Wednesday, May 9, 2001
It’s 320 paces from the Formule 1 motel to the bus crosswalk. [676 paces from the métro to doorstep.]
It was 9:57 a.m. when the bus #81 left. It was 10:21 when it stopped at the Opéra. It was 10:20 when it passed Sarah Bernhardt’s former haunt, the Comedie Français. And 10:33 when we got to the Sarah Bernhardt Café. So it’s 36 bus minutes from our Porte de Saint Ouen motel to the Sarah Bernhardt Café.
We
bussed back to the Comedie Français which was not yet open. So we discovered
the gardens of the Palais Royal including pigeons, tulips, tricycles, children,
and fountains.
Scoped out where “Charade” scenes had been shot. Decided the Théâtre Palais Royal was too narrow to be the théâtre of the third to the last scene in “Charade.”
Walked back to the Français whose gift shop had Sarah Bernhardt books and postcards and a postcard of the Comedie’s interior. Voila! I could almost see Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. We bought two 70F tickets to “Le Revizor” tomorrow night.
Métroed to Le Pharaon Café so we could avail ourselves of the phone books downstairs. Didn’t find an exact match for the church which hosted Bernhardt’s funeral. Did find the address for the Dreyfus fabric department store.
We bought Emmental cheese on Monday. Tried it last night and decided we’d feed it to the birds at the Havre-Caumartin métro stop across from the Le Pharaon Café. So Alan started a Hitchcock movie. A German Shepherd joined in once and began a pigeon riot. I missed the photo of the pigeon sitting on Alan’s backpack, but not of the five pigeons eating out of his hands at once. Emmental is truly for the birds.
After I made
him disinfect his hands we métroed to Anvers and walked up rue Steinkirque
to the base of the Sacré-Cœur gardens. On the way, bought three
meters of cerulean blue silk. 
Snacked
on poulet sandwich and frites at the children’s park. Turns out the Dreyfus
fabric store, all three floors of it, was on the corner on the other side
of the art hall/forum. So close in 1996 and 1999, and yet so far. Bought
three meters of black silkish polyester with white polka
dots (what makes a dot polka?). Each fabric table has a woman with a metre
stick. When you find the roll you want, she measures it, makes a snip on
the selvage and tears it to the other selvage. When you’re merely looking
at fabric, they stand there with the 1cm X 1cm X 1metre stick looking like
PMS-ing parochial school nuns. They’re scary.
Took the funicular to the Sacré-Cœur. I sat on a bench while Alan went inside. I’d been there, done that. [Thief of Berganz Bag, 1999] So I sat overlooking the city, writing in the journal and staunchly ignoring the young dude on the other end of the bench who was using every maneuver possible – other than addressing me – to get me to look at him. (“This MUST be Paris” thought the Rubenesque middle-aged mother...) It got irritating, so when Alan returned I pet-named him to death and smiled and head-canted to a sicky-sweet extent just to show Don Juan what was what.
Visited Sarah Bernhardt’s artist studio at 11 blvd de Clichy.
We
rode the Montmartre bus round full-circle and then some. Saw the famous “last
windmills” and “last vineyard” for the first time. 
We
had exited the bus at a stop across from the Moulin de la Galette*, one of
the two last windmills. We took pictures of it and the beautiful wisteria
then waited 20-30 minutes for the next bus, all the while wondering where
the second mill was. I kept thinking I’d like to walk up the street to the
corner and see what was down the other street. But kept thinking I’d surely
miss the eventual bus if I did. The bus came. We got on and rode it past
the corner...where the second windmill was.
[*
"Renoir
delighted in `the people's Paris', of which the Moulin de la Galette near
the top of Montmartre was a characteristic place of entertainment, and his
picture of the Sunday afternoon dance in its acacia-shaded courtyard is one
of his happiest compositions. In still-rural Montmartre, the Moulin, called
`de la Galette' from the pancake which was its speciality, had a local clientèle,
especially of working girls and their young men together with a sprinkling
of artists."]
At the Mairie du XVIIIe end of the line we got confused
about it being the end of the line and argued a bit. A rude Parisian who
watched us from across the street, and who spoke no English, but obviously
knew tired-hungry-married-tourist, left his shop, came over and mimed where
we needed to go. Bless these rude Parisians.
We métroed
and walked to the location of Sarah Bernhardt’s last residence.
A modern apartment is there now with a historical plaque noting the previous
building [which probably looked much like the one to the left.
LOOSELY translated: "On this site previously stood the private mansion
where lived then died on March 26, 1923 SARAH BERNHARDT, ILLUSTRIOUS FRENCH
TRAGEDIENNE."]
Métroed
to the next residence which had a plaque, and presumably its original facade.
It’s now an office with the word “strategy” written on its dry erase board.
Saw a side view of the Arc de Triomphe from WAY down the rue, and the pavillion of the Parc Monceau. Saw a motorcyclist leaving a florist shop with a huge display of white daisies balanced on the “floorboard”. Wish I could’ve snapped a photo. Alan saw a restaurant called Chez Thierry: “Hey look! Cheese Therapy.”
Métroed to the Latin Quarter where Alan wanted to try a new eatery. We chose a 49F Greek place at a crossroad where we watched a cat beg for seafood. The waiter motioned for the cat to meet him at the side so he could sneak him something. By golly, the cat met him at the side. Alan has chosen to eat at a Latin Quarter sidewalk table twice, and twice he’s been obliged to buy me a rose from a rose vendor. Sidewalk tables have hidden extra costs. After the 49F menu was no longer available they still used the offer to lure people in. An Australian family was asking us what we were eating because they, too, wanted chicken. Irritated with the bait and switch, I pointed them toward the Latin Mandarin’s chicken mushrooms or chicken sweet-n-sour and no-detectable-bait-n-switch-so-far. We visited a bit, then off they went.
We came home to call the girls and watch Tim Daly in an episode of “The Fugitive”. Alan loved it: an actor would speak in English then a man spoke the translation over it. “If all TV was like this I could learn French!” Alan said repeatedly. I found it irritating with all the Tower of Babel overbabbling, but amused myself, waiting until it was over to tell Alan it had been in Polish. To be fair, at the end he started to catch on when someone said “przyzwoity dzien” instead of “bon jour”.
Kilory requested “My Fair Lady” in French, and a “My Fair Lady” dress. My heart fails me as to which dress she wants me to sew...A “Rain in Spain” outfit maybe. My luck, she will want an “Ascot Opening Day” frock! Don’t think so.
When we get back she wants to eat at the place with the red sign shaped like a lip. Finally figured it out: Dairy Queen. She also wants to eat at Gramma’s “so we can eat some Fred”: Madeline’s name for a certain dinner-bound chicken.
On two separate occasions both Alan and I have seen Dorie and Rolando’s son, Jared, at the motel. Yes, I know he’s merely a Doppelgänger, but it’s uncanny when even Alan notices.
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