Only in Paris …

15Sep10

Ah, Paris …

In what other city could you be propositioned by an octogenarian, comforted by a bum, and moved to tears by a street musician? Oh—and I forgot to mention my budding friendships with a couple from Tokyo and a photographer from Israel. All in one day!

I awoke to rain this morning, so I opened my Paris Circulation map book to brainstorm some indoor activities. But by the time I’d had breakfast and showered, the skies looked a bit more promising.

So I decided to go to the 6^th arrondissement and visit the former home of Auguste Compte, which has been left intact since Victorian times. According to the guidebook, it’s open only on Wednesdays from 2 p.m. until 6. “Perfect!” I thought. “That’ll give me time to visit the Cour Rohan on the way.”

I’ve accidentally walked past the Cour Rohan several times, oblivious to its existence. It wasn’t until I read Walks Through Lost Paris that I knew a) where it was, and b) why I wanted to see it.

The Cour Rohan is actually made up of three small courtyards that date from the 14^th century. One of the buildings used to house the bishops of Rouen during their visits to Paris. Another was built by King Henry IV as a gift to his mistresses, Diane de Poitiers. More recently, composer Camille Saint-Saens (of Carnival of the Animals fame) was born in the first courtyard. And the third courtyard still contains remnants of the city wall that Philip Auguste built in the Middle Ages.

I was enraptured by the spirit of the place. And I was very, very glad to be independent of the tour groups that were passing through, with barely a moment to look—let alone see.

After I’d shot, oh, 700 frames, I continued my walk across town. Along the way, I spotted a graffiti artist’s take on actor Adien Brody (hubba, hubba!), a new mural by the artist Némo on the rue Chat qui Pêche (appropriately, of a fishing cat) … and yet another incarnation of Olive Oyl, this time as Frida Kahlo:

Then, along rue de L’Odéon, I saw an exquisite display of teapots in a window. I stopped to take a closer look. “Bonjour, madame,” said the owner. I greeted her and walked into the shop.

The teapots were meticulously arranged by color, price and type. Fine dishes and teas lined the lower shelves.

“Do you import all of these yourself?” I asked the shopkeeper in French. “Yes, we travel to Japan twice a year,” she answered.

“They’re gorgeous,” I said. “I feel like I’m in a museum!” She nodded and then bowed.

I picked up some oolong tea, as a thank-you gift for my friend Chris. Her husband came out of the back room to ring up my transaction. “Do you mind if I take a photo?” I asked. “Please, yes,” he said with a slight bow. He reminded me to take a photo as he gave me my change. “Domo arigato,” I replied, bowing in response. How wonderfully civilized.

I walked out of the shop and immediately got lost. As I was studying my map, an old man approached. “Do I know you?” he asked. “No, I don’t think so,” I answered. “Tu habites ce quartier?” he asked. “Nope. I’m an American,” I answered in the best French I could muster. “I’m staying in Vincennes.”

He reached out and put his arm in the crook of my elbow. “Would you like to come home with me?” he asked. “Pardon?” I replied. “Pour avoir une liaison,” he answered, “tu veux avoir une liaison?”

The words didn’t register at first. But after a second it all made sense. I was being hit on—by a man old enough to be my grandpa.

“Merci, monsieur, mais non.”

“Why not?” he asked in French. “Are you afraid?” I nodded, although I was more confused than afraid. “Mais pourqoui?” he asked. “Je n’ai jamais violé une femme!”

Although it was comforting to know he’d never raped anyone, I had a date with Auguste Compte. I backed away as quickly and graciously as I could. “I’m married, monsieur.” “So am I,” he said, holding up his hand and pointing to his ring. “But it can be our secret. No one needs to know.” He was still calling after me as I walked away. “No one needs to know, madame!” Ah, l’amour.

I finally found the rue de Monsieur Prince, but it took several tries to spot the address. Although (in hindsight) #10 is clearly labeled, the house number was far above my eye level. A kindly bookseller finally pointed me in the right direction.

Alas, the place was closed. My guidebook was apparently outdated: The museum is now open only on weekends—not on Wednesdays. Sigh.

Thwarted, I decided to visit the Couvent des Cordeliers, a convent built in 1262. It’s supposed to be the best-preserved Flamboyant Gothic building in Paris. Alas, it’s under restoration. Denied again. Sigh.

So I walked a mile south to the Luxembourg Gardens.

I haven’t been to the Luxembourg since 1997, so I’d forgotten its charms. It’s where seemingly all of Paris spends its afternoons. Kids gather around the main fountain, where they launch mini-sailboats for only €3.50 per hour. The toddlers flock to the pony rides. But many of the adults seem interested only in photography. That’s how I met Shachar.

I saw him from across the fountain, waiting patiently for the perfect moment. “La patience, c’est la fondation de la photographie,” I said as I walked toward him. “In English please?” he replied. “I’m sorry … I said that patience is the foundation of photography.” Shachar nodded and smiled.

We compared cameras and lenses and talked about our favorite spots. Like me, he travels to Paris once a year—but he hasn’t yet been to the Galerie Vivienne or the Eglise St. Gervais-St. Protais. I haven’t been to the Tour Montparnasse.

“Did you hear that they closed the Eiffel Tower yesterday?” he asked. Bomb scare, apparently. I congratulated myself for having visited Montmartre instead. I also wondered how an Israeli might feel about bomb scares. No big deal? Or scary reminder of home?

We traded website addresses and parted ways. His site is admirable—he has a wonderful eye for architectural detail. He had an exhibition in Paris last year. Wow.

I wandered aimlessly through the 6^th and 5^th arrondissements. I saw the old Roman amphitheater, which is amazingly well preserved. I bought some candied ginger from an old Chinese lady. I tried to get into the Collège des Bernadins. Closed. The towers of Notre Dame? Closed. Sigh.

Maybe it was time to go home.

But on my way to the métro, an amazing voice stopped me in my tracks. Someone was playing the guitar and singing Paul Simon. I was drawn to the sound like a rat to the Pied Piper.

As my siren sang Blackbird, I started to cry. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because I was watching the sun set behind him in Paris. Or maybe it was because I know my days are numbered. Maybe it was because of his beautiful voice. But whatever the reason, the tears ran down my cheeks.

A clôchard—a homeless guy—sat next to me on the bench. He said nothing, but he kept looking at me sympathetically.

Finally, he whispered, “Don’t worry, miss, I won’t touch your goodies.” I looked at the candied ginger that sat between us. “Do you want some?” I asked him in the best French I could muster. He demurred. “Tenez, monsieur,” I said as I handed him a bagful. He couldn’t believe his luck. “Truly?” he asked me in English. I nodded. He told me he’d eat it when he got home. I wondered where “home” was. I patted him on the arm and bade him farewell.

It was getting cold. The troubadour kept promising “just one more song” but I was shivering. I got up and approached him, and he stopped in mid-sentence.

I put a 10€ note in his hand. “I’ve been here almost a week, and you’re the best thing I’ve seen yet,” I said. And I meant it. The old buildings are wonderful, but a heartfelt song is eternal.

“What’s your name?” I asked. He wrote it down: Jan Gregersen.

As I walked away, he sang “Love, love, love,” the intro to the Beatles classic. I looked over my shoulder and smiled. I bet he sings that to all the girls.

Still … what a perfect end to another great day in Paris.

PS: My travels today took me past many interesting sights. I watched as two men in a huge cherry-picker gave the gargoyles of Notre Dame a bath. I also saw some lovely architectural details, some beautiful old streets, and a single forlorn stuffed raccoon in a shop window. Only in Paris.

Filed under: Attempted humor, Music, Paris, Photography, Travel   |  4 Comments
Tags: Adrien Brody, cour rohan, Jan Gregersen, Jan Gregersen Paris, Jardins Luxembourg, leonard pitt, Luxembourg Gardens, Notre Dame, Odimex Paris, Paris photography, walks through lost paris