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, 6th Pl., #4, 9th.”
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 (“9th”
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:
“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.”
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.”
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.
