What travelers hope to find on the Wandering Blogger

I’ve picked up the habit of posting the most popular search terms used to find my other blog, Migrant Blogger, and I think I’ll do it here. Wandering Blogger is finally picking up some momentum! Well, since launching, the most popular search term appears to consist of variations on “Cafe Mozart closed,” often including “Manhattan” or “New York” in the query. Yes, the restaurant did close, much to my chagrin (but not my father’s). The place lost its lease, which is why it shut down (to answer one search engine-based question).

For those of you looking for absinthe in Naples, FL, your SOL– at least if you’re looking for real absinthe. You can’t get it anywhere in the United States. But, if Naples, FL is on your mind, you might want to check out the Ritz-Carlton Golf Resort. I spent a weekend there and loved it. Learn more at TraderDaily.com or TripAdvisor. Gare du Nord, a train station in Paris, Albert Maes, and foreign street signs are popular as well.

Also, someone was looking for “Blue Lagoon Spa fucking.” I get it. The Blue Lagoon Spa is a great destination not far from Reykjavik, Iceland. I assume they frown upon sex in the lagoon, but I guess it’s worth a shot.

Absinthe in France

It's on the corner

Like absinthe? I love it. Of course, we only gave access to the “lite” version in the United States, but if you head over to France, you’ll find something to enjoy. I sure as hell did.

To this day, my favorite absinthe stop is in Antibes. I can’t remember the name of the place, but it’s a short walk from the Picasso museum (which, to my dismay, was closed when I went to Antibes two years ago). Upstairs, you’ll find a shop with plenty of ’sinthe and accessories. But, the real fun happens in the basement.

Descend, and you will find a bar stocked fully … and with nothing but the “green fairy.” Each table has a large water container, spoons and sugar. Order your absinthe, prepare it to your taste and savor every sip. Don’t be afraid to ask the bartender for advice; he’s more than happy to help.

For France, especially, the place was not expensive. I dropped about EUR5 a shot, which is cheaper than a martini here in Manhattan. Just remember that you’ll have to find your way home at the end of the night.

I went to this shop after getting caught in the rain, and the taste of that absinthe sure made everything better. I’d go back in a heartbeat.

Nowhere near Antibes is Vert d’Absinthe in the Mireille neighborhood. This is a shop, not a bar. But, you can sample the product … just don’t get greedy. I walked out of the place with six bottles of absinthe to take home. No joke. It was amazing. The ’sinthe is priced reasonably, and the guy who worked there was extremely pleasant. Vert d’Absinthe also ships to the United States, so it’s great for a fix between trips abroad.

There is an absinthe bar in Paris, creatively called Bar d’Absinthe. They don’t have a whole lot of variety, but they do have the equipments necessary to consume the green fairy properly.

Reflecting on Paris

I just had dinner with a friend of mine who I see a few times a year. The poor bastard spends all year in Paris (boo hoo), where he teaches and is working on an advanced degree. I’m concealing most of the details to protect what little innocence he has. Well, between seeing R and having just gotten back from the road, I’m thinking about trips past, particularly what I saw. I’m not, by any stretch of the imagination, a photographer, but at least you can see the world through my untrained eye.

The last time I was in Paris, I had the good fortune of witnessing the presidential election that thrust Sarkozy into office (a good decision on the part of the French people). I got to go to an election night party (which was awesome) and generally feel the vibe of a world capital on election day. It was beyond exhilirating.

Oh, the poster above translates (as well I as I can) to: “We won’t survive this … and you won’t any more.”

I always have adventures in Paris. Every time I step onto the streets, which is where I feel very much at home, something cool happens. I’ll see something interesting, have a wild experience or just get some great fucking writing done. i wrote my article for Boink magazine, which seems like it was published so long ago (before I hooked up with XBIZ, let alone AVN). I remember the cafe vividly; it was right around the corner from the Intercontinental Hotel in Place de l’Opera, where I was staying (on my first trip).

Here are some shots of the campaign signs from the hotly contested Sarkozy/Segoline (I hope I spelled that correctly) bout. It was insane! The first one? “Together, anything is possible.” (again, to the best of my limited abilities)

The way they scratch the eyes out just shows a level of brutality– and commitment– that we just don’t see here. Some see it as degrading. I call it true democracy in action.

Written over Sarko’s face in the campaign posters to the right is “ETAT NAZI.” That’s a pretty powerful statement. These signs, if I remember correctly, were up in Montmartre. I spent a good week in that part of town and absolutely love it. In a way, it felt like my neighborhood, the Upper West Side. So, the next time I go to Paris, I’ll probably stay in Montmartre again, though not at the same hotel.

Okay, enough of the politics. It’s not really my thing anyway. I want to move to the crazy Parisians I ran into. That’s where I had the most fun. For me, Paris is all about the people. I think I’m the only American who loves Parisians, but that’s fine with me. I think they are nice, open, polite folks, and I have always felt welcome in their hometown. I’ve spent about three weeks in Paris over the past few years, and I can’t wait to get back. I’m still exploring other places, but the pull of Paris remains quite strong. For now, it’ll have to wait, but I do plan to go back soon.

This chick’s deal was pretty straightforward. Her favorite storyteller believed in sharing his intimacy. So, she decided to move her bed into Place des Abesses in Montmartre (where I was staying) to share in the dead guy’s experience. It attracted weirdos. What a shock …

Of course, she wasn’t the only nutjob. I now introduce you to “the fiancee.” A nursing student who is struggling to pay for her honeymoon, she was led around the Quartier Latin by her friends. Those willing to help fund the experience dropped cash into the coffin around her neck.

I guess she wanted to go on a honeymoon pretty damned badly, because this is further than I’d go, and I really don’t have a whole lot of shame. I wore a dress to a movie theater once, though.

This is part of the reason why I dig Paris. The people are nuts, but in the happy way. You can walk the streets and always see something.

I thought this girl’s project was pure genius. It is equal parts clever, pathetic and entertaining. How can you not donate? I threw her a couple of Euros, adn I got to take a few pictures in trade. So, I think it worked out pretty well.

This wasn’t the only picture for which I paid. I liked keeping track of the various beggars around the city, as they seemed particularly organized. On one occasion, I saw about 30 of them gathered outside Gare du Nord (one of the big train stations). It was like they were gathering before their shift.

Hey, even the beggars are unionized!

There was a pretty big concentration of them at the Eiffel Tower, which is the only reason why I found the tower interesting.

The pitch is pretty typical. A girl comes up to you and asks, “Do you speak English?” Regardless of how you reply, she holds a card open. It contains a sob story about being a refugee from Bosnia, the burden of several children, the absence of a husband, etc. Well, I’m not above paying for what I want. For the rich price of EUR2, I was able to get a shot of the card that she uses to pitch. But, when the camera was turned on her face, she became quite upset and tried to hide.

On Assignment Somewhere in Florida

I’m in Florida on business, researching a story for my travel column on TraderDaily. Yes, just a reminder, it will be live on Monday. Since I plan to use the material from this trip, I can’t say too much on my blog. After all, I have to feed the people that pay me. But, I can give you a sense of where I am staying. First, the property is gorgeous. It’s dark outside, and I can still tell that it’s amazing. Luxury seeps out of the walls. Right now, I’m smoking a cigar on my private balcony and blogging away. No complaints … except that I can’t smoke in the air conditioned room. Florida is hot as hell, and not just by my standards. It’s almost midnight, and I’m sweating a little. But, the decent breeze offsets it.

There was a nice gift waiting for me when I arrived. I love that. For some reason, I’m treated like a king, just because I’m a travel writer. Well, I can tell you that I was treated like a king until they found out who I am. So, I’m even more impressed. Top-shelf is the standard here.

This is funny, because when I travel on my own dime, I tend to go low rent. Not only does it add character to the trip, it does help stretch things out a bit. Laura and I went to Paris about a year ago. For the business portion of my trip, I stayed at the Westin at Place Vendome. For the vacation part of the trip, I was at a small dump on Montmartre (where my wife joined me). I love excitement and adventure, but I have to admit, I could develop a taste for luxury.

It’s hard to believe that I was in Florida on assignment almost nine years ago. Back then, I was a software consultant in the hospitality industry. I was on the road at least four weeks out of every five. The pay was shitty, but the lifestyle did have its moments. On one jaunt to Florida, I was on site with a friend and colleage (who shall remain nameless– he’s a family man now). We shared the sentiment that the value of the property declined every minute we were there. Yeah, the place where I find myself now is even nicer than that one. It’s truly amazing.

I was given a gift upon check-in. Actually, it was left in my room. I absolutely love that. Being treated well is always a treat. But, what I really love about this place is that I was treated well before they found out who I am. For these guys, upscale and care are de rigeur. I did carry my own bags, though. I’m weird like that. I like to carry my own bags. I’m not crazy about being served.

Back in those hotel consulting days, I used to take a town car to the airport just about every week. I lived in a suburb of Boston at the time and used the same car service every Sunday afternoon and every Friday evening. I wound up getting the same driver a lot. Nice kid. I insisted on carrying my own bags. He begged me to stop. I replied, “Nah, I’m not like that.” His retort: “Yeah, but it’s my job.” Fair enough. I was fucking up is ability to earn a living, so I let him carry my bags. But, he’s among the few.

My First Night in Montmarte

As I dragged my suitcase up La Rue Tholoze, I allowed myself to grow excited. With narrow cobblestone streets, every other awning shielding a cafe and a glimpse of Sacre Coeur at the top of the hill, I knew I had chosen the right neighborhood. Montmarte is more real, more intimate than Opera and Vendome (where I had stayed on previous trips).

Well, for under $100 (dollars, not euros) in Paris, I learned that it pays to stay out rather than in the hotel room. I spent one night in my room before my wife arrived. It was cramped, but I could deal with it. For two, the room is ridiculous. The elevator, as well, only fits two in a squeeze (see in photos).

Just down the hill (i.e. La Rue Tholoze) is Le Nazir, now my favorite café-and-writing-spot in Paris. It might even be better than the café in Opera that Starbucks dislodged. The food is cheap and good, the coffee awful (as one would expect), and the foot traffic is more local – neighborhood local, not just city local. It is the difference between the people who walk by my bench on the Upper West Side and the people who walk by the De La Concha window on 6^th Ave.

The night before last, the misadventure began. I brought my exhausted, jetlagged wife through Vendome to the Louvre (just outside) and Tuileries. We enjoyed the length of the jardin down to Place de la Concorde, looped back to Vendome, then up to Place de l’Opera for a cup of coffee (yes, at that fucking Starbucks). Along the way, I enjoyed my all-time favorite cigar, the Cuban Vegas Robaino.

The rain came. Big, cold, hard drops.

We ran for the cover of the Opera Metro (subway) and wound back to Montmarte. We lay in bed, 8:30 at night, wondering what to do. Sans doute, my wife was exhausted. But, it was raining, so I proposed that we go out for absinthe.

Loyal blog readers (both of you) will remember my experience in Antibes last September. We got stuck in the rain, and wind shredded my umbrella. Battling the storm, we stumbled upon a perfect absinthe bar, dancing cold and wet with the famed Green Fairy.

Cold rain in France? Absinthe.

I found a place in Le Marais (the neighborhood that puts the “gay” in “Gay Paris”, a cleaner, European Chelsea). We scrambled out of the hotel for the 12 train, and after a connection we arrived in Le Marais. The rain had eased and the thunder silenced. We walked comfortably up La Rue Sevigne and turned right.

Ferme.

The fucking place closes at 7 PM.

Do You Speak English, Part 2

Like Gare du Nord, the Eiffel Tower hosts countless “Bosnian refugees”. They fan across la Tour’s waiting area, eager to tap the sympathy of tourists waiting for a trip to the top. Instead of attempting to penetrate the jaded locals, the girls can attain a higher hit rate with the Iowans, Japanese and yes even New orkers who flock to this international landmark.

Already suspicious of the refugees because of the congregation I found in front of Gare du Nord, I was eager to find more of these supposed travelers and get some pictures.

I hunted for a bathroom around la Tour and heard over my shoulder, “Do you speak English?” Her timing was awful; nature would not wait. I assumed my Bosnian would be there when I finished, so I continued to the bathroom.

I came back, and she was there. I couldn’t shake the belief that they were nto random homeless girls with a shared identity.  Thus, I figured that they would be camera-shy. I held my flimsy camera waist high and used my body to judge the angle (as best I could – and thanks, John P., for the technique).

My refugee is approaching a group that probably is local – and not interested. I returned to the ticket line to find my wife.

I turned my head as I waited and saw the jackpot, a crowd of about 10 Bosnian girls getting ready to leave. The line advanced, and I felt my opportunity evaporate as the guard chastised me for trying to take “drinks” (by which he meant my unopened, sealed absinthe bottles) to the top. He turned me away, and I was pissed because I had waited in line for nothing and missed a group shot of the Bosnians socializing.

I pushed out of the queue and caught a few awful shots of the union, apparently on a break. Their presence at a snack kiosk indicated niether poverty nor starvation (or, so it seemed).

I wound around the food stand and saw one girl arguing with the vendor (in French) and the other sitting on a split-rail fence. Neither approached, so I lingered. They were on a break, so why would they bother coming to me for change? I started to believe that everyone in France belonge dto a union.

Finally, I looked confused enough to be approached. “Do you speak English?” she asked with a heavier accent.

“Oui,” I replied, and she began to unfold her index card. Before she could display it properly, I continued, “Je vous donnerai un euro si je peu le photographe.” My French was good enough rather than good, but she got the idea. If she let me have a picture of the index card, she’d get a euro. I pulled the coin from my pocket as an offer of proof.

She smiled and nodded.

She doesn’t speak the language? Not only did she speak euro, she understood French. I surrendered the coin and asked, “Un autre?” She agreed, until she saw the lens pointed at herface.

“Non, non,” she objected and pulled the index card higher.

Her firend, who had been arguing with the snack vendor, finally realized what was going on.  “Donnez?” she asked, “Give me?” My refugee smiled and flashed the euro; her friend evidently noted the amount. Her face lit up, her expression buoyant. The girl bounced to her feet and commanded, “Donnez! Donnez!”

I waved my camera and replied, “Je suis fini [I'm finished].” Her disappointment was unmistakable, though her card probably lamented her inability to speak French, too.

Do You Speak English, Part 1

I rarely ask, and never in English. I struggle a bit before retreating to, “Parlez-vous anglais?” But, I am asked, often by pretty, young women with slight British accents and sincere eyes. They wear long, breezy skirts, sometimes head scarves.

Yesterday, I heard such a plea at Gare du Nord, when I was leaving to meet my wife at the airport. As usual, I was looking for an ATM (Paris hates my credit cards). While I wasn’t running late, I still felt the need to hurry.

She picked me out of the crowd, though she approached with a meandering style. The girl did not want to look like she was targeting me. “Do you speak English?” she asked gently.

“Yes.”

The girl said nothing, unfolding an oversized index card for me to read, the contents in broken English.  Of course.

I had seen this method before, in Paris last year. She had fled Bosnia, her family broke and starving. Sometimes, she had children – or a mother – for whom to care. She was desperate to survive.

I hurried past, as I would when faced with the forward requests of a Manhattan homeless guy. No offense, but how many of the homeless can I save? I was a bit frightened as well; this girl and the many others on the streets of Paris showed a certain earnestness. You don’t see it in New York, where such levels of distress are noticeable only in those too infirm to ask.

I was suspicious, too.

Had she come to Paris of her own volition? Sarajevo is a long walk, across a few countries. Maybe she was brought to Paris? Were the girls interconnected, feeding their earnings to some pimp who lorded over their days? If so, my donation would hurt rather than help. She would realize not une cente, and her productivity would perpetuate the system.

I found the exit, still in search of an ATM.

Outside the station’s main entrance, a crowd of about 20 “refugees” gathered. They stood calmly, some talking with each other. The scene resembled a construction site without the hard hats. Five minutes remained before the shift had to punch the clock, and union rules precluded an early start. Alors, they waited outside the gate, index cards neither concealed nor displayed.

Recalling Magritte

I love Paris. It’s my favorite city after New York. When I was there about a year ago, I saw this flyer hanging in a window and had to capture it. The glare is a problem, but at the top it says, “Ceci n’est pas un hopital.” Translation: “This is not a hospital.”

The sign is practical. It hung in the door of a medical research clinic, and the folks there didn’t want the place to be mistaken by a hospital, especially, I assume, for someone on the brink of death who needs medical attention.

But, the real fun comes when you think back to the artist Rene Magritte. He was the surrealist who would paint a pipe and write beneath it, “Ceci n’est pas une pipe [This is not a pipe].”

I love it!

For those who do not believe that art plays a daily role in our lives, it’s time to wake up. At my day job, when I’m feeling a bit fried, I’ll walk the floor and check out the artwork hanging on the walls (we have some good stuff). When I’m tired of that, I turn to books with photos of work by Magritte and Francis Bacon. I have a few more to haul in when I get the chance: Escher and Kandinsky. Having art in your life makes a real difference.