leaving France

At home, Ed has plunged into making peach jam. The peach trees are sagging from an overload of fruit. We'll be eating peanut butter and peaches for lunch all winter long.

Me, I'm winding down: it's a prolonged return -- a train ride to Figueres then Barcelona, then the next day -- the flights home.

At least that's the plan. It's about to be severely challenged, but I don't know that yet. I'm enjoying my last morning in Paris, even as Ed is packing up to go camping up north with his buddy. Our travel preferences are sometimes strikingly different.

And what of this pretty morning in a refreshed from vacation city? Well, there's breakfast. Let me break out of a routine here. Surely I'm capable of walking spontaneously into a random cafe for a croissant and coffee. I pick this one -- Conti. There are people inside having a conversation about how their vacances went this year (tranquil -- says the proprietor with a shrug). I sit down at a table facing what has to be the most congested little intersection on this side of the river. Trucks routinely stop in the narrow streets to unload and cars behind are patient -- to a point. In the photo below, everyone appears to be headed at each other. That they all get through unscathed is rather miraculous.





I eat my croissant -- not the best, not the worst and drink my coffee -- not the best, not the worst. I note that the price is comparable to that in Les Editeurs. And a few paces further, I see about five other cafes that have a more pleasant vibe and I think -- this searching out a good place for coffee has to be a life long challenge here. There are too many choices. Do you stay satisfied with a good one, or do you keep the search going?


Alright, next I must deal with the fact that I have buyer's remorse. In packing last night, I notice two things: the delightful little work skirt I purchased? I want to exchange it. To the more colorful one. Will they do it? I haven't a single receipt left. Then, too, I picked up this simple little tray with a nice flower motif. We need a tray to carry foods from the kitchen to the porch. We'd been using an ancient cookie sheet and though Ed thinks that's just perfect, I'm thinking an upgrade is in order.

The problem with the tray is that it is one inch longer than my suitcase. No, I am not sending my little case through just so that I can carry the tray on board with me. Too awkward and stupid. I shouldn't have purchased it.

So I go back to shops that have already seen too much of me -- and it turns out that this is a good thing, because they do exchanges only if a clerk recognizes your face and can confirm the purchase. The good news is that I appear to be memorable enough to be recognized. The bad news is that I appear to be memorable enough to be recognized.

That behind me, I think about lunch: My train is at 2 p.m. Should I eat before? Too early. It's much more attractive to pick up a Paul baguette with cheese and eat it on board. So I do that.






As I stroll my neighborhood, I think surely I must stop for a good bye visit to the Jardin Luxembourg. Since lately, my trips to Paris tend to be in winter months, I miss this profusion of color there. So let me take it in one last time.





















And then I say good bye to my pretend home in Paris, hoping that there'll always be discount rates available for future visits. (It's a modest little place but nonetheless, I can't afford their full prices: travel planning requires a chicken and egg game of booking a flight on discount days that touch also discount days at hotels. Or the other way around. The Internet is a frequent traveler's most essential tool these days.)

The train station is about an hour's walk from the hotel and even though I have my case and pack and my feet have still not recovered from yesterday's crisscross of Paris, I choose to walk.











I can't say that the heart of the walk is exciting. Wanting to avoid the crowds at the river's edge, I weave my way through a rather dismal set of blocks (insofar as Paris can be thought of as having dismal blocks at the city center; it's relative, after all). But things improve dramatically when I reach the Jardin des Plantes. I cut right through it and though it isn't terrific fun to drag a suitcase, no matter how small, on a dirt surface, the walk in the park is enchanting!  A small section of it is planted "in the wild."






And, there is the grand avenue of trees -- always beautiful.






Little ponds grab the attention of little tykes.






And finally, two sections of the garden face off the yellow and blue colors -- part of this you'll see here, in the more general view of the gardens. I would say then that this should be my parting image of Paris.






Though technically I still have to cross the river to get to the Gare de Lyon.






And now I am almost there and I pause to check my ticket. I have about twenty minutes before departure. Perfect. I look at my reservation -- I'd picked it up back in Barcelona and I am so grateful for it because the crowds at the station are enormous.

What's this? It's a first class seat! Damn! He made a mistake. They'll never let me on with my second class ticket. Nor can I expect to get a seat on the train at this late date. I contemplate standing in line and pleading with the agent there. No, can't do it -- the line is too long.

I decide to board the train and claim my seat and argue later. I practice the speech I'll have to be making -- it's not my fault! I checked everything else -- the date, the time, but I never thought to check the class! The agent made a mistake! I have to take this train -- I have a flight to catch tomorrow! It really is not my fault!

I settle in the luxuriously comfortable armchair, plug in my computer, take out my sandwich and wait anxiously for the train to leave. The first stop will be in Valence -- pretty far south. If they throw me off the train, at least I'll be partway to Spain. Maybe there'll be some night connections I can make?

Stormy clouds outside.... I settle in to eat my sandwich.











About an hour into the ride, the conductor enters the car. I sweat as he comes to me. He looks at the ticket, the reservation, the ticket again.
Madame, I have to tell you... (here it comes, I'm nodding my head ready to launch into my speech)
...that you will be changing trains in Figueres. You'll cross the platform for the train to Barcelona. Have a good journey.
I'm stunned. Did he not notice? Was he exceptionally kind? Such incredible luck!

I settle in to work.


And now we are passing through my beloved Languedoc and would you believe it -- I can see Franqui beach! The etang (inlet) opens up into it. The cliff jutting out of the water is there, just by the hamlet. I smile broadly. It's a moment that I will love for the sudden surprise of seeing a place that comes with memories of gentle days and childish play in a sea of turquoise and blue waters. Normally I wont post a photo below some level of technical acceptability, but this one is an exception. 






And soon after, it gets even better: I see the receding chain of the Pyrenee mountains and hills, spilling into the sea, the hills of Sorede, the hills that I've climbed with Ed -- all of them, many times, as he likes to remind me, with a yawn.






Just one more glance!






And now we're over the border. The transfer in Figueres is smooth, the train pulls in on time to Barcelona.

There, I have a little less luck in trying to get a refund for a seat reservation issued to me by an agent here for a train that did not exist. A wasted twelve Euros. But I get nowhere and after a while I count my blessings and head out. To my Emilia home.

And by 11 p.m. I am at El Cargolet -- the neighborhood bar-restaurant, the place where Ed and I have gone back for the paella, for the informality of the bar-restaurant, for the comfort of being in a neighborhood place where locals come over to satisfy their near midnight eating cravings.






In the past, the waiter has recognized us and laughed at my curious habit of photographing stuff around me, but that's because he recognized Ed, who is (however you might take this) quite the memorable one of the two of us. Now, I eat my mushrooms, followed by the delicious paella in the anonymity that not speaking the language affords.











No moon tonight. There's a threat of sprinkles in fact. Barcelona may still be wide awake, but by midnight, I'm ready to call it a day. I leave you with a humble nod to the flowers that so defined the last few days for me. (These, from the Jardin de Luxembourg.)

a day in Paris

A last full day in the city. Except for two tiny errands (stamps at the post office and a discussion with madame at Monoprix about the virtues of having a functional umbrella when it rains), I have no agenda. None. The weather is again pleasant - part cloud, part sun, with a refreshing cooldown to the midseventies.

Where to go? What to do?

At an inspired moment some years back, I entered a Paris bookstore and looked for books on Paris for the French. I found a wonderful set of two books, on walks that take you to the heart of less visited districts of the city -- one for the right bank and the other for the left bank. I picked them up, vowing to someday replicate all the walks listed therein. But I wasn't careful and by accident, I found myself with two copies of the right bank walks.

Oh the irony! Except for one distant time when, as a child, I passed through Paris with my sister and mom and we stayed near the Arc de Triomphe, I have never ever stayed on the right bank. True, my daughter tells me that I always make sure that a visit to Paris has a walk through the Marais district which is very much on the right bank, but regardless: I'm a devoted left banker.

Over the years, I've leafed through this right bank book (I gave its twin away) and I would say to myself -- I should do the Canal Saint Martin walk. But I never did it. Too out of the way, too busy running around being, well, busy. But how about now?

I slip on a new pair of shoes (ah, the folly of this!) having killed my old one in the rain yesterday and I set out.

My walk (before I get anywhere near the canal) is past both insanely popular spots and more obscure places, empty, often with closed storefronts (perhaps still for vacation). Follow along! I'll provide minimal commentary. After yesterday, you need a break.

First, breakfast. At Les Editeurs...


 



...because it's convenient and not crowded and I see now that the academic types are coming back to chat about existentialism or the perception that France is on the decline or both.

















And now I turn east and walk along the river's edge toward this great old building, celebrating its 850th anniversary this year.






Somewhere just behind it, I come across a group of children -- I have to think it's a day care situation as schools haven't started yet. I feel for the little girl: she looks like she so does not want to be there.






Off the Paris islands now...






and turning due north toward the canal. It seems that my camera continues to focus on interesting cafes along the way (at home, we would call this name pretentious, but here, it somehow doesn't surprise)...






...and on children.











And there are quite a number of both.






And finally, I am at the banks of the canal and the two photos I'll put up will lead you to think -- such a quiet and pleasant oasis!






But it didn't feel that way to me, the photos to the contrary.






Most of the canal is lined with very ordinary houses -- pleasant enough, but not especially exciting. Yes, it's quieter here, but there are plenty of lovely spots in Paris where you can seek refuge from crowds -- I'll show you one magical oasis in just a moment. I am glad I did the canal walk: now I don't have to do it at some point in the future.

Walking back, I pass the Place de la Republique -- it has an interesting rectangular space where the sidewalk dips maybe an inch and the dip is filled with fountain-like water. So that if you're not looking where you're going you might suddenly be surprised. Kids, of course, love it (the photo is misleading in that there is usually some child or other charging through, often on a scooter).






Then, I am so close to Place des Vosges that I can't help but peek in, making this yet again a trip that includes this pretty square.






(Let's catch that fountain -- and the meditating guy by it -- from the other side, so you can admire the buildings around the square.)






Lunch. Small breakfasts cause big lunch appetites. When I see a cafe right off the square with a special of an omelet with cèpe mushrooms (porcini, for the Italian in you), I'm delighted. It's perfect.







And then a strange thing happens. A three generational American family sits down next to me -- kid, mother, grandmother. And I see that they're studying the menu, unaware that there's a whole blackboard of specials to consider. When the grandmother thinks she might like an omelet, I lean over and put in a good word for the one with  cèpe mushrooms. And probably because I haven't been speaking English much, I suppose my (slight?) foreign accent has crept in again, on top of a curious local intonation, because I am like a parrot when I hear a foreign language -- I start mimicking the melodic rise and fall of sentences... (my kids always make fun of me for this: they think it sounds affected, even as I tell them it comes from being an immigrant). So perhaps for these reasons, the grandmother type thinks I'm a very kind and helpful French person! (Too, when you are an older woman and you are alone, people assume you're local; I get asked for directions a lot even though I am not wearing a scarf nor good-looking shoes -- essentials for a woman of this city).

I should have said right away -- no no, I am so from the same place you are! But I didn't, in part because it took a while for it all to register and then it was too late. Oh what a tangled web indeed! The lie stood firm and it rested so deeply there at my table, that I could not wait to leave.  I wished them a bonne journee on my way out.


I walk along the rue des Francs Bourgeois and I peek into courtyards of some very noble buildings...






...and here's my secret tip for a quiet spot -- one I can't ever appreciate on my winter travels to Paris: if you enter the courtyard of the Archives Nationales...





...and take a swing to your right, you'll find yourself in the most delightfully serene little gardens. Plantwise, they're perhaps not worth the detour, though I note that they, like me, rely on this staple to carry the garden through early fall:







But in the nooks of the garden, there are benches, inviting you to sit down. And, it being the garden of the Archives --  to read. I found many such people, enjoying solitude here while the world raged outside.

















Alright, one more photo of cafe life, in the Marais district -- this one seemed so blue that I thought it would be a nice juxtaposition to my breakfast red.






And then I walk past places that have been much photographed and documented here on Ocean -- Georges Pompideau Center (for modern art), Les Halles (the old market place, under construction for the next five years), Pont Neuf (Paris's most beloved bridge) -- all fine, all good, but I'll skip right over them and put you back into the heart of the left bank. Because my feet (new shoes!) are getting so very sore.






No, wait: allow me one exception: someone asked me if I wanted my photo taken on the Pont Neuf. Maybe I was looking wistful, or happy, or something. Anyway, I said sure and they did and so there you have it -- my only photo (that is not a selfie) from this trip.






Dinner. Where to eat on a Monday night? I had once made a reservation at the Boissonerie (a.k.a. Fish, I don't know why -- it doesn't especially have a fish heavy menu) and then cancelled at the last minute and ate a sandwich on the bed of my hotel room. This time, I did not want a sandwich. So I went back to it and I had a delightful, artful and quite fine and reasonably priced meal, served by a 100% female staff (I don't know if this is deliberate, but I have to say it must be, since you rarely see women servers in good and even not so good restaurants here). Would I go back?  Yes, but only if  I had a week in Paris and Pouic Pouic and Le Timbre were full and I couldn't take the no nonsense face of Pollard.

I ordered well at the appetizer level...






...and at the dessert level...






...and only just okay at the main course level: it was a vegetarian dish of eggplant and various other veggies. The girolle (chaterelle) mushrooms on the menu caught my eye. But they were scant. Hardly defining the dish.







I am walking slowly, back to the hotel now, thinking how these last nights in my most favorite city in the world are hard. As usual, I want to take it all in. Not miss a single detail of the spaces around me. I see that the light is pink, an evening pink.






That means only one thing -- a good sunset over the River Seine. I hurry. The play of light can be such a fleeting thing. Two minutes and the clouds take hold and the colors disappear. But they didn't disappear. They held on until I take my photo (with no enhancements or manipulations here). So, for you, from Paris -- a city that's showing off, of course, as it so often likes to do.