Google maps said it was just a short nine minute walk from the Gare du Nord train station to Chez Cazimir.
My lovely wife and I disembarked from a relaxing train ride from London to Paris. We needed relaxing because we had just spent a week in London with our 15-month old granddaughter who wasn’t too concerned with the Crown Jewels or The Tower of London or where Winston Churchill helped plan the defeat of the Nazi forces invading his beloved England during the big war. Her only concern was to lick every hand rail she came into contact with and to use her pacifier as a vehicle to taste the subtle differences of each sidewalk she trod.
My wife and I had a little different noshing experience planned when we got to Paris.
So we were ready for our first French meal, a Sunday afternoon brunch, at Chez Cazimir. We were meeting a friend of mine and his wife. He and I had been on trips to Haiti together and by coincidence we happened to be in Paris at the same time, they at the end of their trip and we at the beginning. It sounded like the beginning of a Hemingway novel, a chance meeting of New Englanders and Appalachianers. And for good measure, a Frenchman living in Monte Carlo thrown in to share our table.
This sounds all too easy doesn’t it?
Well fate had to work overtime to overcome my directional inadequacies.
Imagine my surprise as we walked out into a light Paris drizzle and found that all of the streets in Paris, France are written in French. And they aren’t displayed on the street corners but on the sides of the buildings. And the street names change at each intersection.
I guess when you are a city that is over 2,000 years old, there have been a lot of people after which to name a street. Sooner or later you run out of streets, therefore you don’t get a whole street, you just get a block.
I could sense my wife’s panic set in.
When I finally stopped to ask directions of a lovely Parisian family, there was a bit of a language barrier. We repeated this Franco-American street drama numerous times over the next 45 minutes until we were thirty minutes late for our meeting time.
It was the first of many exquisite meals we enjoyed over the next four days. It was so good to see my friend and for our wives to meet. We spent about two hours in that cafe and it was a good start to our Paris stay.
I took this photo of the Eiffel Tower on our last day in Paris. I experimented with my take on French impressionism. However I don’t remember seeing any of Monet’s paintings in black and white. Maybe he wasn’t artsy enough to pull it off.
If you like this photo, you can see more of my pictures here.