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 15th 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.
