Our hotel in Paris was in the 11th arrondissement; I choose it simply because it was the least expensive hotel on offer from Tablet Hotels and because it was handy both to Gare de l’Est and Gare du Nord, the train stations we were arriving at and leaving from.

After an exciting afternoon at Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie we checked in at the hotel and, while Oliver compared and contrasted Slovak kids TV to French kids TV, I went online to find us a suitable place to eat our one Parisian meal. The first place that popped up in the Zagat guide was Le Pure Cafe, which was only a 10 minute walk from the hotel.

Looking around the net for reviews I quickly found that not only was the food reported to be good, and the atmosphere comfortably “neighbourhood,” but that the restaurant was featured in Before Sunset, the 2004 Ethan Hawke - Julie Delpy film that happens to be one of my favourites. So the deal was sealed: I called to make a reservation for 8:00 p.m.

After ambling over toward 14 Rue Jean Mace — we had some time to kill so we explored the neighbourhood — we arrived right at 8:00 p.m. and were shown to our table by a friendly (and, to my relief, English-speaking) waitress (I can make my way in French in an emergency, but I’m liable to ask for cheveux instead of cheval).

Our table for two — right next to the Hawke/Delpy table, appropriate for my fanboy status — was over in the corner. The vibe at Le Pure Cafe is exactly what you think it should be: a casual, comfortable mix of young and old, new and regulars, good music, friendly, helpful staff with a soft spot for Oliver and patience with me.

With language and culture translation from our server we ordered the goat cheese samosas with confit of duck to start and salmon for the main. I asked for “something less than a bottle of wine but more than a glass” and received an appropriate flagon of what was described as “a strong wine from the south of France” (it was very nice).

The food simply knocked my socks off. This is perhaps partly explained by the fact that any food in Paris would impress me, but it was very, very good, especially the salmon, which almost brought me to tears it was so well prepared.

As the night wore on, and I consumed more of my strong red wine from the south of France, I passed more and more of the practical responsibility for the evening over to Oliver (a post he assumed with aplomb); I wasn’t blotto, but by the end of the evening I was well lubricated.

We finished the meal with a dessert best described as a “long thing spring roll-like confection filled with molten dark chocolate.” It may be the best dessert I have ever had.

We rolled out around 10:00 p.m., Oliver in charge of navigation, happy and well-fed. I cannot think of a better way of spending a night in Paris.

Yotel is a tiny “capsule” hotel located right inside Terminal 4 at Heathrow Airport in London. We stayed here last night partly out of curiousity but mostly for the convenience of not having to battle public transit this morning. Some notes on the experience:

• The room is small, but it’s not a “capsule” — there’s enough room to walk around (a little) — and it’s more like a “pod.”
• Check-in is completely automated: there’s a touch screen at the door that spits out a key card. You need your booking number for this, which fortunately I’d remembered to print out.
• Your booking number is also your wifi password — the wifi is included at no extra charge.
• Our television was missing a remote control. I was able to get one from the person staffing the snack bar — “galley” in Yotel-speak — but it didn’t work. She finally resorted to “rebooting the TV” from her console and that did the trick. All I was trying to do was turn the TV off.
• The TV has a wake-up alarm feature you can set. But the TV’s clock was set 10 minutes slow.
• This morning the now “working” TV was as slow as molasses to do anything: changing channels took a few seconds and the remote “froze” several times. Obviously this system needs work.
• There are no windows. I didn’t think this would bother me but it did.
• There’s no door between the beds and the bathroom, only a curtain. Oh, wait, there is: just discovered a sliding glass door no our way out. And the toilet makes a shockingly loud noise when you flush it.
• The beds are very comfortable.
• The rooms are fairly well sound-proofed, but there is a fairly constant rumble of the surrounding airport: part noise and part vibration. They offer free ear plugs in the galley.
• Rooms let by the hour, with a minimum of 4 hours. We took 12 hours and paid £80.
• The “monsoon” shower is great, but hard to adjust the hot/cold mix of. And because it’s in the same area as the sink and toilet, water gets everywhere.

All in not a bad experience, but not the futuristic teleport into the future I’d anticipated either.

Anyone who knows me knows that my usual habit when in a new and exciting city is to immediately start making plans to move there. And Paris was no exception: one bite of a chocolate croissant fresh out of the oven and I was apartment hunting in my mind.

While such dreams are mostly just thought experiments, integral to the experimental procedure is the vague possibility that the dream might come true, and having a job that I can perform anywhere and a partner who’s open to crazy ideas makes that possible.

That is until I waited long enough for Oliver to put down roots. Damn.

When I broached the idea of up and moving to Paris with Oliver yesterday, the scent of chocolate croissant still on our lips, he shut down the whole experiment immediately.

I’ll miss my friends! I’ll miss the market! I’ll miss Kennie and Winnie! My teacher! Prince Street School! Ann! Gary! Sydny! My room! Owl’s Hollow! Music lessons!

Any window shopping in front of flat rental places was forbidden and all crazy talk shut down.

Two years ago we could have pulled this off and Oliver wouldn’t have noticed. But then he had to up and develop his own identity. Kids.

Question asked when shopping today in Paris. Answered “yes” and item was nicely wrapped on its own.

“It’s for opening?”

It took me 43 years to get to Paris. I wish someone had thought to suggest I come here earlier.

We headed off this morning from our motel in downtown Nuremberg toward the PLAYMOBIL FunPark, following the public transit instructions helpfully printed in the tourist guide: take the U2 to Rothernburger Strasse and then then Bus 113 direct to the park.

We got to Rothernburger Strasse in just a few minutes; only problem was that there was no sign at all of a Bus 113. Wandered around looking for pointers, but didn’t find any. Finally spotted a map of the entire system that suggested a stop off the U3, so we headed there. Nothing there either, but we did find a helpful bus driver from another line who told us, in German, something about the 113 being out of service for mechanical reasons. He suggested that we go to Furth Hauptbahnhof and take the Bus 150 from there.

So off we went again. Got to Furth, found the stop for Bus 113, but the schedule seemed to suggest that it only went once a day. Stopped into the tourist information centre and found a very helpful woman who spent 20 minutes trying to find us a way there, eventually figuring that we could take a regional train to Zirndorf and then either walk or take a series of two connecting buses. So we waited 45 minutes and got on the train to Zirndorf and were there in 12 minutes. We decided to give up on buses and instead followed the helpfully-provided PLAYMOBIL-branded signposts that marked the 50 minute walk to the FunPark.

So while I thought we might get there at 10:00 a.m., we finally walked in around 1:00 p.m. But man were we happy to be there. The FunPark itself was true to its name: Maximum Fun. There was an endless sea of PLAYMOBIL to play with, everything from trains to submarines to sailing ships. There were lots of kids there, but enough to go around for everyone. The park was in its ‘winter break’, so the theme-park activities outside were shut down but this didn’t bother Oliver at all as he happily spent 4 hours in PLAYMOBIL heaven. We took a break halfway through to pop next door to the indoor playground where, to my surprise and proud delight, Olvier worked his way up into the heights of the climbing gym. He yelled down that he was nervous from time to time, but seemed genuienly impressed with his own moxie.

Next stop: Paris. Booking the 5:30 a.m. train is seeming more and more crazy as the night wears on, but at least I booked us First Class.

Arrived Vienna this afternoon after 7 hours of train rides across the entire width of Slovakia: an amazing ride up through the mountains from spring to winter and back to spring again. We’re only here in Vienna for less than 24 hours, so will not do justice to the city at all, but we’re staying with my friend Til and got to share a nice dinner tonight and catch up and may make a mad dash into the kids’ museum tomorrow before heading off to Nuremberg.

My downsize-to-my-mobile plan fell flat on its face today as the fully-charged battery on my Nokia N95 gave up the ghost before the end of the day — the victim of too much train-based GPS usage. Alas this happened exactly at the moment when I really, really needed the maps capabilities: standing confused at 11pm on a cold Vienna night at the U-Bahn stop nearest Til’s house, charting our walk back to his place. Click. Fortunately I recalled enough to get us home, with Oliver’s photographic memory a big help.

We were going to give the Kosice Zoo a pass — visions of depressed post-Soviet lions danced in my head — but as a trip there offered an opportunity to get out into the hills above the city as well as forcing us to figure out the bus system, this became our morning outing.

The bus, like many things in Kosice, is very cheap: 25 cents for Oliver and 55 cents for me. The zoo was cheap too: less than 4 EUR for both of us. And we had the place completely to ourselves.

And while the place needed some love — perhaps the winter was unkind — it was pleasant enough and we were entertained by the antics of seals, apes, penguins, and a rather scary hawk.

The trip out there started with a negotiation at the local tobacco shop over bus tickets — more a translation exercise I suppose — followed by a winding road trip on Bus #29 out of the city and up into another weather system (chilly and a little snow).

Back in the city we had a late lunch at Ajvega, a vegetarian restaurant downtown. Oliver had very nice sheep cheese pirogis and I had spicy soy goulash and a talk bottle of dark Slovac beer.

After a little shopping we made our way to the Kino Úsmev for the 6 o’clock showing of Marley and Me (in English with Slovak subtitles). The ticket purchase was conducted entirely with hand gestures as none of the staff spoke English and indeed seemed perplexed that we should want to see the show at all.

The theatre was right out of 1950 with hard creaky wooden seats but the projection and sound were top flight.

To bed early tonight before we train west tomorrow for Vienna.

Although my knowledge of high culture is not great, I think I can be forgiven for thinking that, in buying tickets at the State Opera House for The Marriage of Figaro, I was going to see an opera.

This turned out not to be the case: this marriage was to be sorted in ballet form, albeit with operatic music.

And this was not your father’s ballet either. There were mini-trampolines. And slides. And a zip line. Oh, and did I mention that the last half of the ballet was performed with dancers slipping and sliding around on water-covered plastic sheeting? To say nothing of the video of scenes of World War II projected onto the set.

That all said, when the dancers were dancing it was pretty straight ahead pointe shoes and leaping around. At least when they weren’t doing the jive.

All of this in a gilded theatre fit for a king to a half-filled but enthusiastic crowd.

We enjoyed the entire 90 minute spectacle and Oliver may never see an old-school ballet without wondering where the buckets are.

It is proving more difficult than I thought to squeeze blog posts through a mobile phone T9 style hence the lack of updates from our journey so far.

We are alive and well and lunching at Kaviaren Slavia in downtown Kosice after spending 2 hours in the excellent Slovak Technical Museum (where they have, among other things, a huge collection of typewriters).

We had a smooth journey from Canada despite the last leg, from London to Kosice, involving a tired old Bulgaria Airlines 737.

The highlight of the day came at the very end when Oliver somehow locked himself in the bathroom of our apartment. After 20 minutes of trying to talk him through unlocking the door and another 20 of the helpful front desk clerk trying various things, the Kosice Fire Brigade was summoned in the person of a very kind man who eventually pried open the door enough to allow Oliver to pass the key out. Oliver emerged none the worse for it (well, he may never pee again).

We celebrated with a meal in a smoky Moroccan restaurant where a large pizza, a glass of wine and an orange juice somehow only cost 4 EUR.

Kosice feels both foreign and like coming home.

We hope to make it through the day without involving any public service agencies. We’ve got tickets to see The Marriage of Figaro tonight (8 EUR for the two of us) so that shouldn’t be too hard.

I took at sabbatical from Plazes for a while — a side-effect of my experiments with going dark. But with our Euro-journey about to commence I went looking for some sort of multi-pronged service that would let me send pithy georeferenced messages from the road and then remembered that’s exactly what Plazes lets me do. So I’ve fired up the Plazes toolset once again and plugged in the main landmarks on our journey, and will, on occasion, chime in with messages from the road. If nothing else my mother (and Sandy’s mother) should be happy.

I’m traveling laptop-free this time, relying entirely on my Nokia N95 to tether me to the web, so don’t expect 1000-word missives on the architecture of eastern Slovakia for the next 10 days: if I manage to squeeze a blog post out of my mobile phone it will likely me more along the lines of “lost in mountains, all okay, but please send help.”