It’s August in Paris and I have the
city all to myself. Well, along with several million tourists gathered in
clumps around street corners hovering over maps, looking dazed and confused.
The open marché down the street,
operating Thursday and Saturday mornings, has been shrinking in alarming
proportion. The bread man, the cheese lady, and now my favorite fruit stand are
all MIA, some of their stands taken over by dry goods merchants. A majority of
the local shops are tightly shuttered, with fermeture
annuelle signs posted.
Twenty years ago a person could starve
in August, but the French passion for nourriture
now requires stores to post a list of the nearest open competitors.
##########
As one of the massive Gaza protests
was wending its way down the nearby Boulevard
des Invalides, I sauntered over I took it in…and left with the following
impressions.
Were it a “stop the
violence on both sides” I might have joined in, but it was virulently
anti-Israel (coming just six hours after the latest violation of an agreed
cease fire).
The demonstration was led
by at least 500 French National police in full riot gear. Yet as the throng
continued over a half mile long, not a member of the constabulary to be seen in
the midst. I know where I would be if I wanted to cause trouble.
French unions were more
than amply represented, suggesting that the left has clearly chosen sides. Or
perhaps they just like parades.
In the midst of this
angry mob of thousands, 4 young men held aloft a Star of David. Talk about
courage, or perhaps something less admirable.
I’m still confused by
the chap sporting a pineapple atop a 10 foot pole. Obviously some political
statement of which I am ignorant.
I headed back to chez moi and just at the very moment the multitudes arrived at the
end point on the Place des Invalides,
a dark cloud covered the bright sun and a tumultuous downpour ensued, clearly drenching
to the skin all not under shelter. Ten minutes later the sun reappeared. No
political statement here, but it did seem quite orchestrated.
##########
I’ve remarked before how the French
have taken to physical fitness. At almost any hour of the day there are joggers
along Av. De Breteuil. But I have noticed they are mostly of a certain age,
particularly the women. The young beautiful set, to whom perspiration is anathema,
use tobacco to keep slim.
And yes, the French, including the young,
do generally treat alcohol more respectfully that their American counterparts.
At outdoor cafes, a single small glass of wine can languish for several hours
undisturbed by animated conversation, while a half dozen Marlboros or Camels
are consumed with gusto.
And while traditional begging is very
low key, usually limited to a cup held aloft accompanied by a sad expression, I
have witnessed numerous occasions where a passerby will stop at a café table
and ask those seated for a cigarette. I have never seen the request refused. Go
figure.
##########
Almost time to wrap up this chapter
and head west. Want to get back to the mountains before the September snows
begin.
##########
Taos the cat and I have bonded deeply.
I will miss him. He’s an old codger, not unlike his temporary human companion,
with a variety of aging annoyances, including a nasal discharge that vexes him.
I’ve been attempting to teach him to blow his nose, currently without positive
result.
##########
Next post will likely find me
elsewhere. I’ll keep in touch.
