The last day of 1998 and our last full day in Paris dawned a bit less overcast than usual, and we awoke early and fortified ourselves to face the day with a good breakfast in the cave.

Our plans were firmer and better laid than the day before, and many great things would be accomplished. Shari would complete her Christmas shopping, I would spend some of that time pursuing some sightseeing on my own, and we would make preparations for our New Year's Eve celebration.

First, and most important, we had to secure our van ride back to the airport for the next day. That required the dreaded prospect of making a phone call in French, something we had up until now managed to avoid. I decided to try it, taking some comfort in the fact that if I couldn't finish it, I could always hang up and ask the hotel desk to call for us.

Operating a telephone in a foreign country is always a bit of a hit and miss proposition, since there are always little subtleties that no one tells you about: when to wait for a second dial tone, what the busy-signal sounds like compared to the ringing signal, whether that extra digit on the front of the phone number is just to get out of the hotel PBX, or is dialed once to get out of the hotel and again as part of the phone number, how many digits there are supposed to be in a phone number in the first place, and so on.

After a couple of tries at dialing, and listening for a very long time to what might have been a busy signal but turned out to be the ringback tone, someone answered. I stammered out enough French for the woman at the other end to take pity on me and switch to her excellent English. I gave our names and she had our flight info right in front of her, giving us a lot of confidence that the van might actually arrive as scheduled. Come to think of it, she switched to English as soon as we gave our names, so it might have been in response to seeing that we were on British Airways. She set the pickup time for 7:45 a.m., three hours before our flight.

The van taken care of, it was time to get moving on the rest of our agenda for the day.

Our first venture was a long Métro ride, but only by the newly established standards of two spoiled tourists who in an entire week had seldom had to go more than three or four Métro stops at a stretch, to les Galleries Lafayette.

Les Galleries Lafayette is a large shopping area whose varied collection of shops, a guidebook had tipped us off, included a little market with some truly outstanding gourmet foods. Here, we would buy the makings of an in-room picnic to be enjoyed this evening, which would make our New Year's Eve celebration exactly the way we wanted it, and have the beneficial side effect of having us in bed at a reasonable hour for our early flight the next morning.

Les Galleries Lafayette turned out to be a really huge area, several blocks square, of building after building under whose matched red awnings were shop after shop with all kinds of different wares. It was also, though we had ceased to be surprised by this time, packed with mobs of people. We had a quandary for a while about exactly where in all of this complex the gourmet food pavilion was, but we had a street address that would at least get us to the right block, so off we went.

Along our way, we passed a rather unusual sight. A young man stood on the sidewalk near a street corner turning the crank of an ornately-carved antique hurdy-gurdy. I would later wonder by what acrobatic feat he had gotten it there, but as we passed, Shari noticed something far more interesting.

On the sidewalk next to the hurdy-gurdy was an ornate little bed, about one foot square, which looked as though it might have come from some improbably large dollhouse. The bed was neatly made up, with an old fashioned hand-sewn quilt tucked in tight. In the bed, under the covers, were a small dachshund and a largeish gray cat, their heads cuddled together, asleep.

Shari awarded this quite an impressive title by pronouncing it "the cutest thing I've ever seen!!!" as we stood around for a moment grinning like fools, laughing and taking pictures.

Having found the show meritorious enough to take pictures, Shari felt obligated to put a few coins in the bowl, and she stooped as we passed to drop them in with a firm jingle. I never asked how much we had just donated to the cause of sleeping pets, but suspected that we might no longer be in possession of the rare and valuable coins we had received as change at Les Toilettes Coeur des Princes.

We left the dog and cat, feeling lighthearted enough to be unphased by the crowds of people and, as if fate wished to continue smiling on us, found the food shop almost immediately on the second floor, above a Monoprix. The Monoprix itself was a small one with practically nothing of interest, but the food area was spectacular and we soon lost ourselves browsing among the gourmet selections and nibbling on free samples.

After a large amount of indecision, we settled on our selections for tonight's repast: large shrimp, already cooked and peeled, to be arranged over a fresh salad with dressing, a selection of soft cheeses with some tiny bread slices which could also serve as carriers for the Nutella Shari had brought in single serving packs, plus chocolate mousse desserts, and a miniature bottle of French champagne—it was, after all, New Year's Eve!

We rounded out our purchases with some soda and paper plates, (we'd had the foresight to bring plastic utensils with us from home for just such a contingency), added some bottled water to drink on the flight back, and pressed through the crowd to the French-speed checkout.

Back on the sidewalk, it was time to part ways for a few hours. I took the bags of groceries and headed for the Métro, while Shari planned to stay at Les Galleries Lafayette to complete her shopping.

A few gratuitous shots of the interior of Galleries Lafayette...

Without Shari for guidance, I immediately went to the wrong Métro platform—right line, wrong direction. Fortunately, I noticed it before actually getting on the train, because I had set down the groceries and studied my map, so the only thing lost was that I had to carry the heavy bags of groceries up and down some more stairs and around a few more corridors to get to the platform on the opposite side of the tracks.

One connection and another train ride later, I made it back to our hotel, where I packed all the refrigerated items into the little fridge that served as the mini bar. I then availed myself of the facilities and was thankful that I had been coming back here and so could wait—I had left Shari not knowing where any were at Les Galleries Lafayette, and hoped she had been able to find one.

I was now free for a few hours until it was time to meet Shari back at the room again, so I went off sightseeing. My goal for the afternoon was to see and photograph the Statue of Liberty. The original Statue of Liberty, of course, is one of the great native monuments of Paris, and stands on its pedestal at one end of a long, thin island in the Seine. The larger and more talked-about version in New York is just a copy—unless of course you are reading NY-based tourist information, in which case the statue in Paris was just the artist's working model that was used to plan the much greater version in New York. Same facts, different spin.

I rode the Métro to Bir-Hakeim station, which the guide books list as the stop for the Eiffel tower, though we seemed to always find ourselves reaching the tower from some other direction. Bir-Hakeim is an interesting station, located at one end of an old and decorative bridge across the Seine (called, sensibly enough, Pont Bir-Hakeim). This station and the section of Métro track that serves it are above ground, elevated above the streets on pillars and reached by steep staircases. Another Métro station, called Passy, appears to be the exact twin of Bir-Hakeim on the opposite end of the bridge. The Métro apparently comes up into the light of day just to serve these two stations, porpoising underground again on either side.

Walking out onto the Pont Bir-Hakeim showed me exactly why the odd construction: obviously, some unrecognized engineering genius of the 1890's had made a clever compromise. Pont Bir-Hakeim is an early anticipator of today's double-decker bridges. A row of pillars in just the center of the bridge between the traffic lanes support the upper deck, which is nothing but Métro tracks. Evidently, someone either couldn't tunnel under the Seine here, or maybe just found it much less expensive to make a bridge that could do double duty. In any event, the ornate center-only columns manage to serve the purpose in an attractive way and without blocking the view, a testament to the priority given to aesthetics in a bygone era.

In the middle of the Pont Bir-Hakeim was a large statue of a guy on a horse—too common a sight to be exciting, but in this case it made an excellent foreground for some pictures of the Eiffel Tower which was, as promised, very near. I stopped to take some pictures, only afterwards noticing that the little plaza holding the horseman did not feature any stairway down from the bridge to the little island that was directly below. The map said it was here, and it was virtually the only access to the island. So that left only one place it could be. I darted through a gap in the surprisingly sparse bridge traffic and, sure enough, the stairway down was on the other side.

Descending the stairs left me underneath the Pont Bir-Hakeim in the middle of the river, on a long island just wide enough to have a paved walking-path lined with planted trees along its top. I wandered at a leisurely pace down the length of the island, towards the only other bridge that crosses it, passing a few people being walked by their dogs, who had come here to chase the birds.

As I approached the far end of the island and went under the bridge there, I started to realize something was a bit odd. Shouldn't I have seen the statue by now? Could I be at the wrong end of the island? No, definitely not, I had started from Bir-Hakeim and if I had walked to the wrong end of the island from there, it would have been only a few yards. I had gone much too far for that. The statue must be a bit smaller than I thought, and hidden behind the bridge.

As I came out from underneath the bridge, I saw the very end of the island ahead of me. Just at the end, in the center of a cobblestone courtyard area, was a huge rectangular pillar of concrete reaching into the sky, its sides draped with colorful banners.

Do major historical monuments get sent out for cleaning?

I read the banners. Roughly translated: At the initiative of the city of Paris, Tokyo welcomes the Statue of Liberty. I had to check my dictionary because the banner said at the initiative of the "Mairie" of Paris, and I didn't know that word. It means "city," but in a way that to me suggests the "domain of a mayor," rather like the words kingdom, empire, county and duchy suggest that the region is defined by its being the domain of a king, emperor, count or duke. Could the Mayor's office be responsible for this outrage? It sounded to me like there must have been dirty dealings, kickbacks, brokering of influence, money changing hands, scandal! Why had I not heard about this? Why was Shari, an expert on the history of Huey Long, not here to explain what dirty dealings could result in such a thing?

Iy yi yi. This could only happen to me.

I would learn later that the statue is on display in Tokyo for all of 1998, donated by the city of Paris to commemorate the Festival of France in Japan. I considered declaring that 1999 will be the Festival of Fort Knox at Sam's Apartment, but doubted that anyone would take the hint.

I defiantly(?) took pictures of the empty pedestal and climbed the stairs to the bridge to leave the little island. It was difficult to stay upset for long, enjoying a quiet outing in the afternoon mists of Paris, and I wandered across the river thinking to find a Métro station but in no immediate hurry to find the nearest one or the most direct route. I found myself in a busy and interesting looking neighborhood near the Radio France building, which had been one of the prominent lighted landmarks in the nighttime view we had enjoyed from the Eiffel Tower.

It was starting to drizzle a bit, so I checked my map for a Métro station. Without going back to Bir-Hakeim or Passy, the nearest one was called Kennedy/Radio France. I didn't know exactly where it was from above ground—the Métro/rail map didn't correlate to the street map—but since I was on Avenue Kennedy in front of the Radio France building, it had to be right here somewhere. I went a block down the Seine, and along the way found a map posted in a bus stop shelter that had both streets and Métro stations on the same map. That helped a lot. It helped mainly by showing me something I could have spotted on my own map, but had missed: the Kennedy/Radio France station was an RER train station only; the Métro didn't come there. While it was surely possible to ride the RER to the nearest Métro connection point, that would have been silly.

I kept walking down the Seine, right past the RER station, which was elevated and so obvious that I couldn't have missed it, on my way to another Métro station, probably Eglise d'Auteuil. I discovered small signs marking the way to le Musée du Vin—the wine museum? Very tempting! However, while I had plenty of time, I didn't have that much time, and I couldn't imagine wanting to see wine in a museum. This was Paris, where wine is experienced in the corner Brasserie or wine bar, not in display cases in some stuffy old museum.

I found myself in an area that was just residential enough yet just commercial enough that it must inevitably feature something I had been looking for: a "tabac," the catch-all services counter frequently found in the back of a small cafe, where cigarettes, lottery tickets, and a wide variety of miscellaneous small odds and ends are sold. I was looking for one in order to buy postage stamps, thinking it must be easier than finding the post office that was supposedly somewhere near our hotel. Earlier in the day, I had wandered up to a tabac that was in a restaurant/bar and asked for postage stamps, receiving nothing for my troubles but a great flurry of French and hand-waving—I never did find out if they were out, didn't carry them, or just hated tourists. This time, I would find a stand-alone tabac.

Sure enough, within blocks, the inevitable "tabac" appeared. This one was not only stand-alone, but it was a bit larger than usual, its front vestibule extending into a large enough area to have postcard racks and small gift-shop type of items. As I had at the other tabac this morning, I inquired: "vous avez des timbres postales?" Ironically, this is more correct than it sounds—a first level of understanding would suggest that the question form should be "avez-vous des timbres..." instead of "vous avez des timbres...," but the French seem to use the declarative form, with proper intonation, as a shortcut for the question form.

What followed was, given my skill level and particular difficulty with numbers, not to mention my location away from the main tourist areas, a miracle of two-way understanding and one of the best French conversations I had the whole trip. I managed to stammer out that I wanted stamps of 4 Francs 40, the rate I knew from our visit to the post office once before was necessary to send a postcard home. On the second try, the clerk made me understand that he didn't have any of 4.40, all he had was 4.50, After a quick semi-calculation in my head, I said that was fine and asked for ten of them. The 0.1 Franc difference only amounted to about two cents per stamp.

He counted out ten, counting each one: "un, deux, trois, quatre..." no doubt recognizing my language barrier and trying to give me a chance to protest if "dix" wasn't the number I wanted. I paid for the stamps, thanked the man, and went back out onto the sidewalk, tucking the stamps into my street map for safekeeping and grinning broadly. Shari, who had many postcards to mail, would be as pleased with the stamps as I was with myself for procuring them.

I continued down the street, and in no time found the Métro station, another elevated one, and climbed its tall stairway, a pleasant conclusion to my adventures of the afternoon.

I had been afraid I would be late, but I had a fast ride, and when I got back to "our" Métro station I was still early. I had another pleasant stroll around les Tuileries gardens and returned to the room just a couple of minutes after 3:00, the appointed meeting time. Shari wasn't there yet.

This hotel had insisted, as seems to be the European standard (which I usually ignore until specifically told) that we leave the key at the front desk when departing, to ask for it again upon arrival. I wasn't sure what would happen if Shari came in and asked for the key and I already had it. Probably nothing disastrous. But, since I was just going to sit and read my book, I might as well read it in a comfortable chair in the lobby where I would see her come in. I settled in, hoping that Shari would be a little late on purpose—I was comfortable, it wasn't like I was waiting on a street corner or something, and if a little extra time meant she could finish her shopping, I hoped she'd take it.

Oh, how I had underestimated the mighty shopper! Shari bustled in just minutes later with great armloads of shopping bags, having not only finished her shopping and wrangled her goods through the Métro, but having also already been to the crêpe man on the corner for her lunch, which she was carrying—a cheese crêpe for a meal and a chocolate crêpe for dessert. We sat in the lobby and compared war stories while she ate her lunch, then returned to the room.

Shari took a nap for an hour or two, while I chose to wander the immediate area around the hotel on the Rue de Rivoli, buying a few small souvenirs but mainly just wandering. Since I hadn't eaten since breakfast, I bought a sandwich at a little British shop called "the Lady Sandwich." Four kinds of cheese in a baguette, yum.

Back in the room, we relaxed and watched television, taking our time to pack our suitcases, take our showers, and get things ready for an easy departure in the morning, while letting the day, the year, and the trip wind down at their own pace to their inevitable conclusion.

When we felt like it, we unveiled our in-room picnic, and enjoyed it mightily. The cheeses we had bought were scrumptious on the tiny bread slices, as was the Nutella. The shrimp and salad were very fresh and delicious. The champagne was dry, yet delicate. The chocolate mousse was as light as a cloud. It was the perfect spread for just the two of us.

After dinner, I took a trip down to the front desk to ask for a wake-up call, something that required a bit of fast thinking since I didn't know the correct phrase in French. I managed something like: "est-ce que c'est possible que quelq'un nous telephoner pour nous reveiller? Demain. Six heures et demie." My ability to muddle through these situations was noticeably improving.

We had had a full and enjoyable day, done everything we had hoped, and were still in early enough to get some sleep before our early departure in the morning. We were still awake, but only barely, as the horns and revelry outside let us know that midnight and 1999 had come.

| Intro | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight |

All text and photographs copyright © 1999 Sam A. Mahmoud and Sharilyn Horne.