Making our way home. The adventure began when the incredible rains hammering southern France (3 months of rain in 24 hours) stopped the local train we needed to reach our bullet train (TGV) to Paris on the mainline in Perpignon—just as we were ready to leave. Fortunately, our downstairs neighbor knocked on our door to offer a ride to the station so we wouldn’t be utterly drenched in the 10 minute walk—even umbrellas would have been useless. Checking again on the train, we discovered it couldn’t run; apparently a landslide had cut us off. Our neighbor said to meet him in the garage below and he drove us through the deluge to the station in Perpignon. We were soaked in the one minute walk to the station, but our TGV was still running and on time. We made it to Paris (Gare Lyon) and then across town on the Metro to our hotel next to Gare du Nord, from which we would catch the train to the airport in two days.
I am writing from a lovely coffee house with strong wifi and stronger coffee. Linny is sketching and I’m making notes. We're out for a long wander and plan tomorrow to visit the Musee D'Arcy. When we left our hotel, we thought we might have a destination; we just didn't know it yet. First on our list was something to eat, and we more than satisfied that need at a small cafe and bar that had just opened. A sort of seedy looking place, but the tray of croissants looked fresh and beautiful, the interior was old wood--dark and intimate. We had a delicious start on the day.
I am writing from a lovely coffee house with strong wifi and stronger coffee. Linny is sketching and I’m making notes. We're out for a long wander and plan tomorrow to visit the Musee D'Arcy. When we left our hotel, we thought we might have a destination; we just didn't know it yet. First on our list was something to eat, and we more than satisfied that need at a small cafe and bar that had just opened. A sort of seedy looking place, but the tray of croissants looked fresh and beautiful, the interior was old wood--dark and intimate. We had a delicious start on the day.
We ambled this way and that in the general direction of Les Halles and Écoute, which is a sculpture by French artist Henri de Miller. It's a giant stone head with cupped hand set in the park in front of the Church of St-Eustache. When Linny's parents brought six of us to France in 1990 to celebrate Harold's 80th birthday, we visited this site. In fact, Harold and Pete (Linny's dad and mom) had hired a guide with a van to take us all on the essential Paris tour. It was wonderful, and this statue was memorable. But, hey, that whole trip was memorable and it made me greedy for travel, for exposure.
Les Halles is a quite enormous mall and park with a gargantuan cathedral to back it up and multiple Metro lines to serve it. We took photos with the statue, we watched people coming and going through the park, appearing and disappearing at the Metro stairs; we browsed the windows of shops on the side streets; we went into St-Eustache for all that stone, glass, and wood glory. Getting there, we'd walked past a monumental arch, peeked through the gate of a museum; contemplated in an old chapel full of dark images and gorgeous light; ambled between blocks through a neighborhood park; and gawked at outrageously pricey whiskeys in a beautiful shop where the young clerk was an environmental activist.
We met Penny Allen that evening at a brasserie near Mont Martre named Chez Prout. I had no idea what that meant and planned on asking Penny, but I had to use the bathroom first. As I sat there, I read the cartoons on the wall, although words were rather superfluous. Prout is slang for fart (and "superfluous" sounds like one). Fortunately, the food was excellent, but I'm sure glad I didn't read their website first:
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CHEZ PROUT
Restaurant | PARIS
"At Prout."
This word, taken straight from the mouth of a child. A vulgarity all light, naughty and without modesty, a delicious offense confessed with the lips.
This word, which sums up the tone of this gourmet bistrot, a malicious and sincere simplicity.
As soon as we enter this place, we will be immersed in a bistro, the real one of truth, that of the glass that clinks, that of the "one Côte du Rhone to the 10", that of watered coffee, that of the napkin tied around the Neck, that of the bread crumbs that one picks up with the fingertips, one where one lets his phone vibrate in his pocket, that of spontaneous laughter, that of endless conversation and that of conversation without beginning.
It will also be the one where Zoé, 6, will be able to read a Scrooge while Jacqueline, 72, will sip a Suze at the bar and that Félix, 28, will have lunch on the go watching the neighbors of the neighborhood.
We'll have lunch, dinner or a drink. One will untie his cravat, one will play with his round of napkin and one will drink to what one wants provided that one toast. Then we will smile and everything will ensue.
Be warned, the products will be fresh and prepared on the spot, each line of the card will have the "homemade" stamp but it is really necessary to remember it, the fork will take care of it alone!
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Enough said.
We managed to get lost walking home, so tried the Metro and missed our stop, then got turned around and compounded the mistakes in reverse before walking way too far fir either of us that late at night after a lovely evening with a dear friend. In the morning, we headed straight for Musee D'Arcy to be sucked in by the Impressionists, but hardly only by them. That place is overpowering.
