Day Six: Snapping Fool

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

  to explore memories and discover whether

   for him there is still there

11 juillet – mardi

Back in Paris, I hoist bag to shoulder and cane through Gare de l’Est to the taxi stand outside. Good choice. Though having reserved a hotel not far from the station, I would not easily have found it on public transport. The driver loads my bag in the trunk and I hand him the business card with the address written on the back: Best Western, Anjou-Lafayette, 4 rue Riboutte. I made cards for all four hotels; my second best idea of the trip. Instead of stumbling over pronunciation and misinterpretation, I point to the card. He punches the address into GPS and delivers me to the 9e arrondissement. Whereas my first hotel was in a gritty area in the 18e; the second in touristy Strasbourg, the third is in a neighborhood with a nice park.

The woman clerk checks me in speaking rapid French, which I mostly understand. I ask about a shuttle to the airport Sunday and she advises that a taxi ride costs about 55 euros; so for me it will again be the Roissy Bus.

The room key reminds me that the hotel had undergone major renovation, which apparently did not include locks. The large metal key is attached to a plastic square with the room number boldly displayed. No “pour la securite” here, unless employing some sort of metal and electricity link a la Ben Franklin.

Ma petite chambre est dans le cinquieme etage, from where I can see rooftops opposite and treetops of the park. An odd feature is the one-foot step up to the window area with the closet and a chair. I imagine being drowsy, forgetting and falling. However, without stepping up I can reach over to place hangers on the closet rod. On my way out, I notice another strange thing: no peephole in the door to invade the privacy of what goes on in the hallway.

This evening my goals are to replenish my Navigo card and get something to eat. At the end of the narrow street I turn right then discover Metro Poissoniere and am happy to observe the up-escalator in operation. The self-service machine on the wall of the empty station reads my pass, accepts my credit card and makes me good for another week.

I continue in my initial direction and come upon Place Franz-Liszt. To my left, is the church Saint Vincent de Paul, whose columns evoke ancient Greece. I reach for my camera, but upbraid myself for being a snapping fool. Anything old is tempting and here everything seems old, like that church on the hill built in the mid-1800’s. I head across la Place for Cafe de l'Eglise.

Squeezing between closely spaced tables, I settle in my chair. The church seems to levitate in the background as a drama unfolds: a young man sits on the pavement, his hands cuffed behind him. Though his legs point to the café, he turns his face away, in shame I suppose. Two men in jeans and polo shirts stand over him. The silence attendant on the scene is extraordinary: no one shouts, curses or explains, and the café crowd doesn’t appear to pay them any mind. “A mime show,” I think. “This is Paris after all.” At any moment the man’s head would turn to reveal greasepaint and sad red lips. I study the menu and when next I look up, the trio is gone.

Partaking of olives, hummus, bread and red wine, I stay till after 2100. On the way back to the hotel, I buy soda from Monop’ Lafayette, a small supermarket. As of tomorrow, I have four days left in Paris and an old address to check out.

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Next post in about two weeks.