Booking a 5:15 in the morning train seemed like such a good idea at the time. Sure it was early, but we’re early birds, and so what if Mr. London had an evening match the night before that we’d all be at. We could sleep on the three plus hour journey, and arrive in gay Paree as fresh as the morning dew. #delusional
Amazingly (and uncharacteristically), I was able to get back to sleep as soon as I got on board and took my seat (confession: both a scarf wrapped around my face and a hoodie in the up position were required to achieve sleep; it was a strong look), so did Mrs. London and so did my mother and brother. It probably helped that our blocks of seats were scattered about different cars, you know, no chatting temptation. The only two that didn’t sleep were Gregory and Mr. London, but I’m sure that none of you are surprised by this.
As soon as the TGV pulled away from the station, they found each other, went to the bar car for coffee (bye, bye, nighty-night-night) and then proceeded to look for people to play cards with them (their Phase 10 addiction is borderline compulsive).
“No, Mr. & Mr. Crazy Pants, no one wants to play cards with you two at 5:30 in the morning!”
A little after 9AM, we pulled into Gare de Lyon fairly bright eyed and bushy tailed (well four of us were anyway, I’ll give you three guesses who the two Grumpy Butts were), and taxied to our hotel in the Seventh to drop off the luggage. We had lots to see and not a lot of time.
First up was food. After four years in France I finally got to eat something that had been evading me… BRUNCH! Yes boys and girls, Paris does Brunch. I heart you Paris, I really do. Thanks to a recommendation from Danielle, we brunched at Le Nemrod, an Auvergnat restaurant in the 6th. (Auvergnat means it’s from Auvergne as in Clermont where Gregory grew up… it also means lots and lots of cheese and potatoes).
I ordered a Kir Royal for apéro and my meal came with a cup of coffee (like an American cup of coffee, not a teeny, tiny, two sips kind of thing), and a glass of Beaujolais. The waiter brought all three at once. Huh.
After I finished my array of liquids, we set off to Musée d’Orsay, winding up and down streets until the tiredness took hold and we waved down a taxi (personally, I blame the cheese and potatoes for the sluggishness).
But before the taxi, we passed this plaque (which basically says that this guy, Jean Baptiste de Blah Blah, was living here when the King called him up and said he had to go to the American Colonies to help out G.W. and the riff raff). So after four years of teasing, Gregory finally got the revenge he had been seeking. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “you’re welcome.” Whatever.
P.S. À: Jean-Baptiste Donatien de Vimeur, Comte de Rochambeau, merci pour votre aide. That’s quite the name you’ve got there, Monsieur Fancy Pants.
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