Le Champo – An Itinerant Woman

Sunday February 23

I found the marche! It was Marche Monge. I had confabulated several markets and lost my way. Here were the familiar stalls: the excellent cheese monger, the flower seller, the cous cous stand (not great as I remembered) and the Italian stall. I had plans for most of the day, so I bought a slice of vegetable lasagna for dinner in my room and two bunches of tiny daffodils.

Marche Monge

I gave myself an hour to get to Gare de L’Est where I was meeting Christiane. We were to visit Cimetière de Montmartre in search of a de Jorna grave. Usually, I walk around Place Tour Saint Jacques. But today, walking through a park on an overcast day appealed to me. These small green oases in Paris restore. As I was exiting on to Blvd. de Sebastopol, I felt myself falling and could see there was no escape. Flat on my face, bruising my left eye while hitting my right side.

Place La Tour Saint Jacques

First, had I ripped my jeans? No. Second was there a pharmacist close by, open on a Sunday? I was in luck. French pharmacists are excellent sources of advice, almost like going to Emergency Care. He gave me a cold pack, medication to help oxygen move to the bruise, and a salve. He told me that every day someone comes in with the same condition as if the street had caused the injuries. That soothed me somewhat, but this wasn’t the first time I had literally fallen on my face in France. Last time, I lost four front teeth.

I returned to Place Tour Saint Jacques, found a bench, applied the cold pack, and cancelled my plans. No one looked at me except by accident and, then, the onlooker’s eyes widened in shock. I took a selfie and understood their surprise. I had a real shimmer.

I spent the rest of the day in my room: reading, resting, applying cold packs.

Monday February 24

When I woke up, felt the bruises on my face, and got a look at my black eye, I wanted to go home. Like a child who needs it’s mother, the comfort and familiarity after being hurt, I wanted my house with it’s beautiful light, my cat who loves me, sort of, my garden, my, my. But this desire to bolt isn’t unique. The last two times I stayed in Paris, I left early, just a few days, but why?

Milo, the man in my life

What am I looking for? I always thought I should have stayed in Paris when I was 21 and not come home to do the expected, that is, get a degree. I felt free, accepted, in control, unburdened. Well, I can’t get that back. And what burdens am I looking to unload? A state of mind unencumbered by expectations, by obligations? Yet, when I want to leap across the Atlantic, the ties to loved ones, to landscape pull at me. Aren’t they encumbrances of a sort? Whether writing or traveling, essentially the same question rears it’s unwanted head. What the hell am I doing? Part of the process of making a life, of trying to create something?

After spending part of the day writing, I decided to hide myself in the movies. Armed with sunglasses, I walked to Reflet Médicis to see Visconti’s White Nights. I passed the Champo: a line extended along Rue des Écoles, people of all ages waiting to buy tickets to Fellini’s La Notti de Cabiria, Nights of Cabiria. The scene heartened me: you’ve got to applaud the French love of cinema.

At the ticket booth, I had to remove my sunglasses and felt the need to explain my appearance: Je suis tombe dans la rue ( I fell in the street). Immediately the clerk asked if I was all right. Did it hurt? Scratch the surface and the French can be tres gentils.

I came to see Visconti’s 1957 adaptation of Dostoevsky’s short story “White Nights” (La notti bianche): the cinematography seemed strangely real and unreal. The black and white photography reminded me of his La Terra Tréma. Whereas that film was shot on location in Sicily, this film takes place on a set, a carefully reconstructed section of Livorna. Disconcerting. Like the characters, I was thrown off guard.

La Notti Bianche

Visconti explained,

”It must look as if it is false but when you start to think it’s fake, it must look as if it were real.”

On my way home, adorned with sunglasses, I decided on a pastis at Cafe de la Nouvelle Mairie. Again, I felt compelled to explain my shiner to the barman. Again concern.

Cafe de la Nouvelle Mairie

Monday February 17

Attacked by delayed jet lag. After writing a bit, I had to go to sleep. Several hours later, I roused myself. My plan was to sit in a cafe on île Saint Louis and read Paris Creole, but I couldn’t move. Finally, I decided on a chore for which my body might be capable- finding the illusive drinking glasses.

I asked one of the administrators to direct me to the housewares shop he had introduced me to last year. An inexpensive shop. Instead he sent me to one around the corner. Tres cher, very expensive. Since I had very little energy, I forked over 6 euros for 2 small glasses. Even the clerk agreed they were “chers.”

Back in my room, I was tempted to return to bed, but I knew several hours later, I’d be hungry and bored. I went to the Médiathèque, the library of the Irish Cultural Center, to do a bit of research. The “book” will include a discussion of my Irish grandmother’s immigration experience. She lived in the center of Ireland from 1893 to 1906. Uncovering primary sources about life in rural Ireland has proven difficult. I found three books all written by men but at least they cover the right period.

Then, I took myself off to the Champo cinema where I’ve been going since I was 21.

Tonight was Jean Renoir’s The Southerner with Randolph Scott. I needed an English speaking film. I didn’t have the stamina to try understanding French for two hours. In 1946, the film won the Oscar for best director and was shown at the Venice Biennale. Why I asked myself. The characters are stereotypes of poor farmers, almost caricatures, the acting is often wooden or over the top especially Beulah Bondi who plays the grandmother, and the cinematography is forgetful. Some mise-en-scenes seemed directly copied from the film Grapes of Wrath. And by God when I left the theatre, it was raining again. This time, no umbrella.

Like a bad penny, I returned to La Méthode for dinner. I ordered dessert realizing too late, it was unnecessary. With my coffee came a small piece of cake, comme d’habitude. In France, a small sweet often accompanies an order of coffee. I returned home to some reading and the jet lag reversed on me. I was up most of the night. Not one bit tired until the next morning.

Tuesday February 18

I continued to write about not writing as I‘ve been doing, then, spent the afternoon with yet another nap. And like yesterday, I forced myself to get out. This time to Luxembourg 3 off Boulevard Saint Michel for Tu Mourras a 20 Ans, You Will Be Dead When You Are 20. Using my limited French, I bought a ticket and asked in which “salle” (room) the film was being shown. Still no one attempts English with me. Is it because there are so few tourists?

The film is Sudanese, so it was subtitled in French. I understood most of what I read except when the sous-titres passed by too quickly. The film follows a young man coming of age in a small Sudanese village while living alone with his mother. It reminded me of Satyajit Ray’s 1956 film, Aparajito, in its pace, cinematography, it’s focus on a mother, even the emphasis on doors, physically and metaphorically. Quite beautiful and moving.

Where to have diner. Should I continue my “residence” at La Méthode? I could walk over to my old neighborhood, Odeon, and eat at the highly rated Le Comptoir. Yet, for all it’s casualness, it seems full of itself. Aux Délices du Liban, a Lebanese restaurant, around the corner from the Irish Cultural Center, seemed a good choice. It was closed, so I walked down Rue Mouffetard to La Crete, a Greek restaurant, and enjoyed a lamb and pasta dish redolent with cinnamon. I considered dessert. The waiter and I discussed the absence of loukimades, so I settled on a coffee.

What can distract me tomorrow or is it all grist for the mill?

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An Itinerant Woman

Tag: Le Champo

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