Paris Journal 2009 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com
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Yesterday morning, after
writing, it was time to go to the grocery.
In this part of Paris, that can be a real adventure. We’re in the middle of the middle of Paris,
in the old part of the city, where the population density is quite high and
the number of grocery stores is insufficient.
That, coupled with the fact that in this part of the city, by far most
people are employed, means that going grocery shopping on a weekend day can
be hectic. This is an adjustment for a
laid-back subtropical human like me.
Champion is only open from 9AM to 1PM on Sunday, and I arrived at
about 11AM. Parisians had already
formed lines at the cashiers that went almost all the way down each aisle in
that part of the store. Fortunately,
most of what I needed was in the periphery of the store. Still, I had to weave and glide
around Parisians making quick, frenetic, unpredictable, jerky motions. They were dashing about, grabbing this and
that, as if this were some kind of race.
I guess it is, when there just are not enough hours in the day. Ahead of me, a very young
American woman tried to ask a Champion employee, in English, where she might
find bacon. She was met with silence
and shrugs of the shoulders. I felt
sorry for her. So I helped her find
it. We were lucky, because what we
call bacon often is not found in the grocery stores in France. Champion did have it, but as I warned her,
it isn’t quite the same. The slices
are shorter, and thicker. And the
taste would be somewhat different, and it would not be possible to get it to
be quite as crispy as what Americans are used to. She asked me what we did because she was
wondering how one can manage to live in Paris three months out of the year,
and I told her. I was pleased to find the
country bread that I like in the bakery section. There were only two loaves left. It is very fresh, has a crunchy crust, and
tastes like whole wheat sourdough.
Yumm. After patiently finding all of
my necessary items, I joined the end of one of the incredibly long
lines. As luck would have it, a couple
of Americans were behind me, discussing which kind of chocolates to buy for
friends back home. Our line was in the
chocolate aisle. I mean, this store
has an aisle that is about 50 percent devoted to chocolate! That’s France. The Americans from Boston were
leaning towards the Belgian chocolate, and ignoring the Swiss. I finally couldn’t help myself. I said I thought the Swiss was better, and
that the Belgian stuff tasted too waxy.
They explained that the problem is that we can get the Swiss chocolate
(Lindt) in the U.S., and they needed to bring back something that was
stranger. I understood completely, and
then we got into a very interesting, long chat as we waited in line for about
half an hour. We talked about the overvalued
euro, how shopkeepers are complaining about lack of business, about
everything having to do with economics and American tourism in France. The man behind my new friends from Boston
looked like he was trying to puzzle it out, just what we were saying. A big, very old man in a rumpled
black suit, with dingy longish gray hair, butted in line ahead of me. I didn’t complain to him. Later, I was glad I didn’t. He was practically stone deaf, and had a
great deal of difficulty communicating with the cashier. He kept saying “Quoi?” very loudly, right
in her face. She was not amused. Tom usually handles the credit
cards and paying when we go shopping at the grocery, while I bag the goods
(the more technical job, I think). But
he wasn’t with me, so I had to do both, efficiently, so as not to anger those
in line behind me. The credit card machine read my
American Express, but then inexplicably asked for a code. I said, in French, “but it is an American
Express card; there isn’t any code.”
The machine was turned at an angle where I could not see the bottom of
it, because that was obscured by some security contraption by the conveyor
belt. The cashier moved the machine,
and then it was obvious that someone had left their debit card in the bottom
slot of the machine. The cashier removed it, and she
then got the machine to read my card properly. Next time this happens, I’ll have to
remember to look at the bottom slot of the machine. Whoever lost the debit card was
long gone, because the old man ahead of me had paid with some kind of voucher,
and the woman before him had paid with cash.
Some poor, frenzied Parisian was about to find him/herself without the
debit card at his/her next errand.
Sigh. One of my disappointments at
Champion was that the produce aisle had been picked clean by the time I
arrived. No tomatoes. No lettuce except for that stuff in plastic
bags which wasn’t fresh enough. No problem, I thought. I’ll just stop at the Marché St. Germain on
the way home. I would have just gone
there to begin with, but they don’t have things like toilet bowl cleaner and
toilet paper. The Marché, or market, sits on
the site that has been a marketplace since the middle ages or earlier. Now it is a pretty swanky shopping center,
with two thirds devoted to nice shops and formula retail, and about one third
to farmers’ market. Some of the stands in this
market are way overpriced. But the
bakery stand is very reasonable if unimpressive, and the produce stand in the
corner nearest St. Sulpice is quite reasonable and very good. I slipped into the entrance near that
produce stand and efficiently bought a gorgeous head of Romaine and four
perfect tomatoes. With that chore accomplished, I
went on to the next: going to the
other apartment to water the many plants on the balcony and to air the place
out. The weather has cooled enough; it
was time to see if we could make the place over there cool enough to sleep at
night. The fifty-minute walk over there
was pleasant, because it was Sunday and there wasn’t much traffic at all in
the 7th arrondissement.
Just about everything was closed. I arrived, and began the
work. Each year, this seems to get
harder. I think watering so many
plants on a very narrow balcony six stories above the street is a bit scarier
every time. (I can just see my acrophobic
father tremble as he reads this.) And
I try so hard not to let any drips or dribbles fall off the balcony onto the
sidewalk below. Finally, it was done, and I had
the breezes blowing through the hot apartment. I turned on the Tour de France on the
TV. I was hungry. (All I’d eaten all day was one egg and a
slice of that yummy bread.) I went
down the elevator, out and around the corner, and bought some terrific hot
and sour soup (potage Pekinois) at
the Chinese carryout for lunch.
Everything is so convenient here!
What a great way to eat vegetables!
I went ahead and bought
Cantonese rice and caramel pork with pineapple for dinner. I think this Chinese carryout is run by a
Vietnamese family. Back at the apartment, I put dinner
away in the fridge, and heated the soup.
Then, like a tired bunny who consumed the vegetable garden, I fell
asleep on the sofa, trying to watch the Tour de France. Why do I find competitive sports so
soporific? At last Tom arrived. We read newspapers, ate dinner, and closed
up the apartment again. Time for a
nice, hour-long stroll home via old streets and ancient streets. The evening air was cooling, the city was
soft, quiet and beautiful. Ah, Paris. |
Monday, July 6, 2009
Statue
of Denis Diderot, a
French author and philosopher, on the Place Jacques Copeau on the
boulevard St. Germain. This is next to
my favorite newsstand.
He
was a handsome man, wasn’t he? Diderot
had a tough time making a living as a man of letters until Catherine II of
Russia took him under her wing.
Poster
for a new movie called “Le Hérisson.”
I wonder if the fine cat is the star?
A hérisson is a
hedgehog. The books remind me of the
apartment in the 15th arrondissement where we usually stay.
A
chair in a shop window in the 7th arrondissement. It does not look comfortable. Note: The Hotel Madison, shown in the background
above, is offering a “summer special” of a normal room (that means small),
double occupancy, in the quieter backside of the hotel, with a bathtub,
minibar, safe, hair dryer, telephone, satellite TV, and air conditioning for
190 euros per night. Breakfast and
wifi are extra. Given that 190 euros is $266, this is pricey. |
