Author: judith zinis

I am a professor of film and literature in the United States as well as being part Greek. My grandfather was born in Kastellia, north of Delphi. The first time I visited his village, my uncle, his brother, said that the night before he had dreamed that the moon had told him I would be visiting. Although I speak little Greek, I feel at home in Hellas. Presently, Greece is in crisis. As I travel through the country this month and next year when I will be a Fulbright scholar, I want to know how the Greeks are managing their lives.

Paris Day 5

On By judith zinisIn Going Home To Paris1 Comment

April 5

The painter, the poet, and I went to the market behind Bastille. Bought olives and radishes so we could have a lovely breakfast tomorrow.  The poet found a cafe that had advertisements for photo show of the Rolling Stones in the Place des Vosges which is close to where my son and his wife are staying until Monday.  The poet asked if he could take a photo of me leaning against a poster showcasing Keith Richards. I wondered if he saw age as the tie.

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Since the gallery was near by, we wandered over, but it was closed. Much time has passed since I had been to the Place des Vosges, more than seven years: I had forgotten how stunning it can be.

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I spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to get French classes at the Catholic University, only to discover the short term classes are offered only in the summer. The conversation with the clerk was in French as her colleague who could speak English wasn’t available. As soon as I used the word “voudrais” or would like, using the conditional tense, she sighed with relief. “Vous pouvez parler le francais.” You can speak French she said, but I know, pas bien.  She gave me the name of a school which I will try tomorrow, my fifth attempt at locating a place to school me in French.

My son called for restaurant suggestions known for good steak au poivre. The only one that came to mind was Balzar’s:  the last time I was there didn’t impress. We ended up at Chez Paul by Bastille.  Company good, food not so good.

I covered 12 miles today but found none of the women I’m looking for, not even myself.

 

Paris Day Three and Four

On By judith zinisIn Going Home To ParisLeave a comment

April Three and April Four

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April 3 and 4

Confusing days for me. An Irish friend said there is an expression in Gaelic that means being between two sides: it resonates.

No running water in the entire building including toilets. Merde.

Went to the Marche D’Aligre near Place de la Bastille.  Intoxicating for the eyes, the ears, the nose.   Took home radishes, blood oranges, and raclette infused with wild garlic. My mother cooked well, but the Brenots taught me a reverence for food, for flavor: Mme. Brenot’s trips to the open air markets, her perfect vinagrette, M. Brenot’s unforgettable tarte d’apricot, pairing the right wine with each course.

A typical meal might begin with a thin slice of jambon (ham), followed by haricot vertes, then, a biftek or veal in wine sauce, salad, cheese, coffee.  In Normandy, at their summer house, we ate lapin hache, that is, rabbit minced with tomatoes, olive oil, and herbs, a crab bisque, tomato salad, with du pain (bread, a baguette) to get the last of it’s juices.  Knowing how to cook in the French way brought me a good many accolades and sustained a sense of myself.  This side may be subsiding.  To be replaced by what?  Does it need replacing?

That night at the Luxembourg Cinema, I saw an Irish film, The Maze, a fictionalized account of a break out by Irish Republicans from Her Majesty’s Prison, led by the last “blanket men.”  These were IRA members, ten of whom died through a hunger strike protesting their lack of political status.

Somehow, this film’s depiction of prison sunk deep within me, feeling viscerally what it means to be imprisoned, to spend years confined, without the sympathic touch of a loved one, excluded from nature, your thoughts your only company- the deprivation, the suffering.  How does one survive?

Still no water when I woke up. I didn’t go down to breakfast, feeling too grubby, washing with bottled water.  Finally got dressed and found a cafe where I had a cafe Americano. It’s 2 in the afternoon, no running water.

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I’m trying to stay loose. It’s a beautiful day. I have real doubts about what I’m doing which is my usual reaction the first week of a long trip. This time, the feelings are exasperated as I try to explain my project to whoever inquires, given I have no idea where it will lead, if anywhere- some kind of weird examination of process, my process.  Sophie Calle followed other people.  I’m following myself.

I woke up in the middle of the night and tried to assauge feelings of doubt;

I wrote the following at three in the morning:

Explore the neighborhood, see what happens

Some possibilities: try on other’s writing style, Annie Ernaux, Sophie Calle

 

 

Paris Day 2

On By judith zinisIn Going Home To ParisLeave a comment
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April 2
At breakfast, I met a poet who arrived yesterday as I did.  We discussed what we were doing in Paris as like me he was here for a month.  I tried to explain but found I even confused myself.
I went looking for Agnes and found Rue Daguerre, but no Agnes.  Strange that I’m looking for her when I was not more than two feet away from her a few months ago.  The IFC cinema was showing Faces/Places and advertised that she might show up: she did not disappoint-so alive, so engaging.  The theater is small and as she talked in the lobby, I hung about and took a photo.
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I almost followed an elderly woman comme Sophie Calle but decided to stick to my goal looking for Agnes and signs of the street she honored in her film Rue Daguerre.  There weren’t many.
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At a real estate agents’ there was a photo of an alley that looked very much like a photo I remember seeing where she was outside talking or was that in The Beaches of Agnes?
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I gave up the search and made my way to the Le Cimetiere du Montparnasse.  On the corner of Rue Daguerre and Rue Gassendi was a shop of  collectibles leading the way.
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In the cemetery, a map located where the famous are buried.  Samuel Beckett, being Irish like part of me and sometimes confusing as I seem to be, could do for a visit as well as Jean Seberg.  She sold Herald Tribunes in the film Au Bout de Souffle: I sold them for real.  Like her, my route was the Champs Elysees.
On the way to Beckett’s grave, I passed Serge Gainsbourg’s: it is festooned with flowers.  Looks “a bit cheesy, but nicely displayed” as Frank Zappa might say.
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Maybe he’d like it.
Beckett’s grave is unadorned and austere much like his work.  No fans with flowers for him.
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Lastly, I found Jean Seberg.  Her’s is honored similarly to Gainsbourg.  Hard to know what she would make of it, just as it was hard for her to figure out her own life. Are we in the same boat?
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Walked to Le Select on Blvd. Montparnasse where I spent most nights that summer I sold newspapers.  We were a noisy bunch of young French, English, Scandinavian, and American students.  Each night I went to the Alliance Francaise for French class, then to the Jacky Bar around the corner where the bartender, a cranky Canadian, would give us free drinks if we passed out Jacky Bar flyers to unwilling pedestrians.
We would end the night at the Select flirting with each other, shouting at each other about politics, teasing each other, and leaving just in time to catch the last metro.
Today, I sit with a pot of camomile tea and look over to the corner where on my last day in Paris as rain streaked the window, I said good bye to my French boyfriend.
 “Il pleure dans mon coeur…” Paul Verlaine.
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Afterwards, I walked back through the cemetery, seredipitously coming across Baudlaire.  His grave depicts a man strapped in place, all tied up, as I seem to be.
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Going Home To Paris?

On By judith zinisIn Going Home To Paris2 Comments

April First, First Day

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Is it the Day of Fools or the Day of Resurrection? Am I the fool who slips into nostalgia or can I be “born again” in this home of homes, my first home, Paris.

I packed my wallet- a window into this exploration. My up to date passport is slap up against my old ID card to the French National Archives.

I left my room, now in the 5th: my place of comfort is the 6th and Carrefour Odeon. Feeling disoriented, I headed that way but quel supris: my location behind the Pantheon is to my liking. My heart pounded, my pulse raced not unlike the first time I saw Paris.

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Yet, the past confronted me walking away from the Pantheon on Rue Soufflot. What was Rue Soufflot resurrecting? My first time in Paris when I lived with a French family whose daughter was a friend of my mother’s. I don’t think they knew what to make of me. I talked to German young men on motorcycles, wore my jean skirt almost daily, and could only say “Oui,” “Non,” and “C’est beau.” Mme. Brenot, a seamtress and dress designer, decided to take me in hand and bought me a stripped blue and white blouse from a store on Rue Sufflot making alterations so the fit was parfait. I wore it for years.

Jardin du Luxembourg,  Mostly Parisiennes strolled leisurely on this Easter Sunday. I overheard two older women discuss what the statues surrounding La Fountain des Medicis smbolize. Their conversation put me deeper into France where most feel qualified to comment on art, tres serieuse.

In an effort to ground myself, I made for my usual haunts. Or am I just playing it safe? Nostalgia again. First, Cafe de la Marie across from L’Eglise St. Suplice. I sat outside and tried to order a glass of red wine in French but the waiter didn’t understand, so it’s English. The rest of the day had the same language exchanges, a bit of French, a bit of English.

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One more stop: Les Editeurs, what had been my local restaurant. It’s only 5 in the evening, so most are drinking coffee, beer, or wine. As I hadn’t eaten for over 12 hours, I ignored convention and ordered a coupe of champagne and sardines. The waiter impressed, arrived with a white tablecloth and, presenting with a flourish, added “A real Paris experience.” My neighbors stared as did most passers-by, intrigued by the spread: baguette with butter, peanuts, olives, toast, sardines on a board with a lemon, salt, chopped onions, and parsley.

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Still, I don’t feel tied to the earth, to Paris, to me, to the past or the present, but caught between.

Agnes Varda looked back in her film, The Beaches of Agnes, then in her late 80’s went forward in Faces/Places taking a road trip through France with a young photographer. Tomorrow, I will visit Agnes, or at least her street, Rue Daguerre.

My last day

On By judith zinisIn Going NorthLeave a comment

The last day in St. Pierre consisted of breakfast and a trip to the airport. I had arranged to pay my bill the day before and had asked Guillaume, an assistant at the hotel, if he knew where I could buy the cloudberry jam served at breakfast each morning. I explained I had searched every store in the island without success. He informed me that harvesting each berry off individual stems didn’t reap much fruit and there were only a few places where the berries thrived. These, he said, are jealously guarded by residents. The cloudberry jam I ate every morning was his grandmother’s.

When I brought my luggage down, he was there to drive me to the airport. But first, he had a gift, small jar of his grandmother’s cloudberry jam- an example of the generosity and hospitality of the people of St. Pierre and Auberge Saint-Pierre.

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