Friday, May 11, 2001
Busy busy walkie walkie. It’s 6:10 p.m. and I’m as tired as the white Eddie dog who is so exhausted he’s laid out flat on his side on the floor of the métro car.
Let’s see...what have we done today...
Knew ahead of time it’s too hot to go on an unairconditioned bus so we métroed to Odéon and searched out Sylvia Beach’s original Shakespeare and Company location at 12 rue l’Odéon.
Heard of James Joyce’s “Ulysees”? It’s because of HER. [To the right of the tiny iron balcony is a plaque that reads: IN 1932 IN THIS HOUSE SYLIVA BEACH PUBLISHED "ULYSSES" BY JAMES JOYCE.]
[To literary enthusiasts: I devoured "Shakespeare and Company" by Sylvia Beach. Fascinating look into the lives of "the lost generation" authors as they frequented her bookshop/library...if you were to buy the book through this link or the one at disaster-area.org, a portion of the proceeds go to the Wes Stoops Scholarship.]
Visited
the Odéon Théâtre which Sarah Bernhardt turned into a hospital during the
Franco-Prussian War’s 1870 Siege of Paris (Alan’s great grandfather, Mathias
Gantz, served Napoleon III during said and came to America in 1883.). Sarah
also served as a nurse in her make-shift hospital. A surgical nurse even.
What Scarlet O’Hara couldn’t endure, Sarah did.
Appropriately
enough, to find another purported Sarah birthplace (the one Paris places its
plaque on*), one starts at the Odéon, and walks up rue Racine until one reaches
blvd St-Michel, then turn left to reach 5 rue de l'Ecole-de-Medicine.
[*Here was born Sarah Bernhardt Glory of our theater. This plaque was affixed on October 25, 1944 In care of French Broadcasting who carried this day the name of Sarah Bernhardt throughout the world, where Sarah Bernhardt carried so high the name of France.]
We
then visited the Cluny garden with its many flower and herb beds, and one
very botty-burp-sounding fountain drain. [The Cluny fountain sounded like
rain pitter patter.
It
doesn't show in the photo, but water drips off the metal ribbons and glass
balls. Unfortunately that drain made one end of it sound like the Bog of Eternal
Stench. Fortunately, it didn't SMELL like the Bog of Eternal Stench.]
I know for a fact that while I was there, I was the only one photographing chard: I was jazzed that, 1, it was so big; and 2, that they call it “Bette”. I’m such a nerd.
We
picked up some Greek sandwiches, frites, and cold sodas and enjoyed them in
the shade at St-Julien le Pauvre’s park.
Then we walked over to the park beside Notre Dame and behind it.
I’ve been into Notre Dame three times, yet have never sat in the park with
a view of the flying buttresses. We sat watching the tourists and school
children go by, and snarfed the Nacho Cheese Doritos and Dr Pepper I’d imported
for just such an occasion.
After we’d seen 1,001 tourists, we visited the Museum
of Jewish History and Art. (At Les Halles we were confused which way to go
so yet another rude Parisian stepped up to tell us the way.)
I wasn’t that interested in going (simply because it wasn't a Paris specific
activity), but it jazzed me to see three or four Marc Chagalls in person.
Métroed
to rue Cler to buy Nikki and Kilory some stinky cheese at the fromagerie mentioned
in Rick Steves’s book.
Then
we took a rue-side outdoor table at the Marché Café. Just as our confit de
canard, salad, and sauteed potatoes (60F) arrived, a San Diego couple sat
down at the next table. 
We
took a picture of them with their camera and vice versa.
They wanted
to know what we were having; Alan wanted to know if they chose the café because
of Steves. They’d come to rue Cler because of Rick Steves, but like us didn’t
know it was his Cler café of choice until they’d already sat down. Ken said
she’d shot 30 rolls of film so far, though this was their last day. I didn’t
catch her name. We ran down the rue du Mars to the Franprix as they were
closing half their doors. Grabbed COLD milk and the bag of salad that should
finish off the packets of Ranch dressing we brought. (I’m usually salad-starved
by the time I get back to the States, OK? Who knew I’d eat at rue Cler three
times?) Then we took a route we’d never taken before to
get to the Eiffel
Tower’s Champs du Mars. We sat in the shade of trees and the tower in the
twilight and ate chocolate and drank COLD milk. We watched three English-speaking
petanque players glory in their wonderfulness. It was fun.
Then took the #92 bus to Saint-Francois-Xavier. Cornelia Otis Skinner says
Bernhardt’s funeral took place at Saint-Francois-Xavier-de-Sales. The Paris
phone book listed only Saint-Francois-Xavier-de-M___. We couldn’t get into
the sanctuary but could hear a woman singing and an organ. There was one
door that opened to a downstairs office and an unlit descending spiral staircase
up through one of the towers. I followed it upward (hoping to find a door
through which to peek) until there wasn’t enough light to see anymore. The
railing hadn’t been dusted in a LONG time so I came down black-handed.
The #13 métro line was right across the street so we headed home. Alan and I sat across from each other. On Alan’s right sat teenager A and on my right, teenager B. They were quite full of themselves and carried on a lot. Boy B said to Boy A en Français that I was writing in English. They giggle-snorted in French then began “asking” Alan in a pidgin mix of French and English if he loved boys. He was a lover boy. Are you a lover boy? I gave Boy A a knowing smirk and continued to knowingly smirk with every especially stupid thing Boy B said, i.e. “Do you love rabbits?” Boy A was no longer laughing at us, he was laughing at his friend.
Then a disturbed homeless drunk/druggie got on and decided he was going to sit in Boy A’s seat. Boy A got up QUICK. The Smart Aleck was scared right out of them both. The man was yelling at no one in particular, then he was yelling at one man in particular. Trodding on my foot he’d get up to yell at him, then sit down to yell. I smelled dirty underwear – or the lack of it as was witnessed the next time he got up and his baggy sweat pants didn’t quite. This time when he got up he decided he’d kick the tar out of one of the flip-up/fold-down chairs by the door. Then he sat down next to Alan again. And became interested in me and my writing pad. He spoke to me. I said into his bloodshot eyes: “I’m sorry. I don’t understand your beautiful French.” The Light didn’t come on. I asked Boy B what he had asked me. B didn’t get to answer before the drunk had snatched my journal. He started flipping through it and was unhappy with all the used pages. I said “Blanche, Blanche”, flipped to blank pages, and handed him my pencil.
The entire
end of our car and I watched in horrified fascination as he began to draw.
I
was expecting a porno sketch. It slowly turned into a transformer/robot/alien
thingie. At the Guy Moquet stop, I asked Boy B to tell him my stop was next.
He did. I thanked Boy B and said that I only understood SOME French. *wink*wink*.
He was still scared Smartless. The drunk/druggie either titled or signed
his work with “Parigo”. Smiling, I thanked him and told him “C’est bon.”
He handed me my journal and pencil and we fled, leaving Boys A & B with
him. As we left I turned to Alan and said, “Well, now we have a story to
tell.” With an illustration even.
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