July 14: . . . to the Dudly Mundane

After all the historical intensity of monument visits, I decided it was time to eat.  I bought a salad and a "chevre" sandwich, which I ended up giving to a woman and her son, who were sitting on the sidewalk before and after I visited the Canadian Embassy a few days later.  Also gave them an yogurt and plasticware set with a napkin.

I took the salad and walked to the Luxembourg Garden (highly recommended by Lynn).  It was quite sunny and beautiful even a bit late in the day -- puffs of perfume cheered my nose as I passed lovely flowerbeds.  I stopped at an outdoor eating place so I could sit down and was waited on by a rather lackadaisical waiter who seemed to much prefer waiting on families and groups.  He kept forgetting to bring me my verre du vin rouge by hitting his forehead the four times or so he passed me before he remembered.  I had to get my own menu and even ordering a crepe didn't seem to cheer him up.

All day struggling along in French made me long for a little ordinary English conversation, so I found the address of The Moose in the Go To book.  Then, I had to find Rue Quatre Vinqt.  Finally found the unassuming little pub with the Canadian flag drooping bravely over the door and stepped inside.  I spoke with the bartender Luke, who's lived in Paris for about five years and lived two years in Halifax at some point. It's full name is the Moosehead and specializes unsurprisingly in beer of a particular brand and in sports.  But after watching Prince Harry play polo for a while, I decided to try the next "Canadian" bistro, The Great Canadian, where I spoke briefly with a family from Chicago, who were in Paris on a layover from Switzerland.

It was now about 8 pm and still quite light out, so I headed toward the Eiffel Tower, crossing a pont to get to the other side of the Seine where I could walk along the bank and get a good view of glorious Parisian fireworks.  I had a vision that they would sprout from the Eiffel Tower like I'd seen on TV.

I picked a spot where I could just see the Eiffel Tower between the Musee d'Orsay and some relatively tall hills and buildings.  I settled in and waiting occasionally take a photo of the moon coming out across the river.

There were a few others with the same idea, who had brought food, wine, and companions to wait also.  I felt to shy to talk to anyone.  Quite close to when the fireworks were scheduled to happen a family came along with an older white-haired gentleman, who worked in recycling.  He was there with his relatively young Chinese wife of five years, whom he'd been introduced to by a business friend.  He adopted her children who were there also.

I did get a nice pic of the moon amazingly enough in a painterly sky.  That building to the right had white crosses painted in some of the windows on about the second floor down that I thought maybe meant it was a hospital of some kind.

It got darker and later and tour boats that went by put on their lights, which allowed their passengers to see those of us on the Seine, but rather blinded us, though they made a nice reflection in the water.

Then finally, the lights went on in the Eiffel Tower (which it does every night.  This being my first night out where I could see them, it was a harbinger to possible fireworks. Then they went off. Nothing further was to be seen from the Eiffel Tower.

Quite a bit later, around 10:45 pm, I did start to hear some pops.

There was a bit of oohing and ahhing from the crowd that had actually grown larger on the banks.

I tried to take some pics of them, but couldn't quite figure out how to get the camera to work on manual, though I did get it to take photos in the "raw" mode, so I could diddle with it in Photoshop.

The fireworks were very disappointing.  Rather like seeing the ones in Halifax from Needham Hill. The photo to the right gives a good idea of how they looked. The faint light to the left and above the fireworks is the top of the Eiffel Tower to give you a good idea of the height of the display.

I began walking towards them to see if maybe they would look better closer up.  They did last quite a while (longer than the 10 minutes of the Halifax works) -- about half an hour.  The closer I got, it still didn't make much difference, but then I noticed that I hadn't used ther facilities after my libations at the Great Canadian, which was quite sometime back, so I began in earnest to try and find one of those public toilettes.

Important advice:  When traveling, especially in an unknown land, behave like a soldier -- sleep when you can sleep, eat when you can eat, and pee when you can pee.  Don't take any of these items for granted.  I've also taken to carrying a water bottle and a bit of food (like those little individually wrapped gouda cheeses, an umbrella and a warmish shirt.

Took me all the way to the Champs Elyseee, which is a fair distance from where I was and asking various notables like hot dog vendors and police folk.  After that, I was almost to the Arc de Triomphe, so I paused at the George V bistro to have another glass of vin rouge and watch the parade of Samsara bustle, honk, and shout by.  At the table right in front of mine I could watch some of that famous French canoodeling, which basically seems to involve a rather young woman (early 20s if that) petting the face and nuzzling up to a homely man between 10 to 20 years her senior, while he nearly purrs in happiness.  Gad. The male specimen in front of me looked either German or nordic with a large jaw and short blond straight hair. He looked like no one had been so kind to him in many years and was goofishly happy.

And, all of a sudden, memories of the day came back and I was unconditionally happy to be in Paris enjoying the interplay of samsara and nirvana.

I rested the next two days in Vincenne.

July 14: . . . to the secular . . .

After finishing up at Sainte Chapelle, I went out to the rue and took a left and a left and headed into what's called the Conciergerie. It's most notorious, though temporary, inhabitant was Marie Antoinette.

In 1358, the royal family moved out of the Ile de la Cite and over to the Louvre (wasn't a museum then, but the Palais Royale). In 1391, this building was converted into a prison where all kinds of prisoners, from commoners to aristocrats were held. The more money, the more amenities, with the richest in somewhat furnished cells, with beds, desks, and lamps, called pistoles. The poorest, called pailleux from the hay (paille) that they slept on, would be confined to dark, damp, vermin-infested cells called oubliettes (literally "forgotten places")," where the plague flourished. See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conciergerie.

These rooms were very tiny, even if you were rich (or so were the ones I saw -- about 10' x 8' maybe). But, there were only three rooms on show (with stuffed manikins in them): the first had one fellow sitting at a desk with a lamp, an elevated cot, chair, and end table. Looked relatively clean. The second had two men in it lying on cots, with maybe a small table; and the third had three manikins in it sitting on some straw looking rather limp. But, there must have been bigger rooms on a more dungeon level that we couldn't see, where people and rats were stuffed in.

The photo to the right is a recreation of Marie Antoinette's room and below left are two guards who would be to the left and behind her.

I'm just going to copy this bit from Wikipedia because it's pretty pithy and describes the situation quite well:

"The Conciergerie thus already had an unpleasant reputation before it became internationally famous as the "antechamber to the guillotine" during the Reign of Terror, the bloodiest phase of the French Revolution. It housed the Revolutionary Tribunal as well as up to 1,200 male and female prisoners at a time. The Tribunal sat in the Great Hall between 2 April 1793 and 31 May 1795 and sent nearly 2,600 prisoners to the guillotine. Its rules were simple. Only two outcomes existed — a declaration of innocence or a death sentence — and in most cases the latter was chosen."

(The photo to the right was the aristocratic women prisoners' walking garden.)

"The most famous prisoners (and victims) included Queen Marie Antoinette, the poet André Chénier, Charlotte Corday, Madame Élisabeth, Madame du Barry and the Girondins, who were condemned by Georges Danton, who was in turn condemned by Robespierre, who was himself condemned and executed in a final bout of bloodletting. En route to the tumbrils, the victims walked through the Salle Saint-Louis, (Saint Louis Room), which acquired the nickname of the Salle des Perdus, the "Room of the Doomed" (see the photo to the left)

And, lastly for this section, I'm including a photo (below right) I took of a high-water mark on a column in the "Room of the Doomed". Evidently, every 100 years or so Paris floods. The last time was 23 January 1910.

Interlude: News You Can Use

Spent all day today, Thursday, the 17th, trying to get bucks out of Paris. Before I left Vincenne, I queried the web and found an address and phone number for the Royal Bank of Canada (RBC). Took the Metro, got off at Franklin D. Roosevelt (yup, an official stop on the Champs Elysee) and walked up the rue. Got to 40 rue de Boetsie -- a beautiful building that did accomodate the CBC Paris branch, but did not host RBC. The receptionist called the number I had, which was disconnected.

Sent me to the Post Office a droit, a droit. A lovely patroness of the P.O. helped me with the clerk and we found no listings of RBC in Paris. (I have to say there are plenty for my main bank, HSBC, which would be good except that my Visa card is the RBC.)

They sent me to the Canadian Embassy, which is only open between 8 am and noon (without appointment). I got there, of course, about 1:30. But I prevailed and they couldn't really help me but let me make a free phone call to RBC back home.

Why all this hoo-ha? Because the French have a very good security system that requires the use of a PIN to use a credit card, especially for cash withdrawals. Only a signature is required in Canada.

So, RBC folk told me that I could go into any bank that had a Visa sign on the door and get cash with two photo I.D. Hmm. Not quite true, though it's hard to say as I kept missing the opportunity to try by being about 1/2 hour late each time. Tried three banks, 'til HSBC sent me to basically one of those 24-hour fast money outlets -- that HEY, did give me a cash advance, but at the usorious rate of 8% (Euros). Well, I took it.

It's called the Travelex and it's at 125 Champs Elysees, just a few steps from the Arc de Triomphe.

So advice for future travelers: see if you can get a PIN number for your credit cards; bring enough cash to get you through, check to see if there is a branch of your bank in Paris (HSBC is good that way).

And, one of the best things I've done is get a Metro/bus/bicycle pass for the month.

Now, why did I have this problem altogether? Don't invest with Edward Jones. They hang on to your money until is squeaks in pain trying to get to you. Investor's Group (in Halifax) at least is timely and does what it says. Be careful of those contracts that you work hard at, but pay as they get paid. Sigh.

Well, off to Montmarte and to scope out Austerlitz, where I'll be taking the train to visit my friend Rod down near Dechen Choling near Limoge for a few days in a few days. More later.

July 14: . . . Ste Chapelle . . .

As promised, here is the other photo of the live marionette of probably Victorian vintage, that saw me off from the courtyard of Notre Dame and on to my wander across the Seine, where I got lost in a few blocks, then wandered back, having decided to visit Sainte Chapelle, highly recommended by my friend Lynn.

I'm now going to indulge in a little history that I learned from a guided tour I took mostly because it was available for free about 20 minutes after I got through the entrance to Sainte Chapelle (about 3:30).

I found out that it was located within the building I'd been photographing from the Seine, called the Palace of Justice -- an odd name to give a jail. But, it got that title during the French revolution when royalty housing arrangements changed from the palatial to the cellular.

However, way before that, "at the heart of the Cite, on the probable site of the residence of the Roman prefects, Philippe Auguste built a palace that his grandson Louis IX altered and enlarged." Louis IX was only 12 years old when he succeeded his father Louis XIII in 1226. The Regency was held by his mother, Blanche de Castille until Louis IX came of age and married in 1234. Evidently she helped this along (according to the tour guide at Sainte-Chapelle) by killing off any competition or contentious parties.

To the right is a view of his palace from the Seine and below are a view from the front and a close-up of the gates.

Louis IX lived in a time when France was very rich and powerful and had a "privileged relationship" particularly with Constantinople "after its capture by the Crusaders in 1209." In 1239, Louis IX, being religiously minded, used the opportunity to buy the most precious of religious relics of Jesus from the Emperor of the East, Baudoin II de Courtenay, heavily burdened by debt because of the Crusades, for the at-the-time princely sum of somewhat more than $300,000 (three times more than it cost to build Sainte Chapelle to house them (hah, you didn't think I had a point with all this history).

These relics included the Crown of Thorns and a piece of the cross that Jesus was crucified on. It also, according to our guide, included blood and breast milk from Mary, Jesus' mother, which disappeared when the French revolutionaries took over Sainte Chapelle. (The Da Vinci code anybody? though how these delicate items lasted 1300 years is surely a miracle.)

[Sainte Chapelle has the tall -- 108 feet so happens -- steeple on the left in the photo above.]

Moving right along. To house the relics he'd acquired, Louis had to build a proper reliquary -- Ste Chapelle. It has two floors. The first was a place for royal servants and workers to come to worship.

The photo below is Sainte Chapelle seen from the outside -- the first floor is relatively short compared to the height of the second (with the long tall panels of stained glass), where royalty came to worship. There is a second floor, covered walkway that connects the palace to the church, so royalty didn't have to go down to ground level and climb the stairs.

Walking into the lower chapel is like walking into a jewel box (as you can see to the right). The 21-foot vault (ceiling) is a beautiful blue with gold fleur-de-lis on it -- Louis IX's colours, which are also the colours on the outer set of columns. The red columns have gold castles on them, symbolizing Louis IX's mother, Blanche de Castille (another name for castle). These two sets of columns are what hold the church up in the Gothic style. The lower chapel is dedicated to the Virgin. It's windows tell her story, though the original windows were taken down after the flood of 1690 and no one knows what was on them.

The paintings to the left are of the Annunciation (had to look it up -- means announcement of the incarnation of Jesus in Mary) and are the oldest extant paintings in Paris (according to our guide) though they had to be restored in 1849.

The next part of our tour was up a very narrow set of corkscrew stairs to the upper chapel, which opened out onto a space 34 feet wide and 108 feet long and 67 feet to the vault. There's lots of statistics, but the amazement are the "lancets," which would be one panel of stained glass in sets of four that surround the chapel, replacing the walls. Each "medallion" or pane in a lancet tells a story from the bible. No, I'm not getting into that. I'll give you the wikipedia site to look at, which has some interesting external links you can connect to: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sainte-Chapelle#Gallery

One thing I found interesting though was that the whole building is a huge reliquary and on the second floor (see photo below) is a replication of the chapel, on which is built another replication of the chapel (see the blue fleur-de-lis on the little ceiling) that housed the actual relics. So, a chapel within a chapel within a chapel.

Because these the king knew he was only a caretaker and that these relics weren't just for his own enjoyment, so to speak, he had to figure out a way to share them with the people. For security and preservation reasons, he didn't want to lug them down the stairs and into the street, so he had built a platform on which that top reliquary could sit and revolve to face the outside, the window would open and the reliquary could be lowered down so ordinary people could pass by and give veneration once a year on Good Friday. Because of his piety, Louis IX became a saint, St. Louis (of the Ile of st. Louis to the east of the Ile de la Cite).

In 1789 during the French Revolution, the crown of thorns and piece of the cross were taken over to Notre Dame and the blood and milk lost. The revolutionaries then turned Sainte Chapelle into a grainery, which didn't harm the structure as much as the flood of 1690.

Even though this place was amazingly beautiful, I didn't feel the atmosphere of blessing in it that I felt in Notre Dame. It was like an empty jewel box. Maybe it was the tours happening, people milling about, a curator/guard who every now and then would say in a wonderful carrying deep bass: silence.

As Lynn said when she described this to me back in Halifax, it would be quite wonderful to be able to be there by oneself or with other silent people on a bright sunny day and absorb the colour and space.

The photo to the right is taken just outside the entrance to the upper chapel. I just missed this beautifully attired French military man posing with his sword held at salute in front of him. Instead he retained his stern expression, but acquired perhaps his girlfriend snuggling in (I think they left together after this photo) and a puzzled tourist.

I'm going to end with the rose window in the upper chapel, which depicts scenes from the apocalypse, a fitting segue into the next stop on my journey, the conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette was imprisoned.

July 14: From the Sacred . . . Notre Dame . . .

Let Them Eat Cake or Maybe Chips

Well, I began this day with some high hopes and expectations -- always a dangerous way to start a day. Today, for those who might not know, is the Quatorze de Juilliet -- the day the people stormed and burned down the Bastille (prison) in 1789 -- the flash-point for the French revolution. King Louis XVI spent too much money intervening in the American revolution and was unequally taxing the people to pay for it -- guess who paid the least? (sound familiar?) For more details, you can check out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Storming_of_the_Bastille

I got off at my favorite stop, the Hotel de Ville, built in 1357, as the seat of Paris mayorality and administration (ah, Peter Kelley -- earstwhile mayor of Halifax -- eat your heart out). It's currently hosting an exhibition of photographs of Grace Kelley, Princess of Monaco. As you can see, it's rather a grand place.

I kept seeing different orders of military personnel decked out in their dress uniforms passing by. I followed one and found more congregating at a back entrance to l'Hotel, so I asked a handsome fellow if there was a parade planned. But, comme d'habitude, I missed it. A big parade down the Champs d'Elysee had just ended and they were all regrouping.

I was able to piggy back on a dad's photo to immortalize his family with some of the guardia and take this pic of some proud officers. The photographer's wife doesn't look as sanguine about the prospect. Ah well, c'est la guerre.

Having missed the parade, I decided to head to the Ile de la Cite to check out Notre Dame and environs.

Notre Dame in its current form was built in 1163 in the reign of Louis VII. I'm not going to go too deeply into history here as you can read about the details at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Notre_Dame_de_Paris.

Of course, first thing upon entering the Place de Notre Dame, I was approached by a 20s-ish woman with dark brown hair in a low-riding bun at nape of her neck and soulful brown eyes, who asked "Do you speak English?" She was wearing an Indian-looking bodice, and long brown, floral-patterned none-too-clean skirt.

Being the polite one, I said "yes," and she handed me a little card that had printed on it something like "I am from Bosnia. My mother is dead and my brother is dead. I saw them die. I need money for food" (and a bit more about Bosnia). Aggg. I had brought some lunch with me and gave her my yoghurt and a handful of my potato chips -- half my food -- which she accepted.

When I was in India (back in antiquity, I mean 1970), I was told by an Indian friend that the best thing to give beggars, for which India is infamous, was food. I once saw a little boy looking over his shoulder at an older man after he hit me up with, "rupee, rupee" -- they are quite professional in India about begging, especially from "rich" Americans in Fagin-like gangs. The saddest thing I saw were women who had mutilated their children in order to have a better begging "hook," and weren't interested in accepting medical help -- crusty eyes, little limp hand held out, while the woman looked pretty healthy and strong.

My Indian friend said if you had to give money, you should only give 10 or 25 paise max -- equivalent to 10-25 cents in Indian spending ability, but only about 1-2.5 cents in U.S. currency at that time. Hence the request for a rupee (only ten cents in U.S. dollars, but almost a day's average wage).

Then, my Bosnian said she wanted money, holding her hand out. I was a bit disconcerted. I dug in my purse's change pocket and handed her all I had, which was somewhat less than a Euro's worth. Then she said she wanted 5 Euro. What is it about 5 E? She was somewhat insistent, repeating "Ma mere est morte. Mon frere est mort." But I felt somewhat irritated. So, I said in French "My mother is dead and my father is dead (come to that), and that's all."

There was a beggar in Delhi who used to hit me up on a regular basis with "rupee, rupee, baby, baby," indicating her bulging abdomen. I was pregnant with my son Zeb, so I said to her "rupee, rupee, baby, baby," widening my eyes appealingly and pointing to my abdomen. She laughed and started to hand me money. We had a better relationship after that and I didn't give her anything, being somewhat cash-strapped myself at that time.

Well this one didn't have that much sense of humour, but she did go away to exert her wiles on the next mark. Reflecting on it, the English card was a nice touch. Must have had someone else write it up for her. Provides an innocent-seeming entree.

So, yes, right. This is a post about the sacred. But what's more sacred than than the truth of suffering?

Notre Dame in Paris is an active church, so people are always present praying and a section of the pews are cordoned off for religious quietude. But, that space is surrounded by circumambulating tourists with flashing cameras.

Ah well, I did succumb a fews times -- like the above photo of some of the carved and painted scenes of Jesus' life after his death. Hmm, looks like a bit of generosity going on here.

I paid a ticket to see the "treasures," which were mainly gold, silver, jeweled croziers, crosses, and offering cups. I had heard that they had the thorn crown of Jesus and a piece of his cross, here, where it had been transferred from Saint Chappelle (see next post). But it wasn't in the treasury as far as I could tell. I learned at Saint Chapelle that it was taken out and shown on the first Friday of every month here at Notre Dame.

I went around the back of the nave and then saw people walking between the altar area and the area where parishioners sat. I decided to go to the center and make a genuflection in front of the altar in respect to (in buddhist terms) the Jesus drala and centuries of prayer and meditation in the church. I didn't feel I needed to be Catholic to do this, as it was something in the nature of acknowledgment and appreciation for where I was was. As I walked away and down the side aisle to the back, I felt a distinct sense of external blessing-like acknowledgment of my gesture. (Ask and they will come.) Quite cheered me up and relaxed my mind.

I went outside and traveled around the outside of Notre Dame taking a few snaps. To the right is a photograph of the back of Notre Dame where the flying buttresses are (you can't really see them very well from here), but they help hold up the arched ceilings (33 meters to the "vault").

To the left is a photo of the "rose" glass window as seen from the outside of Notre Dame. Note the straight radial spokes -- a sign of classic French Gothic construction, which differs from a later reconstruction of the rose window in the Sainte Chapelle, which we'll look at in the next post.

Last, but not least, I had the opportunity to see another living statue, who was a bit more like a living marionette, or perhaps jewel-box dancer -- to me a more entertaining way to beg, if beg it be -- more like busking.

She had a quite wonderful playful quality as if she really liked what she did. I gave her an E from my change at the treasury section in Notre Dame.

I'll continue with her in my next post on Sainte-Chapelle, the jeweled chapel.

July 11: Paris Does Dour

I have to say, today was a rather dour day. Paris somehow seems to have a distinct personality (or Shambhalians might call it-- a drala) and when it's not happy, it's obvious. I got up late and ended getting to the Musee D'Orsay, where the Impressionists are housed, with only an hour to peruse the art. Didn't figure out where the impressionists were (up on the fifth floor -- or top of the building) until 1/2 hour before closing time.

Then walking and walking and walking from there to the Hotel d'Ville -- now one of my favorite reference points -- through a rather depressingly poor jewish district to the Place de la Republique and on to Ana Fuch's house for a viewing of the Sakyong's DVD.

It all began relatively cheerfully on my second day on the Batobus pass. I decided to take some pics of the bateaus (boats) on the rive. This one to the left is relatively cheerfully named the Brigantine. I think people live on a number of these boats, though I bet it's pricey to dock quite right here. There aren't too many, and Parisiens seem to be quite particular about what lines the Seine.

This next one, on the right, more suited the day. This black ship looks to me like something Captain Nemo, or Dr. No might use whilst in Paris. This pic has a bit of a reflection from the window of the Batobus, which I mentioned last time had a thick plastic shield around it. Might be better without it, but you get what you get.

Then we passed the Pont (bridge) d'Iena that connects the Trocodero (where the royals lived and viewed events) to the Eiffel Tower. It has very grand golden warriors on golden horses on pillars -- two per end of the pont-- and lots of gold leaf on the details along the sides.

Heading back we motored under the Pont L'Alma which has these very nice furies on the sides where the pont touches the rive.

I de-boarded when we arrived at the Musee d'Orsay, opposite the Tuileries Gardens (which I've yet to see). It was built as a gare, or rail station for the Paris Exposition Universelle in 1900, during the height of what's called the Belle Epoch.

The photo I took at the time is a bit to dark to do it justice, so I'm using the one I took at sunset on 14th July, while I was waiting for the fireworks to begin. It still fits the theme of endings with a bright bit of golden flash left of the day.

They've torn up the tracks and turned the bays into galleries, leaving a wonderful sense of space. As said, I'll have to go back and check out the rest of the exhibit. Below is the buffed up golden clock inside.

This is a really good website to look at, if you want to read more of the history, or see pics of the collections:

http://www.musee-orsay.fr/en/home.html

I seem to be appreciating sculpture more than I ever have in the past. It's incredible to me how the sculptor can get hard stone to look so fluid and evocative.

Below s a sculpture that had a title, like Desolee (or desolate), rather how I can feel from time to time here when I miss my friends, or being able to chat freely about nothing too much. Though there is also a kind of wonderful free feeling in not being able to really understand anything around me, nor feel I have to focus on the details and history and get a headache, but can just absorb it as it's been lived and as I live it now.

One weird thing I noticed here at D'Orsay and at the Louvre was that people seem to have a real need to take their pics next to famous artwork, or against a backdrop of some scene celebre. It's as if they need to prove they exist, because "see, I'm next to this timeless wonder." Interestingly, people also seem to turn off their beguiling smile right after the shutter clicks.

In the D'Orsay, there was a definite rule against using a flash, especially in rooms with delicate work. One woman was quite adamant and argumentative with a guard about it. I wanted to intervene and say "don't you know how much this is like flashing the sun on a curtain, or a photo again and again? Haven't you seen how it fades?" But, I restrained myself and decided not to use my flash again on artwork, no matter what the sign says.

I did buy a really wonderful reproduction pen and ink set in the museum store. The two pens are made of glass with the nibs formed by swirling the ends, which I guess hold the ink. There are six little bottles of ink -- indigo, auburn, bordeaux, sienna, tourquoise, and verte (green). I almost hesitate to use them (how would I replace the ink?), but if I didn't use them what's the point? Use it or lose it.

This is a good lead-in to one of my favorite photos so far. This is a photo of Notre Dame under a louring sky -- a living painting. Even the reflections work. I took it from the Batobus on my way to the Hotel d'Ville to try and find my way to Ana Fuch's house for the Buddhist practice session.

On the way, I passed this wonderful residential building. The banner says soir d'ete, or evenings of summer. I just thought it was the kind of place maybe I'd like to live in, if I lived in Paris.

The sky was still a bit gloomy and deepened as I wound my way down Rue de Temple, home of the Jewish community. Lots of closed-up stores selling jewelry (bijou), dust bins, and rubbish. Maybe there's a better part somewhere, since my journeying is a bit narrow.

I'm actually quite proud of myself in that I found my way to Ana's house with minimal directions, mainly using my map. As I said before, it's interesting that "rues" look so much like alleys -- but that's my inherent western arrogance speaking, since they were built way before the automobile and a big need for two-way traffic, though that doesn't seem to hinder the motor scooters and velot (bicycles) that whiz by with gay carefree abandon and no helmets. I've been tempted to try one, as I found out my Metro pass allows me to use the bus system as well as "rent" the bicycles that are to be found in racks by the side of the rue. You bump your card against something or other (I haven't done it yet, just know there is a something or other), and the bicycle comes loose from the lock and you can ride it free for half an hour,at which time you must park it at the next cycle stop, or you have to pay. Bikes are provided by the government (Halifax? are you listening?)

This is another photo I quite like as being evocative of the French revolution and the way the city can express itself. It's of the Republicque personified as woman.

I finally found Ana's house -- not without knocking on the wrong door -- though I was not alone in that. There were ten counting me and Ana. They were all very kind to me and did the practice in English, though at the end, they read the letters in French, which I mostly understood. We had a bit of a social with the now ubiquitous champagne. I made a toast to thank them for the chaud bienvenue -- and had to be told that might not mean what I think it did (i.e., "hot" welcome). There's another word "chaleur" (if I got that right).

I was exceedingly grateful to Franc (the director of the Paris centre) and his companion (as she defined herself), Elizabeth, for giving me a ride back to VIncenne though a huge wave of roller-bladers --evidently a common sight on Friday nights in Paris. Elizabeth pointed out a few rather fit, foxy-looking policemen roller blading in the midst of the pack.

Franc and Elizabeth didn't know as much English as I thought they did, nor I quite enough French, and I'd never been to Vincenne overland, so to speak, just via the underground Metro. But, with actually no mishaps, we were able to find the Rue de Montreuil, which I had found under difficult getting-lost circumstances earlier in the week. I was able to direct the a droit (ah, adroit, now I know where that came from) turn onto -- hmmm -- it starts with an "F" -- Fontennay? and go for what seemed like a long way (giving me a good idea of how long it is to walk) and let me off at my corner at about 0015 h.

I rested the next two days and can tell you more tales tomorrow about Bastille Day, or Catorze Juillet as they say in France.

Later on July 10: Flourish and Blotts

I'm sitting in my room on Sunday evening writing this blog and listening to what are obviously fireworks, maybe getting ready for tomorrow night, the Catorze Julliet (Bastille Day). I'm going to try and figure out how to get downtown to see them, though they are at the Eiffel Tower and begin at 10:45 p.m., which means an interesting time getting back here through the darkey forest.

Anyway, last Thursday, when I left the Eiffel Tower, I got back on the Batobus and headed towards Saint Germain, or the Left Bank district. I passed by the Notre Dame Cathedrale, looking suitably louring in the overcast light.

I got off the Batobus at the Institute of France and headed towards Saint Germain through little streets (they weren't really alleyways, though they looked like it). I spotted this amazing little book store that looked just like it was out Diagon Alley in Harry Potter's world -- a muggle's version of Flourish and Blotts.

In the window was a magical book, very old looking, with a three-dimensional tree growing out of the spine and a figure on the inside. The proprietoress, who wasn't strong on English and I was pretty tired in terms of being articulate in French, told me it was called "Le Roi des Arboles" -- The King of the Trees -- about a little boy who was transformed into a tree. I have to go back and see it again I think. It was very compelling.

After that, I went up the rue a piece and found a shop where I could buy a hat, because the sun can be really strong here. I got a straw fedora kind of chapeau (which I've now discovered flies off in a breeze) and a real French black beret (didn't have a tag with ROC -- Republic of China -- in it, like the others), larger than a military beret, and that I think looks pretty good on me, if I could say so. I also got a new notebook to write in and a glittery, 20's-styled scarf to go with my black velvet skirt.

The proprietor recommended an Italian bistro around the corner, the Ristorante Pepone, for a bon marche (cheap but good) dinner. I had a salade gourmande with Magre fume (smoked ham), un bloc de foie gras and noix (walnuts) over lettuce; for the main course I had a faux filet au gorgonsola (perfectly rare stip loin and vermicelli spaghetti with a gorgonzola cheese sauce, and a mousse au chocolat for dessert -- all for 12.50 Euro, which I thought was a good deal. I also had a of tulipe of champagne, which I don't usually drink, but it cost the same as vin ordinaire, so what the heck.

Across the street was a more Parisien looking crepery, but even though it looked open, no one went in or out.

Afterwards, I caught the Batobus and got off at the Hotel de Ville to catch the Metro and caught a pic of this snooty lion.