Tuesday, November 04, 2003
And if we're lost, helas, we're lost in Paris
There's something about being in Paris that makes it impossible to be unhappy. Even when you're wandering around the Gare du Nord looking unsuccessfully for a functioning ATM (or cash point, or whatever it's called in Paris) because the McClean in the basement costs 1 Euro and you really have to pee and so you end up walking outside for 6 blocks to get money and you're really tired from staying up late waiting for your laundry, most crucially your towel, to be clean and dry, and you're feeling sniffly and have a sore throat and a bad cough, and your skirt is being uncooperative because you've shrunk a size or two since you bought it and it is now low-riding and twists about.
Because a) it's crazy to be unhappy at effortlessly losing inches*, and b) once the nice police officer has told you où se trouve une banque and you've found your way back to the station, and you've gathered some of your 10 Euros in change off the McClean floor in front of the machine that spit it out and you actually enter the washroom, it is spacious and sparkling and the stalls are large and private so you can hack up a lung in peace, if not quiet.
Or maybe that's just me.
But seriously, something about the air, or the light, or the prospect of drinking lots of cheap wine just smoothes my worries out so I can't get at all stressed the way I would anywhere else. After the McClean visit, I lined up for Métro tickets and headed for the hotel in Montmartre via the route the SNCF site gave me. The 'tro station at which I was supposed to transfer was closed. I was already running late what with the trek around the station to find money, but I couldn't get tense or annoyed that the website didn't warn me.
When I backtracked and got onto another line, there was a sousaphonist** playing When the Saints Come Marching In. At my second transfer point a small girl was swinging wildly about while tethered by the hand to her mother, until her mother had had enough and said, "doucement, chaton. Soit tranquille." At Pigalle, waiting for my fourth and final train, there was a group of accordionists and a violinist sitting on the other side of the tracks, tuning up or maybe even rehearsing. Moments like that are why I love Paris. Of course, there's a lot to be said for the wine, too.
I was supposed to be at the hotel first, but got out of the Métro at the same time as ConsultantINSEADFriend. After checking in, we walked up to Sacre-Coeur, headed down the steps and wandered with minimal map-consulting until we hit the Seine. A little boy outside a chocolate shop was licking the window, giving a more literal interpretation of leche-vitrine (window shopping) than you normally see. My cough was awful and my throat was very sore, so we headed to the Mosque in the Quartier Latin.
Despite it being Ramadan, the tea room was jumping. We picked out several crazy-looking sweets and found a table in the court yard, and the tea guy hooked us up with some hot, sweet mint tea. My throat felt marginally better. It took a long time to get a second round, as the tea guy had forsaken me for the other side of the courtyard. Communication was clearly an issue in our relationship; I waited, pining for him and his sweet, sweet nectar. After the sweets and the tea were gone, the sun was setting and we were wandering westward towards the Eiffel Tower.
On the way we stopped at a wine store. The wine guy was very helpful, telling us that one of the two we'd picked out was still a bit too young, and which of the two we ended up with should be drunk first if we were going to have them both in the same night. Next we entered a Pharmacie around Rue St. SomeGuy, where the pharmacist guy sorted me out with the good drugs: cinnamon-flavoured cough syrup, throat lozenges with lidocaine (so numbing, so great) and "un spray" for when the lidocaine wore off. He also made sure I knew the doses allowed for each. I don't understand why the French have such an awful reputation for customer service.
As we walked I was having fun playing with the night-time mode on my camera and the lights on the Seine. I wish my digicam had a ginormous aperture so I could catch the lattice of tree shadows the bright-as-fuck lights from the bateaux-mouches threw onto nice old stone buildings. It was 7:30 or so when we reached the feet of the tower. It was also cold and windy, and more so half an hour later when we were in line on the second level for the elevator to the top.
The long wait gave me time to develop the theory that the reason the Eiffel Tower is better than, for instance, the CN Tower, is that it has more utility for people on the ground. Going up the tower and looking about is fun, but so's the revolving floor at the CN Tower. But I would just as cheerfully lie on the ground at the base and look up at the Eiffel Tower, especially when they have the sparkly lights going. Even from blocks away it's beautiful. ConsultantINSEADFriend's from Toronto, but even he couldn't argue that the CN Tower is that pretty. What were they thinking in the 70s, all those architects who were enamoured of bland concrete?
After we were done at the top, marvelling at how the pictures of landmarks didn't line up with the actual view out each window, we found the Métro and dumped our stuff at the hotel. Just down the street there was a restaurant with a fairly veggie-friendly menu, Les Copains D'abord, and there we ate. The composed salad was great, but my favourite was the sign on the wall reading, "Pour nos copains d'abord, nous regrettons que l'eau est réservé pour bouilir nos patates. Ne gaspillez pas de l'eau. BUVEZ DU VIN!" That gets my vote for best Restaurant Manifesto. We followed their orders, and dinner for two with wine and tip came to 50 Euros.
Sunday dawned with breakfast at the hotel and me being overly ambitious about what museums I wanted to see. The Picasso museum was free. The archives were on display. The wall of extracts from letters written by Gertrude Stein and many others, on the theme of "you don't write, you never call, what are you up to, please write even though I know you won't", was genius. My favourites, though, were his sculpture of a girl skipping rope, and a painting of his daughter playing with a doll. Even though her eyes weren't quite on either side of her nose, it's obvious he adored Maya and found her beautiful.
By the time we'd stopped to sample olive oils and vinegars at an olive oil shop in the Marais, walked around Notre Dame, and had a late lunch of panini, the line up to enter the Musée d'Orsay was half an hour long. The wind was strong and the clouds foreboding, so I agreed to abandon culture and instead sit by a pond in the Jardins des Tuileries drinking wine and watching the sparrows hop about. Eventually the rain chased us up the Champs Elysées and onto the métro.
The rain and the wine-induced drowsiness made me very resistant to going out to eat, but this was a blessing in disguise. By the time we ventured out, the only place that was open was Chez Ginette. This restaurant/bistro raised my personal bar*** of great dining experiences. They were playing good jazz, at exactly the right volume, so you could still talk but the buzz in the room was enveloping. The ambiance was warm and good.
I ordered the assiette végétarienne, which came on a square plate. In the top right quadrant was fresh fettucine with a tomato sauce. In the bottom right, green salad with vinaigrette. In the bottom left, ratatouille. These were all simple and solidly done, though the ratatouille was slightly too salty.
In the top left were carrots and green beans and peas, fork tender, sauteed with a bit of garlic (and probably butter, but I decided Paris and veganism aren't fully compatible). This sounds totally bland. I like vegetables a lot, but normally I don't savour them, reserving them for last the way I did these. I wish I could describe this better, but I can't. It was a moment of revelation. The French really know what they're doing with vegetables.
But the best was yet to come. For dessert, ConsultantINSEADFriend ordered a cheese plate, and I ordered a trio of sorbets, mango, lime and raspberry. The mango and lime were perfect. The raspberry was sublime. I have never had anything more raspberry-full in my life. I swear, its wonderfulness had nothing to do with my level of intoxication. Imagine the freshest, juiciest, most flavourful raspberry you've ever had. Then magnify it by whatever factor you feel like, and make it slightly sweeter, plus frozen. That's sort of what I'm talking about.
ConsultantINSEADFriend was approaching full, so I had some of the cheese between spoonfuls of sorbet. I feel totally fine about this ethically, as there is no way unhappy cows could have made such wonderful cheese. I'm also quite sure I would have made them unhappy by letting this cheese go to waste. One of them was very nutty. The others were not, but were also good. I know the names of none of them (see above re. intoxication level). The bill for two main courses, two desserts and some Gamay came to just under 60 Euros. Such a steal.
At some point soon I need to go back to Paris, if only because in two visits I have still not made it to the Musée d'Orsay or the Rodin Museum. But my not-so-secret motive for returning will be to eat at Chez Ginettte on the rue Caulaincourt again. I'd also stay at the Hotel Caulaincourt again. For 50 Euros a night, we had a room with a shower and sink (toilet across the hall), a double bed and a single bed. Because I was referred by Woodstock hostel (their doubles were all booked), breakfast was free. Saturday night when we got back and I was coughing, the night clerk kindly put the non smoking sign back up as he and some other guests in the lobby kept smoking, and we all laughed. If that's not customer service, what is?
I could whine about how I had to wake up at 5 in the morning to catch my train Monday (that's 4 a.m. London time), but really, the raspberry sorbet alone makes up for that. My digital photos are here. At some point I'll get the Lomo photos developed and scanned. I am now wondering if Barcelona, two weeks from now, is worth the weight of my SLR and automatic as well. For now my limit is two cameras for a weekend.
*effortless, that is, if one ignores aching feet every Wednesday night from 4 or more hours of dancing
** I was going to say guy-playing-an-instrument-that's-tuba-like-but-smaller, but John's got the weblog and the music vocabulary
***previously set by Pushap in Montreal and Da Mario's Ristorante Italiano in Burnaby, back when Mike was the maitre d'. Hey, if anyone randomly comes across this page and knows where Mike's working these days, if he's somewhere in Vancouver, please hook a girl up. Several people will thank you.
