"Eggs"

Most Americans enjoy eggs for breakfast. At one point in my life eggs were considered bad for you, then they became good for you. Either way, eggs are a main source of protein in my diet as a diabetic. So you could imagine my joy when we arrived in Paris that the first thing we were offered by my sister-in-law was eggs, over easy. I prefer over easy because the whites are not usually runny, and at worst the yolk is a bit done or even broken. The broken part I'm not all that eggcited about, but eggs in general are a great way to begin the day.

Every weekend, when my siblings arose from the night's sleep, Jeannine would ask Rob, what do you want for breakfast. My brother's famous response is "Eggs". There is no inflection in his voice, the word is simply said in as monotonic voice possible. "Eggs" he continues to say. It struck me as an odd way of saying it until his explanation. At Liberty High School, where my two brothers and I attended for all of our high school education, we were required to take U.S. Government. By the time Rob went through school, eight years after I paved the way, Mr. Brown was teaching. I'm not sure if I remember Mr. Brown, but I do remember having a less than enthusiastic teacher, that was short with curly brown hair. It seemed to match Rob's description, but so much time has passed I'm not entirely sure. Mr. Brown had a way about him in class. In Rob's class, on the first day of school, Mr. Brown was taking roll call to see who was or was not present. Of course, Rob comes up first, or nearly first; I had to deal with Kevin Adkins - a real piece of work - until he dropped out in 10th grade. But shortly past Rob's name came Leslie Benedicts' name. Leslie and Rob were friends, and he tells me a nice girl. When Mr. Brown comes to Leslie's name, he says "Eggs" instead of Leslie's last name. In case some of you are lost, Eggs Benedict is a combination of poached eggs on top of Canadian bacon resting open face on an English muffin with Hollandaise sauce covering it. It's quite tasty, and something I commonly order if it's on a menu, but rarely make it myself. So that's where Rob's reference to "Eggs" originates.

But my eggs story does not stop here. While we were in Rennes, the first French hotel we stayed at was a Mercure. The Mercure was a decent place, clean, but not too big on amenities. It did however, offer breakfast - a full breakfast. Each country seems to have its own customs, and since this was our first encounter with French customs for breakfast in a hotel, I wasn't sure what to expect. As I have said before, we tend to rely on our experiences to define what to do, so I was applying American customs in France; not necessarily the smartest thing to do. On our way to breakfast we encountered a nice guy in the elevator, but I wasn't certain if he spoke any English. He sat at one table without being seated, so we figured we'd follow suit. Catch was, the only two seat table that was clean was next to him. So we sat anyways and were quickly greeted by a waiter offering us coffee or tea. So it seemed we were doing the right thing.

At breakfast, there was an eggs and breakfast meats section, a cereal and baguette/croissant section, a cold cuts section, and a fruit and yogurt section. At our first breakfast, we were a bit late, 30 minutes before it closed, and the scrambled egg, served in a bowl, were gone. The breakfast meats were steaming in water and blanched - not all that appetizing - so we settled on baguettes and croissant, preserves, some fruit, and crepes. The crepes were awesome; they were thin but strong enough to spread some butter and preserves inside to make somewhat of a taco type sandwich that was delicious. I also tried the cold cuts, and they were terrible. The sliced salami had almost no taste but meat and fat without a smoked flavor at all. And the turkey and ham cuts were tasteless. I learned early that the French don't do sandwiches well with cold cuts; besides I never saw a delicatessen to that point in Paris. But I wanted some eggs. I noticed there was a basket of eggs on the counter in the egg station. So, I figured they were hard boiled, but at least I'd have some eggs. I went over to the basket, grabbed two, and brought them to our table. As I began to open one of these eggs, the guy next to me becomes so startled, he says to me, "Sir, stop. You need to cook it!" He was obviously worried that he was in line for an egg bath. He scared me so much I almost instinctively tossed the egg. So, my assumption was wrong, it was raw. Turns out there was a boiler near the eggs that I had not noticed. So, I went back to the boiler, put two in and waited for what I thought was long enough for hard boiled eggs; 10 minutes of boiling. I ended up with soft boiled eggs that were more tasty than what I can find in the US. Interesting side note to me was that all the eggs we ever saw in France were brown and had thick shells, which is very different from the thin white shells in the US.

In a land where you don't speak the language, it can be difficult at times to determine how to prepare breakfast; a lesson I learned quickly. And if you see someone eating what appears to be a sandwich on a baguette, be very careful. The cold cuts they use are nasty.

Mont St-Michel

From lonely planet’s France guide:

According to Celtic mythology, Mont St-Michel was one of the sea tombs to which souls of the dead were sent. Bishop Aubert Avranches is said to have built a devotional chapel at the summit of the island in 708 A.D., following his vision of the archangel Michael, whose gilded figure, perched on the vanquished dragon, crowns the tip of the abbey’s spire. In 966 Richard the First, duke of Normandy, gave Mont St-Michel to the Benedictines, who turned it into a center of learning and, in the 11th century, into something of an ecclesiastical fortress, with a military garrison at the disposal of the abbot and the king.

In the 15th century, during the Hundred Years’ War, the English blockaded and besieged Mont St-Michel three times. The fortified abbey withstood these assaults and was the only place in western and northern France not to fall into English hands. After the Revolution, Mont St-Michel was turned into a prison. In 1966 the abbey was symbolically returned to the Benedictines as part of the celebrations marking its millennium. Mont St-Michel and the bay became a Unesco World Heritage Site in 1979.”

Our ride to the castle/abbey began by searching for the closest city, Pontroson. On the outskirts, we tried to look through the GPS points of interest (POI) and still could not find it. We were using the GPS built into the car and found it not so easy to use. Obviously even a rocket scientist has problems with some things. Then, instead of searching for monuments, historical sites, and parks, we found it under tourist sites; obviously intuitive to the French manufacturers.

Once the GPS was correctly set, our trip continued without issue to the site. As we approached Mont St-Michel, we could see it through the mist as a silhouette; it was huge like a volcano rising out of a flat stretch of land. We parked in a part of the parking lot that does not get submerged by the tides. Yep, you guessed it, there are parking locations around Mont St-Michel that are not always accessible because the tides, which vary by as much as 55 feet from low to high tide, can submerge parts of the parking lots. In fact, there is a warning sign of such, and the day we visited, we were told these spots were available for parking. One thing that was quite interesting during a read of the tides for Mont St-Michel is that when they do rise and come in, they move as fast as a racing horse. The reason for this is that the bay around the island is extremely shallow. So, once the tide rises above the floor of the bay, water simply rushes in and fills the bay; heaven help those that get caught on the bay when this happens. What struck me further was why would they put this in the guide book? Because each year people drown in the bay. They see an open invitation by flat bay floor for miles to other islands and take a hike without thinking about timing or the distance to travel. They get caught and drown; so hiker beware.

We parked approximately a mile from the island and began our trek to it. Upon entering the walls of the fortress we came across a set of cannons used to secure the fort in the 16th and 17th centuries. Before heading to the beginning of our tour of the fortress and abbey, we decided to go to the toilet to take care of business. But that was not so easy, nor cheap. It cost each of us 0.40e or $0.50 to use the facilities, and the facilities were not so clean; it was like a smack in the head. As we began our ascent towards the top, and after passing through various shops and cafes along the main, constantly ascending. Wet. Brick road, only passable by a single small car, we made it to the first palisade. As we ascended the stairs we took pictures of the surrounding buildings and land. We could see various groups of hikers in the plain of the bay and recalled the warning about the tides. This then brought to mind the Darwin Awards – people receive these posthumously for dying doing something really stupid that removes them from the human gene pool.
During our ascent we met a very nice English couple vacationing in northern France. They had gone to Bayeaux to see a tapestry highlighting the Battle of Hastings in 1066, and were moving on to Mont St-Michel. After exchanging some pleasantries we found out they have a daughter in Atlanta, GA that they visit often, and have traveled the Smoky and Blue Ridge mountains to northern Tennessee and then to D.C. After parting ways, we continued our trek towards the abbey and realized that to go any further, we were going to have to pay. We gave it some serious thought and then realized that since my parents were too wimped out to do it, we would show them up and do it ourselves. I’m glad we made that decision, because what unfolds next was simply breathtaking.

The ascent to the abbey was along a very numerous set of stairs. I had to stop a few times as we ascended, but was able to make it to the top without serious issues. Upon arriving at the top of the stairs, we took more pictures. We could see 10’s of miles away and the pictures were amazing. The walls were not too high, so we had to be a bit careful as we approached the edges. Also, as we made our ascent, we encountered a few nuns. The abbey is still an operational abbey, so there were plenty of places we could not visit. But the top of the abbey was high – nose bleeding high – and the views from around the top were phenomenal. As we looked around us, I thought hard about how the English would attempt to attack this place. It’s no wonder they were unable to take the entire fort.

The abbey was not as ornate as Notre-Dame. The stained glass windows were simply glass squares. The pews hard, as expected, and the confessional chambers small and plain. It was a very old church and was fairly accurate to its history is very much controlled by the “Powerful Organization”. As we began our descent through the abbey we encountered various chambers including a dining hall for the abbey and the knight’s chambers. It was cool and somewhat damp, but impressive nonetheless. Another issue that struck me as odd was how in the world would they get supplies to the abbey. Take them up the stairs? It turns out there is an old style elevator in the abbey outskirts. It is powered by walking men in this huge wheel, with a rope around a spool that would lift a sled up a slide attached to the side of the fortress. Rather ingenious and good use of pulleys and manual labor. As we continued our descent, we found a few spiral staircases but overall coming back down was not as difficult as the Arc D’Triomphe. The visit was well worth the time and money spent.

To wrap up our trip, instead of visiting the prison and the knight’s living quarters, we decided to have lunch. While it was slow, the food was tasty and not too pricy for a tourist stop. I enjoyed salad Nicoise and grilled salmon with ratatouille and rice, while Sarah had a Margarita Pizza – a standard pizza. To finish we enjoyed on of my Grandma Sadie’s favorites – Peach Melba, and were they delicious. There are all sorts of places to eat and shop at Mont St-Michel. So to those that would visit, look for something that tickles your fancy.

Bad Meals Are Available

Up until the point we left Paris for Rennes, the meals and snacks we enjoyed were all tasty, well prepared, and just delicious. While I have written about French Cuisine, the meals we have been eating are both a combination of my sibling's and French cafes. Paris is loaded with cafes, and based on my limited travel through northern and north western France, each hamlet has at least one cafe. But just because there is a cafe, does not make it good.

I follow a general principal I learned from my Grandmother Sadie; if the cafe is busy, it's probably a good place to eat. If it is constantly empty, don't bother. What this does is limit you in selection and may not allow you to expose the gems of places to eat. However, if you're on vacation, the last thing you need is to spend time eating at a place that has not been well tested by restaurant patrons. Leave that work to locals.

So when we arrived to Rennes on the 24th, all we knew was the great food we had eaten in Paris and unwisely assumed that France had great meals. The hotel we stayed at was the Mercure in Rennes. The place was clean but not high on amenities; for a better description of the Mercures we stayed at, see "Wee-woo". The Mercure is somewhat like a low end Hampton Inn, though I think Hampton Inns are better. Breakfast is provided and the one in Rennes did have room service at night. But, the room service was offered by a local restaurant. Since I was unaware of the restaurant, and its patronage, we decided to eat at the restaurant instead of ordering room service.

At 8:00pm, we were the first to be seated for the evening. To some that might seem really odd, but in France, this is early for dinner. Dinner usually starts around 8:30pm, and continues until 11:00pm. So I was not too worried yet. Then the maitre d' sat us at a nice table, and as you can see from the picture, the place seemed cozy and warm. Others began filing in, when our waiter came and gave us menus. I asked if there were menus in English, and he said there were, but offered none. So, I had to ask for an English menu to get one. We only received one. By this point, I knew this was going to be interesting.

The menu was chock full of foods (fruits) from the sea, "fruit de mer". There were shrimp scampi, mackerel, winkes and winkles, lobster, scallops, oysters, salmon, and sole. So, the menu seemed decent enough. Since I had never heard of a winke or a winkle, I asked what those were. They were different size snails. Our waiter as it turns out spoke no English and decided to refer us to the manager who spoke English fluently. This meant that I was now at the whim of the manager and her time in the restaurant. I ordered mackerel for an appetizer, a Mediterranean salad, and salmon for dinner. my daughter ordered a plate of shrimp scampi. When you order food that you have had at a multitude of other places, you tend to think that all places prepare them similarly. There are nuances that make them different, but you have a certain expectation.

That's when the whole eating experience in France took a turn. The mackerel came out on a bed of lettuce. It was a tan gray color and was, well, not exactly what I had in mind. It stuck of a strong fish flavor, was very mushy, and was disgusting at best. I damn near spit it across the restaurant after it entered my mouth. It was terrible. So, I swallowed what was in my mouth, had a sip of white wine, and decided to try the lettuce. The lettuce was good enough, and I left the fish in place. We sat at the table for quite some time before the manager returned. She asked if I was done, and I said yes. She asked was there something wrong with the mackerel, and I said it just wasn't what I had in mind, and was not interested. The next course comes out with my daughter's shrimp scampi and my Mediterranean salad. Well, the salad was ok, but the olives were simply black olives and the tomatoes were mushy. The scampi was the biggest kick in the rubber parts. They were completely whole prawns, eyes and all, on a bed of seaweed and a bowl of ice. No garlic. No butter. Only homemade mayonnaise. It was peal and eat shrimp/prawn.

I told Sarah not to worry, that if she didn't like it, she could have mine, as any good parent would do. Well, she hated the prawns. They were cold and not of good taste. So, I ended up eating a dozen prawns. I had to peal the shell which is more like a crayfish, split the body from the tail, remove the mud vein, and then eat the meat. It was a lot of work for little food. I was getting hungrier as I ate. I shouldn't have to expel more energy to eat dinner than what the food provides, otherwise the meal is not work it. The salmon I ordered, according to Sarah, was good. It was salmon filet on a bed of ratatouille and mashed potatoes with a lemon butter sauce. I determined at that point that when I get home, one meal I have will definitely be shrimp with real cocktail sauce and a real salad. Dinner for me was lousy. I ate the salad and asked for the check. At that point I had thought that of all the meals I had had, this was definitely the worst and that this is probably going to be the last bad meal I have in France.

Well, I spoke a bit too soon, because the following night we ate at an outdoor cafe. Although we were near the ocean, and the air was cooler, it was still quite warm and humid in Rennes. Instead of eating room service from that terrible place we ate the night before, I decided to try a walk around the area to see if we could find something better. The cafe we stopped at was really busy, and thought that this is probably a better place to eat. Upon asking for an menu in English, the waiter gladly gave us one and asked if we wanted something to drink while we read the menu. We ordered sparkling water for me and regular water for my daughter. Dinner for me was a "boquet of shrimp and cocktail sauce", a green salad, and tuna covered with sesame seeds, with a soy sauce dip and Basmatti rice flavored with saffron. Sarah decided to get a tomato and mozzarella dish with olive oil and balsamic vinegar in a crepe. The tuna was raw, the shrimp not peeled, and the "cocktail sauce" was mayonnaise with a touch of paprika; yuck. The food was better than the night before, but not much. Needless to say, bad meals are available in France, especially in Rennes.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

To get to Pairs from the United States, we took the A330 which I highlighted in “What’s That Noise”. I spoke about some of the interesting things for subway travel in Paris, but mentioned that it seemed to predominantly by these single car trains that run on tires. Well, on our way to Versailles, I was introduced to the rail lines that provide additional capacity to the subways of Paris.

The rail lines in Paris should be a model for those in the United States. I used to think that the best rail lines in the world were in the US. Boy am I wrong on that one. Thus far, France is a whole lot better. For example, trains here in France are smooth. That might not mean much to some, but when I took the train from Williamsburg, VA to Washington, D. C. I had to wear a relief band. This is one of those devices designed by NASA to help astronauts control motion sickness. It works extremely well for air travel, and like American Express, I do not travel without one. On our trip to D.C. I got really sick from the rocking back and forth motion, the clackity clack sounds, and the general sway of the trains. In Paris the trains do not sway, they clack every now and then, and generally I was able to sleep comfortably on the train and not feel as if I was barreling down the tracks.

This is the land of small cars, and when I mean small, I mean small. The other day I noticed that a Mini Cooper was a large car for this market, and the Smart Car, or tin can with wheels, is the smallest but about average. Most cars here are two doors. Some have 4 and there are a few mini vans. But even the mini vans are not much bigger than the Mini Coopers. Cars are just small. And parking, well, if you’re claustrophobic, this is not the place for you. Cars are literally parked in ways that a bumper is often touching an adjacent car; it’s plain nuts. Signage is also different. There are no signs that say speed limit. The speed limit signs are numbers in kilometers/hour inside a big red ring. Caution signs are a big red “X” inside a red ring, sometimes on blue backgrounds and others not. Tow away zones are marked with figures of a tow truck hauling a car away. But the kicker to all this is the STOP sign; it’s the same as in the states. Go figure. And this word, “STOP” has made it into the French language; chock one up to the Americans!

For part of our trip, we rented a car to view the countryside, and drive out of Paris to Rennes and Deauville. The car we were to rent was a Renault with a GPS added in for good measure. However, when we went to get the car and reminded the clerk of the GPS, he simply there were none. He said he was sorry, but he could not provide one. Thanks’ to my brother’s persistence and intimidation, the clerk began making calls to other Avis dealers to search for a GPS. As he called and found no GPS units, he gave an indication he would only make a few calls to appease my brother. To this my brother holds up a map of Paris with what shows about 40 Avis rental centers. He says to the clerk in perfect French, “There’s a lot of red on this map” implying the red AVIS locations. He then tells the clerk that I am an American, I am here on vacation, and I’m headed to Rennes and Deauville and there was no way I was leaving Paris without a GPS. So the clerk continued his search. During his search, another younger clerk asked what the problem was. We told him that a GPS was reserved and that I was not leaving until one was located. The younger clerk said that a number of the cars that they rent have a GPS unit integrated into the cars. So our clerk began looking at the variety of cars they had and found one. To be sure it would work in English, and that I could fit, we went to see this car.

The car was a Peugeot 307cc; a sports car. The clerk verified that the GPS unit would work and that I should be able to fit. It’s a small car, but truly a well engineered vehicle. We were not charged for the increase in grade nor the GPS because we were so patient. I took the additional insurance to ensure I would not be stuck with a 1000e bill if there was any additional damage to the vehicle. My brother decided to drive us back to the apartment to get our luggage and travel gear, and found that this little car was a powerhouse with some serious stamina for driving. It’s a diesel but drives like a mustang. It has 6-speeds forward and one reverse, a convertible, and plenty of room to the point that I was able to fit with plenty of room. If someone was sitting in the back seat, they’d have to have a mouth guard because it was cramped. But the front was nice.

Traveling in Paris was not as difficult as I had expected, but it’s not easy. Driving the countryside is even more interesting. There are no small towns dotting the countryside, just small hamlets that were rather sparse. What the countryside has is plenty of farms. Every piece of real-estate is used for farming. And the farm houses look like the elegant French villa’s with various plain box with roof barns. They look nothing like the barns in the US. And the fields are covered with hay, straw from wheat, corn, and another plant I have yet to determine.

Things are definitely different. Rest stops occur about every 15 miles. The men’s urinals are in the open and doors to the toilets open to the outdoors and can be used for men or women; nothing like just being out there. Another interesting phenomenon is the roads are toll roads – 26.50e to go 150 miles, or $37. These toll roads have both rest stops and stations to get food and fuel. This is a brilliant concept. And the roads are well maintained. The US should take a tip from this. In fact, we charge little and have lousy roads.

Top speeds here are about the same, but measured in kilometers per hour (km/hr). Signage is almost the same, except along the roads there are almost no advertisements. Only an occasional art work billboard of the towns nearby can be seen. The countryside is far from flat. It is hilly and quite beautiful. I am struck that Cezanne’s paintings actually capture this quite well, giving me a much better understanding of the painter’s work.

When Glucose Falls

Upon entering the front door of my siblings' apartment, there is a small chair on the false wooden floor foyer for taking off and donning shoes, boots, and tying them for travel. My daughter decides that she wants to paint her finger nails. I think that since she saw her Aunt Jeannine do her toe nails, and they looked awesome, that she would do the same for her fingers. To do this, she takes the chair into the bathroom where there is a long cantilevered table in front of a mirror. Then, as she begins, she decides not to do it. So she leaves the chair in place, and comes to dinner.

Dinner, as has been the entire time at my siblings' place, delicious and plentiful. An after dinner treat was cheese. American style cheeses can have some strong flavors like sharp cheddar, but generally the flavors are mild. The French cheeses are amazingly fragrant, like a men's locker room. Roquefort, brie, and goat cheese were served. The Roquefort was delicious with bread and the fig preserves. The brie, well, it was so strong it was difficult to eat and did not get consumed. The goat cheese was far more milder than the stuff we get in America. After the cheese, we have a few pieces of fruit and we relaxed for the remainder of the evening.

Just before heading to bed, I do my normal routine. I take a children's aspirin, take a shower, then inject long acting insulin and take the remainder handful of medications and supplements for my variety of ailments. Taking insulin is a bit scary, because you have to get it into the fatty tissue with an injection - needle. If you know me, finding that is not too difficult on most of my body, except my head or legs. I usually put it into my side or my daughter puts it into the back of my arm. Either way, it usually ends up in the right place. Usually. The night of the 23rd it ended up in my vein on the side of my belly, I shot long acting insulin into my circulation system; not good, not good at all.

Within 1 hour my glucose fell 200 points and I was woken up out of a dead sleep shaking. Fortunately my body warns me of such episodes. So I got up and realized I had to pee. So I went into the bathroom, jammed my right foot into the chair that was not supposed to be in the bathroom, and began to fall. When the glucose falls, so do I. I grabbed for the wall, but ended up grabbing one of the towel racks. The rack gave way, and came out of the wall, partially. So here I am, trembling from low glucose, with a full bladder, my foot is screaming in pain, and I am balancing on my left foot with a partially mounted towel rack. I let go of the rack, get to the light in the bathroom, I don't usually turn it on so I don't wake up too much, fix the rack, pee, and hobble to the dinning room to find my glucometer. My glucose was 34 and dropping. I needed sugar immediately or an ambulance that had dextrose IV liquids. I prefer drinking something sweet. So, I hobble to the refrigerator, get some juice where the juices are, sit down at the table, and have a glass of what I know is juice, but not sure what type.

I then have the idea to eat a candy-bar; Snickers because of the sugar and peanuts. I hobble to the bedroom, and ask Sarah for help to find some Lactaid, a lactaze supplement; I'm lactose intolerant and the last thing I need is an upset stomach to go with the low blood sugar and now ever throbbing toes. Sarah looks at me, I tell her the problem, she says ok, then drops back to sleep. Much good that was. I find the Lactaid, take a few, and eat a candy bar and more juice. Within 30 minutes my glucose is back up to 56. within an hour it's 101 and I hobble to bed and crash. When glucose goes that low with me, it causes my adrenal glands to produce extra adrenaline according to my doctors; it's what causes me to tremble and wake me up when my glucose is low. The downside is that when it's gone, I fall into a deep sleep.

When I woke in the morning, I thought it was all a bad dream, until I realized by toes were still throbbing, there were candy wrappers in the pocket where my glucometer was supposed to be, and an empty quart box of Clementine juice was on the dinning room table. Moral of this story, aside from don't put insulin into a vein, put things back where you find them or someone is liable to pay the consequences.

French Cuisine

Twenty-eight years ago I took a trip, as a gift from my late and wonderful Grandma Sadie, to Paris as part of the French Club from high school. It was an impressionable trip, and one that I still remember. There were 5 of us, two boys, two girls, and our chaperon Karen O'Malia. By this point in my life I had 2 years of French language in high school, and felt confident I could manage in the country. The first two days was a real shock because language immersion is very different than learning the language. The most difficult use of the language I had to master was ordering food or I was going to starve. I was a lot smaller then, and starving was a very real possibility.

I also remember our teacher/chaperon telling us that the Parisians do not eat beef the way we do in the states. In fact, in the states, beef is not the same thing as in France. In France, the French eat beef either tar-tar (raw with plenty of spices), or at most rare. When we were told this as teenagers, I was rather disgusted. My mother makes an awesome brisket, my grandmother made awesome roast beef. And in many cases we typically ate beef medium at the minimum and even well done. So our teacher told us to order the beef we requested "bein qui" or well done. We were warned that the French would look at us as if we had just produced a loud fart in public. To order beef in France well done was considered outrageous. So we were cautious and did do this once or twice. I do remember the meal being somewhat almost edible; that surprised me.

French cuisine is probably considered some of the best in the world. Their pastries, such as the one pictured above, are considered the absolute best, and generally speaking, chefs in America attempt to reproduce this cuisine. Fortunately our chefs I think are better than the French, because they also include cooking styles from all over the world; consistent with the melding pot of American culture, so too is the food in America. That means you can find some really disgusting stuff as we did in Lurray, where even the flies wouldn't touch the food, to the food available in some of the finest restaurants in America such as the Trellis in Williamsburg (now owned by the Blue Talon). French food is not just food, it's art. So when you ask for well done, you are basically telling the chefs they suck at cooking.

This time, after having lived another 28 years from the last visit, I finally understand why "well done" in Paris is offensive. The beef and meats in general in France, have no marble content. That means that the fat content of the beef is nil; almost non-existent. My grandma Sadie used to tell me that the best cut of beef, aside from filet mignon, is one that has a significant content of fat included with the beef. As the beef cooks, the fat drains into the meat and the holes left behind tend to make the meat tender, or so I was told. It seems to make sense and a reason why I prefer rib-eye steaks over strip steaks; rib-eye has a higher fat content. But in France, there is no fat. So if you cook the beef the same way, you end up with something that cannot be cut by a knife or chewed by the mouth. It's worse than chewing leather, and if your not careful, you could lose teeth in the process.

Which brings me to the conclusion. French cuisine is considered the best food unless you apply your styles of preparing it. When in France, follow some of the rules about their foods, and you'll eat very well. I have stayed away from beef here and will continue to do so; I'd rather not purchase something that belongs on a football field instead of a plate. Instead, I've been eating very little pork, some chicken and lots of fish. My brother asked if I was growing gills yet. Nope, not yet. But I can say that the meals prepared at my brothers place both by him and especially my sister-in-law. We have dined on Bar (most likely bass according to my siblings) darod, tuna, and sole. The fish is most fresh because it is purchased from a local market, pictured here, that is open on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. Since fresh fish is only fresh for a few days, we ate chicken on Tuesday. Accompanied by pasta dishes, olives and tomato plates, a salad here and there, and some of the sweetest fruits you can imagine. The French cuisine is more than likely the best because they use the freshest ingredients and they work with what is available.

C'est La Guerre "That's War"

France is not immune to the ravages of war. Throughout time as we know it, this part of the world has seen wars of all types. There's the 100 years war. the Franco-Prussian War (with Germany), and the First World War to name a few. But France has had both loss and gain, and under the military command of Napoleon, France was victorious more than it was not. In fact one of France's greatest was indeed Napoleon, but like most successful generals that became rulers, he was also one of France's worst rulers. I suspect that General and then President Washington was the only one I know who had such respect and admiration, that he walked away proud of what he had accomplished and went down in the history books as one of the greatest, and somewhat humble men of the United States. But Napoleon was not.

Still, as Napoleon ruled and warred against other nations, he was successful. With the ravages of war, he looted and brought back phenomenal works of art that hang in the Louvre to this very day. France does not relinquish control of these art works either, which I find rather interesting given the fact that other countries have had to relinquish their possessions that they confiscated from other nations during war. I guess if the French government works towards a deal to get peace between Israel and the Palestinians and land is swapped for peace, France will also have to consider doing the same.

To honor the fallen of Napoleon's army and navy, he built the Arc d'Triumph, and set it as the center of the city of Paris has he built some of the greatest treasures of Paris. Today, we headed there after seeing "Inception". The monument was busy with all sorts of military and police. I was very impressed with the French special forces that were there; they have come a long way since World War Two, and by comparison to what we see in our American military, the French should truly be quite proud of their armed forces. What we did not understand, as we began our 284 step rise to the top of the monument, is that the tomb of the unknown soldier, set there in January 28th, 1921, was having the eternal flame relit in accordance with tradition as has been done everyday since 1932. A solemn occasion with wreathes from all sorts of countries including Canada, Germany, and France. I was unable to make out the USA, though I'm sure they were there.

At the top of the monument, which took 30 years to build, is a view that is only surpassed by the Eiffel Tower. The location of the monument is called Etoile which means star. Based on the fact that all roads emanate from the center of the monument, from above it looks like a star of the city, or perhaps it is the star of the city. Either way, the view was breath taking and from the pictures I include here, should give you an idea of what this place means as a monument to all fallen soldiers of France.