Ah, finally, we all say...our last day in Paris.

About half the group went to Normandy, mostly to visit the D-Day memorials and museum--but I didn't go, so one of those folks needs to blog and post some pictures of northern France...

Many other folks used to the day to explore various other museums, shop, wander.  Me, I spent 6 hours writing the $%**!@#@#@ play [play, you say.  What is that?  Well, just come to Turkey with us next year, and you'll find out...], had leftover pastry for lunch, then went downstairs to the hotel desk to beg them to print one copy--which took a couple tries, with the distressed ink cartridge.  Then the manager pointed, and Sherrie led me, to the only nearby xerox machine in the adjacent shopping center, where the incredulous clerk banged and prodded on the machine to churn out 30 copies, and wondered about American travelers.  A steal at only 29 euros.  I managed to go next door while Sherrie and the clerk supervised, and had a pint of milk at a grocery store.

[This was relatively easy--in Fiji, we only had to wander around the main village asking for a printer for about 20 minutes, until we found a nice cybershop with a Hindi lady manager who asked no questions; easy, though I had spent the last night in Fiji typing, instead of laying on the beach watching the Southern stars.  In Athens, where everyone knew a cousin who knew someone who knew something about printers and copiers, it took two hours, before a hotel business center took pity on us...and I think I went through 2 laptop batteries, typing and bouncing in the back of the bus.  Paris, alone in my 6th floor hotel room, was easy, if not exactly nutritious.]

After the printing adventure, Sherrie and I called all the rooms to see if anyone else needed to go along with us to dinner--the most challenging part of the trip, I think.  The whole group, scattered across Paris, was to meet at 8:15pm, at the Pantheon, near by a British pub to go to dinner, using the Metro from wherever they were.  It seemed unlikely, but it happened! [and I tried to get a beer and cider for Ann in the pub while we waited for the last straggler, but it was 5 deep at the bar, with perhaps British lads half focused on getting to the bar, half on the blaring rugby games on the tellie...I did not succeed in getting to that bar.]

One last dinner together, with plenty of wine,  
a street singer, some blurry dancing,
and then back to the hotel for the grand production of the play.  Outside again, as in Lisbon, but farther away from the street.  Perhaps someone else has a picture or two.  Dead cameras, here.
But here's the Epilogue from The Tempest, Or, Very Bad Trip III:

                            Gilligan’s Epilogue:


If we travelers have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but drunken-slumber'd here
While these twisted visions did appear.
Excuse this weak and idle theme,
That had less plot than any dream,
For since I am an honest mutt,
A natural blond, hair softer than duck-butt--
Now to 'scape the critic's ire,
We’ll make amends and to home retire;
Else dear Bob a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Gilligan shall make amends.

[cicada, and out…]
        
                                        France 2011

bob