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.
