There is something quintessentially French, however, about lighting up in a cafe, and even though I haven’t smoked in years, I have to admit I’m tempted the minute I land in the country. Part of the reason smoking is mildly appealing in Paris is also the fact that cigarettes are inexpensive compared to the U.S.

In Russia, another European country with a strong smoking tradition, nearly 40% of the population has a nicotine habit, fueled in part by the less than $2.00 a pack cost. President Putin, a fitness freak and cheerleader for the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics, has just signed a law that bans smoking in all public places beginning in June of this year.

According to the New York Times, the new law will ban smoking near the entrances of subway and railroad stations, and ultimately in restaurants, cafes, hotels, government buildings, universities and stadiums. Restrictions on advertising, increased taxes and efforts to change the culture of roadside tobacco kiosks are in the works as well.

For a country that has been a tobacco industry nirvana for a long time, these are big changes. If you do fly Aeroflot, one of the last international airlines to ban smoking, they do offer nicotine gum.

I do understand why a first time visitor would want that photo in front of the Eiffel Tower or to say they had been to the Louvre. However, if you sprinkle in a few smaller, lesser known museums you will get a flavor of a neighborhood and a taste of Paris that you won’t find at the famous hotspots.

My all time favorite is the Rodin Museum. Located where the Master once lived and worked, it is a respite from the hustle and bustle of Paris life. When I was a student I used to go to the gardens to study. I loved to wander, grab a coffee and be surrounded by the sculptures. One gray day, there was a small boy with a toy fishing pole, fishing into a puddle, with stunning works of art in the background. I took a picture of the moment and wish I could find it now for this post.

At the time, visits fed my growing fascination with the tortured life of Camille Claudel, the lover, muse and many would say the woman responsible for a number of Auguste Rodin’s masterpieces. If you plan to visit the special spot I recommend renting the 1988 film Camille Claudel starring Isabelle Adjani and Gerard Depardieu.

A visit to the Picasso Museum in the Marais District reignited my interest in the artist. It is in a multistory mansion and the collection chronicles the life and artistic periods of the famous Spanish painter, sculptor and Don Juan who called Paris home for much of his life.

Another favorite of mine is the Museum of Montmartre. I was drawn to it because it was within walking distance of my friend’s apartment and in part because of a fascination with the culture of Absinthe. In Paris, the charm of small museums is often the edifice itself. This 17th century building oozes with history: the rickety stairs and garrets, the pre-historic bathroom setup in the basement and the picturesque garden. The rooms are truly alive and full of colorful characters who tell the tale of this famous/infamous quarter. Make sure to take the audio tour, normally I hate those things but this one really illuminates the experience.

My favorite part of the museum, (besides the great collection of documents, art, furniture and memorabilia from the storied neighborhood) is the grape vineyard that is adjacent to the museum and visible from the windows and garden. It is so anachronistic to see an ancient vineyard in the middle of the pulsing city. Apparently, each year the wine is bottled and auctioned for charity so it would be hard to get a taste.

Charles Veley and others of his ilk aren’t like most of us. They want, and intend, to go everywhere.

I met Charles last night when I went to hear Rolf Potts speak about his books, Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel, and Marco Polo Didn’t Go There: Stories and Revelations from One Decade as a Postmodern Travel Writer.

I’ve known Rolf for many years now but catch up with him only occasionally. My excuse last night was he was in San Francisco, and as executive editor of Travelers’ Tales I was partly responsible for bringing his latest book, Marco Polo Didn’t Go There, into the world. I couldn’t let our author pass through town with saying hello and shaking his hand.

It turned out that Rolf had written a story about Charles for The New York Times Magazine that had run just two days earlier, on Sunday, Nov. 16, and Charles and his wife were there with a basket of wine to greet Rolf and improve the mood after the event.

Charles looked vaguely familiar—I realized I’d read about him somewhere before and must have seen a photo of him. But here he was in the flesh, the current title holder of Most Traveled Person in the World with 709 of the world’s recognized places under his belt (well, perhaps more appropriately their soil in the treads of his well-worn boots). Turned out the reigning king of travel isn’t a swashbuckler but an engaging, gracious regular guy.

We chatted about kids and schools and books and finding office space in the Presidio (where Triporati is located) and when Rolf’s book-signing duties were over the party moved down the street to a restaurant. When you’re with the World’s Most Traveled Person and Rolf Potts, vagabond and writer extraordinaire, you assume the conversation will range all over the world, and I’m sure it did.

I, however, being a writer myself, had a deadline that night for a story that my editors in the eastern time zone would be demanding before I awoke the next day, so I had to leave. But I took solace in the knowledge that I’d have another chance to talk with Charles because he was here in San Francisco—for a while. I’m sure it won’t be long before he heads out to visit place number 758.

A recent article in the New York Times chronicled the opening of a Soccer Museum, where else but in Sao Paulo, Brazil. An elite sport that has become a sport for the masses, it has great lessons to teach both on and off the field.

Agility, thinking fast on your feet and teamwork are just a few of the skills vital for soccer success.  From Pele to Mia Hamm, Cameroon to Korea, soccer stars are truly global, although Brazil is perhaps the most insane for its players, many of whom are often given only one name to further heighten their star status.

The billions of soccer fans around the globe love to share their passion, whether using a bunched up old shirt, an old rusty can or a regulation black and white ball; futbol is truly an international language. So, if you have kids who love the sport and you plan on traveling anywhere outside the U.S., take a soccer ball along. Your ball just might be an ambassador of sorts, an entrée into the world of local kids. A mom friend of mine with three boys, all soccer crazy, just got back from a whirlwind trip to Europe. She reminisced with me about her sons’ pick-up games in London’s Hyde Park and Barcelona. What a great way to connect, mingle and assimilate into a culture, something we Americans need to experience more often.

1) Bring a reusable water bottle:  it’s great for the plane (empty it before going through security and refill before boarding.) Water was outrageously expensive, and I really didn’t want to spend twenty dollars a day on mere hydration.

2) Pack food from home.  Maybe it’s the mom in me, but I packed a few simple, nourishing snacks like sunflower seeds and dried fruit. It may sound depressing on a trip to the culinary capital of Paris, but I made room in my baggage, just in case I needed it on the long flight or during my stay. I even brought a few Trader Joe’s items to the hospital and the nurses and doctors loved them. It was a peak moment for laughs when I offered them up in a very American, very un-French gesture of generosity!

3) Choose your cafés wisely. Nothing makes me happier than sitting in a French café sipping a café crème, but at six-dollars a pop, I couldn’t stop for a pick me up too often. In fact, a few days I actually waited till I got to the hospital, where a coffee machine sold a good cup of coffee for one Euro or about a buck fifty. If a coffee machine at a hospital is not up your alley make sure you find a cheaper café; prices do vary.  You can also order a noisette,  an espresso with a dash of creme in it. It is called “noisette,” French for hazelnut, because of the rich, dark color of the coffee. If you are pinching your pennies, or just want to save for a few strategic splurges, don’t go to a café on the Champs Elysee, rather, opt for a small cozy spot like this one pictured in the Marais District. However, if you do want to linger, write postcards, rest your weary feet or soak up the scenery, an exorbitant cup of coffee is worth the price in Paris.

OK, if this all sounds somewhat pathetic here are some of the positives. Time was well spent enjoying the city, taking tons of photos and biking using the community Velib program which I wrote about in a prior post; the first 30 minutes of any bike ride are free, and beyond that the rental rates are affordable. I also couldn’t keep myself from shopping, despite the horrible exchange rate. Instead of my favorite boutiques I shopped at Mono Prix, Tati, Consignment shops (where you can find fabulous deals) and the Marches au Puces (flea market) at Porte de Clignancourt. I got my boys fabulous soccer underwear and in my quest for an affordable bouquet of flowers for my friend’s homecoming, I had a marvelous conversation with the florist in a posh neighborhood near Parc Monceau. We talked about the economy, the skyrocketing cost of living and the general malaise sweeping the Gallic homeland. He wistfully said how he loved apricots, how apricots symbolized summer for him and how this year he was forgoing his cherished summer ritual because the coveted stone fruit was astronomically priced. I left with a five-dollar single sunflower, but a meaningful conversation and a small window into the Parisian perspective on this global economic crisis.

OK, so I felt a bit middle aged, but I got into it and certainly loved the energy and hope one feels when able to express one’s political feelings. It got me thinking about demonstrations I’ve been a part of in the past, marches in Washington, London, Paris and in San Francisco. On a recent trip to Paris I happened across two demonstrations. One to Free Tibet, on the eve of the opening of the Beijing Olympics and one in remembrance of a Sri Lankan tragedy. I remember when I studied abroad years ago and we had a big lecture about avoiding demonstrations when traveling. This information is also on the State Deptartment travel destination site noted under the header safety and security. In general this is sage advice, a tourist does not want to get caught up in a violent protest, but I also think peaceful events can be a great opportunity to see and experience some of the more elusive parts of a culture. It was fascinating witnessing the Sri Lankan Parisians peacefully making their voice heard.

As I sat drenched in sweat watching some Go-Go girls and boys gyrate on the Port–o-potties I thought “I wonder what a tourist might think of this scene.”

Once you’ve traveled by metro it’s also great to get above ground. One of my favorite things to do is take the bus… any bus. Spring for a weekly pass even if you plan to only stay 4-5 days, this allows you to hop on and off and explore. Buses have their routes written on the side, with major landmarks noted, so you get a sense where the bus is headed. Each bus stop has the entire route written on little panels inside so you can know exactly where the bus goes. If you are headed towards the Beaubourg, for example, you can pick a bus that goes nearby and then navigate to the touristy area. There is a great satisfaction in finding your way in a foreign city! Buses can be full and toasty inside too, air conditioning or “clim,” short for climatisation, is not a guarantee despite the sometimes scorching temperatures, but seats are comfy and you have a great view of the city. I’ve spent so much time in Paris I don’t need to hit all the hot spots, but I do like to see them each time, sort of a touchstone, so I often do a tour by bus on my own.

Finally, the new-ish bike program Velib is just phenomenal. I had so much fun riding along the Seine, to the Parc Monceau and around the hospital where my friend who I was visiting was treated. There are many bike paths around the city. The rules are a bit peculiar and change depending on who you talk to. Vive la France! I learned that on sidewalks and in parks you need to walk the bike or risk a fine. Watch out for cobblestones; I nearly took a tumble! You have to get a card and can find more information about the Velib program online. There are big baskets for your shopping or bags, lights, bells and three speeds that make little difference. Make sure the tires are ok and the seat isn’t wonky; like any public system there are vandals and problems with the equipment. Please do take care, Parisians do not wear helmets and it can be harrowing with the crazy tuna can cars and mopeds careening around roundabouts with no lanes. Being the mother of two young boys I stuck to paths and was extremely careful at intersections, but my friend says she just doesn’t think about it!

We came to see the Oum Khalsoum retrospective; a giant in the Arab world, this Egyptian singer/actress is on a par with perhaps Elvis in the U.S. It was a fabulous exhibit chronicling her life. Sound, video, historical context made this well curated multi-media exhibition a treat. Khalsoum was a deeply religious woman, but one who wore fabulous designer ensembles, sang in a traditional style and fostered many Warhol-esque treatments. She had this amazing bouffant hair and memorable glasses. I particularly loved her personal affects and the stunning dresses as well as the art and fashion her life inspired.The exhibit continues till November 2, entrance is 7 Euros.

Have you ever see the French film The Red Balloon? It’s a classic from the 1950’s and well worth a viewing—it’s on Netflix. Anyway, it takes place in the 20th arrondissement of Ménilmontant.  Montmartre, the 18th arrondissement, an area, quartier, in Paris, near where I am staying at my friend’s apartment, reminds me so of this film. I took a walk in the hilly district, heading towards the Musee de Montmartre, I was curious about the Absinthe and Music Hall culture of this infamous area. It’s a great walking district, full of ancient staircases, (like those featured in the film) stunning views and, alas, too many tourists. I stumbled across a small urban vineyard and OF COURSE some well known Cabaret/Music Hall spots made famous by the Bohemian crowd of the 19th and 20th century including Toulouse L’Autrec. The day was humid, with bursts of sunlight, Paris living up to it’s nickname as ‘The City of Light’. I stopped for a $5 coffee at the base of the majestic Sacre Coeur having negotiated the gauntlet of Africans selling Eiffel Tower key chains and trinkets. Oddly enough for the first time in my life I actually do want to buy one for my boys who are so entranced by the structure (I couldn’t bring myself to part with the nearly $10 they were asking for a 32-inch high rendition of the tower). I descended further and was asked by an old lady to help her open her door. It must be said French doors, locks, keys, entrances are quite challenging. She was a bit disoriented, but of course I would help her with her shopping and the door. It was a classic scene, sad really, trying to stay living independently as she always has. I carried her groceries upstairs to her modest apartment thinking how lucky she was she asked me and not some sinister opportunist. I got her safely inside and told her she should open her windows and drink a lot of water; there was a terrible heat wave here in 2005 and many seniors expired as AC or ‘clim’, short for ‘climatisation’ is NOT common. She thanked me profusely and I continued on my way… down the hill when I saw this lost red balloon bouncing through traffic—I had to take a picture; very poignant! I headed towards the Gustave Moreau museum in the 9th arrondissment, a museum my friend highly recommended. I passed by Rue D’Aumale, a street where I had stayed in a Chambre de Bonne (Maid’s Quarters) of a high school friend, more than 20 years ago. I got to the small museum at 12:25—Arrgh the museum closed for lunch from 12:30-14:00—just my luck… off to TATI the French ‘Target’, the only shopping I will allow myself!