This time last year, I scribbled you a little journal of a National Review cruise — through the Douro Valley of Portugal. May I scribble you a little journal about our most recent cruise, on the Seine River? The thing about these journals, and any other Impromptus: You don’t have to read them. Long live the Internet, and freedom of choice.
We started in Paris, of course — Charles de Gaulle Airport, to be specific. To me, the name “Orly” is becoming as distant as “Idlewild.” (Apples and oranges, I know: Idlewild was renamed JFK, and CDG is simply a different airport from Orly.) As I was standing at, or near, the appropriate carousel, I noted an Air France flight from Damascus. I thought, “Good time to leave Damascus” — unless, of course, you’re a Syrian wanting to participate in a freedom struggle . . .
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In any Parisian café, bistro, or bar, you’ll see a mean-looking French girl, smoking furiously — and looking fantastic (as well as mean) while doing so.
Speaking of smoking, I saw this, on a pack of cigarettes: “SMOKING KILLS.” They must have an extra-blunt surgeon general in France.
Are you allowed to smoke in cafés, bistros, etc.? Frankly, I’m not sure — could be I saw those mean- and fantastic-looking French girls sitting outside, only . . .
We went to Chartres Cathedral, which reminded me of Bill Buckley — a story he used to tell. In fact, he incorporated it into one of his novels. A man from an important family in Russia was a refugee in France. The only work he could get was as a bus driver. He decided that he wanted only the route to Chartres, even though it was repetitive: because, if he had to be a bus driver, at least he could see the cathedral every day.
Speaking of Buckleys: Priscilla and Carol are aboard — two of Bill’s sisters. Priscilla worked in Paris as a journalist, years ago. She took her little sister Carol, along with another little sister, Maureen, on an extended tour of Europe. Now Priscilla and Carol are back, traveling with NR, and delighting the other passengers.
Priscilla tells me the full story of this Russian who had the route to Chartres — fascinating.
I have switched to the present tense in this here journal — knowing you don’t mind . . .
In the gardens of Versailles, I see the acme of adorableness — it can’t go any further: A little girl, dressed in pink, sits atop a tiny pony. She is wearing a bike helmet. Alongside her, and the pony, are her mom and some older siblings. They are all walking slowly. The little girl has a fairly serious look on her face. The pony is more casual.
This is cute (though nothing like the scene at Versailles): An eatery in Paris is called “Mac Doner” — “doner” being the ubiquitous, and delicious, Turkish food.
This is much less cute: the Cuban government’s Office of Tourism. How nice! This is the way they should advertise: “Experience the segregated hotels, shops, restaurants, and beaches! No Cubans allowed (except when they have been carefully vetted by the government)! Enjoy the ‘tourism apartheid’! All the mojitos you can drink! Don’t forget the underage prostitution — we’re not telling! And, all the while, enrich the Castro brothers, extending their rule!”
People from free countries just love to visit totalitarian countries with gulags. People from free countries sometimes don’t deserve their freedom, I think . . .
I find it somewhat amazing that there’s an Esplanade David Ben-Gurion, smack in the middle of Paris (or close enough). This came about last year. An esplanade named for a founding father of the Jewish state was controversial, of course. There were protests. Have you heard that there are people in France who aren’t too high on Israel? Shocking. Anyway, the Parisians held firm: and honored Ben-Gurion with a piece of their real estate.
I think that we should assume, just amongst ourselves you understand, that Avenue Rapp is named after Mitch Rapp, in honor of our brave military and intelligence operatives who pulled off a brilliant mission so recently . . .
When I was in Europe in 1993, I had the impression that the Italians were jovial and the French were rude. But on the train into Italy I was met by grim Italians with german shepherds and submachine guns and in Paris people waited patiently while I counted out my Francs (do they still have those?) and a chap with a Union Jack on his lapel gave directions at the Metro in English. All in all, I got a very different impression of both countries.
Each time I travelled there with my wife, a French speaker, the following would invariably happen.
She and I would speak English to each other to determine what to say to the waiter, cabbie, ticket taker, etc., then she would speak French to the person.
Almost to a person (on numerous trips to Paris and beyond), the Frenchmen would turn to me and respond in English to my wife's French spoken query.
As long as you didn't start in English nor ask them to speak English, but they would volunteer to speak English.
Oh dear, what's wrong with being godless?
Any immortal god lives as long as the people have a need for him.
We in Europe have no need anymore for those alien and vengefull desert-gods
whose believers wrecked hahoc on this continent for the last 2000 years.
As an American conservative living in Paris (I believe I'm the ONLY one), I wish I could meet you all for a drink on one of our (I can say "our" now that I live here) lovely terraces. So glad to read such positive comments about a city that I love! Thank you!
We started in Paris, of course — Charles de Gaulle Airport, to be specific. To me, the name “Orly” is becoming as distant as “Idlewild.” (Apples and oranges, I know: Idlewild was renamed JFK, and CDG is simply a different airport from Orly.) As I was standing at, or near, the appropriate carousel, I noted an Air France flight from Damascus. I thought, “Good time to leave Damascus” — unless, of course, you’re a Syrian wanting to participate in a freedom struggle . . .
