in a fog

It used to be that a trip abroad could pluck you out of an awareness of world events completely. If you never purchased a paper, you'd be oblivious to anything and everything.

The internet changed all that. I read "the paper" every morning on my computer, just as I would back home. I'm informed. i know what's what.

Or do I?

When you rent an apartment, you're on your own. The back up wake up call wont happen. No one will tell you if Paris suddenly closed all parks or if a corpse turned up overnight down the street.

My particular apartment has a television. I had planned on watching local news to improve my vocabulary, but I can't get the remote to behave and my landlord is a busy architect away with clients and his maid/assistant is still mostly with bebe. Eh, it's not important. I ignore the television.


*****

When I booked Paris for five nights, I just assumed I'd get out for at least one day trip. I faltered, because I am really quite content right now in the city, but Ed egged me on: go! You'll like a walk in the country!

He's right. But where to? It isn't obvious in winter. (In all other seasons, Giverny beckons.)

Today, Chantilly wins because it's the easiest to get to by train. Ed and I spent a night in the Chantilly environs in the first year we were together (so, some eight years ago). Our travels were so different then! I think I still fussed when he wanted to read the paper at breakfast! You could say that these days, we've grown comfortable with the caprice of the other, liking the idea that we can keep our own in place as well.

Chantilly is renowned for four things: horse racing, lace, cream and the chateau. The lace is history, we saw the horses and ate the cream, but we missed the chateau.


*****

I wake up early and force myself to get going. There are trains and there is the commuter RER and they all run frequently during the rush hours and less so at midday.

So I'm out before the sun. (That's not so impressive! The sun rises now at 8:30 and sets at just short of 4:30.)






I eat breakfast at the legendary Cafe Rostand (you've seen, for example, the film Paris, je t'aime? Gerard Depardieu plays a waiter at this place), mostly because it's close to the Luxembourg Gardens and I feel really odd not having visited these yet -- they truly are a favorite spot on this side of the ocean for me. And, too, conveniently, the Cafe is right next to the RER station. I can take a train and connect to one heading for Chantilly.






The Cafe Rostand is staid. The proprietor stares at my dangling camera as I enter. I know what he's thinking: I have important regulars here. Please don't scare them away! He should know better. I'm very inconspicuous. No one ever knows for sure if I've taken a photo. This 'important person' (seriously in a cape, with a jeweled broach which you cannot see, and a dog of all dogs) never even batted an eye.






I'm not a fan of staid places, but, I'm here just for a croissant and a cafe, as it happens, both fairly indifferent, and some post card writing (I still write cards to daughters and Ed when I'm away -- not so much to tell them what I'm doing -- God knows I do enough of that on Ocean! -- but to tell them about something in the course of a day that reminded me of how much I missed them)...






...and, too, I witness something that truly counts as a new Paris experience: yes, people bring their dogs to cafes all the time, but a cat? That's a first for me.






How does she even get her cat to sit perfectly still on that chair? Amazing.

I do get the benefit of a stroll through the gardens just as they open at sunrise. Special.






I notice that the waters in the fountain are half frozen. Well that's right. Night temperatures have been dipping just below freezing, even as the days have remained comfortably in the lower forties.






*****

Time for the train. I take the line B, which normally would take me straight to the airport, but I know to change at the major hub -- Chatelet -- for the line D.

What's this? Everyone is getting off at Chatelet. Strange. Perhaps it's a limited edition rush hour train. To catch the excess, so to speak. I'd never heard of one like that, but there's a lot to Paris that will always remain a mystery, no matter how often I come here.

A lot of announcements on the loud speaker. Crowds, pushing every which way. I'm confused, but only for a moment. La greve. Strike!

I figure this out only when I finally do find a Chantilly bound train. I may not have gone had I known. A limited schedule is okay, but one that changes and places more and more limits throughout the day is not. And if you think you'll get info at the ticket offices -- no, you wont. Closed. On strike as well.

[I ask at the Chantilly Tourist Office if I can use my commuter rail ticket on a regular train if it comes to that. She tells me -- they're on strike! When they strike, I don't pay at all! Well now, is that a principled position, or one expressing frustration? I cannot tell.]

Still, it's too late now, I'm Chantilly-bound (it's a 45 minute train ride) and surely even if all trains shut down, I'll find my way back to Paris.


*****

I look out the train window. A misty morning again! It looks like winter here -- chimneys throwing stiff clouds of smoke, everything gray, touched by a steely frost...






I get off at the next to last stop on the line. Chantilly. My, but it's cold in the country!






I know the chateau is within walking distance, but I want to find the Tourist Office first -- to get a map, to ask a few questions about what's what. So I head downtown. That's about a twenty minute hike.

Did I mention how much colder it is outside Paris?! With the sun hovering behind wisps of mist, shaded areas keep their cloaks of frost all day long. Why didn't I bring my gloves -- buried in the suitcase the whole trip long?

I pick up the pace.

Downtown, I learn that the tourist office is right by the train station! Well now, how did I miss that? Back I go.  One hour in Chantilly and all I've done is a loop between the station and town.

But no matter. Walking in the country -- that was the goal, no?






*****


Equipped with now unnecessary maps and informational materials, I take a lovely path to the chateau (with a frozen moat doubling the Chateau's beauty in the reflection)...












And at the Chateau grounds, I have a beautiful walk, too, in the park. The mist comes and goes. When the sun pushes it away, the forest feels warm. When the mist returns, it feels secretive...







... in a magical sort of way.







...With the Chateau never too far away.







No, no! I'm not ready to go inside just yet! I'm enchanted with my surroundings: the quiet of the park, the rising mists from the waters...


 



...the light as it changes on the stream with the movement of ducks...







Walking here in winter, you feel as if the grand estate is arrested in stillness: with many of the canals and fountains (designed, like Versailles, by Le Notre) frozen or depleted of water, with monuments covered over for the season, it's as if the place is shuttered against a past that is no more.





*****


The Chateau Apartments, the Chapel, the library. Snapshots for you:















It's always a jolt to see books from old private collections. Did anyone ever read for fun?


*****


I've been walking without pause for three hours now. Time for lunch. Chantilly is a working town...








(waiting for the weekend)


...but the restaurants count on a robust tourist business and on a cold December day, they wait for customers that never come. I pass one after another basically empty place. That's depressing. I'll feel guilty ordering something light in a large and empty room. That wont do.

And here luck is with me and I find a bustling creperie and though I wont eat the crepe because I'm too full of memories of yesterday's perfect one, I do order a delicious omelet with goat cheese and salmon.






All warmed and ready to go back to Paris. A train does come and even on schedule and though we still get the announcement that train travel today is severely disrupted, it seems not to have affected me at all.

But, forewarned that this is a month of on again, off again strikes, I do go to the RER ticket office -- now open! -- and ask if the strike will again disrupt travel on Sunday. I rely on the train to get to the airport. The ticket agent shakes her head -- No, of course not! The workers do not strike on Sundays! Well now, I suppose if you're French, Sunday is sacred. You need your vacation, even from a strike.

Home again. I alight from the RER station by the River Seine. With the familiar view of Apple iPhones on the buildings under renovation.





*****

Evening dining is again a mass of confusion. I had emailed Patrick, my landlord -- asking where he liked to eat. A man of impeccable taste surely has a good handle on food in his neighborhood. I was curious what he'd pick. He tells me about a place just a few blocks down -- a place completely unfamiliar to me, and so I say an excited "yes!" He offers to call in a reservation. I then look closely at the Internet reviews. It's *the* place to go to if you like animal organs. Udders figure heavily on it. Pig nipples.

I eat most everything and anything, but I can't do this: I write an apologetic note to Patrick, canceling my interest and head out toward the more conventional world of bistro food.


*****


I walk all the way across the left bank, toward the Eiffel Tower. A few snapshots for you: of a Buci area street concert:






 ...of smiling onlookers (kids here often use these to get around the city):







...of a visit to a sweet shop:







...yes, of the moon. Over St. Germain-de-Pres this time:







...and of course, of the Eiffel Tower, which has been photographed so often, probably more so than any other structure in this world! I would post it upside down for novelty's sake, but I'm sure it's been done that way too.





*****


I pick this spot to dine in:






It's beloved on the Internet and it has an energy to it that is sometimes hard to find in establishments that have been around for a long time here.

It almost receives the highest of praises from me. The atmosphere is relaxed,  the proprietor is young, friendly, the foie gras with cranberries is inspired!






The main dish had a tiny bit of an issue but I restrain my American impulse to point it out, choosing instead to work my way around it. The proprietor is not fooled. He spots it right away, is incredibly apologetic and brings me a new fish, perfectly prepared.






Apple cake with cinnamon  creme anglais is not too sweet and could be faulted only for the size of the portion (too much!).






The walk back is long but beautiful. Paris has seeped into my bones.

the same, or maybe not the same

Here's what I learned from Claude Simon (a XX c. French novelist): for a writer, only the act of putting ink to paper puts a definition to an experience. Before that, all you have is (in his words) "a formless mass of sensations, more or less confused, of memories, more or less accumulated, and a vague, very vague project. It is only in the process of writing that something happens."

*****

I talked to Ed just a short while ago. He tells me that all my travel posts are the same: a bit like consistent, warm comfort food, he says. I think her reads things differently than I do. My writing has another meaning for me and probably still another for you, the Ocean reader.


*****

I'm undecided about breakfast. It's such a quick meal here: a croissant or a pain au chocolat, coffee. It's better if the setting compensates for the brevity of it all. So I look for that -- the good setting. I go to the cafe by the Buci market and I sit down outside and I last only about two minutes. No, not because it's cold. There is too much smoke. Everyone of these occupied tables has a pack of Malboros on it. I know that smokers are free to do their thing at outdoor tables here, but it is rather sad that they have inherited that coveted space and someone who doesn't want to smoke secondarily with them has to go inside.





I don't in the end go inside, I go across the street and stay inside at Paul's -- because though it is painfully dull inside Paul's (it's a bakery, not a cafe hangout and it shows) at least the pain is terrific and the coffee is pretty good too.





*****

Where to go today? Oh, no dilemma there. It's so obvious: if I'm in this city for more than a day or so, I'll go to the old but very up and coming (and perhaps you can say that it already upped and came) Marais district. But I do it backwards this time: instead of walking, as usual, first to Notre Dame, then to Marais, then Pompidou, then les Halles, I go first to Les Halles, reversing, in effect, the loop.

(So, I cross the river. Two photos from the Ile de la Cite to move us along.)



quiet square on an otherwise busy river island




looking back to the left bank, across the Pont Neuf


It makes sense to get rid of Les Halles early on. If you're not a Paris person, maybe you don't know that this is a major reconstruction zone for the city (completion date: some infinitely distant time). It's terribly unpleasant to walk through it, even though they try to excite you by posting historic signs of progress. Well, I was here last in October and it looks pretty much the same as it did then.

As always, when I'm in this (at present, horrible) area, I visit the two restaurant supply stores. And as always these years, I buy nothing. I suppose I just like the feel of places that sell kitchen utensils. It takes me back to when I was a (more) serious cook.





*****

I have a clear destination today: the art exhibitions at the Centre Georges Pompidou. There are two special exhibitions and both are exciting.

But first, let's look at the views from the top of the Centre building. On a day like this, they're... over the top, so to speak. (yes, there is a bit of a haze, but less than what you see in the photos, which were taken through somewhat streaked glass).











Now, let's get to the two special exhibitions. The first -- "Surrealism and the Object." Completely dedicated to Surrealist sculpture. And not sculpted from raw material, but sculpture that uses everyday objects. As always, the exhibit comes with a terrific description of the context (including the relationship between surrealism and communist philosophy) and I spend far more time on looking and reading here than I had intended.



S, Dali


So the second exhibit gets shortchanged. And perhaps that's a shame, because I may have gotten even more involved in the essence of it than my already huge involvement with the surrealists.

The second exhibit is about Claude Simone. And it is a massive undertaking. I can't even describe it -- it's huge: it has materials, and manuscripts. and since he was also an artist and a photographer -- it has the visual elements as well, and commentary by others, and places for lectures on his work, and really, I've never seen anything quite like it. (It also has quite the number of university students making use of this massively accumulated treasure trove of Simon work.)







But, after a while, I move on. It was in a way too much for someone who had intended to just "visit an interesting exhibition."


*****


My daughter had sent me a clip from the NYTimes last month about a place in Paris that is doing a wonderful job of promoting different Brittany ciders. She knew Ed liked cider and thought on a next Paris visit he might like to go there.

There is no Ed in Paris right now (and who knows when he will next grace the sidewalks of this city) but in reading the article, I learned that it is a place with the best Breton buckwheat crepes in all of Paris (and there are a lot of creperies in Paris!). I have a deep love of a good buckwheat crepe and so I thought I'd do a late lunch there and see if it would pull me all the way through the dinner hour, in the Marseille way. (An opportunity to spend less on food and still eat well! Win win!)

Of course, a November NYTimes review means December crowds, but since I am a solo diner, they squeezed me into the overflow table for strays over at their little Breton store.

It is a superb crepe meal. I order the Brittany artichoke special (Brittany supplies 90% of France's artichokes... I don't know how I know this, but it's true!). The crepe has an egg, cheese, ham and artichokes. Heaven on earth. Oh, of course, with delicious (gently  alcoholic) cider on the side.





*****


The walk back is down familiar paths. You'll recognize the Place des Vosges (the moon shines brightly...)






And even if you don't, I imagine you're now quite familiar with that gold of all the sunsets I've experienced while in France this month.





















Though I bet this guy's gold will come as a surprise: he is juggling (on one of the bridges over the River Seine,) while placing a bowl of goldfish on his head. And, concurrently, he dances and sings songs from his native country. Raw talent.





*****


So, can I skip dinner? No, I need a little more food. And I need to go out. When I travel alone, I don't want to eat in the quiet of home. Tonight, I go out in search of something light and cheap and tasty. And that's a tall order to fill: if one of the prongs misfires, well now, that's life. But it's all too easy to miss the boat on all three and then you just kick yourself for not doing the conventional dinner out in a restaurant, like normal people.

On the upside, none of the three prongs exactly misfired. But, too, I have to admit, it wasn't a win win either. I decided to go to the little place up in the Buci area-- a few blocks from where I'm staying. It's called Da Rosa and it's vaguely Italian and it's somewhere between a food store and a cafe and a brasserie. I look over at my table neighbor, like the looks of his pasta and order the same. Or so I thought. I got rigatoni with a spicy tomato sauce which I could probably make at home with my eyes half closed.

But, it was good and it wasn't outrageous and on my walk home, on my lovely walk home, I'm thinking how superbly nice it is to have had an exceptional meal today, even if that meal happened to have been lunch.

*****


Out of order, but, on the theory that there is no order to life, you will, I'm sure, be fine with this:  I caught sight of the moon again today while I was passing a church. Same as yesterday, only different church. (Notre Dame.)





*****


Not out of order and in fact ending my post for today is the last stretch of the walk home. I 'live' just a block up from here.

the attic

 I have the address memorized. Easy: it's on a block within the heart of the 6th Arondissiment. I've walked these streets so often. I'll find it!

And I do: it's an imposing painted door with the usual old key holes.





Except I don't have a key. I have a code. Mailed to me by Patrick, the owner of an apartment inside.

In recent times, I've finally stopped searching for the perfect room on my trips to Paris. I like my little hotel and over the years, they have come to like me back (or at least recognize my existence). If I book reasonably early, the rates are exquisitely discounted. The room is tiny, but clean, pretty and relatively inexpensive. And so I was not happy to see that the hotel was closing for half a year for yet another renovation.

I searched all the left bank hotels. All of them. Nothing gave me the value I was used to for the price. And so I turned to my new friend: AirBnB -- the site where people post their own places to let.

I was willing to pay as much as my discounted hotel room, but not more. And because this is a private transaction, I was really good about reading every last review. People are sometimes over the top generous or sometimes unnecessarily negative, but read enough reviews and you get a good enough picture of what you're in for (and unlike, say, Tripadvisor reviews, you cannot review an AirBnB place unless you've actually stayed there).

Still, I have been warned that renting privately is risky. Fine. Consider me warned.


Inside the door, there is a dark hall of sorts and then an iron gate. I have another code for that. So far so good. The numbers work.

Then come the stairs. I knew that it was a walk up. I'd forgotten it was on the 6th floor and that I would have my suitcase. Well now, up I go.





Nearly at the top. What's this? The stairs are narrower now. The apartment is in the attic -- yes, I knew that. The photos showed a sloping roof. Alright. Here's a door. A small door. I'm to meet the owner's assistant inside. No doorbell. I knock. Nothing. I check my watch. The train was on time and I estimated well enough. It's 2:30. We were to meet at 2:30. I wait. Nothing happens.

Airbnb has a great policy: you pay up front, the full amount, but the organization holds on to your money until you've had 24 hours in the rental. In that time, if something is not as it should be, you can contact them and they will withhold payment to the owner until the issues are resolved.

I'm thinking -- this is a scam. Someone has figured out how to put fake photos and fake reviews on the site. But no -- I do have access codes.

It felt like I was waiting for a very long time. In reality, it's no more than ten minutes before I hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It's Patrick. With apologies. And since Patrick really does look like a French speaking George Clooney only with a scarf, I am very forgiving.

He tells me he lives downstairs, on the second floor, but his maid usually opens and shows the apartment. She just had a baby and so he dashed from his office to take her place.

I am very relieved.

We step inside and it is a beautiful studio-like apartment! I mean, really stunning! Not large by any means, but possibly five times the size of my little hotel room.










As he shows me how to work the lights, the heat, etc, we hear an unnerving high pitched squeal. He's puzzled. He checks the appliances. No, not that. He shuts down the electricity and restarts everything. Not that either. We open windows to see if the noise is from the outside. It isn't. I can see that he is without any idea. We try to focus on where it's coming from. It's a hot/cold guessing game, but finally we are in the small kitchen area.
Here. It's somewhere here, he says. He's standing right next to my suitcase.

Oh shit! It's my alarm clock: some jiggle set it off.
I unpack it apologizing profusely. Patrick is kind and forgiving and I'm sure much relieved that he did not call plumbers, engineers, etc. to search out the source of the disturbance.

We chat a little about things that are taking place in Paris right now and after telling me that my French is perfect and my timing is sublime and a bunch of other things that I'm sure George Clooney would never think to say, he takes off for work and I am left to examine my new surroundings.

But not for long. Let me catch those last rays of sun now. Ah the sun...

I'm remembering how difficult it always is to pick a place to visit in Europe in December. If you mind the cold, well then -- stay south. Unless you mind the wind. Because then you would steer clear of France. Maybe go southeast? Sicily? Greece? Good chance of rain there!

For me, it was a given that I should pick France. Even though I wasn't sure yet if I would be retiring, this is the trip that I really treasure -- the one that comes at the end of a hard semester and just before the holidays are fully upon us. The south was almost certainly going to be sunny. But Paris? That's iffy. You tell yourself bravely that Paris is Paris and the weather really does not matter all that much.

For the most part, that's true. But I have to say -- I don't think I have ever been so lucky here in December. A string of warm and sunny days in Marseille and now a string of not too cold and very sunny days in Paris.



 (people are still eating outside, but unlike in Marseille, the outdoor heaters are on)


I catch the last golden tones of the sun as I walk past St Sulpice. Oh, there's that same moon that chased me around in Marseille!






My walk is conventional. It's nearly always the same on my first day here. I canvas the neighborhood, from one end to the next.

It's dark now and I continue walking. I am really susrprised how bike sharing just keeps growing and growing here!





It all seems crazily dangerous, but somehow, it does not surprise me that Parisians should take to the streets in this way. Parisians manifest a certain amount of bravado that comes with knowing you live in a place that is nearly universally acknowledged as insanely beautiful.





A few hours of strolling and some light holiday shopping and now it is nearly 7 and I make my way to Le Timbre, for an incredibly early dinner reservation there.


 


I found this place on my last visit here and loved it to death and so here I am again, ordering wild mushrooms (why don't we eat more wild mushrooms back home? They're so good and surely we have bigger better forests than the French do!), and duck with endive and chestnuts (taste-wise, chestnuts add only a mild flavor, but their crunch against the braised endive is sublime!) and a poached pear in a spiced honey sauce (which is so perfect that you want to take it home and have it again and again -- for breakfast, lunch and dinner).















I watch as people come in to fill the tiny eatery. Pairs, of course. Foursomes. Another single woman. Many order the same things I do. Maybe this is the season to eat duck with chestnuts, or wild mushrooms. I ask the chef (who cooks just on the other side of the counter) if wild mushrooms are a year round thing in France.
No, it's the end of the season for these (chantrelles -- orange and gray, trumpets -- served in a meat jus).
Ah, so we're savoring what little remains.

Savoring foods. Yes, everyone is doing just that. Come to think of it, have I ever seen a French person grimace or complain about a meal? Or send back something imperfectly prepared? Back home, we're always so dissatisfied! Too rare, too well done, too this too that -- something about life leads us to complain constantly about how imperfect it all is.

I leave my dinner and I have no complaints.

At night, those clear skies produce a dip in the temperature. It must be near freezing now and for once I'm glad I packed a scarf. I pull it tightly around my neck and make my way past the Jardins Luxembourg and through the heart of the 6th to my attic apartment in Paris.