Did you say you're a-peein?

A big ole jet airliner carried me far away to Europe this week. I needed to go to Czech Republic for work, and leaving a day early made the flights much cheaper, so I decided to reward myself with a stopover in Paris. Thanks to favorable winds, I had about 21 hours in the City of Lights. Luckily, the icy grip that had ensnared Europe for the last two weeks had just loosened, and I was greeted by a sunny day with temperatures around 45 F when I landed at Charles de Gaulle.

 

I got to my hotel around 2 PM, and quickly changed for my self-guided tour of the city. I decided to combine my need to do a longish run with my desire to see one of the world’s great cities for the first time. So following the advice of my boss’s wife, Marianna, I set out from towards the Sienne River. I saw all the big sights of Paris, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Champs Elyse. I even stopped in a McDonald’s – not to eat of course, but to see if Pulp Fiction was right about the Big Mac. You decide…

It was nearly dinner time when I got back to the hotel, so I showered and ventured out. Speaking no French, I wanted to find a good, non-touristy restaurant, and to take my chances with the menu. I found a suitable place, and sat down at le table pour une. The first waiter said something in French, and picking up on my blank stare, called over another waiter who asked me in 3 different languages if I spoke each one. Fortunately, English was one of the choices.

He welcomed me and explained that “the specialty of the house is beef, we have many choices of only the finest French beef.” As impressive as it sounded, I don’t eat things that can’t fly, swim, or look like they should be able to. I told the waiter, “I’m sorry, but I don’t eat beef.” His reply was priceless.

“Then you must have the veal, it is simply the best!”

Unless “veal” is French for “fish” I was pretty sure that wouldn’t pass my swim or fly test, so I went for the duck leg. Good call – it was quite tasty.

From there, it was on to Prague, and then a two hour drive to our office in Zdar nad Sazavou, a quaint little town of 40,000 people on the Sazavou River (but you already knew that, didn’t you) in southeastern Czech.  The work went well, and I was able to do something I’d never done before in my life. No, drinking beer at lunch wasn’t it, as I had done that a few times already, and in Czech, everybody drinks beer at lunch. I think they even have little beer boxes they serve with lunch in “childergarten” but I could be wrong.

No, it was skiing. In 45 years, I’d never found the motivation to squeeze my size 12’s into some 6 foot long planks and attempt to slide across or down the frozen tundra. As graceful as I am (sorry for those who just did a spit-take), I’d never tried it.  Our European GM, Jarda, is an accomplished cross-country skier, probably about the same level in that sport as I am in running. He provided me with all the proper gear and drove me to the edge of town at lunchtime on Tuesday where some well groomed and reasonably flat trails awaited. It took a while, and while I was no (insert name of famous cross-country skier here), I held my own. 

For a farewell dinner Jarda and our head of engineering, Ales, took me to a restaurant about 10 km outside of town, where the snow was piled about a meter high alongside the one-lane road we drive down to get to the restaurant. Jarda told me the chef had trained in some famous Parisian bistros, so I was looking forward to the meal. I was not disappointed. The wild duck breast appetizer tasted like what I remembered an excellent steak tasting like. The fish on risotto was outstanding, and dessert, well, judge for yourself.

That’s blueberry mousse, folks. Mmmm…

I’m writing this from the plane on the way to New York, where I’m stopping by to see the Wizard at Memorial Sloan Kettering. Then it’s off to Savannah for Adam’s all-state chorus concert, before finally returning to my own bed Saturday night.

It’s been a good week so far. I hope you can say the same.