French style, the meal was elegant, enjoyable, and lasted 2 hours. Lunch was also quite filling. A bike ride would be just the thing to burn off those French calories. And that's just what some of us did!

I should point out that a Very Large Pond, known as the Grand Canal, is the focal-point of the gardens - and it is around one end of this pond where various amenities such as La Flotille, bike rentals, boat rentals, and snack kiosks are located. All of these amenities exist not just for tourists - for the Chateau is also maintained as a public park for the local residents. As a result, we saw people with picnics, people rowing across the pond in little wooden boats, and people just generally enjoying the gardens.

Looking back to the Chateau

And so, Dee, JediBoy, BandGeek, and myself were fitted with bikes and set off on a 1-hour tour of the garden's byways. We opted to follow the tree-lined lane that skirts the pond and its various canals that, together, form a sort of large cross. The scale of the place became apparent again. One bike-lap around the pond is approximately 7km and requires about 30 minutes of peddling! We were able to complete 2 full laps before returning our bikes.



This marked the end of our Versailles experience and, before long, the coach collected The Gang and brought us all back to our hotel. At this point we had a couple of hours to kill before a planned farewell dinner that would mark the official end of the Disney tour. We made the most of this break: JediBoy and I dozed in front of a TV while the ladies made one last, desperate shopping run down the Champs Elysees.

Dinner would also be served along the Champs Elysees at an elegant restaurant known as Laduree - famous for its delicious macaroons. We were given a private dining room upstairs furnished in French antiques. Essentially, the establishment seemed like a toned-down version of Chateau Versailles. I won't spoil too many surprises for those Gentle Readers who are intending to experience this tour on their own. That said, there were gifts to be had and a remarkable video presentation of our tour highlights - obviously the fruits of the Double-A's constant camera-clicking throughout the week. We were even serenaded by a beret-clad musician, who was only too glad to give accordion lessons to JediBoy.

Our entertainment

As an extra-special surprise, Alex and Andrew presented Dee and myself with a very thoughtful anniversary card and pin. It seems that 2 kids we know intimated to our hosts that Dee and I were celebrating such an occasion the following day. It was just kind of Disney touch we've come to expect over the years.

After a fabulously decedent meal, a coach was waiting out front to bring us the few blocks back to our hotel. Many of us lingered on the street in front of the Hilton saying our goodbyes. We made a point of saying so long to a mother/daughter couple with whom we shared a number of mealtime tables. We also bid our fond farewells to the Double-A's, who had worked so hard to make the tour so memorable. There were others I wanted to seek out, but JediBoy was asleep on his feet by this point and I elected to finish my goodbyes at breakfast the next morning.

While this was the formal end of the Disney tour, we four had one more day of fun between this evening and the long plane ride home. Tomorrow: Disneyland Paris!

Euro Day 11: Parisian Palette

Set the way-back machine for Wednesday, July 18, 2007. With only a few days left in Europe, there is still much to do! As we planned out the day's activity over another Hilton breakfast, we four came to realize that this might be the most jam-packed day yet. While our morning would be Disneyesque, our afternoon and evening would be our own - and looking at our hoped-for itinerary, we were being pretty ambitious.

By 9am we had met up with Sylvie and our new (additional) guide Alec in the Hilton lobby, where we were to begin a lovely stroll to the Louvre. That suited us just fine as the weather was warm and sunny - perfect for walking. The Gang set off into the Parisian sunshine and we soon passed through the 'fashion neighbourhood', which is anchored by familiar names such as Hermes and Chanel. I thought the store window-displays seemed interesting enough, but a bit frou-frou for the likes of this fashion hound. Nowhere did I see any signs of denim or sweatshirt material. Go figure. I could see the wheels spinning in the minds of Dee and BandGeek, however. Our bank account stifled a little scream, and I was silently thankful we had no time for stopping right now.

Further along our route was the Presidential residency, Elysee Palace. I was struck at how the Palace just seems to be right there on the street. Perhaps it's just my North American sensibilities that expects lots of real estate between Them and Us. I was further struck at the security arrangements there. Because the Palace's entrance is off a very public street, there were a number of Surete directing traffic, and any driver who fancied slowing down for a little rubbernecking was met by wild arm gyrations and many loud bursts from an official Surete whistle! Stiff medicine, indeed. In addition to the local police, there were a number of military types hanging around in small groups - either on foot or sitting in vans. The folks were very low key, almost to the point of napping, it seemed. I swear I saw some of them playing cards! As The Gang - 34-ish strong - strolled through this tableau, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to all of these security arrangements. Perhaps the President was elsewhere and security was slacking off. Or perhaps this is just the way things work in France. Since the President was still alive, I supposed this was effective somehow.

We soon found ourselves at Place de la Concorde, once the site of many a grisly death by guillotine during the Revolution. Today, the obelisk in the center of the Place (a gift from Egypt) anchors the west end of Tuileries Gardens - while the Louvre backdrops the eastern end. We strolled the broad walkway through the Gardens, admiring the lush trees and posing for pictures by various fountains. We approached the Louvre end of the Gardens, which is a sort of miniature version of the Arc de Triomphe called Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. This spot was perfect for many family photos - the Louvre wrapping itself around us, its dramatic (and controversial) glass pyramid, the Arc, and the Place de la Concorde's obelisk still visible in the distance. Here was beauty - old and new - and history upon history, all writ on stone, glass, and metal.

View towards the Louvre

Once inside the Louvre (under the pyramid!) we were divided into groups for the 2-hour tour. The kids would have their own tour with The Double-A's while the adults were divided between Sylvie and Alec. Dee and I fell in with Alec, although I secretly envied the kids. Their tour would hit the same highlights, but would have more a scavenger-hunt-meets-DaVinci Code flavour.

Alec handed out small headsets to everyone and we were instructed in their use. Alec would be using a microphone tuned into our headset frequency - and this would let him narrate us through the Louvre while dealing with noisy crowds. Brilliant! Alec was obviously a seasoned guide since he seemed to know just how to navigate the crowds, always get a front-row seat, and never feel rushed.

While we had only a few short hours in the Louvre, we seemed to hit many highlights: Venus de Milo, Winged Victory, ancient Greek statuary, painting upon painting and, of course, the Mona Lisa. The temperature variations between sections of the museum were very noticeable. Rooms containing statuary were generally quite warm, while other rooms were very cool - all to keep these treasures healthy. All through the tour, Alec regaled us with his lessons on art and history. The time flew by and I was disappointed to realize that it was 12:30pm and time to re-group with The Gang.

The kids really enjoyed their time in the Louvre, too. Their highlight: being able to see the Mona Lisa up close and personal. This famous bit of paint on a wooden plank is displayed inside a case that controls heat, light, and humidity. There is a corral of sorts, marked off with velvet ropes, that lets people get no closer than about 7 feet from the painting. The corral was constantly jam-packed with touristy types - their cameras ready - all shoving their way to the front. The kids, however, were allowed by Louvre staff to ignore the velvet ropes and simply walk right up to the display case and inspect that Mona Lisa smile from mere inches away. And you know, she really does have a lovely smile.

Kids-eye view of Mona's smile



Venus de Milo - up close

Now, it was free-time - no more Disney-driven activities for the rest of the day. The four of us decided on a quick lunch at the Louvre to fuel us for the rest of our ambitious day. I should make a point of mentioning the food court at the Louvre. In a word - outstanding! Oh that food courts in North America served such fresh, delicious Italian and French food with (horrors!) the choice of wine and beer for a civilized repast. Within a half-hour or so, we were stuffed and ready for mega-walking around Paris.

Stop number one was the Opera Garnier. This historical theater, the setting for Phantom of the Opera, is decorated in a style that seems lavishly over-the-top even by French standards. Visiting the Opera was my idea, and I'm glad to have seen it. It's just a magnificent, dramatic building inside and out - with its marble friezes, gold leaf everything, and soaring spaces. We wandered its corridors and spied its treasures for a solid 30 minutes, and then it was the ladies' turn to lead the march.

The Opera's stage



Opera Garnier lobby area

Shopping! Close to the Opera is the massive Printemps department store, which actually spans 4 buildings around a Paris intersection. BandGeek wanted a new purse - which she found at a bargain price of 10 Euros - while Dee was content to purchase genuine Parisian silk stockings at a somewhat higher price than the purse. JediBoy and I just affected our signature 'department store shuffle' - making sure we kept the ladies in sight at all times.

With shopping done it was back towards Place de la Concorde, across the Seine, and over to Hotel des Invalides. The Invalides is actually a complex of buildings that have fulfilled various military purposes over the last 300 years or so - including an army hospital. Our main purpose was to visit Napoleon's tomb. By this time, however, we had walked far - very far. The hot sun and tired feet were taking their toll, and the Invalides was going to be a heart-breaker. The massive size of the place gave a false sense of how far one must walk to actually reach it from the street. Walking the uneven cobblestone laneway - which is guarded by trees and shrubs forced into precise geometric shapes - seemed to take an eternity.

Once we reached the archway that marks the entrance to the complex, we made a beeline for the nearby cafeteria for beverages and rest. Afterwards, I found my way to the information desk and used my very rusty French to purchase tickets. As has been my experience in France and my boyhood home of Montreal, any attempt to speak French will usually find receptive ears. Any attempt to speak English slowly, loudly, and with hand gestures will usually result in trouble. Alas, the poor fellow beside me at the ticket counter did not possess such secrets, and I left him vainly trying to explain that he was a Customer dammit and he needed someone to speak English!

We headed straight for Napoleon's Tomb, which is located in the Dome Church. One such as I cannot express the scale and decoration of this final resting place - other than to suggest it befits Napoleon's legendary ego and accomplishments. My first impression upon entering the rotunda was that somehow we had wandered into the Vatican. Entering through the main doors, the first sights are the soaring Dome, the massively ornate alter, and the delicate stonework throughout the well-lit space. Approaching the center of the Dome, a circular stone railing provides a vantage point to the floor below which is home to the Tomb, itself. It is the centerpiece - large, ornate, polished wood - guarded by statuary fulfilling their duties in half-light. On one side of the Dome, we found the stairs down to the bottom floor for a closer look at the Tomb. On the other side of the Dome, display cases containing Napoleon's trademark hat and long-coat. Whether one has any understanding of history or not, I cannot imagine that anyone could leave this place unimpressed and even a little overwhelmed.

Napoleon's famous clothes

The Tomb

After the Dome, we decided to forgo a tour the Invalides military museum (which is assuredly impressive). Instead, we headed back towards our hotel by way of Champs Elysees. This must be one of the most scenic tree-lined boulevards in the world - bookended by the famous Arc and the golden obelisk of Place de la Concorde. Along the way we had planned to find the Disney Store (yes, there is one there and, yes, this is foreshadowing) where we would purchase tickets for Disneyland Paris. Our secondary goal, find ice cream. While the Champs was tres packed with busy shoppers, we managed to complete both tasks and I managed to use some more French.

Back at the hotel by 6:30pm, we discovered how dead on our feet we really were! After walking perhaps 10 miles this day, we found the best antidote was rest and blessed showers. By 8pm, however, BandGeek was looking for some dinner. A mere 10 minutes later, we were back on the Champs Elysees where we found a table in lovely cafe across the street from the Arc. There could not be a more perfect spot for a leisurely dinner on a warm Paris night. We all ate a lot - including lots of wine and decadent desserts. And in true Parisian fashion, dinner lasted close to 2 hours!

It was nearing 10pm and we knew that soon the Arc would soon be closed to visitors who wanted to see the view from the top. There was no line, so we were able to purchase our tickets and make our way up the spiral staircase right away. This proved tiring after our big meal, of course. The view of Paris by night - all lit up - made it worthwhile. The Eiffel Tower was especially beautiful - outlined by lights which would shimmer from time to time.

I don't know how many pictures we took of the scenery below and of each other. None of us wanted to leave this bit of fairyland. The following snippet of video and music captures the experience just right, I think. Maybe you'll feel it, too.



But after 45 minutes we needed to leave since the Arc would be closed by 11pm. Down the stairs we went, down Avenue Hoche, and down Rue Courcelles to our hotel. Sleep would come easy tonight. We would dream of Kings and Queens knowing that, tomorrow, these dreams might come to pass.

Euro Day 10: City of Heights

Author's note: My apologies on 2 counts. One, I've been far too tardy in getting these posts out and, two, this particular post will be long. Like - really long. It was that kind of day. Apologies aside, I hope you find it all worthwhile.

It's Tuesday, July 17, 2007 - and today we will be using our legs. A lot. In preparation for this day of physical exertion, I forgot myself and stayed up way too late the night before reading Michael Palin Diaries: The Python Years, 1969-1979. My fatigue lasted only as long as the carafe of coffee during breakfast at the Hilton, and I was able to meet my first challenge in boarding the bus without assistance from anyone.

We took a very short ride, narrated by Sylvie, to the Pompidou Centre where we would begin our walk to Notre Dame. The Pompidou is a building that is literally constructed inside-out to maximize it's interior space for art exhibits and the like. The effect, however, is an uncanny resemblance to a colourful oil refinery (which is how Parisians lovingly refer to it). An interesting competitor for Sylvie's narration: a young fellow standing near us in the almost-empty square training his pet falcon. That was pretty cool.

Whimsical fountains near the Pompideau Centre.

Sylvie led us the short distance to Notre Dame, where the outer square was already coming alive with its infamous 'gypsies' selling tin Eiffel Tower souvenirs, cheap postcards, and opportunities to get suckered into the 'my mother/father/sibling is in the hospital and I need money to get them home' scam. Some things never change, it seems. So long as we didn't make eye contact, none of these entrepreneurs were a bother.

We made use of our ample time to wander inside the cathedral. The 'rose windows' were just as I had remembered them from 20-odd years past - hypnotic in their way and almost magically lit. The rest of the cathedral was as I remembered, as well - gray, silent, and exuding its holiness. Religious or not, one cannot help but to be awed by those hands that have coaxed so much much beauty from cold, hard stone.

We soon met up with Alex outside the cathedral, for we would be among the first groups of the day to trace the path of Quasimodo up the stone steps of Notre Dame. After 10 minutes of idle chit-chat, the rope dropped (that's a Disney joke, folks!) and we started our ascent of 422 stairs. Having warmed up on the first few dozen steps, however, we were waylaid in the cathedral's imaginitively-placed gift shop as the Holy Keepers of the Cathedral Gifts made change for the tourists and (presumably) readied the rest of the stairs for us. Nice touch.

Up the narrow stone spirals we went and, soon, we found ourselves on the narrow walkway that joins Notre Dame's two towers part-way to their tops. The view of Paris, the magnificent gargoyles, the blue-sky weather - all breathtaking. To see Paris from this vantage point is to risk never having the will to look away. We needed to move on, however, so we we took a detour up some wooden steps for a quick look at Notre Dame's infamous bell. It's big and I was glad that it's only used on special occasions (our visit not being one of those). Sitting next to the bell in a chair was a young fellow - likely in his late teens - whose job it was to, well, sit by the bell. I suppose if one of us had actually touched the bell, our young friend would have sprung into action. Since we're good Canadians and follow all the rules, I guess we'll never know.

Looking up at Notre Dame cathedral

We were now ready to make our final assault on the very top of the cathedral tower. The stairs - still reassuring stone - grew much narrower and the spirals much tighter. But the effort was instantly forgotten the moment we reached the top. We were afforded a 360-degree open-air view of Paris, from 63 meters (about 207 feet) above the city, and it was stunning. Paris, with its blanket of low-rising buildings, appeared as a gently undulating sea of white and green that laps at the distant outcrop that is Sacre-Coeur. This was one of those moments you'd never want to end - and I silently hoped it was something that would stick my with kids for many years.

Before we ascend the stones back to Earth there is one item left to discuss - gargoyles. Europe is crawling with them, of course, but Notre Dame's are something special. Functionally, many of the gargoyles are just ornate downspouts. But as one ascends the cathedral towers, these grotesques become more ornamental - and hungry, it seems. I won't spoil any surprises here, but a close examination of the gargoyles may reveal their taste for smaller mammals. Nuff said.

A gargoyle stands vigil over Paris

Next on the agenda was cruise on the Seine aboard a Batobus - a wonderful water shuttle service that transports people up and down the river between tourist hot-spots. It's a very slow, but relaxing, ride - taking us about 45 minutes to reach the Eiffel Tower stop. And speaking of hot-spots, here's a tip: if the weather is sunny, find a shady spot in which to sit. A Batobus' seating area is largely covered by a clear, plexiglass dome. Think Sun, magnifying glass, and ants - and you'll get the picture.

As we exited the Batobus at the Eiffel Tower, Sylvie and Andrew led The Gang to a special elevator queue for those lucky enough to have a restaurant reservation. Mere mortals would need to wait in line for a few hours before their turn at navigating the Tower's tiny elevators. After (yet another) half-hearted Parisian security check, we were whisked up to Level 1 for lunch at the fashionable Altitude 95. The meal, the service, the view - simply incredible.

After our lunch, some of The Gang (my family included) opted to follow Andrew on the stair climb to Level 2. It really was an easy climb for everyone (the stairs are not steep). At the risk of runing surprises, those of us with Sherpa-blood coursing our veins were rewarded with commemorative coins for our efforts. Disney does think of everything, you know.

From the ground, up - underneath the Tower

After a quick tour of Level 2 (think: Level 1, but higher), Dee, the kids, and I got into the very long queue for the Level 3 elevators. There are no stairs available for this journey, and the elevators are necessarily smaller for the narrow climb to the top. After only 20 minutes of waiting, however, we made the tranformation into sardines and found outselves on Level 3. The view from there is really-and-truly amazing. Some of The Gang did not make it to Level 3 because of crowds, etc. - but I could not fathom how anyone would miss what could be their only opportunity ever to stand atop the Tower.

From the Tower, towards the Trocadero

Once we'd had our fill of amazing panoramas, we re-traced our path to the ground: elevator to Level 2 and then stairs all the way down (definitely easier than going up). Andrew was waiting nearby to send The Gang back back to the hotel in a succession of cabs. Alex met us at the Hilton and paid the driver to complete this efficient and effective process. The Double-A's continued to impress us all! We were now on 'free time' for the rest of the day.

Our plan was to visit Montmartre, which is sort of a Parisian artist enclave. This area is also famous for nearby Sacre-Coeur, its windmills, and nighclubs such as the (in)famous Moulin Rouge. Alex was able to show us the best way to get to Montmartre: a 5-minute walk to the Metro and then another 15 minutes on the subway. Before we knew it, we were standing at the base of the funicular that transports people up to Sacre-Coeur. A footnote: the Paris Metro system was far-and-away easier and more pleasant to navigate than the London Underground (and its air-conditioned!).

The funicular line was long, however, and we elected to walk the stairs to the top of the hill. This was decidedly more work than climbing the Eiffel Tower, it seemed. The view from the top was lovely - sort of an analogue of the view from the Tower. The basilica at Sacre-Coeur was something else. While we had seen a lot of churches in England, Sacre-Coeur was (and is) in a class by itself in terms of beauty - delicate white stone against a blue Parisian sky.

Sacre-Coeur under the Paris sky

In the heart of Montmartre is a square called Place Du Tertre, which was packed with artists doing cheesy (and expensive) 'tourist art'. It was row upon row of Paris skylines and such - all being painted in real-time for us on-lookers with our Bermuda shorts, camera bags, and disposable cash. We found solace in one of the tented cafes, where we sat down for a lovely (and filling) dinner of crepes (with a beer-chaser for me). It was just a nice, relaxing family time and I could not imagine being (or wanting to be) anywhere else at that moment.

Our bellies full again, we strolled the narrows streets of Montmarte - following our noses and our tourbook. We saw the windmills, we saw the creepy/gothic Montmartre Cemetery, and we saw the Moulin Rouge. In consideration of the kids, both the cemetery and Moulin Rouge were only experienced from the outside looking in. Interesting tidbit one: it was only 7:00pm and there was already a line of well-dressed folks waiting to enter the Moulin Rouge. Interesting tidbit two: I believe the guard house at Montmartre cemetery's entrance offers guidebooks for locating the famous residents sleeping nearby. And now, a short travelogue of some shufflings through Montmartre - set to music, of course.

By this point, the day's walking was taking its toll, and we elected to return to the hotel. The Metro whisked us back and soon I was dozing in front of the TV, being surprised that The Simpsons had learned to speak French. But by 9:30pm we were somehow restless again and Dee seized the opportunity to drag me out for a walk. The kids - far more clever than I - elected to camp out in their hotel room. Dee and I wandered over to the Arc de Triomphe, which is only about a 10 minute journey from the Hilton. We discovered along the way that the Saudi and Japanese embassasies have offices in the neighbourhood - which made us feel quite safe being out and about.

The Arc is impressive at night, with its moody lighting adding a sense of the dramatic to its carvings and inlays. We also saw the Eiffel Tower lit up for the first time and discovered that it actually sparkles! Could there be a more romantic moment: Paris lit up at night and no kids around?

The Eiffel Tower at night.

Being the good parents we are, by 10:30pm we thought we should return to the Hilton and check on the kids. They were about to seal the deal with Mr. Sandman when we got back, so we ended our own day with journal updates and some expensive beer from the mini-bar.

Tomorrow, we would learn about The Arts - and practise our walking some more!

Euro Day 9: A Tale of Two Cities

Monday, July 16, 2007. With our luggage packed and ready for transport, we opted to partake of this morning's optional guided tour led by our local Blue Badge, Stephen. At 7:30am we met the other early birds in the Chancery lobby and we were soon prowling the neighbourhoods surrounding Lincoln's Inn Fields - which is just steps from the hotel. Among other things, this area is the historic and current locus of the legal profession in London while said-named park is thought to be an inspiration for NYC's Central Park. The buildings and inner courtyards of the Inns were such serene places on a busy Monday morning - yet just a block away was the hurley-burley of London as she awoke for another workaday week. The tour, while just an hour in length, held a few notable highlights for me: the shop said to be the inspiration for Dickens' Olde Curiosity Shop, Temple Church (though I would have liked to see the inside), and a little shop that sells wigs for the legal folk.

JediBoy poses in the alleyway
enroute to Lincoln's Inn Fields


A lone Knight Templar
stands guard over the Inns

With our visit to the Inns at an end, we bade our goodbyes to Chancery Court as our bus departed for Waterloo Station. Our mission, catch the 10:40am Eurostar for a 3-hour trip into to Paris' Gare du Nord station.

For those of us who are used to the sleepy, somewhat low-pressure experience of riding trains in Canada, getting onto the Eurostar was something very different - more akin to boarding an airplane at a busy airport. There was security everywhere, metal detectors, and x-rays for ourselves and our carry-ons. I could only imagine what was happening to our other luggage. Even my 14 year-old BandGeek was subjected to a very friendly and very thorough search of her backpack.

The Eurostar looking serious

The train, itself, was quite comfy but not much different than our own (Canadian) Via1 service. I will say that the Eurostar's decor is quite modern and bright - and my fervent hope is that the invention of the adjustable head-rest 'wings' resulted in a Nobel prize for someone. The brunch served to us was quite nice: yogurt, fruit, coffee, souffle, etc. But the real prize was the free-flowing champagne. While sitting in the seat directly in front of me, Dee was somehow unaware of this service and regretted the missed opportunity to get buzzed on a train traveling 300 km/h. My descriptions of the experience were sadly lacking for her, so it seemed.

The scenery from the Eurostar is largely unremarkable. On the English side it's mostly urban terrain that continues to thin as the English Channel approaches. While it's allegedly possible to catch a glimpse of Dover before entering the Chunnel, this eluded me. As for the Chunnel experience, it's simply 20 minutes of absolute darkness until the train is expelled into the French countryside. Here the scenery is definitely rural - and it is here that the Eurostar glides towards top-speed on the flat French countryside. The following video clip is a condensed version of this trip and, if you're lucky, you may catch a glimpse of Your Humble Authour peering into the inky black that is the Chunnel.



Once at Paris' Gare du Nord, with it's reputation for pickpockets and ne'er-do-wells, we were met by our new local guide Sylvie. She, along with the Double-A's, deftly led The Gang through the throngs of people and onto our waiting motor-coach. We were to get a brief narrated tour of Paris on our way to our hotel. We spotted a few highlights along the way such as the Eiffel Tower and Opera Garnier - and I had that feeling of otherworldliness that we were (indeed!) in Paris. The bus parked at the Trocadero, which is perhaps the most famous vantage-point for taking photographs of the Eiffel Tower. And that's just what we did!

View from the Trocadero

After our leisurely picture-taking, we boarded the bus once again for a short ride to a local park. Here, Sylvie taught us all to play a traditional French game called Petanque - which is a hybrid of bocci and curling. We split ourselves into several teams and had a few rousing - if not amateurish - games. We were all rewarded for our efforts with some lovely desert croissants. And lest anyone think that Petanque is 'just for the tourists', rest assured that I did witness a televised match while in Paris - and the players were most serious about their sport!

Sylvie readies les boules
for a game of Petanque

Finally, it was time to check-in to the Hilton Arc de Triomphe - really just steps away from the actual Arc. The Hilton is beautifully appointed in the Art Deco style, and we were checked in at light-speed. Since we're a family of 4, Paris hotel regulations stipulate that we must have 2 rooms. So it was that we were given 2 adjoining rooms, actually connected by a private hallway. The kids were in their glory, being on their own. Dee and I were in our glory, being on own. Paris was going to be nice.

After some settling in, the kids elected to chill out in their new apartment while Dee and I took a stroll around the neighbourhood. A few blocks from the hotel is a park - Parc Monceau - designed in the English style, with ponds, lush greens, benches, and even pony rides. The park - as we later learned - is surrounded by expensive apartments - which was reflected by the armies of nannies and their charges we encountered in the park.

Dinner that night was a lovely private buffet at the hotel. The food was very good and prepared in the French style: fish, chicken, salads, mousse, etc. The good people at Disney had even supplied a sketch artist who did caricature portraits of each kid - a great way to keep them engaged during dinner.

By 8pm, the skies above Paris clouded over and it began to rain (our one-and-only instance of inclement weather). Since we were tired from the long day anyways, we retired to our rooms to read our guidebooks and prepare for the day ahead. I turned on the TV and caught a bit of BBC World Service. Oddly, they were doing a travelogue of Vancouver, Canada. The 'locals' came off looking somewhat like wanna-be surfer-vegetarian-hedonists who wear magic crystals and lace their speech with 'dude' or 'far-out'. I smiled and thought of Douglas Coupland.

As I closed my eyes and coaxed sleep to arrive, my dreams reminded me of stairs. Tomorrow, we would climb many of them.