Paris right

If I never spend another “last Saturday before Christmas” in Paris stores, I’ll be okay. More than that – I’ll be delighted.

Who knew that to Parisians, this day is like Black Friday, December 23rd, last day before all stores close down everywhere and forever – all rolled into one. Whereas yesterday I may have written – gosh, Parisians aren’t that into shopping, today I’d have to cross that one out. They’re just into last minute shopping.

And maybe it’s the weather. It was to rain on and off, but really, for the vast bulk of daylight hours, it was lovely. My friends were having a light day and so I set out on my own, on a path that is so pathetically familiar and repetitive that even minor adjustments and detours can’t take away the feeling that when in Paris, I really am a very boring person.

So follow along, if you wish. I’m concentrating on the right bank today. Only half of it – forget l’Etoile, Champs Elysees, Louvre -- all those right bank standards. Move over to Bastille and the Marais. But not just yet.

First, the morning stroll past high school students who, unfortunately, being French, have school on Saturdays.





Sorry, guys. I feel for you. Just remember, you have free Wednesdays. And you can look forward to long vacations eventually when you work. (At breakfast, the waitress grumbled that the hotel only gives her 30 vacation days per year.) So, off you go. The bell is ringing. Throw down your cigarettes and turn off your incessant friendly chatter. You’re already too good at it.


I cross the river to get closer to Notre Dame. If it’s Christmas (season) and if I’m even mildly going along with the traditions of this holiday, then surely I ought to pay my dues here. It's lovely in the morning light.





Alright. Cross over to Ile St Louis, where it’s quiet on a Saturday morning. You get the feeling that people are only now emerging. Doing their morning routines...





Picking a nice scarf for that walk with the pooch. You never know who might see you.





Cross the river on the other side of the island and I am in the Bastille – Marais neighborhood.





Christmas trees for sale everywhere. What I like about the French trees is that they’re sold in stands. Natural ones, made of timber logs. You don’t have to put the darn thing up. It’s already up. But it can be heavy, so you may want to use your shopping cart to roll it home.





Place des Vosges. My kids used to ask – mom, why do we always go to Place des Vosges when we’re in this city? Easy answer: because I like it.





These days, the walk from it, back toward the center of town is quite different. The streets have gone the way of gentrification and it’s one of the nicer shopping areas in Paris. Except, of course, on this Saturday. When it’s crowded.  Still, there's plenty to admire. Some window displays, yes that. Here's a brasserie that's done up for the holidays (though the woman with the white poodle seems indifferent to it all.)





And Zadig and Voltaire -- a quite nice clothing chain -- is pushing penguins, which, I suppose, can stay in place well beyond the holidays. Efficient and cool.





I go in one shop -- Maje -- and note that they're focusing on bright orange in their clothing selections. Here's a salesclerk, a mannequin, oh, and me there in the mirror.






I take a pause from the craziness of stores. Inside the courtyard of one of the museums  (of old books) there's an area where you can take a restful moment.





Back to the tumult. And still, it's really all so lovely and the people seem delightfully energized. (Or maybe they're all on a sugar high. Incapable of resisting the seasonal delicacies. These modern yule logs are drop dead gorgeous.)






Eventually I reach the Centre Georges Pompidou. Here’s your basic photo of the open space before it.





I'm just passing through. On my way to Les Halles -- or rather the blocks to the north where you'll find the best stores with cooking supplies. (Perhaps you know that this whole space is under construction now. You can expect a beautifully designed new Les Halles here in a few years. Here's a dad explaining it all to his kid.)


 


Insanely crowded today. I don't bother with my camera. Just one photo. Of soup ladles. They're pretty soup ladles. Shiny and bright.





Okay. Out and weaving my way through the neighborhood to get back to the river. It feels almost warm now, in the high afternoon. Almost.










As I pause, deciding on which bridge to take, I notice the clouds. The stuff of yesterday. Yep, there'll be rain.





I'm in my neighborhood now. People are partial to their neighborhoods in this city. I surely am. In fact, keep your fancy pastry stores and perfect yule logs. I love this place just two blocks away from my hotel. And if I were to eat anything from it, it would be this cake. Fraise de bois (wild strawberries, for lack of a better translation) and me go back a long way. To the days in the Polish village where my grandma picked and served them with honey for dessert.





It's late afternoon. The rain does indeed come down. I'm tired, cold and hungry (not in that order). I pause at a tapas bar. Why? Because it's there. I order a snack of grilled prawns with a glass of wine (even though the place is called "Jambon Jambon," which translates into "ham").





The streets are wet now. A question that I mull over in my mind: how is it that the French manage to stay upright and avoid crashing into each other? Even when streets and sidewalks are wet, they scoot around on their bikes and motorbikes with reckless abandon. Rosie would be delighted -- she'd be among her own! And I haven't seen a crash yet. I think it's because they start practicing early. Kids routinely go shopping with maman taking their scooters along. It's amazing how good they are at zipping along on crowded sidewalks!





I have a quick errand at the department store. There. Done now. Out again, among the heavy traffic of pre-holiday shoppers.






And finally, I'm back in my own neighborhood. My friends and I are heading out to supper. I'm returning to a place that actually is an Ed discovery. Weird, I know. It's behind the oyster stand on Rue de Buci.


 


The Bar-Brasserie is called L'Atlas. Good, solidly French, very unpretentious. The star on the menu is, of course, the fresh Brittany oyster.





But there's more going for L'Atlas. It's a lively place with a stellar waitstaff and a wonderful casual air to it.





And the rest of the food is nothing to sneeze at either. A good steak frites, a wonderful creme caramel...






...all good. And still, what I have to admire, perhaps over and beyond the food, is the camaraderie -- the stuff that brings people together over the dinner table. Here, this small group has had an evening of pleasure being in each others company. You can see it in their faces, in the relaxed slouch, in the appreciative laugh.





Perhaps it's infectious because our own table is much the same. Shared humor, stories told and retold in the comfortable manner that you can have after sitting down to many meals together. It's been a wonderful run of shared meals. One more on Sunday. Just one more and then we return to our separate homes across the ocean.

Paris left

Crisscrossing the Left Bank of Paris takes some hours. Crisscrossing it twice in one day takes a love of urban crawling. I have that love. Give me the countryside to live in, give me Paris for a day of sauntering at a good and lively pace.

That’s what I’ll post for you on this day – the left bank, back and forth – then, increasing the orbit further, back and forth once more. There were intermittent clouds and cloudbursts and, in the late afternoon there were strong gusts of wind, but feeling happy and rather carefree, I could not be bothered to notice or mind.

So, here we go, round number one (this one with Diane and Ernest):


We start with Diane, photographing the bulldogs at one of my favorite chain clothing stores, Maje:






Ernest is curious about men's hats at Hermé. I'm taken in by the flowers there:






We dry off from the rain at the Bon Marché (department store). I'm not in the buying mode today, but I do like my little bottle of juice at the cafeteria. Here, even the casual looks well put together.






I do love the clever perfume ads in this store. Like this one:






We leave the store. It has stopped raining for a bit, but I'm itching for a solid Parisian lunch. Is it coincidence that I am often ready for it when I walk the Rue du Bac? Where you'll find the ever bustling, ever full of friendly and oh so professional waiters Café Varenne? Here's one, dashing out across the street to the bakery, to restock the supply of baguettes.






Let me put up a photos of my friends at lunch. (Just for my own log, I'll note that I ate a plate of lentils with a poached egg and I ordered what I thought was a small, quarter carafe of rosé but turned out to be a demi -- way too much for lunch, but I suffered through and had a goodly portion of it. Thank God for strong noisette espressos!)






I say goodbye to my friends who are wanting a speedier return to the hotel and take the long way back -- along the river. Now your attention should switch to the sky. It may give you a hint of the weather for the afternoon. Tumultuous. This is the first time that I have seen waves on the River Seine.






For a while, it looked like it might clear.


 



But no. In fact, the clouds came back with a vengence. And Paris looked beautiful anyway. Stunning, actually.






But really windy. Have I said this enough that you're convinced? What, you need a photo of the wind? That's a tough one. Let's try this:






...and then take one more look at the breathtaking views onto the Pont Neuf. Last year, it was the snow that caught me (and my daughter) by surprise at this bridge. This year -- it's all about the wind.






Alright. I'm back at the hotel. I check up on my friends -- they're taking it easy this afternoon. But I am just so taken in by the drama in the sky that I cannot help myself. Out I go again, with the goal of reaching the Tower, THE Tower, the much photographed but never ever am I tired of it Tower. But it's a long jaunt, so first, a few photos from going there, a tad away from the river this time.

First, into the Luxembourg Gardens, just before they close (16:30 in the winter):






French are to scarves like Wisconsin men are to shorts. It's a three season thing. And they start young.






Speaking of seasons, perhaps I haven't shown enough of Christmas in Paris. In the less commercial neighborhoods, it can be a subtle thing. But every once in a while you'll come across a window that is so lovely and so seasonally well put together that it catches your breath.






The school day in France ends later than back home. On the other hand, there aren't the extracurriculars to keep you from going home. When the final bell rings, all kids head out. This girl left the lycee with the rest, then angled off to one of the side streets.






The sun has, by now, dipped below the horizon. I'm at the Eiffel Tower at last.






No, just one photo wont do. You'll see a handful. I can't help it. It's a camera magnet.






I'm at the river again. there are a few merry-go-rounds and a very ho hum Christmas market. I'm taken in by the sky again.






By the time I reach the Place des Invalides, it's dark. This is my classic view of the Eiffel Tower. It always looks great here, but never more so than at night.






I've neglected the pastries, haven't I...  Sorry. They should be given due respect.






And now I'm back at the hotel. Diane is ready for a short run to a museum. It's 7:30, but the Palace de Luxembourg has a gallery that is open late. And there is (for three months only!) a special exhibition of Cezanne's paintings in and around Paris. You can't take photos at special exhibitions, but from the gift shop cards, you can get an idea of what was inside.






Diane and Ernest aren't quite up for a dinner out, but I am and I go to a new place. For me, anyway. I want bistro food and I see that this one (La Ferrandaise)  got the bistro of the year award in 2006. (The French have this thing about giving awards and rankings and stars and forks and points to their eating establishments, so I suppose if you wait long enough, some recognition will come your way one way or another.)






But wait. Before I go inside, may I show off a Paris street (one hugging the edge of the Luxembourg Gardens) at night after the rain? Maybe my head is too full of Impressionist art, but to me, it looks as dreamy as a canvas from that period.






Alright, a word about dinner: it was superb. Scallop over a carpaccio of beetroot, followed by lamb, cooked for 8 hours (the menu tells me), over braised endive. With Ed on the other side of the ocean, I'm eating meats that I never choose with him across the table. Veal yesterday, lamb today, I can almost hear him wince.

I'm forced to order dessert (how sad) since it's a fixed price meal. There's no question -- I'll take the chestnut soufflé with a dash of Grand Marnier flavor. I almost opt for the profiterol with honey ice cream. Next time.

a pocket of calm

France had itself a windstorm last night, but we flew into Paris just before, in a small pocket of relative calm.





We’re in Paris for the week-end. It’s the pause between old world and the new one. I use it to check my wiring, to recharge my batteries before returning to what will be a hectic exam grading/holiday season.

It goes without saying that it was dark before we stepped out at the RER (train) stop that’s close to our hotel in Paris.

Paris is festive at this time of the year. It’s bouncy and bright and full of reds and golds.





Reds and golds indeed! Before the stores closed we made our way to a lovely little scarf shop where my friends purchased for me the most exquisite scarf...





...and then it was dinner time. Around the corner, at the very simple place that we, in the States would say serves perfect comfort food (Cremerie Polidor). I’m not in need of comfort and I continue to regard this European winter as unusually warm, but it was heavenly to eat raw veggies followed by stewed veal in cream sauce (blanquette de veau). I always think of it as Ed’s place. He likes the rough and tumble setting, the rickety chairs. I like the female staff of waitresses – they’re the same ones each time and they do their job so very well.





And the food is not fussy and the wine is cheap and good and you leave wanting nothing more than to settle in bed in your lovely tiny hotel room with the nice art work, appropriately with umbrellas in it...





... yes, settle down with a good book, except you never get to the book part because sleep is there, mellow and kind and before you know it, it’s morning.





So you think you’ve left Poland behind, that you’ve transitioned, except, of course, you haven’t. I listen to the waitress asking us about our croissants and our cafés and on an impulse I ask – where are you from?
Poland. Near the sea.
Ah, Poland. I know the place well...

Paris in the rain. We’ll have that today.