We're
a week into our trip and still can't get any sleep. It's a combination
of factors, namely a smaller, firmer bed than we're used to, a shortage
of pillows, and light
pollution from the building's inner courtyard. Whenever one of the neighbors in the adjacent apartments turns on a
light in their own home, our room is flooded with light. At home we use blackout
curtains, so this is particularly difficult to adjust to. These aren't the
best circumstances for sleeping, but we're doing our best. It just
means we wake up repeatedly and get up very early in the morning when we
decide we can't lie still anymore.
Rising
early today is to our advantage since we plan to visit the famed
open-air market on Place de la Bastille. As our train pulls into the metro stop Charlie points out a
mural of the storming of the Bastille, and in particular the guillotine in the
background. We leave the metro station and find the area to be heavily
under construction, just as it was when we first visited several years
ago (although this is appears to be a new project). There are big partitions set up
everywhere, directing pedestrians to the few navigable crossings. After taking a very long way round, we
finally get to the correct crosswalk and enter the market.
The majority of the market is organized into three long rows tucked tightly into the wide paved median that divides Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. On each end are vendors selling cheap clothing, textiles, and
souvenirs, while the interior is filled with food vendors of all sorts. The
fish mongers are particularly tempting today, with shiny wet catches
on ice, so fresh they appear to have jumped out of the ocean and
directly onto the display. Notably, as we walk by them they don't give off that stinky fish smell common to many fish markets. They just smell like the
sea. We approach a stand selling all shapes, sizes and varieties of
saucisson sec. They even have little tiny ones called crayons, about
the size of Sharpies (think Slim Jims with a much more refined flavor and a conspicuous lack of Macho Man Randy Savage in their advertising). The sausage monger appears to be absent but is stood just across the aisle, chatting with another
vendor. He must have noticed the lust in
our eyes because he quickly approaches and asks whether
we want to taste anything. We say oui and, after a quick sample, leave
with sausages made from deer, boar, and horse.
The first time we came to the market many years ago we were with our friend Brian (the day we shot what remains one of my favorite episodes of Smoking in the Park). We had found a shellfish monger with tables set up where patrons
could enjoy raw oysters on the half shell and boiled cockles. Charlie and Brian had readily partaken in these
delights while I abstained. Having found this vendor again and, in the absence of Brian, I decide to join Charlie this time
and give raw oysters another try. They are delicious and refreshing, and there is only one moment when the texture of one grosses me out a
little as the oyster resists being sucked out of the shell. The cockles are
delicious too. I expected to be more weirded out by them since
they are essentially just snails.
One of each, please!
A briny breakfast
Thoughtful enjoyment
After this, Charlie picks up a sausage
and cheese galette from a Breton vendor. He is disappointed that it isn't more toasty like the ones he had in Brittany as a teenager. I'm sure I have already hit my
sausage and cheese quota for the next five years and am looking to
change it up a bit. I
search up and down the aisles for the perfect meal and eventually settle on a
falafel wrap from a Lebanese vendor. It is exactly what I need in
terms of low-fat protein and vegetables.
As
we wander down the aisles I keep hearing a cat meowing and think a hungry
stray must be begging the merchants at one of the booths. Eventually we find the source
of the meowing: a disgusting jerk of a vendor who is shamelessly and
loudly meowing at all the young women who walk by. We are glad we haven't mistakenly bought anything from this asshole before coming to this realization.
We go home for our siesta and then make ourselves presentable for dinner at one of our favorite restaurants and one that we always recommend to visitors: Café Constant. It's a tiny two-story upscale brasserie offering carefully prepared French classics. We've never had a bad meal here and tonight is no exception. To start, I have Norway lobster ravioli in a shellfish sauce and Charlie has sea urchin in shellfish velouté with scrambled eggs. For our mains, I have scallops in the shell with a spinach salad and Charlie has succulent wood pigeon with shallots and the best lentils I've ever tasted. Dessert is rice pudding and île flottante, a soft meringue literally floating like an island in a bowl of crème anglais. Each course makes our eyes roll back into our heads. They are simple dishes, but masterfully prepared.
Sea urchin in shellfish velouté with scrambled egg
Garnished scallops in the shell
Île flottante
Our trip to the restaurant on the metro was a hot miserable stew of claustrophobia so we opt to Uber back to our AirBnB. A young man aptly named Charles picks us up in his hybrid Citröen and drives like a maniac, as is standard here, through some of the most beautiful parts of the city. First we are treated to the Eiffel Tower glowing gold in the night above the 7th arrondissement. Our driver is listening to an "oldies" radio station and Video Killed the Radio Star starts playing as we drive along the Seine, making us feel very nostalgic indeed. We reach Place de la Concorde with its towering 3000 year-old Luxor Obelisk and follow the chaotic traffic circle around to rue Royale. There we turn and head straight for the imposing columns of the lit La Madeleine. Then we zoom by the gold-embellished opera house. Finally we turn into our neighborhood, greeted by the smaller copy of La Madeleine, our local Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. Our driver leaves us unscathed on the curb in front of our apartment. I feel like I'm on my honeymoon.
This morning we cheat on Landemaine and decide to try the boulangerie on the next block, Le Pain Retrouvé. For breakfast, I savor the first quiche lorraine I've had in years. The quiche is quite nice and creamy, with good balanced flavors, but the crust could use some work. We get a couple of sweet pastries too, both of which were a bit dry for our liking, and a sarmentine which follows suit. That's what we get for infidelity.
This morning we walk to Palais Garnier, the home of the Paris Opera. The bus route I used to take to the American University every day passed by there and I would always marvel at its opulence, but this is the first time I have visited. It has just opened so we fall in line beside a small family whose youngest child is throwing a fit. By the time we get through the line we are thoroughly done listening to him and try our best to quickly get away from the family. But in a building known for its acoustics, there is no escape. We only lose the sound after ascending two flights of the grand baroque-styled staircase and ducking into a side hall that leads to the museum and library. We are immediately dumbstruck at the height and density of the impressive library, whose two-story dark wooden shelves stretch from floor to ceiling. Crowded into the shelves is a mixture of musical reference materials and scores used in performances. The museum portion just contains a bunch of paintings and busts of famous opera stars and ballerinas. We turn a corner and find ourselves at the end the gold-bedecked Grand Foyer, which resembles the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. From there we step outside onto the balcony facing Place de la Opera. Vehicles and pedestrians alike are milling around in a chaotic jumble below. It feels like a good place from which to address the masses with a historic speech but we decide to hold off on orating for now and instead head back inside.
Palais Garnier
Above the Grand Escalier (Great Staircase)
Beneath the Grand Escalier
Opera Library
Grand Foyer
The devil is in the details.
Charlie presides.
Whether inside or outside the imposing building, every time I find myself standing on a balcony I feel the urge to erupt into song. A couple of times I hum quietly enough for only Charlie to hear and his eyes widen with the fear that I might actually do it. I don't really want to get thrown out though. Besides, another toddler has taken up the tantrum song and it is echoing throughout the tall open structure. I can't compete with the volume. We find an open door leading into the auditorium. There several other tourists silently marvel at a ballerina practicing her routine to a quiet recording while stage hands busily prep the set around her.
The auditorium stage and its magnificent chandelier
Having seen and heard as much as we want, we decide to go for a wander of the quarter. Down one street we can see the impressively tall statue-topped column at the center of Place Vendôme and walk toward it. Soon we find ourselves surrounded by the chicest stores in the city, each with suited security guards outside to see that only the right people enter. We peek at the goods in a few windows. For those that deign to put price tags on anything, the numbers usually start at €500 (about $570) for tiny things like bracelets, not even necessarily made of precious metals. We feel like we are too underdressed to even go into the stores, let alone buy anything. As such, we move through the sprawling, plaza and enter the Tuileries Garden. There we sit by the large circular pond facing Place de la Concorde. We watch the male ducks swim around and compete for the females' attention. The wind picks up occasionally and blows crunchy brown leaves into the pond. From our vantage point we can see the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Palais, the Luxor Obelisk, and the Arc de Triomphe way off in the distance. Charlie lights up a cigar and we take a short rest.
We resolve to walk all the way to the Place de l'Étoile where the Arc sits. It takes awhile, and includes a short detour to walk by Charlie's old place of work, Taillevent, but eventually the Arc rises triumphantly before us just like its supposed to. Once again, I find myself with swiftly diminishing energy. After all, it is barely noon and we've already walked at least six miles.
Our morning walk
We take advantage of a nearby café (or maybe it takes advantage of us) and sit for lunch. The food is edible and there is nothing particularly offensive about it, but the waitress ignores us and treats us like stupid tourists. At least it isn't too expensive. Now it is time to head back to the 9th for our daily siesta.
Charlie has gotten into contact with an old friend, Philippine, who worked at Le Cordon Bleu while he was a student there. We agree to meet her for dinner in the 16th arrondissement. During the long, rocking metro ride I find myself dozing, exhausted from our long walk earlier in the day. At our stop, we emerge from underground, orient ourselves, and head toward the restaurant. Down the block I spot a young black cat, tail straight up, excitedly greeting a man on the sidewalk. The man seems surprised and confused by the greeting, so I deduct that it is not his cat. As we approach, I begin calling the cat and it comes right up to us. It leans against me as I pet it and then stands between Charlie's shins for more petting. A concerned elderly woman approaches us asking whether the cat is lost. We say we don't know, but then the cat answers the question by slinking into the gap of a nearby fence and returning to the home enclosed therein. We are happy to see that it clearly knows where it is going.
Just around the corner we find Philippine at Le Brandevin, a typical French bistro, where the proprietor seats us together at the back of the nearly empty restaurant. It is still quite early for the French (7:30 p.m.) and the place will not start filling up until an hour later. We all eat our fill of comfort food and catch up on what has been going on in our lives for the last six and a half years. It is so nice to see a familiar face here and to reconnect. But a couple hours into our slow meal and long chat, I start fading fast, so we part ways and head home. My feet are destroyed and I am practically sleep walking. According to my Fitbit app we have walked eight and a half miles today and my body is not letting me ignore it. We get back to the B&B, where I promptly lie down on the bed and fall asleep fully dressed, phone in hand.
Charlie has come to Paris with a shopping list of the kitchen accoutrements and reference materials that he intends to acquire. For the majority of these things, they either cannot be found in the US at a reasonable cost or cannot be found at sufficiently high quality to meet the chef's standards. This morning he is giddy as he plans the route we'll take from store to store, collecting each item in his culinary scavenger hunt.
We start at E. Dehillerin, one of the most famous kitchen stores anywhere. It's known for its no-nonsense layout and even less nonsense staff. As we walk in, I immediately recognize the humorless bearded man who instructs Charlie to leave his backpack near the counter before proceeding into the depths of the store. The place is drab and dark, with high shelves covered in every possible tool you could think of, and some you'd never even conceive of if you weren't in the industry. As we switchback through the aisles, I keep picking up gadgets and asking Charlie what they are. While standing at the checkout counter, Charlie makes a joke to me in English about getting the "duck press" in the front window. I don't know what the hell a duck press is but the stern bearded man smiles and asks, "Duck press?" to which Charlie jokingly replies in French, "For home, of course!" Then they discuss the price of such a thing, which ranges from $1,150 to $2,300. Afterward, Charlie points it out to me and explains that it's exactly what it sounds like: a vice-type contraption for making pressed duck, a traditional dish from Rouen, France.
Charlie at culinary Mecca.
Our next stop is A. Simon, a store resembling something like Williams-Sonoma with twice the pragmatism and half the pretension. They carry enough everyday, non-specialized items that even I'm able to pick out a thing or two for our home kitchen. Around the corner we find G. Detou which, like the other stores we've been to, looks like it has been named after someone. But in conveniently homophonous French its name is pronounced "J'ai de tout (I have everything)." We are specifically hoping to pick up some of the Madagascan vanilla beans that we had found there at a steal several years before, but the price appears to have quadrupled since then. Instead we leave with a couple of hard-to-find types of peppercorn. Lastly, we step into the Librairie Gourmande so that Charlie can get his hands on the newly released Le grand livre de charcuterie penned by three MOF chefs: Nicolas Arnaud, Fabian Pairon, and Christian Segui. He also grabs a beautiful hardcover of a book simply titled Pâte en croûte by Sonier and Lastre.
Now that Charlie has mostly fulfilled his wishlist, we walk back toward the newly renovated Les Halles area. It was under construction the entire time we lived in Paris, but is now a lovely green space next to a large shopping mall and the busiest transit station in the city. As we approach, we find ourselves at the back of the beautiful Gothic church of Saint-Eustache, easily my favorite church in Paris. The last time I visited, it was a grey drab ghost of a building, nearly empty and unused, all of its paintings faded. It was cold and echoey, with a crumbling, abandoned feel. It really showed its age, a quality I adore in historical buildings. As we enter this time, it is clear that a lot of restorative work has been done. On one side, the afternoon sun sparkles through refreshed stained glass, casting rainbows on once dull frescoes that now shine brightly. The center of the nave is equipped with chairs for services and concerts, and the huge beast of an organ looms magnificently above the main entrance. There is still much work to be done, but the progress is clear. And even though its character has changed profoundly, inside and out, Saint-Eustache remains one of my favorite buildings on the planet.
We leave through the south exit of the church and find a place to sit on the esplanade there. We nibble on sandwiches, and watch insistent pigeons get up close and personal with anyone who appears to be eating something that could fall on the ground. People sun themselves, chat, cuddle, and smooch in view of the formidable Gothic architecture. It is all very idyllic until a woman walking a large dog down the central path allows it to take a giant crap right on the pavement. She digs through a nearby garbage can to find something with which to pick up the dog's leavings and then disposes of them. However, I suspect if she didn't have an audience of a hundred lounging Parisians and their judgmental glances, she wouldn't have bothered.
Charlie is starting to the feel the burden of his loaded backpack, so we go back to our AirBnB. There he unpacks and handles each new item and flips through his books with the excitement of a little kid on Christmas morning.
Charlie (in his Escoffier t-shirt) reads about liver sausage.
After a short nap, we go out for a walk in the seedy Quartier Pigalle and Place de Clichy.
The former is the neighborhood of the famed Moulin Rouge and is known
for being somewhat unsavory. From our time here before, we knew the
district was home to sex shops, prostitution, and other vices, alongside
eateries, tourist trinket shops, and the (now defunct) Museum of Eroticism.
The area now seems consist primarily of the baser establishments with
little else to offer. Both sides of the street are now lined with almost
nothing but sex shops and poorly disguised brothels, interrupted by the
occasional closed grocery store or fast food place. Hoes gotta eat too, I guess.
My batteries suddenly run out and I find myself tottering behind Charlie in a fog of thirst and exhaustion. We return to Café Marguerite, where we had eaten at upon our arrival, and have a couple plates of decent comfort food. Feeling recharged, our final stop of the day is to pick up a few snacks from the grocery store to get us through the awkward morning hours when we're likely to be awake before the shops open.
The biggest problem with waking up early due to jetlag is there's no way to get food. Assuming it's been several hours since your last meal, you're starving and have hours to wait before you can do anything about it. We spend the morning browsing social media and lazing around, hoping to catch a couple more winks, but to no avail. Finally 7:30 AM rolls around and Landemaine is open. We go down and grab a baguette with which to finish our haul of sausage and cheese from the day before... plus a couple of pastries. I get halfway through my drops and have to abandon it due to an acute case of crise de foie, the French term for what we'd call a bellyache from eating too much rich food.
Sufficiently caffeinated and sated, we hop on the metro to visit Montparnasse cemetery. During our ride a busker gets on and treats us to what is objectively the worst puppet show I've ever seen. He hangs up a piece of cloth between two poles and turns on a too-loud recording of the song Le téléfon by Nino Ferrer. He has two puppets made out of some kind of foam, both of which are very dirty and one looks as if it has literally been burned black. Any facial features these garish monsters might have had are indistinguishable anyway because the action of the puppet show just consists furiously shaking the puppets' heads around and occasionally holding a phone receiver up to one of them. The busker keeps having to pull up the cloth partition because the elastic is so loose that it keeps sliding down the poles and exposing his face.
This is not the first time I've seen this horrid puppeteer either. The first time was when we lived in Paris seven years before. On that occasion, I had been seated across from a lanky white-haired woman with a very stern face. She had lugged onto the train with her a gigantic, completely full, reusable shopping bag and sat in the seat nearest the door. During our commute the train car began to fill up making it difficult for those getting on and off to navigate around the huge tote. A young woman stepped on and accidentally nudged the bag with her foot. Its owner took dramatic offense and exclaimed, "Mon sac [My bag]!" pulling it nearer to her as if to keep it out of harm's way. The younger woman apologized, somewhat perplexed at the overreaction.
At the next stop the car cleared out and the horrid puppeteer stepped on, immediately starting his music and fastening up his partition between the poles. "Oh nooooooon!" howled the woman, throwing her head back melodramatically. She quickly gathered up her giant shopping bag and stepped off the train, shuffling toward the door of the next car. She underestimated how long this would take her and reached the door just in time for it to slam shut in her face. She arched her back and shook her fists at the sky, as if to curse the gods for her misfortune. "NOOOOOOOOOON!!!!!" she wailed loudly enough to be heard through the closed doors and over the mechanical train sounds. It was hilarious.
But back to today: As soon as we arrive at Montparnasse cemetery we realize we've been here before. I have just never written about it and thus it has blended together in my memory with the city's other cemeteries (I'll give you an in-depth account later). After our stroll, we turn back toward Montparnasse station in search of food. The specific food we are after is aligot, a traditional dish from what was formerly known as the Auvergne region. It is essentially potatoes pureed with so much melted Tomme cheese that it's pourable. The dish is served by holding a hot pot of the stuff a couple of feet above your plate and then tilting it so that its contents cascades down in a long viscous ribbon until the server cuts it off with a spatula. The restaurant we choose is called Le Plomb du Cantal, one of three of the same name in the city. It has a warm rustic decor with big throne-like square wooden chairs and pictures of cows all over the place. Charlie has steak with his aligot and I have duck with mine, both of which are cooked perfectly if a little underseasoned. Our server dumps a small saucepanful of aligot onto each of our plates and we only manage to eat half of it.
This food appeals to the rural peasant in me.
In dire need of walking it off, we circle all the way around Montparnasse station trying to find the entrance to a tiny park that supposedly exists at its center. The whole area is quite drab and soviet looking compared to the rest of the city. There are few people around this quiet Sunday, the silence of which further adds to the overall abandoned spookiness of it. We eventually find the park entrance, catching a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower off in the distance as we enter. There being little of interest in the park, we decide it is time to head home. Both of our stomachs are bubbling urgently in response to the sheer amount of butter we've been eating these last few days.
Well, hello there!
Once home and having taken care of business, we decide it's probably best to stick close to home for the evening. We have leftover rotisserie chicken and potatoes for dinner, and then doze intermittently while watching TV, trying desperately to stay awake long enough to finally overcome what is now a three-day bout of jetlag. We are only moderately successful.
Morning comes annoyingly early for me, at 1:30 AM to be exact (thanks, jetlag!). I shuffle into the chilly living room where orange light from rue des Martyrs shines brightly through the tall windows. I am surprised to hear a loud party going on very nearby with French rap music blasting and people drunkenly shouting and singing. After awhile, a neighbor across the street leans out of his window and tells the partiers to kindly shut the fuck up. I'm shocked that they actually listen and the party disbands shortly thereafter.
I don't have to stay up alone too long because Charlie also wakes up annoyingly early at 4:00 AM. We have tea and start plotting what kinds of baked goods we'll get for breakfast even though the bakery won't open for another three hours. When the hour is nigh, we go out onto the quiet, still-dark street where street cleaners are hosing and sweeping away the previous night's detritus. Pigeons converge on whatever morsels they can find, seemingly unfazed by the heavy feet of humans coming very close to their fragile bodies. The first order of business is to get Charlie enough coffee to ensure his survival. Then we go directly into our bakery, Landemaine, to acquire our daily quota of butter and wheat. We can't decide on what to get so we get two pastries each, plus a tradition style baguette. I am most excited to eat drops, a layered buttery pastry with créme patisserie and chocolate chips. It has been almost seven years since I've had one and I nearly swoon with the first bite.
Pain au chocolat, drops, baguette tradition, croissant au beurre, and pain aux raisins
We are anxious to get out and do something, so we take the metro down to the Île de la Cité. There the sun is just starting to peak through the arches of Notre Dame's bell towers. The church is not open yet and there is already a queue of 300 or so people waiting to get in. A bell rings and the line begins to advance. Seeing that it is a relatively short line for such a frequently visited site, we decide to take advantage and fall in for a quick walk-through before it gets too crazy. It is just as gorgeous as I remember: dizzying arches, beautiful art, and rude tourists constantly violating the pleas for silence and no photography. The stained glass at the rear of the nave is particularly stunning this morning, as the sun sparkles through the rainbow mosaics bathing everything in warm pink light. After circling the nave, we sit for a few moments facing the altar, taking in the sheer size and majesty of the place.
Notre dawn
Delivered back out into the cool morning air of the plaza, we walk around to the back of the church and enter the modest garden there. Charlie reminisces about his first visit to Notre Dame as a child, during which his father continuously touted the virtues of the flying buttresses. Above us hang cute Dobby-looking gargoyles, some missing their cute heads or the upper halves of their bodies entirely. We continue southeast toward Île Saint-Louis, where my goal is to visit my bridge: Pont Marie. As we near our turn onto the bridge, a local resident crosses the street with a large, excited brown and black striped cat on his heels. The cat's tail stands straight up like a flag on the moon, signaling his excitement for whatever treat awaits him inside. The man opens a door and they both disappeared into the building.
Pont Marie is still there, standing strong since 1614. We cross quietly and double back in the direction of Île de la Cité. We see the spire of Sainte-Chapelle rising above the formidable medieval Conciergerie (formerly the Palais de la Cité). Sainte-Chapelle is one of Charlie's mom's favorite places so, in her honor, we decide to brave the crowds and go in. Upon entry into the lower chapel one is first impressed by the small tight arches painted dark blue and donned with six-pointed stars. Colorful stained glass on all sides glow in the otherwise dark room. We inspect the altar and then head up the claustrophobic, uneven spiral staircase for a look at the main attraction. The upper chapel is relatively small but impossibly tall, its bright blue stained glass mosaics culminating in more blue paint and stars. Gold arches divide each segment of the nave, further elongating the dizzying height of it all.
Lower chapel altar
Charles in church
Charlie declares he wants to head toward the Louvre. I knew he does not want to visit it because, as ignorant as it sounds, we're not big fans of art museums. Yes, even that one. His goal is to get to A la Civette, one of the oldest cigar stores in existence, founded in 1716. During the 20-minute walk along the north side of the Seine we pass by several bookstores, a famed row of bird stores, and are approached again and again by scam artists pretending to be deaf and asking for donations. We cross the Quai du Louvre and are swallowed into the high southern arch leading into the perfectly square Cour Carrée courtyard of the Louvre Palace. A low empty fountain sits at its center and we sit on it to take in the massiveness of the square. There are few people here but their voices are amplified and bounce confusingly off the high walls of the enclosure.
Cour Carrée
A crow outside Cour Carrée
We exit through the opposite gate and then take a moment to get our bearings. Charlie's spidey sense leads us to the door of A la Civette, whose golden door handles are shaped like weasels. It smells like sweet tobacco and musky wood. The highly polished glass cases hold fine accoutrements, such as lighters costing upwards of €500. The humidor is neatly organized and just ever so slightly too humid, with a fine selection of cigars from all over the world. Due to a recent decline in production quality, the Cubans were actually the saddest looking merchandise they had in there. The attendant stands by patiently while we pick out cigars and stumble through our French.
By now we have walked a very long way and are ready for a rest. We take the metro back to our neighborhood and promptly fall into the two-hour nap we swore we would not take. When we wake, we venture out again for a short wander, stopping into our local Notre-Dame-de-Lorette and Église de la Sainte-Trinité further down rue Lafayette.
Notre-Dame-de-Lorette
On the way back, we stop into our favorite butcher at the bottom of Martyrs, Chapier François, where we buy a whole rotisserie chicken and container of potatoes roasted in the fat dripping from the rotisserie. We have walked so many miles that I am limping by the time we get back to our door. We both groan our way up the stairs, still sore from our climb to Sacré-Cœur the day before, and settle in for our hot typical French comfort food. Tonight we manage to stay awake until about 8:30 PM.
The plane shudders and pitches as the wheels touch the ground, finally encountering friction after hours of sailing above the clouds. A disinterested French voice comes over the speakers with scripted information. We peer out the window into the blackness of the morning, trying to discern proof that we’re really here. The blinking runway lights and symbols begin to blur as tears well up in my eyes. Charlie and I squeeze each other's hands. "Bienvenue a Paris," says the voice.
We swell with pride as the woman at the mobile phone kiosk asks whether we’re Canadian, having noted competence in our use of the language paired with an unusual accent. We’ll take it. Outside the terminal a man straight out of a French new wave film greets us with a smile, the trunk of his taxi agape. He wears a flat cap, a sparkle in his eye, and a bushy white mustache sits atop his upturned lip. On the ride into the city, the three of us manage to stumble through enough of our two common languages to get acquainted. Unsurprisingly, the conversation almost immediately turns to politics, as is common with the French, and just as unsurprisingly, he disapproves of our current head of state. Out the windows the banlieu –the Parisian suburbs– have come into view, conspicuous by their large graffiti murals. The sun is coming up and the sound Jacques Dutronc’s Il est cinq heures, Paris s’éveille (It's five o'clock, Paris is waking up) playing in my head drowns out the mediocre Russian tango coming the cab’s radio. Yet unopened storefronts zoom by as the driver accelerates suddenly again and again, braking just as suddenly for pedestrians, cyclists, and other obstacles that seem to come at us from all angles. Every time we slow, zombie-like beggars shamble toward our windows, paper cups extended outward. Garbage sits on curbs waiting to be collected. The metal shutters pulled down over the storefronts give the impression of a ghost-town. It’s so ugly and cold at times, yet so alive and human. I look over at Charlie, whose eyes are wet with nostalgia.
We turn a corner and everything is familiar again. The modest stone façade of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette juts out of the intersection where we turn onto rue des Martyrs. Our old haunts catch our eyes, most of them intact with few changes to the overall geography of the street. We pull up to the door of our rented flat. Our driver hoists our heavy suit cases down onto the pavement and we bid him au revoir. We both inhale with anticipation, take stock of our surroundings, and decide to immediately proceed around the corner to our old street, rue de l'Agent Bailly. I feel like I’m dreaming. Somehow I can’t believe I’m here, and yet somehow I can’t believe I’ve ever been gone from here. It’s like meeting up with a dear old friend after several years have lapsed, requiring no effort whatsoever to reconnect, as if you had just seen each other yesterday.
We make a right onto the cobbled street, easily recognizable by the cubist mural that extends to the intersection with rue Milton. The street sign is missing, but someone has pasted up a photo printout of it. The cobbles are uneven and we must navigate our suitcases carefully on the narrow sidewalk to avoid the brown obstacles deposited there by the neighborhood’s dogs. Well, some things never change. As long as this high-walled cutoff street continues to provide relative shelter from the prying eyes of judgmental Parisians, unscrupulous dog owners will direct their companions here to do their business, knowing they can likely get away with not picking it up.
The blue tiled number “5” is missing from above the heavy green door. From the debris in the nearest windows we can deduce that the very old building, once a convent, is undergoing some much needed renovations. We can’t remember the door code and they have likely changed it anyway, but we would have loved to peek into the little courtyard from which we accessed the precariously decrepit staircase to our second floor studio. Instead, we head back toward rue des Martyrs, resolving to pass through again, perhaps repeatedly, with hopes of gaining access.
A cat stenciled on the wall on rue de l'Agent Bailly
We roll our big suitcases in front of us down the hill toward the church, peering in the windows of waking businesses and smiling when we recognize faces of the same shop owners we used to interact with on a daily basis. Busy locals zip around us, rushing toward the demands of city life, and we do our best to stay out of their way. We roll past a familiar old local sitting where he always was, on the low ledge of a tall shop window, smoking a cigarette. He wears a tattered knit vest and jacket and a flat cap, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Poopdeck Pappy (Popeye's father). As we schlep by, a sparsely toothed grin spreads wide across his face. He practically shouts with delight, “Bon voyage!” We nod and thank him.
Once we’ve surveyed the street and found mostly everything to be right where we left it, we decide it’s time for coffee and breakfast. We settle on the bistro just two doors down from where we’ll be staying, Café Marguerite, it’s red awning and round-seated wicker chairs on the sidewalk promising the Parisian people-watching experience we’ve come for. We position ourselves at the end of the row of tables so that our baggage will not be in anyone’s way. As we settle in, the puffs and wisps cigarette smoke from other patrons waft down the sidewalk, offending no one. A pretty server immediately comes out and inquires as to our wants, disappearing and reappearing quickly with two cups on saucers. We order a couple of tartine, oven toasted baguette smothered in crispy cheese and choice of protein. Mine has come in the style of a croque madame, so it has ham and béchamel too, with the soft yolk of a perfectly cooked egg shining up at me like a sunrise. The flavors are perfect, not necessarily remarkable, but exactly what they should be; exactly how they’ve always been done.
"Oh shit, I forgot to take a picture."
We’ve just declared ourselves sated to the waitress and are digesting happily, although shivering and sniffling in the morning cold. A kind looking elderly woman taps her cane against the pavement as she approaches us. She has curly white hair, fancy gold-rimmed glasses, and greets us with perfect Parisian sing-song, “Bonjour, madame et monsieur!” At first we're surprised at such a warm greeting from a stranger, but she quickly introduces herself as Christine, a neighbor from the apartment we’ve rented for the next three weeks. She says she has come to let us in. Charlie runs in to pay the bill and Christine discreetly pockets the paper tubes of sugar we've left on our saucers. "In case there's a war," she says. She prefers to speak French and we let her, appreciating the ease with which we understand her clean accent and perfect grammar. Once she has given us the keys and instructions, we follow her into a modernly renovated flat that looks out onto a square courtyard. A typical elaborate metal and stone watering trough sits to one side. We realize we’ve been in this courtyard before because we had visited a doctor who practiced there when we lived in this neighborhood. We had gone to inquire about immunizations and malaria medicine for a trip to Kenya upon our departure from Paris. I’ll never forget how he told Charlie that he didn’t have to take any malaria medicine if he didn’t want to, adding, “We’re not totalitarians like in the U.S.” That was while Obama was president.
Finally unencumbered of our luggage, we bid Christine goodbye and head back out onto the street, our internal compasses set for the white domes of Sacré-Cœur that we can see rising up above the buildings at the top of Montmartre. Our journey up is meandering and we opt for narrow quiet side streets rather than winding boulevards. We’re become aware again at how the confusing triangular layout of Paris’s streets almost ensures we’ll get lost, but for now we know that anything uphill is the right direction. As we near the top, the population density increases and we find ourselves surrounded by tourists. We reach the bottom of the large stairway leading up to the west side of the basilica and I curse how steeply it rises before me. Somehow we fight through the physical exhaustion of what is now a full 24 hours without sleep and make it to the top.
Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre, completed in 1914
There the crowds swarm on the steps of the bulbous basilica, its white domes and façade in stark contrast with the blackness of age shadowing its arches and windows, seemingly dripping from beneath its gargoyles. It’d be a beautiful study in chiaroscuro for all of the artists hanging around on the nearby plaza offering to draw caricatures of tourists. Usually I hate crowds like this, but I barely notice it today. I contemplate the quiet temple preceding over the city, then gaze out onto the 5,000 years of humanity spread out below. A thin morning haze has settled over everything, out of which a mix of Gothic church spires and skyscrapers rise. Behind me a snaking line leads into the church, making me feel disinclined to attempt to enter it. Instead we move away through the swirl of languages, smells and buzz of activity, seeking the solace of a quiet street.
An idyllic street in Montmartre
We zigzag down narrow passages and alleyways, assuming we are more or less heading in the right direction but not particularly concerned if we aren’t. The words of a friend’s poem leap to mind: “What are you dreaming about, my little one?” asks an old stray cat of a childlike version of me who is “sitting alone on a cobbled street in Montmartre…” The answer is complex, but I guess the best way to sum it up is that I'm dreaming that this is all mine, that I don't ever have to leave. I'll take all of it: the noise, the crowds, the confusion, the stress, even the dog poop. No questions asked.
Eventually we find our way back to the apartment and promptly take a two-hour nap. When we wake we take our first refreshing shower, ridding ourselves of the germ-ridden grime and dried sweat of a long-haul flight. We venture out again for treats from our favorite bakery and sweets shop and then resolve to rest a bit. It is very hard to stay awake, but we manage to hold out for the promise of kebab from our old haunt, Chez Cleopatre, a few blocks away at the intersection rues Condorcet and Rouchechouart. This was the hearty, cheap food that got us through culinary and grad school, respectively. For a measly €11 (about $13 USD) we get two containers of fat sandwich grec filled with shaved roast meat, sautéed with onions and garnished with tomatoes, lettuce, and the fabled Sauce Algerienne. It's basically just mayonnaise mixed with harissa, but Jesus Christ, it's good and a welcome accompaniment to the huge helping of french fries they serve there. Bellies full, we only make it to 7:45 before falling asleep for the night.
Once upon a time I fell in love with a handsome, young, blue-eyed man named Charlie. An imposing Yugoslavian once described him to me as "the nicest guy in Bethesda" and I was inclined to believe him. Lucky for me, he fell in love with me too. Twelve years have gone by since then and that young man and I have accomplished more than I could have ever imagined. We have traveled to numerous countries together, eaten (and cooked) some of the best food on the planet, laughed, cried, declined to suffer fools gladly, and shared our life experiences with many other earthlings, you readers included. Five years ago we did what felt natural and good and got married. To commemorate that event this year, we decided to take a little overnight trip to Nye Beach in Newport, Oregon. Here's the story of our brief adventure:
For those not in the loop, we moved to Ashland, Oregon in September of last year. To give you an idea of our geographical position, we're so far south in the state that we're only about 30 minutes from California. Thus, getting to Newport is about a five-hour affair. We rose with the sun, which obnoxiously shows its face around 6:00 AM this time of year. But it was nice to lounge around, get caffeinated, and have breakfast without feeling rushed to get out the door. We made salami and Swiss sandwiches for the road and loaded them into a grocery bag with beverages and a huge bag of salt and pepper flavored Kettle Chips. These chips have a sentimental significance to us because we had them on our first beach trip together at the beginning of our relationship, to Long Beach, Washington. Since then these chips have made an appearance on many a romantic road trip. Charlie even brought them all the way to Spain once!
Our first stop would be just twenty minutes from home at Cigar Cave in Medford, one of the only two reputable cigar stores in the Rogue Valley, both of which happen to be owned by the same person. There Charlie picked up a few goodies with which to while away the hours, including an aptly selected Padrón Family Reserve 50 Yearsanniversary cigar. Tobacco in hand, we hit the road for real.
Our second stop was a place I had been dying to revisit since my childhood: Wildlife Safari in Winston, Oregon. My parents, brother, and I visited it when we were just kids and we have always reminisced about it fondly. I remembered ostriches coming right up to our car and pecking at the window, trying to get at the plastic straw sticking out of one of my parents' drink containers. My dad remembers rolling down the window at one point and hearing a voice come over a loud speaker commanding him to roll it back up. I half expected to be disappointed by this excursion, just because childhood memories have a way of aggrandizing themselves in our consciousness. Nevertheless, I was excited to go just for the prospect of seeing some neat animals.
When we got there, the place seemed much larger, greener, and better equipped than I remembered. In addition to the drive-through safari feature, it now boasts the second largest captive cheetah breeding program in the world and offers "Enrichment Encounters" where you can get up close and personal with cheetahs, elephants, giraffes, and bears. And where they once forbade rolling down one's window, we now had the option to buy feed cups with which to coax deer, emus, and other more docile animals. It was buzzing with business due to some "Discovery Day" event happening. We were fortunate that we didn't have to wait long though, and quickly paid our admission and entered the park.
The first creatures we saw were two magnificent giraffes eating leaves off of some tall trees very near the road. Just meters from them stood two large turkeys gobbling away. It was an odd juxtaposition. Having seen YouTube videos of people provoking turkeys to gobble by imitating them, I gave it a try. It proved ineffective and just reminded Charlie of what a dork he married.
Handsome creature
The park was organized by continent, and we had begun in Africa, which meant we got to see many more exotic creatures. Three big handsome male lions and a sleek lioness lounged in the grass (behind a protective fence, of course, because humans are stupid). Gigantic grey elephants roamed around flapping their big ears and swinging their trunks lackadaisically. Zebras, water buffalo and wildebeests grazed or snoozed, clearly at ease with the apex predators behind bars. The ankole-watusi defied physics with their impossibly long horns. A hippo's snout and tiny ears betrayed its location in a murky pond.
Greeting the visitors
In the Americas, imposing dark brown, serene-faced buffalo shed their winter coats. Tall elk approached car windows anticipating that visitors might want to share from their feed cups. Two rotund brown bears had curled into balls and were napping in the long grass, looking too cuddly to be as dangerous as they are. Hundreds of Canada geese mixed in with animals of all continents, some leading around lines of darling goslings, still puffy with down.
I was disappointed that we didn't see any rhinoceros, maned wolves, or tamarins, but that's to be expected when animals have more than 400 acres to go where they please. All in all, it was a fascinating experience and I was very happy to have done it.
Once we exited the safari, we pulled into a parking lot and had a first round of sandwiches and Kettle Chips and took the opportunity to stretch. Then we were back in the car and on the road for another few hours. Fortunately, I had carefully crafted a post-punk/new wave music playlist for us to jam out to on the way.
Some 50 miles from Newport we found ourselves in need of a pee and a stretch, but were in the middle of nowhere. We happened upon a tiny dark wood-paneled general store outside of Blodgett called the Burnt Woods Store. It seemed like it was trying to look like a relic of the Old West. A single decrepit gas pump stood out front and I wondered how well it worked. Inside the store was dark and dusty and looked like half of it was in use as the owners garage/general storage area. The fellow behind the counter seemed normal enough. He wore a dingy t-shirt, jeans, glasses, and was munching on a bag of chips, probably from his own stock, and watching The Office on a small TV. Charlie and I took turns braving a dark, creepy hallway to use the establishment's single, foul-smelling restroom. Once sat on the toilet, the user was eye level with a small sign that said that this was not a public restroom, they had bills to pay and would the user kindly support the establishment by buying something. Fortunately for us, we forgot our toothbrushes, so Charlie bought a couple of those, a small tube of toothpaste, and a bag of fragrant gummy worms, just for good measure. On our way out the door we were met by a large yellow labrador sprawled out in the shade. I made stupid baby voices at her, and she raised her sleepy head to examine me. After a quick sniff of approval, she curled her paws up to fully present her belly for a rub. Once back in the car, we confirmed to one another that the place did indeed have a weird vibe and then continued on our journey toward the beach.
As we neared Newport the sea rose far above the continental horizon like an infinitely wide purple plateau. Within a few turns we had arrived at our destination: the Sylvia Beach Hotel, housed in the historic New Cliff House above Nye Beach. Charlie's parents had introduced us to this literary themed hotel some years before and we immediately fell in love with it. Its rooms are what I call "lightly" themed for different authors; that is, they don't necessarily go all out with stylistic decor to match an author's magnum opus, but rather add subtle classy touches to the room for an interesting if not necessarily immersive experience. For example, on our first visit we stayed in the Shakespeare room, which was decorated in dark reds and dark ornately carved woods, with props from different plays hanging tastefully here and there. This time we stayed in the Tolkien room and its topical decor mainly consisted of a map of Middle Earth on the wall and several quotes from different works, either painted or hung around the room. As far as I can tell, each room has a collection of its author's books and a writing desk and chair. The hotel has no TVs or WiFi, but on the third floor is a cozy library with lots of comfortable armchairs. Visitors may borrow from it at their leisure and spend as long as they want there. The hotel also has a charming golden tortoiseshell cat named Shelley, who cuddled in bed with us during our first visit there. As we checked in we informed the concierge that if Shelley happened to be looking for a place to sleep that night, she was welcome to join us in our room.
It was late afternoon so we dropped our things in the room, had another quick round of sandwiches and Kettle Chips, and headed out to the beach. It was very windy but warm, and many people flew kites. We ended up walking some four miles on the beach that day alone, leisurely strolling up and down the shoreline. The sand was firm and warm and in places littered with the corpses of purple trilobite-like mole crabs and half-eaten Dungeness crabs. The seagulls must have had a feast.
The seabirds were here.
Of course, Charlie took the opportunity to smoke the special cigar he had just bought and from that experience I present to you the latest episode of Smoking in the Park!
We made our way back up into civilization and looked around for a place to have dinner. It was Monday, so a lot of places were closed, as is customary in the industry. We were starting feeling resigned to our fates of eating greasy fish and chips at an Irish pub when we happened upon a small, casual Italian restaurant with an intriguing menu. We decided that it looked like our best bet and headed back to the hotel to get changed. As we entered the hotel's patio, we found Shelley the cat excitedly pursuing some small birds that must have had a nest nearby. They did not fly far to flee her and instead perched atop the building and chirped angrily in her direction. Shelley deigned to let me give her a moment of affection and then resumed her pursuit.
Charlie and I got halfway gussied up and then set out for dinner. The restaurant was called Sorella. The decor was unassuming but clean and pleasant, and there were few people inside. We nestled into a corner booth and began to peruse the menu. As an appetizer we shared an excellent burrata served with whole roasted marinated tomato, basil, roasted tomato oil, spiced vinegar, and grilled ciabatta. I had never had it before and found it delectable. For our mains Charlie had one of their pizzas topped with pork belly, fingerling potatoes, English peas, ricotta cream, and ricotta salata. It doesn't sound like it should work, but was surprisingly tasty. I went with the old trusty bucatini carbonara served with pork belly confit, garlic, pangrattato, egg yolk, and pecorino. I ate every last bite.
The service was excellent and when our server came to inquire as to whether we wanted dessert, we quizzed her about the different ingredients and preparation methods of our dishes. It was then that we found out that everything was handmade in-house! The quality and variety of dishes were impressive. We then opted for a black coffee (Charlie) and a shared scoop of buttermilk vanilla gelato served atop some kind of lemony crumble. It was honestly the best gelato I have ever had. If you ever find yourself in Nye Beach, this restaurant is definitely worth a visit.
After dinner we ambled with our full bellies down to the beach to witness the colorful sunset that was quickly approaching. Charlie indulged in another cigar as we paced along the shining sand and watched the sun melt into the horizon. We stayed out until we could see the pulsing of the beacon atop the faraway Yaquina Head Lighthouse. Thousands of unnerving sand fleas were beginning to emerge and ricochet against our lower legs and we worried it would become too dark to safely tread along the unfamiliar terrain, so we headed back to the hotel.
Goodnight, Earth.
Despite the relative quiet and comfort of our room, we both slept fitfully and rose with the sun. We've never been good at sleeping away from the comfort of our own deluxe bed. We dressed and packed and then headed down to the hotel's dining room. On the way we found Shelley the cat enjoying her bowl of cat food atop a bookshelf in the lobby. We gave her a few scratches and let her be. In the dining room we were joined at the table by a friendly German man named Jürgen. As we dined, he told us that he and his wife were driving from Seattle to San Francisco and then back up to Vancouver, Canada, stopping periodically to take in the sights. We strongly recommended he take a small detour to see Crater Lake since it is easily one of the most impressive natural landmarks in Oregon. We excused ourselves after taking in as much coffee and sad scrambled eggs as we cared to, and headed back up to our room. On the way, I found Shelley sitting on the stairs and so sat next to her and tried to pull her onto my lap. She resisted, but allowed me to pet her. The attention must have worked up her appetite because she quickly returned to her food bowl.
We had plans that morning to visit the Hatfield Marine Science Center, a part of Oregon State University. A friend had told me that they had lots of cool creatures there and a pacific octopus exhibit with a baby octopus! We were extremely excited to see these wonderful things, but as we pulled into the parking lot Charlie noticed a sign that said it was closed that day. I swore I had checked the hours before, but they have different hours for different seasons and I must have looked at the wrong one. At any rate, we were incredibly disappointed. Taking advantage of our early start, we hit a drive-thru coffee stand and made our way to the highway.
A little after noon, we found ourselves hungry and nearing Eugene, a city that neither of us had visited before. I told Charlie to google a taquería where we could stop for lunch and he pulled up the promisingly named Taquería Mi Tierra, just a short distance from the interstate. We found the place and had to circle the block a couple of times to find parking, making note of the interesting neighborhood in which we had found ourselves. There were enough unsavory and generally unhinged characters walking around that I wondered aloud whether our car would be there when we returned. Even so, we decided to brave it and were glad we did. As soon as we entered the restaurant we knew we had come to the right place. The aroma of carne asada and fried masa hit us squarely in the olfactory organs. Mexican music and Spanish conversation floated in the air. The place was nearly full and the clientele all appeared to be Latino blue collar workers. We approached the counter and a friendly woman took our order in Spanish from behind the two huge horchata jars perched there. We each ordered four tacos filled with carne asada, carnitas, chicharrón, and lengua, and our total was only around $12.00. Within minutes a friendly man with a huge black mustache brought out our food, we collected a few accessories at the salsa bar, and happily ate one of the best Mexican meals of our lives.
Bellies happy, we found our way back to the car, which had not been stolen, and continued our journey toward Ashland. About an hour from home we needed to pee, so we stopped at the first place that presented itself. Just outside of Wolf Creek was the Covered Bridge Country Store & Antiques (scroll through the photos on the Facebook page). Further down the lot was the Applegate Trail Interpretive Center and Museum, which appeared to be closed. From the road, the country store looked like another quaint Old West-style general store occupying the site of what was once a gas station or truck stop. As we pulled into the parking area where we could get a closer look, it began to resemble more of a backwoods dive bar. We went inside, which was very dimly lit, and were greeted by a quiet but friendly large bearded mountain man character. We grabbed a few snacks and had a quick look at the crowded antiques displays. We felt out of our element, but it wasn't creepy in the way one would expect. When we inquired about restrooms, he directed us to the decrepit shell of a gas station across the parking lot. This was where it got creepy. The building was completely run down and appeared to be in disuse except for the occasional tourist. There was no way to lock the women's restroom door. It was dirty and lacked any toilet paper, towels, or soap. One wall bore a fat magenta smudge of lipstick that looked like it had been applied by smooshing someone's face into it. I took care of business as quickly as possible and exited, running into Charlie in the corridor. He didn't look nearly as unnerved as I felt.
Despite our questionable choice of pit stops, we made it home in one piece and spent the rest of the evening eating junk food and watching Netflix. Not a bad end to a really special anniversary trip!
