Tag: travel

Paris Days 22-23

On By judith zinisIn Going Home To ParisLeave a comment

Sunday April 22

Sunday, we went to the country, that is, Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, in northern Paris to meet with two of her friends, one with a toddler.  As my daughter hadn’t had breakfast, we stopped in a cafe that offered brunch, Le Ju’ on Rue des Archives  There was a line waiting to get in which we thought bode well.  Not so. The brunch was fixed, no choices: a plate of tired croissants, scrambled eggs, not so bad, a hamburger, why, and a fruit bowl.

We took lines 5 and 7 on the metro, found her friends, and strolled the few blocks to a park entrances. Given we had a toddler in tow, we made our way to a sandbox.  I walked with one of the  women and managed to converse in French for almost 15 minutes ranging from what I was doing in Paris, the difficulty of working from home, and the challenge of selling art- she curates and sells paintings. Being a generous soul who speaks beautiful French,  she practiced great patience with my tense difficulties, lack of proper articles, and general mispronunciations.

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After several pleasant hours watching children play and battle in the sandbox, we went back to Odeon.  We thought we would try Polidor for dinner.  But the restaurant was hot and smelled of roasting meat.  Although seated, we left before ordering much to the disgust of the waitress who let us know that she found our behavior intolerable.

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On to Le Pre Verre near the Sorbonne- closed.  We had passed a pretty art deco restaurant on Rue Racine, a bit formal, but since we were starving, it didn’t matter where we eat as long as it was soon.

An hour and a half later, we were still hungry.  The food was inedible: a first course of cold pumpkin soup with a dollop of creme fraiche had no flavor and an unpleasant texture.  My daughter warned me that the soup would predict the quality of what was to follow.  So true.  The steak described on the menu as selected by Monsieur So and So, nominated as the best butcher in France, was so tough and dry, I could barely cut it much less eat it.  The waiter seeing full plates each time he whisked them away didn’t insult us by asking if we wanted dessert.  Later we discovered that Bouillon Racine is a well-known, respected, and historic restaurant. Incroyable.

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To make sure we ended the evening on a good note, we returned to the familiar Les Editors for cafe gourmand and Armagnac.

Monday, April 23

Monday found us walking on the right bank.  On our way to one of her favorite stores, Merci, we walked through Les Halles.  The last time I visited was during the early morning hours, the area crowded with crates of fruit and vegetables.  I finished the night by having onion soup in a small restaurant on the edge of the market.  Au Pied du Cochon is still there, but instead of a market, there are benches and greenery.  Finally, we reached Merci and managed to covet something in each department.  Downstairs, a restaurant faces a courtyard, and Mon Dieu, finally, good food: excellent soup and salad, accompanied by a tart rose.

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Next, Place des Vosges for apero (aperitif) with two more of her friends, a woman and man she had worked with when she taught English to business clients.  Her American friend is married to a French man and is now a French citizen; the fellow is married to a French woman and is a novelist.  We had lots of laughs and a discussion about which bank is in, right or left.  I opted for the left.  In the past, I only spent time on the right bank when I sold newspapers on the Champs Elysees.  My daughter and her friends all hail from the right and insisted that the left bank is over, passe.  As her American friend put it, “I never cross the river.”

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We parted in time, we thought, to get to the restaurant, Poulette, where we had dinner reservations.  We soon realized we weren’t going to make it on foot, so we took a bus.  Another altercation between French citizens.  The bus got stuck behind a garbage truck; consequently, the ride was stop and go.  The passengers began asking the bus driver to let them off.  My daughter said that the French can get very cranky if they are late getting home for dinner.  But the French have rules and one is that bus drivers can only stop at bus stops.  Otherwise, the driver gets a hefty fine.  One young man was undeterred, demanding again and again that the driver let him off.  Finally the driver stopped the bus, stood up, faced the fellow, and told him to stop the harassment.  The passenger made faces and rude remarks- it seemed they might come to blows, but an older man stepped in and defused the situation.

Poulette turned out to be a fine choice.  Beautiful tiled walls, delicious fish, and mashed potatoes so rich in butter, they were yellow.

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After walking 10 miles over 12 hours, we called it a night and had a tearful good-bye in the lobby of Grand Hotel des Balcons.

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Paris Day 6

On By judith zinisIn Going Home To ParisLeave a comment

April 6

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I had invitations for a variety of activities , but I needed some time to myself.  Decided to do wash and try a language school. I did get through to one and was advised to take the test immediately if I wanted to start next week.  I did as I was told, and, with great difficulty, took the test on my phone.  It corrected the spelling for almost every word, forcing me to begin again, and again, and again- a 30 minute test done in an hour and a half. Using my phone for everything digital such as maintaining this blog takes forever.  Using the computer in the Mediatheque means using a French keyboard, another frustration.  After those grueling experiences, the washing machine skipped the spin cycle: everything had to be rung out by hand.

I had to get out.

More chores. I went to the Monoprix on Boulevard St. Michel in search of a few glasses (one for drinking, one for flowers, one to hold pens and pencils), a soap dish, and some basic utensils. I forgot to bring my swiss army knife. Not a successful experience, certainly it isn’t anything like the Monoprix I frequented in Aix: no glasses, no soap dish, no utensils. I walked out with a bar of soap and a dried out palmier, as again, I forgot to eat lunch.

The day was saved on my way home.  Carts of sale books surrounded the front of Librairie Gilbert Joseph, a bookstore on Boulevard St. Michel.  Marguerite  Duras stared back at me.  Surely a sign.  The first in three days.  Lack of water, technical challanges, and searching language schools saboutaged 72 hours.

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Finally, I bought some glasses at a local hardware store, some wine, nuts, and a bottle opener at the local Franprix, retrieved the luque olives purchased at Marche Bastille, and sat in the Irish College’s courtyard reading my newly purchased book on Duras in French. Pas Mal.

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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.

On the Way to Inishmore

On By judith zinisIn Ireland and ScotlandLeave a comment

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“We live in the poor heart of Ireland” John McGahern wrote about his beloved County Leitrim. I, instead, am in the heart of a wild beauty of Ireland, Inishmore in the Aran Islands. I sit in my room in Kilmurkey looking out on the North Atlantic down the coast towards Kilronan, fat raindrops on the window, hands chilled as the radiator doesn’t seem to work.

My chaotic departure began two days ago. I was running late for the shuttle that would take me to the airport. I instructed my neighbor, who had volunteered to transport me, to throw everything on the dining room table into my carry-on bag. Later, I discovered my garage door opener and a pair of one-armed glasses has found their way into the bag. Meanwhile, I searched frantically for the special pants I had purchased for the trip. No luck. I threw everything I could see into my suitcase. As I settled into the car, shoes popped out of my open handbag. I made the shuttle and on the way to Newark airport rearranged my belongings.

Twenty-four hours later on the train to Galway, peace and excitement sat comfortably within me. I had a seat all to myself, McGahern’s book of essays, and the green of Ireland outside my window. In his love song to Lietrim, he describes ancient hedges separating properties and left undisturbed as no one seemed interested in developing that part of the country. “The hedges are the glory of these small fields, especially in late May and early June when the whitethorn foams out into streams of pink and white blossoms.” As it was May 31st, I spent most of the trip looking for whitethorn and found them, just as he described, between fields dotted with cows, sheep, and sometimes horses. The Irish have a saying,  “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it will change.”  The sun had been out since we left Dublin, but as we approached  Galway, the sky filled with large sooty clouds, dominating the flattened landscape.

Given the upheaval when I left the states, I opted out of exploring Galway during the hour before the bus left for the ferry. I played it safe and sat in the Victoria Hotel directly across from the bus stop. The hotel, fixed up to honor its heritage, is overdone and inauthentic. However, the white and pink peonies in large vases atop sideboards were for real. I wiled away my time gazing at thier large feathered heads and thought of McGahern and his whitethorn.

 

 

ANOTHER ATHENS HOTEL

On By judith zinisIn Observing GreeceLeave a comment

I’m having a Chelsea Hotel moment even though I am at an upscale hotel in the “quartier” of those who have swimming pools on their roof, Kolonaki. I have left the hotel only twice in the last twenty-four hours: to go to a meeting about my Fulbright grant after which I returned and slept and, then, three hours later, to walk three blocks for souvlaki and a beer. Within an hour, I was in my pajamas and back in bed. Soon, it will be 8:00 P.M. and I could go out and find a taverena, but I’ve decided to skip dinner, have a drink and some potato chips from the minibar. Did Faulkner and other writers at the Chelsea succumb to “ennui” so easily?

I didn’t surface for very long today, but it was long enough to notice that many pedestrians carried shopping bags with the labels of expensive stores. I did see other signs of change besides graffiti new to Kolonaki.  An old women in widow’s black surrounded by plastic bags holding her belongings had strategically placed herself on the pavement next to an ATM machine. Nevertheless, she didn’t seem to be profiting by her location. Several older men and some children moved up and down the steep streets with outstretched hands, and a young women sat in a doorway breastfeeding her child, completely exposed, her hand extended.

In today’s International Herald Tribune, Paul Krugman in an article about the European economic crisis wrote, “Forget about Greece, which is pretty much a lost cause; Spain is where the fate of Europe will be decided.” For some, he seems to be speaking the truth; others may be “fiddling while Rome burns.”

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