From Paris the goal was northern Spain, either Bilbao or San Sebastian. A couple weeks ago the only decent route was a direct flight from Paris to Bilbao; even though we prefer traveling overland, the price and timing were both so much better, we figured we’d do that. But … we didn’t know exactly when we would want to leave Paris, so we didn’t book it right away. And by the time we were ready to book the tickets they had more than quintupled (yes, quintupled) in price. Good thing, of course; had we booked them we couldn’t have had that last dinner with Chris & Joey.

So we turned to Plan B. We took a high-speed train down to Bordeaux for an overnight stop just to break up the longish trip to San Sebastian. Train travel is so much less stressful than flying unless, of course, you’re sitting with a potential ax murderer. There was this young guy sitting across from us, seemed pleasant enough. Very quiet. All he did for the three-hour trip was sit with several different colored pens and copy a “sentence” in tiny script, one color for each “letter,” over and over and over. And over. I should qualify both “sentence” and “letter” – they were symbols that bore no relationship to any alphabet I’ve ever seen. But there he was, hour after hour, writing, writing, writing. Same “sentence,” different colors for each symbol. Over and over. Never said a word. And I didn’t ask, since I didn’t want an ax in my back as I left the train.

The exciting thing about Bordeaux was that we were here last summer. I used a trick my brother Al showed me to filter our expense spreadsheet and, while in the taxi to the hotel, identified the two restaurants we’d really liked when were here last and the bar that made the best Manhattans. When we checked into the hotel the guy at the desk was going to suggest some restaurants, but no, I knew just where I was going for steak tartare. Normally we really try to avoid one-night stops (and one-night stands, for that matter), but in this case we knew the city pretty well so it worked just fine to stop, enjoy a couple good meals and then continue on the next afternoon.

The other great thing about Bordeaux was the weather, mostly sunny and in the low 60s. After six days in cold, damp Paris it was like heaven; we just loved wandering around for the afternoon and morning before catching our train across the Pyrenees to San Sebastian.

The last time we were in Paris, I wasn’t sure I was still in love with the city. I was recovering from a pinched nerve, we’d spent weeks in France already, the weather wasn’t great, and somehow the magic wasn’t there.

Coming back for my 60th birthday celebration, though, the magic returned. It’s not that the weather had turned great; it was cold and damp nearly the whole time we were there. But the rest of it was fabulous. I’m sure it didn’t hurt that we were sharing the city, and my birthday, with my sister Rebecca, Mark’s sister Jeanne, and our great friend Laura (she of recent Greece travels). So for four days the five of us walked, strolled, and wandered. We ate and drank our way around the city.

There’s one story worth telling. On her first morning ever in Paris, my sister and I went for a run. I was surprised by how dark it still was at 7:00 AM, but that’s a great time to run. I showed her how to get down to the river and then took off on my own. Just a mile or so into her run, she fell on some uneven pavement … and ended up with a gash in her hand requiring stitches and, we’ve since learned, perhaps a torn rotator cuff. Bleeding and sore, she got back to the hotel on her own before we insisted she go to the emergency room.

So off we went to Hôtel-Dieu, dating from the 7th century and thus the world’s oldest hospital. Service was great; they saw her initially in about 15 minutes and had her sewn up within maybe 90 minutes. My biggest concern was when I used the rest room while she was in with the doctor and found there was no soap or even soap dispenser – in a bathroom in a hospital! I was tempted to barge into the room where she was being treated to see if there were leeches or anything.

And then there’s the whole billing thing. We now have a bit of experience in French emergency rooms but have yet to receive a bill for a single penny. In theory the Hôtel-Dieu is supposed to send Rebecca a bill to her home in Duluth but I’ll believe it when she sees it.

Beyond that – great fun, great food, great friends – there’s not much to say about Paris that hasn’t already been said so I’ll let the pictures do the talking.