Tuesday, May 1, 2001
May Day in Paris is wet, too.
Up at 9 a.m. Walking to the three grocery stores in Porte de St-Ouen confirmed my fears: everything’s closed May 1 (except florist shops and most eateries).
Joan of Arc scaffolding has been put up in front of the Opéra Garnier. Also at the opéra: huge crowds, police, microphones, loudspeakers, French songs about Joan of Arc, and medieval reenactors on horseback.
Streets
closed off. 
Everything
in the quarter closed except the “Le Pharaon” (Pharaoh) brasserie where we
enjoyed vegetable soup, a Camembert sandwich, and a window seat with a view
of the “Havre-Caumartin pigeon triangle”. I swear there was a Don Corleone
pigeon. The Godfeather, I guess. A woman came by and fed the pigeons at
the Havre-Caumartin pigeon triangle. I know it was a dog held under her arm,
but it sure looked like a Lemur/Marmoset.
Walked to 65 rue du Provence where 4-year-old Sarah Bernhardt had been abandoned
by her biological mother.
(And where she jumped out of a high window to escape her situation and get her Aunt Rosine to take her, now-injured, back to her less-than-pleased courtesan mother who didn’t seem to intend to ever fetch her back from the maid.)
[Sarah Heartburn seen in the doorway.]
Happened upon the Trinité church and garden. Love the pigeons! En route
to the Marais’ St-Paul métro exit, we “corresponded” at the Concorde station.
We heard Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue”. It was awesome. Then we got up there
and it was being played on an accordion, not an organ, or electric keyboard!
I will regret forever not giving him some francs.
We headed
for rue des Rosiers in the Marais. The Jewish Quarter is not a place to “need
a McDonald’s.” We enjoyed Haagen-Dazs’s Macadamia Nut Brickle and Belgian
Chocolate ice cream cones, but no bathroom. Down the rue
was the Jo Goldberg delicatessen. We enjoyed the bathroom, chicken broth
with farfels and Jewish rye. There was a cat in the window sleeping with
his/her back to us, close to Alan’s shoulder. It was about Wally’s size.
Then he woke and sat up. Turns out he had Wally’s coloring and weight, but
schlepped it on a skeleton smaller than Bill’s. Which means its torso was
twice as big as it should have been, based on the stumpy legs. I wanted to
take a photo of him sitting there. Alan was laughing at him.
I warned Alan not to laugh at him so I could take the photo, and because –
on principle – one should never laugh at a cat. I framed the shot...then
Alan made annoying kisskiss noises at him to get his attention. “Morty” huffed
off before I could snap the picture. I blamed it on Alan; Alan blamed it
on the cat’s bladder, although the cat never made a bee-line for any unseen
cat convenience. I told Alan that the circling cat would return to his perch
as soon as we left. Alan denied it and went off to the bathroom. The moment
he was out of sight “Morty” scrambled back to his perch and the other patrons
laughed. 
I
took his picture and gave him a look to let him know that I KNEW and didn’t
blame him. Alan denies the scenario still.
We continued through the Jewish quarter down to the Place des Vosges where little girls danced to Romanian ensembles and fathers played tag with sons. And where it got a tad colder and blue patches of sky filled back in with clouds.
We walked from Place des Vosges to the Bastille where there was a communist
parade* going on in honor of Labor Day/May Day/May 1. March march Chant chant
Yell yell. Blech.
Then walked
to the Seine taking photos all the way. Bought postcards to send and an Eiffel
Tower key chain (to be a Christmas ornament) along the bouquinistes. People
selling Lily of the Valley muguets on the street were even more plentiful
than they have been all week – and that’s saying something. [Apparently it’s
tradition to trade gifts of muguet (lily of the valley) for good luck
on Labor Day/May Day.]
*According to Veronique Wiist European parades mean marching and military might, NOT cheesy floats.
Mother’s Day
dinner in Paris is always at the Jardin Notre Dame. It wasn’t Mother’s Day
but we ate poulet at Jardin Notre Dame anyway. Across rue
Petit Pont at Gladine’s restaurant a woman was sitting at a table. Seated
across from her was her large dog. I wish I could have gotten a photo. 
At
one point the dog got down to join her elsewhere and when they returned to
the table the dog put his front paws on the seat then one at a time put his
back paws on the seat. I wish I had a franc for every person who nearly gave
themselves whiplash as they passed.
We bought “Who Can Tell?” for the girls, and a souvenir publication at Shakespeare and Co. At the time George Whitman wrote said souvenir ode, he was 88 years old. He’s been there since 1951. Kinda think this was our last chance to say “hi” to George.
Friday, April 27 | Sabbath, April 28 | Sunday, April 29 | Monday, April 30 | Tuesday, May 1 | Wednesday, May 2 | Thursday, May 3 | Friday, May 4 | Saturday, May 5 | Sunday, May 6 | Monday, May 7 | Tuesday, May 8 | Wednesday, May 9 | Thursday, May 10 | Friday, May 11| Saturday, May 12 | Sunday, May 13 | Monday, May 14 | Epilogue