Spoken Words

Monday. The weather continued warm and sunny—remarkable, and the Parisians reveling in it. I walked to the Châtelet station, where I was sure of finding a human ticket seller and being able to use my American credit card to buy a carnet of new Métro tickets. Then I promptly used one of them to save personal wear and tear just a bit by riding to the St.-Paul stop in the Marais, to buy bread and a few groceries. And a salmon-and-spinach quiche, too, as it turned out, which became dinner.

The main event of the day was actually the evening, and a “Spoken Word” event at a tiny café/bar in Belleville. What is a first visit to a new neighborhood without wandering off for over half an hour in the wrong direction? In sandals, not walking shoes? I did check that I was on the correct street at the beginning, but in retrospect, apparently right where the street veers, or diverges. So I got quite the tour of Ménilmontant, or its main thoroughfare, just after twilight: working class, very ethnic. In the first sixty seconds I must have met three men striding by in caftans. Even after retracing my weary steps, back to the Belleville station, and climbing the hill of Belleville (Edith Piaf’s birthplace, if you didn’t already know that), I made it to the next station without having found the café. Utterly frustrated and aching, I was on the verge of reluctantly giving up when, halfway back down, I encountered another woman looking for the place (David: your directions suck). Putting our two befuddled heads together we actually found it within another five minutes or so, around a corner with its wide unmarked patio extending toward rue de Belleville.

I’d been following the activities of this group for a while online, getting notices of its events via email. The evening started quite late, most of the participants are young (by varying definitions), and from all over. Though, other than for my locating partner, who’s from the States rather vaguely but lives in India, I spent more time talking with Trellis, an older (older than me!) Black Canadian woman of some French descent who’s a longtime regular, than anyone else. When the readings finally got underway (limited to five minutes) the place was packed to standing room only (and, it goes without saying, WARM). “Reading” being imprecise, because there were musical offerings as well. Almost everything was in English, with (this night) the exception of one young man who played guitar and sang in Swedish.

There were some really excellent readings. Some not so excellent. Some were not original; one girl read Yeats, another (with feeling) from The Cat in the Hat, which brought down the house, so to speak (it was hilarious). There were a couple of fragments of plays in progress presented. Usually there are three separate sets with breaks between, but not enough people had signed up for the third this time, so they were combined with the second. No, I did not get up the nerve to read myself, it being such a new environment. I will next week, though (as of this night they’re getting together weekly, now). I did get a new poem out of the Métro ride there, though, which made it all more than worthwhile; I think I’ll dedicate it to them when I do read.

In fact, it’s looking as if the jaunt to Normandy I’ll push back another week. I’d meant to go next week, say Tuesday, but after the Spoken Word next Monday, I’ve gotten an announcement from them by email of a special poetry reading (Lars Palm, Megan Garr, and Jane Lawty) Tuesday, and then Wednesday is two different conversational groups. Hard to tear myself away.