from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne: shades of gold, shades of green

The baguette. I buy a half a baguette each day. I can’t ever finish it – it seems like a lot of bread to me. But its staying power is minimal: best consumed within hours of purchase. And next morning it is hard as a rock. Ed tells me reheating it in the microwave softens things up considerably. But I cannot do it: reheat a baguette in a microwave?? What, with maybe a reheated cup of espresso?? There are some things that must be consumed fresh, or not at all.

It’s a work day for me and so I limit my excursions to two: one for a purchase of a half a baguette (for dejeuner) and a café crème at the bar. The other excursion is an evening bike ride along the River Marne.

Shades of gold, shades of green.

First the gold: my baguette is warm and crusty on the outside. It begs to be eaten right now, but I say no, you are for another hour. I watch person after person purchase three baguettes, three and a half, four even. What family needs four baguettes in a day? Aurore tells me – my little one can eat a half in one sitting.

I pass a bus stop where a man is holding only one. I am certain that it is a supplement to the three his wife has already picked up early in the morning.




Okay, so French people are constitutionally formed to deal with the onslaught of baguettes. I envy them.

The thing is, in three days, I will go from abundance to zero. There is no good baguette to be had within 100 miles of Madison (where I live). Possibly not even 1,000 miles. Actually, most likely 10,000 but I don’t know for sure.

I tell this to Aurore, expecting sympathy. She, ever the kind host, answers – yes, but you have wonderful pancakes! (I do not reveal that those can be had with a flip of a Bisquick box lid; let the French stay with the impression that we do one thing right in the kitchen.)







Now on to the green: I take Aurore’s bike and ride up the River Marne, just to wipe cobwebs from my brain after a day on the computer. I return two hours later, marveling how no matter which direction you take along the river, you always wind up closer to central Paris. It’s what happens if you live inside a river loop.

Not many photos from the ride. You’ve seen the river. Though perhaps you’ve not appreciated the many shades of green that it offers. And the animals that find shelter here. What is this one? A very large water vole? Like in the Wind in the Willows? What?






Oh rivers! How much romance and beauty flows through them! No photo (of mine) could adequately depict either, but I'll leave you with a touch of both.

from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne: a week goes by

Sunday again. So, it’s been a week. But now I’m on the countdown. Three more days. I should work, shouldn’t I? But I’m so close to places that offer so much! Three hours and I’m on the Mediterranean, or Bordeaux or Brittany!

No, the deal (with myself) was that I should work. And not eat in restaurants. And not look for distractions. I’ve done reasonably well. My days are local. My shopping is for foods to eat at home.


Sunday. I came last week just as the markets were closing in La Varenne. From my coach house apartment, it's a twenty minute walk to La Varenne (it’s the next stop on the RER), longer if you take the river path. La Varenne – the commercial heart of this cluster of “Parisian villages.” And not surprisingly, the Sunday market at la Varenne is big. So big, that it draws people from up and down east Paris. Crowded. Packed with serious shoppers, so that it is nearly impossible to photograph. Let me throw down just a few shots (some, like the thin green beans, have made an Ocean appearance earlier in the week, but note how differently arranged they are in each place! Food matters. It matters at the Bon Marche or Galleries Lafayette, it matters at the markets of la Varenne and Champignol, it matters in Lannelis in Brittany).


























La Varenne, the neighborhood, is a mix of light affluence and a more ordinary life style. The market has as many stalls of cheap clothing as of food and I find myself fingering the linens and cottons along with the rest of the crowd. Some vendors guarantee “French made” (in the alternative, it may be Italian, one told me, but not from anywhere else!), but this crowd doesn’t seem to care. Cheap is attractive.





At the café, I sip a very late café crème. It must be late, because the men are already moving on to the morning glass of wine.





Or, a straight shot of espresso. The woman next to me – an African-French woman, so stunningly made up that I almost have to stare – sips a hot chocolate. We are the two from elsewhere. Our drinks say it all. She munches on a tartine (slice of baguette with butter) and comments to me that it’s too loud here. I nod, but really, I don’t mind. I hide in the noise of café bars. I exhale.





My camera is conspicuous. This isn’t a place you’d seek out as a tourist. La Varenne is a good 30 minute commuter train ride from L’Etoile in Paris. There are plenty of closer markets for someone who wants to photograph produce. But if, like me, you do migrate here, you’ll find the feeling of neighborhood to be so strong, that your presence as an outsider will be noted. Madame at my breakfast café asks if I am living here now and Monsieur and Madame the cheesesellers hail my camera (and, by extension, me) at each encounter. There you are! Go ahead, take a photo. And how are you today?










In the afternoon, I take a walk along the River Marne, away from La Varenne, along the Champignol (my “Parisian village”) bank.









I am looking for a guinguette. You’ve heard of them maybe? Riverside restaurants, with music and dancing, all very unfussy, traditionally for the working people to enjoy on a Sunday afternoon. Renoir’s version in Luncheon of the Boating Party is what sticks in my mind.

It’s not a bad comparison. People eat, have a coffee or a dessert, dance. At least, the older couples dance. It’s no disco floor. The melodies are French cha cha and waltzes and who knows what else, except that they sound at least two generations old.
















The younger set? They talk, they eat, they drink wine and look into each others' eyes.













I head back home. My hosts are about to return from a visit with les grandparents up north. The skies are going to unload rain. Time to settle in and work.

from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne: week-end market

First, let me put it right here: to all dads, especially to the best of the lot (yes, you!) – happy father’s day.





Were you a dad in France, you could well be treated with cakes and champagne, and a bouquet of flowers would sit festively in the middle of your table.













All, of course, purchased at or around the market.

Saturday, the Parisian village where I live (okay, it has a name: Champignol, which is part of the larger Ville de Saint-Maur-des-Fosses, which in turn is part of Paris; now you see why I avoid naming it) has its big market. Everyone who was selling on Wednesday is here, but there are many others.

Aurore tells me – go at 11. People come together then to shop and to talk.

Indeed.

A visit to the market is my only activity this day and so you have this to keep you happy: people coming together over white asparagus and orange melon and cheese. (I bought all three.)





















You may as well make the acquaintance of my cheese man (and his wife). Because I don’t dare go to anyone else. He is nice to me and I am nice right back. It’s not hard – he has a wonderful selection.





And this is how it works in these Parisian-village markets: they roam from Parisian village to Parisian village so that if you go from one to the other, you’ll meet your favorite vendors again. Some sell only a few products from their own backyard, but the vast majority present foods from a number of growers (most from France, but in seafood – some from Madagascar and in some fruits – Spain’s there as well; it’s easy to tell – most foods have place of origin clearly marked; if it’s French, it comes with an exclamation mark!).

So, I leave you with a bouquet for this holiday. Cleverly presented with roses and berries. Simple and sweet and so very pretty.

Paris!

grande l'Etoile, petit Citroen






romance




Eiffel Tower and Dior





shared ipod





Ten hours in Paris:

One hour: listening to Aurore rehearse with the Orchestre Philharmonique de Radio France. Brahms 4th. Exquisite! No photos. Don’t want to abuse privilege.

Five minutes: breakfast is late. After the rehersal. Out of croissants. Happy to take pain au beurre with the café crème.





Twenty minutes: enjoying a picnic in the rose gardens of the Bagatelle. More on that in a minute, but here is my lunch of choice (that's true pretty much every day) and this is my view from the bench where I ate it:










Twenty-eight minutes: waiting for the traffic to clear by l’Etoile so that I can take a photo. At rush hour, this was a fete. A miracle, really, that I could catch that one second during which there would be an empty space. And, to add cream to that unbelievable milisecond of luck, I watch one small old Citroen putting along, right in front. (See photo above)

The balance – eight hours and seven minutes: walking. Covering most every street (or so it seems) between l’Etoile, the Eiffel Tower and the far corners of the Bois de Boulogne.

This is why I cannot stay in central Paris. My work would fall to the side. I would set out for a short stroll and I would be gone the whole day. Walking, watching, photographing. Waiting for traffic to pass so that it would not clutter the picture. Admiring. Imagining. Taking in Paris.


On this day, my goal was the Bagatelle Gardens. Quite a hike from the Philharmonic Hall. And absolutely impossible to find. Somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne. No one can point me to it. I follow empty paths through forests that, in my mind, are more horseback riding friendly than strolling friendly.










But all roads eventually do lead to either Rome or roses. And the Bagatelle roses are something else. Not surprisingly, the gardens are the site for the international "new rose" competition. So, which of the 100 bushes was the winner this year? Here are some possibilities:


















The bees really liked this one:









But the judges picked none of the above. The first prize went to this small flowered variety:





And the "best fragrance" award went to this one:





I can't post fragrance on Ocean. But trust me, you'd agree. And the handful of people in the Bagatelle Gardens concurred. (Do the Gardens attract such small numbers because they are hard to find, far from metro stops, or because they're off the Paris map? I'm in favor of keeping them quiet, but if you happen to be in Paris while I'm not there, by all means, go look for them. Or if you're rich, take a cab. Then sniff away. It's a heady place.)





And speaking of rich, Bagatelle is more than just roses. I have plenty of photos of peacocks and children talking to peacocks and older people walking arm in arm and flower beds and such, but that's just too much for one day. I'll leave you with a photo from the Bagatelle Restaurant -- a posh place for that posh side of Paris that I actually rarely see. The right bank people who press their clothes with care and make sure every strand of hair is just so. Every big city has posh people and Paris seems to have quite a few in this part of town and so in the interest of fairness to them (because I'm sure they care), they shall have their moment on Ocean.




After, I stumbled around until I came to La Muette (the neighborhood of the Marmotan!), where I got lost in windowshopping.

I didn't take many photos. Because GW Bush was in town (why? isn't he lame yet?), traffic was snarled and drivers were more grouchy than usual. I could do a whole post on the time I spent watching everyone jostle for a spot on a crowded square or circle. But in Paris, you can turn a corner and the noise of traffic falls away, behind you. And in front? There's always the Eiffel Tower.