15: Lessons in Walking, Eating, and Being Wrong

Before we go any further, I feel the need to clear the air. You see, traveling abroad is a humbling experience—especially when you’re me. No matter how much you prepare, no matter how confident you feel, sooner or later you’re going to trip over your own tongue (or worse, your own ignorance). And in my case, it didn’t take long.
A Formal Apology
A week before last, I truly lived up to my title as An Idiot Abroad by mistakenly referring to the Latin Quarter as the Spanish Quarter. Please accept my sincerest apologies in advance, as I can promise you—mistakes like this will happen again. Repeatedly.
Now, for the record, the Latin Quarter is located on the Left Bank of the Seine, covering the 5th and 6th arrondissements of Paris. What exactly that last part means for you—or for me—is frankly none of our business. What is important is that the Latin Quarter is brimming with enough scenic stops to fill an entire day. There’s the Sorbonne University, where I studied in a previous life (I believe Shirley MacLaine was in my class), the Pantheon, the Roman amphitheater, Arènes de Lutèce (where I once performed Godspell back in 1974), and countless other historic sites.
I cannot emphasize this enough: Paris is a walking city. Better yet, it’s a strolling city. It behooves you to slow down and actually enjoy the sights. Leave your Type-A self at home.
Speaking of Type-A tendencies, I had a rather pressing appointment with the Eiffel Tower. But before my scheduled afternoon ascent, I needed a quick bite. And in Paris, “quick bite” still means delicious. I settled on Bar De La Croix Rouge, a lovely little lunch-and-dinner café. After my obligatory “Bonjour” followed by “Je parle très peu français,” my waiter smiled knowingly and gestured for me to leave everything in his hands.
Best decision of the day.
What arrived was one of the most delightful lunches I had in Paris: thin slices of tender beef on a lightly toasted baguette, perched atop a bed of lettuce kissed with a sharp mustard dressing. Oh, my goodness. Every bite was a revelation, crazy flavors dancing the Apache dance in my mouth—you know the one: striped shirt, beret, tight gown, dramatic slapping and shoving. That’s how good it was.
And yes, I know you’re technically not supposed to tip in Paris—waiters here earn a proper wage—but for extraordinary service, it’s perfectly fine. I gratefully left a little something extra.
From lunch, it was a pleasant twenty-minute stroll to the Eiffel Tower. I arrived with time to spare. The last ten minutes take you through a garden that perfectly sets the stage for the experience. Unfortunately, I came before the blooms were at their peak, but it was still lovely to slow down and watch the tower loom larger with every step.
Of course, if you’re in the market for tiny brass Eiffel Towers and overpriced bottled water, this is your place. Vendors are everywhere. After stepping over what felt like several hundred blankets displaying trinkets, I finally reached the entrance—with a whole hour to kill. Damn. Early again.
So… what to do? The Palais de Chaillot was just across the way, tempting me. But the sun was fading, the wind picking up, and my internal debate began: do I wander further, or stay put? Decisions, decisions.