Transistions

Whew, what a day we had!

We just came from the Bataclan, the nightclub where some 89 people were killed, and two terrorists blew themselves up, two weeks ago. The Sunday immediately after the attacks we visited several of the cafes and bars that had been hit. The scenes of carnage were sufficiently moving that we could not face a visit to the Bataclan. So we avoided going there. I thought about going by tonight, while we were in the area, but we weren’t sure exactly where it was so we just headed home.

Our evening started with a concert at a nearby church (Saint-Vincent-de-Paul). We quickly realized we were not really keen on harpsichord music, but the next set included flute and violin. It was nothing extraordinary, but pleasant, and different: how many times had we been to a classic concert at a church, especially one built before my grandparents were born?

Church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, Paris 10em

On the way out we noticed one of the side altars had been dedicated to the victims of the recent attacks. It was a sobering moment.

We headed out, night fully in force but hardly dark; Paris just doesn’t seem to get dark. Always lots of lights around (City of Lights and all that). Saturday night around 6 PM and very crowded! Lots of people out and about, stores open (typically ‘till 8 PM), bars and cafes fully loaded. We walked on.

Our goal was a Transition Town gathering at a space about a mile away. We passed Place de la Republique, full of people and flowers and candles, with media trucks and cameras still out (hoping for something to happen, no doubt). We continued on, realizing our goal was further than we’d thought!

Eventually we arrived to a huge carnivorous space with thirty-foot ceilings and exposed riveted steel girders. It appeared to be a studio / art workshop / gathering place, with little done to improve the appearance. Funky, arty, hippy-ish.

Rob Hopkins, the founder of Transition Towns, was speaking about the recently-published book with 21 stories of transition towns. (To mesh with COP21?) The goal of the organization is to transition communities from intense resource and energy consumption to a more sustainable and locally produced economy. After a presentation made lengthy by the need to translate everything into French – Rob is from England – we had a chance to eat hot soup, drink good beer and wine, and meet some very interesting people. Overall, it was an evening about people coming together to build community, and work together to ensure the sustainability of our planet. It was one of many, many meetings and workshops in Paris these last few days (and in the coming weeks!) associated with the COP21 climate meetings that start Monday.

So we finally left, suffused with a feeling of connection, and of humanity (the hot soup helped, too!). It was cold, but we felt like walking a bit more, so we passed up the first Metro stop, and a couple of bus stops that would have gotten us closer to home.

Then, suddenly, there was a block full of flowers. It was a little “island” park, between the lanes of a major boulevard. Flowers and candles ran the whole length, along both sides. Flowers, candles, and signs, mourning someone lost, or stating solidarity, or defiance (“meme par peur!” – not even afraid!).

Flowers across from the Bataclan, two weeks after the attacks

And there, across the street, was the Bataclan, the shuttered concert hall. The sidewalk in front was far too small to contain the outpouring of support, and grief, so the entire park across the way was filled. We walked past the display, feeling the heaviness, sadness, the anger. What a switch from the uplift of the Transition Town meeting! It was overwhelming. And we could not escape the feeling that we had been guided there, to this historic, horrific, site. Why? How did we stumble, literally, upon this? Why were we lead here, instead of getting on that first Metro? A bit surreal, really, how these things happen…

The Bataclan itself, surrounded by mourners

We walked on, past the police van (that will probably be there for months more), back into the current life of Paris: cafes full, people eating, drinking, laughing with their friends. I wanted to shout to them, joyously, “Life after death! Rock on, guys!”

Our French Thanksgiving

Today is Thanksgiving, the holiday celebrated in America by eating too much turkey and stuffing, with sweet potatoes and whatever else you got. To the French, it means nothing.

There are many many Americans in Paris; there have been since there was an America. So, there are, no doubt, many celebrations of Thanksgiving going on, some of which are available to the public. But Paula and I chose to celebrate this day in a decidedly French fashion: by attending the Salon des Vins des Vignerons Indépendants, a trade show of independent wine producers. We had no idea what to expect, except that there would be 1000 small independent wine producers there.

The event took place at a massive exhibition hall at the Porte de Versailles in the south of Paris. While there were several events occurring at the same time, this one was held in a hall the size of the LA Colosseum. And sure enough, there were a thousand (ok, I didn’t actually count them, but really really a lot) of tables set up, each with room behind it for two people, a refrigerator, and dozens of cases of wine.

We entered, paid out 6 Euros (just over $6US), and got our tasting glass (only the general public paid, though; most of the attendees were wine and restaurant professionals, and they got in free). And there we were, with a thousand vendors (more or less), each one anxious to have us taste their three or four best wines. Overall, it was more than overwhelming!

The Salon des Vins des Vignerons Independants. Colors represent wine growing regions in France.

Paula suggested we focus on wines from the Languedoc-Roussion region, since we will be there for almost three months next year. Turns out France has a round dozen recognized wine-growing regions, and the Salon was organized around them, with each exhibitor station color coded as to region. We had some great conversations – and some great wine – from several exhibitors. Then it was time for the wine tasting lesson. Offered by Ecole du Vin, a wine school in France, the lesson was, of course, in French, and I only caught a few words here and there. Still, we did get to sample five very fine wines, with the instructor commenting on the color, bouquet, and aftertaste of each one.

After that, and a quick break for a sandwich, it was back to the serious business of learning about wines from France’s south-eastern region. We collected a good dozen addresses that we may very well visit next Spring!

On the way out we stopped to have our picture taken, to make our own wine label…

Our souvenir from the Salon des Vins -- this and the wine glasses we kept!

 Heading home, we figured we’d take a bus. The Metro is fantastic, but it’s underground, dark and featureless. The city bus system is touring-friendly, although somewhat harder to figure out. But the bus that stopped near the convention center went by the Eiffel Tower (and eventually to someplace where we could take another bus that went somewhere near where we lived, just in case we decided to skip the Tower), so we climbed on board.

Eiffel's iron lacework

We ultimately had a nice sunset walk through the Champs de Mars, under the Tower, and across the bridge to the Trocadero fountains. But there was this incident on the bus. Paula commented on a very bad smell; apparently some of the other passengers noticed it, too. Eventually this, ah, homeless woman appeared, muttering rude curses and kicking at another lady on the bus. Some passengers got off to avoid her. Eventually she left, and the rest of us looked at one another and shook our heads. Whew! Life in the big city…

After the Eiffel Tower walk it was dark and cold, so we hopped on the Metro to get home. Yeah, us and about a thousand other people. It was packed! Ah, the Metro at rush hour! And so we stood, patiently, crammed in, as the train stopped at another station. But it was a rude landing, and we ended up a few feet short of the proper spot. So we waited, staring wistfully out the windows at the well-lit platform while the PA announced in very generic terms that everything would be OK real soon.

Eventually we moved the last few feet, the doors opened, some people left and some got on, and we continued on our way, still pressed tightly together. But we were moving.

And now we’re home and tired in a good way, going over our day and planning our next adventure. And, while we certainly miss our family and friends, this is one Thanksgiving we will not forget!

Music on Montmartre

Paris Blog – 23 November 2015

We just got in from a little shopping trip in our neighborhood. It’s about 5:30, and the streets are full of cars, and people returning home from work. Not the best time to go shopping, we realize, as the small market where we shop is also full of people, stressed from their day of work and eager to get home.

We were hoping to find that fine produce market we stumbled upon the other night, but it seems to be closed today, Monday. The neighboring rotisserie shop, where we got an excellent chicken, is also closed. Yup, Monday, traditional day of shop closures in France. But that’s ok, the mini-super mart is open (“mini-super”?)

Then we stopped at “our” boulangerie, right on the corner, a half-block down. They recognize us there now, so we always get a welcoming “Bonjour” when we arrive. (And tonight the lady reminded me not to forget the baguette, like I did last night…)

The weather has turned colder, but the sun was shining and it was another gorgeous day in Paris. We walked up to Sacre Coeur (formal name: La Basilique du Sacré Cœur de Montmartre), a little over a mile away. Lots going on up there, as there always is. A harpist was playing on the steps to an appreciative crowd sitting and wandering around. There was a bit of a haze over the City, but the view was still pretty good. And of course, the white dome of the Basilica towered over it all.

Some young Brits with a couple of very expensive cameras were filming; they told me there were shooting a video for a band, the members of which were hanging dangerously off the railing. (We later saw them charging around Montmartre, with video crew in tow).

And, as in many places around Paris these days, soldiers in camouflage fatigues with dangerous-looking automatic weapons were moving around slowly, keeping an eye on things. (While I am deeply disturbed by the reason for their presence, I’m actually glad to see them). I have no fear of another terrorist attack, but I figured at least this will keep the pickpockets at bay – that made me feel more secure!

There was a real musical treat awaiting us up next to the Basilica, a couple of fellows with a guitar and beat box -- Presteej, I believe they call themselves -- entertaining the crowd and selling CDs. Boy, they were good!

We listened for a bit, found out they are from Paris, and this is their spot; I asked, this must be your studio, huh? And he said, yes, studio, office, everything. Right there at Sacre Coeur. They were quite good, and the crowd was very appreciative.

Paula and I went into the church – after all, we came all that way – and it was remarkable (although it can’t hold a votive candle to Chartres!). We soon moved on, however, because there is much more to Montmartre than the Basilica.

After our long walk, eating was high on our list. Crowds were thin as we walked the streets, it being winter and all. And, restaurants were closed, it being Monday. But thanks to a tip from a guy at a mini-mart, we found an Italian restaurant. Real Neapolitan pizza and a glass of wine, what more could one want for lunch? (There was an item on the menu called Indianapolis – chef’s surprise. The patron explained he is from Naples, and his partner is from India, hence, Indianapolis. Wow! Then he wanted to know if we were from Indianapolis…)

Pomodoro Restaurant, Rue de la Vieuxville, Montmartre

After a great lunch and a great connection, we wandered on down to Pigalle, a very crowed tourist area. But it was on our way home, and the sun was low and the temperature dropping, so we hurried along past the sex shops and guys loitering on the street corners offering to sell us iPhones and Marlboros.

Soon enough we were walking the familiar streets of our own ‘hood”, unlocking the front door of our building, and climbing the steps to our own warm Parisian apartment. 

Home sweet home!

After a bit of a rest, we made a quick trip out to get some supplies for dinner, and settled in for the night.

Pictures of Paris

Ok, here's just some photos we've been wanting to share ---

 First day at the Airbnb Open, held at the Parc de la Villette. The original reason we came to Paris.

 

 

Here we are in our Paris duds, ready to, ah, blend in.

Seen during a very pleasant evening walk along the Seine

A few days after the attacks, Parisians enjoy a relaxing afternoon

The Canal St. Martin, a few minutes walk from our apartment

And, Autumn leaves on the sidewalk, again at the Canal St. Martin

Another Beautiful Day in Paris

What a gorgeous morning! My daughter Nina and I have just exited the Metro near the Place de l’Opera, looking for the airport bus to CDG. After two weeks in France, a good part of it with us in Paris, she’s headed home. And what a sendoff! The gold statues at the top of the Opera are gleaming in the sun, and as we walk around the building we marvel at the exquisite workmanship: every surface is carved, decorated. Flowers, leaves, busts of famous people, heraldic shields; a magnificent eagle over the doorway.

We soon find the bus stop (after a bit of backtracking). She boards, and I slowly walk away, not wishing to embarrass her by staring through the window. Strolling past les grands magasins, Galleries Lafayette and Au Printemps, I see the holiday window decorations are up, and they are marvelous.

I continue up the street, figuring I’ll walk back to our apartment; it’s just too nice to hide underground. Yesterday evening it was raining, and windy, quite nasty as Paula and I were out headed for the Musee Carnavalet. Today the city is clean and bright, with little traffic this Sunday morning, and I stride easily down the wide empty boulevard.

After a bit I stop to check my position. Must be getting closer by now, right? What’s this? I’m further from home? Now I’m tired, and a bit discouraged. The day is still beautiful, the morning still fresh, but I head for the nearest Metro and go home.

As I ride along, crammed in with the other passengers, listening to the clacking and screeching that is included in every Metro ride (no extra charge!), I recall the little incident that we had earlier, as Nina and I rode to the bus stop. A man started playing the accordion in the Metro car. Now, there are a fair number of panhandlers in the Metro, like in every big (and not so big) city. And some solicit money in the cars, so I mentally rolled my eyes at this “invasion.” But the guy was pretty good.

He played a bit, and as he passed by us I dropped a coin in this cup. He glanced in, and said with a big grin, in French, “Ah, now I’m rich!” and laughed. He asked Nina where she was from; I didn’t hear the response, but he stood against the door and played another little piece for us. We laughed, our stop came up, and we got off, but not before I dropped another coin in his cup.

I’d pulled out my cell phone and recorded some of his playing, and Nina made a little video. Find it here (maybe! We haven’t tried this yet):

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/n8sm3ucg0fbdcjp/AABOfa95NmNmqOeowO_M4kY_a?dl=0

‘Till next time,

The PPs

 

Opera Garnier -- Courtesy Google Images