Day 2 -- Paris, Montmarte

I can just hear my old man's voice in my ear: "What are you? Dammit, Tyler, don't fiddle with that! Leave the switch where it is! Dammit boy!" Followed by him ripping his beloved power converter out of my hands before I accidentally set the building on fire.

Not really, but pops did warn me, in his own kindly, fatherly way, that I should keep the switch on our power converter on "50 watts," as opposed to "1600 watts." I didn't really understand why at the time -- I didn't think we'd need all 1600 watts at any point. And honestly, I don't even know the difference between a watt, a volt, and an amp…so I took his advice to heart.

So what happened? Glad you asked. I woke up with the "morning groggies," and Erika was in the midst of a crisis. See…her hair was accidentally "cleaned" in the shower this morning (at least, I'm assuming it was accidental), and she needed it to be "dry" before we left for the day. Apparently she's "too good for a towel," and she needed a "hair dryer" of some kind. Luckily, she brought a "hair dryer" as part of her 20kg suitcase (see "Day 1" entry). Unluckily, the prongs of the plug do not fit the mysterious holes in the wall of our hotel.

Round hole. Square peg.

Not to fear, says I! Father loaned me his "power converter!" Joy! Now…here's where the problem comes in. See…the hairdryer requires a bit more juice than the "laptop recharger" I'd been using up to that point. So I ask electrical expert – my wife:

"How many watts does this use?"

"I don't know." She looked at the hair dryer. "Um…1875, I think."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it says so on the side."

I look at the side of the hair dryer…and saw the number 1875 printed on the side. It looked suspiciously like a "model number" not a "voltage requirement." But…lacking anything better to go off of, I gave myself the go ahead for launch – damn the torpedoes, 1500 watts straight ahead!!! (I can just see my father cringing at this point, and not just from the botched literary reference).

So, against my father's wishes, I "fiddled with the switch." Then I plugged in the dryer. Then I heard a pop, and saw a flash. Then I smelled a little smoke (or, as the French say, "Le Petit Smoke"). Then I unplugged the dryer. Then I cussed loudly (in English…not French).

The good news is: we've started the journey down the path of "dropping some unnecessary luggage weight." Now, luckily the converter survived the excitement totally unscathed…but the hair dryer did not fare so well, and had to be thrown away. Now, if only I could find a way to convince her heavy coats and shoes outlet…

Leaving the excitement of the ruined hairdryer behind us, we left to explore this great city…most specifically, the area around our hotel. Home of…well…a bunch of famous artists at one time. Or something.

We did the little walking tour outlined in our Frommers guidebook. I must say, I highly recommend Montmarte, especially to those of you visiting Paris for the first time. It's quiet, things are open late, and if you're into "strolling about," this is the place for you. It's actually exactly what I imagined Paris would be -- it's the Paris cliche.

But first things first: breakfast...or as the French say "Petit Dijonaise" (really Dejeuner, but it's easier to remember the other way). We left early in the morning and went to one of the dozens of bakeries in the area, and grabbed what had to be "The Most Delicious Pastry Ever Made." It was some kind of bread-type-loaf, with chocolate marbled throughout. I don't know why I've never had anything approaching this level of "delicious" in America. It was flaky, but moist inside...and...man, are you bored of this description yet? Let me just say, this pastry alone was worth the cost of the flight over here. It's the $1,500 pastry. Easy.

I also had a gigantic jus l'Orange, and Erika drank l'eau (water). We got to test out our awesome "coffee ordering skillz" by requesting a café au lait. When we were back at our hotel, we ate breakfast on our awesome balcony, overlooking the bustling, cobbled streets.

But I tell you what…speaking to foreigners in their own tongue is terrifying. We turned into a couple of timid, mumbling fools. Ideally a conversation would go:

Me: Bonjour!

Them: Bonjour.

Me: Je voudrais (I would like) [the thing on the menu that I can't pronounce correctly] s'il vous plait (please).

Them: Bien sur (sure).

However, more often then not, there are follow up questions. Or, sometimes, they'll tell us that they're "all out" of something. Holy cow! We have to order something else!? But, thank heavens, most of the good folks we're struggling to speak to will either respond in English…or pepper English phrases among the French ones to help us out. The one time we got through without tipping our "English-speaking" hands was when we got a bottle of Evian at the mall…although as she was leaving, Erika told the cashier "Bonjour" (as opposed to the more appropriate au revoir).

But I'm getting ahead of myself (how did you get to a mall? Weren't you eating breakfast on your deck? I'm so confused...). We finished the best breakfast ever, and headed for a "Frommers-recommended" walk through touristy part of Montmarte…remarkable because of the number of painters who lived and died in the area.

Truth be told, Montmarte is lousy with artists. You can't go 10 feet without bumping into an easel. Sketch artists prowl about the streets, and if you stand still too long, one of them will approach and start drawing you (I'm assuming if you allow them to finish they'll request compensation of some kind -- quite a little gambit). We avoided them mostly, but Erika was accosted by one man who insisted (in an outrageous, thick French accent) "Please, let me draw you." "You must have a drawing of yourself in beautiful Montmarte." She shrugged him off with a shy "Non." It was adorable.

The first "major" structure on our little walking tour was the Basillica Sacre Coeur – supposibly the place where Jesus' heart is located (hence: "Cathedral of the Sacred Heart). We went up to the top of the dome (climbing what must have been 200 miles straight up some narrow-ass stairs), and saw a breathtaking view of Paris. Once we'd taken in the spectacular sights, we descended the 200 miles back down, and tried to get into the crypt to see some sweet Jesus body part action…but it was closed for some reason. C'est la vie.

The monolithic Sacre Coeur.

Looking out at Paris, after a backbreaking climb.

The view.

We cruised through the rest of Montmarte, checking out the Lapin Agile, Moulin Rouge, and several dwellings that housed renowned artists at some point in their careers (Degas, Van Gogh, Dali, Picasso). The tour ended at a cool cemetery with a bunch of dead French people in it.

Following that macabre interlude, we had lunch at another little café (there are probably on the order of several billion cafe's around Montmarte), and we decided, "Aw hell. Why don't we just walk down to the Arch de Triomphe?"

And walk we did. For about 430 miles. We passed a huge park. We bought a couple of tiny French chocolates. Eventually, we came to the Arc…and how it forms a "generally arc-shaped shape." We didn't go to the top, because it cost money, and because we'd already had a pretty spectacular view in Montmarte.

As you can see...my wife is much smaller than the Arc.

Leaving the shadow of the Arc (which would be an awesome name for a Paris-based adventure novel), we strolled down the Avenue des Comps Elysees (pronounced "Shomps Eh-Leezay," apparently…because the French are fond of silent letters and soft, fru-fru sounds).

The Champs. Looks pretty stroll-able, don't it?

Now let me take another moment here to address something. I don't want to give the impression that we were just trotting about, arbitrarily checking locations off a list (because we didn't carry a list – it was more of a "paragraph" than a "list"). I bore you to death with my ruminations about the immensity of the Sacre Coeur, how we smelled fresh baked bread on the cobbled streets of Montmarte, or gazed in wonder at the immaculately carved Arc…but really, who wants to hear me brag about how much I can appreciate these things? Sure, it was breathtaking – hell, seems like every street in Paris is just lined with architectural works of art, featuring facades of Rococo, Renaissance, Gothic, or [what you will]. It seems like every street seems to end in a massive ornate cathedral, government building, opera house, or some other monolithic monument (is that redundant?) But I'm not a good enough writer to really describe how pretty these things are. I don't know the difference between Rococo and Roquefort (hint: one is totally delicious, and the other is a cheese).

What I'm trying to say is that, this is just an experience. We're both just trying to "experience" as much as we possibly can in what will (no doubt) be our very brief time here. I can't begin to accurately describe what we're experiencing – as I say, I'm not nearly good enough at "adjectives" for that – but I can assure you that we're in constant and unending awe just ambling about here.

I'm not going to try to impress you with how pretty Europe is -- just take my word for it. You may find me complaining more than gushing...but that's just how it goes sometimes. So if I come off as "less than wowed" at times, please just assume that I went "Holy Toledo!" when I saw something...because I probably did.

Anyhow, where was I? Ah yes. So we made our way back to the hotel following our stroll down the Champs Elysees (because that's the only way to get down that street – via the stroll), and took a well-deserved nap. Napping in Europe is quite a sweet experience -- I suggest you all try it at some point. Especially after you've walked 3,342 miles in one day, like we had.

Once we were good and rested, it was time to hit the town. Since this is our first marriage anniversary (yay!), we decided to spend a few euros on a "nice dinner." So we went to the touristy-type place called the Place du Tertre, which is just west of the Sacre Couer (it was in the same little square where we'd been accosted by a portrait-man earlier). We got our square-side seats, and awaited our feast.

And it was…hmm..."adequate." We had, what is called a "menu" item. Meaning it's a set priced, 3 course meal – appetizer, main course, & desert. Our appetizers were fantastic – French onion soup (here's it's just called "Onion Soup"! Crazy, right?) and a strange cheese thing…wrapped in bacon. The old "anything better with bacon" definitely applied here. For the second course Erika got the lamb (only after getting assurances from the waiter that the adorable creature was tortured mercilessly before it was slaughtered), and I got the beef burgouise (pronounced "bo-ief bur-zher-oo-er-oo-is-ee-oo-ah-eh-voos-zheh-zeh"). The main course was...decent. The final course (chocolate crepes and a strange cheesecake with nuts and fruit in it) was…a little under decent.

All-in-all, I'd recommend to people, stay away from restaurants in areas with dudes offering to draw your picture for money. Truth be told, it wasn't all bad (as I was telling Erika, all "bad" food in Europe is comparable to most "good" food in America), but I feel we could have done much better. But…now we know…

Following our mediocre meal, we meandered around a bit more…got a drink in a local bar featuring a live band…then retreated back our hotel room…which is where I am now…sitting in my boxers…typing on a laptop. I'm also wearing socks…and a white t-shirt…to complete the image for those of you that are curious. And for those of you who aren't curious…sorry.