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 (9th
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 18th 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.
