John was off to see ‘The Three Musketeers’ in Paris. They run a company called Ecovadis. The meeting was on a Thursday – perfect, I thought, to extend to a weekend exploring the city. But I never find it easy to combine work and leisure, partly because I’m only in charge of the latter and communication between the two often falls between two stools.
Still, we had the Eurostar booked. It was only at the last minute that I was told no hotel had been decided upon. Frantic searching on the Internet and in my various files followed. I should have rung the hotel direct but I went through one of those many internet sites which seem to offer discounts – I would have done as well cutting them out. The more people you deal with, the more mistakes seem to be made – partly due to misinterpretation. And then I was told John had to travel earlier as the meeting had been put forward. My ticket was not interchangeable.
However, now being used to this kind of chronic chaos and therefore somewhat unfazed, I decided to travel with John up to King’s Cross. He would go on the 7.30am and I would follow an hour later. His train was delayed but luckily only by fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, I was able to buy museum passes and a carnet of metro tickets before boarding mine. I was finally in control and found I had a table all to myself. Just as it should be! Quelle joie!
The statue of John Betjeman views the Eurostar …
This is one of the best ways to travel. I am a great fan of the Eurostar. It is warm and quiet and comfortable, the ‘petit déjeuner’ comes with as much coffee as you like, the service is excellent and there is a wealth of free magazines on offer at the end of each carriage. The UK line has now been buzzed up to speed. Immersed in my book, I hardly noticed when we slipped under the waves.
Reflections – an arty photo – or alternatively – a glass of water …
But I did notice we were in France already when I looked up from my reading and saw the electricity pylons racing across the fields. They are far more personable than ours. The ones I like best remind me of waitresses pirouetting between tables, their hands full. ‘Estelle’ attracts attention by her downcast and demure eyelashes which flutter and flirt seductively with her gastronomically seated – and then hopefully sated – clientèle.
The first picture shows a Tarzan type bearing down upon the waitress and the second shows a landscape in which menacing Dalek type creatures seem to have taken over the world. Ah well, we would soon be at the Gare du Nord and the Daleks hadn’t invaded the city yet – not being quite ‘au fait’ with the concept of steps re universal domination. The train whooshed by these robotic aliens, leaving them rooted to the spot in the frozen ploughed fields.
Gaston makes advances – Estelle outsmarts him with twinkling toes and twirling ‘assiettes’ …
Intimidating landscape of exterminating aliens …
The metro system is easy to figure out and I was soon on my way to ‘la rive gauche’. The first time I came to Paris, when I was a schoolgirl of sixteen, I was struck by the all pervading smell of garlic in the metro – the description would be ‘gluant’ – it hung heavily in the slightly stale air, infesting my nose and my taste buds and finally everything else until ‘French’ – and all that goes with it – throbbed in my veins. I can’t say the same of the metro today but it is packed solid. I hang on to my new, stylish grey four wheeled case with its jaunty organza pink ribbon. So easy to manoeuvre. John scoffed at it when I first brought it home but nearly snaffled it for this trip!
I hop off at Odéon. The hotel is very near to the Medical School. It’s welcoming and warm but too early to go up to our room. I leave my case at reception and have the whole day in front of me. John has presumably got to his meeting.
The air is crystalline with blue skies and sunshine. I decide to walk along the Boulevard St. Germain towards the triumvirate of Brasserie Lipp, Café de Flore and Aux deux Magots. We once had dinner at a little restaurant on Rue St. Benoit, close by. The tables were covered in red and white gingham and convivially nudging up to one another. Our waiter was like Rowan Atkinson on speed and it was a memorable evening – the food rustic and tasty.
Rive gauche – by Rue du Dragon …
I am tempted to take a look down the Rue du Dragon on the other side of the road – mainly because of its name. There’s an inviting stationery shop – a small version of Paperchase but a few doors down I see an ‘affiche’ for ‘Les Soldes’. A sale – irresistible. It’s a special shoe shop whose shoes are comfortable but stylish – difficult to attain but ‘Arche’ have succeeded. In the window are a pair of sea green, suede ankle boots. They beckon. I go in. I have a lively conversation in French with the sales assistant, who is charming. The boots are my size and there is only one pair left in the sale. I can’t decide. I prevaricate, leaving them dangerously on show in the window. OK, if they are meant for me, they will be there tomorrow, I think. But sometimes tomorrow never comes…
Off to the shops …!
A pride of jeroboams …
At the bottom of the street I get a shock. At Carrefour de la Croix Rouge
there’s a statue of a centaur which is very ‘in your face’! I hadn’t seen it before. It’s very spiky and punky, showing all its ‘bits’ with nonchalant pride. However, the French housewives with their shopping baskets seem rather oblivious to its ‘look at me’ stance. They are more interested in ‘les soldes’, I think.
Juggling balls … will those green suede shoes draw me back?
I come upon the ‘Rue Cherche-Midi’, home of the bakery, Poilâne. Lots more shoe shops here but the more I look, the more I think of the sea green suede temptation. And to some extent, it’s the ‘marshmallow’ experiment! But I carry on too because I want to find a little café where we once had a simple lunch on the Rue de Babylone. I have my Paris A-Z (essential) and just keep walking, fitting arrondissements together as I go. I am curious by nature, so I’m in my element.
Bookshop ‘vitrine’ near Café Flore
Suddenly, it’s four o’clock. I’m very tired and need to get back to have a little siesta. The black and white cat is already having one in the armchair at reception. ‘Monsieur est déjà là’, says the receptionist when I ask for the key. He is. Sitting at a table with his computer and various accoutrements spread around him. He enjoyed his meeting and so is in good spirits.
The room is at the top of the hotel, under the eaves and has a pretty sitting area and a newly refurbished bathroom, which I love. Lots of space, fabulous shower, gallons of hot water, heated towel rail, full length mirror. They have thought it out well. So many hotels don’t.
Under the eaves …
The windows look out onto the inner courtyard of the medical school. It is tranquil and I feel like a bird, secure in my eyrie.
Faculté de Médecine – from our window …
Later, we try and find the restaurant recommended by the hotel but get lost. To save the day I suggest repairing to ‘Le Petit Benoît’, with the red and white gingham table cloths. The mad waiter is no more but the food is still rustic and tasty and the atmosphere ‘chaleureuse’. Bon, bien, bonne nuit!
Next morning we make for the Musée d’Orsay on foot in bright sunlight and have breakfast when we get there. Then to the top floor to look at the Impressionists. There are so many paintings here I don’t know and so many familiar ones. The whole space is being renovated, so there’s quite a squash on the walls. The Monets remind me that his Water Lilies are on show separately at Musée de l’Orangerie in Les Tuileries, so rather than get paintings overload, we make our way across the river by the footbridge (Passerelle Solferino) and cross the road into the Tuileries gardens.
Barges on the Seine, Paris
Paris – romance in the air – I had just been thinking of Woody Allen’s take on it. ‘Midnight in Paris’ – his latest film – was very enjoyable and a great success. As we crossed the river, I was intrigued by the latest craze. Lovers have attached padlocks to the sides of the bridge with their names on. Have they thrown the keys in the river in the spirit of ‘forever together’ or – should things not work out – will they return to set free their other half? I don’t know what future generations might make of a river bed lined with rusty padlocks!
Paris in the spring …
But looking on the bright side, we were approaching La Musée de l’Orangerie and this would be the first time I had seen the Monet ‘water lilies’ paintings since they were installed here. There’s a small foyer, which Monet insisted should be painted white and left bare – so that you enter the gallery with a blank page in your head. I am not going to show photos of the water lilies because you really have to be there to appreciate the colours and also the setting. Suffice it to say it’s really mindblowingly glorious.
Peering into the L’Orangerie …
Waiting for John, I peer into the museum and take a photo of the vase of flowers in the reception. I only notice now from the photo that I was being studied from behind by a rather shady looking man in sunglasses and a leather jacket. I could have photographed all sorts of goings on behind me via the reflection in the glass – maybe the man was just sitting there, enjoying the sunshine – maybe he was waiting for an accomplice?! I was reminded of the film ‘Blow Up’ (1966 ) when a photographer, based on David Bailey, finds that when he enlarges his photos, one of them is witness to a murder. The director was Antonioni and the actors included David Hemmings, Sarah Miles, Vanessa Redgrave, Jane Birkin and the stunning model, Veruschka. The film won the ‘Grand Prix’ in Cannes (1966). Very much of its time!
We come upon the old and the new attended by a conflab of chairs. A lone individual consults his mobile phone while the rather languorous and dissipated statue above seems to be holding up the equivalent of a giant ice cream or ‘horn of plenty’ in his hand! I suppose you could describe a mobile as a ‘horn of plenty’ … getting in touch on Twitter could even be described as an ‘excess of plenty’ – no criticism implied here of course!
Ancient and modern …
The sun is blazing down as we walk through Les Tuileries towards the Louvre. John encounters a lonely chair but his shadow is more reminiscent of a spaghetti western. He will have to pretend that his camera is a six shooter!
Strange rendezvous with a chair …
Exit picture right … and cut
Strolling down the avenue …
And we finally make it down to the Louvre. I have been recommended a restaurant near here but I haven’t found it yet. Meanwhile, John is forging ahead …
John forges ahead …
and is rewarded by the glass pyramid waiting for him through the archway – the fountain in front is frozen solid …
A glass pyramid – a frozen fountain …
I couldn’t resist putting in this rather indulgent arty picture of light and shadow! It reminds me of a painter, Hugh Buchanan, whose work I like a lot.
light and shadow …
However, my creative powers were dwindling – we needed to find lunch. I wished I could remember where this place was. We walked out through yet another archway. I looked across the road and my eye took in an orange awning. This was it! Oh happy day! John followed me across the road, looking hungry and somewhat sulky when he saw the restaurant was full.
But buoyed up by my discovery, I marched in and joined the expectant queue. We only had to wait about ten minutes and then were given a table at the back of the restaurant, which was in a separate room, full of paintings and books and chic parties of Parisians, sitting at round mahogany tables, enjoying déjeuner. And we got to join them! I could have imagined Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda sitting here looking glamorous or Ernest Hemingway surrounded by manuscripts, a whisky by his side. In fact, there was a tall young man with wild black curls (aka Byron) sitting alone at a table for four, his coat carelessly thrown across the back of a chair and papers scattered all over, which he was annotating. A journalist perhaps – or a philosopher? In any case, he was obviously a regular and treated the restaurant as home from home.
The restaurant by the Louvre …
Nearby is the Tour St. Jacques (1523) – all that now remains of a church. Because of a fire, the bells fell through the floors of the tower and it’s now hollow inside. It’s also known as a departure point for pilgrims making their way to St. Jacques de Compostella. I was fascinated by these stone carvings and couldn’t help thinking that one of them resembled a famous French politician of today – or an ageing rock star! Clue: Not Johnny Hallyday!
The gremlins of yesteryear foretell the future …
Revived, we set on a course for Shakespeare & Co – a bookshop by the Seine which I have mentioned before and which is always a port of call on our ramblings. A much loved landmark.
This time John bought a copy of ‘Pure’ by Andrew Miller, a story set in 1785 in the heart of Paris about the clearing of a graveyard. It was the winner of the 2011 Costa Novel Award. I have now read it too. It is, as one newspaper puts it, ‘irresistibly compelling’, but not for the faint hearted! Each book you buy from Shakespeare and Company gets a special stamp in the front of it, which is an added bonus. A bit like having had it signed by the author, I suppose. Personalised – always a good feeling! I’ve stood in a queue only three times to get a book signed. And the writers are William Boyd, Catherine Deneuve and Will Self. An eclectic mix – Gaia also got me a signed copy of Tony Curtis’s autobiography. And I wish I had a signing by David Niven of ‘The Moon’s a Balloon’ – but I don’t!
John looking cold … brrr … but mission accomplished.
Time to make our way back to the hotel and put our feet up. It’s been a good day all round.
Evening on ‘la rive gauche’
The next day is bright and frosty with clear blue skies. I came upon an exhibition notice for Safet Zec, an artist who we’d seen once before in the Galerie Jean-Jacques Dutko in rue Bonaparte. This time he is showing somewhere in Ile St. Louis. We were bowled over by his work. He was born in 1943 in what is now Bosnia-Herzegovina and had started painting seriously by the age of twelve. He is a central figure in the movement called ‘réalisme poétique’, which explains to me how much I am drawn to his view of the world. He is truly very gifted and I wish I could afford an original painting.
We set off early so as to enjoy the empty streets. John had also gone crazy about Safet Zec the last time and was looking forward to seeking him out again. Unfortunately, the gallery was closed and much as we tried peering through the windows, there was nothing to be seen. I must look him up when I get home to see if he ever exhibits in London.
There was another exhibition on by the celebrated illustrator, Sempé. If you have read ‘Le Petit Nicolas’ by Goscinny you will know – and love – his work. However, there was a long queue already to get in and a notice to say there was at least an hour’s wait. Dommage!
A cartoonist with a wry sense of humour re the human condition …
Crossing over to the Ile St. Louis
Ile St. Louis is charming and we just decided to walk around and imbibe the atmosphere now we were here. It does feel like a small village and I thought it might be a nice place to stay another time. Why is it that although we live in cities – and personally I wouldn’t want to live in the countryside all the time – we want to see where we live as ‘villagey’? I notice how residents in our own part of London refer to where we live as ‘the village’. Maybe we have the best of both worlds?
A la mode – Ile St. Louis
We had almost covered it all and breakfast was uppermost in my mind. John was up at the far end of the street and came upon the perfect place. It turned out to be an experience in itself. Enough said. Just go!
Ile St. Louis – a must for ‘le petit déjeuner’ …
I’m aware I often take pictures of what I eat but eating good food is one of my favourite things to do, viz.
Petit déjeuner parfait …
An emporium of sweetness …
L’Ile Flottante is a wonderful dessert too …
The ‘sat nav’ – in other words ‘me’ – now pointed north towards the Pompidou centre. En route we were diverted by various interesting shopfronts, designs and eccentrics taking the air.
Bathrooms with a Parisian twist
Poodling along with the new baby …
Incognito?!
Putting pizzazz into housework!
toujours pillow fights …
Enlightenment …
I began to recognise the streets of the Marais and the Pompidou Centre was now in my sights. It was heralded by a wall painting which covered the whole side of a tall house and as we made our way towards it, it reminded me more and more of Will Self. Whoever it is, he is very striking and edgy is the word that comes to mind.
Up against a wall …
Having expected to see the Matisse exhibition, we were disappointed. We were only two weeks too early. There is a lot to see nonetheless and we spent some two hours exploring. The contemporary art is well laid out and the mix of styles stimulates.
View from moving escalator – Pompidou Centre
Guess who’s not coming to dinner …
The layout lends itself to spaciness, which offers time to reflect. I find the Pompidou quite a philosophical experience in which I’m allowed to take things in at my own pace. I often feel like lying down full length in galleries but it might cause concern I suppose.
Flying coathooks ou araignée en vol?
Blue and gold together – always irresistible …
On our way out, John tells me to lean over the banisters in the foyer. I am transfixed. What I see must be done with lights and mirrors. There’s an illuminated maze on the floor, inhabited by giant slinking ‘virtual’ white rats, who appear to be chasing the ‘non-virtual’ children around and pinning them down. Their bodies actually just envelop the Lilliputians who run around shrieking wildly. Originality is an intrinsic element of the Pompidou!
Giant white rats on the rampage …
I am slightly biased against rats having (for the only time in my life) struggled to make a pair of curtains which were savagely nibbled by a pet white rat, who had the run of the place. It had an exciting life, even spending Christmas camping on the beach on Lindisfarne with its owner. Nonetheless, a rat is not on my list of favourite pets but these ones certainly made an impression of sorts. A very macabre one.
We left clutching a carafe and four glasses – a present for a friend, found in the stylish gift shop. The glasses were in the retro ‘Duralex’ design – shades of school and the fifties – and the top of the carafe was also shaped like a glass. Clever thought – or in today’s terms – ‘cool’ … and they were well received!
Now we were in Rue des Rosiers, feeling hungry and a little faint. There’s a wealth of good places to eat but we found ourselves, rather appropriately, at ‘Café des Philosophes’. The meal was good, as far as I can remember; the wine was deliciously reviving. The place was a bit like being one of twenty people in a Mini but the waiter managed us all with complete sang-froid. Opposite, there’s an excellent ‘glacerie’.
Winging our way in blue and gold …
Bonbons of the Marais …
Tea time must be at the emporium ‘Mariage Frères’
If you like tea, you must seek out ‘Mariage frères’ – you won’t be disappointed. If you climb the narrow and rickety wooden stairs, you’ll see all the old boxes and tins that the tea was exported in from the East.
Weary footsteps back to ‘la rive gauche’. The hotel cat is doing exactly what I feel like. Tomorrow we’re homeward bound. I fall into bed.
Sweet dreams …
Next morning, we have time for another early stroll to the river for breakfast and then it’s time to pack up and make our way to the ‘Gare du Nord’. And there’s still a lot of Paris left to explore. That makes me feel good. It turns out we were near to the passageway where Dr. Guillotine invented ‘the nation’s razor’. It’s said he practised on newborn lambs.
On a happier note, Alain Fournier (writer of the classic, ‘Les Grands Meaulnes’) lived nearby and it’s also home to La Procope, which, dating back to 1686, is said to be the oldest café. Among its customers were Voltaire, Rousseau, Balzac, Verlaine and Hugo. It is also where the slogan ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité’ was coined.
And then there’s Hemingway. I’m reading ‘A Moveable Feast’ by him, published posthumously in 1964 and just brought out in a new edition. Here, he relates his time in Paris after the First World War. He and his wife didn’t have much to live on. He describes eating tangerines and roasting chestnuts to keep himself writing during the day. At night, he had to put the tangerines in his pocket; if he left them out in the room, they would freeze overnight. It’s a very intimate portrait of his day to day life in the city. His writing is clear, spontaneous, deceptively simple and pulses with life. Some of what he says, especially about the nuts and bolts of writing and wanting to write and delaying writing, touches me as though I am a violin, picked up after a long time of disuse and vibrating to a well loved piece of music.
If you are a writer, or a would-be writer you will truly benefit by reading ‘A Moveable Feast’. The new edition by Arrow Books (paperback) published in 2011.
Une fois de plus, ‘au revoir’ Paris …
With the pink organza ribbon riding high, we arrive at the ‘Gare du Nord’. Always a bit of a kerfuffle but our train is on time, as are we. Soon we’re settled – warm and comfortable. John with ‘The Economist’ and myself with ‘Psychologies’ and ‘Grazia’ (en français) purloined gratis from the end of the carriage.
Just one thing to add. When did I find the time? If you want something enough, you make the time! And luck had something to do with it too … happy days!
Waiting patiently for me … !
END/FIN