Went by the apartment in Montmartre I
rented nearly 45 years ago (the one with the telephone). A few changes. The
local neighborhood grocery is now a real estate office and the local “bar” is a
garage. The 400-yard uphill trudge to Place du Tertre and Sacré Cœur Basilica seems steeper.
The “bar” was run by M. Georges and
Mme. Nadine, pieds-noire, native
French who lived in Algeria before Gen. deGaulle granted that country
independence in 1962. This was a “bar” in that you could purchase alcoholic beverages,
and as it was just several doors from my apartment at 27 Avenue Junot, it served as a convenient watering hole after a
long day commuting to Le Bourget airport preparing the U. S. Pavilion for the
coming Paris Air Show.
But upon reflection (and with
consideration for my naivety at the time), it appears that Georges and Nadine
may have actually been marketing a product quite apart from strong drink. The
place was (very) dimly lit and the “hostesses” were exceptionally friendly (but
never “pushy.”) I consumed only alcohol, practiced my virtually non-existent
French, but never offered to buy a round for the gang and was never induced to
do so. However my buddy Bill tried to arrange an Air Show translator job for
one of the “hostesses” and got quite a shock when he saw her in daylight.
Place du Tertre at the top of
Montmartre was commercialized even when I lived there, with artists of varying
talent sketching the faces of young and old. It was here I had my first French chien chaud – hot dog, drank my first pastis, and discovered why Paris is
known as the City of Light.
##########
If you order a drink “at the bar” in a
French café the price is approximately half of what you pay for the same
beverage while seated at a table. In the last decade there has transpired a
major concession providing bar stools in some of the more progressive establishments,
but distained by the whizzed and bent retirees, who have been standing for well
over an half century and see no reason to modify long established behavior.
I have never figured out why I should
pay twice as much to sit vice stand. But today, after an extended winter (3+
weeks for me but months for the locals, including rare accumulating snow as
opposed to occasional flurries) a warming sun seemed to convince the populace
that perhaps printemps – springtime,
was in fact not a cruel myth. I snagged one of the few sunlit outdoor tables at
a Place Gambetta café, and spent a pleasant 90 minutes watching the world pass
me by.
In France you can buy a $1.50 coffee (I
prefer a different flavor refreshment) and occupy a table for an entire day if
you choose. It’s the egalité thing
– if we are all equal, what right do you have to ask me to give up this table?
On all of the Metro quays there are
signs warning against venturing on the tracks or into the tunnels due to Danger de Mort. I have investigated and
determined that Mort is the guy with the spray paint can, whose (some call it)
artistic work can be seen all over the city, even deep in the Metro tunnels
where no (sane) man has gone before. The danger, I gather, is being sprayed with a
panoply of pastel colors thus made to resemble a billboard.
##########
And change is indeed in the wind. I
write this from Car 8 seat 91 on the Thalys high-speed train to Brussels
airport, and thence to Chicago, Denver, and Bozeman, MT some 24 hours hence (if
I’m lucky).
The “high-speed” is not as high as the
TGV, and because of extensive track work between Paris and Brussels, the
high(er) speed has been somewhat low(ered). But at least we are moving and haven’t
broken down as happened on the inbound leg.
This leg of the adventure will return
me to Montana which is in the midst of its requisite April snowstorm, M.
Nature’s way of playing one last winter joke before spring emerges.
Here I will await final word (promised
soon) on the next iteration of my odyssey, sneak forbidden treats to my grand
puppies, and enjoy springtime in the Rockies.
I have been traveling to Paris is for
some 4+ decades. I always arrive with great anticipation and depart without
regret. This time I left a few personal items behind, a talisman designed to bring
me back, and back, and back again.
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