sur l'Île de la Cité
Friday, October 23, 2015
Odds and ends
One day, walking back from the market, I saw a dog--a pretty reddish-gold, medium-hair, medium-sized dog--lying beside one of the manicured shrubs in the garden beside Notre Dame. A man in a security uniform was sitting on the wall across the path from it. I asked him if it were his. He said--something, part of which was that he had called the police. Understanding that this poor, beautiful dog had been abandoned there, I held out my hand first for it to sniff, proper dog etiquette. So sad and terrified was it that it growled and snapped at me. He came over--he apparently had been with it long enough by then to have calmed it a little, just with him (I saw there was also a small plastic container near it holding water). It didn't know that it was spending its last moments of freedom, waiting to be taken away. I can't forget it.
Twice, now, in the past week or so, the bells of Notre Dame have begun to toll, slowly, and continued for more than ten minutes. I'm guessing a funeral is taking place--I looked online, the first time, and learned that the cathedral does hold funeral services. I'm either not decent or in the middle of doing something else, so can't dash over there to see for myself. The first time they went on, and on, and the sound was unnerving.
As if it were not enough as if Louisiana were following me, to find a rue de Mezieres, a couple of weeks ago over by Place St.-Sulpice, I keep having mosquitoes in the apartment. I realize I"m only--I guess it would count as two blocks, or one and a half, if I take into account the space the cathedral occupies on the other side of rue des Cloitres, from the river, but this bit of uncontrolled nature in the midst of all the pavement and formal gardens of the city is startling. I don't like to keep the windows fully closed all the time: the apartment feels stuffy (chronic fresh-air fiend that I am), plus the double-paned windows themselves are so soundproof I can't even hear the bells of Notre Dame--which is pretty seriously silenced. I like to, at least even faintly, have a sense of the people and vehicles passing in the street, the musicians in the distance, even the sirens heading toward the Hotel Dieu. The bells. And with that I get a side order of, as my daughter put it once in her mosquito-allergic childhood, "blood-sucking life forms."
Last Saturday, I finally paid a visit to the Pantheon. It's within walking distance, albeit a pretty good uphill climb once you leave Place Maubert. The church part (that actually spent so little of its life as a church) is, well, churchy, with impressive, massive pillars, very nice stonework floors, and huge, eyeroll-inducing paintings (the Battle of Tolbiac, Clovis vowing to be baptized if he wins). The crypt, the real reason anyone visits, is not the darkest nor the creepiest I've ever seen, but it is stuffy (no mosquitoes here) and unavoidably claustrophobic. I wanted to see the belatedly-added women's tombs: Marie Curie, for instance. Not only was it meaningful (I'm not one, generally, to be impressed by nor seek out the tombs of famous people: they're dead) seeing the burial monuments of Voltaire, Hugo, and Zola, I was moved to stumble across memorials to, of all people, Toussaint l'Ouverture (isn't it interesting to see how drastically opinions can change, and honor be given where it always was due), and to St.-Exupery. Back up in the "church," there was a special exhibition related to the newest honorees: Resistance fighters (whether in the field or in print and subversive activities) of World War II.
Twice, now, in the past week or so, the bells of Notre Dame have begun to toll, slowly, and continued for more than ten minutes. I'm guessing a funeral is taking place--I looked online, the first time, and learned that the cathedral does hold funeral services. I'm either not decent or in the middle of doing something else, so can't dash over there to see for myself. The first time they went on, and on, and the sound was unnerving.
As if it were not enough as if Louisiana were following me, to find a rue de Mezieres, a couple of weeks ago over by Place St.-Sulpice, I keep having mosquitoes in the apartment. I realize I"m only--I guess it would count as two blocks, or one and a half, if I take into account the space the cathedral occupies on the other side of rue des Cloitres, from the river, but this bit of uncontrolled nature in the midst of all the pavement and formal gardens of the city is startling. I don't like to keep the windows fully closed all the time: the apartment feels stuffy (chronic fresh-air fiend that I am), plus the double-paned windows themselves are so soundproof I can't even hear the bells of Notre Dame--which is pretty seriously silenced. I like to, at least even faintly, have a sense of the people and vehicles passing in the street, the musicians in the distance, even the sirens heading toward the Hotel Dieu. The bells. And with that I get a side order of, as my daughter put it once in her mosquito-allergic childhood, "blood-sucking life forms."
Last Saturday, I finally paid a visit to the Pantheon. It's within walking distance, albeit a pretty good uphill climb once you leave Place Maubert. The church part (that actually spent so little of its life as a church) is, well, churchy, with impressive, massive pillars, very nice stonework floors, and huge, eyeroll-inducing paintings (the Battle of Tolbiac, Clovis vowing to be baptized if he wins). The crypt, the real reason anyone visits, is not the darkest nor the creepiest I've ever seen, but it is stuffy (no mosquitoes here) and unavoidably claustrophobic. I wanted to see the belatedly-added women's tombs: Marie Curie, for instance. Not only was it meaningful (I'm not one, generally, to be impressed by nor seek out the tombs of famous people: they're dead) seeing the burial monuments of Voltaire, Hugo, and Zola, I was moved to stumble across memorials to, of all people, Toussaint l'Ouverture (isn't it interesting to see how drastically opinions can change, and honor be given where it always was due), and to St.-Exupery. Back up in the "church," there was a special exhibition related to the newest honorees: Resistance fighters (whether in the field or in print and subversive activities) of World War II.
Not a Tour
Yay! Today was the day, scheduled a week ago, when I would after all these visits take a tour of the magnificent Hotel de Ville (I'd gone in to the visitor center/gift shop part of the Hotel, been told there was no tour space available until "vendredi prochain," said that was fine, and been given a little slip of paper to prove I'd gone through official channels). So I was up, dressed, breakfasted, and out the door--sharply out the door, when I couldn't decide whether the "10 mn avant l'heure" on the paper meant 10 minutes before the appointed time of 10:30, or actually 10 minutes before L'HEURE, 10:00. The security people at the entrance around back, where I've seen the lines waiting to enter in the past, were incredulous when I told them what time I was supposed to be there...sooooo, I took a stroll around the vast building, reading the birth and death dates for various statues on its facade and calculating how long they'd lived (a few into their 60s; many only into their 30s; one to 28). I stopped at the newstand on the corner and bought the new Charlie Hebdo. I strolled back toward the entrance...still no one but security and the intermittent stream of employees scanning in...I paged through it looking at cartoons. Then--aha!--a large group appeared, walking up from the direction of the river. They were all--Chinese. A few French people milled about, then, to greet them. The main security guy came to me and doublechecked that I had been told this time.
So, after many raised eyebrows and sidelong glances--from the French--making it clear I Was. Not. Supposed. To. Be. There, in we all trooped, me trying to be as unobtrusive as possible: not an easy feat when you're clearly not on the welcoming committee, and definitely not a part of a large Chinese manufacturing delegation. I lasted through three rooms. The building is stunning; I'll go back; there were clearly going to be just too many speeches not on the regular tour, on top of the awkwardness. When everyone sat down in a large hall (where at the same time, workmen were noisily disassembling rows of seating) for a--Power Point presentation, I'd guess: at least there was a large screen in front, I slipped out and retraced my steps back downstairs and out the way I'd come. I walked straight to the other end of the building...again...to the visitor center...again...and scheduled a spot for a tour next Tuesday morning. Interestingly, this time the man wrote down (or I did, and he copied them) my name and telephone number, which gives me hope this time will proceed more--normally.
So, after many raised eyebrows and sidelong glances--from the French--making it clear I Was. Not. Supposed. To. Be. There, in we all trooped, me trying to be as unobtrusive as possible: not an easy feat when you're clearly not on the welcoming committee, and definitely not a part of a large Chinese manufacturing delegation. I lasted through three rooms. The building is stunning; I'll go back; there were clearly going to be just too many speeches not on the regular tour, on top of the awkwardness. When everyone sat down in a large hall (where at the same time, workmen were noisily disassembling rows of seating) for a--Power Point presentation, I'd guess: at least there was a large screen in front, I slipped out and retraced my steps back downstairs and out the way I'd come. I walked straight to the other end of the building...again...to the visitor center...again...and scheduled a spot for a tour next Tuesday morning. Interestingly, this time the man wrote down (or I did, and he copied them) my name and telephone number, which gives me hope this time will proceed more--normally.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Promenade
When I waltzed home late last night, containing three glasses of wine (and one each of cranberry and orange juice! and half a pastry: drinking responsibly), I had a hunch I wouldn't be getting on a 9:15 train this morning to go out to Vaux-le-Vicomte. And I was right! Plus, I'd thought David could just come let himself in to deal with a backed-up shower drain, but he's being a stickler for politeness, so I saw, in the morning light, his email response to let him know whether I'd gone on the excursion or not. I fired off the "no, it's fine, I'm here, decided to wait" message and proceeded to tidy the apartment since he, in turn,would be turning up an hour earlier than he'd originally predicted.
Last night was a party in honor of Spoken Word Paris' ninth birthday (I asked that David, David Barnes, what on earth he had in mind for the tenth). It began at his apartment off Ledru-Rollin, then moved after about an hour and a half to the Le Motel bar downstairs. All drinks were free, funded out of the euro collected from attendees every week at Spoken Word, which normally go to fund serious endeavors like The Bastille, its literary magazine, other publications, special readers, and so on. David hung out the window welcoming me as I walked up the passage, the party already well underway); some unknown neighbor arriving at the building's front door at the same time, not a part of Spoken Word, let me in.
The little apartment (nominally a couple of rooms, plus bath) was already wall-to-wall people, but they kept arriving. When I asked for white wine (only red on the rickety table against the kitchen counter, along with vodka and other non-wine), Alberto, the co-host of the original Spoken Word, fetched an unopened bottle from the fridge, but then asked me to check a bottle sitting outside on the window sill to see which was cooler. This involved gingerly moving another small rickety table covered with vintage issues of The Bastille for sale away from the living room window, trying not to bump into anyone, just far enough that I could swing open the casement and retrieve said bottle. It turned out to be cooler, so I replaced it with the one from the refrigerator, and Alberto opened it.
And so on, and so on. In due time, all of us remaining upstairs gaggled down to the tiny bar and began wedging ourselves inside. Two Spoken Word regulars were going to provide the evening's official (other) entertainment with song and guitar. While--even before--they set up on the small stage, we slithered back and forth between the front room and the back, actual bar, room. David B. was passing around tickets for free drinks--alcoholic ones only, I discovered when I attempted to order something not, so, on to the third, i.e., one past my limit, glass of wine.
The music began. It was good (I'd heard both of these guys play at various Spoken Word nights, and they both are actually good). One of them, Victor, played a whole set solo. James began his solo, but then brought Victor back onstage, and they finished out the set together. All the while, we sardines mostly stood in place, turning to let other people slide past. At one point a young woman who works in a bakery showed up (so we gathered; it wasn't as if we could really see her from halfway back to the barroom), and David began proclaiming "Cakes! Allison has brought cakes!" (David is English, so this is his generic term.) Which was very nice in theory, but there was no way we could actually get to them.
Mercifully, in the shuffle between sets of music, some non-Spoken Word people left, and these people had been occupying most of the bar's seating--benches around the wall of the front room--so with immense relief, I sat, and was then face to face with the spread-open containers of various breads and pastries. I consumed mainly part of a loaf containing--dried fruit of some sort, and nuts, enough to sort of soak up some of the wine (was my theory). Perhaps half an hour later, I left. The party was due to continue until closing time, but I was still harboring the vague notion that I might take the train out to Melun and visit Vaux-le-Vicomte.
That didn't happen, though I'm considering it only postponed, not cancelled. I had a hard time getting up in the morning, then there was the email, and the straightening, and the drain-opening process, and breakfast. After all that, I debated what to do instead: the "Photoquai" exhibit outdoors at the Musee du Quai Branly I'd like to see again, but have never managed to work up enough enthusiasm to actually go through the museum itself. I looked at train schedules and maps with the idea I might go out to Fontenay-aux-Roses to check it out, one of the little suburb towns I've thought might be a plausible way to afford living near, if not right in the heart of, Paris. But, then, that looked excessively complicated once I got there, sort of like Chartres, where I'd have to put more time and energy into learning how to get from the train station to the town center, or town something: bus? walk? (but it didn't look as if the station was very close to anything) Etc.
THEN I remembered that I'd wanted to see the Promenade Plantee, the elevated, elongated parkway that used to be the Vincennes rail line. The day was still chilly and pretty gloomy, but that prospect actually sounded interesting. So after making and eating lunch,getting changed and bundled up, I took off. Familiar old Metro Line 1 took me to the Gare de Lyon, the same station I would have been departing from earlier, and then I walked up bd. Diderot to Daumesnil--and there it was! obvious, easy to spot. Seeing as it's a three-story brick--edifice, running alongside Daumesnil itself.
And it is so very charming, such a lovely idea carried out. There are wooden bridge portions, paved portions, arbors covered with grapevines, shrubbery and beds of all kinds along either side. There are flaneurs, intent walkers, parents pushing strollers, lots of joggers. Especially on a Sunday afternoon, when, after twenty minutes or so, the sun even broke through and made it a lovely day. There are lots of benches, modern-ornate light fixtures. You have, all along the way, an elevated view of the neighborhoods around you. I won't pretend it's some utopia: the first stairway I attempted actually appeared after a couple of levels of some other garden, and it was blocked off for replacement, obviously, of its wooden treads, and there were two groups of--well, gangish young men quarrelling in the upper level. But the second stairway, just up the block, got me there, and emerging onto such a lovely scheme to make people happy was enough to guarantee a smile.
The Promenade goes on, and on, but I turned back after a few blocks' worth, knowing I meant to do considerable walking at ground level yet, and descended and made my way back to the Gare de Lyon and Place St.-Paul, and the Ile St.-Louis and my preferred bakery there (and hordes of tourists out for the afternoon, too), and home. By St.-Paul the sun had gone back in (leaving me wondering whether it was still out over at the Promenade), for good.
Last night was a party in honor of Spoken Word Paris' ninth birthday (I asked that David, David Barnes, what on earth he had in mind for the tenth). It began at his apartment off Ledru-Rollin, then moved after about an hour and a half to the Le Motel bar downstairs. All drinks were free, funded out of the euro collected from attendees every week at Spoken Word, which normally go to fund serious endeavors like The Bastille, its literary magazine, other publications, special readers, and so on. David hung out the window welcoming me as I walked up the passage, the party already well underway); some unknown neighbor arriving at the building's front door at the same time, not a part of Spoken Word, let me in.
The little apartment (nominally a couple of rooms, plus bath) was already wall-to-wall people, but they kept arriving. When I asked for white wine (only red on the rickety table against the kitchen counter, along with vodka and other non-wine), Alberto, the co-host of the original Spoken Word, fetched an unopened bottle from the fridge, but then asked me to check a bottle sitting outside on the window sill to see which was cooler. This involved gingerly moving another small rickety table covered with vintage issues of The Bastille for sale away from the living room window, trying not to bump into anyone, just far enough that I could swing open the casement and retrieve said bottle. It turned out to be cooler, so I replaced it with the one from the refrigerator, and Alberto opened it.
And so on, and so on. In due time, all of us remaining upstairs gaggled down to the tiny bar and began wedging ourselves inside. Two Spoken Word regulars were going to provide the evening's official (other) entertainment with song and guitar. While--even before--they set up on the small stage, we slithered back and forth between the front room and the back, actual bar, room. David B. was passing around tickets for free drinks--alcoholic ones only, I discovered when I attempted to order something not, so, on to the third, i.e., one past my limit, glass of wine.
The music began. It was good (I'd heard both of these guys play at various Spoken Word nights, and they both are actually good). One of them, Victor, played a whole set solo. James began his solo, but then brought Victor back onstage, and they finished out the set together. All the while, we sardines mostly stood in place, turning to let other people slide past. At one point a young woman who works in a bakery showed up (so we gathered; it wasn't as if we could really see her from halfway back to the barroom), and David began proclaiming "Cakes! Allison has brought cakes!" (David is English, so this is his generic term.) Which was very nice in theory, but there was no way we could actually get to them.
Mercifully, in the shuffle between sets of music, some non-Spoken Word people left, and these people had been occupying most of the bar's seating--benches around the wall of the front room--so with immense relief, I sat, and was then face to face with the spread-open containers of various breads and pastries. I consumed mainly part of a loaf containing--dried fruit of some sort, and nuts, enough to sort of soak up some of the wine (was my theory). Perhaps half an hour later, I left. The party was due to continue until closing time, but I was still harboring the vague notion that I might take the train out to Melun and visit Vaux-le-Vicomte.
That didn't happen, though I'm considering it only postponed, not cancelled. I had a hard time getting up in the morning, then there was the email, and the straightening, and the drain-opening process, and breakfast. After all that, I debated what to do instead: the "Photoquai" exhibit outdoors at the Musee du Quai Branly I'd like to see again, but have never managed to work up enough enthusiasm to actually go through the museum itself. I looked at train schedules and maps with the idea I might go out to Fontenay-aux-Roses to check it out, one of the little suburb towns I've thought might be a plausible way to afford living near, if not right in the heart of, Paris. But, then, that looked excessively complicated once I got there, sort of like Chartres, where I'd have to put more time and energy into learning how to get from the train station to the town center, or town something: bus? walk? (but it didn't look as if the station was very close to anything) Etc.
THEN I remembered that I'd wanted to see the Promenade Plantee, the elevated, elongated parkway that used to be the Vincennes rail line. The day was still chilly and pretty gloomy, but that prospect actually sounded interesting. So after making and eating lunch,getting changed and bundled up, I took off. Familiar old Metro Line 1 took me to the Gare de Lyon, the same station I would have been departing from earlier, and then I walked up bd. Diderot to Daumesnil--and there it was! obvious, easy to spot. Seeing as it's a three-story brick--edifice, running alongside Daumesnil itself.
And it is so very charming, such a lovely idea carried out. There are wooden bridge portions, paved portions, arbors covered with grapevines, shrubbery and beds of all kinds along either side. There are flaneurs, intent walkers, parents pushing strollers, lots of joggers. Especially on a Sunday afternoon, when, after twenty minutes or so, the sun even broke through and made it a lovely day. There are lots of benches, modern-ornate light fixtures. You have, all along the way, an elevated view of the neighborhoods around you. I won't pretend it's some utopia: the first stairway I attempted actually appeared after a couple of levels of some other garden, and it was blocked off for replacement, obviously, of its wooden treads, and there were two groups of--well, gangish young men quarrelling in the upper level. But the second stairway, just up the block, got me there, and emerging onto such a lovely scheme to make people happy was enough to guarantee a smile.
The Promenade goes on, and on, but I turned back after a few blocks' worth, knowing I meant to do considerable walking at ground level yet, and descended and made my way back to the Gare de Lyon and Place St.-Paul, and the Ile St.-Louis and my preferred bakery there (and hordes of tourists out for the afternoon, too), and home. By St.-Paul the sun had gone back in (leaving me wondering whether it was still out over at the Promenade), for good.
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Autumn days
Prunes. I'd meant to remember the prunes. But when I stopped in the little bakery on the Ile St.-Louis, the pastry other than the "brownie" that looked most interesting was the Far Breton, and there were people in line behind me, and it had been at least three years since I'd seen one, much less bought one. So it was only at home, when I cut into it, that I remembered the prunes. Delicious, delicious, but--prunes. But all parts of me were happy. The "brownie" was actually more of a little round individual cake, and was also, mm, very satisfactory.
That was a week ago. Last Friday I got my computer back from the young Chinese guy David had recommended. He'd reinstalled Windows 7. I've spent the time since, off and on, trying to restore settings and links and toolbars. A couple of programs I won't have again until I'm home, where those CDs and the external disk drive are. But things are far better than two weeks ago and that whole meltdown.
Saturday I went back over to the Place Maubert street market, where I replenished my walnut stash, and bought various vegetables (some cepes, a small bag of multi-colored small tomatoes, some broccoli) and some fish (a couple of filets de merlan, whitefish--which, as it turned out, is a bit too delicate to use for courtbouillon--it sort of fell apart--but live and learn). Riz de Camargue I'd bought at Franprix, so used that for the courtbouillon--it probably was the inspiration for making it in the first place, and for chicken and rice since then. The cepes I finally used in an omelet a couple of days later, concerned they be used before they spoiled, considering how ridiculously expensive they were.
In the afternoon I took the Metro over to the rue Daguerre, in the 14th arrondissement (i.e., over past even Montparnasse) to find the Galerie Corinne Bonnet, or Dufay-Bonnet; I've seen it both ways. There's a small show there of someone named Christian Sorg. Getting there, once off the Metro, consisted partly of a long walk through a pedestrian street lined with its own street market--and much more reasonably priced, that far from Tourist Central.
The tiny gallery is in a little narrow passageway lined with mostly artists' ateliers, one where an art class was in progress, etc. The show was mildly pleasant. What was more interesting was the American woman blocking the entrance to the gallery, engaged in an argument with what turned out to be Corrine Bonnet herself. She was disapproving of, denying, the premise of something I couldn't really see. Once she and her friend stepped aside to let me in, I stopped paying any attention, but shortly Corinne unfolded the copy of a paper so that I could see (as the woman was still haranguing). It was the first issue of a new fanzine by Serge Bloch, and the whole front page and inside were taken up with a cartoon piece and commentaries entitled "How to Torture One's Banker." I started laughing, of course, and asked where I could get a copy. I may not, since it was the September issue; she took my phone number, but I haven't heard anything more. Maybe the (other) American woman has no sense of humor. Maybe her husband is a banker.
Sunday I went out, later than I'd meant to, to the big flea market at Vanves. The only other time I'd been, the weather was chilly and on the verge of drizzle. It was cool this time, but a bright sunny day. Even past its peak, it was crowded, and the rows of vendors stretched on and on. To make a quite long story short, after perusing my way from one end to the other, and stopping to buy hot chocolate, I went back to make one small purchase of no importance, that I may or may not use in my kitchen at home to hold scrubbers and such things. By going late, though, by being there as the vendors began to pack up for the day, I got it for two euros : ) My only other purchase was a tiny--bowl?--in the postwar geisha pattern from Japan, that my grandmother had a set of, and of which I have a few surviving demitasse cups and saucers. I've priced them on eBay, and they're usually far more than I'm sure they cost when new. This was only €5. There was a whole little set of teapot and so on a little farther on, but they're much too fragile to try to get that much safely back to the U.S.--let alone not having the space.
All the while, the breezy days are stealing down leaves from the trees along the Seine and spreading them far and wide: along the banks, the streets, in the river itself. When I went out to La Villette on Friday to buy a ticket to the Paris Philharmonic in person (because I'd only just retrieved the notebook, and had been leery of using a credit card at a public internet center), the sky was gray, and yellow leaves were blowing in small flurries from the allee of trees that stretches back through the grassy park area to the left of that building.
That was a week ago. Last Friday I got my computer back from the young Chinese guy David had recommended. He'd reinstalled Windows 7. I've spent the time since, off and on, trying to restore settings and links and toolbars. A couple of programs I won't have again until I'm home, where those CDs and the external disk drive are. But things are far better than two weeks ago and that whole meltdown.
Saturday I went back over to the Place Maubert street market, where I replenished my walnut stash, and bought various vegetables (some cepes, a small bag of multi-colored small tomatoes, some broccoli) and some fish (a couple of filets de merlan, whitefish--which, as it turned out, is a bit too delicate to use for courtbouillon--it sort of fell apart--but live and learn). Riz de Camargue I'd bought at Franprix, so used that for the courtbouillon--it probably was the inspiration for making it in the first place, and for chicken and rice since then. The cepes I finally used in an omelet a couple of days later, concerned they be used before they spoiled, considering how ridiculously expensive they were.
In the afternoon I took the Metro over to the rue Daguerre, in the 14th arrondissement (i.e., over past even Montparnasse) to find the Galerie Corinne Bonnet, or Dufay-Bonnet; I've seen it both ways. There's a small show there of someone named Christian Sorg. Getting there, once off the Metro, consisted partly of a long walk through a pedestrian street lined with its own street market--and much more reasonably priced, that far from Tourist Central.
The tiny gallery is in a little narrow passageway lined with mostly artists' ateliers, one where an art class was in progress, etc. The show was mildly pleasant. What was more interesting was the American woman blocking the entrance to the gallery, engaged in an argument with what turned out to be Corrine Bonnet herself. She was disapproving of, denying, the premise of something I couldn't really see. Once she and her friend stepped aside to let me in, I stopped paying any attention, but shortly Corinne unfolded the copy of a paper so that I could see (as the woman was still haranguing). It was the first issue of a new fanzine by Serge Bloch, and the whole front page and inside were taken up with a cartoon piece and commentaries entitled "How to Torture One's Banker." I started laughing, of course, and asked where I could get a copy. I may not, since it was the September issue; she took my phone number, but I haven't heard anything more. Maybe the (other) American woman has no sense of humor. Maybe her husband is a banker.
Sunday I went out, later than I'd meant to, to the big flea market at Vanves. The only other time I'd been, the weather was chilly and on the verge of drizzle. It was cool this time, but a bright sunny day. Even past its peak, it was crowded, and the rows of vendors stretched on and on. To make a quite long story short, after perusing my way from one end to the other, and stopping to buy hot chocolate, I went back to make one small purchase of no importance, that I may or may not use in my kitchen at home to hold scrubbers and such things. By going late, though, by being there as the vendors began to pack up for the day, I got it for two euros : ) My only other purchase was a tiny--bowl?--in the postwar geisha pattern from Japan, that my grandmother had a set of, and of which I have a few surviving demitasse cups and saucers. I've priced them on eBay, and they're usually far more than I'm sure they cost when new. This was only €5. There was a whole little set of teapot and so on a little farther on, but they're much too fragile to try to get that much safely back to the U.S.--let alone not having the space.
All the while, the breezy days are stealing down leaves from the trees along the Seine and spreading them far and wide: along the banks, the streets, in the river itself. When I went out to La Villette on Friday to buy a ticket to the Paris Philharmonic in person (because I'd only just retrieved the notebook, and had been leery of using a credit card at a public internet center), the sky was gray, and yellow leaves were blowing in small flurries from the allee of trees that stretches back through the grassy park area to the left of that building.
Friday, October 9, 2015
Monday, October 5, 2015
Further adventures
Saturday, October 3
Another day began cool and foggy, only to soon burn clear and become, once again, sunny and mild. My quest of the morning was for an internet center. I'd seen a couple from a distance while combing through St.-Germain on Thursday; now I just had to see whether they'd disappeared now that I needed one (I'm sparing you gory details of the meltdown when, after backing up and wiping, the computer came to life sporting the Windows 10 home page yet again. Which is incompatible with the computer. So--no computer. Stopped credit card payment, but no computer). For a while it appeared they had all gone into hiding, as I foolishly cut up various angles and meanders. In The End, after warming up enough to remove my jacket, I did spot one (note to self: behind the Banque Populaire on bd. St.-Germain--and I've definitely kept one of their cards for future reference), paid my three euros for half an hour (!), and did a little bit of catching up.
There was a special tour beginning at 3:45 over in the Palais Royal area, of old passages, some of them not always open to the public (and some that can be hard to find, I know). So when I left the internet center I went striding off toward the river and Hotel de Ville, calculating in my head only which stop I should get off at. But as I neared my own street, it was registering that it was already 2:00 P.M., the tour wouldn't end until 4:00 at the very least, and I'd had only breakfast. In obedience to hypoglycemia, and the unpleasant results of neglecting it, I screeched to a halt on my corner, bought a sandwich (Brie with cucumbers and tomatoes), and hurried home to eat at least half of it.
But of course, as the law of everything taking longer than you expect dictates, once upstairs it gradually became obvious there was to be no way to still walk to the Hotel de Ville station, take the train, and locate the group before the tour's starting time. Missing it was probably the best outcome for my sore body: I needed a break before La Nuit Blanche began. So, with the chicken, the potatoes, turnips, carrots, and mushrooms, I made very satisfying stew.
By early evening, 6:00 or so, the bright day had disappeared under overcast. Before night fell, I made my way across the river. I set out first walking up along rue de Rivoli in search of a performance by the CRISIS Collective--which I never could locate. (Much later, I realized I'd misremembered the starting time.) So, along with ever-growing crowds, I headed back in the opposite direction toward the Hotel de Ville, Ground Zero of this year's events. I was sorry to miss a performance that was a culmination of almost a month of performances in keeping with this year's theme of climate change, but then, I would have to miss many other intriguing shows and installations. There seemed more than I remembered there ever being--and more and more people surging through the streets to take part.
Back at the already very busy Hotel de Ville, in the now-darkness, the entire place was taken up with an installation by Zhenchen Liu, "Ice Monument." This was 270 ice steles in different colors (translation from the Nuit Blanche guide I didn't yet have at that point: "symbolizing the different countries of the world" evoking "the twilight beauty of a world constructed by man but which will no longer be able to exist, if nothing is done by man." It was haunting (someday I will be able to add photos), though the jockeying for position at the ropes around the groups of blocks did detract somewhat from contemplation.
Since it was just up the street (and I knew the way!), I headed then to the Pompidou Center, whose permanent collections were open free for the night. The masses of people kept growing, and not just growing, but gradually becoming jollier and more boisterous. Almost the first thing I saw--maybe because it was huge and a blinding, lighted blue--as I came even with the parvis, was a Windows 10 installation for some imminent promo. Giving that a wide berth, I went around onto the sloping parvis itself. Large numbers of people were sitting there in scattered groups, or milling about so that, in the dark, it was difficult at first to make out the actual line. This disorientation was perhaps heightened by other-worldly music emanating from a stage at the far end: "Echo of the Specters," the guide says (it also says there were to be pyrotechnics, but I missed those). But there it was, a shambling mass several people wide leading to the center entrance. Mercifully, it did move pretty quickly, even though bags had to be examined.
And then we were ascending, on the snaky series of escalators along the front of the building. First the clots of antlike people, darker against the darkness of the parvis, we saw, then, as we rose above the buildings opposite, the whole night view of Paris unfolded: the Eiffel Tower with its slowly revolving searchlight, the Church of St.-Merri past the large pool and its moving sculptures, the towers of Notre-Dame past that, in the midst of the Seine, and in the opposite direction, far away, the domes of Sacre-Coeur. Snapping photos was tricky due to interior lights and streaked glass; I tried.
I walked again through one entire floor of the museum. By then, overly warm because I'd dressed for outdoors, and having done a lot of walking, I thought I'd call it a night. Even before emerging into the seething night again, I could see the size of the line waiting to get in had doubled, and the parvis was much fuller. The band was taking a break. Weaving and dodging my way through the crowd (and keeping my distance from Windows 10 for fear of any further contamination), I decided to walk toward the church, just to see whether it was doing anything for a Nuit Blanche (too late and too dark to consult the guide at this point: it was seat-of-the-pants, follow-your-nose (or the crowd) time). Sure enough, past the big pool with its fanciful (not to say bizarre) sculptures, and the wall-sized painting of Dali near it, in the dark, I saw a stream of people coming out of St.-Merri's side door. So I went around to the front and went in
--into a cacophonous assault on the senses that seemed surely (and was) the climax of--something. Of Djeff and Monsieur Moo's "Presage" (I'm told). Searchlights pierced the hazy air of the nave, highlighting many small hanging objects, as weird organ music reached a crescendo, and there was something at the bottom of it all I couldn't see for the mass of jockeying bodies silhouetted against the light. Eventually, and by then the music had ended and the searchlights gone off, leaving just regular interior lights in the nave, I wormed my way close enough to see a small boat resting as if coming toward us on--plexiglass? waves. It was interesting. Disturbing, even. I took photos, having to assert my right to have a turn at the rail. (To follow, I hope.)
Then I was surely done for the night, footsore, back aching from the slow-motion standing in the museum. Except that, as I stepped out into the cool night once again, there--moving unseen somewhere in a dark mass of bodies at the far end of that plaza, right alongside the Pompidou--there was a drum corps, drumming away (a band, I thought at first, though it was in fact only drums). Far too many miles of marching in a marching band ignite my feet, still, and a hammered-out, insistent beat gives new life to exhausted limbs (there's certainly a reason armies used them). As fast as I could scurry, dodging people, desperately hoping not to miss them, whatever "them" was, I got mysef back to where they--had recently been, to join the rest of a dark swarm being sucked along in that Pied Piper's wake, jostling, laughing, some shaking big noisy, lighted rattles they'd bought from vendors in the square. Some conscious part of me was asking how far they were going, how far exactly I would tag along, but my feet were in charge, red shoes or no.
Dodging and darting, up on sidewalks when there were any (for we were entering the Marais, and by twisting back routes), wary of idiots tryiing to drive this night, or of motorcycles, stepping in a puddle invisible in the dark at one point, trying, trying not to fall or twist an ankle, I followed. There were scores of us. It was for all the world like a wild Mardi Gras: that African, Caribbean beat, the red head scarves of the main participants, the dancing crowd. The drummers never stood still for more than thirty seconds, then they were off again. By darting and weaving, and walking very fast, I finally caught up to them, for I did want to see who, what, they were. All black, of course, and the crowd at least half so. Yet I never found out whom exactly.
By this time we'd come so far I thought we (and see, by now it did seem to be "we," in this headlong, rhythm-driven dash) must be going all the way to Place de la Bastille. (At one point one idiot driver leaned on his horn as we poured across the street: the crowd roared jeers back at him and shook their noisemakers.) But no, the drummers surged around a corner, and all their swarm turned with them like blackbirds, fish. Lemmings. We were heading back toward Hotel de Ville after all. Were we going to burst into the square itself?
We did not. At something of a wall of buses, cabs, private cars trying to turn onto rue de Rivoli from rue du Temple, the drum corps had to pause longer than usual (still drumming). Spell broken, I peeled quietly away, sweaty, now really footsore and exhausted. Slowly, I managed to cross Rivoli, dodge my way back through Place de l'Hotel de Ville, and finally make my way home.
(Note: As this event has grown and grown, it really is incredible the city has not yet taken the step of blocking certain streets for safety's sake.)
Another day began cool and foggy, only to soon burn clear and become, once again, sunny and mild. My quest of the morning was for an internet center. I'd seen a couple from a distance while combing through St.-Germain on Thursday; now I just had to see whether they'd disappeared now that I needed one (I'm sparing you gory details of the meltdown when, after backing up and wiping, the computer came to life sporting the Windows 10 home page yet again. Which is incompatible with the computer. So--no computer. Stopped credit card payment, but no computer). For a while it appeared they had all gone into hiding, as I foolishly cut up various angles and meanders. In The End, after warming up enough to remove my jacket, I did spot one (note to self: behind the Banque Populaire on bd. St.-Germain--and I've definitely kept one of their cards for future reference), paid my three euros for half an hour (!), and did a little bit of catching up.
There was a special tour beginning at 3:45 over in the Palais Royal area, of old passages, some of them not always open to the public (and some that can be hard to find, I know). So when I left the internet center I went striding off toward the river and Hotel de Ville, calculating in my head only which stop I should get off at. But as I neared my own street, it was registering that it was already 2:00 P.M., the tour wouldn't end until 4:00 at the very least, and I'd had only breakfast. In obedience to hypoglycemia, and the unpleasant results of neglecting it, I screeched to a halt on my corner, bought a sandwich (Brie with cucumbers and tomatoes), and hurried home to eat at least half of it.
But of course, as the law of everything taking longer than you expect dictates, once upstairs it gradually became obvious there was to be no way to still walk to the Hotel de Ville station, take the train, and locate the group before the tour's starting time. Missing it was probably the best outcome for my sore body: I needed a break before La Nuit Blanche began. So, with the chicken, the potatoes, turnips, carrots, and mushrooms, I made very satisfying stew.
By early evening, 6:00 or so, the bright day had disappeared under overcast. Before night fell, I made my way across the river. I set out first walking up along rue de Rivoli in search of a performance by the CRISIS Collective--which I never could locate. (Much later, I realized I'd misremembered the starting time.) So, along with ever-growing crowds, I headed back in the opposite direction toward the Hotel de Ville, Ground Zero of this year's events. I was sorry to miss a performance that was a culmination of almost a month of performances in keeping with this year's theme of climate change, but then, I would have to miss many other intriguing shows and installations. There seemed more than I remembered there ever being--and more and more people surging through the streets to take part.
Back at the already very busy Hotel de Ville, in the now-darkness, the entire place was taken up with an installation by Zhenchen Liu, "Ice Monument." This was 270 ice steles in different colors (translation from the Nuit Blanche guide I didn't yet have at that point: "symbolizing the different countries of the world" evoking "the twilight beauty of a world constructed by man but which will no longer be able to exist, if nothing is done by man." It was haunting (someday I will be able to add photos), though the jockeying for position at the ropes around the groups of blocks did detract somewhat from contemplation.
Since it was just up the street (and I knew the way!), I headed then to the Pompidou Center, whose permanent collections were open free for the night. The masses of people kept growing, and not just growing, but gradually becoming jollier and more boisterous. Almost the first thing I saw--maybe because it was huge and a blinding, lighted blue--as I came even with the parvis, was a Windows 10 installation for some imminent promo. Giving that a wide berth, I went around onto the sloping parvis itself. Large numbers of people were sitting there in scattered groups, or milling about so that, in the dark, it was difficult at first to make out the actual line. This disorientation was perhaps heightened by other-worldly music emanating from a stage at the far end: "Echo of the Specters," the guide says (it also says there were to be pyrotechnics, but I missed those). But there it was, a shambling mass several people wide leading to the center entrance. Mercifully, it did move pretty quickly, even though bags had to be examined.
And then we were ascending, on the snaky series of escalators along the front of the building. First the clots of antlike people, darker against the darkness of the parvis, we saw, then, as we rose above the buildings opposite, the whole night view of Paris unfolded: the Eiffel Tower with its slowly revolving searchlight, the Church of St.-Merri past the large pool and its moving sculptures, the towers of Notre-Dame past that, in the midst of the Seine, and in the opposite direction, far away, the domes of Sacre-Coeur. Snapping photos was tricky due to interior lights and streaked glass; I tried.
I walked again through one entire floor of the museum. By then, overly warm because I'd dressed for outdoors, and having done a lot of walking, I thought I'd call it a night. Even before emerging into the seething night again, I could see the size of the line waiting to get in had doubled, and the parvis was much fuller. The band was taking a break. Weaving and dodging my way through the crowd (and keeping my distance from Windows 10 for fear of any further contamination), I decided to walk toward the church, just to see whether it was doing anything for a Nuit Blanche (too late and too dark to consult the guide at this point: it was seat-of-the-pants, follow-your-nose (or the crowd) time). Sure enough, past the big pool with its fanciful (not to say bizarre) sculptures, and the wall-sized painting of Dali near it, in the dark, I saw a stream of people coming out of St.-Merri's side door. So I went around to the front and went in
--into a cacophonous assault on the senses that seemed surely (and was) the climax of--something. Of Djeff and Monsieur Moo's "Presage" (I'm told). Searchlights pierced the hazy air of the nave, highlighting many small hanging objects, as weird organ music reached a crescendo, and there was something at the bottom of it all I couldn't see for the mass of jockeying bodies silhouetted against the light. Eventually, and by then the music had ended and the searchlights gone off, leaving just regular interior lights in the nave, I wormed my way close enough to see a small boat resting as if coming toward us on--plexiglass? waves. It was interesting. Disturbing, even. I took photos, having to assert my right to have a turn at the rail. (To follow, I hope.)
Then I was surely done for the night, footsore, back aching from the slow-motion standing in the museum. Except that, as I stepped out into the cool night once again, there--moving unseen somewhere in a dark mass of bodies at the far end of that plaza, right alongside the Pompidou--there was a drum corps, drumming away (a band, I thought at first, though it was in fact only drums). Far too many miles of marching in a marching band ignite my feet, still, and a hammered-out, insistent beat gives new life to exhausted limbs (there's certainly a reason armies used them). As fast as I could scurry, dodging people, desperately hoping not to miss them, whatever "them" was, I got mysef back to where they--had recently been, to join the rest of a dark swarm being sucked along in that Pied Piper's wake, jostling, laughing, some shaking big noisy, lighted rattles they'd bought from vendors in the square. Some conscious part of me was asking how far they were going, how far exactly I would tag along, but my feet were in charge, red shoes or no.
Dodging and darting, up on sidewalks when there were any (for we were entering the Marais, and by twisting back routes), wary of idiots tryiing to drive this night, or of motorcycles, stepping in a puddle invisible in the dark at one point, trying, trying not to fall or twist an ankle, I followed. There were scores of us. It was for all the world like a wild Mardi Gras: that African, Caribbean beat, the red head scarves of the main participants, the dancing crowd. The drummers never stood still for more than thirty seconds, then they were off again. By darting and weaving, and walking very fast, I finally caught up to them, for I did want to see who, what, they were. All black, of course, and the crowd at least half so. Yet I never found out whom exactly.
By this time we'd come so far I thought we (and see, by now it did seem to be "we," in this headlong, rhythm-driven dash) must be going all the way to Place de la Bastille. (At one point one idiot driver leaned on his horn as we poured across the street: the crowd roared jeers back at him and shook their noisemakers.) But no, the drummers surged around a corner, and all their swarm turned with them like blackbirds, fish. Lemmings. We were heading back toward Hotel de Ville after all. Were we going to burst into the square itself?
We did not. At something of a wall of buses, cabs, private cars trying to turn onto rue de Rivoli from rue du Temple, the drum corps had to pause longer than usual (still drumming). Spell broken, I peeled quietly away, sweaty, now really footsore and exhausted. Slowly, I managed to cross Rivoli, dodge my way back through Place de l'Hotel de Ville, and finally make my way home.
(Note: As this event has grown and grown, it really is incredible the city has not yet taken the step of blocking certain streets for safety's sake.)
Paris encore
Belatedly, the 2015 edition begins. Through no fault whatsoever of Paris, the stay itself has had a rocky start, due mainly to the crash of my trusty notebook computer. Indeed, this is entirely the fault of Microsoft's Windows 10, which showed up uninvited while I was still at home, got installed (I assumed Microsoft must know what it was doing sending it out), and when I tried to use the computer--which was quite a while later, in the busyness and preoccupation of those weeks--it completely froze.
I'll skip over much panic and worry, wringing of hands and dread, hours with computer techs in India, to the recommendation that I get a flash drive large enough to back up everything on the computer so that it could be wiped completely clean, and have Windows 7 reinstalled (the operating system it came with).
To summarize, then:
Thursday, October 1st.
I walked all up and down boulevard St-Germain trying to find the FNAC David told me was there (David, the apartment's--as opposed to the building's--concierge, who grew up in Shreveport). I couldn't check for it on a map (Catch-22), because I didn't have a working computer. When I finally got back (I did have lunch , at Au Pied de Fouet again, near the church of St.-Germain; learn the great conversational group offering in the basement behind the church now a) has to focus exclusively on migrants as well as students, b) for security reasons can now allow fewer than half as many people at one time as in the past, so c) no one over 60 is allowed (how's THAT for adding insult to injury? though I understand and agree with the priorities); bought currants, walnuts, and Nicoise olives at the Place Maubert street market as it was closing up, and a fresh chevre cheese from a little shop there--AS I was continuing the search for FNAC); and even walked over to the Jardin du Luxembourg when I gave up, where I strolled, pulled up a chair in shade near the main pool to contemplate, people-watch, consider that the plantings are in tones suitable for fall, but surely must have been there all season, since they're lush and mature, and REST), I did have one brief window (no pun intended) of computer and manage to get that much: a street view and a location.
Friday, October 2nd.
So I got up, attended to all the various domestic chores, and headed back over to bd. St.-Germain, straight up bd. St.-Michel this time, since it appeared the FNAC was near their intersection. I walked slowly past Sephora, looking at the street numbers. I walked around the block, behind the buildings. Finally, I went into Sephora and asked a very fashionable young employee whether she knew where it was--no. Concluding the FNAC which once was on bd. St.-Germain is now a memory, I headed back across the river, caught the #1 Metro line at Chatelet, and took it to the George V stop on the Champs Elysees. Without too much difficulty--only one detour into an arcade I for some reason thought might be its location, I found the large, bustling (well, everything bustles on the Champs Elysees--but it really is a busy store) FNAC store, attempted to make clear what I needed, finally did, perused a wide selection looking for the best price on a large flash drive, paid, and was on my way. Progress!
Finally--finally!--I took a few minutes just to wander. Well, to bustle, but without a sense of urgency. I could have just gone back to the George V stop and headed home, but I decided to walk on to the next stop toward the Place de la Concorde, Franklin Roosevelt. I went to the curb and looked west, to the Arc de Triomphe (which was startlingly close), and east to the obelisk at Place de la Concorde.
Of course, then I couldn't find the Franklin Roosevelt station entrance, or not readily, so kept walking. I was pleased to recognize the Grand Palais across the wide street, where I know the Clemenceau Metro entrance is, having used it several times. I rode past my stop, Hotel de Ville, to the St.-Paul stop in the Marais. There's a larger supermarket there, where I picked up a few things the closer Franprix hadn't had: chicken in actual parts, as opposed to more prepared tourist bits, oatmeal, and chocolate. Then I stopped at the lovely little bakery up the block, for a spinach and brie quiche, some flan, and a "pave de berger" loaf as opposed to the baguettes that go stale overnight. Then walked all the way up the quai to the pont Louis Phillippe, across Ile St.-Louis, and home. Got to burn that cholesterol.
I'll skip over much panic and worry, wringing of hands and dread, hours with computer techs in India, to the recommendation that I get a flash drive large enough to back up everything on the computer so that it could be wiped completely clean, and have Windows 7 reinstalled (the operating system it came with).
To summarize, then:
Thursday, October 1st.
I walked all up and down boulevard St-Germain trying to find the FNAC David told me was there (David, the apartment's--as opposed to the building's--concierge, who grew up in Shreveport). I couldn't check for it on a map (Catch-22), because I didn't have a working computer. When I finally got back (I did have lunch , at Au Pied de Fouet again, near the church of St.-Germain; learn the great conversational group offering in the basement behind the church now a) has to focus exclusively on migrants as well as students, b) for security reasons can now allow fewer than half as many people at one time as in the past, so c) no one over 60 is allowed (how's THAT for adding insult to injury? though I understand and agree with the priorities); bought currants, walnuts, and Nicoise olives at the Place Maubert street market as it was closing up, and a fresh chevre cheese from a little shop there--AS I was continuing the search for FNAC); and even walked over to the Jardin du Luxembourg when I gave up, where I strolled, pulled up a chair in shade near the main pool to contemplate, people-watch, consider that the plantings are in tones suitable for fall, but surely must have been there all season, since they're lush and mature, and REST), I did have one brief window (no pun intended) of computer and manage to get that much: a street view and a location.
Friday, October 2nd.
So I got up, attended to all the various domestic chores, and headed back over to bd. St.-Germain, straight up bd. St.-Michel this time, since it appeared the FNAC was near their intersection. I walked slowly past Sephora, looking at the street numbers. I walked around the block, behind the buildings. Finally, I went into Sephora and asked a very fashionable young employee whether she knew where it was--no. Concluding the FNAC which once was on bd. St.-Germain is now a memory, I headed back across the river, caught the #1 Metro line at Chatelet, and took it to the George V stop on the Champs Elysees. Without too much difficulty--only one detour into an arcade I for some reason thought might be its location, I found the large, bustling (well, everything bustles on the Champs Elysees--but it really is a busy store) FNAC store, attempted to make clear what I needed, finally did, perused a wide selection looking for the best price on a large flash drive, paid, and was on my way. Progress!
Finally--finally!--I took a few minutes just to wander. Well, to bustle, but without a sense of urgency. I could have just gone back to the George V stop and headed home, but I decided to walk on to the next stop toward the Place de la Concorde, Franklin Roosevelt. I went to the curb and looked west, to the Arc de Triomphe (which was startlingly close), and east to the obelisk at Place de la Concorde.
Of course, then I couldn't find the Franklin Roosevelt station entrance, or not readily, so kept walking. I was pleased to recognize the Grand Palais across the wide street, where I know the Clemenceau Metro entrance is, having used it several times. I rode past my stop, Hotel de Ville, to the St.-Paul stop in the Marais. There's a larger supermarket there, where I picked up a few things the closer Franprix hadn't had: chicken in actual parts, as opposed to more prepared tourist bits, oatmeal, and chocolate. Then I stopped at the lovely little bakery up the block, for a spinach and brie quiche, some flan, and a "pave de berger" loaf as opposed to the baguettes that go stale overnight. Then walked all the way up the quai to the pont Louis Phillippe, across Ile St.-Louis, and home. Got to burn that cholesterol.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Fly, You Fools!
A word to the wise. To the unwise. To anyone who travels. Hotels.com. Avoid this company like the plague, or any other dangerous cliché. They are slipshod enough to have no record of a cancellation, thus, in league with their hotel, demand you pay for a night you never used, never intended to use once the reservation booked for the wrong YEAR and you immediately CANCELLED it. The other fun experience via them was the night in the Railway Hotel in Limerick, Ireland, the very worst single night ever spent in any hotel, anywhere in the world, in my entire life. Avoid.
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