Paris: I'm Thinking About Getting a Vespa

All spring I've been jonesing for a Vespa.  There's a cocktail at Boundary Road on H Street called "I'm Thinking About Getting a Vespa." Isn't that every urbanite's fantasy?  That's been my rallying cry for awhile.

A few months ago, my friend Andy sent me a photo text of a red Vespa with a custom license plate spelling out my last name.  He texted, "Is this yours?"

No, it wasn't.  But it could be!  Or rather, could it be a sign?  Should I get a Vespa?  The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense (if you ignore the expense and the possibility of serious injury).  I could zoom up hills without breaking a sweat.  I could avoid the weekend 20-minute wait between trains on the Metro.  I could park anywhere.  Most importantly, I could pick out a cool color for my Vespa.

When I visited Andy and Emily in Norfolk, Andy took me for a spin on his Vespa, a sleek silver model.  Here I am, gearing up for the ride:

OK, maybe a Vespa is not going to make me look cooler.  I look like a bobblehead.

Looking uneasy in this picture.

And away we go!

Emily and Andy's dog Jasper sees us off on our journey.

That's the first time I've ever been on a moped.  What a way to travel.  It didn't seem so dangerous, just fun, but then again I wasn't driving.  There's a scooter shop in Arlington near work, so one lunch hour I invited my coworker Luther to go check it out.  It turned out to be an insurance office attached to a garage, and the guy showed us around for 10 minutes.  I felt bad that I wasn't a serious buyer.  I took their literature though.  Another push towards rationalizing a scooter purchase.

Everyone had mopeds in Paris (see photos above).  Talk about living the dream.  Scooting around Paris, from flea market to bistro.  For a girl with Vespas on the brain, Paris cemented my scooter love.

I told my mom that I wanted a moped.  "No.  You're not doing that," she said.  The answer seemed final.  But I already ride a bike, I said.  Isn't that similar?  "I'll hear a report on the news about a girl in Mount Pleasant on a Vespa who got hit by a bus, and I'll know it will be you," she said.

Paris vs DC Bikeshare: Joe's Adventures in Bikesharing

I asked Joe to write about Paris Bikeshare vs. DC Bikeshare.  Before he gets to it, I just wanted to share a tip if you decide to try the Vélib’ system when you are in Paris.  I was worried about whether our American credit cards would work in the bikeshare machine.  I tried to research this but it was inconclusive as to whether you need a chip and pin credit card.   So on the advice of Oh Happy Day, I bought my pass online.  I didn't bother with the Navigo pass she mentions, and instead just bought the 7-day pass off the Vélib’ website.  That gave me an ID number, I create a pin code, I then printed out the sheet with that info and carried it in my purse.  When you get to station, head to the computer terminal, hit the language button, enter those codes and select your bike!  Worked like a charm.

I also wanted to add another note about how nice people were - a young guy saw us struggling with the computer and came over to help.  So nice!

And now here's Joe:

Adele was kind enough to invite me to pen a guest post about our adventures in shared bicycling. Many of you know that I’ve been trying to ride my bicycle as much as possible recently. Not only is it nice to get out in the fresh air and burn a few calories, but every trip I take by bike means those miles don’t go on the odometer of the 1996 Honda Civic that was handed down to me by my younger sister (it is the last in a long line of hand me down automobiles that started with a beautiful 1986 Saab 9000 that I bought with money earned by selling some cannily bought Microsoft stock, so it’s not like I’m a complete charity case).

After buying an (expensive) starter bike a few years ago I enjoyed it so much decided I needed a completely unnecessary upgrade. Too many hours perusing what I lovingly refer to as “bike porn,” I settled on my beautiful 2009 Cannondale SuperSix Hi-Mod. Full carbon. SRAM Red group. Helluva bike. Race ready.

My second bike is decidedly more humble. Fenders. Whitewall tires. Did I mention I have to share it with 25,000 of my closest friends? That said, I might derive both more pleasure and utility from the Bikeshare bike. For $75 a year I have access to caches of bikes spread across the city. For no additional fee, I can grab one and sprint off to any neighborhood I can get to in 30 minutes or less. If you hustle, you can get almost anywhere worth visiting. Some of my favorite memories over the past year have been riding to or from a new bar or sandwich shop and just enjoying the sights and sounds of the city with Adele and our friends.

As Adele and I (read: Adele) started planning our recent trip to France, we learned that Paris has a similar system, Velib, which is decidedly more expansive due to what I can only guess are more generous taxpayer subsidies. They did just elect a socialist president, after all.

Knowing that I’m obsessed with the DC version, Adele jumped online and purchased two temporary Velib passes. The French system did not disappoint. The bikes are basically the same. Ours are much easier to dock. Theirs ride a bit faster and have a basket that is infinitely more useful than the stupid half-basket/bungy system here in DC. Their stations are a bit closer together with many more docks per station, but from my observations they have the same problems with the most popular stations emptying out when you really want a bike and being full when you arrive in a hurry.

Paris traffic was a bit intimidating at first, but the network of bike/bus lanes and more or less unused back roads offered what turned out to be a wonderful way to explore the neighborhoods around our apartment. Aside from the occasional inconveniently full or empty station, I really do think bike sharing is the wave of the urban future. One of the main reasons I moved back to DC from Indiana after college was because I pined for a dense urban core that lent itself to walking and public transit. The bikeshare has more or less replaced the bus and the train in my arsenal of transportation options. I can hop on a bike and be almost anywhere in the city much faster and more cheaply than I could get there by car, bus, or train. For free. While getting a bit of exercise.

I have to admit I haven’t researched how much DMV taxpayers have had to put up for the system. I just know that the $75 annual fee is a steal as far as I’m concerned. I’ve also ridden hundreds of miles while my car has sat safely parked and I didn’t burden the roads or the public transit system. A little government-led problem solving has gone a long way. Approximately 340 miles in my case.

Paris: Versailles

I'm just going to post some photos from our day trip to Versailles.  Few words are necessary, this place is just so beautiful.  If you get a chance, go!

We brought in a delicious picnic lunch and devoured it in a shady, secluded spot near a fountain, while listening to piped-in classical music.

I made Joe rent a rowboat.  How romantic, right?  He did all the work.

Marie Antoinette's bed in her Petit Trianon. My only regret was that we couldn't find her farm (we didn't have a map for some reason, yet everyone else did).  The property is enormous, we walked so much and still couldn't find it.

Paris: Roland Garros

So I made it to Roland Garros!  The raison d'être for the trip.  Of course, our tickets happened to be on the day after our bar crawl through Oberkampf.  Of course they did.  I was not feeling so swell that morning but nothing could stop me from the French Open.  I woke up really early that Sunday for some reason, and the streets were empty when I ventured out to get Gatorade.  This trip was nearly disastrous, as I turned down an aisle in a tiny grocery store and almost fell into the open cellar door in the floor.  Thank God I looked before I took a step.  Was not expecting that!  That would be an especially stupid way to go.

Later we went to a patisserie, and I stood in line while Joe got cash.  I made a beeline for the display of sandwiches, getting closer to try to see what kind I could get.  Turns out I had managed to make my way behind the counter and a saleswoman was yelling at me but I was too dense to realize that.  She shooed me back into the line, walking toward me, waving her hands and tsk-ing the way you would shoo an errant raccoon from a trash can.  It was the only way I would understand, apparently.  Highly embarrassing! 

It looks like we are about to get sprayed with water in this picture.  Between sets and after matches, the courts were watered the same way you water your lawn, and then workers smoothed the clay with a section of net.  These are the things you don't see on television!

Since we were on the outer courts, we didn't see anyone particularly famous play, but we did see some good matches, including an entire 5-setter with Michael Berrer, who went from two sets down to beat the number 30 seed, Jurgen Melzer.  We had an awesome seat for this one, practically on the court.  I personally think our cheering helped Berrer come from behind for the win.

I find tennis tournaments to be somewhat stressful in the early rounds since so much is going on at once.  You always wonder, is there a better match somewhere?  If I leave my seat at this match, will I be able to get back in, and will I regret leaving?

We waited in some long lines to get into the side courts but that could be chalked up to the disorganization of the first day.  If I went again, I would probably get a ticket for one of the bigger courts (which aren't that big compared to the U.S. Open's Ashe Stadium).  I bought the Roland Garros tickets before the plane tickets, I kept it conservative since I wasn't sure I would actually go.  But honestly, we had a lot of fun on the side courts and got to experience the atmosphere of the tournament.  I don't think we missed much, the first day is usually a cakewalk for the top players anyway.  Except for Roddick, who promptly lost in the first round that day.

We got to watch some of Venus's match on the big screen in the courtyard. 

And guess what?  We timed it just right to see Djoker's practice session!  I'm still not sure about the Uniqlo duds but I guess they drove a dumptruck full of money up to his house.  This was a highlight, to see him in person and get to watch his 10-person entourage stand on the sidelines as Djokovic hit serves.

I think Roland Garros wins for the most adorable ball kids of any major.  They seemed younger than our American ball kids for some reason.  My favorite is the little one with the curly mop of hair in the front of the line.  So cute!

Gotta love the Lacoste outfits on the umpires.  This guy looked beyond cool with his glasses and the sneaks. 

All the officials had 1920s-era Lacoste outfits too.  They were all so attractive.  The dudes looked dashing, and the women had perfect makeup to match their drop-waist white dresses.  The only problem: they didn't look that authoritative.  Give me a frumpy middle-aged woman in a wrinkled polo shirt and khaki shorts with a walky talky around her neck and I'll show you someone who means business.  Not once but twice did we see fans brazenly flouting the rules.  First, a pack of guys pushed past a ticket-taker who was (seemingly arbitrarily) holding up the line.  They walked by her when she turned her back and then she chased after them but it did no good.  Then later, when all the matches concluded, an old man walked back into the stadium, ignoring a guy who told him not to do that.  He looked at the official, made some sort of raspberry noise combined with a shrug of the shoulders, and kept on walking.  See, no one takes them seriously in those outfits!

It was amazing to be there after seeing it on television all these years.  The landscaping was gorgeous.

Wimbledon and Melbourne are next on the bucket list!

At the end of a long day, we went to a little bistro chock-full of Parisians, but the food was terrible.  Strange.  Nice atmosphere though. 

Paris: Lost and Found

So I have to tell you about the classic tourist mistake I made.  After arriving in Paris on a red eye, finally getting the key, and then taking a moment to rest my eyes (which turned into a five-hour nap, whoops), we went out to dinner at a bar in our neighborhood.  I took the photo above of my delicious duck entree and then put the camera down by my purse.

The next morning, we got ready for a day of sightseeing and I went to grab my camera.  But it wasn't in my purse.  It wasn't anywhere.  Where was it?  I couldn't have been stupid enough to leave my fancy camera outside the bistro.  Could I?

Cue many tears and rending of garments.  We went back to the bistro, and I tried to ask if they had found a camera.  French wasn't even an option at this point, so I made a universal pantomime of a camera complete with an index finger click.  "Oh, we'll take your picture," the man behind the bar said.  No, no.

So Joe consoled me and I resigned myself to the fact that I had lost my $400 camera on the very first day of our vacation.  I tried to pull it together and we set out to visit the Musée d'Orsay and Notre Dame.   The following pictures are from Joe's camera.

We walked around the Jardin du Luxembourg and watched Parisians sun themselves, children playing with sailboats, and an extremely lazy middle-schooler take a tennis lesson while Joe heckled him.

Sainte-Chapelle is so gorgeous.

It's so touristy, but I loved the Seine boat tour we took. Being out on the water on a gorgeous day, learning more about the city, what more could you want?

The guide on the boat tour told our group if we made a wish and kissed while going under a particular bridge, it would come true.  I wished that I would find my camera.  The choice was clear.   Apparently, Joe made the same wish.  (We both contemplated whether we should wish for the other one to love us forever, but went with the more pressing camera wish).

After the boat, we went back to the restaurant and the same waiter/owner from the night before was there. "You're back for the camera!" he said, and lo and behold, he pulled my camera out from behind the bar.

Ahhhhhhhh!  Isn't that the nicest thing you've ever heard?  He saved my camera for me!  He didn't have to, but he did.  And what are the chances of getting a lost camera back on vacation?  The French will always have my heart after this.

We were so happy, and so thankful.  Joe told the owner that he wanted to buy him a shot in celebration.  As is American tradition.  We all take a shot, then order beers.  A few beers later, the owner said he would give us a tour of all the bars in the neighborhood.  He left his post, leaving his lover/business partner at the helm and we proceeded to stumble in a bunch of bars, to be introduced as the owner's "American friends."

"Is he going to steal our kidneys?" Joe asked as we walked to the umpteenth bar.

A few shots later, I remember going back to the original bar, eating some sort of fromage/frites combination, but then all I remember is waking up in the apartment.  No recollection of the walk home.  When I opened up our door in the morning, the insole of my shoe was outside lying on the doorstep.

Paris! Day 1

Hellooooo.  I've been remiss in not filling you in on my Paris trip.  It's been overwhelming.  Where to begin?  Keep in mind I took 700 pictures.

"How did you take 700 pictures?" Joe said.

"Well, remember the cat we saw on the roof in our apartment courtyard," I said.

"Uh huh."

"I took three pictures of that cat."

That's how you end up with 700 vacation photos.

But I suppose Day 1 is as good a place to start as any.  I'll try not to bore you.  Here we go:

Lucky me, I was able to rent a charming Airbnb apartment, with exposed brick, rafters and giant windows overlooking a courtyard.  So adorable.  Airbnb is fun because you can pretend you are a local.

The only problem with Airbnb is that there is no front desk, so you have to arrange the key pickup.  My host said I could ask the shopkeeper at the cafe next door for the apartment.  I practiced on the plane ride with a French dictionary (thanks, Alix, for letting me borrow yours!), painstakingly looking up the words and trying to memorize one phrase: "Where is the key?"

So after toting our suitcases on the metro and around town, we arrived at the shop and I marched up to the shopkeeper and blurted out my phrase.  She looked at me like I had three heads.

That's it, I'm out!  I got nothing after that.

She claimed to not have the key, then I thought we were getting closer when another lady at the cafe gave us the code to open the courtyard door, but still no apartment key.  We're talking back and forth in English, I'm writing down the host's phone number for her to call on her cell phone, she's telling me she loves America and is going to Palm Springs.  Meanwhile, Joe is standing on the street with our suitcases, and then a guy rides by on a bike, looks at Joe and says, "Adele?"  Close enough.

Turns out that guy worked with the Airbnb host and he asked if we were doing alright.  "The shopkeeper doesn't have the key," Joe said.  "Oh yes, she does," the guy said.  He went in and talked to her in French and voila, she pulled the key out of a drawer, with a shrug of her shoulders and a roll of her eyes.

Miscommunication?  Or was she messing with me?  Or both?