My friend Merianne and I are highly opinionated about tour guides. Although we knew we’d need guides on our trip to the Northern Circuit of Ethiopia, we were also wary.

With our guide Bob on Lake Tana

We hate being lectured to, especially when guides rattle off dates and events that sound like a 19th century history lesson. We’re much more interested in how people live their everyday lives, and we’d prefer to ask questions than listen to memorized spiels.

So we’ve been delighted here on our first few days in Ethiopia. Our guide, Yinebob Mezigebu, who we connected with through Travel Ethiopia, is our ideal. Bob, as he told us to call him (though the word sounds more like Bohb here), speaks excellent English, always a plus. But what we liked most about him was: he asked us questions before we set out.

We had a set itinerary for our two days here – the usual tourist stops. But Bob wanted to know what we were interested in. Yes, we wanted to see one of the famous 14th century monasteries on Lake Tana, but one was enough. No, we didn’t want to go to the Blue Nile Falls; they’ve been dried up by a government hydroelectric project. Yes, we’d love to see the Nile itself as it flowed out of the lake on its way to Egypt.

Yum! Ethiopian "national food."

We love to visit schools and farms and villages, we told him, not so much monuments and museums.

Perfect. We spent our first morning with a glorious boat ride on the lake, just our group of four American women, Bob and the boat captain. He offered us a choice – there was a longer walk to see the most beautiful monastery on the Zege Peninsula, but we could also visit a nice one where we didn’t have to walk so far. We like to walk, we assured him.

When we needed to bargain with the vendors along the walk, Bob helped us make choices.

14th century painting in the monastery church at Ura Kidane Mihret

Inside the monastery church, he shared both his formal knowledge of the striking canvas murals of Christian Biblical scenes and stories unique to the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, but he also told us about his own experience of Christianity.

In the afternoon, abandoning the planned agenda, we visited a school, then walked in the fields among herds of Ethiopian Baran cattle. (Show me livestock and I am a happy camper.)

You can never see too many cattle.

In the early evening, we sat on the terrace outside our hotel, overlooking the lake, drinking wine and eating chocolate, and asked lots of questions about Ethiopian history and everyday life – the way we like to learn.

Before dawn this morning, Merianne and Jean set out with Bob to see an exorcism (yes, you read that right) at a local church – definitely not the usual thing mentioned in the guidebooks. Then the group spent the morning visiting the Grace Center Foundation, an NGO that serves 850 women and orphaned children, and this afternoon, we’re going to the food market.

When we move on to Gondar tomorrow, we’ll lose Bob. We’ll miss him. But if you come to Bahir Dar (and we really suggest you do), you can contact him at Ymezigebe@yahoo.com.

Bob and “Siegfried,” our driver in Bahir Dar

Rodin's The Thinker.

Ever since Donna Morris and I started planning a group trip to Paris for this summer, I’ve been devouring books about Paris. Here are some of my favorites:

Nonfiction:

The Hare with the Amber Eyes: a Hidden Inheritance by Edmund de Waal. A history of a wealthy Jewish family, much of the book is set in the Parc Monceau neighborhood of Paris a century ago (our neighborhood for the July Paris trip).

Porte des Lions, the "back entrance" to the Louvre

The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris by David G. McCullough. The stories of many American artists, writers, architects and doctors who visited Paris in the 19th century.

Americans in Paris: Life and Death under Nazi Occupation by Charles Glass. The story of famous and not-so-famous Americans who elected to stay in Paris through the occupation.

Portraits of France by Robert Daley. A former news magazine writer explores fascinating corners of France and its history, some of it in Paris. A great read.

Parisians: an Adventure History of Paris by Graham Robb. A series of true stories about important people in Paris’s history – with details you’ve never heard before.

The Hemingses of Monticello: an American Family by Annette Gordon-Reed. Although this book is primarily about Thomas Jefferson’s relationship to Sally Hemings and her family, much of it is set in Paris.

Paris under Water: How the City of Light Survived the Great Flood of 1910 by Jeffrey Jackson. If you’re interested In civil engineering and the history of city administration, this is the book for you.

Ile St. Louis and the Seine

Memoir and Essays

My Life in France by Julia Child and Alex Prud’homme. Alas, we can’t visit the Paris of the ‘50s when Julia was there, but we can yearn.

The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World’s Most Glorious – and Perplexing – City by David Lebovitz. American pastry chef moves to Paris and relates his adventures. You might also want to start following his excellent food blog.

The Most Beautiful Walk in the World: a Pedestrian in Paris, by John Baxter. A literary tour guide reflects on his experiences in Paris.

A Moveable Feast: the Restored Edition by Ernest Hemingway. Sketches of Paris after World War I.

60 Million Frenchmen Can’t Be Wrong: Why We Love France But Not the French by Jean-Benoit Nadeau and Julie Barlow. A highly opinionated explanation of French culture.

Almost French: Love and a New Life in Paris by Sarah  Turnbull. A young Australian woman marries and moves to Paris – and learns how to navigate French culture.

Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik. New Yorker writer lives in Paris for five years and sends back dispatches on life there.

Fiction:

The Invisible Bridge by Julie Orringer. A WWII novel about a Hungarian-Jewish architecture student; much of the book is set in Paris.

Notre Dame at dusk.

Sarah’s Key by Tatiana de Rosnay. A contemporary woman discovers a tragic story of the Holocaust linked to her Paris apartment.

Murder in the Marais by Cara Black. This the first in her series of contemporary mysteries set in Paris.

Abundance: a Novel of Marie Antoinette by Sena Jeter Naslund. Versailles was only a few miles outside of Paris, and this historical fiction is beautifully imagined.

The Paris Wife by Paula McLain. Ernest Hemingway and his wife Hadley in the 20s.

Resources:

Hungry for Paris: the Ultimate Guide to the City’s 102 Best Restaurants by Alec Lobrano. Lobrano reviews distinguished restaurants in Paris (though published in 2008). His website has lots of recent reviews.

Clotilde’s Edible Adventures in Paris by Clotilde Dusoulier. Advice on eating in Paris, from tea shops to markets and restaurants, by a French food blogger.

The Patisseries of Paris: Chocolatiers, Tea Salons, Ice Cream Parlors and More by Jamie Cahill and Alison Harris. Though published in 2008, so not the very latest info, a delicious dive into all things sweet.

Paris Patisseries: History, Shops, Recipes edited by Ghislaine Bavoillot. A gorgeous picture book with stories and recipes from some of the best-known patisseries in the city.

Marling Menu-Master for France by William E. Marling. This little book is both horribly out-of-date and extremely annoying to use, but it will help you avoid eating horse, tripe and gizzards while in Paris.

The day started simply enough, with lunch at La Tartine on the rue de Rivoli in the 4th arrondissement.

Salade bergere at La Tartine

Donna Morris of Best Friend in Paris told Robin and me that they had spectacular salads; we feasted appropriately. My salade bergere featured smoked duck breast, a big slice of dried ham and goat cheese on toasted bread, all atop a heap of lettuce dressed with the ubiquitous salad cream that seems to be de rigueur at all cafés and bistros.

We’d planned to spend the day indoors at a museum, but the sunshine called us out insistently.

“Let’s go find Lafayette’s grave,” Donna suggested. Every time I visit her in Paris, she takes me off on another unexpected adventure. I’d just been reading about the Marquis de Lafayette in the book Portraits of France by Robert Daley – a book I heartily recommend.

So off we charged to the Place de la Nation, not too far away in the 11th. During the Terror following the French Revolution, residents living near the guillotine at the Place de la Concorde had complained about the stench of rotting blood, so the guillotine was moved here, further from the center of the city.

A few blocks away, at 35 rue de Picpus, is a private cemetery where the Marquis de Lafayette is buried. Lafayette was married at the age of 16 to Marie Adrienne Francoise de Noailles of the wealthy and influential Noailles family. He got her pregnant and promptly romped off to America for the Revolutionary War. He returned to France an immensely popular hero.

The cemetery is hard to find, and only open to the public in the afternoon, for a fee of two euros. On entering a gravel courtyard, we faced a spare church where nuns have been saying mass for the souls of the state-murdered victims for several centuries. (I wonder if they still do.) On the walls of the chapel were listed all of the victims of the Terror.

The chapel

There are three mass graves in the gardens, places where beheaded bodies were tossed in – after having their clothes and other valuables stripped off and “inventoried.” They were carried in on carts after the guillotine. The state tried to keep the location where the bodies were buried a secret, but – so the story goes – a young girl followed a cart and discovered the remains.

The cemetery was begun by Lafayette’s wife. All of her relatives had been killed (crime: being aristocrats), but the people in power left her alive because of fear of popular outrage if they touched the very popular Lafayette or his wife. She and other nobles wanted to be buried near their loved ones.

Lafayette's grave, a simple memorial to a monumental man

And now, her grave is here, with that of Lafayette and their son George Washington Lafayette. On his last visit to the United States, Lafayette shipped back a large trunk of dirt; he wanted to be buried in American soil. An American flag flies over his grave daily, even — according to the Daley’s book – during the Nazi occupation of Paris, because they never found the place.

We walked around the grounds, down a long allée of trees. Dark yew trees, symbols of mourning, studded the lawn. Two big fig trees, bearing not-yet-ripe fruit, clustered near one of the mass graves. There were almost no other people around; the place was quiet and peaceful, as it should be.

WHY is my nap being interrupted here? This is simply intolerable.

“Possum, get out of the trash can. Leave that tape alone, Possum!”

I love me a good piece of crackly sticky tape. It’s fun to eat, crunchy like a little bird (not that I’ve ever gotten my paws on a little bird, but a guy can dream). After I munch the tape, I settle down in the trash can for a nice nap.

“Possum, get off the couch right now! Get. Off. The. Couch.”

The Big One in the house yowls a lot. She lunges at me and whoooo!!! I get a ride to the litter box. Cool! Let’s do it again. I could do this for hours, except that I need a nap.

“Possum, time for your meds. Come up here, buddy.”

Treats!! Treeeeeeattttttsss!! I love the way the Big One hugs me and waters my eyes. She never does that for SammySosa. I’m so special; I’m really special. I love me very much. Then the Big One opens my mouth and sticks in that fishy-tasting paste. I love fishy-tasting paste. Oh I do. It’s great just before a nap.

Me and SammySosa. I'm the good-looking one.

“Possum, stop eating SammySosa’s food!”

The gloppy stuff in my bowl is really tasty. The gloppy stuff in SammySosa’s bowl looks good, too. I’ll just take a bite. Um, really love this stuff. Move over, Sammy. Hey, I just invented stereo eating, a bite from this bowl, a bite from that bowl. Oh, SammySosa, stop complaining. Let’s take a nap.

“Possum, stay away from my laptop. Stop it, Possum. Go away!”

This flat shiny thing makes fun little clicks when I walk over it. Sometimes paper comes out of the white square thing over there. Gotta attack and kill that paper while it’s still moving. I have such a fun life. Okay, time for a nap.

“Possum, I’m trying to brush my teeth. Get out of the way. Possum!”

Every morning the Big One and I enjoy flowing water together. Moving water tastes way better than bowl water. I love the way the water runs over my face. I really do. I could drink like this for hours, except that I need a nap.

I like this shot of me. I love every shot of me, don't you?

“Possum, sweetie, come here. Come sit in my lap and let me hug you, big boy.”

The Big One makes a lot of noise but has no idea how to communicate. It’s best that I don’t encourage this kind of whining. So hard on the ear. Just need to check that SammySosa isn’t in the chair with the Big One; I don’t like that. Yah, I’m good. That sunny spot on the floor looks perfect for a nap.

There are plenty of reasons NOT to go to Paris in August: Lots of shops and restaurants are closed; it’s usually hot; and that’s when all the tourists are there. But there are some compensations, especially if you’re not planning to hang around the Louvre, Notre Dame or the Champs Élysées.

Last August, for the first time in 25 years, I revisited Versailles. Not the chateau, which would have been thronged with people on bus tours, but the gardens. According to the account told at Vaux-le-Vicomte, the chateau built by Louis XIV’s corrupt finance minister Nicolas Fouquet, when Louis first visited the gardens at Vaux-le-Vicomte, he was overcome with envy. He immediately engaged Fouquet’s architect, Le Notre, to create something even more splendid at Versailles.

And splendid the gardens are, all nearly 2000 acres of them – more than twice the size of New York’s Central Park. Beginning in the 1600’s, architects and gardeners built formal parterres, dug the Grand Canal stretching out from the view from the Hall of Mirrors, planted flower beds and thousands of orange trees, and created bosquets: rows of matching trees that intersected to form alleys and groves. And they commissioned fountains, many along the theme of Apollo, the sun god, since Louis styled himself Le Roi Soleil, the Sun King.

The Orangerie, from above.

Fountains even in that age of excess were expensive to maintain and run. I’ve read that when Louis and his pals frequented the gardens, the fountain engineers had a system of whistles to let each other know where the king was headed next. The minute he walked away from a fountain, they shut it down. Needless to say, in the years following the revolution, keeping up the gardens and fountains of Versailles didn’t come high on the priorities list.

But the gardens and chateau have long been recognized as treasures of France, and today you can walk through the grounds and see them much as Louis XIV did. Not a single tree we see today existed during Louis’s time; they’ve all been replaced over time, but the designs themselves are intact.

Strolling through the gardens, with all their hidden “rooms,” fires up my imagination. I can see the flash of a dainty heel as some woman flits away to meet her lover in their special place; am I hearing giggles and whispers on the other side of those trees?

In recent years, Versailles has been running the fountains during the tourist season. And in July and August, on Saturday nights, they produce Les Grandes Eaux Nocturnes, an evening in the gardens with fountains, light shows, music and fireworks.

With Donna Morris of Best Friend in Paris in the lead, we bought train tickets to Versailles at the Gare St. Lazare, the iron and glassed roofed station that both Monet and Manet loved to paint. It’s a short ride to the town of Versailles, and maybe a 20 minute walk from the station there to the chateau.

It was an overcast day, so the light was already fading when we walked onto the grounds. More and more people arrived; make no mistake, even with all those acres of gardens, there was a crowd here.

A snowstorm of bubbles.

Suddenly, along the side of the mirroring Grand Canal, plumes of fire shot into the air. We walked down the stone stairs from the back of the chateau into the gardens, where we were bombarded with iridescent soap bubbles thick in the air. At Le Bassin d’Apollon, dancing waters flickered and swayed to classical music. By now the night was fully dark, and even surrounded by hordes of people, we gasped in wonder at each new display.

The gardens are arranged into “rooms,” separated by trees and hedges. As we walked into the Bosquet de la Colonnade, the ring of columns seemed to have a flat ceiling along which eerie green shapes slid mysteriously above us. A ceiling out here wasn’t possible; we knew that, but we were having a totally other-worldly experience. “What IS this?” everyone around us asked. We sought out the works; the effect was made by pumping smoke into a wide flat green laser light.

Lasers and smoke in the Bosquet de la Colonnade

We moved through more magical rooms, but soon started checking our watches. We didn’t want to catch the last train back to Paris; it would have been jammed with people. So we skipped the fireworks, and we were back in town by midnight. Should you find yourself in Paris next summer, I’d highly recommend Les Grandes Eaux Nocturnes at Versailles.