Paris and Reims - Sunday, February 14, 2016

We slept in. That was our Valentine to each other. Oh, and I also went up to the buffet and brought Mark breakfast in bed. 

The women were leaving at noon to catch our 1pm train to Reims. Just 45 minutes away, and in the heart of Champagne country. Sorry boys, enjoy your game - we have some fizzy wine to try. 

Some of us took the metro, some took a cab to the train station, and we all found our different carriages on our tickets then ended up sitting by a friend nearby anyway. Thorpe had given us these luscious cremes as a Valentine's Day present (he's a great guy) so we snacked on those and plotted our journey. 

First things first, we had a reservation with Martel for a tour and tasting. The train station was tiny, and the only two taxis in town must have been waiting. The first one pulled away before we got there, then the other four hopped in the second. 

We assumed another taxi would show up, but five minutes of peering around corners did nothing. We checked the TI across the square (closed), Uber (none), and even walking directions (45 minutes when we had just 30).

A bus had been sitting at a stop while all this was happening, so Megan went over and started asking. He could get us within four blocks!

Julia, Carolyn, Megan and I emptied our pockets of change and hopped on. His English was spotty, but he told us what stop to get off at, then communicated exactly how to get there. 

With five minutes to spare, we were traipsing up the cobblestones. We got the luxury champagne tasting, after a very thorough and informative tour.

It did start with a video, which could have been bad, but it actually put a picture to what Mark and I had been hearing all week. Some of the methods were unique - pressing in wooden casks, as quickly as possible to make the clearest white champagne out of red grapes (Pinot noir and a second Pinot that I missed the spelling of). The discussion of the terroir in the appellations and the crus I had hear before. The mixing of the separately fermented wines was also something the video more firmly cemented than had otherwise only been described. 

With the modern methods being shown in the video, and no production happening at this cellar location, the implements they had were old - not quite as old as the 9th century section of the cave, but as old as the majority of it: the 17th century. 

My favorite part was the riddling. Now done by a giant machine, this process moves the settled yeast from the second fermentation into the neck of the bottle by rotating it. The professional riddlers had the bottles in wooden stands angled downward and would turn them a quarter turn - each bottle, every day, by hand. The pros did like an entire rack in a minute.  

Duly impressed by how hard it is to make champagne, it was time to see love's labors. And taste them. All three bruts (lowest sugar content), one a rose, and the final one - the oakiest - a vintage, so a good enough year (2007) that it could stand alone without mixing. 

I ended up buying none of those and went with a couple of the cheapest. I figure cheap champagne in Champagne is still Champagne!

While at the tasting, we were distracted by a months-old baby who was joining. Turns out her parents are stationed in German. Turns out her dad works in a hospital doing anesthesia, just like Meg. Turns out Meg and her mom had worked at Children's in DC at the same time and figured out why they recognized each other! It is a small world.

And after lugging those bottles, I could have used a glass. We walked down to the cathedral - it had stained glass by Chagal as well as modern art stained glass from 2012! It was bombed heavily in WWI but the structure survived and the ceiling and glass were redone. Twenty six of the French Kings had been crowned there - the first in 496 (on the spot - the structure was from the Gothic period) and the last in the 1800s. 

Carolyn and I read through Rick Steves tour, then were ushered onward to dinner by a hungry crew. The eight of us sat down at the first place open on the pedestrian street leading to the train station and got (what I thought was) our final French meal. A foie gras salad (I won't have it again. A bit too fatty for me to want enough to abuse geese for it.) with salmon and ham. A bottle of Champagne to share. 

It was an easy walk (by now, used to the extra pounds of champagne in bags) to the station, and a quiet ride in first class (actually cheaper than second when we bought, and a bit more spacious) back to Paris. 

The boys had a sort of closing ceremonies at 8 at the Irish bar that we were trying to be on time to. We used some extra metro passes and dropped the sparkling off at the hotel before ducking across the street. (Though the one street we had to cross was a mess. Carolyn and I saw a bus jumping a curb to try to get away from it.) It was a wonderful celebration of the end of tour, and I didn't have any expectations beyond that. 

But, Frank started asking if anyone of us wanted to get some dinner, so Megan, Brendon, Carolyn, Zach, myself and Mark all accompanied him. We were seated at a table for six, so there was an honorary spot for Molly, who couldn't make the tour, while we had bone marrow, onion soup, bread, cheese, and more delectables for Valentine's Day and our final meal in Paris. 

Paris: Notre Dame, Sainte Chappelle, Six Nations game - Saturday, February 13, 2016

The goal for the morning was to get out into Paris, which was a bold goal. I woke up to take in breakfast with Mark, and found Whitney and a few others stumbling bleary-eyed past the croissants and cheeses. The two of us were headed to Notre Dame and Saint Chapelle - the latter being one of my favorite things in Paris. 

It was gross weather (again) so we waved down a cab and paid the 13€ to get to the middle of the city. Worth it. 

My rain boots have been a godsend, and I splashed through the giant puddles outside while Mark danced on the cobblestones to avoid getting wet. 

We waited a bit outside the Notre Dame, but were soon inside, so didn't get a chance to listen to Rick Steves' podcast about the exterior until we had left. Once inside, a service was happening where pairs of people went up to someone (perhaps a bishop?) who put a purple scarf over their head after listening to them talk briefly. It meant that we heard a few hymns during our circuit of the massively old cathedral, which echoed hauntingly and enchantingly. 

It took two hundred years to build the church, and one can only imagine, moving that much stone to those great height with hoists with only manpower, how it makes sense that it wasn't done sooner. There was a display case that showed the human hamster wheel that powered a crane, as well as the huge amounts of wooden scaffolding. 

I remembered the amazing rose stained glass windows that flanked the altar, and the statue of Joan of Arc, the patron saint of Paris. I didn't remember where the climb to the tower was, but we skipped it anyway. I supposed I didn't need to have stairs everywhere. 

In front of the church was a crypt with archeological ruins that I had done before, but that was with the museum pass. Paying 8€ to get in to see some rocks didn't seem worth it today, so we continued. 

A few blocks down, along the Seine, we cut in to the building surrounding Sainte Chappelle, which was the Palais de Justice. After a security line there, it was another line in the drippy rain to pay the 10€ to get into the cathedral. Mark questioned if it was worth it - for this sight, it definitely was. 

The first floor of the church isn't anything special - it was where the commoners worshipped. Upstairs, though, climbing a tight spiral staircase, you are placed into a room of splendor. 

We take walls of windows for granted now, but the miracle of the Gothic arches has never been so obvious as when we entered that cavernous room. Fourteen panels of stained glass, if I'm remembering right, plus a rose window in the back of the church dazzled us and painted the room in a glow of awe. 

The church was built as a container for the crown of thorns, and cost less to make than the crown did to obtain. François I wanted everyone to come see how good a Catholic he was for bringing the crown of thorns to France. Now, this "box" for the crown is getting more facetime with crowds than the crown is. 

We soaked in the colored lights, picking out a few Bible scenes (thanks to Rick) and admired the golden pedestal that didn't have the crown on it anymore. (It is in the Notre Dame treasury.) The stairs up to the high altar were locked and the key hung around the king's neck. 

We hopped in a taxi back to the hotel. It was nice to not be rushing for once, and we passed by the opera house yet again. Taxis, like in Portugal and other places, can use the bus lanes, so we skipped easily back to Montmartre. 

Now, the highlight of the trip, the reason we were in France - the Irish national team playing the French national team during the Six Nations match. Not the Washington Irish, Mark's team, playing the Paris Olympic Rugby Club; that happened last night. In this Six Nations game, the French won. 

But, the group trying to head to the stadium didn't win. It was a struggle. The metro right by the hotel goes right to the stop by the stadium, so we bought some tickets and headed down to the platform in a herd of thirty. However, our herd was no match for the dozens and dozens of travelers already packed on the trains in the direction we wanted. Mark was comparing it to Japan, but I've seen trains like this just a few times at rush hour in DC - it is every man for himself when the doors open, and the mass of humanity bubbles out before being thrust back in when the doors chime and close again. 

We didn't make the first four trains that stopped. Maybe ten people in the station total made it on those trains. Mark and I had taken sanctuary at the very last door on the platform, and might have made it in another train or two, but might not have. We threw in the towel too when Zach came by to say a contingent was calling it quits and taking cabs. 

Zach, Carolyn, Mark, and I were yet again sharing a car. The drive was half an hour, which meant we joined the mass of people outside the stadium with only 45 minutes to gametime. (We could have been there a minute faster had we not stopped on the street to buy a beer each for the boys and a bottle of sparking wine for the ladies. That half bottle of fake champagne was the only reason I didn't mind that crush of disappointed people. The slow oozing flow meant that we had plenty of time to drink it too!)

The match had started when we finally got to the division for men and women - while I appreciate the gesture of letting us get patted down only by other women, it took us an extra two minutes to get through our line because there was only one guard for us. Sexism, man. 

We rushed to the nearest turnstiles, and waited through that five minutes. At the ticket machine, it rejected our tickets because we were at the wrong gate!

It was a speed-walk-jog that got us around a quarter of the stadium to our dear, beloved Gate B. A few more minutes in line (where we found a fuming Julia and a silent Whitney, who had spent half an hour queueing at the wrong gate) and we were in!

We dashed to our seats, and saw - a penalty kick for the first points of the game, fifteen minutes in. 

Thank God we were under cover - the drizzle looked miserable. As it was, I need a hot chocolate (not good, but at least warm) during halftime to get some warmth back. The Irish were up at that time, so the sea of green and jolliness that surrounded us was in a good mood. 

The only thing ruining the good mood for them was the lack of alcohol. We had been warned (hence the drinking on the street), and didn't even try to buy the beer that said "sans alcohol" (without alcohol) underneath it on the menu. I will say, though, it was the only thing on the menu that wasn't translated to English. 

When an Irish fan a few rows ahead of us came back with three of the 9€ cups, his buddy near us called out to him: "hey! You know there's no alcohol in that?"

His face falling was pretty much the highlight of the game to me. (Sorry, yeah, go rugby.) Someone had just told him that Christmas was canceled forever - his cups of gold were now just cold, sweet fake beer he had paid too much for. 

In general, the rugby game was slow, with only penalty kicks through the first half (with Ireland up 9-6) until the France battered their way with scrum after scrum to score a try with twenty or so minutes left. The conversion was good, and they were up 16-9. 

At least, that's what I remember happening. All the scrums, taking forever to line up, the chill, and the end of the champagne hitting me meant that I had a couple long, slow blinks during the second half. 

All in all, the game went quickly. I'm too used to football and baseball, where there is a 2.5 hour minimum commitment; 80 minutes was over in a jiffy! The French had it in their possession as the clock ran out, so stopped play with an out-of-bounds kick. French flags were waving all over the stadium, and the Irish fans surrounding us sighed and made for the closest bar. Heck, we made for the closest bar. Inside please!

It was a group of at least 25 that ended up at a pizza-ish pub together. Our server got our orders in, and then within ten minutes was delivering the food. 

But the beers, wine, cappuccino, anything to drink? An easy hour. Easy. Mark's calzone wasn't sitting well with him (which just meant that I got it) and Emily had been recovering from a stomach bug, so they took Jackie with them to find an Uber. (They ran into Dan and Julia on the way, walked all the way to the metro stop, spent ten minutes waiting, then took the half hour ride home.)

The boys finally got their rounds, and the quiet tables became anything but. We had been seated right by a tv, which Rich proceeded to block every time he stood to point (with his elbow, of course, because that's a tour rule) and shout. It was unclear who or what the old man at the neighboring table was outbursting about, but it might have been that. 

The waiter asked us to take the check (which has never happened before - maybe it was a subtle hint to leave, but it just made the boys walk down to the bar to bring drinks back upstairs), and I started to get the itch to leave. The crowds had dispersed, so the metro would be fine. Duma and Karen agreed, and so a contingent (including Justin, JT, and Whitney) headed there. 

It was a jolly walk with the boys, and an easy ride back. I came back to find Mark showered and dressed, and, with a quick change for me, we headed out to the rugby bar a block away.

The hotel, while not convenient to the museums or the Seine, was perfect for the trip. There was a rugby bar a block away, an Irish pub just across the street, and, if you really stretched, we were two blocks from the Moulin Rouge (and I'll just let you imagine the establishments that surround an infamous burlesque club like that). We'd actually stayed in an Ibis hotel when we were in Chinon too, so it is a good quality for a great price. 

The evening continued as it usually does on tour. Mark had a good streak of arm wrestling wins before we crossed to the Irish pub, which was quite the discotheque on a Saturday night, and danced until it was time to find our beds. 

Paris: Louvre, Arc de Triomphe, Irish vs. PORC - Friday, February 12, 2016

We didn't have to be on the bus to the Louvre ridiculously early, but it was early enough to get a lot of groans from Mark. It was our first morning enjoying the buffet breakfast - I pretty much had the same thing every morning we were there: a soft-boiled egg, a bit of bread and cheese, some yogurt, and a chocolate croissant. The egg boiling machine was amazing, and really made it a true European breakfast of champions. 

The bus pulled into the underground parking at the Louvre, and we twiddled our thumbs a bit for the group tickets. Security was annoying, again. There were various articles people had to check, like umbrellas, and finally the group made it through the final metal detector and into the museum. 

I had downloaded a Rick Steves walking tour (highly recommended), where we did a highlights tour, including Venus di Milo, Winged Victory, the Mona Lisa (at least I expected it to be small this time), the Coronation of Napoleon (at the Notre Dame, which we saw the next day), The Raft of the Medusa, Liberty Leading the People, and Michelanglo's sculptures, the Slaves. I did the same tour with Mom and Valerie four and a half years ago - I remembered some, and was glad to be able to see some again. 

There were gardens near the Louvre I wanted to wander in, but the rain and wind had started, and we were hungry, not searching for more beauty or outdoor time right then, so we ducked under the palace connector of the Louvre and arrived in a bustling, metropolitan shopping district, funnily enough. We found a coffee shop that sold some pre-packaged food and took it with us to the meeting point back under the Louvre. 

The Champs-Élysées led from the Louvre up to the Arc de Triomphe. We passed fancy car dealerships next to cinemas and jewelry stores, alongside fast food chains - it was a mishmash that worked well for some, since the McDonald's there is the most profitable in the world. 

The bus then dropped us off at one of the eight spokes surrounding the Arc de Triomphe by the Champs-Élysées, and said it'd be back in two hours. Zach and Carolyn were also interested in climbing up the Arc (remember me and stairs!), but hadn't eaten, so we popped into a Brioche Dior and had some foodstuffs and caffeine. 

With the dose of pep, we were ready for the steps. First, you take a flight down underneath the traffic circle around the Arc - much easier than playing Frogger through eight lanes of cars, but much less memorable as well. Then, you climb up past a ticket booth to get to the next line - you guessed it, security. We spent a while waiting, taking turns dashing to the front of the Arc to see a very intense Lady Liberty that Napoleon had asked for - though it was only completed after his death. He was also exiled and stuff, but when his remains were brought back, they were brought back under the bridge. 

A cursory bag inspection happened just after the line we were in started forming into a random cluster of people, but we were climbing without anyone cutting in front of us on the chaos. There was a pause about 2/3 of the way up with a museum, but we were running low on time, so continued up the final two flights to the stone deck. 

I had previously only been up at night - during the day you could really analyze the hypnotic circling of cars around the Arc, including the odd but sensical traffic pattern of those inside the circle yielding to those trying to enter. We figured because otherwise no one would ever get a chance to get in! We learned (from Rick) that insurance companies were so sick of dealing with accidents around the Arc de Triomphe that they would just split them all 50-50 instead of trying to figure out who was to blame. 

We peered over at the skyscraper-studded "little Manhattan", back toward the Louvre, over to the Seine with Notre Dame floating in it, then up the hill to our own Montmartre. The rain had paused for us and that - still gray - view. 

We galloped back down the stairs and under the underpass to make it back to the bus on time. Traffic was slow, so Carolyn and I had time to scout where we would do some wine shopping - the 3€ bottles that we saw in a shop window seemed like exactly what we needed to help us stay warm during the Irish's match that night. 

Mark took this opportunity to nap; I chilled out with some reading; soon enough, the gang all got back together, all in their matching polos, to head to the stadium where the first rugby game of the rugby tour was about to begin!

It was still just 40 degrees, so some of us WAGS (wives and girlfriends) walked a few blocks to a "pizza pub" to get some snacks, drinks, and really to just not be in the cold. Emily, Holly, and Megan had saved us seats in the nearly empty bleachers - there were two women who had turned out for the Parc Olympic Rubgy Club - and had opened the wine for us. 

The French PORC team pulled ahead early, but our boys started answering with a few tries before half. Pat, the Irish's organizer for the past few tours, came up to "coin check" the ladies and hang out with us a bit during the second half. We were cheering every time they scored some points, but we were also enjoying our sorority of WAGS and talked about just a few things that had absolutely nothing to do with the game. 

It was then helpful when I went over to offer some of the beers the boys had brought us to the other women in the stands - they reassured me that the Irish were up. One was married to one of the PORC players; the other was her sister, though a rugby player in her own right. The rugby player was hesitant to accept the beer since she had a touch game early the next morning. Let's just say that by the time she'd hung out with the team at the drink-up later, she was more interested in chilling with the team than her game (whoops!)

The boys got together for a picture, then it was a few block walk to the bar where the other team was hosting the happy hour after the game. It was nearing 10pm at this point, and the boys hadn't really eaten, so when a giant spread of cheeses and charcuterie was presented, they dove in like hounds. 

I spent a lot of the time chatting with the French women - though I did help myself to the remaining cheese when the event ended. Wrapped that third of a wheel of brie up and stuck it in my bag! 

The players were really enjoying chanting "liberté" on the short ride back to the hotel. I personally felt "libertéd" when I dropped off my bag and the extra few layers before heading back to French Flair - the rugby bar by the hotel - to keep "fraternité"ing with the other team. 

Tours to Paris: Montmartre and Eiffel Tower - Thursday, February 11, 2016

We were slightly less rushed than perhaps we should have been, leaving Tours and heading to Paris, but we underestimated Parisian traffic. 

The ride was easy - reminiscing about the wines and the towns and the people (and the amazing amateur historian). We found a gas station when we had a little less than a quarter of gas left, which was much less thrilling than our last top up with the light coming on. The pump I had pulled up to wasn't dispensing diesel, though, and it took us five minutes to figure out that it wasn't user error. So I spun the car around and tried the next one, which worked, while everyone except sleepy Chris stretched their legs. 

I figured we would have had to stop another time for a top up, since we had to rent the car with a full tank. But I drove for half an hour to get into Paris, and it still said full. I drove for another ten minutes through a bout of traffic, and it still said full. I got off on the exit for the airport - still full. 

At this point, Mark and I were glancing at the digital fuel gauge every few seconds, anxious to see if it would go down. I stayed at or under the speed limit, so I wouldn't use too much gas. The kicker was when we had to drive up the ramp to get in the garage, and then missed the turn for Enterprise, so had to do a whole extra lap. Our metaphoric nails were down to their nubs - but we parked and it was still signaling full! First success of the day!

We were, at that point, already late to the hotel. And Chris was the tour captain, so was supposed to be there at noon to tell everyone the rules... Like not to be late. 

There were a few boxes of wine that Mark and I shoved in his gigantic suitcase, my suitcase, my backpack, and one just we carried. Definitely souvenirs of a good few days of tastings. 

We walked the couple of lengths through the  airport to find the cabs, might have cut off another large group to jump into the van, then sat knee-to-knee on our way to Montmartre. 

On a hill overlooking Paris, Montmartre was not one of the neighborhoods I visited when I was in Paris in 2011. Thus, I was excited for our walking tour of it when we reached the hotel. 

First, though, we had an all-hands meeting. Thankfully, the tour bus was just a few minutes later than us, so we got off the hook for getting there at 12:30 instead of noon. Chris, JT, and Whitney said their pieces, including to read our tour books, with all the bios and the schedule for the weekend. Oh, and the rules. Emily was the treasurer for fines if you drank with your dominant hand, if you said the word "point" or pointed at something, or if you called your girlfriend back home to tell then you were ok. The fines went to a final tab at the end of the tour, so it was more amusement to see all the guys "indicating" with their elbows. (Also, a week later, I'm still scarred and scared to point with my finger.)

The bags (and wine) were put into luggage storage as our hosts showed up to take us on a walk around Montmartre. I was thinking it was a tour, but it was more of a stroll past the Moulin Rouge, then a climb up the steps to the base of the Sacre Coeur. 

Between when we started climbing up the three-story hillside to the cathedral to when we actually got to the church, the sky started opening up and a heavy drizzle started. 

I was super excited to get to the roof of the church, so convinced a few others to leave the (not very informative or tour-like) tour to buy tickets to climb yet more steps. It was something like 300 feet to get to the top. I have a habit of finding the tallest thing on a trip and trying to climb it, so my adrenaline was egging me on. Some of the others didn't quite share my passion for steps, and, granted, flew in the night before, so they were a few steps behind.

We were rewarded, after navigating some slick marble patches, with a corridor around the tower of the Sacre Coeur and a 360 degree view of Paris. There was the Notre Dame! The modern Pompidou! And, of course, the Eiffel Tower, where we were going to be tonight!

We posed for pictures, took some of Liz and JMac (who, we found out, was having a birthday), and listening to Julia and Emily and Meg compare the view with the grueling amount of steps they just had to climb. I would hope that the view won. It definitely did for Zach and Carolyn. 

We had seen what we thought was the rest of the Washington Irish Rugby Team continuing back to the hotel with the guides, so it was a surprise when we got to the bottom right as another group was crossing back through the square. They had apparently found an Irish pub and that was as far as their tour went. We waiting for a few people, then continued on to the Place du Teatre - a square harkening back to Montmartre's Bohemian roots. Well, except that all of the artists wanted to do your portrait for a little extra $$. 

We wandered aimlessly amongst the easels, with everything from screen-printed dime-a-dozen pieces to unique and experienced pieces worth more than an expensive meal. Mark and Dan and Julia picked up something; I just hung up the last of my artwork from last trip and am short on wall space, so I provided the critical eye. 

While the parcel of us were wandering, I had taken Mark's phone with his free data and found a Fodor's walking tour of Montmartre. We were just two blocks from the Bateau Lavoir, so we stopped by the front of an apartment building which was where the birth of cubism happened. Picasso, Max Jacob, and others that I didn't recognize (my art history is apparently lacking) worked and lived in this spot - though not the building we saw, since shortly after it was proclaimed a historic site, it burnt to the ground. Clearly, it was rebuilt and now still houses artists. 

We continued downhill to an old abbey and the gardens that they tended. On the way back to the hotel, we heard about Dan and Julia's multi-country, multi-day, pre-tour adventure. Belgium, Germany, and Amsterdam, if I'm not mistaken. Mark's and my few days of driving now seemed like a walk in the park.

(Unnecessary details - the most adorable pair of pitbull puppies passed us, and a schoolboy stuck his finger in Julia's face and taunted her. Maybe it was the hat?)

The hotel was quiet when we got back, but Mark and I texted our respective groups and a few people came to help us drink the wine I had bought from across the street. It was funny: the men had created a WhatsApp group they were all a part of to stay in touch. The WAGS (wives and girlfriends) had made a GroupMe with us. So information had to be communicated between the partners. Or, as I did, just take your partner's phone every so often and catch up with the other conversation. 

Where the all-hands meeting had been not hours earlier was now a photo shoot for the hotel, so we sat back and observed the cameraman and the employees (posing as guests) as they went through a few courses of a meal. We ended up with a beer that had been a prop by the end of it, so they must not have been annoyed by our conversations too much. 

Our next instruction was to meet at the bus at 9, and I wanted to make sure we had some time for dinner (since lunch was just kabobs next door). I found a seafood place on TripAdvisor that was a few blocks away, got some responses from the group, and walked over to make a reservation. It was probably good they had warning, but we showed up half an hour later with a dozen people instead of the eight I had originally told them. They happily gave us our own section to be nice and loud in. 

It was six couples, including JMac and Liz, since we were celebrating his birthday, along with the happiness of the next part of our vacation starting. It was going to be people, deadlines, and "hurry up and wait" for the next few days, but I was excited to kick it off. 

The oysters were so fresh, they cringed at the lemon juice. The white wine was perfectly crisp and delicious. And the escargot got dug out of their little shells and enjoyed with all the carbs we deny ourselves at home. 

A few desserts were passed around, then it was time to catch the bus to the Eiffel Tower. Everyone on the bus was in some stage of clouded - either from lack of sleep or alcohol or both. Mark took a power nap, but he was ready to go the second the bus parked. 

The entire group had tickets to the lower observation level of the Eiffel Tower, so we all waded through security together to get in the elevator. There were a few hold-ups - a corkscrew and some alcohol were removed from bags, which meant that it was only a dozen men that were on the first elevator, got out, and immediately took their shirts off. A classic rugby group picture. 

Mark and I did a quick 360, but quickly realized we were not at the top (and could not get to the top with our tickets). We were up the Eiffel Tower, but what's the point unless you are at the very top?

The 10pm lights had finished their sparkling, but the ticket window was still open to upgrade our tickets to get all the way up. We plopped down the money, then took a vertigo-inducing elevator ride to a much smaller level. As we'd seen a few places, there was a couple making out in the middle of it all, but we circled the enclosed hall until we found the indicator pointing toward DC - only 6175 kilometers away! The couple that took our picture was also from the DC area, but there was too much of Paris to gawk at to chat long. 

We took the elevator back down the the floor where the rest of the team was. Most had left - we had about 20 minutes to get back to the bus. I found the quickest exit - or at least the one with no lines. And that's why we took the stairs down the Eiffel Tower. 

It was dizzying, but we got a chance to see the first platform that had shopping and an ice skating rink (exactly what you'd expect when up the Eiffel Tower, right?)

We made it down with a few minutes to get to the bus. We took a few selfies with Thorpe, then got on the bus while a few others wandered off to water the shrubs around the Eiffel Tower before bed. 

Chambord, Cheverny, and Tours - Wednesday, February 10, 2016

 We had an early start to the day so we could get to the Amboise train station and pick up Zach, Carolyn, and a late addition of Chris. We were a bit late (I went back for an extra Nutella crepe at breakfast), but managed to get all three of them and their bags into our car!

We were off. It was a day of châteaux - first, Chambord!

This grandiose castle was never fully completed to original plan, but that didn't stop it from having 440 rooms and over 360 fireplaces. 

Even with all those fireplaces, the stone building was cold. The keep was a square built onto the back wall of an outer square with more rooms, containing a gravel courtyard. 

Hints were being consistently dropped about how, while da Vinci died slightly before construction first started, his drawings look very similar to the double helix staircase that was at the center of the keep. Given that the stair led straight to the roof, without any doors, the fireplace they had lit on the first floor didn't do much. 

We circled up the paired staircases to the first floor. The royal apartments were tucked back into the "wall" part of the structure. François I stayed at this hunting lodge a few times, but the majority of the royalty that inherited it (the video we watched said they kept rediscovering it as it would fall into ruins time and time again) stayed just a couple times. 

It is definitely not a year-round place. There are mosquitos in the summer, since they had to make essentially a moat - but only because they needed to drain the swamp. There's tons of land around the castle, so they would send out the boys to flush game inward while the ladies stood on the roof and watched. 

The roof was probably my favorite part. The sun was peeking out behind fluffy clouds, though the stone ground was still a little slick from the rain earlier. We could see the delicate stone carvings from up close - François' symbol of the salamander everywhere, but also the fleur-de-lis crowning the tallest dome, and the curly Qs decorating the rest. The roof of the stone building was intricate and the prettiest part of the outside. 

We circled down to an exhibit about the Infant Duke of Bordeaux, who took the title Comte of Chambord. He was in line for the throne during a time when people didn't much care for royalty, so was in exile most of his life. He only lived in Chambord as a child, but was fond of it (potentially because it also meant he'd be back in good graces.)

We finished up the exhibit, peeked into the carriage house and the original stone work that was on the roof (made of "tuff" which isn't so tough), then grabbed lunch at the first cafe in the corner. Soups and sandwiches and salads, and we were off to Cheverny!

Oh Cheverny. You are such a tease. Also built as a hunting lodge (though now occupied full-time by the original family Hurault), it has kennels and stables, and does a public dog feeding most days. We wanted to get there by three so we could see it. 

We park, and as we're buying the tickets, I asked. And they had moved the time to 11:30! Their website was still wrong!

It was a sour note to start on, but we saw the dogs anyway, petting them through the bars of their kennel. We walked behind to the garden, and past that saw horses exercising in what looked like a giant revolving door. 

All of this was in the well-balanced shadow of the house. Not the monstrosity of Chambord, Cheverny was an enormous mansion - much more liveable in its decor and temperature. We all decided to learn the harp that was in the music room once we moved in. 

I was very impressed with their family tree. A few floors above, they were a good little castle and had a light-filled chapel. The nursery was a bit creepy with its vintage decor, which always means horror movies to me. 

We went back out into the frigid sun and hiked toward the maze, finding a frame that we had to pose in. As we were examining the map to figure out which direction it was in, we found a few circles labeled "arbor remarkable" - remarkable trees!

We then spent ten minutes at least attempting to get us and the house and at least one remarkable tree in the frame. Zach has the best panorama attempt I've ever seen, first in execution, secondly as a guest appearance. 

We had a slightly awkward amount of time before our meeting in Tours with our AirBnB host. With a bit more time, we would've swung by another château. With slightly less time, we would've coughed up the dough to take the expressway. As it was, we didn't pay the tolls, and we drove through more church-filled small towns to get to Tours. 

The address led us to a parking garage and an apartment building, but we were forced to park behind it on the street. Mark attempted texting the host, but we instead sent Zach and Carolyn to try and find her while Chris continued his napping. 

Carolyn returned half an hour after we'd parked, so we put in the 90 cents to finish up the evening and stay overnight, then lugged our bags up to a tiny elevator and shoved Carolyn in with them. 

The apartment was great. Our host had talked Zach's ear off about the area, how AirBnB works in France, how the amazing view to the Loire was even more amazing in the summer as restaurants and cars popped up to serve and play music. 

Well, with a toast to our host and a bottle or two of our own, we burned the time before it was an appropriate French dinner with the remaining Chinon. 

We walked the few blocks to the host's recommendation and were seated immediately by a young twenties waitress with her hair pulled back. After the aperitifs Mark and I had had the previous evening, I wanted to try the liquor-based drinks again. Chris and I got peach, Mark got a berry-flavor with Carolyn, and Zach got a red martini. It came with a balancing plastic dragonfly, which we teased him mercilessly for before attempting to drink our drinks with it on. 

Duck, chicken, other meats... I honestly can't remember what I ate (fish, maybe?) except that Chris was the only one to order dessert, and it was good. 

We dodged the dog poop, waved to the chapel, and climbed the five flights up to our apartment. Zach and Chris made sure to savor the view a bit more, but Mark and I had to be in driving shape by 7am. 

Vouvray, Azay-le-Rideau, Chinon - France, February 9, 2016

We were running a bit late, deciding that it would only take half an hour for us to pack and leave our hotel in Blois. 

So we left fifteen minutes late (and that included the receptionist flagging us down because she had mischarged us), and drove the 45 minutes to Champalou, one of Mark's friends Diane's recommendations. 

So, Burgundy is known for its Chardonnay and Pinot Noir - noble grapes that pick up the terroir. Vouvray is the land of the fun Chenin Blancs. Champalou - a mother-daughter enterprise - had a variety of those. A dessert wine and a few others got added to our collection. 

I'm going to sound like a broken record, but yet again, the weather cooperated. It wasn't nice, by any means, but it cooperated. On our drive over, it got darker and darker until it was a near whiteout with the rain driving at our windshield. We crossed a bridge and the wind was so strong it was barreling between the trees on the banks and hurling sticks at us! But, we climbed the hill to the winery in the car and it tapered off until it was just a smattering as we were parking. 

It was free to rain again (and did a bit) as we took the proprietor's recommendation to go to Azay-le-Rideau. However, if we headed straight there, we'd get in twenty minutes before noon - too early for lunch.

With that bit of time to spare, we skipped along a side street - looking for a corner store but ending up driving along a low cliff face that had caves built into it for storage and for living! The signage only talked about the collapses that have happened along there though...

We found what looked like an open tasting room along the road, and we were greeted by a giant dog. (He reminded me of Alisa's doggy love on the estate we stayed at in Portugal.) A 26-year-old came out and greeted us with a French-British accent. (She had worked in London - explains the accent - and 1989 was a great vintage for Vouvray - explains why I know her age.)

She gave us more detail about the region and process, since her English was nearly fluent, and we got to try dry to sweet whites, all with a bit of acidity. My favorite was a sparking brut. As someone mentioned when I was in California few months ago, sparkling wine is too good to save just for special occasions. Another few bottles for the collection...

We did eventually get to Azay-le-Rideau. The château there is under renovation, so we saw the covered scaffolding, and then wandered up an few deserted pedestrian streets in search of lunch. Thankfully, a creperie was open with exactly the warm savoriness I was craving. 

Lunch didn't take very long, so we were running early to our next wine tasting appointment. We took our time through the next giant rainburst through the woods of the Loire Valley to get to Château du Petit Thouars. 

The email I received said we should meet her father-in-law by the office under the arch. We pulled in and a grey-haired, slightly wizened man poked his head out and asked us for a few more minutes. It gave us time to circle the château - "only" five stories tall, but with a smaller footprint. Maybe five thousand square feet?

The first greeting we got when he was done was by Demitri, a Scottish terrier that put two wet paws prints on my jeans. The clouds had cleared for the moment, so we had dreamy blue sky for our walk around the property. 

Yves (we didn't actually find out his name until we were leaving) led us back to the front of the house to tell us its story. In the 15th century, it was built as a hunting lodge for a group of royalty from Thouars - hence the name Petit Thouars. 

The legend goes that Yves' ancestor was the treasurer for the royalty a century or two later, and the king told him that he was doing a good job, and as a bachelor, he could use a castle.

Well, he put the château to good use - generations of Aubert du Petit Thouars have lived there, and are still living there. 

At some point, vines were planted. The inventory from the 17th century had house wine on it, but when Yves inherited the building from his grandparents in the 70s, he had the vines replanted. 

Yves was in the construction business when he was younger, including some in the Middle East. His English was wonderful, so he was very engaging.

He really started opening up when Mark started talking about his work - making nautical charts. I was originally surprised at how much Yves connected to that (it stopped him in his tracks as we were returning from the vineyard), but, in retrospect, I think he was just realizing how much Mark would appreciate what came next. 

The cellars were fine - more moldy barrels than we've seen before, but the typical steel vats and pallets of unlabeled wine bottles. 

We had finished our official tour and went into the tasting room - stone floored with its own pallets of wine surrounding a wooden bar. Yves asked what we wanted to taste, and we picked a red, a rose, and a white. As he was picking through the bottles, Mark asked him about the coat of arms on the wall. The center was a shirt of chainmail, with anchors in the upper corners. 

It was then that all of the connections started coming out. Yves was a part of the French Navy during his service, just like a few of his ancestors. He eventually got on a tour that went to Tahiti - a goal for him, since his many-great-uncle was the captain of the ship that claimed Tahiti as part of French Polynesia. There's been four different naval vessels that have had the name Petit Thouars because of him.

The brother of this naval captain was a botanist, taking round-the-world voyages (and also surviving beyond his 30s to keep the du Petit Thouars going - the captain was a hero but killed during a battle at the Nile, at Aboukir Bay). The botanist discovered plants in Madagascar, and they've actually used some of his sketches for their wine labels. 

A different ancestor of his was in the French Navy, but came to help out America during our revolution. We essentially continued talking and talking until he took us into the future museum room on the property. The signboards were wonderfully and professionally done - though currently all in French. The art that was incorporated was partially from paintings he had hanging in the château! There were model ships and more stories. We heard again about another naval brother who was a part of a ship that was attacked by Japanese bandits while on a diplomatic mission, docked in Saika. The captain showed mercy on the bandits - after twelve of the twenty were executed, he asked for the rest of their lives to be spared. He lost twelve men, so it was a life for a life. The diplomatic mission turned out to be a great success. 

In the museum, he showed us more detail about Tahiti. The young queen Victoria was in a state of truce with the French king, but the captain didn't know that when he took Tahiti under the French flag. It turns out that there was a pastor named Prichard that was attempting to tell the Tahitian queen to become English, but the French naval ship won. It was called "L'affaire Prichard", so we turned up our noses at sneaky Prichard and headed back into the main tasting area. 

Mark asked to use the toilette, and, after we settled up with Yves, he took us into the château to "pee pee."

It was so interesting seeing the same elegant castle that's a museum in other places as a lived-in house. There were elegant paintings, leather bound books, model ships, and bright plastic toys all over the floor. 

Yves went on yet another bout of showing us paintings and ancestral connections. He had confided that the house was too quiet with his son and son's family off on a vacation to Madrid with the kids. 

Well, I hope we helped him liven up his day a bit. After over two hours (it was nearly five as we were leaving) and countless stories, we were on our way to Chinon for a final quiet night before the group starts building. 

Our hotel was a quaint thing on a city square in Chinon. We checked in with the concierge and her little terrier - much littler and much cleaner than Demetri. Our room was perfect for a little rest before dinner, then just minutes away from At'Able. 

We each had an aperitif - mine was kir (black currant) and Mark's was raspberry. Odd that they have sweet drinks before a meal (the rims were coated in sugar) and cheese after a meal. 

I had stuffed fish, Mark had duck - they were both fine. My starter of sweetmeats in puff pastry beat his fish-tasting tartine. 

The two half-bottles of red something and the conversation made it a dinner that lasted until bedtime. We climbed past the suit of armor to our room - and I still didn't let Mark take the sword. 

Savigny-lès-Beaune, Vézelay, Blois - France, February 8, 2016

I left a note for John last night since we didn't see him that we wanted breakfast a little earlier so we could leave at 9. I saw him when I went to put the first of the bags in the car and he was ready for us. 

It was grapefruit this morning instead of pineapple, and we stuck with the cheeses and jams instead of adding a softboiled egg, but the tea and everything was the same quaint setting. 

We got caught up in talking, again, including discussing the ineptitude of the French government according to them, and the amount of holidays. We also talked about their plans - they are selling their house and the adjoining buildings so they can really retire this time. (Apparently, that's what they were going to do until their friends put them in a guidebook as a B&B.) I'll get a commission if I find someone to buy their property, so if you are someone that wants to buy a 1.5€ million house to run a B&B in gorgeous wine country, hit me up. I highly recommend it (and I might get a commission if I find someone to buy it - I've got all the details if you hit me up!)

So we got to Henri de Villamont ten minutes late, and the tasting room around back was locked. There were quite a few cars, so I wondered if we missed a tour group? I played the dumb tourist and poked my head into a couple doors until I found an office who flagged down our host. 

She, as is the custom, walked us through the process, from the steel tanks where they do the alcoholic fermentation for both the Pinot Noir and the Chardonnay. (No oak casks for that here.) Then, it is piped down to the cellar which is fairly young at 140 years old, and aged in oak for the 12-18 months. They have over 60 different vineyard that they own or contract with, and all their wines are single vineyard, yet they only produce 200,000 bottles a year. 

The facility was built in the early 2000s, so it was definitely a counterpoint to Domaine Lejeune, which has been doing things the same for its seven generations of existence. 

We tried two whites and three reds, ended up with a bottle of each (though Mark and I completely disagreed on our favorites), and headed to Vézelay for a stop at a basilica before our ultimate destination on the other side of the country - the Loire Valley and Blois. 

We couldn't find exactly the Basilica of Saint Mary Magdalene on Google Maps (just one of the things Mark is good for), but an abbey of Vézelay came up and we assumed it was the same thing. 

We had turned off the A10 and on to smaller country roads that were quickly leading up a hill to an imposing church, and the clouds and rain that had plagued us cleared. For the second time in as many days, the weather broke right as we wanted to get out and explore.

A cobbled lane led steeply uphill, so I parked mostly off to the side in mostly a parking spot (our M.O. has been if someone else is parked there, we might as well). I was like 90% not on the yellow line. 

We approached the basilica as it started chiming noon. A few blocks up, and the chiming started behind us too. That's when I began to doubt Google Maps. 

Suspense over! Google was right! We reached the asymmetric spires of St. Mary Magdalene and pushed inside, out of the screaming wind. (It wasn't raining, but it wasn't really good weather either.) The vestibule led to the medieval sanctuary with barrel-like arches led to the Gothic nave with pointed arches, larger windows and more light. 

The crypt was underneath the altar, so after admiring some of the column toppers (at the advice of Rick Steves), we took the short flight of rock-carved stairs down to a small chamber. Against one wall was a wooden crucifix. Built into the other was what caused the spike in visitors in the 1100s and then the plunge into irrepair when the Pope took back his decree - the potential remains of Mary Magdalene. 

The relics were unassuming pieces of bones in a golden case. There was a basket of prayers on the two steps leading up to the glass covering the inset. 

We walked solemnly (and as quietly as possible in the echoey church) through to the offices and out the side. 

There's a museum and excavation that was closed, but the view over the surrounding area was open, and only got sunnier as we walked toward the low stone wall surrounding the park. No one is going to believe us that the weather was grey with all these pictures of sun-tipped cathedrals and countryside. 

The wind was no joke though. It was a view that merited a bit more time than we gave it, but I couldn't see due to my hair whipping in my eyes. 

There was a bistro that was right by where we parked the car that was open, and we walked as briskly as the wind down the hill. A nice old man greeted us as he rushed around with a catering order. We got some soup, a "sandwich" for Mark (a baguette with cheese and meat) and a Croque Monsieur for me (which, while "vegetarian", had some thinly sliced cured meat with the potato and egg on toast). My "ancient" hot chocolate was cocoa powder that I sweetened with sugar. Mark's glass of wine wasn't great. 

It was the right price and the right amount of time, though, so we headed to Blois, and our first château of the trip where the royal Apartments were the point, not the defensive positioning. We accidentally missed a turn and ended up across the river at first - though it was a gorgeous sight, so a very happy accident. 

We parked and got to the ticket office with 45 minutes until they closed, which the couple guards we ran into told us first in French than in English. We followed the signs through the first giant hall, where Louis III had a group of officials try to decide what would happen when he died heirless. 

The apartments were set up for François I and his queen, as well as for Catherine de Medici, who seems to have lived a captivating life. François did kill two brothers in two days, including one in the the bedroom we visited, so that his Protestant heir could take the throne, so it definitely wasn't a boring part of history. 

The apartments were the first to be very separated from the people the royalty ruled. Especially the court expected more access, but François didn't give it until a revolution forced him to take their recommendations into consideration. 

We were in the final rooms when a guard started sweeping along behind up, closing and locking rooms. We missed the fine art museum with its portraits, and the entire Neoclassical wing (skippable according to Rick Steves anyway), but got a view over the ramparts before being summarily asked to leave. 

We took a wander around the château from the outside. High old stone walls might harken back to when it was a fortress. We wound among the cobblestones, seeing a hint of old French city life as a woman opened fifteen foot wooden doors to a garage made of stone to park her car in. 

We moved the car to the street in front of the hotel, right near the train station. The front desk woman gave us a variety of suggestions for restaurants for dinner that were open on a Monday night. We have been incredibly fortunate that, while we never have an abundance of variety, we have been able to find something open to eat at everywhere we've gone. 

However, it was only 6pm - much too early for a French dinner. So we sat down and played a Scottish-themed board game (Glen More) with whisky barrels and clansmen. Mark would be happy that I'm reporting that he won a game he's never played before and I have. 

We took the recommendation of the closest restaurant, and did quick, dark, windy walk to a place with a goldfish in a giant wine glass. 

They brought out a fluffed goat cheese aperitif (can you use that on non-beverages?) while Mark decided on the beef of the day and I got shrimp and scallop risotto. 

Halfway through our first half bottle of wine, the dishes came out. Mine was good; Mark's was mouthwateringly good. Like, melt-in-your-mouth steak. 

He won for dessert too, getting a trio of mousse, lava cake, and a fudge-y bar. My ice cream was good - but extra good on his warm cake. 

So, with Mark solidly winning the evening, I got a comeback with a round of Duel. By the final game and final half bottle, he took back the lead. Tomorrow we'll see if that averages out at all.