Medical Care – Tales and Travel

Hotel California II

For background, see previous post « Hotel California „

Improvement. Madame Cadre ( MC, big boss) was true to her word when she promised me a « nice surprise » after the obligatory 3-week waiting period at this rundown rehabilitation center. My original room had neither toilet nor shower. The surprise: a « luxurious « room with both. And, I still have access to the broken balcony with the spectacular view.

View of Golfe-Juan on the Mediterranean from the balcony

The physical therapy staff also granted me an upgrade: an electric wheelchair to replace the hand operated one I had been given. It was huge, intimidating, shabby, old – not like the smaller versions most residents had. « It’s very easy. Just like driving a car , » I was told.

Not for me. The monster took off like a missile, reminding me of those bumper cars at amusement parks. I hated them. I frequently got stuck, a perfect target for others to crash into. No one crashed into my wheelchair, but I had three collisions into walls. Major collisions. My broken leg took the hit. I was nervous. I can do this, I told myself, and concentrated on mastering the speed controls. Too late. The powers that be took it away from me. I was delighted.

Hotel California, properly known as Helio Marin, is rehabilitation facility in Vallauris, France, specializing in the treatment of amputees and those with serious, multiple injuries.

After my third surgery for a complicated break of the femur (first repair broke after six months) and a semi-paralyzed arm resulting from a failed reverse shoulder replacement of a broken shoulder, this was said to be the best place for my recovery.

Picnic at Helio Marin with my faithful visitors: Jo, Sir Dickens, Angi and Erika

I soon learned that my injuries were minor compared to others. Many much younger residents are recovering from ski, bicycle, surfboard, car and motorcycle accidents.

Horrendous accidents.

Emmanuel, 40s, crashed his bicycle into a car. He broke his spine, tibia, ankle and hip. „I had six surgeries within 10 days,“ he told me. One surgery lasted seven hours.

The serious cyclist, who has ridden as many as 250 kilometers in one day, likes to ride the challenging costal mountain terrain in this region. He has been at Helio Marin since December, but is beginning to walk and will go home soon. He looks forward to getting back on his bike.

Aladdin, 26 , races around in his electric wheelchair as if training for a wheelchair Formula I. He had taken leave from his job at the tech company Amadeus to visit „ 26 countries“ by car. He was celebrating super success. On weekends he worked as a salesman in Monaco for a „ super yacht“ company. (Starting price $15 million). He had made a sale.

While driving in rural Greece, he hit a pig. The airbags inflated. He lost control and slammed into a wall. He broke his spine and spent six weeks in an Athens hospital only able to move his eyes up and down, back and forth, to indicate yes and no.

He remains positive, always smiling, chatting with others. He likes Snickers bars, and offered me one. Another time he presented me with his French fries from a delivery order. A welcome treat. No fries served here. Aladdin is an inspiration.

Tahar is a retired gardener originally from Tunisia. He said he is the only amputee here who lost a leg in an accident. The others are victims of diabetes. He lives in Grasse, the perfume capital of France, and was using a rotary tiller to tend the roses for the upscale cosmetics firm, Lancôme. His foot slipped into a hole and his leg got caught in the blades. Like Aladdin, he has a warm and welcoming smile. He was eager to tell me about his various gardening jobs, which he obviously loved. No self-pity, but he did say learning to walk with a prothestic leg is very difficult.

Patrick, 43, broke his spine in a whooper motorcycle accident. I often see him sitting outdoors in the sun after lunch. He told me about his accident and said he was not expected to live. In addition to losing feeling and movement in his legs, an arm is damaged and the accident has affected his voice. He is originally from Iceland, but lives in Menton with his partner and four-year-old daughter. A doctor told him he would not walk again which infuriated him. „How dare he ruin my hopes.“ He intends to seek other opinions.

Gerard, 19, broke both femurs attempting a ski jump. He fell, and the skis landed straight up, tails in the snow. The bindings did not release. Like me, he has had femur surgery and rods have been inserted to stabilize both legs.

Jean Michel, early 40s, was whacked in the neck with his surfboard. He was immobile. „I could have drowned.“ His buddies saved him as well as emergency surgery for a compressed spine. „I was very lucky,“ he said.

Of course there are many older patients like me, victims of falls.

In the late 19th century heliomarine sanitoriums were established to treat tuberculosis patients. They were near the sea to profit from the sun‘s rays and sea air. Those remaining, like Helio Marin in Vallauris, are now rehabilitation facilities.

The stepped concrete structure of Helio Marin was designed by architect Pierre Souzy and completed in 1937. It is unique and had to be considered avant garde almost 100 years go.

Unfortunately the building has been sadly neglected. There was talk of tearing it down and building a luxury hotel. The site is spectacular. However, due to its age the building is a protected structure and can only be used for medical purposes.

I had to wonder if that old electric wheelchair they gave me had been rescued from the dusty recesses of the attic. Nevermind, as one on line reviewer wrote:

„In spite of the delapidation, the care and staff are good, and that‘s the most important. „

If not a Tales and Travel follower, please sign up here. Don’t miss future posts. Check out my recipes, right column.

With visitors Ralph and Gayle. They brought me balloons and a rose.

Hotel California

Welcome to the Hotel California, but it’s a hospital, not a hotel. Nonetheless I instantly thought of that Eagles hit song from 1977 when I entered this bizarre place.

„This could be heaven or this could be hell“

…And she showed me the way

There were voices down the corridor

Thought I heard them say

…”And I was thinkin to myself

Welcome to the Hotel California

Such a lovely place. Such a lovely place.“

My room: Old, shabby, paint chipped walls, a big hole in the ceiling. Ahh— but the view from the 4th floor balcony is splendid with the Mediterranean Golfe-Juan in one direction, and the Bay of Cannes in the other. “A postcard view,” as a visitor said.

I am here for therapy following my third femur surgery since my great fall last June (see a previous post, My Sorry Story). Helio Marin, this facility, has a sterling reputation as a rehabilitation center, although as I looked around that seemed hard to fanthom. I was seduced by the view and figured I could tolerate the depressing room — until I pulled back the plastic curtain and glanced into the minuscule bathroom. NO TOILET.

I completely freaked out. “ There is no toilet in the bathroom,“ I shouted to the aide who had led me to my new home. That is true, she said, but there is a toilet down the hall. What? This is 2024 and the rooms do not have toilets. I was incredulous, thinking back to student days traveling with “Europe on $5 day.” That was then — some 60 years ago. I am old, too old for down-the-hall bathroom treks.

“I cannot stay here.“ I was upset, angry, bewildered. “ I will call the „Cadre“ (big boss),“ the aide said. Madame Cadre (MC) appeared. Medium length, straight dark red hair. Glasses. Stern demeanor. No welcome smile, but a piercing stare meant to instill fear.

I was adamant. I insisted that I needed a room with a toilet, that I could not make the trips down the hall. “Why not? You can walk.“

“Lady, I am in a wheelchair. I can’t walk. That’s why I am here.”

She stated that this was the only room available. Take it or leave it, but she could put me on the waiting list for a better room with toilet.

I was frantic. I called the hospital where I had the recent surgery. They had arranged for me to come here. Please find me a room somewhere else, I pleaded. The woman in social services insisted this was the best place for my recuperation. Just be patient. You will get a better room, she said. The other facility she had recommended had no rooms.

I was stuck. It was either stay here or go home. I knew I was in no condition to go home and take care of myself.

I did not unpack, hoping I would have a better room in a few days. I gazed into the bathroom one more time. No shower either. That too is down the hall. Nothing to do but retreat to the balcony and let the view soothe my troubled soul.

Not for long. MC returned. “What are you doing out there? It’s dangerous, forbidden,“ she screamed. „Get in here.“ I dutifully wheeled myself back inside. This was too much, like a bad dream.

I later learned the balcony, a wide structure with the rooms opening onto it, is like everything here: Old. It is wooden, rotting and in danger of collapse. You can tread lightly at your own risk, but only on the initial portion. The area near near the edge is off limits. When MC departed, I disobeyed and ventured to the edge, the best place for photos. I was not the only one.

The next day I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair, yet there was a problem. I had neither towel nor wash cloth. You are expected to bring your own. How was I to know? During previous hospital experiences, they had been provided. Someone scrounged up a towel for me. I asked an aide if I could have a disposable wash cloth. I know they come in packages of 100. Hospitals use them.

„I have to ask the Cadre“ he replied. Madame’s answer: NO! I was not entitled to a disposable wash cloth. I obviously had not endeared myself to MC. I would be punished.

Originally a plaque supported my broken femur. It too broke and has been replaced by a rod.

According to the Helio Marin welcome brochure, for a fee you can have laundry service. I asked my friendly morning nurse team about it. They only knew of a washing machine and dryer for the use of patients. But, they would ask the Cadre. I told them not to bother, that she did not like me.

“Don’t worry. She does not like anyone.”

Bottom line. Brochure lied. There is no laundry service. The washer and dryer only work with payment by credit card. When I checked in, I had been advised to leave valuables (cash, jewelry, credit cards ) with the office for safe keeping. I did.

Now I had to go back and sign out a credit card to do my laundry. What about detergent?

You can buy it at “Snack”, I was told. Wrong. Snack has no detergent for sale. My dirty clothes had to wait for my friend Karen to bring me detergent.

My Sorry Story

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the King’s men
Could not put Humpty together again.

Like Humpty Dumpty, Leah (me) had a great fall. I was luckier than the egg. Dr. Chole, 32, an orthopedic surgeon in Nice, put me back together.

After this whopper of a crash, she had multiple pieces to repair. I suffered an open break of the femur. The bone on my right leg broke in several places above a knee prothesis. And, I broke and dislocated my left shoulder. During my 72-day hospital stay, I fell again and fractured the sacrum and pelvis.

It was challenging enough to cope with the damage and pain, but there was more grief to follow. About a month after my fall, my precious husband Bob died. He had been suffering from Alzheimer and living in a care home following his great fall last December. (see previous post, “Christmas without the Merry”)

My last “happy” picture of Bob. Minutes later he fell at the Nice Christmas market. It was all down hill after that.

I visited daily until disaster hit. He became very ill due to an infection. I was bedridden, immobile in a hospital. No way to visit. I was devastated, heartbroken. I needed, wanted to be with him. (More about Bob in my next post.)

Here’s the sorry story of my great fall: On June 7, as usual I was stressed and in a rush. I unloaded grocery bags near the elevator in the building basement, parked the car, and came back to proceed to the apartment. My mind and eyes were somewhere else. I tripped and fell over the bags, flying into a wall. I tried to get up. Impossible. I panicked, screamed, yelled for help. Finally, a resident came and called an ambulance.

First step: Give that woman drugs. They did, and I don’t remember anything after that until Dr. Chole in the Pasteur hospital emergency room explained my injuries and said she would operate.

I was told by a neighbor that the ambulance crew spent more than an hour before moving me. They called for a portable X-ray machine to make sure I had not broken my back. Apparently there was a lot of blood from the open break.

All unbeknownst to me. I woke up in the recovery room. What had I done? My leg, and arm and shoulder were enclosed in some type of heavy-duty armor. I could barely move.

For the next two- and one-half weeks I was bedridden at the hospital, but not without more trauma. Three days after the orthopedic surgery I suffered an intestinal occlusion. This meant another operation. Fortunately a very skilled surgeon performed laparoscopy. Unfortunately, during that surgery the repaired shoulder was moved which undid the repair work. I would need another shoulder surgery.

This can’t be real. A tsunami of tragedy and bad luck. If I hadn’t been taking strong pain killers (opioids), I might have cracked.

A week later, surgery #3. This time Dr. Chole performed a reverse shoulder replacement.

I had tubes in my arms, one in my nose, another in my bladder—all very unpleasant. As I lay there day after day, I thought about Bob who has suffered, and at that time was still suffering, tremendously. I thought about soldiers, their bodies ripped apart by war. How many surgeries did they endure? Would they ever be normal?… I can do this.

Comic relief lightened the load at times. Julie, a bright, bouncy young aide sang along with Tina Turner bellowing from her phone as she worked. She liked to practice her English.

One morning as she was giving me a sponge bath, she handed me a wash cloth with the command, “Please refresh your pussy.” Did she say what I think she said? Plenty of laughs instantly chased away the blues. I explained and gave a quick English lesson.

The professor doctor, the intestinal surgeon who spoke good English, arrived most mornings with his entourage of diligent students. I had repeatedly asked him to remove the nasty tube in my nose. “You need to poop and fart first,” he replied. I laughed, not expecting a distinguished professor to use such terms. We then had a discussion on more acceptable terminology for these bodily functions.

An aide treats my incision, 25 cm or 10 inches long held together by 41 staples.

I left Pasteur, the hospital in Nice about 50 minutes from my apartment, and moved to a rehabilitation hospital in Menton, not far from Cap Martin where I live.

There was not much rehab during the first few weeks. I was basically still immobile. With relief and joy, after too many weeks I shed those dreadful cast- like contraptions.

With my improvement came daily therapy sessions. Therapy also included weekly meetings with a psychometrician, and an occasional session with a psychologist.

The therapy room is spacious, bright and filled with all sorts of equipment. A large staff of qualified therapists tend to patients who practice walking on tracks with parallel bars, work out on exercise bikes, follow sessions of chair exercises and more. Eventually I was able to go to the therapy pool for water exercise, my favorite.

Many patients are old like me, recovering from falls. But there are also young, some learning to walk on artificial limbs. This puts it all in perspective.

Steve and Yoshie took me in my wheel chair to the new port in nearby Ventimiglia,Italy.

I enjoyed the therapy, but definitely suffered from cabin fever. Thanks to my brother Steve and his wife Yoshie, I escaped the hospital on August 18. They arrived from Boulder to help and take care of me for a month.

I sent them on errands They were a team, Steve driving my 4 speed Suzuki and Yoshie navigating. Steve was not thrilled with the driving in these parts: lots of narrow, one way streets; a multitude of tourists, and even more motorcycles and scooters. Not for the faint of heart.

I never would have survived without them. We ordered supplies from Amazon to create a handicap friendly environment in my apartment. Steve was skilled in assembling all. Yoshie was my nurse extraordinaire.

The homecoming welcome committee. My “girls” Simba and Oprah joined me in bed on my first night home.

It’s wonderful to be back in my apartment. I enjoy the company of my two cats, a stupendous view of the sea and mountains — and freedom. I return to the rehab center three afternoons per week for several hours of different types of therapy.

Recovery is slow, too slow for me. I need to drive. I want to walk normally. I can walk with my hiking poles, but only for very, very short distances. Too painful after that. My left arm only moves so far, not far enough to maneuver a steering wheel.

Home sweet home. Simba and Steve bonded.

In desperation I went to my general practitioner. I complained about the lack of speedier progress. He gave me a quizzical look.

“You need a year.”

There is a moral to this sorry story. Move slowly. Be alert. Watch where you walk. Manage stress.. Don’t end up like me – or worse, Humpty Dumpty.

.(Most all of my care — surgeries, medications and x-rays, hospital stays, therapy, plus transportation by ambulance to and from the rehab center three times per week, is paid for by the French social security system. As a resident of France, I am entitled to these benefits. I also have a supplemental insurance which covers the portion not covered by the state.

More outings now that I can walk with poles, even if only a few meters. Here with friend Angie.

If not a Tales and Travel follower, please sign up here. Don’t miss future posts.

In the Merde

Yes, in deep and desperately needing escape. I/we cannot get out from under the ominous, all-encompassing black cloud which has bombarded us with one disaster after another. What did we do to deserve this merde? Did someone put a hex on us, cast a black magic spell of evil?

The current calamity ranks as the worst, yet those preceding were far more than minor photo.hex mishaps. (see previous posts: “Prisoners in an Airbnb Apartment” and “China II: The Fall”).

More merde followed those catastrophes but let’s start with the present which began the afternoon of April 10.

I was typing away at my computer when a frantic husband ran in screaming. “I need some ice. I need some ice quick.” Too hot? He needs a cool drink? No such luck. He related that he had fallen from a ladder while trimming a tall bush.

I was not terribly sympathetic. At his age, he has no business on ladders. Last summer he fell out of a tree when trying to trim. He has fallen off the wall in front of our property when cutting shrubbery. He relishes climbing a wobbly ladder into our attic. ladder - Copy Climbing must have been one of his favorite boyhood exploits. But, he is a boy no more.

He had an enormous lump on his calf. We iced it down. He was in pain, but he could walk/move with no problem. Nonetheless that evening we went to the emergency room at the Manosque hospital, about a half hour away.

And, there we spent 3 ½ hours. Leg was x-rayed. Nothing broken. We were told to wait and see the doctor again. We waited and waited. Many of those who arrived after us had seen doctors and left. My patience and nerves were shattered. I had a killer migraine. Bob was getting antsy. We learned our doctor was on the telephone dealing with a very urgent case. Bob’s leg injury was obviously not urgent. Who knows how much longer the wait would be? We left.

Next day he saw his local doctor. The lump was a gigantic hematoma, now red, purple, pink and horrific. His foot had also ballooned – too fat for his shoes. The doctor ordered a Doppler ultrasound to check for blood clots, and he arranged for the test with a nearby doctor that evening. All clear – no clots.

There had been a half-dollar sized blister on the surface of the hematoma. At some point it burst and a large scab formed. But, the swelling was increasing. The grotesque colors on his leg now engulfed the fat foot, too.

We decided this required another look by a medical professional. His doctor was off that day, so we trekked back to emergency where this time we only to had to wait a few minutes. A doctor checked it out, said it was infected, gave us a prescription for antibiotics and another one for daily at-home nurse visits to change the bandage (a wonderful plus of French medical care). He turned us over to a nurse who we assume followed his instructions and cut delicately around the scab which immediately began oozing thick, black blood (the hematoma contents). She covered it with a large bandage and sent us on our way.

Back home the next day nurse Aurelie I appeared, removed the bandage and was horrified. “They did this at Manosque?” She began pressing the hematoma, again and again and again, draining it of the ancient blood. I watched, incredulous. Would it ever stop? It did, but left a gargantuan cavity in his leg. It is this cavity which the nurses came to clean out and stuff with treated gauze every day. In the beginning it took a meter-length piece of gauze to fill the cavity. The mountainous lump was/is still there, but getting smaller.

Several days passed and a new nurse arrived, Aurelie II. She was shocked. “This does not look good….How long has it been like this?” She urged us to go the emergency department at the hospital in Aix en Provence. We learned from her, and others, that the Manosque hospital does not have a good reputation.

Afternoon plans were canceled and we set off to Aix, about an hour and 15 minutes away. A two-and a one half hour wait merited an examination by a very patient and thorough doctor. He carefully cleaned the “hole,” stuffed it, patched it, wrapped it and sent us on our way with a prescription for a different antibiotic and a new at-home nurse prescription. He also sent a swab of the cavity to the lab. The results later indicated the infection was resistant to the first antibiotic, but the second, the one he had prescribed, was on target. merde.7

Meanwhile, our lives have been in turmoil since the fall. My Easter dinner party canceled. A hotel overnight in Aix canceled. A weekend in Italy canceled. My doctor’s appointment canceled. No time for my activities: photo club and French writing group. The real tragedy, the month-long trip to Germany, out the window. We had planned to see some friends, but the trip was primarily a research trip for me. I write for the magazine German Life and planned to gather material for future articles. It was a time-consuming, complicated trip to arrange – reservations, appointments, calculating driving distances and times. All for naught. Merde!

Nurses continued to come daily for the cleaning-stuffing wound ritual, warning us that full recovery would be long. Aurelie I suggested we see a “specialist des pansements” (bandage specialist) at the Manosque hospital, a woman (Hungarian) whom she had great regard for. I made an appointment, but we had to wait 2 weeks to see her.

When the bandage specialist saw the dreadful wound and learned that we had been to the hospital emergency room way back at the beginning of the sorry saga, five weeks prior, she was angry. “Why didn’t they call me? They know this is my specialty?” She said if she had started treatment initially, by now Bob would be recovered.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA — Supplies delivered from hospital for at-home care, all covered by national French health insurance.

She advised Bob be hospitalized for a week to start treatment with a machine which would suction all the bad stuff lodged in the cavity. The process would take about a month, as opposed to three to four months if he continued with the nurses at-home

treatments. He would need to spend about a week in the hospital, and then go home with machine.

The machine can hang from his shoulder, like a purse, and can operate on batteries, so he can be mobile. He was given permission to go home for the weekend. We were elated.

On Sunday we were about to depart for lunch at the home of friends in a nearby town.

Telephone rang. Hospital. They had taken a blood sample during his stay. Results indicated “a very dangerous infection.” Get back to the hospital immediately so treatment can be started, they urged. That ended lunch with friends. More merde!

I did some research on the bacteria he had contracted – both common hospital infections, multi-antibiotic resistant. Of course, the hospital insists he did not get the infections from contamination there, even though he had been infection free when entering the hospital.

So, now in addition to the machine, he was/is on a drip of a very strong antibiotic for 10 days. This was the last straw, too much. We were both at rock bottom, very nervous about the gravity of these infections, sick of the hospital, depressed, despondent. the-last-straw

Our sanity was saved, again by the fabulous visiting nurses. After four days back in the hospital, “hospitalisation a domicile” (home hospitalization) was arranged. A nurse comes three times per day, at 7 a.m., 1 p.m. and 8 p.m., to hook him up to the drip which lasts about 1/2 hour each time. The 10 days will end tomorrow, but he will still have the machine, however it only requires a nurse’s attention every three days.

merde.1 — Nurse Aurelie I and the drip hook up.

Nurses may call it a miracle machine, praising its medical prowess, but we call it Farting Freddy. It is noisy, emitting sounds identical to farts all too often. We are ready for a return to the world, a meal in a restaurant, but dare we?

On top of this tragedy, and the others previously mentioned, my China fall still haunts me. The broken collar bone did not heal correctly, the bones did not realign (non-union). It is still painful at times. I am (was) a devoted lap swimmer, but the crawl, my stroke, is difficult. Double merde!

Another complication: somehow nerves in my upper arm, below the damaged collar bone, became compressed. My left hand movement is limited, namely the two little fingers which are basically frozen. At first I was told recovery could take a year. Now they say two years. I have learned to type with one good hand, and one finger of the left hand. Many kitchen/cooking tasks remain challenging.

And yet another whopper: basal cell skin cancer. I had a tiny bump on my nose, cancer caused by the sun and not usually dangerous. Removing the mini lump would be a piece of cake, so I thought. Not quite – underneath the skin the lump was not so tiny. Removal left me with 26 stitches on the side of my nose and face. Fortunately I had a skilled plastic surgeon. The scar is easily hidden with makeup. But, after all that, he did not get all the cancer. One cell remains. More merde!

Perhaps there is light at the end of this tunnel of merde. Since Freddy attacked the wound, it is slowly shrinking. While these troubles have been – and still are – annoying, I realize it all could have been far worse. But, we need a break from bad luck. If anyone can offer a hex of happiness and good health, a magic spell of good fortune to chase away the merde, please send our way.

In between all of the merde, we did have a lovely trip to Sri Lanka. See previous post, “Wonders of Sri Lanka.” More on that coming soon. Don’t miss it. If not already a Tales and Travel follower, sign up (upper right). Your address is kept private and never shared.

Please feel free to comment. Click below, scroll down to Leave a Reply and add your thoughts

fairy

Paris in December

We went to Paris to visit the dentist, but not just any dentist. An American dentist, fabulous Dr. Jane. Sure, there are plenty of dentists in Provence. But, the profession of dental hygienist does not exist in France. Here cleaning is merely detartrage, scrapping the tartar off the teeth, a procedure carried out by the dentist which takes all of 10 minutes or less.

Not good enough for Americans who have been brainwashed about the importance of a thorough cleaning by a hygienist every six months. In Germany where we previously lived most dentists have hygienists. After moving here, we’d trek back to Germany once a year for a proper cleaning. (Since it was such a long journey, we made due with one cleaning per year.) Fellow American and friend Lynne came to the rescue. She found Dr. Jane in Paris. Our teeth have never been so clean.

Dr. Jane Matkoski, who hails from New York State, does high tech teeth cleaning, first with ultra sound followed by a special process called Air Flow. She covers your eyes with a cloth, then puts goggles on top of the cloth and air polishes the teeth. “Today’s flavor is cassis,” she told me. I like cassis, but this was salty and none too pleasant. BB likened the procedure to sand blasting. Whatever, it does the job par excellence.

One fourth of Dr. Jane’s patients are Americans. She also has many international patients who are used to a real teeth cleaning. “The French just don’t get it,” she said.

While teeth were the main reason for the trip, it was a good excuse to visit my favorite city. We had time to see friends, to visit Le Café des Chats, to tour the Marais district with a Paris Greeter, to apply for visas for our upcoming trip to Myanmar – and to check out the Christmas lights in the City of Light.

On a previous trip to Paris in December, I found the holiday illumination on the Champs Elysees spectacular. This time I was underwhelmed. Perhaps it’s a sign of age, but lots of colors and flashing lights are not my cup of tea. This year giant hula hoops that change from blue to red encircle the bare trees lining the legendary boulevard. Tacky – in my opinion.

There’s nothing tacky, however, about the wondrous windows at Galeries Lafayette. Amazing, moveable scenes, five from the tale Beauty and the Beast. Mesmerizing for both children and their parents. The classy windows at Au Printemps, this year sponsored by Prada, are also dazzling.

Thanks to Satié, the cousin of my Japanese sister-in-law Yoshie, we did not miss these Parisian holiday highlights. Satié lives in Paris. After dinner together, she suggested we stroll by the windows.

As a cat lover, I had to visit Le Café des Chats which opened in September, modeled after a cat café in Tokyo. Cats, 12 of them, all colors and sizes, lounging in windows, on chairs, benches, and in kitty beds. Some are sociable, but many were soundly sleeping, the favorite pastime of felines.

Upon entering rules are recited by the café host: Don’t feed the cats. Don’t let the cats drink from your cup or glass. Don’t disturb the cats if they are sleeping. Photos allowed, but no flash. Before entering the rooms with the cats, you must disinfect your hands – a dispenser is on the counter.

The two-level cozy café in Paris’ third district was packed during our visit. The café has generated a lot of publicity and is popular with locals as well as tourists. Reservations are a must. Coffee, teas, wine, desserts, salads and tartes can be savored while watching cats. It was fun but frustrating. My pathetic photo skills required flash in the poor light. So, no super kitty pictures. The food was good –a seafood salad for BB and a tarte with caramelized onions, blue cheese, cranberries and pecans for me.

A blog (http://aixcentric.wordpress.com) led me to Paris Greeters, an organization of volunteers who give guided tours of their neighborhoods. There is no charge but you are requested to give a donation. Sign up on line before visiting Paris, specifying your interests, and you are matched with a greeter.

Claudine in front of her favoirte tea shop, Mariage Freres, a must for tea aficionadas.

Claudine Chevrel, who has lived in the Marais since 1972, led us through this beautiful district. Historic buildings, her favorite shops, churches and monuments were on the tour.

Le Marais, literally “the swamp,” was mostly farmland in the Middle Ages, producing vegetables for the city on the Seine. By the 16^th century, the nobility and upper middle class bought up the land and built great estates. For the next couple of centuries, family palaces and grand buildings found their home in the Marais.

The arrondissement (administrative district), which is now very expensive and chic, was not that way when she moved there many years ago, Claudine said. “I prefer the Maris 10 years ago. It used to be a real neighborhood.” There were lots of local shops and groceries, she explained. Many have been replaced by expensive boutiques and art galleries. “Everyone knew everyone. Now lots of foreigners who don’t live here year round have bought apartments.”

The Marais has both a large Jewish community and one of the largest Gay communities in Europe. We especially liked the Jewish area. Numerous shops tout that they offer the “best falafel.” Claudine says the best is at the restaurant Chez Marianne which also has a bakery where BB bought a thick slice of nut strudel – they offer 12 different kinds for 3 euros per slice.

“I always meet interesting people who want to see Paris in a different way,” says Claudine. “Americans prefer this type of tour. They like to meet Parisians. They ask lots of questions, about everyday life, taxes, schools.”

After the two-hour plus tour we set off to find her favorite restaurant, Le Louis Philippe, which we had passed during our walk. En route we came across Caruso. As we have a weakness for all things Italian and there are few Italian restaurants in Provence, it was our lunch stop. Buonissimo! Exquisite pasta, and BB’s dessert, Cassata Siciliana, was deliciously decadent, cake smothered in a mascarpone-cream-candided fruit-alcoholic combination. I found several recipes on line and will try to duplicate it soon.

Before boarding the TGV for a fast train ride back to Provence, we met friendsLeonard and Claudine for lunch at L’Epigramme, a restaurant in the 6^th district which is included in “Best Restaurants Paris.” I had a very juicy and tender piece of beef. The others went for dorade, a popular fish in France. All were happy.

Next visit to Dr. Jane, we’ll go back there, and to Caruso, and tour another neighborhood with a Paris Greeter.

Happy Holidays to all Tales and Travel readers!

Dr. Jane Matkoski, 12 rue Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre (5ème), 01 46 34 56 44 drjane@orange.fr

Le Café des Chats, 16 rue Michel Le Comte (3ème). Metro: Rambuteau or Arts et Metiers. Make a reservation at reservation@lecafedeschats.fr

Paris Greeters, www.parisgreeters.fr

Caruso, 3 Rue de Turenne (4 ème). Metro : St. Paul, www.ristorantecaruso.fr

L’Epigramme, 9 rue de l’Eperon (6 ème). Metro : Odeon, 01 44 41 00 09

I love to hear from readers. Please post a comment. See “Leave a Reply” below under Comments. Subscribers also welcome. Don’t miss future posts. Click on Email Subscription at top right.

If you have suggestions for Paris restaurants, please pass them on. I have not posted any recipes lately, but for your holiday cooking, check on Holiday Fruitcake and Holiday Pork Roast in the recipe column at right.