Day Eight: Bastille Day

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

  to explore memories and discover whether

   for him there is still there

14 juillet – jeudi

Emmanuel and Donald, Brigitte and Melania, tour Napoleon’s Tomb, which I do get to see albeit on TV. With large purse in hand, Brigitte breaks away from the quartet to inspect the base of the pedestal as if stalking prey. Then, while posing for a photo, she strains to hide the buff purse behind her back. The scene reminds me that all four are new to the presidency of their respective countries. Later, the heads of France and the United States view the parade of troops and weaponry from a platform at Place de la Concorde. Leading the way is a contingent of 150 U.S. military to commemorate the 100-year anniversary of America’s entry into WWI. The French called them sammies after l’Oncle Sam.    

 

I forgo the parade on TV to begin the day’s adventure, not knowing what to do except avoid the crowds aux Champs Elysees. The lack of bustle is evident as I drop my postcards through the slot of the closed post office then head to the nearest stop where the electronic screen reads “Ne Pas Service.” I go to Rue La Fayette to wait for a bus to nowhere in particular. Most shops are closed and my fellow riders exude a “free day” attitude. After awhile, I catch sight of water and push the button for arrête to debark at St. Martin’s Canal near Metro Stalingrad (18e).

The greenish water stretches to the right as I cross a bridge to the shady side. A gentle breeze tickles the sweet air, briefly soured by an outdoor pissoir beside a group of sleeping homeless. But the good air returns and I fall into a rhythmic cane-and-foot gait amid six-level apartment buildings whose gritty sunscreens show wear and neglect.

Outside a café a man catches the sun while I take a seat shade-side on a concrete ledge. I snap some pictures then pull out my copy of Le Parisien whose front-page vows: “N’OUBLIONS PAS – Nice, un an après.” Today is the one-year anniversary of the terrorist attack killing 86 people in the southern French city, which lends logic to the military helicopter hovering like a dragonfly above the parade route, so high its rotors beat the air unheard. A yahoo shouts from a car; some things alas! are universal.

                  

Je continue a promener, encountering a jogger, a bicyclist and dog walker, all of whom seem content to let crowds amass elsewhere, and then to my delight a batoboat on the canal. The shallow-keeled double-decker is nearly empty, carrying about ten people and crew. I’m envious of their leisure and would catch up and board with a picnic of bread, cheese and wine. Unfortunately, loose ends do not a knot make and it doesn’t happen. The boat goes on ahead, entering a lock to adjust to a lower water level, while I watch along with others.

Farther up the canal is the high-arched walking bridge appearing in the movie, Amelie, where the eponymous character skims rocks off the water’s surface. Then another: the retractable bridge on Rue de Lancry whose asphalt road swings out of the way of passing boats. The moving parts fascinate as does the canal overall. The city had planned to pave over the “useless” waterway until residents rose up to fight. What a loss that would have been.

Lunch is at Lulu La nantaise where outdoor tables under burgundy awning make a single file along the narrow sidewalk. Food service doesn’t start for forty-five minutes so I have a somewhat small glass of wine for 4.5 euros, which suffices till I place my order for an andouille sausage plate and a carafe. For 17 euros, the carafe is rather large, evoking another Goldilocks moment, but I’m up to the challenge. Noteworthy is the sausage that presents like a dark sheet of paper. Timidly, I tear a piece, bring it to mouth and pronounce it ---good.

Back at the hotel I look forward to le feu d’artifice that starts at 2300. Before that, a competing channel shows an Italian production of Carmen, which begins with a totally nude man under brass helmet on revolving platform. Had the production been French the nude would have been a woman. Two hours before the fireworks, Canal 2 hosts a concert at the base of la Tour Eiffel performed by l’orchestre national de France, le Choeur et la Maitrise de Radio France. Works range from Verdi to Prokofiev with contributions by Berlioz and Puccini, according to Le Parisien. I watch and listen and wonder how an American audience would take it.

 

When the fireworks do come on, I’m perplexed: did they begin at the end? American fireworks start slow with maybe one or two bursts then three then progressively more in various patterns until the final crescendo. Right away the French orgasm surrounds la Tour Eiffel, accentuated by horizontal streams of light from the La Tour itself. What else can they do? Answer: more of the same for nearly thirty minutes. Well, the audience has been listening to classical for two hours.

When finally the sky goes dark and the crowd disperses, I hear:

     I love Paris in the springtime

     I love Paris in the fall

    I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles

    I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles…  

Ol’ Blue Eyes, Frank Sinatra, puts to bed a day of surprises.

(FOR THE VERY INTERESTED ONLY: Four hours of Bastille Day activity broadcast on Canal 2 from 2014. Very colorful and good practice for your French.)

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Next post in about two weeks.

 

Day Seven: "Doucement"

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

  to explore memories and discover whether

   for him there is still there

 12 juillet – mercredi

Helene was petite, brunette and nervous. I can’t recall where we met or where we went, yet for 39 years her address has been printed inside the back cover of my Michelin guide to Paris (English Edition, 1976): “Helene R__­­______, __ Rue Rochechourt, 6^th Pl., #4, 9^th.” A memory fragment recalls a car parked in the woods with a grand sunlit building in the distance. Perhaps we went to Versailles in the family car after her mother’s caution to be careful.

My hotel being in the same arrondissement (“9^th” or 9e) suggests a trip to the address as goal for the day. Maybe retracing the steps of so long ago will jog the memory. I catch a bus on Rue La Fayette and pass Place Franz-Liszt and le Gare du Nord on the way to La Chapelle where a troupe of beefy peroxide blondes in tight dresses spills from a side street. Once off the bus I search four corners of the intersection for another to take me to my destination. A woman with a big smile greets me; I ignore the come-on. 

Later near the overhead tracks of Metro Barbes-Rochechourt, women in colorful African robes populate the busy sidewalks as thin men try passing business cards to passersby. I seek out the area map at a bus shelter in which an elderly man sits with foot raised to his face. I’m charting my course when the man approaches. “Monsieur,” he begins, presenting a sneaker and the end of a shoelace, and gesticulates his desire to thread the lace through the tongue’s fabric label. His thick glasses suggest poor eyesight is part of the problem; coordination is the other as it takes me three tries.

The countdown to Helene’s address takes place on a street of discount stores, which becomes transformed by a thirty-foot wide median with shady trees and park benches. Finally, on reaching a blue enameled door beside a shoe store, I look to the sixth floor and come up short! Reeling, I take refuge on a median bench.

The missing floor is a gap between buildings on either side whose design is of another century. It’s clear that Helene’s building has been renovated. The top three levels have brick façade while the lower two are of white stonework. The grills of the tall windows are cautiously inset, whereas those of adjacent buildings allow a footstep into open air. Renovation accentuates the passage of time: Helene would be a mature woman with her own family. Does she live there still and might she be gazing from a window even now? I don’t feel her presence. Farewell, Helene.

In a reflective mood and finding comfort under shady trees, I walk the median to Metro Anvers and then onto Metro Pigalle where I buy some postcards. Then, on realizing I’m in the neighborhood of Le Progres, I head in the general direction, passing up one street in favor of the next that leads to the intersection on Rue des Trois Freres. I’m pleased with my directional acumen and the sense of having closed a loop begun last week, just as my entire trip closes a loop nearly four decades in the making. 

The café is small with a floor-to-ceiling window that faces Restaurant Florenza where I ate last week. Despite not having open windows, the ceiling is high and the two rooms airy. As promised by Lonely Planet, the patrons are local: mothers with children, a young blonde in jeans grabbing a bite. Two couples stand by the wooden bar long enough for a shot. The meal is tasty: the standard filet of something, potato something, a cheesy something and wine. The recommendation is a good one.

Going down to Rue Rochechouart, I cross a mustachioed vendor carrying a crate of produce and hurry out of his way. He calls out, “Doucement, doucement,” a sweet way of telling me to take it easy. We nod on passing and I’ll carry his advice through tomorrow: Bastille Day.

Postcard excerpts:

Image: Sacre Coeur Basilica

 “You won’t get this until you’re back from your x-country trip. Hope it’s meeting your expectations. I’m having a great time. Luckily, I bought a cane. Feet are tired but knees in good shape.”

Image: Paris from the air

First week in Paris I was dragging in 90 degree heat, three days in Strasbourg coincided with a break: 70 degrees with light rain for the rest of the trip. POTUS in town so I guess Paris is big enough for the both of us.”

Image: Moulin Rouge

If you were here this is the kind of place you’d hang out. This is my second week and I haven’t done much nighttime stuff. Too tired really. Long lunches and people-watching are just fine.”

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Next post in about two weeks.

          

 

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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Interlude: Strasbourg

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

  to explore memories and discover whether

   for him there is still there

 8 - 11 juillet 2017

Le TGV travels at 312/kmh to Strasbourg in eastern France, and I’m seated comfortably in a car full of people. Wanting to visit another city to contrast with Paris, I choose Strasbourg for having the tallest Gothic cathedral in the country. Also, I want to ride a train again; last time I used a Eurorail Pass to range from Italy to Denmark. Strasbourg proves to be a restful interlude as its center, Petite France, is a compact island between rivers. I change to lighter shoes and glide over cobblestones as smooth as a close shave.

Hotel de l'Europe is spacious with polished wood floors and open beams in a former 15^th century relay station. After the micro-room in Paris, I seem to have permission to stretch and breath. Outside my window is another building across a narrow street and a shard of overcast sky. I imagine snow on rooftops and wooden shutters closed against the cold.

Proximity to everything encourages me to wander nocturnally, and I partake of two tablecloth dinners, the first night at Winstub S'Thomas Stuebel, recommended by the hotel desk clerk. The host is an energetic middle-aged man who goes table-to-table, commenting about the menu and taking orders. I almost choose jarret de porc baraise et gratine au munster but am warned away by the scene at the next table where a woman is visibly embarrassed by the huge knot of meat. “Porte-la chez toi,” suggests the host. Instead I choose fillet mignon de porc au munster along with a carafe of Riesling.

The diners are a mix of locals, tourists and people on business. On the other side of the room sit a dozen clean-cut young men. The city is home to the European Parliament, so when one of the men gives me a long hard look, I conclude they are part of a security team.  

 

Next evening I wander into L'Eveil Des Sens, where the tablecloths are white and the patrons married couples, young lovers and another group of men (older, American) who wear jeans and long-sleeved shirts. My waitress speaks some English, which is helpful as my French diminishes face-to-face with a menu. When young in Paris, believing my stomach could handle anything, I ordered without knowing exactly what I would get and what I did get had a strange texture and might have been tongue or brain. I could not eat it. Since then I approach menus with caution. This meal, from entrée to dessert, is great, and I like looking across the full room through windows onto a sparsely traveled street. It’s after 2000 and I’m angling to attend the sound and light show at the cathedral that starts at 2300.  

 

Earlier, I saw the cathedral in daylight. If back in California I had said, “Let’s meet at Notre Dame,” you’d assume I meant in Paris. In fact there are many churches and cathedrals named for Our Lady and Notre Dame de Strasbourg is only one. Construction on the edifice began in the year 1015 and was completed four hundred years later. I follow narrow streets whose looming buildings deny perspectives of sky and what lies ahead. On entering the square, I’m confronted by the massive cathedral whose rust-brown color appears metallic. I wrench my head to see the pinnacle that at 142 meters is like four football fields stacked end to end. The outward aspect of a rose window is the heart below the steeple and above the main entrance. Tiers and nooks contain stone figures of saints and scenes of the passion play. I sit at a café to study the structure amid the thronging public. Later I go inside where the cavernous cathedral continues to impress. How could the church not have been the center of thought and culture?

A German influence is noticeable among the crowd. France and Germany have contended for and alternately governed the Alsace region and bilingual speakers are common. A pale, middle-aged man in lederhosen passes by and -- forgive me!-- I want to dunk him in water.

My third and last night I eat at a restaurant in la Place des Meuniers. At Torricelli, Restaurant Pizzeria, about 20 diners are seated outdoors, protected by large umbrellas and a rectangular awning against occasional raindrops. The place or courtyard replaced buildings bombed during WWII. In addition to the restaurant and the one next door, residential buildings let onto the court.

                       

A group of children play nearby. A lean man with a short dark beard circles on a bicycle, interacting with them. Before scattering home, they line up along a wall, front feet forward. The man calls, “Eins, zwei, drei,” and they race across the open space to shouts of triumph and disappointment. Afterward, a nine-year old boy comes to the restaurant and is greeted by the proprietor, his father. What a comfort to his parents to watch him play while they’re working.

The mother serves my selection: carpaccio du boeuf with pasta and salad. The carpaccio is membrane-thin circles of beef that might have passed over light, but not heat. With white onions and spicy beans, they taste all right. The rigatoni pasta is the star along with bread and Bordeaux.

Night settles in and la place has the intimacy of a backyard. Son and father relax at a table facing the restaurant, but then the boy shouts “Papa!” and breaks into excited chatter. He runs inside and comes out with a loaf of bread in a basket that he carries to a doorway next door. The bearded man appears and cries out. With his hands he crowns the boy’s head as he kisses his brow. The son returns to the father, and I feel witness to something holy.

Before leaving Strasbourg I take a boat tour, the Batorama, around Petite France and see all the various styles of building, from aquamarine glass of the European Parliament to tanners’ buildings from the Middle Ages, whose large windows swing open to allow leather to dry. Attractions come to me for viewing through the clear plastic roof, which epitomizes my relaxing stay in Strasbourg. 

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Next post in about two weeks.

 

Day Five: Bells

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris 

to explore memories and discover whether

for him there is still there

 7 July 2017 - vendredi

Thinking it odd to visit Paris without going to a museum, I plan to go to Napoleon’s tomb at Hotel d’Invalides. But, French President Emmanuel Macron calls for a state funeral at Invalides for recently deceased Simone Veil and the following week would be the July 14 celebration of the French Revolution. With events crowding me, I search Lonely Planet for an alternative and discover  Musee National du Moyen Age:  “Sublime treasures … span medieval statuary, stained glass and objets d’art to its celebrated series of tapestries, The Lady with the Unicorn. Evocatively housed in an ornate 15^th-century mansion (the Hotel de Cluny) and the much older frigidarium (cold room) of an enormous Roman-era bathhouse, this is one of Paris’ top small museums.” The venue looks likely to satisfy my fascination for objets predating by hundreds of years the founding of my own country.

Deciding to brave the Metro, I step out of my hotel and am astounded to see --so close at the end of the block! -- the Metro stop for Porte de Clignancourt where in no time a sleek modern car transports me to the Latin Quarter. I exit at Saint-Michel (5e) and stroll down the boulevard of the same name where ancient limestone buildings glow like pale sunlight.

An iron gate leads into a medieval garden cast in shade by sky-climbing flora, where a man is slumped on a bench. The main entrance is around the corner and, being early, I go alone through the white security tent where friendly agents, an older man and young woman, search my backpack and wand me. I cross the courtyard, pay the eight-euro fee and obtain earphones as audio guide.

The 45-foot high frigidarium houses, from Notre Dame de Paris, “the remnants of the Sainte-Anne Portal (circa 1145) and the twenty-one monumental heads from the gallery of the Kings of Juda (circa 1220-1230) buried during the French Revolution…” (Per museum leaflet). On one side, robed and headless figures float in V-formation, as opposite on a shelf rest a quintet of crowned heads, mutely testifying to the violence of the Revolution, all amid the serene setting of Roman arches, brick walls and light from on high.

This is exciting, and then something really rings my bell. The Pillar of the Nautes represents the most ancient stonework discovered in Paris. Commissioned by a league of boatmen as tribute to Tiberius around 14-37 A.D, it originally depicted eight gods and goddesses. Two images struggle to reveal themselves, their robed shoulders and heads outlined in the stone, specific facial features obscured by time. I gaze into the stone, trying to fill in the lines, much like looking into a mirror in search of my younger self.

The nautes serve as link to Paris’ improbable motto: Fluctuat nec mergitur that translates into “She is tossed by the waves, but does not sink;” and to seashell figures on façade of the building (once inner walls of the bathhouse), and to the river Seine connecting with the ocean.     

Unable to detail everything at the museum, I must mention the six tapestries of La Dame a la Licorne. Commissioned in the 1500’s by the LaViste family, each tapestry illustrates the lady and unicorn and one of the five senses (e.g. musical instrument corresponds to hearing). The sixth tapestry is interpreted to depict love and understanding. Prominent in each is the family crest consisting of white crescents on blue band against red background. Themes and artistry surround me, seated on a bench in the middle of a darkened room.

After a peak experience barely halfway through my trip, I eat a fruit salad (pineapple featured) at a nearby brasserie. Passersby are of a younger demographic, many probably students. Then looking for a bus, I catch one that takes me across the river to Place de la Nation, a huge circle in eastern Paris (11e). A connecting bus drops me two long blocks from my hotel. It’s still warm, though not oppressive, and with heavy feet I reach my hotel about 1500.

I discover the AC and try to unwind, aware that this is my last night in the neighborhood; tomorrow, I take the train to Strasbourg for three days. Always antsy the night before travel, I’m torn between returning to The Pizzeria at Place Joffrin to see what Friday night looks like, and staying in to rest and pack. “I had a good day and should leave well enough alone,” part of me says. For hours the argument goes on and my body –as if held hostage—twists this way and that on the comfy bed. I doze, wake and doze again, rising only to turn off the AC. Finally, I come out of my slumber around midnight and realize the issue is resolved. I read and drink chilled water from the mini-fridge. “Il y a assez de temps pour boire du vin et visiter des cafes et brassieries.”

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Day Four: Goldilocks

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris 

to explore memories and discover whether 

 for him there is still there

6 July 2017 - jeudi

Thunder rumbles and the gray sky looses pelting rain to make the rooftops glisten. The heat wave has crested and the forecast promises seventy-degree temperatures with increasing rain through the weekend.

Today, I explore Montmartre (18e). Returning to rue Ordener, I go left and know it’s good when I reach rue Caulaincourt, which is tree-lined, of human scale and full of cafes. People carry umbrellas for occasional light rain below the lifting sky, as I stroll along looking for someplace to sit. With so many choices, I’m being picky. This one’s too small. That one has only a single file of tables outside. This one is popular but just off the main drag. I don’t feel like crossing the street for the next, and then I reach one just right: lots of outdoor tables, well-appointed interior and not too crowded.

I relax in the temperate weather beneath the awning, reading and gazing at waiters, patrons and passersby. Across the street a stairway of 125 steps descends the hill. Multiple pictures I snap show the progress of a woman in blue dress, who’s a quarter of the way down in the first, and more than half way in the second. I deny stalking her! On this side, streets continue the descent, though at less steep angles. I might have lingered for early lunch but take only coffee in anticipation of exploring Sacre Coeur.

After studying the map at the bus stop, I cross the street and notice a young woman and her mother doing the same. When the next bus comes, the francophone daughter steps in and learns the stop is around the corner. She leads the way, and as we wait a trackless train with ten cars passes, a sight expected at amusement parks hauling children. This one carries gray-headed seniors to Sacre Coeur for an advertised price. Our bus comes soon after then winds around the sheer face of the hill, as to our left stand one-level rustic restaurants. In a blink we’re at the base of the cathedral where scores of people sit on steps overlooking northern Paris. The bus drops us beyond the steps opposite the funicular.

 I climb to reach the cathedral where tourists wait to go inside. They are not overwhelming like those yesterday, seeming more orderly because their focus is either the cathedral or the view. From there, one sees hundreds of buildings telescoped one behind the other in a vast gray expanse that compresses thousands of invisible people, and I search in vain for the woman in blue.

In my journal, I noted that I often ended up at Sacre Coeur and at Notre Dame de Paris. I do recall wandering past Notre Dame (4e) at all hours of day or night. It’s on level ground by the river, so that makes sense. Sacre Coeur is on a hill and I don’t have memories of passing close by.

I buy soda from a vendor and sit at the base of the church. A couple, speaking an unknown language, have two boys, ages two and five. The older boy picks up a broken cobblestone and right away the younger one wails for it. The mother consoles him while prompting both to pose beside the brown bear propped on a step.

The funicular takes me down the hill. It’s time for lunch, so I scrutinize cafes on the small streets and alight on Restaurant Florenza on rue des Trois Freres. Open picture windows admit fresh air and afford views of cafes on opposite corners. Light rain falls and sweat crystals from the humidity make my skin glow. I place my order then, after the waiter leaves, cast my gaze to the left. Curses! Across the way lies the café bistro called Le Progres. I had put a check mark beside its entry in my Lonely Planet guidebook (11^th Ed.) that reads in part: “A real live café du quartier perched in the heart of Abbesses, the Progress occupies a corner site with huge windows and simple seating and attracts a relaxed mix of local artists, shop staff, writers and hangers-on. It’s great for convivial evenings, but it’s also a good place to come for meals…” So close and yet so far: I had wanted to test the recommendation. Because I roll alone, I usually target areas instead of particular must-go places. Serendipity influences my travels, in which the journey is as relevant as the destination. Nonetheless, I make a mental note to come back to Le Progres next week.

 A steamroller comes down the cobblestone street, making an ungodly sound --each cobble clanging the metal drum. The vehicle, however, is on scale with the small street, unlike tall trucks that threaten to topple careening around the corner. The little train hauling seniors snakes by.

A man makes multiple trips carrying odd-sized packages; the ribbing on the back of his blue vest indicates he’s the postman. Civil servants in Paris --postmen or woman, bus drivers or fare inspectors, wear subtle uniforms that don’t immediately set them apart, or else the heat has something to do with it. I don’t recall seeing policemen or women in uniform, although I do see French military in camouflage and maroon berets cradling automatic weapons across the chest.

After eating, I make my way back to the hotel and return in time to watch Inspecteur Barnaby, which is Midsommer Murders back home and like comfort food.

 

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Next post in about two weeks.

Day Three: Unwinding

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris 

to explore memories and discover whether 

 for him there is still there

5 July 2017  – mercredi

On waking, I poke my head out the casement window, turn ninety degrees to the right and see about a mile away, Sacre Coeur, which does indeed look like a wedding cake. And so the hotel fulfills the promise of a view, though, due to the severe angle, I won’t be gazing at the cathedral while writing.

I dress then take the elevator to the first floor for breakfast. The coffee’s strong, the food plentiful but the dining area is small. The attendant offers a tray to carry back to my room, and I enjoy a relaxed meal while watching local TV news and picking through the newspaper. Having breakfast available without going out serves my envisioned routine of writing and reading in the morning before waltzing onto the streets.

Strategic plan: (1) revisit places to jog awake memories, (2) explore my younger self, and (3) write down observations. In possession are letters sent home thirty-nine years ago and contemporaneous journal entries of my two month, two week stay, which document emotions but don’t provide much description. I hope to fill in details and flesh out memories while creating new ones. Today, I decide to visit the Marine House (8e), the residence for Marines who provide security for the American Embassy and where I lodged eleven days before moving to a small hotel.

I leave the hotel and wander to rue Ordener, looking for a bus to the Champs-Elysees.  My internal compass senses “Go left” but the map at the stop says otherwise. I wait with others and consult the digital read out tracking the next bus. Then, behind me, I spot a newsstand in a storefront, a candy store for readers! In Paris, one doesn’t walk far without finding at least a kiosk with magazines and newspapers framing the sole man or woman attending. I buy the daily Le Parisien (1,30 euros). During my stay, I also buy Liberation (2) and Charlie Hebdo (3).

When the bus comes, I step up and tap my pass against the reader. Buses have a central bay about four feet long for standers and large carry-ons. A foot canal leads to the rear with seats on either side and across the back. The canal is 18 inches wide, unlike American buses, and I kick the sides. In front, just behind the entry, an elevated seat affords the rider a unique shotgun perspective.

The trip’s about a six-mile arc that seems longer. I enjoy watching the passing scene and get off just to walk. At an intersection (8e) larger and statelier than that at Jules Joffrin, stylish restaurants prepare for mid-day patrons. Wanting to eat so as to ward off hunger, I forgo white tablecloths for a humbler café around the corner. Il fait toujours chaud, but my table is in the shade.

A woman consults her smart phone. A driver parks his car and takes a seat beneath an umbrella. When the waitress delivers coffee, he pays right away. A man and a woman to the right are talking business over a laptop. My meal arrives: Croque-Monsieur, a sleeve of french fries, lemon soda, and Dijon mustard provided without asking. The young waitress goes down the street with a large paper bag that returns a quiver of baguettes.

Refreshed, I hop a bus to complete the journey, which leaves me at the l'Arc de Triomphe (8e), Napoleon’s tribute to his 1805 Austerlitz victory. My jaw drops, as memory does not register the grand scale of Paris that hits me now. But even as I gaze upon the 1,650-foot tall monument, small figures traveling in packs distract me: tourists! All over, they take pictures or mug for them, cross my path and move in mass formation. They are not in memory either of my stay from mid-April to the end of June 1978; since then tourism has increased eight-fold.

A dark tourist bus like redaction tape blocks the view, so I seek a better vantage. A bench beneath a shady tree is vacant, but when I sit a man on the next one grows agitated. He speaks French, I think, but I don’t understand. He points up to the sun-filtering leaves. I look and look and look until I see the twitching tail feathers of a bird. I leap up, shouting “Bonne idée!”  Memory echo: walking on a quay along the Seine, I noticed a green insect preoccupied on my shoulder. “Ils se tombent des arbres,” said a nearby fisherman. And they still do!

Beyond the curb a gyre of traffic circles the Arch, vehicles of all description that dart into radiating streets. I join a mob crossing a street then trudge across les Champs-Elysees whose dominant characteristic is breadth: sidewalks some sixty feet wide either side of four traffic lanes. The stop for local No. 73 is by the crosswalk. My Lonely Planet guidebook (thx D & L) deems the route scenic, going from the Arch down the boulevard, past la Place de la Concorde and ending at la Musee d’Orsay across the Seine. After fifteen minutes the bus arrives and I’m one of a handful of passengers within an oasis of calm. Outside, it’s extremely commercialized: Louis Vuitton etched on a building competes with other business; a large maroon canopy on the sidewalk describes a dining area. The reality grates against a memory fragment of drinking at the Red Lion on the Champs. That could not exist in this environment, if it ever did, and so the fragment remains an orphan.

   

Too quickly we pass the stop for rue La Boetie and I decide to ride to the end then come back. Approaching la Place de la Concorde, trees line the boulevard and rows of plastic seats are in place for next week’s July 14 celebration. On entering the massive circle, we pass the 3300 year-old Egyptian Obelisk, and I’m thrilled at the close up view of hieroglyphs that look like organized graffiti. We are stopped this side of the Seine by an unimaginable cluster of traffic -- La Tour Eiffel in the distance to the right, before being sucked through to the other side.

Back at rue La Boetie I go up the narrow street toward the Marine House, hopping curbs and cobblestones and dodging busy people in conversation or having a smoke. At no time am I more grateful for my collapsible cane, which spared wear and tear on the knees. Its purchase a month earlier was key to the success of this trip; otherwise I would have been knackered the first day.

                       

I pass by Saint-Philipe du Roule, which is being renovated. Too bad, I would have gone inside. I continue on until reaching the Marine House whose stone gray façade looks like a fortress on the small street. A sturdy polished door leads to an inner courtyard. Above, fluttering blackout drapes keep out the light and I imagine a Marine sleeping off a graveyard shift. In Athens, we worked two day shifts, two evening shifts and two graveyard ones before two days off. Our detachment was only 10 Marines and the Paris one at least five times as large, but their schedule would be similar.

Leaning on my cane across the street, I try to summon a memory but come up blank. I suppose I never had this perspective, as I would have been busy entering or exiting. A journal entry dated 3 June 1978 states, “I arrived at the Marine House at 1100 to walk…to the church in which Mark (M) would marry Carol,” probably at Saint-Phillipe du Roule. After my residence, I would come back for Friday night happy hours, which were popular with select locals.

I stand before an iron gate bearing a red sign reading Interdit. Nearby, vigorous young men mill about a doorway; they have something to do with security, I suspect. A thirtyish looking woman with copper-colored hair passes and seems to smirk. Perhaps she sees me for what I am.  

At the next intersection I find a bus that takes me right to Jules Joffrin where I eat at le Nord-Sud before returning to the hotel. After having made the hotel reservation, I fretted because rue Letort was beyond the scope of most maps. Now, after experiencing the tourist hordes, I’m happy to be so far out of the way.

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Day Two: Perseverance

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

to explore memories and discover whether

for him there is still there

 

4 July 2017 - mardi 

I make my way through the terminal at Charles De Gaulle to the Roissy Bus for the hour trip to Paris. I pay 11.50 euros at the automated machine and step away in search of fresh air in 90-degree heat. While leaning against a railing, I think I see my bus and run for it. First lesson: wait at the curb and signal a bus or else it won’t stop. I catch the next one twenty minutes later, stow my bag and take an elevated seat in the rear. At the next stop we pick up a couple that takes seats across the aisle. He has graying hair, dark suit and white shirt without tie. She has blonde hair and designer jeans. They are expressive and talk the whole trip, in Greek! I’m amused, because thirty-nine years ago I was ending a two-and-a-half year tour of duty as Marine embassy guard at Athens, Greece. The tones are familiar, the meanings no longer, so they could have been saying, “Welcome back. Where have you been?” 

The bus leaves us at Opera (9^th Arrondisement) in the middle of Paris. It’s only 1300, so I decide to go into the Metro to buy my Navigo card (five-day reloadable pass). Looking for the entrance, I circle le Palais Garnier, the ornate opera house that’s so massive I can’t see beyond it. Finally, I find the stairwell amid a concrete slab in the middle of the street as to my left gilded figures atop the opera house and the French tricolor enliven the sky. I descend into the station where I present a passport photo and some euros to the agent and receive my card. Easy. Then I stand reading my map to figure out how to get to my hotel. The original plan was to take a taxi, but just behind me the Metro gate whispers: “I’m right here.”

I succumb to proximity and enter the gate but should have turned back when I encounter the first steps. Instead I gamely take on the six-odd steps and wander down the corridor, which leads to more steps, up and down, and more corridors. When I was younger and energetic with sound knees, the Metro was an intriguing mystery maze with exotic names for stops -- Chatelet, Miromesnil, Pigalle, Michel-Ange Auteil that suggested unknown-to-me histories. Now, lugging my too-heavy bag, it isn’t so exciting. Numerous young French offer to lend a hand. I smile, say “Merci,” but stubbornly carry my own. 

The plan is: take the M3 (direction Pont de Levallois-Becon) then transfer at St-Lazare onto M12 (direction Porte de la Chapelle) to reach my destination, Jules Joffrin seven stops later. The first train is packed, so I let it pass and squeeze onto the next. I’m astonished by the car, which is like a wooden crate with simple latch securing the door and which I might have ridden nearly four decades earlier. On getting off, I heed the warning to mind the gap (three inches) between car and platform. More steps and corridors later, I board another train for my destination. Second lesson: I won’t be using the Metro much. 

Finally, I debark at Jules Joffrin, where is located the mairie or administrative center for the 18^th arrondisement, which is useful as a number of bus routes stop there. Not sure in which direction to go, I study the map adjacent to every bus and Metro stop that shows surrounding streets within a 5-minute walk. Uncertain but determined, I set out in search of the hotel at 51 rue Letort. Fortunately I head in the right direction. I’m a sweaty aching mess when I arrive, and the clerk repeatedly asks if I want something to drink. “Just someplace to sit,” I say.

It’s about 1500 when I take the elevator (yes!) up to ma chambre, a micro-room on the sixth floor. The bed is welcoming with large pillows, and I crack the window then strip off my clothes. I try the TV but can’t get it to work. No matter. I’m exhausted from the flight and the heat, but satisfied for having accomplished my task: I’m at my hotel in Paris with the rest of the trip ahead. For now, sleep.

Five hours later, I wake up refreshed and hungry and it’s still light outside. While browsing Le Figaro, the newspaper offered free at check-in, I lift my hand to switch on the wall lamp. Nothing. Another lamp has the same result and I try calling the front desk. Busy. Obviously, there’s something I don’t understand, and now my immediate goal is to shave and shower before the sun goes out. Though in shadows, the bathroom’s bright enough for what I need to do. Then wet from the shower, I use the towels beneath the sink and marvel at bath towels the size of hand towels. The French do things differently, non? 

On my way out, I inquire at the front desk and learn that one must insert the card key into the little box on the wall. “Pour la securite,” says the clerk. More likely, it avoids lighting empty rooms and saves money, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Mystery solved, I set out to explore the neighborhood, which appears working class. The sidewalks are narrow with occasional patches of dirt wearing through. I pass small cafes without prospect of an evening meal, a boulangerie and other small shops before finding myself back at Jules Joffrin.

The intersection contains two large cafes, the Metro, newspaper kiosk, kiddie carousel (now dark) and the gray administrative building. I take a seat outdoors at Pizzeria Café with a view of it all. Though it’s 2230, the sky’s light behind the dark wedge of the six-story apartment building across the way. I ponder whether my younger self relished such a night, but come up blank. I was probably too antsy to sit still. 

Outside, a dozen small round tables are reserved for diners, and another dozen for drinkers only. The inside, separated by wide-open windows, is empty, probably because the night is pleasant and because one can’t smoke inside. At Paris cafés, one sits close by one’s neighbors. Mine are enjoying a cigarette, which are extinguished by the time my meal arrives: salad, four slices of toasted bread topped by smoked fish, cheese, tomato and onion. Along with the wine, it hits the spot and I’m satisfied.

At some point, the sidewalk teems with Afro-French teens who break into a run after a bus. We crane our heads to watch the commotion. The bus departs and many still remain, though in a few minutes they disappear. I stay till midnight when the café closes.

Back in my room, I insert the card key into the magic box and voila! The lights and TV work. The next morning I discover full-sized bath towels on a rack doubling as a heater. Hand towels are hand towels after all.

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Next post in about two weeks.

Day One: Difficulty at the Beginning

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

to explore memories and discover whether

for him there is still there

3 July 2017 – lundi

I take Muni to BART and am soon on the SFO-bound train. I pull out my New Yorker and flip through the pages …but at 24^th Street station the train stops and we wait to get going again. Alas: problem on the tracks between Balboa Park and Daly City of which I heard mention on the radio a couple hours earlier. Then they announce the train is headed back to Pittsburg in the East Bay. We get off and listen to announcements that say nothing significant except “delay”. Other people with baggage are obviously airport bound and when I see them pushing through the doors of the next train, I do too. The train moves slowly and I cannot relax. Though I close my eyes, my hand is on my bag, ready for the next detour.

The train gains speed and the operator attempts to pass information but I can’t understand a word for the deafening clatter of the rails. It seems a commonplace that announcements on bus or train are hard to hear. Should I feel better knowing there’s information even if I can’t hear it? We arrive about 1130. Flight UA990 departs at 1455.

Despite much thought and effort, my bag’s too heavy to carry around so I check it at the United counter and am pleased at not being charged. Then I eat a burger in the North Food Court of the International Terminal while people-watching. A woman nearby talks on her phone the entire time and I reflect on my decision to leave mine at home. My pay-as-you-go-phone wouldn’t work in Europe, Verizon told me. A mother with two kids parks them at my elevated counter then stands in line for sushi. Continually, she casts long glances our way as the kids amuse themselves.

I pass through TSA without incident, board the jet and find seat 33J on the aisle where a woman asks if I would change seats with her traveling companion. They are a middle-age trio, two women and the man who is sitting by the window in the next row. I explain my need for an aisle seat during the ten-hour trip. She understands and then asks a befuddling question: “Are you a vodka or a whisky guy?” I hesitate before admitting, “Whisky.” She says “Good,” and nothing further as we settle into our seats. The economy section breaks down into rows across of three, three and three bisected by two parallel aisles down which airline attendants march, securing bags in the overhead. Not too long later we are airborne, and I listen to the women beside me speaking Arabic. Some hours later, the woman reaches into her bag and offers me a drink.

Later, four hours to go until arrival at Charles DeGaulle (CDG). The electronic map on the back of the seat shows us over Nuuk (Godthab), which I call Greenland, our jet skirting at starboard a bell curve of darkness. While San Francisco lies in a quadrant of dark, Paris is in light; though outside through the window is frozen violet sky.

We land, deboard, and I collect my bag. I run into the trio again outside the restroom. They wave and wish me “Bonne journee.” They are home. 


Next post in about two weeks.