Paris Journal 2009 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com
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We passed through the scene of
the crime yesterday. At the end of
August 2000, Tom had his arm broken by a pickpocket whom we caught in the
act. The pickpocket’s partner got away
with Tom’s wallet, and Tom, unwisely, held onto the pickpocket by the
wrist. Finally, using violent soccer
maneuvers, the pickpocket knocked Tom to the concrete floor, cut his lip, and
broke his arm all at once. It happened at the top of one
of the escalators at the Motte-Picquet metro station. We’ll never forget it. Yesterday, we had to go to
lunch in the 17th arrondissement, in the vicinity of the Place des
Ternes. We took the number 10 metro
from Mabillon to La Motte-Picquet, where we switched to the elevated number
6, requiring us to pass through that scene of the crime and use the
escalators there once more. The metro station has been
renovated. To foil pickpockets who
worked the rickety wooden escalators, the escalators are now modern and very
narrow, making nearly impossible for pickpockets to pass people there. The security cameras are back
in place; the old ones had been knocked astray with a broomhandle or
somesuch, and were worthless on the day we were attacked. It was one of the things that made us
suspect that station staff were in on the highly organized pickpocket ring at
the time. Everything is brighter,
sleeker, cleaner, and more modern now in that station. Over the PA system, the warning to beware
of pickpockets is repeated in four languages every couple of minutes or so. Not being aware was not our
problem. It probably would have been
better had we been oblivious, and simply didn’t notice the missing wallet
until later. But we saw it happening
as it was happening; I could even see it coming. I even saw the thief sliding the wallet out
of Tom’s pocket as I was yelling at Tom, “Your wallet! Your wallet!” But those guys were fast. The fact that one of them was violent
really got the attention of the police.
Undercover cops were put in place immediately afterwards. I could spot them, and I’m sure the thieves
could, too. But nevertheless, their
presence can be effective. Yesterday, as we walked through
the bright corridor toward the skinny modern escalators, I looked at
Tom. He had his wallet open, in his
hands! I said “WHAT are you doing?” He was checking for something, I don’t know
what. But he put the wallet safely
away. I swear, my blood pressure will
always rise several points when I’m in that part of the Motte-Picquet metro
station. Yet there was no question; that
was the way to get to where we were going.
I enjoy riding the number 6 over the Seine; with the elevated train,
you can see so much. This includes a
nice view of the Eiffel Tower. At lunch, we learned that our
young friend is not as young as we thought.
We thought she was probably 22 or 23.
But she’s 27 – the same age that Tom was when Ohio State University
hired him, Ph.D. in hand, to be an assistant professor in the English
Department. We met our friend’s mother and
her brother at the Jeff de Bruges chocolate shop on the rue Poncelet. The brother was impressive; he works for a Swiss
company in London. He was wearing a
very sharp suit and speaking beautiful British English which, he says, he
learned in school, starting at age 12. The young man who worked in the
Nicolas shop on avenue Emile Zola this summer also spoke excellent English
(American style), and he also said he learned his English in school. The woman who runs the fromagerie in the Saint Germain
Market, however, says the language instruction in the schools here is
abysmal. Her daughter studied German
for ten years, she said. She could
read German, write German, translate German.
But when she went to Germany, after all those years of study, she
found that she could not understand the spoken German, nor could she speak it
well enough to be understood. I think it all comes down to
the quality of the teachers. I know
the first two French teachers who taught me were a world apart in terms of
the quality of their French; one was a native speaker, and the other most decidedly
was not. Our young friend is now going
to take written and then oral English as a Second Language tests in an
attempt to get a job in the Foreign Affairs Ministry. In the oral test, the testers will bring up
subjects as conversation topics, and she will have to speak knowledgeably on
whatever subject they bring up. We
think she will have to work very, very hard to prepare for this part of the
test. After lunch, we decided to walk
all the way home, which is quite a long way.
We walked up to the Arc de Triomphe, then went the full length of the
Champs Elysées. The commercial part of
the Champs is not my favorite part of Paris, but the Champs was a straight
line in the direction we wanted to go. The park-like part of the
Champs, from the Rond-Point to the Place de la Concorde, is lovely,
especially on the north side of the avenue.
In the corner of that park in front of the American Embassy is a very
large Sequoia tree. At the Jeu de Paume, we paused
to look at an outdoor photography exhibit that ridiculed tourists in third
world countries. While I thought the
photographer was successful in conveying his message, Tom thought the message
was condescending. We went through part of the
Tuileries, exiting at the steps that lead to the Passerelle Solferino. There, under cover of the passage leading
to the Passerelle, was Bernard
Constant, the magnificent one-man band, playing beautifully. So we sat and listened to a few songs,
applauding after each one. He loves the
applause, and usually doesn’t get much of it because passers-by just don’t do
that. Two cops on bicycles came and
chased away the Pakistani man who had been selling water bottles near
Bernard. Bernard has a license to be
there as a busker; but the Pakistani man has no license. In fact, he’s probably an illegal
immigrant, and that’s why he’s doing this particular “job.” At that point, we exchanged
greetings with Bernard, and he went to have a cigarette. We made our way across the river on the
Passerelle. We skirted around the Palais de
la Legion d’Honneur, pausing at the back to admire its handsome garden. Moving on past the plaza between the Palais
and the Musée d’Orsay, we were pleased
to hear a classical flute being played by another busker. At the rue de Poitiers, we went
to the beginning point of the rue de Verneuil. I was feeling great relief to be back on
the left bank again. It suits me
better than the right bank. As we went by the front door to
the piano shop on the left bank, we heard lovely harpsicord music coming
through the shop door. We paused to
listen as the shopkeeper played. At the rue Saint Peres, the
dividing line between the 7th and the 6th
arrondissements, we went down to one of Tom’s favorite streets, the rue
Jacob. That street brought us to the
rue Bonaparte, where we remembered that we had to buy newspapers. We went around the people
making the scene at the Deux Magots and bought papers at the newstand that
never seems to stop on the boulevard Saint Germain. Back at the rue Bonaparte, we
went down to the Saint Sulpice square, admiring the beautiful fountain there,
but noting that its basin is starting to fill up with green algae – micro
algae, not macro algae. A few days ago, when we passed
through this square, a wedding had been going on and the decorated cars were
out in the square. One was a vintage
Citroën and the other an old Volkswagon bus, the likes of which I’ve never
seen in France, but remember well from decades ago in the U.S. The wedding party was milling
about in front of the church. I
thought, wow, this is a convenient place for a wedding, because the Mairie
(town hall) for the 6th arrondissement is on one side of the
square, and the great hulking Saint Sulpice church is on the other, with a
beautiful fountain in the middle. You see, French weddings must
take place officially in the town hall, but most or many people then also
have a church ceremony. Photos are
taken afterwards, and the fountain is a lovely setting for that. What a scene. We smiled as the wedding party noisily
drove away, horns honking. After such a long walk and big
lunch yesterday, we decide just to stay home in the evening, eating delicious
bits and pieces from the refrigerator, which had been stocked with goodies
from the market. What a long,
beautiful day it was. |
Friday, September 11, 2009
Poster
on the restroom door at La Salle a Manger on the rue Mouffetard.
The
rue Mouffetard.
Pretty
windows and mosaics on the rue Mouffetard.
Huge
old plane tree planted in the Jardin des Plantes in 1785 by Buffon
himself.
On
the rue Clovis on the Montagne de Ste. Genevieve, you can still see a remnant
of the old Philippe
Auguste wall that once surrounded Paris. |
