Paris Journal 2012 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com
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I saw a man being pulled up out of the gutter, literally, yesterday. I’d just crossed the boulevard Saint Germain, headed north on the rue de Seine. At that point, for about a block, the rue de Seine becomes a pedestrianized market street. You can walk right up the middle of it, and at first cheerful cafés are on your right and left, spilling out onto the sidewalk with their tables and chairs. Then a butcher shop on the right has set up an entire case under its awning on the sidewalk, showing off roasted chickens, roasted potatoes, tasty looking side salads of various kinds, some bottles of wine, and much more. You can still walk down the sidewalk there, if you’d like, but you are then walking right through the butcher shop, in effect. Then the mad Carrefour grocery is on the right, while a large fruit and vegetable shop is on the left, also taking over the sidewalk. Only local delivery vehicles and taxis are supposed to drive through this block, and they must proceed slowly and carefully, because here, and on the rue de Buci, pedestrians rule. There, at the corner of the rue de Seine and the rue de Buci is Paul, a bakery founded in 1889. Its sign says that it has “pains rustiques et de fantaisie, patisserie fine, viennoisserie.” I wonder what fantasy breads might be? The bakery is very popular, in part because of its high-quality goods, but also because it has lots of little tables and chairs, some inside, and some outside. You stand in line, ask for your items when it is your turn (AFTER you say “bonjour” and “s’il vous plait,” of course), pay at the end of the counter, and then take a seat and enjoy your purchases. The entire Carrefour is very busy with people, but this corner, especially, is populated because of Paul. Turning right, the rue de Buci is a riot of cafés, pedestrians, a souvenir shop, a wine shop, and more. Back at that corner again, by Paul the bakery, is one of those places designated for parking bicycles and scooters, right at the edge of the sidewalk, at the curb. The bikes made it difficult to see him, if you were trying to navigate this distractingly busy corner in a delivery truck or taxi. But he was there, collapsed in the gutter, sunburnt, dirty, and inebriated. His clothes were grungy, except for an extraordinarily long scarf that he had loosely wrapped around his neck, with a very long end of it dragging loose, as if it had been wrapped around his head like a turban, but had fallen off. The scarf was so clean and new, it looked like it came from one of the display racks that the souvenir shop had set up on the sidewalk, not far away. That gutter on that corner was a dangerous place to collapse. The man could easily have had his legs run over by a delivery vehicle whose driver would have little chance of seeing him. A good Samaritan was trying to urge him to his feet, helping by lifting his arms. Gently, but firmly, he was talking to the man, inches from his face. “Come on, come on, it is necessary to move away from here,” he seemed to say. Perhaps 15 minutes later, the good Samaritan had managed to move the man or get the man to move over onto the sidewalk, propped up against a building, away from the curb, on the rue de Buci, right next to a door that led to the apartments upstairs. The good Samaritan did not leave. He crouched next to the man, and he talked with him. The good Samaritan wanted to hear the man’s story. I’d also like to hear the good Samaritan’s story. In the evening, we shared stories over drinks and snacks in “our” apartment with friends from Fort Myers, Florida. Suzanne and Helen are in Paris for just a few days’ visit, staying over on the right bank near Opera. Many years ago, Suzanne was a colleague of Tom’s at Ohio State University, but then she went on to be a Dean at Case Western Reserve University. In retirement, she chose to live in southwest Florida, as we have done. Tom plays the drums in a little band that Suzanne put together. It is only one of several bands Tom plays with, but its season goes on longer than the others. They still had gigs in May, I think. This particular band plays for free at nursing homes. But Tom has no bands to play with in Paris. Many of you ask if he plays in the summer. Of course, he has no drums here. But he has sticks, and he has a drum pad. His old drum pad he left in the suitcase in the storage room at the apartment in the 15th. Tom wanted a new drum pad, of a different kind. So he went off on his own to the famous drum store, La Baguetterie, in the 9th arrondissement yesterday afternoon. He knows it is best not to make me go, because he can spend an enormous amount of time looking at these percussion toys, which are all pretty boring to me. But I can see that an excuse to go to the drum store was a boon for Tom. He enthusiastically went off on his own, managed not to get lost (because I persuaded him to take a map), bought what he wanted and had a fabulous time perusing the wares of La Baguetterie. The store’s name sounds as if it only sells drumsticks (“une baguette” is a stick, so when you buy bread called a “baguette,” you are buying a stick of bread), but it sells oh so much more. Tom pronounced La Baguetterie as “almost as good” as Columbus Percussion, another famous drum store that he knows well. After some thought, he said, “maybe in some ways it is even better.” Truth is, the stores are different. Columbus Percussion caters to professional drummers from all over the world; La Baguetterie is conceived more for a mass market of musicians and would-be musicians. (For those who still don’t get it, percussionists are musicians.) La Baguetterie is housed in a building on the rue Victor Masse. The store, as I remember it, has many levels: the ground floor, an upstairs, a basement, a sub-basement, and a sub-sub-basement. For a drummer, it is Toyland. Helen, one of our dinner companions, is a novice drummer. We teased her a little about getting more drum equipment, but she protested that her condo is too small to handle it. So we had lots to talk about, stories to share. The conversation was lively. Tom had bought some meringues from the famous Pierre Hermé shop on the rue Bonaparte, and we had fun tasting them and washing them down with sips of white wine. We walked to La Petite Chaise for dinner, which was good. Service was very friendly and efficient. We were remembered immediately, perhaps even before we arrived, because we did make a reservation. Tom and I chatted briefly with one of the servers about his vacation; he went to Dubrovnik again, but this time, he went to London as well. Twenty-four days of vacation, he said with a sigh. We have this conversation with him every September. Helen and Suzanne ordered the duck leg in orange sauce, Tom had lamb chops, and I had the mignon de porc (which was much like the mignon de porc that Tom had at Chez Fernand the previous night, except that his was better). The ladies wanted red wine, so I ordered a Côtes de Blaye Bordeaux, which was excellent. For dessert, Tom ordered a delicious flourless chocolate cake, and Helen had the perfect crème brûlée. We lingered at the table, talking, after dinner, so only a few tables were still occupied when we left. After dinner, it was an easy walk for Helen and Suzanne to just turn north on the rue Saint Peres toward their hotel, so we said our goodbyes there. Then Tom and I strolled home through the majestic Place Saint Sulpice, in the lovely night air. |
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Scenes
on the Place Saint Sulpice.
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