Next to Last Day

And the canicule is upon us again—not too bad today, 91F forecast, but tomorrow is supposed to be 99, then Wednesday and Thursday, 104 and 108 (!), respectively. It feels like one of those disaster movies, like I’ll be flying out of its clutches just before it devours everything.

I was dashing around again this morning, a little later than yesterday, accomplishing my list of small errands. Back by 10:30, but with the heat and humidity and fierce sun, already a sweaty mess anyway.

After resting and cleaning up the kitchen, I pulled myself together and ventured out again for a slightly late lunch at Le Bistrot du Peintre, that amazing Art Nouveau space near Bastille, where I’ve never had a bad meal. Sat outside. Drank lots of water as well as wine and coffee, and still am constantly thirsty.

I’ve begun the little preliminaries to packing, to gathering up my always temporary existence here and winging back to another hot spot. This evening is Spoken Word again. I see the featured performers are to be Diana Norma Szokolyai and Dennis Shafer.I don’t think I’ll stay for more than one session, in an un-“climatisée” cellar that swelters even in winter. (Spoiler: and she didn’t, being in somewhat the state of heated candle wax, despite her foldable fan—and the box of paper fans belatedly passed around to the other heatstroke candidates—the cold juice, the cool stone wall behind her. The saxophone didn’t help.)

21 July

The first full night’s sleep in a long time and orange juice were enough of a boost to propel me busily out and back by 10:00 this morning, Sunday. I walked across to the Île St.-Louis for only the second time this year. No crowds at all, most shops still closed, buskers not busking. I had to stop for a moment at the center point to look at the river in the calm, despite the sun (one reason for my early dash) that was beginning to rise above the roofs. The little bakery on St.-Louis-en-l’Île was open, empty of customers, so I was in and out with my almond croissant and a small quiche for lunch in no time. Strolling back along the river, I spotted little tents down on the riverbank on the opposite side, a brocante and antiques fair setting up. 

So I crossed the St.-Louis bridge, and the Pont de L’Archêveché, to the Left Bank, walked to the nearest stairs, and went down to check it out. Long story short, there was really nothing much of interest—well, there were interesting things here and there, but certainly nothing I was looking for. It made me consider, briefly, riding out to the bigger, weekly market at Vanves. But I had early on decided nothing was interesting enough to have to do it in summer, if it involved standing at length in the sun—or even the shade, if the weather were really hot. So, though ultimately today wound up being another not-so-hot day (rather like one week ago), I stayed in for the remainder of it, doing little chores, and, especially, reading.

Play On

By a complete fluke, I discovered that a small international theater company, Cygnet https://www.cygnettheatreparis.com/eng-company, would be performing Twelfth Night in Montmartre. Opening night was Wednesday, July 17^th. So I purchased a ticket online and combed through maps for the location.

The performance began promptly at 7:30 P.M. (19:30). I set out well in advance to negotiate the two Metro lines and the search for the amphitheater where it was to take place. A good thing, too, since it’s tucked away into the side of the Butte Montmartre, on which Sacré Coeur sits. But even after taking the funicular up that final steep hill, strolling along the edge of the pavement in front of the basilica taking in the view, and hunting down the amphitheater, I was very early, so just hung out at the entrance observing the young actors scurrying around performing all their other theatrical tasks in preparation.

The amphitheater is small, and dates only to 1941 (the internet informed me), not Roman times like the Arènes de Lutèce, but still is charming. The crowd that had gradually gathered was finally admitted, and the show began in full daylight, though we were in the shade of trees and buildings across the street. The play's setting was updated to modern, mainly in a scruffy cabaret. The players were quite good. Many in the audience had self-catered, and there was wine for sale (at the bar of the “cabaret”) before the performance and during the intermission. All in all, a fun and interesting evening.

(And then the turnstile ticket machine wouldn’t take my ticket—or took it just barely, where I could still see it but not retrieve it to try in another machine, instead of passing it on through to register. And that was my last one. I’d brought four, thinking that was more than enough backup, forgetting the funicular takes the same tickets, so that that was exactly how many I needed. An Indian family came up behind me in the largely deserted station, parents and three daughters; the father helpfully kept telling me the ticket booth was closed for the night (of which, obviously, I was painfully aware). But then, completely randomly, someone came out through the gate meant for wheelchairs and such, and they as well as I—I felt quite justified in using it—passed through.)

Swiftly

Perhaps the most charming discovery of this visit has been the swifts. 

I had never heard the whistling call before, that I began hearing every morning and evening from the tiny, scruffy garden across the street (the one with magnolias, bamboo, and a camellia before it died, that I’d thought more than once, bemusedly, was a sliver of Louisiana following me, though a pale imitation of the larger gardens Marianne D’Artigaux’s (whose grave is the oldest still marked in the “American” Cemetery in Natchitoches, of her sudden, untimely death in 1797) son planted at his and his wife’s chateaunear Nantes to remind him of the colony where he’d grown up). I couldn’t see what was making it, until, coming back up the street late one afternoon, I looked up at the sky—and saw them, their forked tails, swooping and diving through the air. Aha.

My first thought was chimney swifts, for that was what they reminded me of. But via the wonders of the internet, listening to their call on YouTube, I realized that wasn’t it. But, gradually sifting through options, eliminating swallows as well, I came to “swifts,” native to Europe, and whose call, in the end, was a perfect match. Now I smile, hearing them every day, knowing who they are (martinets, in French). I’m not sure of their migration habits, but perhaps they’re gone by the time I’m usually here, and that’s the reason I’d never encountered them, until now.

Out and About

Today I went to see the two special exhibitions at the Musée d’Orsay:Berthe Morisot, a large show, the first devoted exclusively to her in Paris since 1941, and including works not seen in France for a hundred years—beautiful and interesting; and one of the depiction of Africans in art from the 18^thinto the 20^thcenturies, “The Black Model,” which is fascinating. I didn’t buy a ticket in advance—how bad could it be? hahahahaha—and though I got there fairly early, I didn’t rush, so wasn’t literally there at opening time. Well…I’ve experienced worse lines, but it was bad enough. And those weren’t in July, both in the “summer” sense and in the “high tourist season” sense. Sigh.

So it took something over 45 minutes to get inside—far from my personal worst, as I say. Mostly in sun, or clinging to the side of whatever part of the building might be offering shade for a couple of minutes. Envying, as every day, people whose skin doesn’t need coddling, who don’t have to wear all sorts of extra layers (of heat) like a Bedouin in the desert.

The museum itself was, of course, very busy (I’ve never seen it when it wasn’t). The exhibits 

took time to do justice, to read the panels and labels as well as contemplate the art. I allowed myself one room, just one, of the permanent collection, while searching for the Black Model exhibit, half of it Monets I glimpsed in passing. In the exhibit, for some reason, among many beautiful paintings and sculptures, one or two horrifying, what moved me most was a smallish drawing of the abolition of slavery at the time of the Revolution (later reinstated by Napoleon). 

At great length, I walked back to the Métro station and went back to the Hôtel de Ville (“my” stop, or one of two). I was on my way to Hank (vegan) Burger, but since the bedside lamps in the apartment needed bulbs, and I couldn’t find any in the apartment, I went first into BHV, the Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville, since I was right by it. Down into the utilitarian zone of the basement, the hardware, etc., departments, where I tracked them down (annoyingly, this later proved to all be unnecessary effort, after the HOA president revealed where they’re now kept).

Then I walked . . . and walked, up the rue des Archives into the Marais (between all the vast amounts of walking . . . again . . . and standing, and general abuse, this day would prove the ruination of a pair of comfortable sandals I really liked). Lunch was good again, though, and raising my blood sugar and rehydrating myself so belatedly (this not happening until close to 3:00 P.M.) revived me somewhat.

From there I—yes, walked, several more blocks, to the Palais de Thé. And finally, wearily, back home.

Speaking of Light

Monday was the day of rest, trying to let my much-exercised body recuperate (and it being a day of many closed museums and restaurants anyway). In the evening I went to Spoken Word. How very strange, having only ever attended it in the fall, to be walking through full daylight, to come up out of the earth even after the second Métro, and find it still light. The cellar where it takes place, has for a number of years, now, is overly warm even in cold weather, so is sweltering now. The featured reader was Skye Jackson, an MFA candidate at UNO in New Orleans. Of course: it seems at least every other year I cross paths with Louisiana writers who have made the trek over. I enjoyed her poetry, as well as that of her boyfriend, Ben Aleshire. I stayed through two sessions, then left. It had finally gotten dark outside. 

Feux d'Artifice

The Quatorze Juillet(the French do not call it Bastille Day; it’s this or the Fête Nationale) began breezy and eerily quiet. Almost everything shuts down—with the notable exception of restaurants and cafés in heavily touristed areas (so, much of the city, still). I was going back and forth about where to go to watch the fireworks much, much later (they begin at 11:00 P.M., 23:00; it doesn’t get dark until after 10:00/22:00). I had no intention of going to the military parade down the Champs-Élysées at 10:00 (A.M.), sun and guns and Macron and all. But as it began, fighter jets screamed low overhead, as they had in rehearsal yesterday, exiting stage—left, I guess, after making their tricolor trails. Shortly after that, I could hear helicopters (I’m at home, minding my own business (more or less), trying to make breakfast). So I leaned out a window in time to see waves of big military helicopters appear in threes, small in the west and then clattering overhead, a couple of dozen or so in all. I wasn’t the only gawker on the street watching.

I did eventually watch some of the parade on the internet, for the hell of it. It was a military parade. I hemmed, and hawed, read reams of advice and suggestions about the fireworks. Shortly before noon, I set out to personally take the pulse, to get my own read on how the day felt. The sun was beating down, but it was breezy enough that it was the coolest day since I’ve been here. Before I could get over to the Right Bank, tinny trumpets blowing a fanfare at the Hôtel de Ville, straight across, of course grabbed my attention. It was the large cavalry contingent from the parade, making its way back to wherever it’s headquartered. I speedwalked across the Pont St.-Louis and the Pont Louis Philippe, hoping-hoping-hoping not to miss them. But there were a lot of them, strung out along the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, moving steadily east but not rushing, so in the end I managed to stand close enough to touch them. And to capture a short video of them passing, bearing their elaborately red-uniformed and helmeted riders.

I walked then a couple of long blocks along the river, westward. It really was festive: swarms of people out, also walking, a sort of giddiness in the air. Every few minutes I would encounter yet another group of uniformed participants from the recent parade, off-duty, walking briskly in the opposite direction. Behind the Hôtel de Villethere were a lot of white-uniformed (I’m guessing navy) people milling about with, I assume, their families.

I went down one of the long stone stairways after I’d passed there, to stroll along the summer-only Paris PlageI’d seen only in pictures: food stalls, umbrellas, lounge chairs with people (I know; incredible) sunning themselves. A two-mile stretch along the Right Bank has been closed to traffic and designated a pedestrian (and bike, and scooter) park full-time, the Rives de Seine, for a couple of years, now, with small playgrounds and seating areas.

As invariably happens, of course, more walking than intended ensued. There aren’t stairs at every bridge, and I was to the Pont (Passarelle, because it’s a footbridge) des Arts before I could get back up, quite warm despite the cooler weather. Though it was cool and certainly echoey walking under the stone of the Pont Neuf. And then walked back, along the Left Bank, amid ever-growing throngs. Bands were setting up, beginning to play, in various places.

The afternoon passed with resting and cooling off and agonizing about the best place to view the fireworks. The best place, of course, would be the Champ-de-Mars in front of the Eiffel Tower—which would entail arriving hours in advance to stake out a picnic/viewing spot on the grass. In the sun. So, that wasn’t going to happen. My original idea had been just to watch them from Montmartre, Belleville, somewhere up high, from a distance. But then I began to regret that in advance, knowing this might very well be my only time to see them, and wanting to be closer.

In the end I decided (viewing the—view, so to speak, via the internet) I would stand on a bridge, the Alexandre III or the de l’Alma, I hoped, the closest ones. Which gained nothing in terms of needing to be there early to get a spot. So about 8:30, dressed for walking—because many of the normally logical Métro stations were closed for the duration (as they’d been in the morning, for the parade: different ones, then)—I set out. The internet had informed me the Alma-Marceaustation would be open. In the packed train, though, it became increasingly clear that it was not, because it was not lighted up on the route map. I had to make a quick decision before going irrevocably far (because if it was in fact closed, I would wind up way to the west, across the Seine, and have to retrace my steps). Other groups of people were worriedly asking what the signs and portents meant. I offered, as I prepared to exit the train and take another line that would get me at least to Invalidesstation, on the Right Bank at the southern end of Pont Alexandre III, my unsolicited advice to get off, now, and take line 8 instead of the 1 we were on—and then I was out, and hustling along the platform to get a different train, marveling as I did that I—partly from having studied a couple of routes before setting out, and partly just from omg familiarity with a few lines, now (I’ve taken 8 many times in the other direction, to the rue de Charonne area, beginning when I first started going to Spoken Word, for instance, or to various restaurants)—knew what I was doing (!).

When I emerged from underground at Invalides, of course, only the first phase was over. I’d never been in that area. The only time I’d walked across Pont Alexandre III, I’d taken a right and walked along the river to the tower. What’s there, on the southern bank, is a big grassy area, that this evening was rapidly filling with people (guys everywhere hawking bottled water and bottles of wine for the evening). As was the long bridge behind them. Besides, it was immediately clear it wasn’t really a very good viewing spot at all, except for maybe the aerial displays. The tower wasn’t even visible (from the field, not the bridge).

So I set out walking, thinking surely I could do better.

The Pont de l’Alma was jam-packed when I came to it. I was already beyond that anyway, mentally. I wanted to see, now, as much as I could. I walked, and I walked, and I walked—briskly, as the sun was going down, and there was a growing sense of anticipation (though not by everyone; many people still meandered along, as if not sure what they were doing out of doors, walking, at that hour). At length we came to a dead end where everything was blocked off, all along the access to the Champ-de-Mars, so turned left—and kept walking. Here the crowd quickly began to increase, and increase.At the fenced-off entrance point, the street that bisects the park, dividing the Champ-de-Marsproper, the grassy area, from the tree-filled park in front of the École Militaire, there of course was a bottleneck, as security searched every purse and bag, and frisked each person entering. (I’ve omitted the fact that, all day and everywhere, there was even more security than usual, armed soldiers patrolling in threes and fours.)

And then, to my astonishment, I was there. The tower soared above us, right there. I didn’t try to get onto the Champ de Mars, overcome that, in the end, I’d gotten this close, close enough to see the whole thing. People had spread blankets all over the median of the closed street, even all over both parts of the street itself. In the distance, right in front of the tower, the orchestra was playing most of Carmenat that moment, visible to us in the back on a huge screen.

I hadn’t brought a single thing to sit on (I’d thought I would be standing on a bridge!), to eat, to drink (I was a little nervous about the availability of restroom facilities, anyway. Everything I’d read had pointed that out as a flaw in the plan of staking out a place early). I plopped down between two or three groups, on the pavement, still stunned at what had happened, completely unforeseen.

And then we waited. We waited for over two more hours. Periodically I would stand up to stretch; pavement is hard. The orchestra played, excellently, an assortment of familiar crowd-pleasing tunes. World-class opera singers sang. People kept pouring through the gates, eventually filling all the discreet spaces between those of us already there, so that we were packed in: the street, the median. A bunch of young latecomers discovered a ladder behind some sort of shed, past a chainlink fence along the Champ-de-Mars, and proceeded to climb the fence and then the ladder, to sit on the roof. People were on lamp posts. Looking behind us, I was stunned to see the thousands and thousands of people just in that area, without even seeing the Champ-de-Mars itself. (Looking that way, behind, I could also see the moon, two days from full, gloriously rising.)

I knew, not just from the hour on my phone, and the sun having spectacularly set behind the tower, that it was almost time, but by the orchestra launching into The Marseillaise.We sang along. It was thrilling, even though there were two lines I couldn’t remember. (For some reason, a few minutes later, they played the anthem again.)

I never need to see fireworks again. This show was so beautiful, so inventive, so clever. Much of the musical accompaniment was very current popular music, that young people readily knew. Some was classical. Some shells opened into shapes: hearts, during an “I love Paris”-themed portion; smiley faces; and so on, or into the colors of the French flag. There were parts that were thunderous. During high, haunting soprano parts, ethereal sprays of gold opened almost silently and drifted away. Dazzling light shows ran up and down the tower. You—I—didn’t want to look away, to miss a single thing. The show lasted a long, long time, mesmerizing and dazzling. 

We had scarcely cheered and applauded, when we, all our masses, heaved ourselves up and began trying to leave. Toward the end of the show there had been a steady stream of people departing early to avoid the rush. Great numbers of people peeled away in various directions, but there were still hundreds in the same general vicinity. I supposed the École Militairestation would have reopened, now that the fireworks were over, but not that many people (relatively speaking) seemed to be heading in that direction. At one point a Scottish man asked me whether we were headed that way, and I told him I had no idea (I knew, approximately, where it should be, but had been that way only once before, and at that point felt we had surged past it already—without walking actually toward it).

But having made that turn in its direction, and walking for a while, I came upon it almost dead on—it and the mob, hundreds strong, trying to get into it. The logical thing to do would have been to patiently creep forward. But oh, no, there was really energetic pushing and shoving going on, nonstop, people elbowing past until I really felt we were a moment or two away from some soccer stampede. Being a jaded old lady, I finally began snapping at pushy oafs, saying (in French, mind you) “Don’t push!” or, to one very tall and solid young man, “Do you think you’re more important than anyone else?” (to which he replied, I kid you not, that someone had pushed him).

After an interminable amount of this, I finally managed to thread through and around the main mob (not pushing anyone), and was able to look down over railings at what should have been the Métro entrance, to see that it was locked and guards were turning people away. It reminded me of the scene in the movie Titanicwhen the people in steerage are pleading to be let out through a locked gate. Thoughts of various alternatives darted through my head, including walking far enough to be able to summon a cab—but then I realized that the entrance across the street appeared not to be closed, as in, people were going down into it and not coming back out.

So I crossed, went through a turnstile normally, and was on my way home. Exhilaration and the adrenaline from the nerve-racking mob experience had faded into exhaustion. It was around 3:00 A.M. by the time I got home with my memories.