After 39 years, the
writer revisits Paris
to explore memories
and discover whether
for him there is
still there
15 - 17 juillet - vendredi et samedi
The last days have the quality of memory fragments as the
lead-ins -transportation and language- no longer dominate my attention: I get
on and off the bus; Parisians speak French, I speak some French and at times we
communicate.
Le Palais Garnier Opera House (9e) has been the
unintended focal point of my stay, and finally I go inside. The Python,
sculptured in black, confronts me before I ascend the broad marble steps. All
sparkles and all is glorious. On the box-seat level, the Phantom of the Opera’s
box is the last one on the left! Plush, red velvet seats of the performance
hall reinforce the stateliness of the place but on looking up to the
ceiling and Chagall’s explosion of color, my perspective opens like a flower.
Without planning to, I encounter the beast: the Eiffel
Tower. At Trocadero (16e), I’m surrounded by one of those grand Parisian
circles that obscure everything beyond and tread counter-clockwise until
stopped in my tracks. A gap between buildings frames a marble platform on which
hundreds of onlookers view the Tower across the Seine, like a trophy on a
mantle place. Hawkers peddle 10-inch replicas, selfie-sticks and lighters as I
study the structure that on the whole is more graceful than its pig iron parts.
Incredible to consider it was nearly pulled down in 1909, but spared for being
useful as an antenna.
A huge tricolor flag from Bastille Day hangs from the Arc de
Triomphe on my way to the Alliance Francaise, which is close by le
Jardin du Luxembourg (6e) where the streets are empty that Saturday. I
attended the Alliance to study French. My journal reminds me I stayed
just one week because in a four-hour class I would speak only one or two
sentences; there were so many students. So I gave it up to study independently
with Monique, a German university student. A fond memory is of buying bread,
wine and cheese to take to the park. Monique, thin and dark, had a death grip
on our baguette. “Tu as tue le pain,” I said, pointing to the crimp in
its neck and we broke into laughter. For a going away present, she gave me a
French translation of James Michener’s Centennial.
Later
, I come upon
Rue de Montogueil (2e)
where the street blooms with activity: pedestrians, boutiques, cafes and
produce stores. Despite having already eaten, I can’t pass up the scene and
take a seat at
Café Montorgueil. Just inside,
because the outside
seats are taken, I still have fresh air and a great view. Periodically, a
grocer barks a promotion. A fishmonger in white smock displays a thick cut of
fish on a plate; his co-worker holding a similar cut seems lost. I order
salade
de fruit and soda and then in a moment of inspiration ask if they have
calvados.
They do (9
euros) and I end up having two. As Hemingway might have said,
“The apple brandy was fine.”
***
Concluding Thoughts
Thirty-nine years ago, an older lady in black elbowed me at
a turnstile in the Metro. I was on my way to the airport after nearly three
years in Europe and carried a full duffle and an unwieldy wooden chessboard
purchased in Spain. There were so many ladies in black back then that their
image stuck in my mind. A scant 33 years before, the Second World War had ended
and many French were mourning loved ones. A twenty-year-old Parisienne during
the Occupation could have been my lady in black. One would often be sitting in
restrooms beside a stack of paper towels and a tip plate. I don’t recall any
this trip and only the large restroom at la Gare de l’Est required
payment to a man behind the counter at the fork between les hommes et les
femmes.
Unnerving back then were beggars on the streets or in the
Metro. Dark, emaciated and often physically deformed, they presented a
disturbing reality and, later in the US, I would look with disdain on
comparatively whole and healthy beggars. Nowadays ours appear more ragged and
distressed and I’m much more sympathetic. A strange sight this trip was on the Champs
Elysees where two plump middle-aged women in long dresses and
headscarves lay prone in the middle of the sidewalk. Their clothes were
attractive and they didn’t have begging cups, so I believe they were asking for
something more than money. All the while, the issue of refugees and immigrants
simmered, playing out before me on TV. One immigrant camp, I learned, was not
far from my first hotel.
Is Paris still there for me? The people are sympathetic and
the city is as fascinating now as it was decades ago. I love the language,
which plays in my ear like jazz and classical. Paris, greater France and
the culture would seem a rewarding focus for the coming years and at my level,
affordable: hotel rooms cost not much more than a decent one in Los Angeles,
and I’d much rather be in Paris: walking ancient streets, peeking inside the
odd museum or church, sipping wine and people watching. So, yes, I’ll head
there when in need of a break or in search of pleasure or la difference.
*
This is the last post in the series of posts about my 2017
Paris trip. Below are links to earlier posts:
The links are valid as of the posting date. Advise me of any broken links using the Comments feature.
