Feeding the Senses

Wednesday. Still apologizing to my body for the previous day’s mistreatment, I decided actually to seek out one of the restaurants I’d noted in a book of recommendations. The Bistrot du Peintre, in the Bastille area, turned out to be the very one on the corner where I’d turned off the rue Ledru-Rollin to reach the new temporary Spoken Word location a block farther on, two days earlier. The Bistrot has been there since 1907; the large front windows with their Art Nouveau framing and muntins are convincing evidence. It’s comfortably a little shabby around the edges, but the service is very fast and attentive. It was still very busy after 1:00 in the afternoon (with very few people at the outside tables on a chilly day), but “un couvert” was immediately available at one of the tiny tables in a row along the wall. To my right was a couple—I’m guessing he was French, but she was American, though she spoke French like a native. To my left (and we’re talking in that practically-in-each-other’s-laps way, a middle-aged French couple. They were in from the suburbs somewhere, friendly and joking (she warned me about bones in the fish, which I ordered, after I’d asked her how it was; I could hardly pretend not to have seen what she’d been eating). Later, when the place had emptied out somewhat, the waiter in our area, clowning around, took a quick poll of where everyone was from (the other couple had left by this time). Just in the immediate area there were the French couple, a table of people from Germany, and a Swiss group. And me.

The fish was delicious and there was a lot of it, plus excellent vegetables (and wine).I declined coffee, explaining I was going to have to have coffee elsewhere—because I had only about twenty minutes by then to make it to the conversational group at the pub in Saint-Germain. Which I got to a few minutes late, actually, because I stayed on the Métro as long as possible, I thought to expedite matters; coming at the Marché Saint-Germain from the Odéon stop, though (I may have known this once, but hadn’t come that way in a long time), I came to the opposite side of it and had to walk around.

Thursday. The day had started out cool, but with the sun out, reverted to Indian summer. I walked after noon to the Centre Pompidou for the Edvard Munch exhibit. There was a line, because it’s a popular exhibit, but nothing like that at the Grand Palais had been (indoors, for one thing; fast-moving, for another).

The exhibit is fascinating and informative. It focuses specifically on the premise (on proving the premise, by example) that Munch was very aware of the world around him, curious and quick to try out new technology and techniques, contrary to the long-held presumption that he was withdrawn and isolated. There are amazing bits of film he shot with an early movie camera, as well as many (many) photos he took, in addition, of course, to the paintings.

Walking back, it was a take-off-the-jacket, t-shirt kind of afternoon. Crowds of people were out.

Friday. A chilly, windy day had blown in overnight. I decided it was time finally to try the falafels on Rue des Rosiers in Le Marais. For the second time the much-touted l’As du Falafel was closed, but another place just up the street was doing great business (their own plus l’As’, I should think). I wanted it to go, which meant figuring out what I wanted, stepping inside the little restaurant to place my order and pay, then going back outside to wait in the line at the window. The whole assembly, when it’s done, is huge—well, in terms of consuming it, certainly. As soon as I had mine (topped with eggplant), I scurried off, meaning to eat it at Place des Vosges. Which is not that short a walk, and I did want some semblance of warmth left in the meal, so a brisk walk. But there it was, and a bench in the shade (though the wind was chilly), and a leisurely lunch. A delicious, filling lunch.

Pigeons kept an eye on me, hoping for handouts or mistakes. One had the audacity to perch on the bench beside me; it even took a bit of pita from my hand (way too tame for its own good). They did the same routine with a couple who came and sat on the next bench, who were also suckers for the birds. By then little sparrows had arrived, too; it was fascinating and hilarious to watch the interplay. The pigeons outweighed them five to one (at least), but the sparrows were quick and smart, eventually making it standard practice to immediately fly off to one of the grassy areas as soon as they got a morsel of something. Otherwise, they’d also perfected a little indignant poor-me squeak if one (or more) of the pigeons tried to steal, let alone succeeded in stealing, what they’d gotten.

Other people sat and lay in the sun on the grass. Teenaged students, free from school, congregated over to one side, fooling around and laughing. Pedestrians came and went, cutting through the square.