the other side of the river

The River Seine cuts the core of the city in half. Many cities have rivers that set neighborhood boundaries, but for me, Paris is like a different town there, on the other side of the river. If I'm visiting for just a couple of days, I rarely cross over. There is plenty here, on the Left Bank that keeps me busy. But staying just a few days longer pushes me out. And so I suggest today that Bee and I do the segment of the Right Bank (the other side) that I do, in fact, like -- the old Marais district.

After breakfast that is.





It's not a short walk and of course, that's good. In Paris you have to use your feet. Indeed, you want to use your feet. I don't know how else you can possibly get close to the city. Parisians walk and you should fall in step behind them.

In the mornings, the weather is always so promising that you don't think about the possibility of it being a deception. You're sure it will last!

But it never lasts. From a meek sunshine, we eventually switch to gray skies and once again, despite sophisticated meteorological promises of good weather, it drizzles and splashes and soon enough I say to my friend -- should we take the metro home?

(the old fashioned cars on line 10)






Ah, but long before that, Bee and I had a good walk. From the Left Bank, with a view to the sad looking Notre Dame...






... across the many bridges, to one island (Île de la Cité), then the next (Île Saint-Louis)...






(passing school kids learning to use these...)






... and finally, to the Marais, on the Right Bank, where the real point of interest for us is the little park on the Place des Vosges.






It's not easy to take pictures when there are construction fences sprinkled throughout, but we try!






Out again, we meander in the way that one does when you no longer have a destination in mind. And we pop into stores. I have a social event in early January. Surely that calls for a dress, doesn't it? Bee says it does. I try some on. (I do not buy this, but Bee has me give it a whirl anyway.)






And now it's lunchtime and the whole city is packing the eateries as if under orders to eat, now, between 12:30 and 2, never earlier, never later than that.

We go to L'As du Fallafel -- the place my daughters brought me to some three years back. It really is great fallafel and the lines are long, but you can backtrack a little and find their tiny narrow second kitchen (with only a handful of tables) -- the line is much shorter there!






If you order fallafel and salads (and perhaps an Israeli beer), you'll have more than enough food before you.






And now here comes the light drizzle. Just one more picture, from a neighborhood market!

 (autumnal foods...)






Then we walk back, across the river, into the embrace of the Left Bank once more.

(In the Jardin des Plantes, there is a very interesting structure that supports very large squashes. Looking from the bottom...






... looking from the top.)





Afternoon? We rest, and talk, propped with pillows on one of those big hotel beds that could fit a family of five. And all too quickly it's almost 7. Our dinner is at 7.

We go to Semilla. I'm loyal to places that treat people well with good food and kind waitstaff.

(a fat ravioli, stuffed and topped with black trumpet mushrooms)






In the hotel again, we stay in the lobby for part 164 of our ongoing conversation, but it's getting late and so at last we sketch out our time tomorrow -- necessarily limited by Bee's evening departure for Warsaw.

And now I am in my room once more, where I reach for something sweet. From a box with a small selection of these:






Colorfully French, with a deep taste of cherry or chocolate or chestnut or salted butter. Macarons, imitating life, which, too, tends to have all that beauty in your face, if you can see beyond the salt, or better yet, if you can mix the salt into your brew, to make an entirely palatable concoction.

Paris pleasures

Paris calls forth the predictable comments from visitors: the city is beautiful but crowded. The art is fabulous but the lines are long. The food is great except when it's not. The waiters are rude to those who do not speak and act like real Parisians.

It's not hard for me to come up with examples affirming these stereotypes. But these are not my complaints. My experiences usually run in the opposite direction. Even though it does take some engineering to sidestep the unpleasant aspects of being in a city that draws upwards of 40 million visitors each year. Think of it! 40 million! (Others argue that the number is inflated since it counts the number of hotel and other accommodation arrivals. If you have repeat visitors like me, you're counted multiple times.)

Honestly, staying where I do, at my beloved little hotel le Baume, I feel I am in the heart of a quieter, gentler Paris. Indeed, Bee, like Ed, commented how utterly silent our street is during the day (and of course at night). With a park just up the block, I feel it's easy for me to exhale here. Cities don't excite me anymore, but Paris, in this gentle little corner, does play magically with my senses.

*   *   *

We meet up for breakfast downstairs.






And then we set out on our morning walk. This is our sunshine moment. And it shows!






To the Sorbonne, to the Pantheon, to the Luxembourg Gardens.






And all around the park, because after all, it's not that big and the weather is so perfect for it.






The sunshine, on our backs as we wipe down the dew soaked chairs and sit facing the flowers, is sublime.






From there, we walk (by chance) past Parisienne, the bakery that won (a couple of years ago) the prize for the best baguette in town. We buy just half of one, to try. Mmmm...





And now we're just a couple of steps from the big department store, where we go in just to smell the perfumes.
I tell Bee that Ed isn't smitten with perfumes and she asks -- what about you?

It's one of those frivolous things that I secretly love and that I have no room for in my farmette-kid  centered life.

Or do I? I think about this for a good while longer.


We stop at another bakery-lunch place where the emphasis is on organic, fresh, honest. (As if other places don't push those three food values!) A salad, a croque monsieur (grilled ham and cheese) and we're done.

And now it's time to return to the hotel for a brief rest.

*   *   *

In the late afternoon, I pop out for a second to a pop-up store that popped onto the scene just recently (across from the Luxembourg Gardens). A half dozen artisans selling their stuff under one roof.

Once again I notice (and don't buy) the perfumes. I give my head firm shake and my hand a gentle slap and move over to the table where a woman sells printed sweatshirts. For the kids. Three. One with bees, one with bears, one with a whale. You're free to guess which kid gets which design!

*   *   *

And now comes the time for our grand museum experience: Bee and I are heading out to the Musee d'Orsay. We both love it, we both want to return to it.

Here's the thing: even though it's October, even though it's evening, even though we have easy access with advance purchase/annual pass, it's crowded. Not less, not more than it was when I brought the kids here in August and Sparrow rebelled, leading me to take him out of the stroller and put him on the floor where he raised hell for a good part of the Impressionists. Crowded. (At least I wasn't worrying that someone would inadvertently step on my grandson today.)

(View out a Museum window. Lovely, no?)






I become selective in what I choose to admire. (Every grandchild of mine has to admire or at least contemplate this incredible Monet. Snowdrop has seen it several times already. Sparrow -- just once, and only off the floor, looking up. Primrose? Soon, I hope!)






Some stuff is accessible. I love that! (Don't get me started on what's going on with the cats back home!)






Other paintings -- not so much.


 


And the special exhibit on Degas and his infatuation with theater and especially dancers? Uff! (We know this statue well down at the farmette: she stands proud and tall in a snow globe, only perhaps one hundredth the size of the real deal!)






(A girl and ballet: it's a fascinating love affair.)






(Randomly, a mirror.)





I didn't fight the tumult. Indeed, later, when I sat back and considered the whole experience, I have to say I was happy to have seen the crowds. Art still matters. People brave the craziness to inspect it. There's hope for this planet.


*   *   *

Out again, Bee and I walk the narrow streets of this artsy neighborhood. There is this store with tablecloths. On my small list of things to perhaps accomplish during this trip is the purchase of a table cloth for the now expanded table in the farmhouse kitchen. For the big meals, when we all come together.  Should I take up Bee's time for this project? On an impulse, I open the door and we go inside.

And she helps me pick one out. And so now it's extra special because it comes with the approval of someone whose opinion matters to me.





Our dinner choice for today? I suggested Cucina Mutualite. It's a little funky, it's Ducasse (know your French chefs!), it's modern and sweet. A bit of Italy, a bit of France. Not too expensive.

We eat well. A risotto with spinach and girolle mushrooms -- how can you lose on that!





When evening becomes night, we walk home. The streets never grow quiet in Paris, but they grow quieter. No need to rush. No need to think about what's next. Save the planning, the high energy for tomorrow. Tonight, all we have to do is walk home.

the pace changes

Bee, my good friend from Warsaw arrives today (sorry for the silly nickname, but I wasn't sure she'd like having her full name plastered all over Ocean) and so the pace of the day changes. The goal is to spend time with her. Our paths do not cross very often: she lives there, I live elsewhere. It's true that my closest friends in the U.S. also live far from me, but having a close friend in Poland, one from my generation, poses singular problems. Bee and I have known each other since she married my university pal, oh some forty plus years ago. This is at once truly wonderful -- we have a history! But a history also ties one down.

Until email came around, she and I did not correspond. We never called or texted. It was a different era! For decades, my contact with her and with nearly everyone in Poland was maintained only through my visits there. It's difficult to change that pattern, but Bee and I are trying!

I owe her a lot. In all my visits to Warsaw, until I got my own apartment, she was singularly responsible for my social connections to our pack of old friends. She hosted countless dinners and made sure everyone's calendars were in sync so that I could see even those with whom my contacts had fizzled. And there's icing to this cake: she and I see the world in much the same way (this, of course, is my opinion, but I bet she would not disagree). It's wonderful to just talk to her.

All this to say that the next days belong to our time together here. She made the effort to come to Paris, according to my calendar, staying at my hotel, walking the streets of this grand city with me taking charge of our agenda. And so Ocean has to take a back seat. I can't tell if my camera will stay hidden. Time to write will be almost nonexistent. I'm sure all of you will understand.

*   *   *

(morning view: no place takes street cleaning as seriously as Paris)






Breakfast, still alone, at the hotel.






And a quick errand in the neighborhood, still alone.





*   *   *

And now at last we are in step. Bee arrives just before lunch and after leaving her things at the hotel, she and I  head to Breizh Cafe for some Brittany buckwheat crepes. And from there starts our grand walk. Well, grand if you think about the wonderment of it all. But I can't say that we walked so hard and long that I wore the soles off of my shoes.

As expected, I kept my camera mostly in my bag. With exceptions. Here's Bee by the book stalls that line the Left Bank...






A glance to the Right Bank: you can catch a glimpse of the Sacre Coeur way in the distance...






We criss cross the Seine. To the right...






To the left again...





As you can tell it's mighty cloudy out there. It's a good time to give up on the walk and plunge into the Parisian metro system.

We didn't really aim to visit a museum today, but in Paris, the temptation is always great to do just that. At the distant and little known Marmottan, there is a special exhibit of a Dutch painter (Piet Mondrian) who began his painting career immersed in Impressionism, then reinvented himself as a true modernist. The exhibit is, unfortunately, popular among Parisians. There is a bit of a line to get in. We wait.

This is when it starts to rain. Not a big rain, mind you, but enough to make you pull up your collar against the wet drops. Hey, not fair! You promised to hold off at least until Sunday!

Finally, inside. We aren't immediately drawn to the exhibit of Mr. Piet. Rather, we dive into the museum's real treasure -- the permanent collection of canvases by Monet.

                                                                                                                                                             




We're there until the guard chases us out at closing time.

How did it get to be so late??

Back on the metro... (which doesn't always stay underground. Here's a view worth looking out of the window for...)





And now we're on the Left Bank again, just in time for dinner. Tonight we eat lots of seafood at the Seulement Sea.

I do like this tiny little place that's so close to our hotel, even as it's a little weird to eat there: it occupies the space of Pouic Pouic -- a restaurant I always returned to on my Parisian visits, until the owners decided to move on and do other things with their lives and fortunes. Still, I do really enjoy this new incarnation of a simple but good little eatery. I'm sure I'll return to it in future travels. In the meantime, Bee and I do a selfie. And it wasn't even my idea!





There: I wrote more than I thought possible given the lateness of the hour. Tomorrow I'll be quieter. Maybe!

departures and arrivals

This is one of those topics that readers do not care about: when did your flight leave? How late were you on arrival? Bleh, move on. Tell us how things are in your new place, don't waste our time on the banalities of air travel.

Yet, for the traveler, leaving and then finally getting there is important: emotions run high on both ends. At least for me they do. I dislike leaving home and flight delays make that departure drag. But I do like arriving in Paris. Not so much at the Paris airport, which requires endless navigation, but in Paris, the city. It's at that moment -- when I step outside from the Luxembourg RER train stop that I think -- when I get too old or too poor to continue the crossings, I will miss this moment of alighting by the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris.

Apart for the emotional spikes surrounding departure, there are the practicalities and yes, I'll bore you with just a brief mention of a few hiccups I encountered in leaving.

The weather was fine. A few random rain clouds. A pilot could navigate through those blindfolded. But, planes are like cars, lawn mowers, wheelbarrows, mopeds, farm carts and bicycles. They get flat tires. (Ed has changed tires on all the above.) My plane that was to take me to Detroit got a flat and even the nice cushion I gave myself for a connection proved not to be enough. I was going to miss my flight to Europe.

Because I booked an evening flight (I wanted not to back out of picking up the kids on a Monday, which is the busiest work day for both parents), I knew I was in trouble. There are limited flights out of my hometown after 7 p.m. and only a couple connect to a place where I can get on a Europe bound flight.

Luck. In travel it can put you back on track. Absence of it can derail even the most carefully planned trip. This time it was going to be my best buddy. Delta booked me on the last flight to Minneapolis -- in time for an ocean crossing from there.

And another good outcome: I was so tired after all the recent activity at the farmette that I actually slept for a couple of hours, which for me is a rare treat. Most often I arrive in Europe after a night of no sleep.

(Breakfast, Amsterdam airport, so late that I can only call it an indifferent lunch)






And so I alight from the commuter train at the Luxembourg Garden gates, later than planned, but happy to connect with all that this side of the ocean stirs within me.


















And then I walk to my little hotel, just two blocks down the hill (Paris is not flat: you learn this quickly if you ever drag a suitcase across its bumpy streets). I leave my bags in my lovely little room (actually not so little - I'm in an upgrade) and quickly set out. I have a few errands to run before my friend arrives (tomorrow).

(an unplanned stop at a shop around the corner -- to add a bee to my lapel...)






As the night light intensifies and shops close all around me, I hesitate by this favorite cafe restaurant. Should I ask for a table?





No, it calls for too big of a hike back to my hotel after. When I am alone in Paris, I like to eat dinner pretty close to where I am staying. I don't know why -- perhaps it feels more like I am in the neighborhood of "home" then.

Today I try new place, one that my hotel had reviewed in one of their seasonal newsletters. It's called the Cod House and it's a blend of Japanese and French tapas style food and it's perfect for me. I start with a raw yellowtail and one of their lovely coctails...





... Then a delicious sea bass in soy, with pea pods and an incredibly yummy strip of eggplant gratinee.

But I am tired. It's been a very very long day. Delicious, sensual Paris is worth it of course, but still, at the end of the day the eyes grow heavy. Especially on the day of arrival.

Monday twists and turns

It wasn't your typical morning. On any other day, I go out, feed the cats in some half awake half asleep fashion, consider going back for a cat nap (if I may borrow a feline term), I read, write, do chores. That would be normal.

Instead, this morning I make my way to the kitchen when it is still dark. Overcast skies, late October. What do you expect from this brooding combo... I glance out and there is Stop Sign, the grand mama, on the porch steps. And some movement in the background. Oh crap, have the teenagers invaded her space?

I leave a bowl of food for her, then go out, hustling the teenagers, who have descended on the farmhouse path, jostling, rubbing, nibbling. Hey, Dance, that's my leg! Keep your nibbles to yourself!

As I get to the sheep shed, I see Happy, the rooster, darting by. Say what? Shouldn't you be in the coop? He's chasing the hapless Peach who never really likes his advances. Damn it. Ed must have forgotten to put them in the coop for the night. It had been an unusual Sunday and stripped of our by-the-clock routines, we floundered.

I count the chickens. Phew! They survived.

After feeding the teenagers and Yo-Yo the babe, I go back to the farmhouse and look out again. There's no mistake. One of Stop Sign's wee kittens figured out how to follow her onto the porch. Well that's a relief. I feel that they are safer and warmer here. And close to the food source and away from the herd of teens. For now.

And just as I consider dozing off again, I hear the pounding on the roof. A regular old downpour. So... where are the three other kittens? I go back to the kitchen. It's really coming down hard. And then I see them, or at least two of them: they're clinging with their claws to the bottom of the screen, on the wrong side of course, meowing to high heaven, wondering how to get in, even as the rain is slashing at them with the force of a real storm.

I go out and seize one before she gets away (the other flies off into the pounding rain). I put her wet little body on the porch, where she is greeted by Stop Sign. The next I check, the two little guys are snuggling with Mama the Beast in their lair (Ed and I put a blanket into the pet carrier and covered it with a quilt. It stands on the porch. Stop Sign has resisted going inside, but now with the kittens, she takes that risk.)

So, two kittens and Stop Sign on the porch, two kittens missing for now, eight cats in the sheep shed. And the rains keep coming down. Hard.






We eat breakfast in the kitchen. I have so many last minute animal instructions for my breakfast sweetie. I doubt Ed will follow any of them. We each have our own way of tending to animals, to stuff in general. Neither is better than the other.






Why "last minute?" Oh, today is the day I take off for Paris. But not until after I spend the afternoon with Sparrow and Snowdrop.

(rains stop, sun comes out... will the leaves be gone in a week?)






(Sparrow, upright and on the move!)






(Snowdrop: how do you pack up art work?)






(I made an airplane!)






(at home: stealing cheddar bunnies)






(looking at the two youngest kittens..)





Stay well and I'll see you in a few days, all you little Midwestern babes, cats, kids!



As for Paris -- it's just until Sunday. I can't really take more days off, nor do I want to be away from my clan here (I speak of people, not cats and certainly not chickens!). It's a meaningful trip because I'm cutting back on the frequency of my ocean crossings. So, for example, no December trip this year.  And no Poland for now. That extra leg just adds chaos. I don't want chaos. And here's another special element -- my lovely and loyal friend from Warsaw is coming to Paris to join me there for a few days. That's truly special. Time, plenty of time to just walk the streets of that city together.

So, in the evening, I wait to catch my flight to Detroit, from where I will be flying to Amsterdam (unfortunately I follow the cheaper air connections and this one trumped a direct flight), and finally from there, I'll fly to Paris, arriving in that beautiful city tomorrow, toward evening.

My next post should be from Paris.