Last Days in Paris

Last Days in Paris

Yesterday it was once again cold and rainy, but I packed my satchel and headed out. I walked north and west towards the Champ de Mars, looking for an open market on Boulevard de Grenelle. It was a longer walk than I expected, and by the time I reached the outdoor stalls, my feet were hurting. But such is my experience every time I travel, and I did my best to ignore it.

The outdoor market was what I have come to expect in France; rows and rows of fresh vegetables, bakery, seafood and butcher stalls, interspersed with stalls selling olives, fresh herbs and spices, stockings, clothing, and cheap jewelry from Africa. I stopped and spoke with a very jovial man selling table clothes “from Nice,” who said, “I am the Best!” with great aplomb. One of the seafood stalls was cooking up paella, which smelled of saffron and shrimp.

Once satisfied with the market selection, I headed to the RER train station to take a train to the Bastille station. After consulting my guidebook, I had decided to walk the old Jewish Quarter and end at the Pompidou Center of Modern Art.

The Paris Metro system is a complex warren mingling the elevated trains and the subways. It is like it’s own little city, with tunnels joining various lines and concourses with tobacco stands, fruit venders, and flower stands. And then there are the buskers. On every train, in every underground station, there are people singing, playing music, dancing, or doing SOMETHING in which to beg money. Some of the musicians are very good. On one train, a man was playing an electric accordion, while his female partner asked for payment. On the same train, a man wearing arm braces to help him walk SCREAMED at riders demanding money. In another station, I heard the strains of an Afro-Caribbean vibe.

Once at the Bastille (which is no longer a building, but just a “place”) I consulted my map and began walking in the Jewish Quarter. Compared to the Jewish quarter in other cities like Barcelona, this one was a disappointment. Aside from the general 19th century ambiance of Paris in general, the Jewish Quarter had lost all sense of its history, and its storefronts were filled with pricey clothing and accessories. I did stop in Esteban perfumiers to buy some scent (bien sur!), and ate lunch at a lovely Mediterranean restaurant named Chez Marianne (fresh hummus, creamy tuna, herb-rich tabbuleh, and a grilled eggplant I was too full to eat. With a glass of wine, a good bargain at 15€!

After walking more blocks through the rain, the ugliest building I have seen in a long time towered above me. It was a five-story glass cube with HUGE ductwork cascading out of it painted blue, green, and yellow. The Pompidou. I imagine it was considered edgy and whimsical in its day, but its day is done. The interior lobby looks like a concrete gymnasium, and has the same acoustics. The building encloses a cinema, a library, a café, and a restaurant, as well as its galleries. I stood in line on my aching feet reading for half an hour while waiting to get a ticket. Then up, up, up the escalators with wonderful views of Paris (albeit through rain-splashed windows) to the top floor, where there was a Calder and a Kandinsky exhibit.

I went first to the Kandinsky exhibit, as there seemed to be an inordinate amount of children waiting in line for the Calder exhibit. The Kandinskys were a bit overwhelming—it seemed like every Kandinsky in the world was in the galleries. Splashes of abstract color everywhere. The Calder exhibit was less wonderful; it began with a whimsical room of Calder’s wire sculptures (there was a whole circus installation that was very charming) but had almost none of his famous mobiles. There were indeed children everywhere; they have no school on Wednesday afternoons, and so they were in the museum in droves. I enjoyed looking at the Calder sculptures of human faces (Jimmy Durante was a favorite of mine) but all in all, I prefer the much smaller Calder installation at Washington’s National Gallery.

Out of the museum, into more rain, making my wait to the Hôtel de Ville to catch a train back to my hotel. I scanned the RER and subway maps, finding little connection to the route which would take me home. So on the Metro to the Châtelet stop, down the underground corridors to the train to the St. Michel stop, through the underground tunnel and outside across the street to the St. Michel Notre Dame RER, to the B RER to the Luxembourg stop. More underground traveling to get to the part of the street nearest my hotel. I began to feel that I had spent more of my day underground than above it. Exhausted, I retired to my room for a long nap. Upon waking, I decided I didn’t have it in me to walk in the rain to go out to eat, and went to the Super Marche next door to buy some bread and cheese. There are limits, even in Paris.