A Perfect First Day in Paris

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Sunday, August 8, 2010


We wanted to walk.

Down the exactly 100 steps to the street, Rue de Regard, and off to Jardins de Luxembourg. A sunny day, with a few clouds, warm. The pond yachts were just getting launched by kids with their long poles. Weathered hardwood hulls and faded sails have plied these waters for decades. Still the kids’ faces light up as their boats speed across the pool to the duck house, as the wind fills the little sails and turns the boats back to the concrete and another push with the pole. They are keeled and balanced just right, these boats, to turn and return. Today, no grandmothers wading out for the rescue.

We continued through the garden towards the Pantheon, then turned to walk by the the University of Paris at Sorbonne, one of the original universities, thriving since the mid-eleventh century. From there we continued to the Latin Quarter.

We had been walking in quiet lanes, few people about, and we could hear the rumble of crowds as we approached Rue de la Harpe, the spine of the Latin Quarter, lined with brasseries and trinket stores. We merged with the hordes, became them, bought trinkets! And donairs! I wanted to check the schedule at Caveau des Oubliettes and Caveau de la Huchette. Both programs were disappointing, so if we go, it will be for the atmosphere, not for the music.

Food as art in the Latin Quarter

We emerged onto the quay just at Shakespeare & Co. Bookstore, famous one-time haven for expat writers and artists. I had to have another shot of myself there, world-travelling writer, yep. I asked about readings, but they have pretty much stopped for the month of August, which in France is considered by many a holiday month.

Across Quai de la Tournelle are the bouquinistes, the little metal stalls where booksellers have been plying their wares for centuries. Most of them are more trinket-vendors now, but some hold steadfast to their historical purpose, carrying antique books and old newspapers. Notre Dame Cathedral serves as their backdrop. We’re in Paris!!

As we were about to cross, all traffic was brought to a halt by police. It was the beginning of the weekly rollerblade parade. It seemed to take ten minutes to pass; they were coming for as far as we could see. There were all types of people skating, all sizes and ages, interspersed by police also on rollerblades. Finally the end came, trailed by several ambulances-in-waiting.

Several artists were painting by the Pont de l’Archevoche. We stopped to look at the ink-and-water-colour work of one old man, small pieces that seemed to typify Parisian street drawings. I bought two, surprised at the low, €15 price. Woo hooo! Trinkets AND art!

We crossed the bridge, stopping to take yet more photos of the most-photographed view of Notre Dame, buttresses flying, the Seine in the foreground. We turned onto the Pont St Louis, wormed our way through a crowd watching a street-clown, past an accordion player and onto Ile St Louis for a couple of boules of the famous Berthillon ice cream. The pistachio! With pieces of nut in it! NOT bright green! To die for!

Street Performer on Pont Saint-Louis

The ubiquitous accordion player

Businessman with Berthillon

We sat on a wall by the Seine to savour, then continued back over the pont to Notre Dame. We walked around the cathedral to the front, amazed at its size, which just can’t be conveyed in photos. We had no intention to go in today, which was good, because the line up curled up to the end of the Place and back on itself.

We headed back to the Rive Gauche via Pont St Michel and stopped for a café on Boulevard St Germain, shady under leafy trees, noisy with many lanes of traffic.

There was a little market set up nearby, selling imported crafts; Russian nesting dolls, amber, Indonesian batik. One stall had a rainbow of sandals, handmade with knotted cotton cord. John convinced me to buy a pair, since they were so unique. Trinkets and art and shoes, oh my!

Hand made–in Thailand!

I stopped into a pharmacie to get a callous-shaving tool (more on foot care in a later blog, can ya hardly wait?). A man with a thick New York accent was asking where he could find a Starbucks. In Paris!

“In New York, I won’t go near a Starbucks, I won’t even use their bathrooms.”

“Then why here in Paris?” I asked.

“We have much better coffee than Starbucks,” said another customer, a Parisienne.

“Well, when I want a good iced drink, they know how to make it,” he said, though how he would know that if he never goes in, I have no idea.

There was a Starbucks just down the street, but it was closed, it being Sunday. “All of Paris is closed on Sunday!” NY proclaimed. “You show me where I can get a good coffee.”

“The best cafés in the world are just on the corner.” said Parisienne.

“Yeah,” I chimed in, “the most famous cafés in Paris.” We were just across the boulevard from Café Le Flore and Les Deux Magots, the one-time haunts of Hemmingway, Sartre, de Beauvoir, and others.

Parisienne took him outside and pointed to the cafés. NY headed off, wife in tow. The man at the cash asked me if I was with them. “NO!” I said, “Absolument non!” Everyone in the store was shaking their heads.

The whole exchange was a priceless accidental encounter.

We made our way up Rue du Cherche Midi to home for a well-needed rest.

The "other" tower: Tour Monparnasse, as seen from Saint-Germaine

Rue de Cherche Midi, with Velo station (rental bikes) in foreground

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I wanted to go over to Rue Mouffetard for dinner, specifically to Rue Pot de Fer, a tiny lane lined with restaurants where we had eaten a couple of times when we visited in 2004. I handed navigation over to John. The routes are rarely straight, the rues change names every block or two, and the smaller roads are not named at all on the maps produced for tourists. We took some unplanned turns, but arrived, quite by accident, at the top of Rue Pot de Fer; couldn’t have planned it better.

The meal at La Fontaine was straight-forward, a relief after the rich, complex meals of the Dordogne. A salad (without meat!), some chicken and veg, creme brulée. After dinner (it was 11:00 by this time), we wandered up the party that is Rue Mouffetard by night, and crossed the city to home. There were walkers everywhere; such a safe place to be, despite the hour.


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