Paris, continued

Waiting for Rain

Paris weather is so unpredictable. It'll storm, it'll rain, no it wont, maybe it will, tonight, no - tomorrow...

I hadn't packed an umbrella (because back then, "it wont" was pasted all over the weather websites) and so I go to Monoprix to buy a cheap one, not wanting to buy a cheap one at premium prices once the drops start falling.

It is a lot cooler outside. The race toward autumn has begun.


Children

Something usual and unusual about breakfast today. Usual, because it is at Les Editeurs -- a frequent choice for me.





Unusual because I'm actually meeting someone for it -- someone whom I haven't seen for eight years. She was once a law student and she has made that wonderful (and I admit, rare) transition to friend and lo! She and her niece and sister-in-law are in Paris and so am I and suddenly it's so easy to get together for breakfast, even as back in Wisconsin, she lives a world away (Madisonians consider Milwaukee to be a world away).

During this delightful breakfast meal, I watch her ten year old niece and I think back to the time my girls were that age and in Paris. I listen to all the enjoyable things she has been doing and though there are museums in the mix, there are also trips to amusement parks and bike rides and I think -- wow, I should have let my kids loose in such a park way back when they were small. I bought kid books on how a child might look at Paris sights, but they were more likely to have funny sketches of surrealists and existentialists having a grand old time having shouting matches at the Cafe les Deux Magots. They somehow neglected to point out wading pools and climbing structures at the Jardin d'Acclimatation.

Spinning through memories of those trips, I feel slightly better as I recall that we did eat plenty of ice cream and, too, we did go up the Eiffel Tower and if you know me, you'll know that that definitely is not a Nina thing to do. (I hate heights in opens spaces.)

Thinking about my girls, makes me want to hurry out and shop for them: they are at an age where thoughts often run in this direction as spending time with them is rarer and taking trips together is rarer still. (On my way to this certain place for them, I pass a little shop with the perfect sale of the ideal fall teaching skirt and so now my students will see me at least one day teaching in something other than chinos or corduroys.)





At the store where I'm sure I can find something for daughters' gifts, it takes me so long to decide (after they get to a certain age, the words -- who knows what they like  these days-- become more and more real), so very long,  that madame truly must pass to sainthood for not throwing me out, especially after I changed my mind and had her unpack everything and start all over again.

Rain or no rain? Not yet? Okay, let me walk to my favorite lunch cafe (as if ten thousand others couldn't do the job equally well) on rue du Bac to see if it miraculously opened after a summer fermeture.

It has not.

I amble on toward the Eiffel Tower because this is how I do thing here -- I take a point somewhere at the edge of the city and say to myself -- I'm walking in that direction today (at least initially).





(Things passed along the way include a stand with the wonderful chanterelle mushrooms and a cafe that dazzled the eyes. Oh and children -- these two were having fun in the non-rain.)
















On rue Cler, I come across the closing market and I think -- this, too is a good lunch place -- a nicely crowded Cafe Marche, where families linger after a meal that probably ended at least an hour ago.

Here, too, I consider the children. Much has been written about children in restaurants and speculations abound as to why French children know not to have tantrums and fits at these family meals, but since I have the pleasure of glancing at this rather large family for the whole duration of my salad eating (with warm goat cheese in a crepe)...





... I got to see that the dynamics are, in fact, quite complicated. A little brother disturbs the play of his little sister while the older girls (cousins?) are absorbed in their own story. The little sister pouts and you can see that wail forming in her troubled soul. She stomps over to her beloved mother, but the mom will have none of it. This is a restaurant! -- she says this with the same severity as if it were church and the priest was about to deliver something reverent and important. The girl, wanting justice, gets a reprimand instead. She returns to the table and resumes her play. Her brother moves away. The struggle is now to get the attention of the older cousin. (Something of a Renoir moment again, don't you think?)





(Even though French kids really do not do tantrums in restaurants. Maybe the price -- a scowl from beloved mom and no promise of justice -- is too high.)


The Sights 

At the Eiffel Tower,  I stand and gaze appreciatively for two minutes, then turn toward the river...


 


...passing this Cafe, which I actually know of, for the simple reason that I heard that Obama ate there.





Oh, mustn't forget the candy store along the way. Simple but beautiful display of macaroons.





At the river's edge, down below the rush of traffic, I'm impressed all over again with how Paris does life. There are barges with beds of plants and greenery and comfortable deck chairs.  The barges are connected by bridges so that you can walk through them, as if in a garden, pausing for a while...











...or, you can admire the vegetables grown on some...






...or, if you are a kid, you can climb the ramparts...





...or play with your skateboard or swing at a ball, or do push ups on exercise bars. All that, to keep you excited about the outdoors. Even if you're stuck in Paris.

Of course, my eye is toward the sights.





And when I climb up again to rejoin the rush of traffic (which actually is quite tame, as it is the weekend), I'm struck with how incredibly exciting this city is is at all times.










And romantic. (Now who am I reminded of? She's snuggling, he's reading a book. All I need to hear is "okay, gorgeous" in French.)





While Julius Cesar looks on...





Finally, a couple of "this is so French!" photos. First, the pastry of this trip: I've gone from buying my favorite to simply photographing my favorite. It's a longer lasting pleasure! So, the winner from this time around is this:






And then, a "random man on the street" shot: to show you what a Parisian may do when it's still summer, but just slightly on the cool side. (And BTW, this would never play in Madison, Wisconsin.)





Good Fortune

Dinner: tonight I eat at the place that captured my heart several trips ago. If I can get a seat, I will always book it -- it's steps from my hotel and it is bursting with energy (and especially after they've come back from their vacation). So here it is, my fairly new love -- Pouic Pouic.





(Only a brave couple chose to eat outside -- rather than not eat at all. The photo was taken before they sat down.)

There are many many great things about the dinner (the price is one of them), but I'm going to highlight something that I will so try to replicate at home: on their tuna tartare, which itself is esconced in eggplant and who knows what else, there is  scoop of olive oil ice cream. The Best. Period.

For a second course, I had gambas with a lovely sautee of various cabbages...





...and then, for dessert, a most wonderful macaroon around a chantilly cream, with strawberries and a rhubarb coulis.





I leave so very satisfied and walk shaking my head at the incredible good fortune of being here now, this evening, at this moment. (Below -- the block of my hotel. With the view toward the Odeon theater.)




P.S. Thank you to all of you who have written such lovely and generous comments. I am always so sorry that I do not attend to them individually when I travel. They mean a lot to me, but I already spend so much time on the computer that I force myself to get off the minute I put up a post.

to Paris

All roads, for me, eventually lead to Paris. I remember my favorite yoga instructor telling us -- let's meet up in downdog... take a couple of deep breaths there and get your bearings. Paris is my downdog.

I haven't always come here with a heart full of joy. There have been passing through trips, returning from Poland trips, in between life's events trips, trips where I have wanted nothing more than to curl up on the bed in my tiny Parisian room, listen to the footsteps on the sidewalk outside, and go out maybe only across the street for dinner, nothing more.

Paris was my first glance at the big picture. I passed through it when I was 7, leaving the safe haven of Poland to move, for a while, to New York. I liked what I saw then and I liked what I was offered -- the first ever pistachio ice cream cone.

Since Ed came into my life, the entry point to Europe has become mostly Barcelona. Paris is now the place I travel to nearly always alone. And so it should not surprise you that, equipped with a rail ticket and a few days of travel left, I come to Paris.

It was, in the end, mighty hard to get here.

You wouldn't think so: there are so many fast trains running between the south of France and the capital! But, the migration to the north (after les grandes vacancees) has begun and so I had to take the last seat, at a premium price, on the 10:52  out of Nimes to Paris.

But this did leave me with a little bit of time for a pre-breakfast walk in Uzès and it was a nice walk -- out to the periphery of town, where people were just starting to ease into their work routines...






The sun's out, the air is still deliciously warm. Uzès is heading toward a final weekend of dizzying crowds. I see the deliveries have been made to Terroirs. I give a nod and a quiet thank you once more. May they prosper.






My breakfast is at the little patio of my guest house...






...and I rush through it so to catch the 9:05 bus to Nimes.

Goodbye vineyards and garrigue hills of northern Languedoc...






Hello Nimes. My, but we're early! An experienced bus driver this time. Cut the trip to thirty-five minutes. So now I have more than an hour to kill. I push myself (or rather I push my little suitcase) to go further than just the fountain up the incline from the station.

Nimes, too, is waking up. It's a working town -- much quieter, tourist-wise, than Uzès. Like Perpignan, it's the departmental capital (Perpignan is the capital of Pyrenees-Orientales, Nimes is the capital of Gard -- both are departments within Languedoc-Roussillon). So it has a certain seriousness to it that I normally don't associate with the south of France.

But truthfully, I don't really know Nimes at all and my walk through it this morning is rather without direction. I end up at a cafe right next to the amphitheater, taking in a shot of espresso and running through those emails that require a more immediate response.





The train to Paris gives me time to finally do some work. 700 kilometers in three hours, with the view of France out the big picture window.

The last scraps of Languedoc:






And now we're north-central France.






Paris. Finally here! Along with a million returning families...






I come in at the tail end of a heat wave (the next day the rains will wash it all away, they say). It's been a long long time since I've worn a sundress in Paris!

I walk from the Gare de Lyons -- point of arrival...






...across the River Seine...






...to the Gare d'Austerlitz, where I pick up the metro to Odeon and from there it's just a short walk...


 


... to my wee little hotel room...






...which this time has the best view -- right toward the Odeon Theater.






And what do I do on a brilliantly sunny and warm afternoon and evening in Paris? Honestly, first, I lie down on the bed and indulge in the greatness of WiFi at my hotel!

Then? A never ending walk through the city -- one that began decades ago and just keeps on going, with an ever evolving destination. So, pictures from my walk:


First destination: Luxembourg Gardens! They don't spare resources on their summer planting. Stunning arrangements of annuals.











Outside of the gardens, cafe life is at explosive levels. All generations, all sipping something or other, at (nearly) all street corners.






But here's what struck me as very unusual -- there are a lot of children in the streets of Paris. This is a different Paris than the one I know from the other seasons, when I catch glimpses of kids only in the parks, or in the morning, on their walk to school, or in the evening walk home. Today, they're buying books at the store, skipping rope on the sidewalks, doing the kid things that I'm just not used to seeing so much here. Paris looks good with kids in it.











And speaking of kid things, I finally purchase some ice cream. Pistachio. Time for a self-photo.






I walk and walk and walk, not stopping for other food or drink, even as I pass so many old and new cafes (note waitstaff pride -- at  Café de Flore)...



 


And now it's evening and I have an early dinner reservation. I rush, not wanting to miss it -- I only got it because I was willing to be the first one to arrive: the place opens at 7 and it is tiny. The name -- Le Timbre -- means postage stamp. It is that small.




 

For once I did my homework ahead of time. I wanted what everyone on a budget wants: that perfect combination of great food at bargain prices. Paris is a tough old city because it has food of every type and at every price and sometimes it's great and sometimes it's not. And when the traditional French bistro closes, usually what opens in its place is a sushi bar or a fancy pizza place. Who wants to fuss with sauces these days... So it was not easy to find Le Timbre and now that I've eaten there, I can tell you it's joining my list of top three favorites in Paris.

Did I mention it's small?? Two rows of seven tables, very close together.




 

By 7:30 every seat is occupied. There is the owner-chef and there are two waitresses. That's it. The man is a powerhouse, in that he does everything: plate and cook appetizers, main courses and desserts. And while he's finishing a sauce he's also picking up the phone and writing down reservations. And greeting people as they come in (the kitchen is right there, behind a counter) and remembering to thank each customer as she or he leaves.

Genius.

I also was lucky in that I ordered well (you can't always hit it right and the experience is different if you're wishing you were eating what your neighbor ordered). Market chanterelle mushrooms to start with (I told him they were better than my grandma's and she cooked chanterelles all summer long when I was growing up)...






...duck breast in peche de vigne sauce and for dessert, they suggested I try a cornet with chantilly cream and cassis (black currant) coulis. Oh my.






Le Timbre had a mostly young adult clientele. I was the second oldest there -- out-distanced only by one couple -- a pair of academics (or at least he was that), Americans, spending the summer in Paris.  When the restaurant was at capacity, they faded from my field of vision and earshot, but initially, we were the only ones there. They spoke too loudly (because they were obviously hard of hearing, due to age) and she misordered the wine and then got fussy about it. The chef was hugely patient with them -- they obviously have been coming all summer long, except for when it closed for vacation and so he was used to them, I suppose. I would say they were difficult characters, only because they were feisty with age and with life's toils. (Even as they clearly do love this place or they wouldn't keep coming back).

I write this little description, because it made me wonder about when that change happens -- when you become too picky and not that fun anymore, especially when traveling. There was no smile painted on either face for the whole meal. When did it disappear? Was it once there and then it faded?

I left with the image of them in my head, juxtaposed with the images of all the other happy people at Le Timbre and I swore that if I become that person who can no longer smile at the waitstaff or the genius chef, it's time to cut the passport in half and stop traveling.

The walk back can be accomplished with a shortcut through the Luxembourg Gardens. (I had to take this photo -- he was explaining to her how she should be filmed and in his tone and manner he reminded me so much of a younger Woody Allen that I had to wonder if life just repeats itself, only in different incarnations.)






And now the police whistling begins. It's dusk. Time to close the park. What good luck that I should have a chance to walk through it at this beautiful part of the day!






As the park goers walk toward the main gate, the benches slowly empty out. 






 
The statues breathe a sigh of relief. The place is theirs again.







I could have ended the day there, but I thought that a pretty evening sky should certainly be witnessed by the river. So that's what I'll leave you with -- a pretty evening sky, by the River Seine.