How about the second day?

Sabrina? What if it rains the second day in Paris, is that okay? More like a drizzle, though hard enough when I first looked out that people hurrying to work carried umbrellas. By the time I walked along the Seine (stopping at the Pont d'Arcole to--well, watch the river, always, but also noticing the mark on the wall, showing how high the water got in the flood of 1910--to the top, essentially) it was just fine mist in the wind. It had been enough to bring down some of the golden leaves along the rue de Cloître de Notre Dame. At the flower market the vendors were busy finally putting their wares outside the covered greenhouse spaces. By the time I came out of the Crypt Archéologique the sun was out.

(Nerd Alert) That having been highly recommended by both Shannon and the Access Paris edition here in the apartment (there’s a whole shelf of various guide books, in addition to my Lonely Planet I lugged from home), but really—the place had me at the word “archéologique.” Not ONLY are the massive Roman wall, the foundations of buildings from the Roman period up through the medieval and later periods, remains of a hypocaust, and part of the first stone quai visible—there are scale models of Paris at different periods in its history! (I don’t know what’s so fascinating about miniatures, like doll houses: is it the control and manageability? In this sort of case, having a three-dimensional birds-eye illustration?) Nerd happy dance! There it is in the early 18th century, with all the buildings still crowded around Notre Dame. There it is with the wall of Philippe Auguste, and under the Romans, with the impressive forum and all the baths and the theater and amphitheater. And there it is in the beginning, taken all the way back (yes!), the little settlement of the Parisii, mainly on the islands (of which there were still three), surrounded by open country, forest—hills. The Butte de Montmartre being the highest, but also the sort of ridge that became Belleville, Montparnasse, Mt. Ste. Geneviève, Chaillot . . . And (Louisiana folk will relate) a wide former branch of the Seine, that had reached almost to the foot of Montmartre, was still basically wetland (hence the Marais, toward the eastern end, that apparently remained marshy the longest). Sigh. Love getting back to the bones.

In the afternoon, having been stood up time number 2, cooked, with okay results from the typical fumbling around in a new kitchen, discovering a skillet didn’t have a lid, etc. Then walked, in that breezy sun, around the Latin Quarter a little, hit another Franprix for a few more provisions, and went into Shakespeare and Company. It’s a bit overwhelming at first: really small and crammed and busy, and yet—talk about drowning happily in books. Though it’s already somewhat jolting to pass through a door into some place where everyone is speaking English. I stood for a minute or two apologetically blocking a minuscule passageway, where all the “roommate wanted” and “language/music lessons” and upcoming events seemed to be posted higgledy-piggledy (me with my little canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out like a sheathed weapon); frankly, I think it’s easier to find what might be going on there online. I did stand for another couple of minutes spot-reading through a copy of Golding’s The Spire, which I had read decades ago—seemed eerily apropos.

As it was getting dark, having been stood up (by phone, with explanation at least) time number 3, went for a stroll instead of drinks, around and about the Ile St. Louis. With excellent New Orleans jazz from three street musicians back on Cité trailing after me, and puzzling over some sort of installation going up on the Pont St. Louis. Watched a couple of dogs being walked down by the water interact (like dogs, duh—the big blond one standing very still, the hyper smaller black one getting all in its face and hopping around, once it had insisted they be allowed to meet). Took a few photos. Stumbled across Berthillon, which I’d intended to visit—sometime, but hadn’t thought would still be open. Very nice. Very sedate. Cones aren’t allowed inside, where I chose to sit, and you must have two scoops (Nougat au Miel and Créole). And it’s very, very good—but, say, Brocato’s in New Orleans, or Alba’s in Brooklyn, are easily in the same league, plus with more interesting and longer pedigrees. So there.

However--compact the apartment appeared in photos, it's smaller. Not quite like living on a boat, but every inch does count. Have already rearranged a few accessories to suit myself, the only personalization possible. Out front, massive wooden doors open into a stone passageway (like French Quarter homes, like--: ) on a micro scale--the Louvre) which then opens into a small courtyard; stairs and elevator (capacity 2 persons, or 1 person and 1 piece of luggage) just to the right. Remember the timed lights on the French spiral stairs? they're still around, in force. Just in case you wondered.

But went to sleep at crash time, noonish, to the sound of Notre Dame's fuller bell performance, as opposed to the more subdued marking of the half and quarter hours. And there's a police motorcycle patrol station two doors up, so guess what else is a more or less constant sound? And then, later this afternoon, with the windows open (of course), I kept vacillating between thinking the violin I could hear (loud and clear) was someone playing a recording, or live--and then there was the small, clearly live applause. Whoever it was, was amazing (obviously, when it was that difficult to tell): there were two or three pieces I recognized from Yo-Yo Ma's "Vivaldi's Cello," though I'll freely admit I couldn't now name them.

At the moment I can just barely name myself, & have no idea whether this is at all coherent or not. Instead of the one lost night's sleep, on the flight, that I'd expected, it's been a good 3 nights, after not all that much before that. Hence the little crash-nap. And then the seller, who'd come to let me in, help me up, and show me a few things, with the promise of being back at 4:00 to go over more things and go out for some dinner, never showed up, & I HAVE NOT been able to reach him on his cellphone, no matter what numbers I include or omit (& finally decided it really couldn't be just me, since I was able to reach his office number to leave the message I was going out, an hour and a half later).

So walked to a little creperie behind Notre Dame (3 short blocks) & had eggs with smoked salmon, and tea, first food since the "breakfast snack" on the plane, unless you count crackers and apple slices). I took a tiny table (as they all were) just inside from the sidewalk, facing out (i.e., facing, across the street, the Square Jean XXIII), but while that still permitted me the (as I've seen it called) French national sport of people-watching, it spared me none of the chilly wind. And yet, do you hear me complaining? After the summer just past?

* * * * *

Not here 24 hours, and already I'm having little flares of "damned tourists!" You'd think I'd be thoroughly inured to it, living where I do (still remembering the t-shirt "Why do they call it tourist season if you can't shoot them?"--but I digress, into another mindset entirely . . . ), yet when you have to keep weaving and stopping as they stop dead in front of you, BY THE SCORE, to snap photos with Notre Dame (or whatever) in the background (because of course you're polite, and don't want to spoil their shots), when all you're trying to do is get across to the Left Bank to buy some groceries . . . . And how churlish is that, when that checker at the Franprix was so patient with ME (no doubt rolling her eyes on the inside). And, of course, veered off myself, on the way back with a full backpack, in the pre-twilight, to walk all around the parvis, to look at the markers of where all the medieval buildings once crowded much closer to the cathedral. Until Haussmann.

And I may not have gotten to do this--whole thing, years, decades ago, when I was fresher, when I had more energy, and all that--but really, I realized walking back, if not before, that there is no light kinder to age than that of Paris: that silvery, subdued glow (especially on an almost-October day that started out foggy and overcast and became a little sunny; especially just after sunset, for heaven's sake). The southern light, the unforgiving Mediterranean sun, may need make no apologies to youth, but this northern aura is made for "un certain age."

And then came on "home" with the few staples I'd procured: creme fraiche, goat's cheese . . . seriously, plus 2 kinds of yogurt, plain & bio, eggs, apples, finger potatoes, plums, a lemon, a little bit of chicken, an onion, tea, water. I resisted, for now, all Nutella and Nutella-like products. I refused to buy bread at a market; I'll do that in the morning at an actual boulangerie.

So, with a headachy thing warning me again, and eyes glazing, a bientot (canNOT get diacritical markings here yet; must work on that!).

29 September, 2010

After creating this blog, my second thought was "how presumptuous." Surely every word that could be said or written about Paris already has been. On third thought, I re-decided what the hell? not by me, they haven't.

So, gentle reader (if you exist), know that the musings and meanderings contained within will be entirely subjective, that this blog will in all likelihood be a substitute for a journal of this--encounter. visit. exploration. perhaps adventure, not tailored to please anyone (else), but to randomly record observations day-to-day, maybe minute-to-minute. There may be stream of consciousness, there may be recitation of (to me) fascinating historical trivia, there may be (viewer discretion is advised) rants.