One by The Five

3, rue Flatters, Paris, 75005, France
One by The Five
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More about One by The Five

Great Rooms, Great Food, Great Views

by Kakapo2 about Hôtel Restaurant Le Parc, St. Hippolyte (Alsace)

Beautiful and elegant rooms, fabulous food, great views, great (and quiet) location: This hotel is a truly wonderful place to relax and enjoy the food and wine of Alsace.

In the evening you can sit on the terrace overlooking the plains and vineyards. We once sat there in the setting sun - absolutely magic :-) Hochkönigsburg castle (8km) is just around the corner, and many villages of the famous wine trail at close distance, for example Ribeauvillé 7km, and Colmar only 21km.

The hotel has 25 rooms and 6 suites, swimming pool, jacuzzi and sauna, as well as a wine bar (called "Winstub" in Alsace) and a bar.

They offer 2-night packages with breakfast buffet, one four- and one five-course dinner, at 200 Euro per person during the week and 220 on a weekend.

As the button on the internet actually does not work I cannot tell you the exact rate. Some years ago it was from 60 to 120 Euro.

gmonigan's new Europe page

by gmonigan

"Sanfermines"

Well, it's been three weeks since I landed back home, and my brain is just beginning to function again. I guess that means Club Cojones and Sanfermines '99 were a huge success. Here's what I remember:

Elaine Sung, a co-worker at Newsday, and I landed in Madrid after the overnight flight from Newark, a bit groggy but excited to be in Spain. We got the rental car and had a few hours to kill before Howard Blecher, a Manhattan banker, arrived on his flight. We drove into the suburbs and bought some provisions for the ride north. Back to the airport, where we hooked up with Howard, and the three of us headed north. A few hours later, we stopped in Medinicelli, which Ian Love and I had stumbled upon four years earlier and which had become my traditional lunch stop. The ancient village, perched atop a high hill, was as pretty as ever, and we spent a very pleasant two hours in the shade of the Roman arch that dates to 2 A.D., sipping vino, nibbling cheese and listening to Gino D'Aurio's "Flamenco Mystico" on the tape player. A stroll around the lovely little village, and then off to Pamplona.

We hit town in the early evening, the burnt-orange tiles of the rooftops dusky in the mellow light. The first stop, as always, was the home of my patron saint of Pamplona, Gamaliel Matrinez Munoz an absolutely cherubic young man who teaches at University de Navarra, Two of our crew, one-year-veteran Dan Gonzalez, a computer maven from Washington, D.C. and his friend Kim Preisel, a magazine honchette from Manhattan, were already there, having spent two days in Bilbao on the Bay of Biscay. Hugs and kisses all around. Gama, having separated from his wife a year ago, had been through some rough times, but he recently had met Susana, and the two of them seemed to glow in each other's affection. They led us to our apartment, which was on the other end of town, even a little farther on the outskirts than last year's place. We met the landlady and settled in. Then, of course, it was off to Bar Txoco for our first bout of serious drinking and to meet two more of the crew.

Sean Choquette, Air Force Academy grad, and Chris Baker, West Point grad, both 30. After flying helicopters for the U.S. Army out of a base in Germany on missions in Kosovo , these boys were primed for some fun. Work hard, play hard. It was playtime. Around a table where Papa might have hoisteda few, I initiated the newcomers into Club Cojones. The 1999 shirt was a refinement of the design I had coined a year before: Red shirt, black silhouette of bull on a gold field bordered in black, the words CLUB COJONES split above and below the bull. As I bestowed the uniform upon the acolytes, who happens by but Jim Hollander, one of the greatest photographers of the fiesta. Months earlier, I had requested a copy of a photo Jim had taken the previous year, me posing with Joe Distler, Bomber, ……. Of the five, I was the only one not an absolute legend of bull-running. When Jim set up he shot, I had been listening to the group trade nuggets of encierro wisdom and slipped off to a nearby chair, clearly not belonging in a gathering of that caliber. Joe, though, at the last moment noticed what I had done and insisted I rejoin the group. It was akin to having my picture taken with Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays and Duke Snyder. Hollander had brought copies to this year's gathering, and after I introduced him to our cadre, he traded me one for a CC shirt.

Then we strolled the old city, where I relished my role of tour guide. Walking the route of the encierro, the son-to-be bull-runners were wide-eyed with anticipation. I imparted all the tips I know on how not to get killed. Stopping at the spot where Matthew Tassio had been fatally gored three years earlier drove home the key point. If there is a cardinal rule of bull-running it is this: If you go down, stay down. Tassio either did not know or did not remember. It cost him his life.

The final twosome of our group, Ian and Frannie Love, veterans both, had opted for a slightly different approach this year. They wanted to catch the closing ceremonies, so they were to arrive later in the week, having come through Barcelona.

As for the seven of us, after a few hours sleep, it was up for the Txupinazo, the opening rocket of the fiesta. We arrived a full two hours early, armed with knapsacks full of ice and cava, and a bottle of Irish whiskey, which I had promised to produce for Dan Cook, a longstanding veteran whom I was to meet at Txoco after the opening ceremonies. We got our seats on a fence to the left of the Ayuntamiento, the old town hall. The top rail of the fence is about six feet of the fground, and it sits under an overhang of a building, offering a great view of the opening ceremonies and a degree of protection from the wildness that goes on at street level. When we arrived, a full two hours before the firing of the rocket that officially opens the nine days of fiesta, the fence, which seats about six, was already occupied by a Basque father/daughter team, and we immediately recognized each other from the previous year. We shared besos and a drink as the crowd began to gather.

A guy with an ESPN2 shirt walked past, so I grabbed him and asked if he knew Holly Rowe, who had contacted me via e-mail a week before. She had seen my posting on Kukuxumusu and thought Club Cojones might make a "fun'' story for their coverage, which culminates with live coverage of the Saturday run. This guy fetched Holly from a nearby building and we kissed cheeks. She was a fresh-faced blond from Utah, wide-eyed over the building excitement. I had thought she was a producer or some such thing, but it turned out she was co-anchoring the event with John Nichols, a veteran. Holly said she was going to view the opening ceremonies from directly in front of the Ayuntamiento, right in the heart of the madness. I did my best to warn her, but she said she was ready.

As the crowd swelled, I saw her, with three companions, right in the thick of things, and I predicted she would bail out when it started getting really crazy. She surprised me, though, and when the buildup reached its frenzied height, there she was, soaked with cava, spotted with egg and dusted with flour (sounds like a recipe for cutlets!) but otherwise intact. It seems to me the crowd gets a little more out of control each year, with more eggs and other foodstuffs coloring the celebration. Even on our somewhat protected perch, we we not unscathed. Dan took an egg on the bridge of the nose, which drew blood, and Kim and I each were pelted a few times, but that is to be expected. Chris, Sean and Howard chose to stay off the fence and down in the crowd, and they loved it, as most first-timers do.

With maybe 15 minutes to go before the opening rocket, something unprecedented and very unfortunate happened. From the far side of the Ayuntamiento, a contingent of Basque separatist supporters maybe 100 strong forced its way into the heart of the crowd with a huge banner and balloons and placards. There was no way to stop them or ignore them. They succeeded in interjecting a blaring political note into the kickoff of a festival that is meant to be a hiatus from such hostilities.

Still, when the mayor -- a young woman, no less -- stepped onto the second-floor balcony, intoned the words and lit the fuse of the Txupinazo, unbridled joy overflowed from every quarter, and the sea of red panuelos rippled unabated for an eternity.

Then another sad first: When the first band emerged from the Ayuntamiento's front doors, the egg throwers did know enough to qg of a building, offering a great view of the opening ceremonies and a degree of protection from the wildness that goes on at street level. When we arrived, a full two hours before the firing of the rocket that officially opens the nine days of fiesta, the fence, which seats about six, was already occupied by a Basque father/daughter team, and we immediately recognized each other from the previous year. We shared besos and a drink as the crowd began to gather.

A guy with an ESPN2 shirt walked past, so I grabbed him and asked if he knew Holly Rowe, who had contacted me via e-mail a week before. She had seen my posting on Kukuxumusu and thought Club Cojones might make a "fun'' story for their coverage, which culminates with live coverage of the Saturday run. This guy fetched Holly from a nearby building and we kissed cheeks. She was a fresh-faced blond from Utah, wide-eyed over the building excitement. I had thought she was a producer or some such thing, but it turned out she was co-anchoring the event with John Nichols, a veteran. Holly said she was going to view the opening ceremonies from directly in front of the Ayuntamiento, right in the heart of the drinking, dancing and very little sleep. Although I promised myself I would get more rest this year, it didn't work out that way. What a shock. I managed one five-hour nap, but every other "night's sleep'' was two hours or less. And since this was the first official night of the festival, we were obliged to drink and dance until the wee hours.

The morning of the seventh, the first run: We all were up and ready, nervous energy churning in our stomachs as we tied our panuelos and cinched our … The walk to town was excruciating. Along the way, we stopped to buy newspapers; not to read, but to roll up and use as traditional props in the run. The very best runners, the ones who get directly in front of the bulls, sometimes use them to draw the beasts' attention, as a matador might use a cape. Most of us just like them because its something to keep our sweaty hands occupied.

I had convinced Dan, Chris and Sean to run at the bottom of Santo Domingo, the "suicide run.'' It sounds foolish, but as far as I'm concerned, this is the best way to break your maiden. You get the full flavor of the tradition, and the buildup is exquisite.

I made sure we were plenty early, guaranteeing we'd get good position. The "starting line" is at the bottom of Calle Santo Domingo, about 100 yards above the bulls' corral. Here there are steep walls on either side, so there is nowhere to bail out. In one of the walls, about 10 feet up, is a niche. With about a half hour to go, a cadre of officials arrives with a ladder and a statue of San Fermin, which they put in the niche. With five minutes to kickoff, the festivities begin. First, a woman sings a lovely traditional song. Then the praying begins. With three minutes to go, the runners, pumping their rolled up newspapers in the air, chant for the first time:

A San Fermín pedimos,
por ser nuestro patrón,
nos guíe en el encierro
dándonos su bendición

We ask San Fermín, as our Patron, to guide us through the Bull Run and give us his blessing.

The prayer is repeated with two minutes to go and then a final time just before the action begins. The crowd behind us usrged forward, pushing us against the line of policemen, their arms locked in a human barricade. As we looked down at the corral, we could see the rocket being lit. Whisssssh! Up it went, trailing a plume of smoke. BOOM! The gate swung open. Out charged two steers, their cowbells clonking around their necks, the pack of six fighting bulls close behind them. The police held their line as the pack rumbled up the hill toward us. People behind us were shouting to be set free.

Finally, the cops unlocked arms, bolted to the side and out through a slim gap in the fence. We sprinted forward to meet the bulls. Here the street is wide, and if you are among the first down the hill, there is room on either side to peel off, unemcumbered by the crush of people. I dodged left, turned back up the street and sprinted for all I was worth. In a flash, the bulls were alongside me, an arm's length away, and then they were past. As I slowed to a jog, I watched as runners, some panicked and clawing their way over and through their fellow runners, parted for the bulls, like the Red Sea parting before Moses.

I looked around for my companeros. They found me first, their eyes and smiles a mile wide. I could tell they were hooked. They were ready to go again, right then and there. We repaired to Bar Txoko for the antidote for andrenaline.

As we rehashed the experience over cognac y vanilla, Elaine trailed in. We had known she was going to run, but she had been mysterious about it, refusing to say where, and she had struck out on her own once we got to the encierro. Later, she said she was near the town hall when the bulls passed, got tangled up in a pileup, and it was all very anticlimactic.

That afternoon, I sent Kim, Elaine and Dan to the bullfights with tickets provided by mi amigo Art Duff, a former Army surgeon who in recent years moved his family to northern Italy, where he is writing novels. The three sat in the sun seats, which is just another name for the food-fight section. The neighborhood penas (clubs) with their brass bands converge there, having lugged in buckets and buckets of sangria and baskets of big sandwiches, among other things. During the fighting of the six bulls, which, I am told, is usually is mediocre owing to the fact the beasts have endured the encierro that morning, the crowd in the sun seats drinks half the sangria and throws the rest, along with the sandwiches, down on the folks below. The wine and sandwiches are easy to take, but the oranges and lemons that come with it can sting if they've traveled some distance.

When they entered the stadium, they were wearing the traditional white shirt and pants; when they emerged, laughing hysterically, their clothes were all a lovely shade of purple. They could hardly believe what they'd just experienced Badly in need of cleaning up, they let me lead them up to the Plaza Santa Maria, a quiet little square with a fountain up near the north wall. On the way, they each bought a new shirt from a street vendor, and once they saw that fountain, they practically dove in. It was something to see, them dunking their heads and splashing their bodies in that chilly water.

The rest of the night was spent eating and drinking, and around 10 p.m., we headed for a concert in a square up by the cathedral. We sprawled on the sidewalk, drinking vino tinto and listening to the group do Chuck Mangione's "Chase the Ct another name for the food-fight section. The neighborhood penas (clubs) with their brass bands converge there, having lugged in buckets and buckets of sangria and baskets of big sandwiches, among other things. During the fighting of the six bulls, which, I am told, is usually is mediocre owing to the fact the beasts have endured the encierro that morning, the crowd in the sun seats drinks half the sangria and throws the rest, along with the sandwiches, down on the folks below. The wine and sandwiches are easy to take, but the oranges and lemons that come with it can sting if they've traveled some distance.

When they entered the stadium, they were wearing the traditional white shirt and pants; when they emerged, laughing hysterically, their clothes were all a lovely shade of purple. They could hardly believe what they'd just experienced Badly in need of cleaning up, they let me lead them up to the Plaza Santa Maria, a quiet little square with a fountain up near the north wall. On the way, they each bought a new shirt from a street vendor, and once they saw that fountain, they practically dove in. It was something to see, them dunking their heads and splashing their bodies in that chilly water.

The rest of the night was spent eating and drinking, and around 10 p.m., we headed for a concert in a square up by the cathedral. We sprawled on the sidewalk, drinking vino tinto and listening to the group do Chuck Mangione's "Chase the Clouds Away'' as the sky grew dark and the stars began to twinkle. It really was so peaceful and beautiful, most of the crew nodded off. Sean and I stayed awake, and when the concert was over, we offered to go get the car, which was on the other side of town, rather than make the sleepyheads trudge all the way. We woke Chris and made plans to meet everyone by the Papa Hemingway statue outside the bullring in a half hour.

So we stroll across town, get the car, and discover we're heading away from town on a major boulevard. "Think it's cool to hang a U?" I ask Sean. "Hell yeah, it's Sanfermines!" he says. So I come about 180 degrees, and don't you know the cops pull us over. Of course, they haul us off to the pound where I had been, just the previous day. It was kind of funny, really. I told them to put it on my tab (God bless Visa cards), and we were sprung, only a few thousand pesetas lighter. By the time we got to the bullring, we were almost an hour overdue and the crew was at wits end, ready to grab a cab home.

A few hours later, it was time for the next run. I chose La Curva, the 90-degree bend from Mercaderes onto Estafeta. I'll bet it's 95 percters up to our table and plunks herself in Chris' lap! She says her name is Frosty and she's the oldest hooker in Pamplona. "Ever have sex with a 63-year-old woman?" she asks Chris in a British accent. Well, it only got better from there. Frosty kept us entertained for hours, buying drinks and even balloons for Elaine when she discovered it was Elaine's birthday. Everyone who passed our tables speaking anything resembling English became a target for the sweet old girl. She dragged them into our circle and insisted that they drink with us. One of her victims turned out to be John Nichols, the co-anchor of the ESPN coverage. He and I hit it off famously, talking about everything from college hoops to politics. Chris was befriended by a guy namd Nathan, a German lad who resembled a young Klaus Kinski with his wild-eyed look and manic antics. Old Nathan insisted on sitting in Chris' lap; we've got the blackmail photos filed away in triplicate.

God, that day wasn't the essence of Sanfermines party spirit. We didn't make it to the apartment until late afternoon. After "freshening up," it was another night of fireworks food and frivolity. Only a few hours before the next encierro, we fell into bed.

This time, only some of the bunch dragged their asses out of the rack, so I think five of us ran, including Kim, who did the "los valientes'' thing, arriving in the ring safely ahead of the bulls. But as any veteran will tell you, it's being in the street when the rocket goes up that counts. For me, this time it was the top of Estafeta, but not all the way at the top where it turns left onto Telephonos. The pack passed me without incident, but there were two stragglers (sueltos, as they are called), and I wanted to get a piece of them, so I kept running hard. I was trying to make sure I had a clear path, which I thought I did, but the final time I glanced back over my left shoulder to sight the bulls, someone must have gone down ahead of me and to my right. When I turned back to face front, there was a body at my feet, and down I went. I broke my fall with both hands, and thankfully, it didn't seem like a bad fall. I had the presence of mind to stay down and look back for the bulls, and when they passed and the coast was clear, I jumped up and finished the run into the bullring.

There, I immediately saw Sean, who was really pumped up after a good run. We went to watch the crowd that sits in front of the gate and gets run over by the cows with the capped horns. Sean got a huge kick out of that. I felt fine, except for a little stiffness in my elbow, and my hands didn't even get cut up when I fell. But a soreness began to creep into my forearm, and after two turns of the cows, I decided to get the arm looked at. A medic behind the barrier examined it, saw nothing wrong, and since I still had complete mobility of the arm, wrist and fingers, he deduced it was a sprain and sprayed it with some liniment.

At the bar, I administered general anesthetic liberally, in the form of cognac y vanilla, and eventually, some more of our crew showed up, Frosty to. We drank until around noon, and then it was time to hit the beach in San Sebastian. By this time, I knew something was definitely wrong with the arm, but I wasn't about to spend the day in the hospital rather than a sunny topless beach, so I begged a bag of ice from a bartender, laid it in the makeshift sling I'd rigged from my panuelo, and off to the Bay of Biscay we went.

The sun was hot, and soon, so was our beer. I slugged away anyway, keeping the pain in my arm at bay. Graeme Galloway, a balmy Brit with Scottish roots, had invited us to join his annual pelota tournament at the fiesta, but with my arm almost certainly broken, I knew I couldn't pull that off. My crew said let's bag it, and we stayed on the beach until evening. Back in Pamplona, we rendezvoused with Ian and Fran, just in from Barcelona. We all went out to dinner, and then I tried to wimp out and go to sleep, but Fran would have nothing of the sort. She convinced me to go out drinking and dancing with the gang, and of to town we went, me with my arm still in the panuelo sling. As we neared the old city, though, we passed a first-aid station, and I stopped to ask if they had a better sling for me. Well, they wisked me inside and said I must go to the hospital. Truth be told, I was a bit relieved. I knew it was broken and I'd have to get it checked sooner or later,and Gama and Susana were willing to take me, so I went. In about an hour and a half, i was back out of the hospital with a nice new cast -- and the final wrapping on it was white gauze with a tiny red stripe on either side! Even the bandages are the colors of Sanfermines!

By now it was getting on 4 a.m., so we headed home, and by 6 a.m., it was back up for the encierro. This time, it was only the two pilots and me, and I was not going to run. We were supposed to do the "home run'' run, trying to get on the hd up. We drank until around noon, and then it was time to hit the beach in San Sebastian. By this time, I knew something was definitely wrong with the arm, but I wasn't about to spend the day in the hospital rather than a sunny topless beach, so it was off to San Sebastian.

We spend a lovely lazy day there, then headed back to town to rendezvous with Ian and Fran, who were due in from Barcelona. We all went out to dinner, and I was trying to wimp out and go to sleep, but Fran would have nothing of the sort. She convinced me to go out drinking and dancing with the gang, and we rigged up a sling from two panuelos tied together. As we neared the old city, though, we passed a first-aid station, and I stopped to ask if they had a better sling for me. Well, they wisked me inside and said I must go to the hospital. Truth be told, I was a bit relieved. I knew it was broken and I'd have to get it checked sooner or later,and Gama and Susana were willing to take me, so I went. In about an hour and a half, i was back out of the hospital with a nice new cast -- and the final wrapping on it was white gauze with a tiny red stripe on either side! Even the bandages are the colors of Sanfermines!

By now it was getting on 4 a.m., so we headed home, and by 6 a.m., it was back up for the encierro. This time, it was only the two pilots and me, and I had decided not to run. We were supposed to have attempted a "home run,'' being on the horns in the "canyon and into the arena. It also was the day ESPN2 was doing it's live coverage, and we were supposed to be their post-run live interview. My injury short-circuited all that. We arrived relatively late at the tramos, and the crowd of spectators was already six deep. I saw the ESPN broadcast position, but unfortunately, it was on the other side of the already closed off street and I couldn't get across. I wiggled my way into a spot where I could see a little of the encierro, and when the bulls rushed past, I was bummed I wasn't in there with them. After the run was over and the ESPN folks wrapped up their broadcast, I met up with Sean and Chris, who said they had a pretty good run, and we went to the ESPN site to say hello, show off my cast and sell Holly and John a few t-shirts. They said they'd get me a copy of the tape.

We had a few pops at Txoko and headed back to the apartment. At 1 p.m. that day, Joe Distler was to be recognized by the Basque's bull-running society, becoming the first and only foreigner ever to receive that honor. I was invited, and after I got relatively cleaned up, I hopped a bus and made my way to Hotel Maisonave, one of the most famous hotels in the old city. About 150 people were on hand, including maybe 30 Americans. Some of them dressed especially for the occasion. Bomber wore a cream-colored short-waisted jacket with blue embroidery. Goldie wore a white lace dress that was a knockout. Art Duff was regal in a white silk suit, and his wife, LeeDell, was a show-stopper in a white lace dress with a brilliant red-lace shawl. Joe, who had flown in his mother for the occasion, gave his acceptance speech in Spanish, and at one point, there were tears in his eyes. After more than 30 uninterrupted years of running the bulls in Pamplona, this pretty much clinched his unofficial position as The Godfather of the encierro.

The party raged into the night, and after a little nap, we awoke for our final day at fiesta. Ian was my champion this day. He volunteered to run with me, it was time for our final run. Actually, I kind of cowered along the rail in front of the Ayuntamiento, and Ian blocked panicked runners away from me like an NFL lineman. After one last stint at Txoco, we repaired to the apartment, packed and left.

We hit Madrid in the late afternoon, and it was sweltering. Elaine passed out in the hotel, but the rest of us cleaned up and staggered to the Plaza Mayor for the farewell dinner. The plaza was beautiful, and th food and wine exquisite, but we were all a little sub-par, and the conversation did not exactly sparkle. After dinner, we found the ubiquitous Irish pub, and for hours we shot pool and sucked down Kilkennys, with some Tullamor Dew thrown in for good measure.

Another two-hour nap, and it was off to the airport, where we sat like zombies until it was our time to go. Many hugs and kisses -- and we parted ways.

Back home, I talked a doctor into letting me take off the cast after only 10 days, so I could run -- and shower -- with impunity. It feels like someone beat my legs with baseball bats when I try to run, but I'm getting more range of motion in the elbow every day, so that's encouraging. And I was unable to work for a few weeks, which is just a real shame. Today I go on my next vacation, with the wife to Prince Edward Island! I could get used to this lifestyle.

Photos

the Eiffel Tower, Paristhe Eiffel Tower, Paris

View southeast from the 2nd level of the Eiffel T.View southeast from the 2nd level of the Eiffel T.

Venus de MiloVenus de Milo

The façade - Oct 09The façade - Oct 09

Forum Posts

2 way radio in Europe

by bimmerman

I am planning use 2-way radios for communication among family members during my trip in Europe (i.e. Italy, France, and Netherlands). Is there any law/rule that prohibits me to do this in Europe? Will the radios be confiscate at the airports? How about going back to US?

Thanks!

Re: 2 way radio in Europe

by leanneedwards

Do you mean walkie talkies... because i took them and used them in Paris it worked great... my friend was by Notre Dame and i was by the louvre and we could get in touch with each other...No problems packing them either...

Re: 2 way radio in Europe

by mariev

If those are EU radios, it's OK.
But US 2-way radios are illegal in Europe since they operate on the EU emergency frequencies.

Re: 2 way radio in Europe

by K_V_B

You have to make sure they operate on a frequency and power setting allowed in Europe. It's unlikely that a set you buy in the states is going to be legal in Europe.

Re: 2 way radio in Europe

by bimmerman

I am blind on the technology. I thought it would be a good idea to bring them so that we all can communicate easily so that if one person is tired of walking, he/she can sit down and catch up later.

Will the radios be confiscated on the airport? OR, they will arrest me when I use them?
I am not planning to interrupt any conversation by finding a clear channel.
How would they find the person who uses it?

Re: 2 way radio in Europe

by K_V_B

oDon't use two way radio. For one thing the range is really limited, which means that you will have trouble contacting your other family members, and won't know it its' because they are out of range or because they just aren't listening at the moment. And be sure that if you are heard communicating on an emergency frequency you will the attention of the police. How do they find you? Simply by looking for people with two way radios... They are not common in Europe, and if you use one in public you will really be drawing attention to yourself.

Cell phone are a much better option. Just go in to a shop (they even sell them in supermarkets) and get the cheapest pre-payed phone. They come with a starting credit which should be good for several tens of SMS, and are cheaper than a set of two way radios...

Re: 2 way radio in Europe

by Manara

The radios will not be confiscated at the borders, because laws sanction their use, not their possession. But they will be confiscated and you risk being arrested if you use illegal frequencies. How do they find you out? If your conversation is heard, there is equipment that makes it very easy to locate you while you are transmitting.

Travel Tips for Paris

Arc de Triomphe

by Lilasel

After his greatest victory, the Battle of Austerlitz in 1805, Napoleon promised his men they would "go home beneath triumphal arches". The first stone of what was to become the world's most famous triumphal arch was laid the following year.

The Beaubourg: Modern Art...

by shivan

The Beaubourg: the Paris Modern Art Museum.
I stayed in there for a looong time. You can't miss it, even if you're the most illiterate VT member, like I was and still am. It is a very interesting place. Obviously Louvre is also a must...

Musée de l'érotisme

by VDElvis

The Musée de l'érotisme, or the "Museum of Eroticism" is an interesting look at erotic art from all over the world and from many different eras, right up until current day. It's an amusing look at some "art" you would never see at most museums. It's about 7 Euros for entry, and shouldn't take more than an hour or so. The museum is located in the Pigalle area of Paris, one block west of the Moulin Rouge.

Comments

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 One by The Five

We've found that other people looking for this hotel also know it by these names:

1 To The 5
One By The Five Hotel Paris

Address: 3, rue Flatters, Paris, 75005, France