Plus Ca Change
"Honey where is the Emergen-C?" I asked
twenty-four hours before we were to leave for a much anticipated week-long trip
to Paris.
"Why? Are you sick?, Jody asked, her voice dripping with un peu de soupcon.
"No, it's nothing. I just want some."
I downed the not quite dissolved granules in not quite one gulp.
"Here, you better a start taking this,"
she warned and handed me Zycam nasal spray, some god-awful disolvable Zycam
tablets, a dark bottle with a dropper to "boost [my]
immune system."
And so it was that I headed off to Paris with the incipient threat of a persistent drippy nose and intractable, if dry, cough.
Jody was concerned. "You had the same cough the last time we were there. I think it is psychosomatic."
There was no reason for that to be the case. I love the city. I love us being there. I hate being sick. I recalled one time, in similar medical circumstances, I had to muffle my cough during a performance of La Boheme at the Opera Bastille. Trying to stifle a cough through tears (e.g. Mimi's death) is not easy. Jody thought that it was socially irresponsible for me to even attend the performance.
Flying mid-day on a Saturday was an unexpected pleasure. The Salt Lake Airport was empty, the flight to Seattle (our gateway) short and inconsequential, and our Frequent Flyer Business Class seats on Air France astounding.
As I settled into my capacious seat I realized I was missing my leather Tumi "man purse" with $1,000 worth of euros for our apartment rental. Departure time was twenty minutes away. In pressured French I explained my dilemma to a tall strawberry blonde flight attendant who ushered me off the plane past security in search of my purse. It was luckily where I had left it. I never asked the solicitous attendant's name but gave her my New Yorker magazine when we deplaned. She had seen my reading it during the flight and said that she loved it. It was the issue with the brilliant cover of Ahmadinijad sitting in a men's toilet…
The flight to Paris was a treat: our seats electronically reclined and thus we were able to stretch out for a reasonable resemblance of sleep. Because the flight was nine hours from Seattle we arrived at Charles de Gaulle midday, giving us about four hours less to try to stay up before we could safely go to sleep without fear of jet lag the next day; in the past we arrived early in the morning and had to fight jet lag for twelve hours. Our ride in from the airport to our place on Boulevard St. Michel cost an astounding $76 and was a portent of things to come, the value of the dollar being what it was.
Serendipitously, a major exhibit of the 16th century Italian painter employed by the Hapsburgs, was on at the Musée Luxembourg a short distance from our apartment in the gardens. Arcimboldo, who lived an inordinately (67) long time for his era was a true surrealist, painting portraits using fruits, vegetables, and other objets to complete his images. Google him. He is astounding and we went to see the exhibition again a few days later and nothing else despite the fact that there was a Edward Steichen photography exhibit at the Jeu de Paume and a massive Alberto Giacometti exhibit at the Beaubourg. A description of the latter boasted six hundred pieces, about five hundred and ninety-nine more than I could deal with even though I love him. We had simply no urge to do the museum shuffle. It was the first time we did not buy a museum card and traipse all over the city. Ça suffit.
Something unusual happens to time when you are in Paris for only a little more than a week. Even if you make no plans and let things happen as they may time seems to pass more quickly than usual. You awaken at 9AM for example with intention of going to a café for coffee and croissants and by the time you are actually out the door it is 10:30 or 11:00. There is no apparent explanation for it. Morning ablutions usually do not take that much time mais voila. The only time I have been able to push the day, as it were, is to leave within fifteen minutes of awakening sans douche and return to our apartment after having downed le petit déjeuner. Simply put the day does not start until them.
Similarly there is something unique about meandering the byways of Paris without objective (or even with an objective but without time constraints) that perverts time.
Yesterday I did not wear a watch and when I asked Jody what time it was I was usually surprised: it was later than I thought. There is no discernible reason for this phenomenon but it is reproducible and a sign that you have become un flaneur (e.g. Edmund Wilson).
During one such wandering we serendipitously happened on a bistro for an unplanned and excellent déjeuner. We managed to find ourselves in a neighborhood café in time for croissants. Our second day in Paris we were too late (11AM) and had to settle for thin baguettes. We headed for Deca, a women's clothing store near La Bastille on foot along St. Germain, over Pont Sully, past Las Bastille, and ultimately to Rue Charonne.
The venture to Deca was testimony that Paris will always be there. A year ago Jody, my wife and Andrea, my daughter had discovered the "to die for" women's boutique in le Marais, had tried on some clothing but left without a purchase wanting to think about it first. When we returned the store was closed not to reopen until after we flew home. Both of them were désolé. I reminded them there was always next year.
Suddenly it was next year and we were standing in front of the Deca shop on .rue Charoone. We had eaten lunch at Chez Paul, an atmospheric bistro we had happened on serendipitously. Jody had steak tartare and our friend Georgia (see BP Provence Before and After) and I had chou farci, cabbage stuffed with vegetables, something I had never eaten before. The bill for the three of us was 54 euros.
The problem with our search for Deca was that it was closed. Jody had gone to the store to shop while I was paying the bill at Chez Paul and returned with a distressed look on her face saying it was closed. I figured it was some sort of bad Karma.
"It's closed and I cannot tell when it reopens," she moaned dolefully.
"OK I will be there in a minute," I said.
I paid the bill and we joined her window shopping expectantly in front of Deca. It would open in ten minutes. When it did she found the same pants they had coveted a year ago.
But some things do change from year to year, for example Pariscope the weekly cultural guide to the City of Light still a bargain at 0.30 euros. For as long as I can recall the 150 page French publication has included at the end 6 pages of a selection of events in English. No more. It is entirely in French now.
Three days into our trip the moment I always wait for occurred: I was walking down rue Mouffetard and was stopped by a couple asking directions to the rue Monge metro.
I did not have Paris par Arrondissment handy but pointed them in the direction of where I recalled it was not caring whether I was correct or not. It was the moment that was important.
A couple of days later Jody was approached by a French woman asking her for directions to McDonalds, around the corner from our apartment. For a moment Jody was thrilled thinking she had been taken for French but on reflection realized that it was likely that the woman heard her speaking English, assumed she was American and bien sur would know where the double arches was. In fact Jody has never set foot in a McDonalds,
ever. Ah the ironies of life. With panache Jody answered in her best French, "Tout droit."
Later that afternoon sitting by myself on the first totally cloudy day we had, a premonition of winter in the air, I was approached by a debonairly bearded French twenty-something student of agriculture who asked if I would be willing to be interviewed about a project he was working on. I agreed and for the next half an hour we chatted about globalization, organic farming, global warming and perceptions of French agriculture. I told him that, as an American, my views were to be taken with a grain of salt since I tended to view most things French through rose colored glasses.
"All the fruits and vegetables in the marché look and taste better over here," told him.
I am not sure how useful my comments were to him but it was a challenge listening to him, trying to understand precisely what he was saying, and then hoping I was responding in kind. I am sure there were times he gleaned my meaning only from my earnest expression rather than my intermittently halting French. Agronomic words are not part of my everyday French vocabulary.
That evening the three of us ate at le Cameleon (6 rue Chevreuse), a favorite haunt in Montparnase, under new ownership and new pricing since we had last been there there years ago. Our reservation was for 7:30 PM since we hoped to have an early evening for a change; the place filled up as expected by 9:00 PM. Jody and Georgia had entrecote and I guiltily had foie de veau, a delicious nearly two inch filet. As devoured my meal I could not help but think of both the caged veal and my heart. With the accompanying macaroni and cheese this was hardly a cardiac friendly meal. For dessert I enjoyed another first: a fresh fig tart.
When we got to he outside door of our apartment on Blvd St. Michel I reached in my pocket and realized that I had mistakenly taken the keys to our home in SLC. Panic. Furthermore, I did not have the phone number of our landlord. Within seconds I realized my only hope was to ring le gardien of the apartment hoping she would be awake at 1o PM. I had little time to figure out other options luckily; the door clicked open and both the gardien et son mari looked at me for an explanation. I gave one and was shown unceremoniously to the ponderously heavy (we needed two hands to swing it open) front door. The plastic tag on the key ring would open it when positioned properly in from of a blue light. No one had told us over a week ago when we received them from the housekeeper.
There is something comforting about returning again and again to Paris. All the pressure of trying to do everything at once is gone. The first few times we visited I arrived with an inch thick stack of papers gleaned from the Internet full of all sorts of expectations and esoterica I was sure would color our stay. This time I had nothing except the expectation that que sera sera. We would let the city happen to us and it did. No pressure at all of any sort.
Jody and Georgia went off shopping for the perfect macaroon and I, after an hour mid-afternoon nap, am sitting in the Jardin du Luxembourg listening to a polyglot of conversations, watching French Halloweeners (it is the 28th), and taking occasional photos of people. I read for a while, a trashy book about werewolves I bought early in our visit at Shakespeare and Co. because I liked the title, The Naked Bunch by Sparkle Hayter. Then I'll go back to the Arcimboldo exhibit to buy a poster and pick up the raspberry colored pants I bought in St. Germain. Tonight the three of us will have dinner at a tiny fish restaurant near le Louvre.
The restaurant used to be l'Ostreia and was a miniscule fish restaurant run by two bothers. This year when we called for reservations we got a recording with a woman's voice and as different name. In any case we decided to see what happened and showed up on time for our eight o'clock reservation to be greeted by a diminutive hostess who explained that the prior chef, a portly sixty year old man who could hardly maneuver in his tiny kitchen, had retired. The restaurant had been sold and reopened six months earlier. After a two and one half hour dinner of the les specialties de maison we ended up surprised. It had become much more nouvel cusine, small portions with elegant presentation, a testimony to plus c'est change plus c'est la meme. For the record the new restaurant is l'Embrun, 4 rue Sauval (1st).
Shockingly I discovered the meal for three of us cost $246; a year ago Jody and I had eaten at l'Ostreia the tab had come to $70 for a three course meal with wine and service.
The technology of the 21st century has added to the pleasure of sitting in a café or a park. I had my IPOD Shuffle with me on this trip and listened to Little Red Rooster, a Howlin Wolf tune I had downloaded months ago. I had played harmonica and sang the lead on the track with a pickup band and somehow hearing my voice while sitting in a Paris café took me to a fantasy from the 60's. Had I lived in Paris in my twenties perhaps I would have hung in the blues scene. Later that afternoon sitting in the led Jardins du Luxembourg writing my IPOD switched to the last movement of Beethoven's Emperor Concerto. Somehow the music had more meaning in the shadow of Marie de Medici.
Earlier in the day while walking down St. Andre des Arts we heard what seemed to be a small jazz band with a woman singing. As we neared the corner with rue Mazarine we discovered a father playing guitar, a seven year old playing electronic keyboards with an intense and serious expression (two chords only each tune) and his ten year old brother playing cornet and singing, not at the same time. The most haunting was their version of the Tommy Dorsey and the Clambake Orchestra's 1936 classic, The Music Goes Round and Round. For the rest of the trip I found myself singing the tune:
I push the first valve down and the music goes round and round
Oh oh oh and it comes out here….
Months before our trip I saw that La Traviata was being done at l'Opera Garnier during our stay and tried to get tickets every way I knew how: on the Internet, through a concierge in Paris, and through a friend of a friend. Nothing turned up. Two days into our trip I noticed a sign for the Claude Bolling Trio playing on October 30th half a block away from our apartment at le Petit Journal. Just the knowledge that we could go there is sufficient: as much as I would like to hear him if it does not happen it won't be the end of the earth. I am not sure whether my sense of resignation is the result of having come to Paris so many times or just my age.
Two days before our planned departure it was clear that something was wrong: we needed more time in Paris. Without a moments hesitation I dialed Air France and booked the same flights on which we were originally scheduled for two days later. Since we had not read a newspaper or watched television we were unaware of the Air France cabin crew strike taking place even as we renegotiated our return flights. To us it was simply a spiritual necessity to extend our trip.
The day we were supposed to leave our rental and move for two extra days with some friends in Montmartre dawned wet. The weather report had not indicated rain but it was clearly a persistent Paris drizzle that seemed like it would be with us all day. We packed and called Alpha Taxi. I had spoken to them the night before and been told to call at 9:45 AM. When I reached the operator I was told, "C'est impossible monsieur," then she hung up before I had a chance to ask a question. For the next hour I called at least five other taxi companies to no end. The rain continued heavily and we realized that perhaps that was why taxis were unavailable, a fact confirmed by the gardien when we returned our keys. We decided to take more active steps and discovered a taxi stand a block away on rue Sufflot. With ten minutes we got a taxi and two hours after beginning our efforts arrived at rue Damremont near the Moulin Rouge.
Our two days in the 18th arrondissement felt different from any arrondissement we had yet visited. If you avoid the touristy areas (e.g. Sacré Coeur, Pigalle) there is more of a sense of being in a village or neighborhood. It seems a different side of PAris
Despite what one occasionally hears about the French being brusque and intolerant to Americans we encountered nothing but warmth and amusement during our stay. For example, I have a penchant for asking for water at a café or restaurant in a way that evokes interesting reactions. Instead of asking for eau non gazeuze I have over the years taken to requesting eau de maire or, in the case of the current mayor eau de Delanoe..
The responses have been everything from a controlled smile to, "bravo", "j,adore",
"naturellemnt."
Unexpectedly, while we were dining in what had been our favorite fish restaurant, the maitre d'hotel noticed Jody's handmade earrings and commented that she herself also made jewelry. At the end of the dinner the two exchanged objets: Jody gave her her earrings and the woman gave Jody a ring. As we walked home we wondered how heartfelt this exchange was since the woman initiated it and then offered the ring,
which was an odd piece of costume jewelry made of mother of pearl. Jody's offer was an afterthought of politesse.
At the airport things went smoothly as opposed to previous years. The Détaxe office was a breeze and the usual search for a mailbox to send for your VAT refund was nonexistent. The postbox was nearby; once year I recall having to run in mild panic into another terminal to find it in time to start our boarding procedure. From the time we arrive at CDG by taxi from Montmartre (37 euro with our luggage) to the time we cleared security on hour had passed and without incident.
In retrospect the only things we noted that had changed over the years were Pariscope, and two restaurants we visited and the absence of the fishmonger from Normandy who was usually hawking his wares (huitres, langoustines, moules) on rue Buci. He had been an imposing presence: fully bearded, wearing yellow slicker and drawing attention to his produits in a resonant tenor. The last change was that this year, undoubtedly due to our cautious eating habits (one major meal a day, usually lunch since it w as less expensive), each of us only gained two pounds. Walking and eating only one Nutella Crepe in ten days helps.
The two haunt that never changes are Le Derniere Gout (5ieme), a tiny wine store and our favorite gallery, Galerie Brehert (Quai.Malaquais). The wine store seems immutable designed to offer both suggestions for a wine to drink for a particular meal and geared to help facile export of up to nine bottles from France.They have now refined their packaging so that it is possible to ship nine bottles safely as luggage for the flight home./ The packaging is an ingenious design and is collapsible and recyclable. You can easily pack it in your bags for next year's cache.
Galerie Breheret is a gem. We discovered it on our first visit ten years ago and have returned ever since, collecting the affordable Provencal artist Daniel Airam. We own six of his paintings and have run out of room to hang them. Pas de problem. We will have a rotating art collection.
Daniel, Michel, and Gerard are totally charming and engaging art sellers. Two of the three of them speak English. This year, at the end of our negotiations, they gave us the names of two of their favorite Parisian restaurants, both very high end and out of our league. It was comforting to know that they were successful enough to enjoy them.
Google the gallery for a sense of their history and current artists.
Ultimately, the most interesting part of
this year's trip was how facile it seemed without a moment of regret or
freneticism. It was both an expected and unexpected gift.
