”I Don't Get It. Where Are The Chickens?
Blogging to you live from the bathtub of our two star hotel!
It is I, the Chicken Blog lady. It's 4AM and I am sitting in the tub writing this post, trying to not wake the children. Don't worry, the tub is full of dirty laundry,so it's really comfy. Comfy compared with a double bed shared with a four year old and a 5'5” ten year old boy. Overhead is the still damp laundry I hand-washed and hung, before Alex read the notice on the door... “Mom, it says 'don't wash clothes in the sink,' here on this sign.” Gee, and I suppose they don't want our bloomers hanging from the window either. Sheesh.
Before I regale you with the tale of our first night in Paris, it occurred to me that anyone new, anyone visiting for the first time, might be thinking “Where are the chickens? Who are the chickens? What's a chica?”
Some Answers to”Imagined”Questions
1.The Chicas are the chickens, past and present, that have been our pets since the founding of this blog in 2002.
2.Presently there is only one chica and her name is Lady Elizabeth Orpington or informally, Betty. A.K.A. “Over the Wall Betty,” “Meet the Neighbors Betty” and “Poop-Deck Betty.”
3.The chicken or chica is home at Garage Mahal,our frequently maligned suburban rental palace with genuine faux columns.
4.The Chickens Abroad is us, our family, traveling for the first time together in Europe.
5.I am really hungry.
6.Sorry about that last bit... I got distracted by the howling pit in my stomach. We didn't have dinner.
We safely navigated 4 children and five pieces of luggage through Gare Nord, passed Gare Est, in to our hotel, up the stairs and in to our room, and this was no small feat, so it was awhile before we could muster the strength to seek food. This economical, yet quaint hotel is in a doubtful neighborhood, so after washing aforementioned laundry, and generally settling in, we rallied the children, who incidentally were also doubtful, but not in a 'peep show-leering winos' kind of way... where was I? Yes, we left the hotel in search of dinner. By the time we decided to Metro to the Seine and Louvre, it was 9:30 PM. At night... this is not our usual schedule. Not at all.
So, it seems doubtful hotels are not too near the good stuff, and our ride was lengthy and the doubtful-hungry-tired children were getting doubtfuller (real word.) We pressed on. We walked from Pont Marie through Ile St. Louis, around Notre Dame, and it was passed Notre Dame when Maria fell asleep on Geoff's shoulder, and it was ten minutes later when Geoff let me carry her. We walked all the way to the Louvre, then I let Geoff have a turn carrying Maria, and then to Pont Nouf Metro and we rode back to the hotel. And by now our doubtful neighborhood hotel was looking like a welcome sanctuary. We consoled doubtful-hungry-weary children and tucking them in at 12:30 AM we promised them a great breakfast.
Isn't this sad? We stood before the great Cathedral, the one begun in 1136 (it's just so darn typical of me to throw around interesting facts...lol)... we stood there in awe, absorbing the majesty and wonder of actually being here in front of this icon... and all I can focus on is ”where is my great breakfast?!”
I bought “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” for the boys before our adventure began. I hoped one of them would have time to read it, but they were pretty busy in school, and already absorbed in other books, so I wasn't sure there would be time to get to it. Last night, looking up at gargoyles and the rose window, Alex told me that it all looked familiar, like he knew it. He did read the book. So cool.
I am off. Time to remove the clean, damp clothes from the window, then to sniff out some croissants... bonjour!