The two Japanese men are at breakfast again. I ask how they celebrate Christmas in Japan. The younger one says his family is not Christian, but they have a nice dinner and gifts from Father Christmas for the children—all greatly influenced by the commercialization of Christmas. The professor is Christian and says he goes to church on Christmas Day. He says there are only a small number of Christians in Japan, but there is a large sector in academia. The professor tells me he was knighted in October. He doesn’t seem to think this is a big deal. He has not met the Queen, but says he is supposed to have tea or something with a member of the family. No wonder the University was anxious to find him a place to stay; he is a distinguished guest.

I open two gifts from home; one from Mom and one from Aunt Kay-Lee. They contain a lovely little gold chain bracelet with a tiny heart-shaped pearl and gold earrings.

Caroline has beautifully decorated the front of the house with red holly berries. She is justly proud of the house’s appearance and tells me it was featured in an article on Christmas homes in a magazine a few years ago. She also uses real holly leaves to decorate the candelabra on the dining room table; they are prickly at the pointed end of the leaves. I am not sure that I have ever seen real holly leaves.

Tony and Caroline take Lutchford for a walk. Caroline asks me to turn on the oven at 11:45 so it will be heated for the turkey when they get back.

I help Tony peel the sprouts. I tell Caroline you really have to like them to spend so much time peeling them. She says leftover sprouts will be good to make bubble and squeak—sprouts and mashed potatoes fried together in butter; named for they sound they make when they cook.

Tony and Caroline’s oldest son, Adam, and his girlfriend, Vanessa, arrive first. They call Jake and tell him to come over from his flat down the road and we all sit down to eat. They all generously welcome me as part of the family. I feel so blessed. I pull a cracker along with everyone else and wear my funny paper hat.

• 

• 

For Christmas dinner, we have turkey and stuffing, roasted potatoes, carrots, and peas. There are also, of course, Brussels sprouts, which when I pass the bowl without taking any, Vanessa spoons two “sprouts” onto my plate saying sweetly that it’s tradition and I have to have some. This makes me smile and I dutifully eat my Brussels sprouts.

Caroline apologizes that they don’t have a Christmas pudding; instead they have treacle sponge and sticky toffee pudding. I ask for sticky toffee pudding because I like the name. Steamed in a can, it is a warm, moist, toffee-flavored cakey thing, and it is heavenly. Tony asks if I want custard sauce or double cream. I hesitate not knowing which goes with what I am having. Tony takes my hesitation as indecision and he says, “You can have both.” So I do. I can’t believe such a delicious dish even exists. Caroline has absolutely nothing to apologize for.

After dinner we open gifts. Caroline likes the angel I give her that Mom made. I think Tony likes his maple syrup too. Caroline and Tony give me a lovely little white satin purse and perfume. Caroline receives a beautiful silver necklace. Tony gets a jumper and some slippers. Jake gets a new mobile phone. Adam receives a “Millionaire” book of questions/answers.

Then we watch the Queen’s Christmas broadcast. This year, rather than just showing the Queen’s talking head, the BBC shows clips of some of the year’s events in the background as the Queen speaks. Everyone says it is more interesting than other years. Caroline likes to see what the Queen is wearing. Her Majesty is definitely more stylish of late. Vanessa thinks Prince William is “lovely.”

After watching the Queen, we play the “So you want to be a millionaire?” game with Adam acting as host, Chris Tarrant. He is great—mimicking all the patter and even Chris Tarrant’s facial mannerisms. Adam studied acting at school and works as an announcer and DJ. We each have a turn answering questions to Adam’s quizzing. I am the friend they phone when there are U.S. related questions. What is the U.S. state known as “Father of Presidents”? (Virginia). What does the U.S. call the constellation of stars of Ursa Major? (Big Dipper). When I reach the £32,000 mark, there is a playoff between Tony, Vanessa, and me all tied at £32,000. Caroline wins in the end with £125,000—all those nights watching the show serves her well.

After Adam and Vanessa leave, the rest of us watch more TV including Coronation Street and East Enders. On the soap shows, everyone is having sprouts with their Christmas dinners and wearing their paper hats just like we did.

Later Caroline makes tea and turkey sandwiches. Then she brings out the traditional mince pies, which we eat with double cream poured over. We all sit—bloated and sleepy—and watch Millionaire on TV. I go upstairs about 9:30 PM.

It was a lovely Christmas day with a lovely family. And I will always remember their kindness to me…and the sticky toffee pudding.

The best way to see London is from the top of a bus.

William Gladstone, speaking of London’s double-decker horse-drawn omnibuses

From the top of our hop-on/hop-off double-decker bus, we can see London’s famous monuments at eye level. They feel almost life-like when you are at their same height. The bus loops around Westminster past Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, across Lambeth Bridge to Southwark and past the Imperial War Museum. We cross London Bridge then back over Tower Bridge.

We hop off at Piccadilly Circus. Piccadilly is a London landmark much like Times Square is for New York City. Circus refers to the roundabout, which is no longer there. It is the intersection of Shaftsbury Avenue, the famous theater district, and Regent and Coventry streets, known for their shopping and nightclubs respectively. At its center is a statue of a winged Eros and the whole thing is surrounded by neon illuminated bill boards of which a red and white Coca Cola sign is the biggest.

We pop into Trocaderos, a famous shopping place. Housed in a grand Edwardian building sporting an ornate Baroque architectural style, the inside is mostly unremarkable with arcades, shops, and restaurants.

We catch the next bus and then end the tour at Buckingham Palace where we browse the gift shop. We eat lunch at a little café across from the Royal Mews.

Lisa wants to see more paintings―as if the hundreds of masterpieces we’ve seen from the Tate, to the d’Orsay, to the Louvre are not enough. So we opt for the National Gallery. We look at more Renoirs, Monets, and Van Goghs as well as the Dutch Masters. There is a whole room of Rembrandts. There are Titians, Rubens, and even an unfinished Michelangelo. There is a special Christmas display of the Mystical Nativity by Botticelli. We don’t leave the museum until 8:00 PM.

Outside there are carolers in Trafalgar Square standing around a large Christmas tree—an annual gift from the people of Oslo in thanks for Britain’s support during World War II. Listening to them sing, for the first time in weeks, I begin to feel the Christmas spirit.

• In today’s news: A £1.25 million memorial garden at Kensington was announced today—London’s first in honor of Diana, Princess of Wales. Work on the two-acre adventure playground with a Peter Pan theme is expected to be completed by March.

We squeeze in one last sightseeing excursion—Notre Dame Cathedral—before taking the Eurostar back to London.

Notre Dame sits on a small island in the Seine, the very picturesque Île de la Cité. Built more than 800 years ago, the cathedral is a Gothic masterpiece of high twin towers, rose windows, and flying buttresses. Victor Hugo called it, “A sublime and majestic edifice.”

It is very crowded. We squeeze among the masses and enter through the center door―one of three massive arched doorways that form the main entrance on the west side of the cathedral―passing underneath the church’s extraordinary rose window with a neat row of carved saints at its base. Inside, the center transept soars 140 feet above us and we are surrounded by stained-glass.

There are also gargoyles. Everywhere. They not only do they drain water but they are supposed to protect the church from evil spirits.

To a gargoyle on the ramparts of Notre Dame as Esmeralda rides off with Gringoire, Quasimodo says, “Why was I not made of stone like thee?” 

Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

Constructed in the 12 and 13th centuries, Notre Dame was badly damaged during the French Revolution. Interestingly, Victor Hugo wrote his book, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, to call attention to the neglect and disrepair. It worked. The book inspired the public’s patriotic and religious fervor that sparked a major restoration effort.

Notre Dame is perhaps most famous for its eight immense bells. The largest and oldest of these is named Emmanuel. It is the only original surviving bell as the others were looted and melted down for canon balls by French mobs.

Morning in Paris, the city awakes

To the bells of Notre Dame

The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes

To the bells of Notre Dame

To the big bells as loud as the thunder

To the little bells soft as a psalm

And some say the soul of the city is

The toll of the bells

The bells of Notre Dame

Disney’s song, The Bells of Notre Dame

Across the street from the cathedral, we stop for breakfast. I order a croissant and a café crème. It is heaven. The large croissant is flaky and buttery and the coffee is pure pleasure; smooth, silky, and creamy. I inhale it. I will always remember sitting in this little café; with coffee and pastry in the shadow of Notre Dame. It is my favorite memory of Paris.

We stand in line for 20 minutes for the Eurostar only to find out we are in the wrong place. The station signs are confusing, but we finally get the information out of a rude cashier and understand we must go upstairs. We go through passport control and a woman checks our tickets. She tells us to go to Coach A that will begin boarding any minute now. The signs directing us to our coach lead us inside a waiting room. Another sign in the waiting room points us back out to the corridor where we just came from. Another sign directs us left, but the attendant waves us to the right to Coach A. I tell Lisa that the only thing I will miss about Paris is the croissants.

Speeding through the snow-covered countryside, we stop twice—including in Calais. Then we enter the Chunnel. I pay attention this time. The Chunnel takes 20 minutes to traverse; it is dark but feels like any other underground tunnel crossing. When we come out on the other side, the train’s loudspeaker announcements in French are now repeated in English.

Back at our London hotel, the Winchester, we are put in a different room than we had earlier in the week. This one has a double bed and a twin. Lisa says I should have the double bed and I accept. It is so nice to have enough room be able to simply turn over in bed.

We head out to Farrington―one stop down from Euston―for dinner at the Eagle Pub. It is noisy, crowded, and smoke-filled, but it is delicious. I have a stew of potatoes, mushrooms, and Swiss chard. Lisa has a pasta dish with garlic, tomatoes, and mussels. She loves it.

I stop at a newsstand to buy a Hello magazine with pictures of Prince Andrew at the movie premiere.

• In today’s news: English MP Neil Hamilton sued Harrod’s owner Al Fayed for libel over false accusations that he (Hamilton) had corruptly taken money from Fayed in exchange for asking questions in Parliament that were favorable to Harrods. The jury ruled there was no basis for the libel suit as Mr. Hamilton was indeed corrupt. The judge ordered the MP to pay £1 million in legal fees.

• Mr Fayed did not come out unscathed however. The Times headline blares, “The winner who has lost all.” The trial, they say, brought to light a wealth of damning evidence about Fayed’s business practices. His reputation is shredded, his credibility destroyed, and he has lost any chance of ever getting the British passport he so covets. Lastly, they report, not only does Harrod’s face losing its Royal Warrant, it is said the Queen is prepared to take legal action over Fayed’s comments that Prince Phillip masterminded the death of Princess Diana.

Lisa says the British newspapers are like soap operas.

After croissant and café au lait at a patisserie near our hotel we are off to the Arc de Triomphe. After his historic victory at the Battle of Austerlitz in 1805, Napoleon said to his men, “You shall march home under triumphant arches.” The Arch is also home to France’s Tomb of the Unknown Solider. It is located in the center of a roundabout with twelve streets radiating like spokes on a wheel out into the city. One of these streets is the famous Champs Elysees.

The Champs Elysees is Paris’ most fashionable avenue. A wide, straight boulevard lined with chestnut trees, it runs from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde. Once the home of presidents and statesmen, it is now famous for its designer shops. Today it is decorated for Christmas, but the chestnut trees are all wrapped to protect them from the cold.

We take the metro to the Place de la Concorde, a huge plaza dotted with imposing marble equestrian statues, which was the site of the guillotine during the French Revolution. We look up the long, straight Champs Elysees and can see the Arc de Triomphe in the hazy distance with the Eiffel Tower to the left of the arch. At Concorde is a replica of Rodin’s famous statue of The Kiss. There is also the 3,200-year-old Egyptian obelisk; part of a pair that stood at the entrance to Luxor Temple in ancient Egypt; its twin still there. Cleopatra’s Needle in London and the obelisk in New York City’s Central Park are also a pair from a different site in Egypt contemporary to Luxor.

Not to be outdone by England and their London Eye, the French millennial Ferris wheel, the Roule Paris, slowly spins in the background of the square. It is, in my opinion, an eyesore on the Paris skyline, but so too I think is the London Eye. What is it about marking the millennium that makes governments think they have to put up a Ferris wheel? Leave that for Cony Island, I say.

We walk through the Jardins de Tuileries (Tuileries Gardens). It is sunny, but cold; the ponds frozen, the fountains dormant, and the trees bare. We expect the Tuileries are nicer when they are in bloom.

Next is the Musee l’Orangerie, home to Monet’s famous water lily paintings. There are two large rooms containing eight of Monet’s masterpieces. Each painting spans the length of the room, one on each wall. The 6-foot-high murals gently curve around the slightly oval-shaped rooms. They are wonderful. Unlike the d’Orsay whose light glared on the paintings, Monet’s purple and pink lilies float on blue-green water bathed in natural light; their soft colors luminous.

The Orangerie was originally the winter home of the orange trees from the Tuilieries gardens. According to its website Claude Monet himself had a hand in designing the lilies’ installation:

…the eight compositions are divided into two oval rooms that follow each other. [The paintings] are arranged from west to east, according to the race of the sun… The two ovals evoke the sign of the infinite while the paintings unfold the cycle of light of a day. [Monet] wanted the visitor to be totally immersed in painting and forget the outside world. The end of the First World War in 1918 confirmed him in his desire to offer beauty to bruised souls.

I love the water lilies; up close they look like random dabs of paint on canvas but step back and the riot of colors mixes together to create the lovely watery scenes.

There are other impressionist and post-impressionist paintings here too, but we only give them a cursory look as our next stop is the Louvre.

The Louvre was originally a palace for 16th century French kings. A huge 70-foot-high glass pyramid that serves as the building’s entrance juxtaposes modern against classic architectural styles. Famously designed by architect I.M. Pei, the glass allows light to filter into the museum’s inside entrance lobby, but also gives underground visitors views of the palace outside.

The Louvre is unbelievably big, running for five city blocks. It is so big that Lisa and I are lost the whole time. From the start, we seem unable to get our bearings and never do. Room numbers are different than what is marked on the guide map and we never know what floor we are on. We wander in frustration until we stumble on the Winged Victory; a statue of Athena. It is one of the most famous Greek sculptures in the world dating from the 2^nd century BC.

Victory gives us our bearings and we then follow our map to the Mona Lisa—what we’ve come for! I am surprised by how small the painting is and how beautiful she is. She is roped off and glass-protected but enchanting; so much more so than in photographs. Along with a small crowd of people, I gaze at her for a long time. In a nearby hallway is another woman, La belle ferronnière, also painted by Leonardo Da Vinci whose features are remarkably similar to Mona Lisa. I wonder what it is about the Mona Lisa that makes her so famous, while the other woman was destined for obscurity.

• 

• 

We take in more famous paintings; a Madonna and child by Botticelli and the famous self-crowning portrait of Napoleon by Jacques Louis David, which is massive. We see Raphaels, Titians, and others by Da Vinci.

We move on to the sculptures and admire the other famous Greek statue—the Venus de Milo. A Greek peasant farmer found her on the island of Milo in 1820. Sculpted at the end of the 2^nd century around 100 BC, she is supposed to portray the ideal of feminine beauty. We also see the famed Marly Horses, sculpted wild horses, replicas of which we saw earlier in the Place de la Concorde.

We stop for lunch at the huge museum café, which is a cafeteria-style buffet. The waitress behind the grill is rude and unhelpful. They are out of baguette. Imagine being out of baguette in a French restaurant? The tables are piled with dirty dishes from the previous diners. I take the time to complete the customer comment card and compare the Louvre poorly to yesterday’s d’Orsay.

Napoleon III’s opulent state rooms are gilded from top to bottom with mammoth chandeliers, red brocade walls, and period furniture. They are sumptuous beyond words, even more than Buckingham Palace or Blenhiem. We wander through the series of rooms with our mouths hanging open.

We cannot find our way out, even by following the “Sortie” signs. After several dead ends, we eventually manage to exit out into the pyramid courtyard and walk along Rue de Rivoli.

The woody smell of roasting chestnuts fills the air. Lisa wants to try them and asks a street vendor if she can buy just one. It is clear that man is throwing out a price as he has no idea what just one chestnut should cost. He says ½ franc. Lisa gives him one franc and he gives her two chestnuts, one of which she gives me. We peel off the skin and bite into the nutmeat inside. It is surprisingly good; warm, rich, and sweet.

We stop for coffee in a small café near our hotel. It is late afternoon and crowded with people, smoking, drinking, and talking. We feel very French.

We are both very tired and I think ready to leave Paris. With the constant struggle to understand signs, menus, and maps, and the many rude shopkeepers, two days is enough. A friend of Lisa’s emailed her while we were in London. He said, “You’ll like Paris, but you will always love London more.” I think he is right.

I can’t believe it but I agree when Lisa suggests Vietnamese food for dinner. I refused last night when we walked by this same Chinese/Vietnamese restaurant saying, “No, not Chinese. Why would anyone come all the way to Paris for Chinese?” (I am thinking we have yet to experience Julia Child’s roast chicken or sole meunière.) Lisa replies the French occupied Vietnam for a while, so it fits with our visit, but I am not convinced. Finally, I make her promise not to tell anyone that I came all the way to Paris and ate in a Chinese restaurant. Sole meunière is going to have to wait for another visit.

The restaurant is very small. On the menu I cannot tell what is Chinese and what is Vietnamese. Lisa orders the Bo Bun—the only dish that is identified as Vietnamese. It is a bed of salad greens topped with rice and stir-fried beef and a sweet, clear sauce (like Thai cucumber sauce) to pour over everything. The beef is topped with a spring roll. I try the beef; it is tender and delicious. I have basil shrimp, also tasty.

We walk back to our hotel looking for a patisserie. The bakery we want is closed so we go back to the rude shop from the first night (the one that claimed not to have a phone book) and the proprietor is just as insolent tonight. What about tourist revenues do these French shopkeepers not understand? I don’t really want to give him my custom, but I do want a pastry. I buy one almond custard tart and appease myself by thinking I would have bought more if he had been more pleasant. Lisa doesn’t buy anything but I don’t know if it is in protest or she is just not hungry.

The sun is shining in Paris this morning and I have a totally different outlook. I feel I can hold my own with any rude French proprietor or civil servant.

We find a patisserie and order croissants and café. If you order café in Paris, you get espresso, as I discover to my chagrin. I am handed a tiny cup of very strong black coffee that I drink in three gulps and hope there is enough caffeine to avoid any headaches. Next time I will know to order café au lait.

We adore the Musee d’Orsay—an amazing museum of French artists—located in a vast, former railway station, Gare d’Orsay. There are more famous paintings here under one roof than anywhere in the world. A huge charcoal canvas of the risqué Moulin Rouge dancers by Toulouse-Lautrec is the first thing to greet us. From there, we go into a room full of Degas’ ballerinas. After that I lose track—Monets, Manets, Van Goghs, Renoirs. We turn a corner and there is Whistler’s Mother. Then there are the Gaugins, Cezannes, and Sisleys. We see Van Gogh’s famous self-portrait; Monet’s water lilies, and Renoir’s City Dance and Country Dance. In addition to the paintings, there are Rodin sculptures, Tiffany glass, and antique furniture.

There is a special exhibit called, Aux Colours de la Mer (The Colors of the Sea), which contains an assembly of all the museum’s French seascapes. Manet painted his On the Beach in the open air and we can see tiny specks of sand in the paint blown by the wind and embedded there before it was dry. I think this is very cool—a palpable link to the very moment that Manet painted it that instantly transports you 125 years back in time.

I see a painting by an artist whose work I recognize but did not know his name. James Tissot and his painting The Ball is very like a print hanging in my bedroom at home. My Tissot—A Woman of Ambition―features a pretty young woman from the 19^th century―a Gibson-girl-type―her brown hair piled high upon her head. She is on the arm of a much older, white-haired man. We see them back-to as they enter a crowded salon party, but her head is turned toward the viewer so we can see her full in the face. She is fashionably dressed in a high-neck, tight-corseted gown of layered pink flounces and carries a large fan of pink feathers. Behind their backs, two men have their heads together, their gloved white hands covering their mouths as they gossip to each other about the pair. I love everything about this painting―the colors, the clothing, the period it represents, and the hint that something slightly improper is going on. The d’Orsay’s painting is so similar to mine but, in this one, the woman is blond, wears a yellow dress, and the scene is cropped tighter with no gossiping old men on the sidelines. I am glad to learn the artist of my print.

The last room we explore contains more Renoirs, Monets, and Bazilles. There is an evocative painting by Monet called La Pie (the Magpie) that captures my imagination. It is a snowy scene of a tiny black bird sitting on an old wooden gate; the gate creates an opening in a stout fence that runs the length of the picture. The snow-covered ground at the base of the fence is shaded, but I can feel the warmth of the sun spilling out beyond its shadows. I buy a huge, five-foot-long print of this painting. The d’Orsay’s website gives me some history of the painting:

In the late 1860s, Monet tackled the great challenge of a snow-covered landscape; a frail magpie perched on a gate, like a note on a staff of music… Sun and shade construct the painting and translate the impalpable part-solid part-liquid matter [and] the Impressionist landscape was born. This painting of a place in the countryside near Etretat [in Normandy] uses very unusual pale, luminous colours, a fact…[that flabbergasted the public who were used to bold colors]. The novelty and daring of Monet’s approach, which was more about perception than description, explain the painting’s rejection by the jury of the 1869 salon. (Source)

I am happy with my purchase, but I may not have thought it all the way through. I now have to hand-carry the long, rolled-up poster tube with me on planes, trains, and automobiles from Paris to London to Birmingham, back to London and through the Heathrow and Boston airports.

We eat lunch in the museum’s elegant sit-down restaurant—a huge, mirrored, chandeliered room with elaborate ceiling frescoes. It feels good to sit down. I order the special, a mild white fish and an ice cream for dessert that is creamier than any ice cream I have ever had.

The d’Orsay’s impressionist paintings stay with me for years. My leisurely stroll through the museum is an intense course in art history. For a long time, I can tell the difference between Cezanne and Sisley and recognize a Gaugin from 100 paces. I come away with a deep appreciation for Renoir to whom I had barely given a thought before. I fall in love with Monet’s misty, dream-like scenes. The d’Orsay has enriched my life.

We stay almost the entire day; it is after 4:00 PM when we leave. We take the tube to the Metro stop at Ecole Militaire and walk towards the Eiffel Tower. We had expected to be able to see the Eiffel Tower from everywhere in the city, but so far, we have not even had a glimpse of it and even now this close to it, there is a tall building blocking our view as we walk east. Then suddenly, it comes into view towering over the large grassy plaza that fronts it. We are thrilled.

It is daylight (barely) but, by the time we get through the line to go up the Eiffel Tower, it is dark. We stand in line for the elevator for an hour, which, in 30 seconds, takes us up what would have been a 300-step climb. We are too cold to go further than the first level. Still, we have an amazing view of the sparkling city of lights. We can see the Seine River snaking through the city, and the brightly lit gold dome of Les Invalides, which holds Napoleon’s tomb. It is very windy and soon, defeated by the cold, we descend.

Gustave Eiffel designed the 1,063-foot-tall Eiffel Tower to serve as the gateway to the 1889 World’s Fair. It was meant as a temporary addition to the Paris skyline but has been there ever since. For 40 years, it stood as the tallest man-made structure in the world until New York’s Chrysler Building topped it in 1930.

Turning around to look back at the monument as we walk to the Metro, I think it is prettier lit up at night than during the day and it is prettier than pictures or postcards portray it.

From Ecole Militaire, we change at Sevres Babylone and get off at our home stop, Odeon. We rest in our room for a bit before going out to dinner. It is nearly 8:00 PM by the time we find a creperie (crepes being highly recommended by Barbara and Dean). The art-themed restaurant is located on the Rue des Arts. My crepe is the Picasso of crepes with sausage, cheese, mushrooms, and a mustard sauce. I order what I thought was a glass (verre) of Gamay wine, but end up with a half-bottle instead. It is good and I drink the whole thing as Lisa has only a sip. We sit and talk for an hour before walking home, browsing the shops along the way.

By the end of our first full day in Paris, I have figured out the currency. It is a 10:1 ratio of francs to pounds. By simply dividing by 10, you can easily convert it: 200 francs equals £20; 100 francs equals £10; 5 francs equals 50p; 1 franc equals 10p. Lisa tries converting pounds to dollars, but I gave up doing that months ago.

It seems so strange that it is less than a week until Christmas and even stranger still to think that I am in Paris a week before Christmas.

We are off to Paris today. I am nervously excited about it. We walk to Victoria station and take the tube to Waterloo station where we grab a sandwich and head to the Eurostar terminal. We go through security but no one checks our passports; one advantage of the European Union that the Brits are so adverse to.

• 

• 

The train is new. Lisa and I have a table with no one opposite so we can stretch out. We eat our sandwiches and read and look at the Paris guide making a tentative itinerary. Paris is one hour ahead of London so we re-set our watches.

Ironically, we pass through the Chunnel almost unnoticed. The conductor makes an announcement, but I am still reading and all of sudden I look up and we are emerging from the tunnel and we are in France. The train speed accelerates with a whoosh and we sit back for the remaining hour’s ride to Paris.

Lisa reads to me that the French side of the trip takes less time because of they have rails that accommodate high-speed trains. In England, their antiquated rail line will not allow the trains to go as fast. England almost jeopardized the Chunnel crossing altogether by dragging its feet. As far back as the 1970s, engineers envisioned a Chunnel, but the English refused―fearing who knows what. When work finally commenced, English construction was always behind schedule and over budget. Today, still, it will be another 10 years before they are able to rebuild tracks to accommodate the 200-mph-trains that France uses now.

By the time we reach Paris Gare du Nord, it is dark and has begun to rain.

I call our Paris hotel to get the street address. I think she says St. Tropez in District 6 at the Odeon metro stop. Lisa figures out the metro and we attempt our first conversation with a Parisian who doesn’t speak English—it is just one of many that will frustrate us. The ticket agent is unbelievably rude. He is really annoyed with us when for some unknown reason based on something Lisa says he gives her three Metro tickets. When she tells him she only wants one, he literally blows air out of the side of his mouth in annoyance, rolls his eyes, and throws her money back at her. A nice lady in line behind us helps us.

With tickets in hand, we pass through the Metro gate and find the right platform. We are packed in like sardines on the train. One woman says to me, “Pardon,” and waves her hand in front of her face, “C’est chaud.” I smile and nod and say, “Oui,” never letting on that I don’t speak French.

We get off at Odeon and look for our street on the map. There is no such street. It is raining hard now but for some reason Lisa does not want to take a taxi. So, we go into two places looking for a phone book to look up the hotel street address. Both places deny speaking any English and shake their head when we ask for a phone book. We decide to call the hotel again, but the only phone booth we find doesn’t take coins, only phone cards. By now, I convince Lisa to let us take a taxi. But the taxi driver speaks no English. He cannot find St. Tropez street either and tells us St. Tropez is a region in the south of France. He thinks we don’t know we’re in Paris? We give him the number for the hotel which he calls but it is busy or no one answers. We have run up a meter of 341 francs but he doesn’t charge us when, in resignation, we get out of the taxi. We buy a phone card from a news agent who doesn’t speak English and only reluctantly makes change from our 500 Franc note. We finally get through to our hotel and get the correct street name―St. Suplice. Lisa makes her spell it. We find it on the map and start walking in the rain. The map gets wet but it doesn’t matter as we can’t read it very well under the muted street lamps. We walk along Rue de St. Germaine des Pres, but still cannot find St. Suplice. Finally, we go into a pharmacy where they speak only a little English. A man gives us directions that we only half understand, but I understand enough to know we are going in the wrong direction. Lisa asks him to draw us a map, which he very kindly does. Walking and following his map, we discover our hotel just 1-½ blocks from the Metro stop where we originally got off.

We check into our hotel; a bit bedraggled and dampened in spirit. Paris did not show us her best this night.

The Louis II hotel is lovely. The lobby looks pretty, all decorated for Christmas with these white Christmas trees the French seem very fond of. They are fake fir trees covered with white spray. They are everywhere.

Our room is small with two twin beds. The wallpaper is ornate; teal-color with creamy-white fleurs de lis. There are lace coverings on the beds and pillows and Louis XVI-style furniture. It is very French.

We dry off and warm up a bit and then head out to dinner. There are a ton of restaurants as we walk along Rue de St. Germaine des Pres, Rue de Buci, and Rue de L’Odeon. The narrow streets are lined with fish and meat markets, patisseries, brasseries, cafés, and more. The pastries in the window are unbelievable—croissants and breads, bouche de noels, petite fours, tarte tatins, chocolate eclairs, and truffles. It is still raining, but somehow the bright lights and throngs of people do wonders to lift our spirits. We are astonished at all the cafés that have outside seating in December. But soon we notice that there are big gas heaters hanging above the sidewalks throwing an amazing amount of heat that we can feel even on the street when we pass. I suspect that with those heaters and a bottle of wine, it would be quite pleasant sitting outside under an awning despite the cold and rain.

We select a brasserie called L’Atlas, named for the strong man. It seems that the moment we walk through the door, before we even say anything, the waiter knows we are English or even perhaps American. He says to us in English, “A table for two?” This happens all the time and I am not sure why we are so easy to spot as tourists. I have the ribeye steak and frites and a glass of red wine. Lisa has baked salmon and bottled water. The waiter asks if she wants the water with “gas” or “no gas.” Without blinking an eye and while I am still trying to figure out what he is talking about, Lisa responds, “No gas,” meaning uncarbonated. When we get the bill, we laugh to see that my glass of wine cost less than her water. “We’re in France now!” The food is excellent and the waiter very nice. Besides our map-drawer, he is the first nice person we’ve encountered in Paris. I would say it is because he is working for tips, but that does not seem to motivate very many of our waitstaff here.

We had planned to go to the Eiffel Tower, but it is still raining so we walk around just a bit more and then go back to our hotel. We pass a huge, domed building with sign that says, “Senat.” We look it up in the guidebook and learn that it is the Palais du Luxembourg, now home of the French Senate, but formerly the 17^th century palace of Marie de Medici, widow of France’s King Henry IV, built it is said to remind her of her native Florence.

It seems so strange to have the streets bright and full of people. It is a city that is alive and teeming even late into the night—so unlike English cities. I can’t believe we are in Paris.

I ignore the man on the intercom this morning. After breakfast, we get a relatively late start to Waterloo station where we catch the train for Windsor.

From the train, I get a glimpse of the castle; solid and imposing against the gray sky. It is rainy and somewhat chillier than yesterday.

There are no lines and we walk right in to see Queen Mary’s doll house. It is fantastic. The doll house has a miniature Rolls Royce that works using real petrol; tiny books in the library with complete stories written and donated by their famous authors (Kipling, Barrie, Conan Doyle); lighted electric chandeliers, running water, real wine in miniature bottles in the wine cellar, hand-woven Irish lace linen in the closets, and so much more―tiny portraits, porcelain, and working clocks and pianos. The artists and craftsmen who built it intended it to represent British life in the 20s, albeit upper-crust British life certainly:

It is built to outlast us all. To carry on into the future and a different world this pattern of our own. It is a serious attempt to express our age and to show forth in dwarf proportions the limbs of our present world.

A.C. Benson, The Book of the Queen’s Dolls’ House, 1924

In the next room to the doll house are two child’s dolls given to Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret (the current Queen and her younger sister) from the people of France in 1938 while they were there on a state visit as young girls. They are big dolls and remind me of the Nancy Nurse doll of my childhood. But these dolls are decked out in the finest of French haute couture; designer dresses, mink stoles, and even Cartier necklaces of coral beads.

We make our way to the State Apartments, which are no less ornate than Buckingham and Kensington palaces. King Charles renovated the State Apartments to try and equal those of the Palace of Versailles in France. They look it, all guilt and crystal. We pass through the Throne Room, then the King’s Bed Chamber, the King’s Dressing Room, the King’s Closet and the King’s Dining Room, then an equal number of rooms called, the Queen’s Suite. There are so many rooms, it is mind numbing.

Some of the world’s greatest masterpieces hang on the walls: Van Dyke, Rembrandt, Michelangelo. I see Holbein’s famous portrait of a heavy-jowled Henry VIII; the one you see in all the history books―so interesting to me because it is contemporary and, allowing for a little artistic flattery, should be close to what the tyrannical king really looked like. The paintings all come from the Royal Collection. It is said that the Queen has the is the largest private art collection in the world—more than 1 million objects.

Lisa asks friendly questions and chats with a few of the guards along the way. One is most appreciative; he says it’s a long day when there aren’t many visitors. He is in the Waterloo Room, constructed from what was once a courtyard, it commemorates Napoleon’s defeat. He points out the revolving chandelier—at least it looks like it is revolving. There is a fan inside that moves from the force of the hot air from the heat of the bulbs. It gives the illusion of sparkling candlelight. He also tells us about the carpet created to commemorate Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. It weighs two tons and is the single, largest piece of carpet in the world. He says it took a lot of manpower to roll it up and carry it out during the fire. I remember seeing a picture of that rug being carried out of the burning castle in 1992.

On a bleak, cold, November night, the worst imaginable thing happened. Windsor Castle burned. As it happened, Prince Andrew was staying here and his efficient organizing of staff and townspeople to carry out irreplaceable paintings, artwork, and furniture saved most of it. I remember seeing pictures of the Queen, the hood of her Macintosh pulled over her head, miserably surveying the blaze’s destruction of her home. It wasn’t a complete lost, but the damage was extensive—the fire destroyed 115 rooms; about one-fifth of the castle. It topped off what the Queen called her “annus horribulus” that followed the separations of both her oldest sons and her daughter, Princess Anne’s, divorce that year.

We pass through St. George’s Hall that was destroyed by the fire along with the Octagonal Dining Room. One of the guards tells us how the dining room was part of the five-story Brunswick tower, which when the fire reached it, created an inferno, with flames leaping 50 feet into the night sky. All five floors collapsed one on top of each other in a great whoosh.

The fire-damaged rooms have all been restored now, but rather than the gold-leaf opulence of their previous form, the new rooms are carved from mushroom-colored English oak. In the octagonal-shaped Lantern Lobby, which was once Queen Victoria’s private chapel, oak pillars buttress a vaulted ceiling designed to look like a lily, with a skylight at the top reminiscent of Rome’s ocular Pantheon. Builders completed its restoration on the 50^th anniversary of the Queen and Prince Phillip’s wedding. A plaque commemorates the fact.

In the next room, the guard tells us about the Christmas dance that was here on Monday night. I asked if the Queen was here. She was, along with Prince Phillip and Prince Charles. Now I know why the Union Jack, not the Royal Standard, was flying at Buckingham Palace on the night I arrived in London. The Queen was here at Windsor. He tells us how each member of the Royal Household gets a money limit to spend and they pick out their own gifts. The head of household orders the gifts and the Queen presents them to each person. The Queen likes them to be gifts, not vouchers, and they are never wrapped so she can see what she is giving. He says the staff all lines up when she enters. She walks along and speaks to whomever she pleases. No, she didn’t speak to him this year, but she spoke to his wife.

Lisa’s genuine, probing questions to the guards prompts them to show us one of Semi-State Rooms—the Green Drawing Room—that is not normally on the tour. Here there is also the Crimson Dining Room and the State Dining Room, which the Queen uses for official entertaining including hosting American presidents and other heads of state at glamorous state banquets. They look out over a lovely garden.

Of the rooms destroyed in the fire, the State Dining Room is the only one restored to replicate its previous opulence. Another guard tells about how he worked for 18 hours the night of the fire moving furniture and paintings to get them out before the fire broke through. He says proudly that they only lost two items—a huge painting that had been in the dining room that was too large to get out and a long, low serving cabinet also too big to remove.

The restored State Dining Room is stunning with a replica of the serving cabinet and a wonderful replacement portrait that covers the entire south wall; one of Princess Augusta, Princess of Wales, and her nine children, including the future George III. The Princess’s mourning veil and baby on her lap lets us know that her husband Frederick Prince of Wales is recently deceased. His portrait is in the background of the painting creating a portrait within a portrait.

We exit through St. George’s Hall with all its restored heraldic emblems of the enrobed Knights of the Garter—the highest honor that the Queen can bestow. All of their names are carved into the wood in the order that the monarch knighted them. Queen Elizabeth’s knights include: Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, Princess Margaret, Prince Charles, and Princess Anne, among others.

We walk through St. George’s chapel and peer at the Albert memorial chapel. Although Albert is buried at Frogmore with Queen Victoria, the church has a small chapel dedicated to him that contain the sarcophaguses of Leopold, Queen Victoria’s youngest son, and Prince Albert Victor (Eddy), the eldest son of Edward VII who died at age 28 making way for Prince George who would become George V, the current Queen’s grandfather.

We also see a large, white, marble sculpture of draped, weeping angels, that is Princess Charlotte’s 1817 memorial. Princess Charlotte, the beloved heir to the throne and only child of King George IV, was the Princess Diana of her day. When she died following the stillborn birth of her baby, England’s monarchy was left with no heir. All of King George III’s aging, disreputable sons dumped their long-time mistresses and scrambled to contract lawful marriages and produce legitimate children. The winner was Edward, Duke of Kent, the fourth son, who married a German princess and whose baby daughter became Queen Victoria.

We have a very late fish and chips lunch at a pub across the street from the castle. We hurry to finish so we can catch the 15:53 PM train back to London. We make it with four minutes to spare.

I feel sorry for a young man on the train who does not have a ticket. The conductor reads him the riot act, takes his name and phone number, and calls his parents. I think he will have to pay a fine. I had not yet seen anyone caught without a ticket. It is not pretty.

We rest a while and head out to dinner about 7:30 PM. Our goal is a Vietnamese restaurant in Leicester Square that is in my guidebook. We get there but the restaurant is no longer there. We walk a few blocks and see a Greek restaurant and say, “Why not?” Inside we discover it is more elegant and pricier than we want, but it is delicious. I have the souvlakia (lamb kabob) with risotto and a Greek salad. One waiter says to us, “It’s nice to see two sisters together.” We smile and don’t bother to correct him.

I groan when the intercom wakes us after only six hours of sleep. After breakfast, we hit a cashpoint machine, then we’re off to Kew Gardens. Kew is in Surrey, 11 stops down the District Line; about a 30-minute ride. For part of the journey, we ride along the Thames. We see a huge, odd-looking, modern building on the banks of the Thames and wonder what it is. I joke that it looks like a Disney World hotel.

Surrey is a cute, residential area. We walk towards the gardens and admire all the beautiful homes with Christmas trees in their big bow windows. It is cool—in the 40s—but gorgeously sunny and a great day to walk through the gardens.

Kew Botanical Gardens is 300 acres of more than 50,000 plants, trees, and flowers. Prince Frederick, the eldest son of King George II and father to George III, created the garden that his widow, Princess Augusta, turned into a botanical garden. Captain Cook brought some of the garden’s earliest plants from his explorations around the world. Two beautiful Victorian-style greenhouses—the spectacular Palm House and the Temperate House—are filled with tropical plants: Date trees, olive trees, ferns, palms, banana trees, coconut trees, and even chili peppers. We see rhododendron, orchids, and all kinds of exotic flowers.

Of course, my favorite is the Princess of Wales Conservatory. It exhibits 10 climatic zones, including a northern one of snow-covered fir trees that looks like Maine. In 1987, Diana dedicated the conservatory in the name of George III’s wife, Charlotte, who took her turn as Princess of Wales before becoming the Queen.

We stop by chance at a small gallery and discover Marianne North, a Victorian woman painter who traveled the world painting plants and flowers. Her paintings are bold and colorful and the gallery walls are covered with over 700 of them, which she donated to Kew. Both Lisa and I love them and spend a long time studying them.

We walk back to the tube, stopping at a bakery for a curry pastry. The train pulls up just as we arrive back at the station and we hop on.

Next we go to the Tate art museum near Pimlico station. It is a long walk from Pimlico to the Tate—more than two miles—and we nearly get run over a couple of times. We see the Disney building again. It is a concrete Art-Deco building—sort of. The upper stories have lots of windows encased in what look like a gray metal façade. Again, we wonder what it could be.

The Tate exhibits mostly British artists but has a collection of other famous works by Picasso, Matisse, Van Gogh, Rodin, and even Andy Warhol. The museum’s centerpiece is seven rooms of Turners—perhaps Britain’s greatest painter, which is saying a lot from a country that produced Rossetti, Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Constable, and inspired expatriates like Whistler and Sargent all of which are showcased at the Tate.

A watercolorist, Turner is known for his hazy, almost luminous, landscapes, cityscapes, and seascapes. I particularly like his ocean scenes with swirls of grey clouds; sometimes a dark tempest, sometimes with warm yellow streaks of sun.

There is also a room of Pre-Raphaelites, where I get to see another version of Rosetti’s Proserpine as well as Millias’ Ophelia. There is also a painting of Ellen Terry, an exceptional female Shakespearean actress of her day, dressed as Lady Macbeth, in a gown of iridescent beetle wings. Oscar Wilde said of seeing Ellen Terry alight from her taxi so dressed—that the street will never be the same (I paraphrase).

We decide on Indian for dinner and, after a brief stop at the hotel, make our way to Goodge Street to an Indian restaurant Lisa found in her guidebook. It is too easy; we walk right to it with no backtracking, circling around, or retracing our steps. It is near the BT telecom tower, which looms over everything in this neighborhood. The food is excellent. We have poppadoms with onion marmalade, prawn puri, and prawns and spinach with lemon rice.

I jokingly say to Lisa, now that we have been here, Goodge Street will never be the same.