I was lost in France

Fortuitously we had pre-booked a minibus to the apartment and as the Parisian transport was grinding to a halt, due to the worst snow conditions in a quarter of a century, the trip from Orly was slow but comfortable. Our apartment in the heart of the Marais arrondissement was in an old residential building and had beautiful views of the snow capped Notre Dame Cathedral from our 6^th floor balconies. The girls arrived later that afternoon from London by Eurostar after a long wait for a taxi at Gare Nord.  

Their stories...of Wicked the Musical {£40 for a great seat}...Russell Square...Oxford...the Generator...food...the cold complemented the weather over a home cooked spaghetti bolognaise and red wine. It was good to see them again.  

Sleep.

We awoke at 10.30 a.m. to blue skies and a chilly 1°C.

By early afternoon we were off for a three hour walk to make the most of the favourable conditions: Notre Dame Cathedral; Point Zero; Deportation Memorial; Sainte-Chapelle; a walk along the Seine and her many Ponts or bridges; Jarden Des Tuileries and the Eiffel Tower. A quick bite to eat under the Tower, crepes and ham and cheese sandwiches, and we were off via the efficient Metro {€1.70/person/trip c/ to €1.40 in Barcelona and €1.00 in Madrid} to the Ark De Triumph and a walk along the Champ Elyse and dinner unashamedly at our favourite McDonalds there.

The operation was simple but elaborate.

At the Notre Dame Cathedral Anne and I were approached separately by deaf and dumb people asking us to sign a petition explanation on an ‘official letterhead’ to raise awareness of their plight: name; address; postcode; signature and a small donation. Anne gave €1.00 and I thought much the same, while others on the sheet gave €10.00, €20.00 and much more.

My suspicions were raised when I was approached shortly after time and time again and then from the corner of our eyes both Anne and I saw and heard two of ‘the deaf and dumb people’ in animated discussion.

It was Romany gypsies at their best: unashamedly exploiting the disabled and ripping off people for their gratuitous benefit (And casting doubt on genuine organizations asking for money in the future).  The scam was appalling brilliant as it crossed all language barriers.

Another scam that Katie saw was people being approached and asked to translate English and with their attention diverted they were robbed. (At least we were forewarned of this scam in our guide book).

At lunch I noticed the girls getting somewhat agitated and then irritated. Perplexed, it took me a little while to catch on to the amorous couple beside us. Between the entrée and main meal she had longingly starred into his eyes and frequently caressed his hair. By the main meal she was sucking his fingers. By the dessert, well...

We had left.

Riding the Metro in peak period was reminiscent of the crowded Japanese subways. It was here in the carriage that we were caught unaware as we failed, or were unable; to hang on as the train lurched heavily. Colie fell on Katie who fell on me and I fell on a petite woman a third of my size. My best French of “pardon, pardon” did not help alleviate the poor woman’s pain nor our embarrassment. Suddenly the carriage was laughing at us something to the tune of “you silly English”. (A witness to this was our beloved wife/mother who pretended not to know us!).

As we were walking through Paris we had all fallen in love with her. It was not hard to see why with her charming old snow covered buildings and gardens that lined the cityscape. The air was fresh and with the breeze brisk on our faces and the sound of ice crunching under our footsteps the blue sky provided the perfect contrast to the white cobbled stone city pavements.  

I was lost in the moment and began to sing Bonnie Tyler’s homage to Les Bleu: 

I was lost in France. In the fields the birds were singing. I was lost in France and the...

Soon by metro we had made our way to see street performers, elegant boutiques and a cavalcade of movement which lined the Champs-Elysee. Under the avenue of lights we bounced along to the beat of the song:

The Champs Elysee’s is a busy street. We’re getting down with everyone we meet
If you understand, then listen to me.

Parlez-vous Francais?  Oui!

Parlez-vous Francais? Oui!

It was late and we were glad to have arrived back at our apartment {$AU 170/ night}. After some light hearted family repartee we were off to sleep under the city of lights and we could hear the ghosts of the past singing:

Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of...

The next day, Friday, we all left around midday for the artists’ quarters of Montmartre. It was seven years ago when we took a photo of an artist from whom we had purchased two oil paintings on small canvas depicting classical French windows and doors. These paintings have been proudly displayed in our lounge room ever since. But more importantly: Would he still be there? Would he remember us? Would we still like his work?

Not much has changed. Montmartre was still as beautiful as when we had left her. Perched high on a hill in the northern part of Paris the beautiful Sacra Coeur Basilica is nestled between the shops and artists entreating you to be sketched. Aptly the sound of music filled our senses from the street performers, beautiful to watch and exhilarating to listen to.

With some mull wine under Anne’s belt she jovially approached the artist quarters with a sense of anticipation.  Where is he? Where is his work?

“At last!” Anne cried out in exhalation, “we were here many years ago, and we bought some of your work and you are still here and you still look the same”, to which he responded with light hearted Montmartre banter; “Normally 3 paintings for €50, but for you, I give them to you today for €60”. Needless to say Anne bought another three paintings {€45} and engaged in more banter. Was there was just a hint of romance in the air?

We had a late lunch at the bottom of the hill at a little pizza place and at the girls request we visited the Holocaust Memorial Museum {free}, which describes itself as “the largest information centre in Europe on the subject”. The visit was a sobering reminder of the sanctity and fragility of life. 

As I wandered through the museum and reflected on the words from the brochure:

65 years after the discovery of the death camps, knowledge about the history of the Holocaust helps to fight against all forms of racism and intolerance

I hope so?

But I also questioned whether man’s inhumanity to man had really abated? 

The Genocide’s  in Kurdistan in Iraq in the mid 80’s under Saddam Hussein; By Bosnian Serb forces in Srebrenica in the mid 90’s and in Rwandan also at that time come to mind.

It was a somewhat sombre, thought-provoking and reflective metro ride back home for the day.

 Thankfully, Colie cooked a wonderful Chicken Bocconcino for dinner.

By now Colie was making the astute judgement that not only was I writing a blog but I was living in one, something parallel to the Matrix.  Anne meanwhile was immersing herself in the French language at the local Boulangerie, or Bakery with an eloquent Bonjour, Au revoir, Sil vous plait, Merci, Un Baguette, Pardon and Excusez-moi with every visit. She was in her element. 

The following day, the last with the girls in Paris, we visited the Musee d’Orsay {€8}, one of our favourites from our previous visit. The former old train station is a repository of fine Impressionistic art and such a wealth of social and cultural capital for the world. The Masters from Renoir to Rodin, Monet to Manet, and Gauguin to Van Gough, and Toulouse-Lautrec to Matisse, and Seurat to Signac, Corbet to Degas filled us with wonder.

We saw the girls off at the apartment (a taxi ride to Gare du Nord and then the train to Amsterdam) around lunchtime and then had a siesta.  After, for the next three hours we walked the Marais and its neighbourhood. Visiting what looked like the progressive parish of Saint Merry was interesting and watching life go by in a cafe was like being in a picture postcard soaking up the Parisian way of life. It really was such an accurate stereotype of this romantic city.

We visited the local produce markets, fruit, vegetables, fish, cheeses etc. Upon being offered a sample of fine cheese, which at € 11/kilo was sublime, we ordered a half a kilo. Only trouble was that my eyes needed checking as the cheese cost € 44 /kilo. None-the-less we felt very French.

Dinner was at the Le Bonnes Soeurs {€60}, which translates as ‘the good nuns’, near Victor Hugo’s home.  This convivial cafe was archetypal inner city and we were lucky to eat there as we had no reservation (very popular with the locals). We found out that two nuns actually opened the restaurant three years ago and the walls were lined with photos, caricatures and paintings of you guessed it, nuns. The food was superb, and we splurged on a half a bottle of a € 40 bottle of red. It was well worth it! We raised our glasses to ‘Auntie Vonnie’: such a tragic loss for us as family; to the Sisters of St Joseph and to the indigenous community in WA.  We thanked her for the wonderful legacy that she left us.

Eating here is such an art and not mere function. It is a celebration of what it is to be human. Time is respected, the cuisine savoured and the company enjoyed. Life is too short to forget about what is important. Le Bonnes Soeurs gift to us that night was to help us be present to life.

Our last visit to the Louvre, seven years ago, was a 30 minute mad rush to see iconic paintings like the Mona Lisa; “It’s so small” we remembered saying as we flitted off from gallery to gallery. It was like a scene out of the show The Amazing Race.

This time we took our time and we were able to savour the experience.

On a comparatively warm day at 7 °C a 20 minute stroll to the Louvre {€9.5} was followed by a four to five hour visit of some of the galleries. This time capsule of statues, artefacts and paintings, which in more ways than one belongs to the world, was like knowledge; the more you know, the more you realise how little you know.

Many emblematic pieces caught my eye: From the Greek period- the famous and well loved Venus de Milo (Aphrodite, c. 100 B.C.); The Winged Victory of Samothrace; From the Italian Renaissance- Mantegna’s St Sebastian; da Vinci’s Virgin and Child and the small Mona Lisa with her wandering eyes; Veronese’s huge canvass, The Wedding Feast of Cana; Michelangelo’s The Dying Slave; Psyche and Cupid; and from the French Neoclassical and Romanticism period- Napoleon’s official painter, Jacques-Louis  David,  The Coronation of Napoleon, Delacroix’s thought provoking Liberty Leading the People; and my favourite of them all, Theodore Gericault’s, pronounced ZHAIR-ee-ko, engaging masterpiece  The Raft of Medusa.

After a walk back to the apartment in the fading light it was time to rest and reflect upon the fruits of our day.

Mid Monday morning, December 13^th, the Hotel de Ville Metro Information board lit up with -1°C as we were on our way to Chartres via Gare Montparnasse. The one hour pretty trip {€28 each rtn} was filled with beautiful vistas of the French countryside with thinly wooded forests and gentle rolling plains and the residues of last Wednesday’s snow falls was still apparent.

Chartres and the village were impressive. The labyrinth and the stained glass windows all had a story to tell. Walking inside the Gothic Cathedral you could get a real sense of the pilgrims that would have visited in medieval times; people of simple and great faith. Lunch at the suitably named Le Serpent Cafe adjacent to the church, a quick stroll around parts of the village and we were on a way back to Paris.

We decided to walk from Montparnasse and we took in the illuminated sites of the Pantheon, Cluny Museum, Luxembourg Gardens and a visit to the St Surplice Cathedral (also of Harry Potter fame). Our very full day was complete with a two hour visit to third of the Holy Trinity of Art Museums, The Pompidou Centre {€12 each}, which houses a collection of modern and post modern 20^th and 21^st century art. (The Louvre and the D’Orsay form the other parts of the Art Trinity).

I have always had a predilection for cemeteries. In recent times with my sister Helen we would walk through the church graveyard at Punchbowl and remark on the early 19^th century graves. So a visit, on our last full day in Paris, to the Pere Lachaise was a must. This 100 acre city of the dead had some impressive long term residents: the writer and much maligned Oscar Wilde (whose grave is sadly gratified); Parisian singer Edith Piaf; the wayward and much revered 70’s rock star Jim Morrison; composers like Chopin and Rossini and Holocaust victims and members of the French resistance. It was an inscription from them that resonated most:

We, the survivors, have erected this simple monument as a witness to the faith, courage and hope that have ceaselessly driven and supported us through our ordeal.

So much of death reminds us of life. What are we here for? What have we done? What will we leave behind?

Two hours later, Anne was off shopping in the Rue Cler; traffic free with tiny shops that spill out onto the streets. Meanwhile I clearly did not have enough of my morning experience and visited the Catacombs. This ossuary from 18^th century Paris in a maze of underground tunnels is a tribute to French pragmaticism. Dinner at the hip Lizard Lounge {€27}, not out of place in Surry Hills, we reflected on our week. Anne named Le Bonnes Soeurs; Reconnecting with her ‘artist friend’ at Montmartre and the Louvre as her favourite experiences out of many.

On our first day in Paris in the Metro a couple of kind French residents recommended to us that we buy a carnet, a ticket of ten single tickets as it would be cheaper. They also said that the unused tickets are good for a lifetime. We hope one day to honour that promise.

In one weeks time we will be in the land of my mother and father’s birth under the roof of some fine Hungarian hospitality of my mum’s brother Pisti and his wife Ili. It is always a privilege to share precious time with one’s relatives.

But before then, I am reminded of the late US President, John F Kennedy’s words as he proudly proclaimed, “Ein itch bin Berliner”.

Soon, after a 90 minute delay on the tarmac because of heavy snow in Berlin, we arrived in this city of paradoxes,  bright and bubbly with a deep and sometimes dark history.

Until next time,

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika