from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne, and Paris, and finally, Madison

So what will I remember most, now that I am heading home? Oh, the two little girls, of course!





…and their parents, Olivier and Aurore.




…and the music notes coming from the house. A trill of oboe notes. That would be Olivier. And piano… is it the older girl? Yes, yes, and don’t forget the paintings and the pictures and the chirpy voices calling out hello!

They bring me cards with ponies painted on them and sweet, sweet messages for me to take home. I open the refrigerator. It’s all that I have to offer. Don’t forget to take some cherries and strawberries! The youngest has an insatiable appetite for both. A fistful of red fruits, a wave, and a bientot! And joyfully, that bientot happens quickly, because they are back again and I see their smiles and the day is made fine by them.

Aurore and Olivier, you have such fine daughters!


And then there is Paris.

It is my last day and I choke when I think about it. The city where no number of days suffices. Here, see this and this and this! Take a look! And stop a while! Take a minute to just sip une noisette or a café crème -- because that one takes longer. Share a breakfast pain au chocolat with someone from the neighborhood and watch the sun pour honey rose colors on the buildings around the Place des Vosges, the oldest of the Parisian squares.









I gave east Paris my last day. The walk was one that I have taken dozens of times and each time I like it immensely: from Bastille, through the Marais (with some museum stops, but gentle ones – nothing hurried), windowshopping, oh, all right – one little something purchased here – but so many things passed over, can’t spend, can’t spend.













Yes, but the colors! Rose colors, rosé colors!

And there they are again, the roses of Paris, there in the garden of the Museum of old Paris, and in the garden of the Picasso Museum? No not there. Just art. Just art! Let me take a pause.









Then, through the old neighborhood, on to the Centre Georges Pompidou, where everything is lumped into one scene -- the old, the very old, the new, the art, the French, the public spaces...













And now, close to Les Halles, looking into all those restaurant stores in the back streets (Nina, you must stop saying Les-alles, there is no s sound before an “h”!)… (“they will restore Les Halles again, Paris will reclaim its arcades!”) and then I cannot stand it – ten days of not setting foot in a restaurant and now I break my rule because I want to sit at a sunny table and eat something, just an omlette nature, with salad and a rosé, not more, but ohhhhhh, is it good!







Finally. I cross the Seine on the buffed up Pont Neuf to my Paris, the Paris of Luxembourg Gardens and the Odeon. It feels odd to walk through it without it being home; the bakeries, the markets – they’re not mine this time, I am a visitor. I have a different neighborhood that’s home – it’s by the River Marne and it is beautiful! But I remember you – you are my classic Paris, the Paris to which I always, sooner or later, return.





I have a few small errands and then I know I must wind down. I know, I know, it’s my final walk and my steps are as they always are – up past the tip of the Gardens, waving to the boy with the flute, down to the RER and off, not toward the airport, not just yet, but to Champigny, for one last night by the River Marne.

Epilogue:

I am at the airport now, missing my own not-so-little daughters, happy to be seeing my family soon, Ed imminently, happy to be home.

But I close my eyes and think back… she comes in running. Her sister is on the doorstep too, smiling. Hello! Hello! And Olivier is asking – how was your day in Paris? Aurore is pouring tea… Misty eyed scene of Paris, the other Paris, the one of another family and the pleasure of sharing the everyday.

A bientot, for sure.

[If you want to stay in the coach house, or recommend it to a friend, look for it at here (it’s no. 00142), but please, only give the address to good people, okay?]

from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne

I’m traveling today. As always, it’s a long trip. Tomorrow, I’ll roll back to my last day in Paris. I’m jotting things down now, but you’ll have to wait until Friday to see it posted.

A bientot.

from somewhere in Champagne, not far from the River Marne

I tell Aurore and Olivier that I’m thinking of heading out to the Champagne region.

We have a friend who is a grower and producer! She has a very small champagne house but she makes excellent champagne!

Is it that my own friendship pool is unusually limited, or is that the French, by continuously (and with great care!) developing and expanding their social networks, all end up with a rich and varied pool of friends? I think about the academics and lawyers who have populated my social circles back home. Ed (et al.) blissfully expanded my range. Still, it seems that in the States, professional people mix along professional lines (or spouse’s professional lines). Here, it’s wonderfully more complicated.

Olivier finds a cheap rental car for me and I am set to go. I love the little red mini. And the fact that I am a speeding commercial for the sweetest rental agency in town. Monsieur Jean Christophe really tries hard. Avis should take lessons.





You’ve read, maybe, that the Champagne region could be slightly "adjusted" in the years ahead. That is, more growers may be included in the terroir. A godsend to some, I’m sure. Overnight, your land value rises ten fold or more. The world craves champagne. I understand. These fields of grain, bordering on the vineyards, may tomorrow yield your best bottle of champagne.






For now – there are almost 15,000 growers, serving slightly more than 100 champagne houses. Some sell to a cooperative, some affiliate with the large priducers. Madame Baillette, of the Jean Baillette-Prudhomme champagne house, does it all herself. For this, her bottles are adorned with the special symbol (vigneron independant), which is both to the point and heartbreaking: because doing it yourself is so hard!





A handful of years ago, the champagne house was run by her husband. But, quite suddenly he became ill and in three months she was alone. With her two daughters. And thankfully, with a hard earned degree and certification in champagne production.


I drive to Reims first. I’ve been to Reims before. A week after September 11th 2001. It boggles the mind how much has transpired since then. But let me concentrate here on the stable, the enduring.

Reims. Is it the champagne capital of the world, or is it the place with magnificent cathedral? Assume both for now (though I think champagne has somewhat taken over this place, turning into a rather upscale town. It’s only fitting). Let me post at least one or two views of the cathedral. And do apprciate how perfectly the tree covers the immense scaffolding that you would otherwise see.













But my pause in Reims is brief. I want to spend time in the vineyard and if I want to stay with the super low rental price, I need to return the car by 6:30.

I know, I have been away for over a month, moving around France, and it has taken me this long to get close to vines and cellars! But I am here now, and it feels magnificent to be lost in rows of... grapes. I didn’t have much time and so photos are limited, but do put yourself there, in the gentle hills of Champagne for a moment…













It's quiet here. Workers move stealthily between vines. Occasionally a piece of equipment will roll by. Most often I haven't a clue what its purpose may be.










At 2:30, I come to the little village of Trois-Puits. Madame Baillette is in a small turmoil. Tomorrow she is starting the removal of yeast sediment in her bottles of champagne and in two weeks she is leaving for New York to visit her daughter (who is doing an internship there, having to do with wine export). For how long? I ask. Forever! I am not coming back! And then she laughs. I love my work with a passion. But there is a lot to do just now.






We go on a hike through her network of caves. Fourteen meters underground, she tells, me. Always 10 degrees C. Humid.





Madame picks up a bottle and eyes the sediment. Perfect, she says. It looks sort of the same as all others to me, but when faced with the damp smell of fermenting champagne, with cases and cases of turned bottles waiting, for three years waiting, my senses get a little woozy at the enormity of it all.





I taste the brut and the brut rose and of course, I am going to purchase these gems and not worry about carrying them back. I’ll figure that part out later. For now, as I munch on an exquisite Reims chocolate that she offers me, I am on a sensory overload and reason has left me, somewhere in the humid cool 100plus year old caves.






There is a photo in Madame’s office where her husband is laughing next to her, with his arm loosely draped around her shoulders. She mentions him now and I haven’t the French words to express my sadness for her loss. She gives a slight shake of her shoulder. That’s life, isn’t it? The champagne house has been in the family for six generations. She is continuing, now alone, a beautiful tradition.










I have spent the better part of the afternoon with her and now I have to hurry to return the car. Tell Olivier and Aurore that I haven’t seen them for a long time! I pick up four boxes of champagne for the two of them and one for myself and head home.

But not for long. I realize that I left my notebook at the champagne house. I am forced to turn around. And now I have only 90 minutes before Monsieur Jean Christophe is closing his Rent-a-Car shop. 130 speed limit serves me well. I am on the outskirts of Paris in... no time.

It is natural that I should then get lost. Of course. I weave around these neighborhoods that are in and around the River Marne and I cannot find my way back.

And then, really, as if on cue, magically I pull up to the Boulevard Strasbourg and he is there, just leaving and I pound on the horn and wave my hand and he smiles. Monsieur Jean Christophe shouts back -- Don’t worry, I’ll wait. Just going to watch the soccer game, that’s all.

Madame Baillette told me how much her daughter liked Americans. So friendly! Madame says. In Paris, we were asking about parking and we nearly had our heads chewed off.

I’m waiting for my bad encounter here still. I’m waiting to get my head chewed off. As I stand at the corner of Boulevard Strasbourg in Nogent sur Marne, waiting for Olivier to pick me up in his car, I’m thinking how many people went way out of their way just today today to be helpful and kind to me. And with a great big smile. I’ll drink my first sip of champagne back home to all of them.


I pick up a quiche at the local bakery for supper. It’s the end of the day. Madame, the baker throws in an extra baguette for me to take home.

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.