GoldenBeeTours

We know we are in the tropics as soon as the flight attendants open the door of the airplane, in Belize City. The air is suddenly hot and humid, the sun and the colors intense and bright; quite a dramatic change from the cold weather we had left in the morning.  

But the contrasts don’t stop there. At the airport, people look warm and friendly - they actually smile and make eye contact when they speak in gentle voices! The pace is definitely different,   people seem to move to a different rhythm here. We would have to slow down to adapt. 

We still had to fly south to Cotton Tree Lodge, in the Toledo district. Waiting for us on the airport runaway was a small plane looking beaten and tired, not inspiring much confidence. To disguise my nervousness, I  joked with other passengers on the boarding line: ”Will this fly”? - I asked. Yes it will, they assured me. The airline – Mayan Air – is well known and reliable, they promised. ”Let’s hope they are right”, I thought. 

From the plane windows I  watched in awe the landscape below. First a lush vivid green carpet and small villages here and there; then the immense blue ocean, shining under the sun. Further on we moved over meandering rivers and farmlands, until that scene changed to a massive tropical jungle, dense, compact and mysterious. By the time we arrived in Punta Gorda, Belize’s southernmost town and our final destination, we had flown a long time over the rain forest.   

Bue we had not arrived yet.  At the “airport” in Punta Gorda, a small one room cabin with a smiling Mayan at the one desk, we met our driver Scott, a friendly looking Australian man in his 20′s. He would take us – finally – to Cotton Tree Lodge, in a funny looking old bus painted with the wildest colors and the Lodge logo. We had been flying for many hours - from New York to Miami, from there to Belize City, then on to Punta Gorda -  and we were exhausted. 

The road to the Lodge was a narrow and difficult dirt path. Scott stopped to give a ride to two Mayan looking men walking by it. They were all smiles as they came in greeting us, visibly happy to get a break from the intense heat. ”They are very poor around here”, explained Scott after they got out, closer to their village, Sant Anna. “We try to help them as much as we can, as they are nice people, and they don’t have cars or bycicles”. Laura and I looked at each other in disbelief. What a difference a day makes, I thought to myself. We have so much in the US, and here people live with so little…

As I was dwelling in the inequalities in life, we got to the Lodge. I felt so tired all I can remember is  a nice breeze suddenly blowing on our faces, enormous trees with trunks the size of houses, and the noise of birds and a river on the background. Gloria, another smiling Belizean, greeted us at the front desk as if we were old friends. She gave us the keys to our cabana, a beautiful rustic but comfortable construction standing on wood poles, surrounded by a veranda with two hammocks. The placee felt like heaven under the shady trees by the river. I unloaded and crashed in one of the hammocks.

“Tomorrow we’ll start exploring”, I thought, closing my eyes to enjoy the breeze. “Tonight all I need is a shower and some food”. 

But Laura was already in her bathing suit, heading towards the river.

I’ve just returned from a week in Belize with my 15 year old daughter Laura, who had time off school for Spring Break. And coming back from that tropical paradise to a cold and rainy New York was quite a shock… 

First of all, I would probably never have gone to Belize if it wasn’t for Laura. My younger daughter is one of those so called ‘green’ people, concerned about the environment, the indigenous populations, saving energy, the forests, the seas, the world – you get the picture. I do believe she will end up working in one of these fields in the future, and started to look for a place where she could explore her talents. I needed time off from my busy life in New York as well; little did I know that I was about to have such a great adventure. 

I had heard smart people taking about Belize before. Some scuba divers I know commented on its coral reefs being perfect for that sport, and they travel there religiosly. Magazines I like have been publishing articles on that small – but apparently very interesting - Central American country, and I had a feeling something was going on in Belize…  

Curious, I logged in The New York Times online, always a good start. In its Travel section, my favorite, I found a number of articles on many Belizean subjects: its preserved rain forest, Mayan population, Mayan ruins, snorkeling and scuba diving outfitters (a whole bunch) and so many positive traveler’s entries about a place called The Cotton Tree Lodge, in Southern Belize’s Toledo District, I just had to check it out.

I did look at their website cottontreelodge and I am glad I did. I was about to discover one real gem - a place so different from anything I had seen before, it took me few days there to start understanding what a great idea its American founders Chris Crowell and Jeff Pzena had had. Yes, the Cotton Tree Lodge – and Belize, for that matter – is one of those places we need to adjust to, before we start to ‘get it’.

But once we do, we’ll be hooked forever.

More tomorrow…

There are few things as rewarding as looking at the faces of our children. Seeing their faces on a portrait painted by a fine artist is an even more special experience, one of pure joy.   

This is what I experienced when The Connecticut Society of Portrait Artists – CSOPA - and the Greenwich Arts Council selected my daughter’s Chiara portrait, by Candance Taubner, to be part of their exhibition Faces of Winter 2008 – Fine Art Portrait Festival.  Selected by an independent jury from hundred of entries, these 57 portraits represented some of the most talented artists from Connecticut and New York. The show as a whole displayed - once again – the high standards of the CSOPA and the Greenwich Arts Council. 

Chiara’s portrait painter, Candance Taubner (photo), is known for an outstanding ability to reveal the essence of her subjects in her portraits. She says ‘the face is a universe unto itself – ever changing, surprising, mysterious and compelling. I seek to discover and reveal the essence of my subjects, no matter what age they are. It never fails that I find unique beauty in each person, and I delight in revealing it to them and to the world’.

Her portrait of my daughter is a proof that she achieved her goal, once more. 

Rio’s beauty dazzles visitors much before they land at Galeao airport. Even from the air, this Brazilian city of 8 million people looks spectacular: the blue waters of the Atlantic shining under the intense tropical sun, the white sands of its coastline against the lush green mountains, and – on top the the highest peak – a colossal statue of Christ, the Corcovado, blessing the city with open arms. The word dramatic doesn’t begin to describe this view.

No city I know matches the scale and the exuberance of Rio’s landscape, or displays such a colorful, musical and electric culture. Its natives, the cariocas, are warm, laidback, lively and fun. Rio is the city of samba, and its contagious beat is everywhere. On top of that, Rio’s Carnaval – the four days of hedonistic revelry right before Lent – is a feast to the eyes and Brazil’s biggest party.

Rio is not only blessed by its geography; its people are also drop-dead gorgeous. The city worships beauty in all its shapes and forms, and the sexiness of their women is well known. It was probably made famous by the song ‘The Girl from Ipanema’, a bossa nova tune talking about a regular girl walking to the beach. ‘Tall and tanned and lovely’, as the song goes, she was far from an isolated case: some of the best looking creatures anywhere are seen on Rio’s beaches everyday, showing off perfect and barely covered bodies. It was in Rio that the tanga - a tiny biquini that leaves very little to the imagination – was first spotted.

This general genetic good fortune might be attributed to Brazil’s notorious mix of races, but cariocas also put a lot of effort into health and beauty. At day break, the sidewalks of Ipanema and Copacabana beaches start getting crowded with joggers and walkers of all ages, a morning routine that’s part of life in Rio. And they not only take good care of themselves – they also love to talk about it. As soon as I arrive in Rio I hear about the latest workout fads or nutrition programs ‘guaranteed’ to prolong youth. Every friend seems to have a special vitamin mix, a cream to keep wrinkles off their tanned faces, a formula to make their skin shine or the hair grow stronger. Judging from their looks, these efforts are perfectly rewarded: it’s not uncommon for women over 50 to look like mid -’30s elsewhere. So much so that a friend of mine jokes that “Rio doesn’t know what a 50 year old woman looks like”.

While the aesthetic standards are very high , they are quite different from the ones in the Northern Hemisphere: round shapes and feminine curves are a must, ‘noticeable’ butts considered a blessing. Being skinny is associated with illness, not with elegance. Brazilians definitely have their own beauty guideliness, and they are proud of it. Not surprisingly, plastic surgery flourishes – Rio has some of the world’s best surgeons, and are they busy! More surgeries of this kind are performed there than anywhere else in the world.

With all this attention to beauty, one may be inclined to think that Rio is a superficial and frivolous society. Not at all. Life is not easy for a big part of the population; people work hard for their money, poverty is a reality in many areas, and crime a real problem in this metropolis of huge gaps between the haves and have-nots.

Yet, even the poorest of the poor is high on life and exudes a contagious joie de vivre. People with modest incomes save the whole year to buy a costly costume and be part of the Carnaval parade. Visit a favela, as the slums are called, and you will see broad smiles on every face, happy kids playing soccer on the streets, and crowded parties where on the weekends the samba beat goes on until the morning.

Rio, in spite of its problems, is a happy place; it lives by its own standards and moves to its own rhythm. One has to be able to step ‘out of the box’, so to speak, to understand the different set of values they seem to live by.

I think we can only attempt to do that by being there and getting immersed in their fun-loving culture. And once we understand it, we will love Rio forever.

Buenos Aires is one of my favorite cities in the world. And not only because it is a cosmopolitan city with loads of charm and world-class hotels, restaurants and shopping. The Argentine capital is also where South American culture meets its European roots, and the result is a vibrant and sophisticated city like no other.

Buenos Aires offers the advantages of international centers like London, New York or Paris – for a fraction of the cost. The exchange rate is 3 pesos for 1 dollar; to have an idea, dinner in a top restaurant with their great Malbec wines costs less than $10 per person. Let it also be said that the elegance and good looks of the Portenos, as the natives of Buenos Aires are called, add a lot to this city’s allure.

Not surprinsingly, our Tango in Buenos Aires tour, last November, was great. We arrived in the Southern Hemisphere at the end of their Spring, but the hot Summer days Buenos Aires is famous for had not yet started. Coming from a cold end of Fall in New York, this sudden change of weather was most welcome – coats were off right on arrival at Ezeiza Airport.

We were lucky with our hotel: five star Caesar Park Hotel was elegant and calm, yet in the center of Recoleta, one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of Buenos Aires. Surrounded by grand French-style mansions, embassies and upscale boutiques, we were right across the street from Patio Bullrich, an international shopping center offering from Chanel and Yves Saint-Laurent to the famous Argentine leather and wools.

But the main attraction of our tour was tango, and the high point of our days were dance classes in the San Telmo studio of Maria Edith. A warm and friendly tango dancer of international acclaim, she and her dedicated team of instructors introduced us to the magic world of this dance that – in its theatrical movements and dramatic sounds -embodies their culture. Maria Edith taught us not only steps, but also that for us women dancing tango means allowing our bodies to be led by our male partner, following his moves and control. A fascinating cultural experience, to say the least.

People in Buenos Aires love to have fun and seem to live by night; no self respecting citizen goes out to dinner before 9 pm, and the streets are full until late hours. We soon adjusted, and each night took us to a different great restaurant: for the famous Argentine beef we chose El Mirasol, in the La Recova area; meat never tasted that good. For a special treat with local flavor, we drove far away to La Boca, a working class neighborhood where tango was born and still rules, to a restaurant that is also a ‘shrine’ to soccer team Boca Juniors, the leading team in this city where soccer is almost a religion.

Oh, and the tango shows! Fantastic! Totally off-the-beaten-path and hard to find, was a presentation of Fernandez Fierro, a tango orchestra that is starting to attract attention the way Ástor Piazzolla did, before achieving international fame. The audience at this funky and far away place was mostly young people and Europeans, who always seem to know where the special attractions are. We did, too, and this show was one of the best we saw.

We had an excellent driver in Matias, a Porteno who knew his city well and made sure we were always safe. With him in tow we visited sophisticated Puerto Madero, hip Palermo Viejo, busy Calle Florida, the museums Evita and Malba, and many other sites in that culture-loving city. On our last day we were able to attend the opening match of the Argentine Open Polo Championships , the major polo tournament in the world; the Argentines are the undisputed leaders in the so called ‘sport of kings’. This event attracts a very international crowd, and nowhere else it is played quite like there – as Matias told us, explaining its rules. Nothing like a driver who knows his polo.

Only in Buenos Aires.

I enjoy Paris more when I rent an apartment than when I stay in hotels. And not only because I save money, but because I am able to do the very things that make Paris special – buying food at local shops, cooking new recipes, savoring a warm baguette for breakfast with the smell of fresh coffee coming from the kitchen. Real life things.

I guess I’m not alone, judging from the many rental agencies now specialized in short term leases for tourists. I’ve tried many, good and bad ones. I once got such a poorly equiped apartment I had to buy bed linens and a coffee maker. But after trial and error I came to like one agency called Allorenta. They not only have a good inventory of properties for any budget, in any part of town, they are also very correct.

Renting an apartment also allows me to explore the city the way I like – in a relaxed pace, walking, really getting to know a neighborhood. Paris must be seen by foot, and nowhere this is more true than in the Marais.

The Marais is perfect for walking. One of the oldest parts of the city, it is famous for narrow pedestrian-only streets with small specialty stores, good restaurants, trendy boutiques and inviting cafes ideal for short stops in the middle of the day. It is also the gay district of Paris – art galleries and shops offer the latest in clothes, shoes, home decoration and everything else in between. Even food looks better on their windows.

Some of those places are so ahead of their time that they merit a visit. Like L’Eclaireur, for instance, an impressive avant-garde style store-cum-gallery that no self respecting trend setter or fashion editor could ignore. Places like this abound in the Marais, and make sure Paris will remain the fashion capital of the world, hands down.

Last December, while in the Marais for the holidays, my favorite walking route started with leaving ‘my’ apartment on rue des Tournelles – just around the corner from excellent Brasserie Bofinger – and walking towards rue du Pas de la Mule. On the way I’d pass a small restaurant always full with locals, Bistrot de L’Oulette. Then I’d turn left at the corner and go to Cafe Hugo, a small place right on Place des Vosges. Named after French writer Victor Hugo, who used to live next door in what is now a museum with his name, the Hugo has good food and great views of the Place. It’s sidewalk tables are crowded even in the winter, thanks to movable heaters placed around an area covered in transparent plastic. I would just get a table and have a capuccino, watching world pass by – people watching is one of the greatest things to do in Paris.

After the Hugo I would visit the antique shops and art galleries under the arches of Place des Vosges, where all styles – from very contemporary to more traditional works – are represented. Moving on to rue des Francs Bourgeois, leaving Place des Vosges behind, I would pass rue de Turenne, where I just can’t haelp doing some window shopping at the many boutiques. This is an area crowded with sophisticated locals and well heeled tourists, all sporting the latest fashion styles as well as the newest iPhones and Blackberrys models. Lots of Americans there in December, by the way. So many, no one would say our dollar was $1.44 against the Euro, the weakest it’s been in a long time. God bless.

In spite of our ailing currency, I still love some to do a little shopping in the Marais: for white shirts I go to Anne Fontaine or Rayure; for the latest in fun designer clothes at reasonable prices there is La Piscine, on 13 rue des Francs-Bourgeois, where I always find something funky, yet elegant. Last time I bough such a good dress there, my 20 year old daughter just had to have it for herself.

I like to stay on rue des Francs Bourgeois passing rue Sevigne, then turn left on rue Pavee towards rue des Rosier, the heart of Jewish Marais. This is where the best delis and boulangers -bakeries – in Paris are located. If you like falafel, look no further. If you are a shoe lover, like me, there is Miguel Lobato, on 6 Rue Malher, right beyond rue des Rosiers. Many elegant women I know shop there for their great selection of fine shoes.

I find rue des Rosiers one of the most charming in the city, and like to spend time there when I am in Paris. Mid-way through it there is a deli called Chez Marianne, a perfect spot for a mid-afternoon break. From there I walk on to rue du Vieille du Temple, home to many gay bars and boutiques. After browsing their interesting store windows, I turn left at rue du Roi de Sicile. Sometimes I go to a creperie called Page 35, at 4, rue du Parc Royal. It is a small place a bit removed from this crowded center, but their crepes are great and the service very pleasant.

There is much more to the Marais than restaurants and boutiques: there is the Carnavalet Museum, about the history of Paris, a great Picasso Museum that covers the whole extent of his works and many cultural activities any time of the year. One needs time to see the whole Marais.

As I never have that much, I usually return to New York before getting to the end of my “to see” list.

Next time, hopefully.

I had actually been briefly to the Marais once, before the memorable lunch at L’Ambroisie I described before. I was there to have dinner with my family and a Colombian baby sitter we had then, Tatiana.

We had just arrived in Paris after a two week vacation in the South of France, where we had rented a house in Mougins, near Cannes. At he hotel we were staying for one night someone mentioned a restaurant called Ma Bourgogne, on Place des Vosges, and we decided to have dinner there. The next morning we would be flying back to New York.

I remember the date very well: August 31st, 1997. Dinner was nice, the place very interesting, but by 10 pm the kids were tired, and we headed back to our hotel. We will never forget that night: it was the night Princess Diana died in a car crash in Paris. And we had passed on the same tunnel the accident took place, only half an hour before.

We learned about it the next morning, checking out of the hotel. Tatiana had been out and came back almost in tears: “Princess Diana died not far from here last night”, she said. I remember the silence that fell upon all of us in the hotel lobby. No one could say a word.

That strange silence stayed with us on the way to the airport. Paris was quiet that morning, there was a weird stillness in the air, even the driver said nothing. My then ten year old daughter commented on how quiet things were and on Princess Diana’s death. I replied with something like “she was a beautiful person and she died in the most beautiful city”. But no one really talked much.

We got to a Charles de Gaulle airport heavy with security guards, at the same moment Prince Charles‘ Royal Air Force jet was landing. He had come to Paris to claim Diana’s body. Unreal.

A long time after that date, I learned that the young French woman who, with her doctor boyfriend, got to Diana’s car crash site before anybody else, was the daughter of someone I knew well. The girl herself had been my guest in New York, years before. Small world we live in…

I still remember well the days that followed, the amazing display of emotions worldwide, the feeling that Diana left too early. Some people capture our imagination more than others, I guess. She had something different, something hard to describe – she was real.

I never met her, but each time I return to the Marais and beautiful Place des Vosges, I remember Diana. And I feel that we all lost something, that night in Paris.

I first fell in love with the Marais district of Paris in 1998.

I was coming to Paris via Geneva, Switzerland, where I had left my 11 year old daughter in a summer camp at a school called Le Rosey. It was the first time she was going to be away from home, and I was a bit anxious about it. Friends had assured me that the school was a great place for girls to learn French fast. I knew it had a good reputation, but still… It’s a long way from home in New York, I was thinking all along.

Knowing how I was feeling, my friend Sherry decided to come along to help. Our plan was to come back to New York via Paris, after spending few days in the French capital. I would make sure my daughter was fine in Geneva, before returning to the US. It was also a good excuse to see Paris again, of course.

The night before we left Geneva, Brazil lost the world soccer championship to France. I was born in Brazil, and soccer is a serious business for us. Needless to say, I was not in a good mood leaving Geneva.

We got to Paris in the midst of huge commemorations. Our taxi driver decided to bypass Avenue des Champs Elysées, which – he said – was chockfull of people going crazy about France’s victory over Brazil. He then left us at our Ritz Hotel, but even that normally quiet heaven was in a festive mood – I had never seen so many French flags on Place Vendôme.

It was at the Ritz that we first heard of a restaurant called L’Ambroisie, one of the ‘tres grandes tables’ of Paris, assured us the concierge. They were fully booked for dinner that night; would the ladies be interested in lunch the next day? Yes, we were. “Anything”…

I felt better the next morning; a night at the Ritz can cure me of any woes. The always perfect doorman put us both on a taxi and told the driver: “Place des Vosges”. I remembered from French classes that Place des Vosges had been the residence of French writer Victor Hugo, of Les Miserables fame, but I was not familiar with it. We were in for quite an experience…

One enters Place des Vosges through vaulted arches that separate it from the rest of the Marais area. It is the oldest square in Paris, a perfectly symmetric square surrounded by houses with the exact same facade. The feeling is of being back to the Middle Ages – finished in 1612 to commemorate the wedding of King Louis XII with Anne of Austria, the square and the houses around it were built with red bricks and strips of yellow stone resting over square pillars. For centuries these were the homes of the French aristocracy. Easy to see why.

Our lunch at L’Ambroisie didn’t disappoint, either. Starting with the building itself, a hotel particulier facing the square – antique tapestries on the walls, chairs covered in velvet, wood floors – everything reminded of old world elegance and of a different, more refined era. The food was extraordinary; each new serving opened the way to new tastes and nuances never experienced. The plates were so beautifully presented, that at a table next to ours few Japanese gentlemen – all dressed in identical blue suits – were filming it all. As soon as the waiter placed the food in front of them, each man would get a camera, point it to his plate, and start recording. We were so amused by the scene we could not help watching. Even the cooks came out of the kitchen to look.

After dessert, a waiter brought us a tray of cigars to choose from. Visibly confused as to whom to offer them first, as cigars are always offered to men, he clearly felt better when Sherry told him “we don’t smoke cigars, thank you. Our husbands do, but they could not be with us today”. We all laughed at the sign of relief on his face.

This was a long, delicious and memorable lunch, one never to be forgotten. Leaving that temple of great food and getting back to the ‘real’ world, we took time to walk around the Marais. Charmed by its beautiful architecture, we were at the same time surprised at how lively, modern and hip the area was. It is full of art galleries, bistros, brasseries, special boutiques and people from all over the world. We just loved it, and vowed to go back some day.

It wouldn’t be this time I would see the Marais again. Back at the hotel, there was a message for me: my daughter was not happy in the summer camp, and needed to see me. Immediate change of plans: I would be on the next train back to Geneva. As for Sherry, she decided to go to London visit her Wellesley friends who live there, before returning to New York.

Never a dull moment, I thought to myself, as my train slowly left Paris…

I was in Paris for the Reveillon, as the French call the New Year celebrations. The weather was typical winter in Paris, cold and grey with occasional light rain, but the city was beautifully dressed up for the holidays and full of people from every corner of the world.

While we are all used to Paris being full of tourists no matter when we go, there are newcomers to the scene now: Chinese, Russians and Eastern Europeans, people who could not travel when I first started going to Paris, many years ago. That has changed, and now on one single block in Paris we hear more different languages than anywhere else; it is really where the world meets to celebrate.

Right after I arrived I went Theatre des Champs-Elysees to get tickets for a show I had heard a lot about while still in New York: Sara Baras Ballet Flamenco, a Spanish dance company performing in Paris for a short and booked season. I was lucky and got one of the last remaining seats. Sara Baras’ flamenco is modern, totally different from the traditional flamenco shows I had seen in the past. This is a young, energetic and passionate dance group, and their performance is visually amazing. After the show I had dinner across the street at Café du Theatre, where by chance the dancers were eating; I asked one of them when the group would come to NY. “December 2008”, he replied. I plan to see them again here. Yes, they are that good.

On the magazines stands around town many publications brough photos of president Sarkozy and his new girlfriend Carla Bruni, an Italian ex-model well known in France. She seems to be much younger than the recently divorced Sarkozy, but this being France, no one seems to care. As for Cecilia Sarkozy, the president’s ex-wife, no news and no magazine cover, which is probably just the way she likes it; Cecilia was always too private for the kind of attention a first-lady of France attracts.

The restaurants, bistros and bars in Paris were all crowded, but with a little patience one can always find a table for any type of budget. The most acclaimed places require advanced reservations, of course; but unless you really have to be in a 3 star Michelin restaurant, the options were many, and delicious. This is something I love about Paris – I don’t have to spend a fortune to eat well, like in New York. Even with the Euro now at $1.4 a good meal can still be had at a reasonable cost.

Shopping is another deal – it’s now more expensive to buy anything, due to our weak dollar. But even now I still get good quality for less. I simply avoid the big stores full of eager tourists, and always end up with nice purchases that would cost much more in New York. I like to remind myself that it is taste which makes Paris what it is, not money. On the same token, it is the Parisians different priorities in life which allow them to enjoy life the way they do.

This was always the case in Paris, but even more so now. A Parisian friend if mine told me that many of the city’s top chefs are now refusing to submit to the rigid and costly criteria of the Michelin guide, traditionally the publication that rates all restaurants in France. For the Michelin, three stars are the equivalent of perfection in a restaurant, but many chefs are choosing to be more creative with less expensive menus, she told me. The idea is to keep in mind younger and less affluent clients, without sacrificing the food. I find this trend very useful as we enter 2008. And it had to start in Paris, where else?

On the evening of the 31st, the streets were crowded and the stores open until later, so people could buy what they needed to cook meals at home, where most Parisians celebrate the Reveillon. On ‘my’ building, families with children came in carrying huge food trays wrapped in aluminum foil, all dressed up in their best outfits, the women in their impossible – and glamorous – high heels.

The subway – Metro – was free that night, all gates open without the need for tickets. When I asked why, my friend looked surprised: “well, the people who work on the Metro also want to be with their families”, she said. Sure, I thought. And the government would not dare to disagree, God forbid. Vive la difference!

To have our own dinner, we headed to the 7th arrondissement (district), where we had reserved a restaurant close enough to the Eiffel Tower to allow us to see the fireworks, yet far enough to avoid the huge crowds going the same way. Our small but charming La Taverna proved to be a good choice: Italian food of the highest quality and a prix fix Reveillon menu for 60 Euros per person, plus wine. For appetizer, we had ravioli of fois gras; main course was coquille St. Jacques with artichoques beautifully served in plates with a deeper middle (not like soup plates, different), so the sauce doesn’t spill. Not too many tables, and far enough apart so people could talk without having to whisper. The service was attentive but not fussy. Oh, the address: 22, Rue du Champs-de-Mars, Paris 75007, phone 01 45 51 64 59. La Taverna is on the Pudlo guide of Paris, if you want to read their review.

At midnight of the 31st a law banning smoking in public places went into effect in France. We joked about that, as the couple sitting next to us was chain smoking since we arrived. “Let them enjoy their last cigarettes”, we said. “Soon enough they won’t be able to do so in restaurants anymore”. I actually wonder how the French will cope with this restriction, as smoking seems to be part of their character…

After dinner we walked few blocks to the Eiffel Tower, streets mobbed with people going on the same direction. Cars honked, people sang in many languages, a contagious festive atmosphere. I thought of my very tough year, now behind, and I felt hope in this new one. In my heart I asked for health and peace for me and my family. And that I may always be able to see Paris when I need it. It heals me.

A fine rain started to fall, but no one seemed to care. The Tower was lit like a dame ready for a party in a royal palace, quite a sight in the middle of the night! At 12 o’clock people toasted the New Year, hugged and kissed. The Tower stood there, sparkling in shining golden lights, solid and sure of her own beauty, the center of it all. I cannot imagine a better way to begin a New Year!

I called my children back in the US, where it was still 2007. May this New Year bring us all we most desire, we said. May we all have peace. May we never forget that love is what makes the world go around. All the rest we can manage.

And may we always have Paris.

Happy New Year to all!