Enchanting Paris - Newport Beach, CA
Newport Beach, CA
There may be more than slant to the Bourg: a scent or some substance secreted from within that compels late morning slumber. I absolutely love it. Sweet Mike has already suffered the Bourg stairs and the friendly help at the local Marche Franprix (much more to be told later on Mike's relationship w/ & feelings for the MF checkout girl) to buy coffee, milk and yogurt for the barren Bourg. After rousting Nikki from her cozy slumber, in prep for our day, I subject Nik to aloud readings on the history of the Latin Quarter--its Bohemian past that served as the place for literary, science and every other kind of intellectual pursuit, as well as its status as famous refuge for ex-pats. I include in the sermon info on the Sorbonne. And knowing that Nikki had years of Latin class under her belt, i try to excite her w/ the fact that the reason it's called the Latin Quarter is because back in the day, all the intellectuals from different countries got together and spoke what was then considered the universal language--Latin. The familiar sounds of grunts (a usual morning time gift from her to me) in response, let me know she's listening. We had passed through the Latin Quarter before, and stumbled onto the Sorbonne while looking for the Cluny way back at the outset of our Paris stay. But we wanted to traverse the area again, this time armed w/ a bit of history and knowledge, and this interesting area as our focus. So we crossed the Thames to the Left Bank, made our way around the buildings of the Sorbonne and marveled once more at the impressive Neoclassic Pantheon, burial place of Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, and other greats.
From the Pantheon, we made our way through the streets of the Left Bank, gazing at the myriad shops and cafes, over to the Luxembourg Gardens. The Jardin du Luxembourg, as the French call it, was built as a palace by Marie de Medici designed after the Pitti Palace of her hometown, Florence, Italy.
The gardens provide setting for scenes in Hugo's Les Miserables. It was fun to see those locales. Humorous background: Because i love all things Les Mis ( novel, musical), over this past Christmas vacation, the whole fam went to see the movie starring Hugh Jackman and Anne Hathaway. Michael and Nikki were vaguely familiar w/ Les Mis plot, but Michael perhaps thought that this movie version would be a bit more "modern". About 10 minutes into the film, Michael quietly turns to Mike and says with trepidation and incredulity, "Don't tell me...they sing this entire movie????" Almost three hours later, and with about 150 shifts in seat made by Michael, (and admittedly, a few of my own), at movie's end, Nikki, upset, declares that the story was so horribly sad, depressing, and she wished she never saw it, "Everyone dies--and why did they have to kill Gavosh!!!????!!!" Surprisingly, despite the seat shifting, its obvious the story had impact on Michael, as he contributes heavily to our post-movie dinner debate over whether Les Mis is a story primarily of hope, tragedy, or both. I think we moved Nikki a bit off of her staunch tragedy view. . I wished that Michael was w/ us on our second Paris leg to see the Luxembourg gardens and perhaps recall the sweet love songs of Marius and Cosette. Instead, Michael was somewhere in Morocco, on a camel, in 130 degree weather, in the Sahara desert.
In contrast to the Sahara desert, the Luxembourg Gardens are lush with greenery and blooms, and water elements. The formal garden areas are symetrically and beautifully designed; no surprise here in France. The beautiful architectural layout gives statued fountains center space amongst colorful plantings and sandy, circular dirt paths. The paths surrounding the fountains and ponds are dotted with cottage green metal chairs readily available for for French sitting, and relaxing, and taking some sun. This inner park area offers the more formal French gardens. On the outskirts of the park, further from the palace, the park becomes more rugged in nature, with wild grasses, free flowing , meandering dirt paths and large leafy trees. Peeking from behind the towering trees are more surprises-- tennis courts, and a basketball court. Adjacent, to the court area, is a darkly shaded and trellis-covered conclave of wooden picnic bench tables set about without pattern of placement. This maze of seating includes some metal square tables abutted against the picnic-type, and the odd adjoined metal chair. The seats are filled with heavy coated, heavy-shod older gentlemen, some topped w/ woolen beret. Nearly each is hunched in thick concentration over chessboard. Nikki jokingly profers challenge ( reminscing back to early after- school chess days at good ol' HDS, and of course she does this out of the earshot of the French). Following paths around the park and gardens, one is consistantly met with surprise element, as there are said to be more than 100 statues, monuments, and fountains scattered throughout the grounds.
The Luxembourg Museum, housed in the East wing of what was originally the Luxombourg Palace, is small and relatively unsung in the travel books, and was holding a special Chagall exhibit. The museum organized the Chagall pieces by periods of his life and corresponding art. This organization provided an interesting retrospective showing the impacts of politics, war, exile, pain, love, loss and religion through the artist's works. Chagall, born to Orthodox Jews, left his Russia for Paris to advance his art and flee growing persecution of the Jewish population. Soon thereafter, he heard of the destruction of his own Russian hometown, and the near obliteration of the Jews in Russia. He then watched in disbelief as the Nazi's advanced into his beloved adopted country, France. Chagall fled to NYC and there awaited the end of the war, as his works became more popular, His wife died suddenly of infection, and Chagall, broken, did not paint for months thereafter. Although Chagall appreciated New York, he yearned to get back to his Paris, post war. When he did return, the European destruction affected him gravely. and although Chagall never quite adopted the strong Jewish faith of his family, it was apparent from his paintings that he could not shed it either. I thought of how utterly difficult it would be to, like Chagall, flee country and all familiarity with culture, language and connections; to watch powerless from afar the destruction of your people, country, and home. I thought of the stories that each person holds inside-- their own life stories--Chagall, and each of the chess masters hunched beneath the massive Luxombourg Park trees, alike. I thought that when I look upon someone, I must look with eyes that are aware of the hidden stories within.
We emerged from the Luxembourg gardens and museum with tummies grumbling, and ran smack into a street cart hawking crepes. Although many a French cafe and brasserie serves up crepes, Nikki had heard fr her French student friends that the street cart variety were the best. (And Mike liked their price.) The pancake-like crepe is made the size in diameter of a large pizza. It is folded twice, once in each direction, after having been generously swathed with tasty filling; in our case, chocolate hazelnut Nutella. The result is warm, gooey, soft, chewy, and melt-in your-mouth, down right awesome, especially when hungry. Mike decided right then and there that he was fini with Gelato. the trip was from then on a Parisian crepe-carousal for him!
Meandering along with Nutella crepes dancing in our heads, we stumbled upon a surprise--St Suplice, a huge Baroque style Catholic Church that figured prominently in the novel, the DaViinci Code. St Suplice was, although not as well kept up as other churches in Paris, impressive, especially for its organ, one of the largest in the world. The most wonderful things about St Suplice were its emptiness and accessibility. It's doors and interior were unmanned by any security or other official. More importantly, we literally were the only people inside this beautiful church. I couldn't believe our fortune ( or perhaps the sugar had set fantasy upon my brain once again). But it was a lovely experience.
Rounding our way back to the Marais, It was then a bit late,, but opportunity had to be seized: the Paris Haute Couture exhibit at the Hotel De Ville. Nikki and I had been angling for this since we set foot in Paris. (And our most enjoyable London Victoria & Albert Museum fashion Room experience fueled our fashion fire.) But we were strategic about our attack. We passed it daily, as Hotel De Ville, steps from the Bourg, was our metro stop. We knew fashion history did not top the Paris to-do list for the guys. So we waited--waited until it was all smooth sailing: 1. There was no line; 2. Mike was sated with all things Paris (including choc/hazelnut crepe!); and 3. Michael was (literally) sailing. Mike thought about continuing to the Bourg to start his nightly work routine, but when he saw the exhibit was free and without line, agreed to join. He was happy he did.
100 designer dresses (from over a period of 150 years) by the likes of Christian Dior, Chanel, Lagerfeld, and more, are showcased in the exhibit (as well as some shoes and other accessories). The exhibit chronicled the making of dresses. As explained in a NY Times article, "The idea...is to explain the life of the atelier." In addition to learning what goes into the making of a couture dress, what was so utterly, and wonderfully surprising and fascinating was the result of the intent of the director: "...to show the interplay between past and present." The elaborate dresses were set in twos or threes, side by side, in what I would call 3D glass cases, according, not to period, but to style. It was fascinating to again be schooled on the historic and political, economic, and moral forces of influence on fashion, and to see through fashion the truth of that old adage--"history repeats itself". We played at guessing the era of a piece before peeking at placard, and found that we often could not correctly guess the year of one dress juxtaposed with and placed next to another much later dated dress. For example, the sleek, sleeveless, beaded and dropped waist number of the roaring 20's loooked to us not demonstrably different from the (likely Gatsby remake movie- inspired) dropped waist frock of 2013. At the end of all this waistline inspecting, Mike's own waistline was calling for expansion with more substantial fare than mere crepe.
Mike , famished and emboldened by our excellent gastronomic London finds, was on quest to unearth ALL the best French food in Paris. As though he had just drunk vat of Borough Turkish Coffee, he got on the horn, and in storm of conversations marred by his Franglais (and, although he will refute this, an occasional butchered Spanish word, and the most "interesting" accent), he accomplished dinner reservations for nights to come. ( Recall the sage advice, " don't shop at the market hungry"? Apparently, the advice needs to expand to include: " dont make dinner reservations when hungry!") That night we would try The Little Cafe, a corner cafe on a quaint little square just at the end of our own street, Rue De Bourg Tibourg. The Little was ALWAYS packed to the gills at all hours, day and night. We found the fare so-so, Mike had his second crepe for the day and declared the cart crepe the clear winner over the Little. But the ambiance and people watching in the square and about the restaurant were fantastic. It was so pretty out and it seemed there was just a special energy about that eve. Of all things, Gotye and "somebody that i used to know" gave great catalyst for amusing show: Behind the Little bar, a small radio played low (recall that there is typically not music in the cafes). When chorus, "...you didn't have to cut me off...", began, our rather masculine waitress, spiky short hair and studded black belt, flipped radio dial way up, called over to her friends outside, and began to sing, dance and croon with force and with glee. Others at the Little and the Tapas bar, Cafe Feria, kitty corner to The Little, joined along with crowds outside in the square. It was the loudest, most outward, demonstrative display of emotion we'd seen yet from the French, and all over Wally De Backer, and a song that was to us, overplayed so by US radio DJ's that it was "done". So fun to see a different side of the French, thanks to Wally.
It was such a beautiful, clear night, we had to seize on another opportunity, a night boat ride down the Seine. Back in the states I had purchased passes (good for 6 months) for the boat. I had been so eager to experience the beauty of Paris, all lit up at night--from a different vantage point--from upon the Seine. Paris weather had not always cooperated with my desire. But this night, with the beauty of the sky and the energy of the city, all seemed just right. So we hopped an RER to the Eiffel Quay and caught a 10pm boat.
There was the soft pink sky of dusk, the lights from the bridges throwing glittering colors upon the water, the beautiful Notre Dame and the Orsay magically lit against the dark, and the glittering Eiffel. It was one of my favorite Paris experiences, providing visual memories I hope will not ever fade. We debarked and as the morning hour approached, strolled lazily along the Seine, fat with parks, history, art, crepes, fashion, a night featuring the French undone by Gotye, and the iconic, romantic beauty of the Paris lights at night. It was all enchanting, and I was filled to the brim with gratitude.