fitting in

Not everyone has to fit in. Ed is a fine example of a person who doesn't worry about such things. Me, I waffle. At home, if fitting in means sacrificing those parts of me that come from my childhood in Poland, then I don't want that compromise. But when I travel, apart from making that obvious statement of carrying a visible camera (but it's small!) and apart from always being alone (something that seems to draw attention, especially in eateries), I do not want to stand out.

Here, in France, I have additional challenges. Things get dicey when people engage me in conversation. I sound good. I have lived between several countries all my life and this has made me very sensitive to the music of a language. When Patrizia corrected my intonation (not once, but twice!), I could have hugged her. It's that detail that matters to me.

But by no means can I coast on music alone. Take yesterday. I entered a small store to browse and madame, being, as all French are, very attentive to the customer, admired my small camera. She was really curious, but me, I was getting increasingly anxious. There would come a time when I would not be able to explain some finer detail of its mechanism (she seemed to know a lot about cameras).

And then abruptly, she said: sorry, but you live in France, n'est pas? -- as if it suddenly struck her that I didn't. The image she had created was wrong -- in need of adjustment.

At such times, I just want to run and hide. Yes, I sound authentic. Get me going and I'll flow as gracefully as the River Seine. You'd think that my cousins were French and that I'm used to bantering away over Sunday dinner with them. But there will always come a moment when I will draw a complete, total, foggy blank. Someone will use words that I'm clueless about and I sheepishly admit to not understanding and then will come this awful pause, when the speaker will not get why I don't understand. What don't you understand? Ah, perhaps they were mumbling, perhaps I am hard of hearing. They repeat the sentence and of course I'm still totally clueless and so then they say things like -- but but but you speak so well! (meaning: How can you be so dumb as to not understand?) And I don't know how to explain that it's the music thing. That it comes from traveling all my life and being an immigrant -- all this is too much for, say an exchange in a store and so I retreat, blushing from the scarf that suddenly feels too hot around my face, while madame just keeps saying "but really, you speak so beautifully..." and by now I am completely mortified, music be damned. I feel like I am a total fake.

This happens all too often. I live through that feeling of being a fraud again and again. Who are you? -- people ask me, sometimes kindly, sometimes bluntly. French? No, not that. German? You look German (gee, thanks). Never American. They never ever guess American and Polish is out of the running and so I think -- who am I to them? To myself?  Fitting in is elusive.


Today the weather forecasters said rain. I am extraordinarily lucky that all my days have been rain-free thus far and since I had a museum in mind for this Paris sojourn, I thought -- what better time for it!  Walk walk walk until it starts to rain, then hop on the metro and continue that way.

And so I leave with a packed umbrella and my old camera ready to be tucked into my jacket in case of a sudden downpour. Off I go to the Musee Marmottan -- the place you would go to if you needed a fix of Monet paintings (and I can always benefit from such a fix), but this month you would especially make the trip if you wanted to see their special exhibit (never before shown in France) from the Hahnloser collection: Renoirs, Manets, Cezannes, Van Goghs, lots of Bonnards, Matisse -- all titled Les Temps Enchantes.  Who would not want to see something referring to an enchanted time!

I had once timed the walk to the museum at 90 minutes, but that was without pauses and diversions and detours. And so there you have it -- a day of walking again, but this time toward the far western parts of the city.

But first, breakfast, with all the proper croissants and pain au chocolat this time.






And off I go. No rain yet? Thank you!

I pass the Parisian version of power walkers.






I pass window shoppers.






I pass store displays that are so incredibly artful!






And of course, the pastries of the season -- just beautiful!






All of it -- inside and out -- so very pretty.












Again and again, I am dazzled by how much attention is given to the visual detail in daily life. How women and men take care with appearance.






Me, I was raised as a femme moderne. In my generation and in the places I lived, you cared more about what went into your head. Work on your smarts, have a good heart and you're set. Forget about beauty: if you pay attention to appearance, you're playing into the hands of those who wish only to stare at you rather than value what's inside. That's the way we talked (while secretly loving dangly earrings and lipstick and permed hair).

It is said that the French function in separate, gendered spheres. And this may well be true. But I'm wondering these days if in our own sacrificing of a preoccupation with appearance, we also sacrificed attention to form and art and all the rest of the adornment that makes life exquisite rather than just livable.

I was especially drawn to these thoughts as I looked at the collection of paintings from the Hahnloser family. He was a Swiss ophthalmologist who obviously made money. In our times, people who make money seem to buy expensive property. The more noble give money to charity. But Hahnloser along with his wife, bought a rather modest villa and covered every wall with paintings of their contemporaries.

This is the collection that I saw today. Magnificent, yes of course, but also leading me to wonder: are we a greedier generation? Do we even care enough about art to sustain it?

Oh well, maybe it's good that we don't fuss about the visuals. Preoccupation with adornment comes at some cost after all. I was thinking about this as I waited once again for the woman who was conducting a sale of a Snowdrop outfit to finish wrapping the package. Such care she took! Every crease just so, the ribbon tied neatly, the extra sticker, the tuck, the fold... All fine, unless you're the person standing behind, waiting to complete your own purchase, as the seller fusses and frets over the proper shape of a bow.


After my museum visit (sorry, no photos allowed), I pause for a lunch. Honestly, I just am starved for some vegetables and so when I see a cafe bar with a salad of arugula, artichokes and parmiggiano on the menu, I do not hesitate.






The museum is in a tony right bank neighborhood -- not my favorite by any means, even as I admit that the 6th arrondissement, where I usually hang out, is no poorman's land either. But there is at least a youthful presence to the 6th, possibly because of the proximity of the university.

Let's get back to the left bank then.

I pass the big Rue Cler market...


 



I stop in stores with children's clothing...






I watch kids return from school...






Yes, children. Isn't that what catches our collective eye? They'll solve all the world's problems, no?





Sigh...


I absolutely have to include a photo of the Eiffel Tower -- probably the most photographed structure in the entire world. And yet, every time we walk by it, we can't help but raise our cameras in a salute. Here's my tribute to it:







Finally, in the evening, I have reserved a dinner at yet another new place for me. It's called Clover and it's just a short twelve minute walk from where I'm staying.

It's raining outside now. On the upside, have you noticed how pretty the wet sidewalks are in Paris at night?


'



And the lights! Oh, the lovely holiday lights, rain or no rain!





As for Clover -- I had a feeling I'd be rewriting my list of favorite three restaurants from this trip and yep, sure enough, Clover (with its open kitchen and exquisite food) will make that list.

Maybe it's that it is the most artsy of all my eating venues in Paris and today I am so contemplative about art. Typically, I don't go for showmanship in food, but I have to say, Clover is clever. A scallop sizzling on a hunk of stone from Paris? Clever.





I have one other comment about my dinner (apart from the fact that it's great -- really great): weirdly, I had on my right an American couple with their grown daughter and on my left a French couple with their grown daughter. The differences between the two were astronomical! There is no judgment in the way I would experience either, though the American side was perhaps ten decibels louder than the French side, but honestly, each family had its quirky habits. But both were gracious and appreciative of the kind staff and the great food. Still, cultural differences there were. Aplenty.

But, that's okay, right? Would you really like the world to be composed only of people just like you?

There's no moon tonight. But wouldn't you like to believe that nonetheless it looks down brightly over all of us tonight?

... while the horses on the carousel go round and round...

what's Parisian?

Well now, don't hold your breath for a mouthwatering photo of a classic Parisian breakfast. By the time I stumbled down to the hotel breakfast room, all that was left was a baguette. And so I had a classic tartine -- bread with butter and jam. (Don't tell me about early birds catching worms -- I was down at 9:15 -- that's plenty early! Unfortunately, breakfast is included in the price of the room so I did not seek a better meal at a cafe. But I will if, by the end of my four days here, I'll have eaten only bread, butter and jam.)






Well, that's okay. I want a big lunch today. I'll surely have the appetite for it.

I want to warn you, too, that my walk and therefore my photography are all rather random. Some people may do great things when in Paris, but my day consisted of only three tasks: walking, shopping and eating. I had my camera around my neck, as always, but the photos are my own personal statement on what it means to be in Paris.






You could argue that there are many more Parises out there and that the people and things I tend to photograph are surely not representative of the entirety. But for me, the people I see who cause me to pull up my camera are the ones whom I firmly believe are proud to be Parisian. They present themselves as part of the city. There are many others whose national or even city identity is a mystery to me, but what you see here, on Ocean, are people who would not hesitate in their answers if asked "where are you from."

I wanted to remind you, too, that I love this city. It's not that I am a francophile who gets excited by anything that comes from this country. I like other parts of France just fine, but it's Paris that endures for me as the city that I think works magic on my soul.



(A delivery of bread to a restaurant)


Of course, I know that what I see here is a bit of a fiction. I see what I want to see. Things that don't fit my image of the city, I probably don't even notice. (Except these two young men with the baby stroller. It is so weird to see men on a weekday, without the rest of the family, with a baby stroller. It's probably the only time I have come across this here.)






But we all do that, no? We are sensitive to some signals and not others. I suppose if I had to generalize, I'd say that to me, Paris sends off signals of pleasure and artistry.

Where else would you pass a random candy store and see this kind of beauty? All made out of chocolate and sugar?






Or yule logs that are this unusual and this boldly beautiful?






I said I did some shopping today. Not for me. Though in waiting for a clerk to look up something, I did find myself facing a mirror. Selfie time!






I should mention that the weather here is warmer than in Parma. Sure, there is the morning mist, but the temps after sunset are perhaps 10 degrees warmer than in Italy. But I couldn't resist taking a photo of the Tower of Montparnasse in the fog, since this weather pattern has been so much part of my itinerary on this trip. (Note the brave woman who cuts in front of a bunch of cars to make a left turn.)






(...and the older gentleman who does the same -- on a scooter. Do they all believe in an afterlife?)






The sun comes out in the afternoon. Mildly, but unmistakably.






For a few minutes, you could see a totally blue sky. This picture was taken actually not for the blue sky but for the shot of Cafe la Varenne, where I had lunch. If ever you feel anxious about safety in Paris, you can come here to eat. Even in the calmest of times, there are police and guards with weapons all around. (The presidential something or other is just up the block and so security here has always been very tight.)






The cafe has two things going for it: excellent home cooking and phenomenally skilled and friendly waiters. (I order the day's special -- sea bream. It's completely excellent.)






For these reasons it is always extremely crowded at lunchtime.






Outside again, walking, walking... And again comes the question -- what does it mean to be Parisian? Wearing clothes that make a statement with their color or style wise comes to mind. (I was shopping for my sons-in-law and I kept telling the clerk in one favorite spot -- no no, more conservative please! Men in the States don't like to stand out in the way they dress! I really believe that's true. Except for Ed, who likes, deliberately I think, looking ragged and unadorned.)






Okay, one street scene that is more about the street than the people on it:






I also do some Snowdrop browsing. Here's one item that caught my attention. Holiday clothes for girls are all about skirts that have sparkle to them. An example:






And just down the block, I came across love. It comes in many shapes, at many stages in life...






And back again to the face of Paris: well dressed men and women with longer rather than shorter hair and carefully chosen scarves.






I'm back in my own set of blocks to deposit my purchases in my hotel room.






And then I head off to the Luxembourg Gardens. Here are three generations of strollers:






And now, finally, I am in my favorite Parisian park.






And this is where I notice that Paris has, in fact, changed a little since the last time I was here toward the end of October. When I see cafes that aren't quite as packed as before, I think -- well, it's December. It's twenty degrees colder than a month ago. But when I see the Luxembourg Gardens in the way I saw them today, I know it's not just about the weather.

Oh, sure, there are people. Tourists. Visitors. Tennis players. Missing are the regulars. The fixtures. The children with grandparents. The lovers here on a break from school.






The sections of the park around the Senate House are entirely closed off to the public. I loved the park anyway, but I felt that if I had been seeing it for the first time, I might have asked -- what's all the fuss? It's just a park.

Outside again, I passed a group of school children, walking in pairs. Some passerby commented on the wetness of their hair (Parisians notice these things!). Her friend said -- they're obviously returning from a swimming class.











And I come again to the shots of mommies and their babes.






Because they're everywhere. And they make me smile.






In the evening, I pass the cafes, with red faced patrons (from the heat lamps) and twinkling holiday lights...






One more shop to admire (with Snowdrop in mind)...






... and then it's the witching hour (7p.m.) and (nearly) all stores close.

I head over to the tiny L'Antre d'Eaux for supper.

Here's a question: do nice people deserve an extra plug for their work, or should we, in a true free market fashion, judge the services and products we buy only based on the merits of those items?

If your answer is that you are drawn toward stores, restaurants, places where the people are at least as nice as the things they sell (and perhaps even nicer), then I cannot recommend this restaurant highly enough. It's a neighborhood joint and there is a touch of England in it (the place is owned and run by a young couple where the guy (the cook) hails from England. Note adorable Ann-Sophie to the right and the photo of the red bus on wall).





The meal was quite fine,  in a casually home cooked sort of way.

And now it's time to feel sleepy all over again. I'll leave you with the photo of the Senate at night. With the occasional cyclist passing by and the two Christmas trees artfully positioned at each side.

from Parma to Paris

Parma's fog lifted for my departure. It wasn't a wholesale unveiling, but it was enough to remind me that no morning is the same, that no city hides completely behind its reputation.

Patrizia thought I might have time for one last walk -- perhaps to the museum whose interior is renowned and splendid -- but I decided not to rush. My train was to leave at 10:10 and I had yet to figure out how to pack the gifts, the cheeses, the vinegars -- beautifully packaged in boxes that could not be left behind.

Breakfast was as perfect as always -- well, perhaps more so, for two reasons: Patrizia added a persimmon to my tray (which honestly, I may have eaten just once in my life)...






... and secondly, after conducting a conversation in the Italian way -- of shouting for her up the stairs with one comment or another (Patrizia!), I asked if she would like to join me for a breakfast coffee and she readily agreed.





That was almost a mistake. Neither of us wears a watch and we launched a conversation that may well have continued for hours. How do you attack the topic of life's choices when your clothes remain scattered and your train is to leave in less than an hour?

And how do you say a proper thank you in the space of minutes? (Patrizia came down bearing gifts -- not as the inn keeper, but as someone who knows how to beautifully solidify the friendship that had taken hold in the last few days. There is also the nonna in her that packed me four Prosciutto di Parma panini for the road -- yes, four! -- because, you know, what you get in those food stands along the way? Junk compared to the real thing!)

We pushed it, we really did and she felt remorseful and offered to drive me to the station but I stubbornly refused, thinking that I should pay for my own follies and so I ran the distance, even pausing for that last Parma photo...






... and a second:






I made it to the station just in time.



(the clock is off, but the train is on time)


Misty landscapes float outside the train window while heavily armed police patrol the inside. I'm reentering the real world, where beauty lives with the fear of loss.






And then it's just a slow reversal of course. A flight to Paris (why fly -- Ricarda had asked, why Paris -- Patrizia had asked. Ah, the practicalities of life and the heartstrings that play to their own song! There are never good answers to those perplexing questions, even though we never fail to ask them and then agonize when we cannot find the proper answer the proper answer.). Over the Alps again...





Then into the (misty, of course!) Paris airport.

I catch the commuter train into the city. Yes, that city that made you and me cry in anger and sadness, for all that we are capable of doing to each other there and elsewhere, for the sake of fictions that we adhere to as naked truths.

But, this is not the place for such reflections. If Ocean has a mission, it is, as you well know, that it should strive to find a good way to proceed forward, despite the tedium, the disappointment, the anger, the regret that threatens to throw us all off balance.

In Paris, finding reason to smile is not hard.

I am back at my hotel Le Baume, taking advantage of the always great rates of early December. And that's a good thing. I want the familiar sounds and smells of my tiny room that looks over the quiet street.

Well, not so tiny.






After being probably their most repeat customer for decades, the hotel finally did a sweet thing and put me in one of their grand rooms. It feels strangely unParisian, as I have rarely stayed in a room where you can walk without tripping over a corner of the bed. I do not intend to get used to such unexpected luxury, but I am deeply appreciative of the gesture. There are a bunch of other sweet gestures that the hotel has put in this month for all guests, with a "thanks for coming this month" message behind them. Me, I'm just very glad to be returning. It's Paris, after all.






Same old, same old...






It's evening now and I need to find food. I go to Semilla. I read about this 6th arrondissement restaurant a few years  back (thanks, Mr. Bittman!). Here's a quote from the NYTimes article: Semilla is not quite a bistro, not quite fine dining, not quite Parisian-feeling, but very nearly all of those.

I think that's accurate. And the food is so great that I will struggle in future trips as to where I should eat, when I only have a night or two in Paris.

It's particularly easy  for me to judge since I do not have a reservation and so I am given one of the only available spots: at the counter (there's just one one such seat!)  facing the open kitchen. Can I take photos? -- I ask. The cooks are really a pebble's throw from where I am and so I feel I ought to be somewhat more respectful of them and their work.
But of course! -- the very cool waiter responds.






(They're all cool here: I think it must be part of the job description.)






Still, I'm just going to post a few photos. I am Paris sleepy -- a state that befalls me after a wonderful meal here (typically I switch to posting in the morning; we'll see if I'm forced to do that during this trip as well).

Perhaps more interesting (from a reader's perspective) were the kitchen dynamics. Semilla is extremely popular among Parisians and so the place was packed toward the end of my evening. And I had a front row seat, allowing me to see how the kitchen was handling the steady rush of orders.

They did well! The chef is young and yet he only lost his cool twice in the two hours I was there. And the demands on him and his staff were extraordinary.



the fantastically talented chef



I was terribly undecided as to what I should order and so I asked for the short (4 course) tasting menu. It was such a good decision! (Especially since they threw in a fifth course, just because.) Here, I'm about to begin on a fantastic fish dish, one that would make you reconsider the claim that fish is bland and boring. In the background, two cooks are scrambling to fill an appetizer order.






My only regret is that the tasting menus dessert was a chocolate dish. This one:






Oh, it was very good, but I would have loved to have eaten the rose pavlova with the yogurt ice cream on the side (a dessert choice on the a la carte menu)!


Paris, especially the food culture here, always reminds me that in life, it's easy to give up. But it's much more satisfying to keep on truckin'.