Paris Journal 2012 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com

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Every once in a while, I capture an image that conveys what we love so much about Paris; at least, the image conveys it to me. I found such a sight last night, as we walked home from dinner. I think it was on the rue Dupont des Loges in the 7^th arrondissement. It is one of those little streets that runs along at an odd angle, almost connecting two big avenues (Bosquet and Rapp) that are also on odd angles. Walking with a camera, I keep my eyes open. That is to say, I am awake, aware, looking for interesting things and, sometimes, people. I looked up to my right, where a lovely French door/window on a Haussmannian building was lit from the inside, light shining through the assortment of flowers arranged on the decorative iron grill that spanned the lower half of the opening. The light was golden, probably because the walls of the room inside were golden. This is one of the colors often used in French dining rooms, because the light reflected off of it makes people look good, or at least, better than they would in harsh, cold light. The images involving warm light abounded yesterday evening, but this one pulled at my heartstrings. Earlier, we’d selected the café/restaurant/brasserie called La Terrasse for dinner. We would have chosen La Gauloise, but the prices there have gone up, making it more a place for special occasions. Plus, we wanted simpler food. Yet, we also wanted the elegance. La Terrasse was perfect. To go there, we simply walked up the rue du Commerce, which changes names to the avenue de la Motte-Picquet. At the point where that avenue crosses the avenue Suffren, we entered the tony, important, safe, and quintessentially Parisian 7^th arrondissement. (Note: property taxes are also among the highest in the 7^th.) Then we were walking along the southeastern end of the grand Champ de Mars, where red roses were blooming wildly. There were absolutely no illegal vendors of Eiffel Tower trinkets (and the accompanying pickpockets, cons, etc.) to be seen anywhere. (This is a big change from last year; the revolving door of the justice system has evidently stopped revolving for those guys. The cops got them off the streets and out of the parks, and the justice system is now keeping them off the streets and out of the parks. Have they all been deported? Gone to jail and stayed? Or been given gainful employment? I do not know.) Undisturbed, uninterrupted, and enraptured by the ambiance, we moved on toward our destination, La Terrasse, on one of the many corners that ring the Place de l’École Militaire. This old military school, by the way, is finally getting a long-needed restoration of its façade, I’m happy to say. At the moment, it isn’t as photogenic as usual because of the netting on the cornices and column capitals, and the solid fencing around its base. But I’m greatly relieved to see that something might be done to preserve its many wonderful, but rotting, windows. At the restaurant, we were warmly received and given a prime table at one of the upholstered banquettes that look more like loveseats in somebody’s parlor. The tables at La Terrasse, where they’d usually be small in most places like this, are a more generous size, an enlongated oval in shape, and have tops of black marble. The upholstered chairs, banquets, and awning are all a soft red, and provide that warm reflection of light that I speak of. The servers are dressed in black and white, and are very professional; they are never obnoxious at La Terrasse. They, and the maître d’ and bar men are also kind. When a weary family comes in, perhaps after emerging from the busy metro station exit just outside, to ask to use the restroom and even to ask for free glasses of water for the children, these men say yes, and water glasses are filled and served, for nothing but the gratitude that the family offers. People often ask us what criteria we use to select restaurants when we happen upon them during our walks. There are a number of these criteria, but one that is illustrated in the photograph that I took of La Terrasse’s interior is the type of people dining there. Take a look at the couple of a certain age dining on the right side of the image that shows the formidable old display cabinet. When you see people like that dining at a place, especially on a Sunday evening, you know the place must be good. So we ordered a very simple, little dinner: grilled lamb chops and green beans. There wasn’t much to it in volume, but it was just what we needed. Each plate had two little perfectly cooked (medium rare), juicy chops, and the green beans were absolutely correctly done, with just the right amount of butter soaked into them. Tom tried to order the special dessert of the day, a millefeuille géant or millefeuille vanille, depending on which menu you consulted – but there was no more of it. On Sunday, the serious dining starts early, around 1PM, and by the time we were asking about dessert, it was close to 9PM. We understood. So Tom ordered the tarte tatin instead: a thick slice of apple pie served with a bit of whipped cream. Really nice. After dinner, we decided to stroll up the avenue Bosquet, and then down the avenue Rapp. The wide avenues are good for slow, relaxing walks after dinner; there’s plenty of space on the sidewalks there, and the people who still are rushing about for some reason have plenty of room to maneuver around you. The avenue Rapp has a building at number 29 that is a favorite of mine, and many others, I’m sure. It is a wildly decorated and much phototraphed Art Deco wonder, built in 1901 and designed by an architect named Jules Lavirotte. It doesn’t have a name, but many of us call it the salamander building, or la maison de la salamandre. A French blogger named Geka wrote a weird piece about the supposed plethora of satanic imagry in the building’s decoration, and the Huffington Post has seen fit to archive this because, I guess, they’re afraid it might evaporate in cyperspace. I include a link to that here, because it includes good photos of the building, including a few interior shots. The salamander on the front door is my favorite decoration on this fine building. When I first saw it years ago, somebody kept its brass body polished beautifully. But in recent years, it and the other brass hardware on the door were allowed to turn dark with tarnish. The building, too, showed increasing signs of serious deterioration. It must be a “listed” structure, I would think, for its architectural/historical significance. So I am not surprised to see that this year, it is being restored – at least the façade is. There is scaffolding obscuring it, so I didn’t even see the building on our taxi ride into the city last Tuesday, nor on our first walk of the season on avenue Rapp. But last night I saw it, and was pleased to witness the work being done. After photographing the door, I turned back around to continue our walk, and voila! There was one of those moments when the Eiffel Tower suddenly appears, framed by the buildings of a little street (in this case, the rue du Général Camou, home to the American Library in Paris). I just love it when that wonderful monstrosity pops into view like that. I don’t think I will ever tire of it. The sun was setting as we reached the Champ de Mars. The lawn was littered with people enjoying the evening. Everyone was having a good time. Nobody was being interrupted by vendors working the crowd. A few African drummers were chanting and drumming as they strolled together, right down through the middle of the Champ toward the military school. After passing through that pleasant evening park scene, we were back on the avenue de la Motte-Picquet, headed for home, and the warm light of La Gauloise caught our eyes. We will go there soon. ҉҉҉ On Sunday morning, I walked up to the market with my big, flowery bag slung over my shoulder. It was after 10AM, so the market was crowded. I moved through the crowd at my own pace, looking over the heads of most people. Why is the average market shopper here so short, I wondered? I looked around. For the most part, there are no young people at the market, except for those working at some of the stalls. Young French people are generally taller than older French people, it seems. There are plenty of shoppers around my age, and plenty who are older. But I’m taller. I move slowly and gently, at my own pace. If somebody is rushing, they must move around me. I find someone selling good bread. So I buy a baguette, which the clerk puts into a long, slim, white paper bag that is not as long as the bread is. This I pop into my big bag, and the pointed end of the baguette is showing. Somehow, it looks happy to be in the flowery bag. I move on. The water drips from the overhead tracks. It has rained a lot lately. I try not to think of the dissolved pigeon poop in those drips of water coming down into the marketplace. Fortunately, the stall where I bought the bread had its own cover sheltering it. The market is extremely popular. Other people must not think about pigeon poop in the drips of water, so I make an effort to forget about it. I succeed. I note the stalls that have lots of customers, and those that have none or almost none. What attracts buyers? Value first, then quality, I surmise from what I see. Farther on, I see a vendor with baguettes that are less expensive than the one I bought. But his bread has been made with bleached white flour. My baguette is most definitely made with unbleached flour, and has a more authentic crust. Feeling good about my purchase, I move on toward the end of the market. Here the cluster of clothing, handbag, and shoe vendors is especially intense, sprawling around the outer edges of the Dupleix metro station’s structure. Amidst the cheap clothing vendors is a woman my age selling the daily newspapers from a table. I liked the symmetry of this. There is always a big news kiosque at the other end of the market, where I’d started my shopping adventure of the morning. And with this woman at the other end, everything seems more balanced. So I buy a copy of Le Parisien to support her business. Besides, I like her; she reminds me of myself. I then find a table from which a man is selling black ballistic nylon bags – not feminine handbags, but the kind of bag a man might carry with very little threat to his masculinity. One of these bags would be great for my camera and smartphone, I think, and would protect them from rain showers much better than what I already have. The adjustable strap is long enough that I can hang the bag diagonally across my body, keeping my hands free. My billfold will still be pinned inside a zippered pocket elsewhere on my person, not in the bag. This will frustrate any purse snatcher who is ambitious enough to get the new bag away from me. Hey, with this bag, I might even be able to carry a small hairbrush, I thought, thereby lowering the number of times my hair goes wild, turning me into a sight that probably frightens small children and simpleminded adults. I decide to buy the bag, for 5 euros. The new bag is so masculine that Tom might even feel okay about using it when he needs something like that. The over-the-top floral and feminine look of my big shopping bag more than makes up for the stark masculinity of the new black bag. So I am back to carrying a handbag again in Paris, for the first time in more than a decade. Feeling pleased about this life-changing acquisition, I decided to walk down the serene rue Violet toward home. I’d had enough excitement for the morning. I didn’t need the buzz of the rue du Commerce. I was surprised to find a new Carrefour City urban grocery on rue Violet. Needing laundry detergent, I went in. Open on Sunday until 1PM, I noted. This is good. All shiny, clean and new, the Carrefour City had exactly what I needed: Le Chat laundry detergent, Melitta #4 coffee filters, VanHouten dark chocolate powder (unsweetened), and sucralose sweetener tablets. These things cannot be found the discount Dia store on our street. Now my clothes will be cleaner and my morning café au lait/chocolat will be better. Life is good. Find me on Facebook

Monday, July 9, 2012 Scene on the rue Dupont des Loges in the 7^th arrondissement. Roses at the end of the Champ de Mars, near the old military school. Inside the restaurant, La Terrasse. The door to the building at 29 avenue Rapp, which is undergoing renovation/restoration. The Eiffel Tower pops into view at the rue du Général Camou and the avenue Rapp. The Champ de Mars at sunset. La Gauloise at night. In the background, on the right, you see the elevated train tracks of the Metro’s line 6. Beneath these tracks is a market, on the boulevard the Grenelle, on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. Hydrangea blooms, oil and vinegar, and a little sign announcing the Sunday special on a table near ours at La Terrasse. Le Chat is a very old soap and detergent brand, dating back to 1853, originally featuring the famous savon de Marseille. ← Previous Next →