a day in Paris

That Sunshine

On the front page of the New York Times, there is a photo of haze muting the contours of the Eiffel Tour. The heat wave has heightened pollution levels in Paris. The city, alarmed that it is now anything less than perfect, tells its residents to leave work early and use public transportation. It has announced three days of free metros and buses!

Too bad I so much prefer to walk.

And, too, let's put things in perspective. I did not notice the pollution problem until I read the NYTimes. And I swear they added a photo that was shot into the sun for dramatic effect. Compare it to mine, taken when the sun had veered to the west. Suddenly, the blue in the sky is visible again. Oh, you journalists! You do like to add drama to the story!






But, it is true that the air is warm and (unlike in Brittany) calm and in this low lying city, this means that whatever we put out there is going to remain trapped and so Paris reacts. And maybe the traffic is lessened and maybe everything is moving more slowly (a mandatory slow down is imposed), but to me, there are mad streets and then quiet streets in Paris and the mad streets still seem in that same perpetual form of distemper, while the quiet ones are so quiet that you can hear a heel click on the sidewalk if you're listening for it. (Ed always marveled how in Paris you can hear that click, having himself been raised in New York, where you could never hear the click of anything, no matter how exceptional your hearing.)






Sweet Things

I feel about pastries in Paris much as Polish people must feel about the spoils of the newly nascent capitalism: they can't really afford most of it, but they're glad it's there to tempt them.

When I first took my girls to Paris, I loaded myself with books on the culinary treasures of the city and on our first walk, I hustled them not to the Louvre, but to the then reputed temple of baked sweet things and we bought pastries and ate them on a street bench outside.

I've stopped buying pastries some years back. Oh, I'll have a tart or some small thing at a cafe occasionally and if the dinner comes with dessert, I'm happy for it, but I don't seek out the pastry stores and I would not enjoy a pastry now as much as I did then, so what's the point.

And yet I'm sure glad it's all there. Each time I'm in Paris I pick out my favorite cake and on this trip I have one as well - a divine pistachio macoron base loaded with red fruits that will ooze juices as you bite into a piece. Yes, were I having guests for dinner tonight, I would buy this:






Sunday Dinner

Guests for dinner... Soon I will return to my Sunday meals with family, but I'm not going home yet, even though I have no more Sundays left in France. On Saturday morning, two hours before the Parisian dawn, I will leave for the airport to catch a flight back to Poland.

But in a small way, I do have a Sunday in Paris because for my last dinner in this city, I go to a bakery that has a restaurant appended to it (or is it the other way around?) and it is called, of all things, Dimanche a Paris. Sunday in Paris.

It is, for my pocket book, expensive. Still two figures (total cost), but really getting up there.

If you're a student of food (and I have been that, nearly all my life), it's no good to go to restaurants you can't really afford. You're too keen at deconstructing the meal in ways you would never do at a less expensive place. Yesterday's dinner was cheap by Paris standards and I was, therefore, generously inclined in my reflections on it. At Dimanche a Paris I was a harsh critic. I minded that the entire three course thing was put before me so quickly that I was out of there in 55 minutes. I minded that there were only six shrimp for the main course and that they were dry at the edges. And I minded that the dessert wasn't spectacular. The listed flavors were phenomenal, but they were mostly lost in the execution. Here it is -- you'll note that it hasn't great visual appeal either.





Still, I would have to admit that it was a good dinner, a very good dinner and if I let loose ten extra Euros from my pocket -- so be it. Sometimes it's good to reach into your purse for that spoil of capitalism, only to satisfy yourself that you don't really care that you don't have such stuff on a daily basis.



Breakfast at Les Editeurs

I try to find alternatives to this old stalwart, but honestly -- it remains my favorite place for a relaxed breakfast of pain au chocolat and cafe creme. (I skip the pricy juice and buy an orange at the market instead.)

The people watching here is great...




(a guy and two women)


...but more importantly, the chairs inside are comfortable and there's room to bring your laptop if you want to finish a post (even though they don't have WiFi: a smart move; you'd never get people to leave otherwise).


 


And as I said, the baked goods are yummy.






Jardin du Luxembourg

How can I not have a paragraph or two on this beauty, this exquisite piece of real estate -- my most favorite spot in the most beautiful of cities?

Since I read for the first time the sunny forecast for my days in Paris, I've wanted to do this and today was the chosen day, my last day, ending a stream of great days and now giving me a chance to have it all: terrific lunch food, spread before me on a garden chair facing the sun, maybe before a yellow primrose garden, maybe among the budding chestnuts.



(young women, in love with life, and with lunch in the park)


I go to Gerard Mulot -- it's my neighborhood's bakery of choice. They warm up a small quiche (say chicken and veggie) and throw in an endive and cheese salad and then you can select your favorite macarons and you're set. I take the whole bundle and walk over o the gardens.




(passed over: not tempting anyone today)





(so many flower shops! I like this one)



And now I am one of the many, many who have come to eat at the Jardin du Luxembourg: hungry for lunch, hungry for spring! Yes, there's a chair facing the primroses!  I eat the most glorious meal of all and after, I close my eyes and listen to the crunch of footsteps behind me. No, not on snow, on pebbles.







It is probably the most blissful moment of this Parisian visit.













Sights and Sounds


So, is there a strike in France at the moment? Maybe. I come across a huge demonstration today:






I can tell they're dentists. But what's the issue? Why the sign that tells me that health cannot be bought with money? (The French are such idealists!)

A demonstrator explains it to me: it used to be that you worked hard, got accepted into dental school (there are six public ones in France) and you got your degree. Now, it seems that a private school has opened up and all you need to get in is 10,000 Euro. Talent not required. And the accredited dentists and students of the traditional schools are mad.

A vendor follows along with plastic whistles for sale. He must have a list of demonstrations each day and he takes his business where they're looking to make noise. The streets of Paris are filled with dentists whistling today.


I walk on. I'm on the Left Bank today and I am doing the big promenade, from one end to the other. Meaning I'm heading toward the Eiffel Tower. It's always a lovely walk because you can keep to streets that are entirely quiet. And it takes you past the market on Rue Cler...











...and there are glimpses of the Tower throughout...







...and if you're not in a hurry, you can pause for a coffee and finish up the last of your macarons...






...and then, of course, you are rewarded with the Tower itself. Which I showed you at the beginning of this post.

On a day like this, there'll be plenty of children in the green spaces and play areas, including these three, who almost remind me of the three little monkeys who speak no evil, hear no evil...






And if you're ho hum about the Tower, you can ooh and ah at the blossoms that frame it...






In fact, spring blossoms make every structure, building, church, even the most austere church, look radiant and beaming.







And so ends my big walk, my best walk on this last of the string of sunny days.



Le Couche de Soleil


It's a nice expression, isn't it? Couche de Soleil. The setting of the sun. Coucher means, too, to put to bed, to lay to sleep, so you can imagine it as a sort of lullaby to the sun.

I know where I want to witness the setting of the sun on this last day in Paris -- in the Gardens, of course. It's tricky, because the sun sets at 6:40 and the Jardin du Luxembourg closes at 6:30 and, too, when the French close something at an hour, they get everything set to shut down exactly then.

So I come fifteen minutes earlier. And already M. Gendarme at the gate shakes his head and tells me no. The park is closing.
Oh, but I just need one picture!
He softens.

And now the golden colors of the day culminate in a golden sky and the sun's disc reflects in the pool where on Sunday children will sail their little boats and even though there is an attempt to get everyone out -- after all, it's 6:25 already! out! -- and still they find it hard to budge because when the day is this beautiful, you don't want to let go.






Alright. M. Gendarme did me a favor so let me be gracious and leave. I can take my last garden shot from the outside, looking in among the chestnuts.






And now it's nearly dark and the activity picks up at the bars that hug the Place de la Sorbonne.





I do not pause. I have a dinner to eat, a suitcase to pack and an early flight to catch.

Thursday the 13th and sunshine

A stormy sky
A plain in nature
it will be forever impossible not to refer to Van Gogh.

I start with a quote (from Antonin Artaud) that gave me pause today. When do we see in art something that will forever come back to haunt us in the future? It's rare. But it happens.

Now, let me backtrack to the beginning. Breakfast was late. 11 is late. But it was in the Jardin de Luxembourg. Face turned toward the sun.






It will not be the only time where the sun determines where I eat, but this interlude was certainly a good set of minutes. And as a bonus, the croissant was good.





And now let me tell you the contours of the day and then you can tune out if you want, without losing the gist of the ongoing Ocean story. Or you can read on. For the details. Those wonderful for me details that give me hope in what it means to face happiness.

So, the eight sentence summary: I walked Paris for many many many hours. I visited two museums and one gallery and I loved just one of the three. I ate a mediocre lunch because of that darn sun. My walk took me to good places, but also areas of Paris that I don't especially like which does give me balance. Dinner was very very good, but I wont remember it tomorrow. The price was excellent because I make reservations through lafourchette.com and if you speak any French whatsoever, I so strongly recommend this site - it's somewhere between Zagat and Tripadvisor, but in French, but more importantly, restaurants often offer huge promotions to fill a night. My dinner was 20% cheaper than anyone ordering just as a walk-in. I sat next to a Russian couple and I was really tempted to ask them what's with their leader at the moment, but I refrained.

Okay, now for those who don't mind detail. Or who like photos from Paris.

Remember -- my starting point is the Luxembourg Gardens. And it's 11:30 when I get up and get moving.



(note the other tower in the distance)


I turn toward the Right Bank. I have in mind a couple of photo galleries and possibly a museum, but I'm not firm on anything. Like my friends who walked Paris for a month just a while back, I do not feel compelled to see or do anything anywhere.

And very quickly, before I even leave the Sorbonne area,  I come across a surprise. I have passed this spot so many times and I never looked closer. True, most often I am in Paris in the dormant season, but still, it is with tremendous delight that I find the Medieval Gardens, just off of the Boulevards St Michel and St Germain. They're not in full bloom yet, but look what is flowering in Paris right now! On the 13th of March!






I love irises so much and if nothing else happens today, I will still be happy to have seen this set of deep blue petals on a firm green stalk. Van Gogh painted them when he was institutionalized in Saint Remy de Provence. If you are ever at the Getty Museum in LA, you will find his irises there.

And to the edge of the gardens, I come across this:






Breathe deeply -- spring is definitely here!

I continue. I ignore Notre Dame and the Isle St Louis. You've seen them here most every time Ocean takes you to Paris. But I do like the tall trees that line the northern edge of the island so I'll give you this much:






And now I am on the right bank, at the edge of the Marais district (my hands down favorite on this side of the river: it's quiet and offers not a few surprises)...











....and I am in search of a gallery -- La Maison Europeenne de la Photographie. This one is no small deal. You have to be somebody really up there to be included in an exhibit. This is the last week of the work of David Lynch (yes, the film director, known for The Elephant Man; not memorable as a photographer in my book -- in fact, enough disconcerting in a violent sort of way that I would love to forget all of it) and Joan Fontcuberta. Let's concentrate on Joan (which you may remember is "John" in Catalan).

Fontcuberta's grouping of photos (and accompanying art) allows you to see the manipulative possibilities of art. It's a powerful exhibition, even as after one room (for example this one, on the presentation of Sputnik successes to the people)...











...you're already disturbed and so you're ready to move on. Or at least I am. Others are slightly more reflective about it all.






Now I'm in the sun again. And I walk a little toward the Place des Voges and it is 1:30 and I am hungry. Now, I'm standing at an intersection. On one side of the street there is a cafe where I once ate an excellent omelet. On the other side there is a bustling place that I know not at all. But it is bathed in sunshine!

It very much reminds me of being on St Marks Square in Venice: there are two cafes, on the two opposite sides of the Square. In the summer, people fill the tables in the shade and the sunny ones stand empty. Business depends entirely on the position of the sun. (In the colder season, the positioning is, of course, the opposite.)

Would you pick quality food or an unknown sunny spot? I chose the latter.






And the omelet was just okay and their idea of a glass of rose wine was such that for the first time probably in my life, I found myself not finishing a glass of good rose (too big!).

And now comes the tedious part of the walk. One last pause in the quiet oasis of the National Archives, where maybe some come for the Archives...


 



...but I don't. The gardens are lovely here!






Okay. Onwards with the rough part of the walk. It's my fault. I wanted to avoid the blocks around the Pompidou and les Halles. I've complained about the streets surrounding these two mammoth projects in Paris, especially now, during the years of construction here. It's chaotic and noisy and it leaves a person with farmette sensibilities reeling and tired. So I go further north (because I have a goal -- a Right Bank museum, all the way on the other side of the city).

And as I walk further from the center, I am reminded how Paris changes so quickly once you leave districts 1, 4, or 8 on the Right Bank, or 5, 6, or 7 on the Left. Walk a little beyond and it becomes harsh. People are stoic rather than content. Of course, our own cities are like that. All of them -- Chicago, L.A., Miami -- walk away from the well heeled neighborhoods and you're in troubled land. But then, we're known for being top of the top in terms of inequality! It's America! You expect this in our country. France is supposed to be more compressed toward the middle. Yes, we read about the harsh reality for immigrant populations living in the suburbs, but Parisian stratification is evident right here, in the swing of things. And so when I walk the wider circle of her arondissiments, I always feel a little let down.

It's a good reminder to keep things in perspective here. I love Paris more than any other city, but I don't think it is without its issues.

And now I hit the real tumult -- the row of department stores in back of the Opera. I truly dislike this area and never ever come here, but so long as I am passing through I take a deep breath and plunge inside because let's face it, the stores are excellent and I do have a short birthday list in hand. At least I am successful. It would be miserable to spin through and come up with nothing at all.

And now I am on the final stretch, walking along the Haussmann Boulevard all the way to the Musee Jacquemart-Andre. Some of you will say -- oh! you made it there! I love that place! I can see why people like it. But it's so not my thing. It's a beautiful display of a private collection and it has some Boticellis and a Rembrandt, though I seemed to have missed that one. Had I come tomorrow, I could have seen a whole display of Watteau. But I didn't come tomorrow, I came on the 13th -- the day before, and frankly, it doesn't matter. I'm not a huge fan of these sumptuously decorated palatial rooms. I may be the only one on the planet who can run through Versailles in five minutes and feel I have had enough.

I offer you views of a younger set of visitors who seem to be enjoying themselves here:











And now my goal is just to cross the river and be done with the Right Bank. Not so soon. I still have to cut through the affluent blocks...



(she's feeding her poochie)


...and cross the Champs Elysees...







...not too far now. I can see the Tower and it gives me hope.






And now I am on the bridge and along the Left Bank, where the promenade is wide and the colors in the evening light -- quite lovely.




(the moon shines brightly...)





(another bicycle)





(the bridges of Paris)





(French? don't know.)



But there is one more stop. I had thought that I was done with museums. But I came across an ad for a special exhibition that just began yesterday (yes, mid March is the time of changing exhibitions!). And I am passing right by it -- it's at the Musee d'Orsay and it happens to be Thursday so that even though it's evening, the museum will be open still.





And so I go inside.


(No photos allowed inside these days, but here's one looking out of that clock you see above. Do you detect the Sacre Coeur?)






Let me tell you the name of the special exhibition: VanGogh - Artaud: Le Suicide de la Societe. They translate it as "Suicided by Society."

Dozens of paintings by Van Gogh have been brought together and they are organized around the idea of his madness, as reflected upon by Antonin Artaud -- an author, an artist, himself subjected to electroconvulsive therapies in the mid twentieth century, and, too, institutionalized for madness.

The paintings are along themes -- of self portraiture, of tranquility, of stormy light.

It is so well done, so disquieting, so beautiful that despite my tiredness (I have been walking since morning), despite my fill of galleries and museums, I am moved to tears.

It could be that a stormy sky threatening a bucolic field will never look the same to me again.




I'm spent, but in a good way, I think. Not just rosy colors today. But the sun stayed with me until the end.



 



And dinner at the Petits Medicis was, as I told you, fine: duck breast, very nicely sauced.






Walking back to my hotel, I came across this:





I remember you! It was Friday the 13th, in December! So, you're a frequent player here, at a Luxembourg cafe? Well alright then! I'll see you around, pal.