Day 16: March 2 Another Sunday

Greetings from Paris

Our apartment has windows on two sides.  The living room opens to the east on to Rue de la Federation, letting in great morning sun.  The bedroom and kitchen open to the west on our building’s inner courtyard, a triangle of plants, bicycles, trash containers, all overlooked by lively balconies.  This morning we saw from our bedroom window what we have seen every day since arriving in Paris two weeks ago – an energetic elderly French woman at home on her balcony and in love with her plants.  This morning, as always, she talked animatedly to her plants while watering them.  And before going back inside, she raised her head and smiled into the sun for a few moments of clear delight.

She makes our day.

And much of our day is spent doing justice to the lovely place we have been given to live while in Paris.  We cleaned – everything. And when that was done, we went out for our Sunday walk just as so many Parisians do.

Who knew that you can fabricate your own parking space?

Who knew that the new Mini is enormous compared to the old Mini?

Who knew that what makes a BMW motor-scooter an  “Executive” BMW motor-scooter is a roof?  Ahhh to be an “executive” again!

Who knew that the French use training wheels?

Who knew that pretty girls hide behind flowers when you try to take their photo?

Who knew that big boys have to buy groceries when little boys just want sticks?

And who knew that Ryn and I would go to yet another open-air street market?

The Marche Rue Grenelle opens on Sundays underneath the overhead #6 Metro.  It is three blocks from our apartment.

Having stocked up on food yesterday there wasn’t much that we needed along that line, but it is always fun to see what else is for sale. We had no difficulty.  The big find for Ryn – and the focus of numerous searches during the past two weeks – was buttons.  She bought a lot of buttons!

Even though I had been instructed to ignore food, I was distracted by the largest tub of ham and sauerkraut that I had ever seen…

…and by the enormity of some of the cheeses here.

A few words about the shopping bag that Ryn is holding in this photo – the one with the Eiffel Tower on it.  Like the natives, we are expected to provide our own shopping bags.  Grocery stores here charge for them.  Ryn is a firm believer in using our own even in Fargo, and the bag in the photo has been to Hornbacher’s on many occasions.  In Paris, this bag goes everywhere we go – often scrunched up in my jacket or satchel, more often toting stuff.  We have been struck by how many Parisians notice the bag, point at the bag, comment on the bag, even ask us where we got the bag.   Admittedly, it is the only one of its kind that we have seen in Paris.  We feel quite chic.  And, if you are interested, you can probably still pick one up at TJ Maxx in Fargo, which is where Ryn got this one.

Bon soir,

Bruce

Day 15: March 1 Market Day

Bon Jour Mes Amis

Paris has countless open-air markets that open one, two, or more days each week.  Some devote themselves entirely to food, some to “stuff,” some to both.  They are commonly covered by tents arranged in long rows along the paved center islands of the broad boulevards for which Paris is famous.

Today we walked five or six blocks from our apartment, in a gentle rain, past the Ecole MIlitaire, past UNESCO headquarters, to the Marche (market) Saxe-Bretueil.  UNESCO was founded in 1945 and now has about 200 member nations.  Its constitution begins, “Since wars begin in the minds of men, it is in the minds of men that the defenses of peace must be constructed.”  Our landlady, Elisabeth, has walked to work at UNESCO for many years.  Her worldly elegance must serve her well among those devoted to establishing intellectual understanding and cooperation around our planet.

Marche Saxe-Bretueil is open on Thursdays and Saturdays. When we arrive the place is packed. Two skinny aisles, each running about two hundred yards, separate four long rows of shops.  Tents cover the sellers and active buyers while the gawkers walk beneath thin ribbons of open sky.

Most of the people there are obvious regulars, chatting happily with each other and with the vendors.  Although many seem to be there to socialize, some are just trying to get food.  An old man pushes his way through the crowd with an irritated, “Pardon.  Pardon.  Pardon.”

Grumpy man.

A young couple fresh, I imagine, from a night of love gently select the fine pastry that will seal their kisses yet to come.  A woman with a bright red satchel counts out tens of tiny coins onto a butcher’s scale to consummate her purchase of sausage. A long line of mixed-race people on a bicycle tour of Paris push their way down the aisle, their handlebars too wide to fit among both people and produce.  Most remain in tight formation, snapping photos along the way, forcing their bikes through the crowd with discipline and brazeness.  A young America woman says, “This is just plain rude,” and leads her compatriots to an uncluttered path outside of the market.  I am proud of her.

Ryn and I are attracted to the stands with long lines where we presume the food to be best.  We discover that long lines seem to have more to do with the personality of the vendor than with any perceptible difference in the quality of his or her wares.  I find myself mesmerized by the faces, expressions, and antics of these sellers of olives, prawns, and squash.

Gregarious olive vendor.

This vendor talks to each customer at length, no matter how long his line.

Fish market (poissonnier).

Fresh sea urchins (oursins) anyone?

The vendors wink at us.  They toss us samples  of cheese, falafel, and seasoned bread.  They joke and laugh, telling me that I must purchase a lot for my “maigre femme.”

This vendor said that Ryn is too skinny.  She loved him.

Much of the food is raw, unprepared.

The mushrooms are varied and beautiful.

Have you ever seen cherry tomatoes like these?

You want squash?  Cut one section from this monster.

Lettuce and endive for tonight.

Much of the food is cooked and ready to eat – Moroccan, Lebanese, Syrian, French.  Racks of roasting chickens drop their sizzling juices on potatoes roasting in a pit below.

Huge pans of lamb in brown gravy send deep aromas wafting across the crowd.

And another bicycle tour crushes through.  We feel happy that we have a home to return to instead of a hotel.  Unlike the bicyclists, we can fill our bags with goodies and take them home to eat.

If one thinks that one saves money by purchasing one’s groceries directly from local producers at an open air market, think again.  We drop 100 euros in a flash.  But, ooo la la, is it ever worth it.  I hope that our photos capture Saxe-Bretueil’s feast for both eyes and tummies.

Our bags full, we turn around to walk home, not realizing that our friendly Tower has followed throughout our morning trip to the market.

For dinner tonight we could not resist the roasted chicken and potatoes.  From vendor to table.  Yum.

Bon soir.

Bruce

Day 14: February 28 Just Living in Paris

Bon Jour

Today was a perfect day.  Our museum binge completed, we decided to just live in Paris.  To get our bearings anew.  To take a breath.  In other words, I slept until 10AM.  How’s that for putting a healthy spin on utter sloth?

Some of our readers have asked us for images of where we live and we aim to please.  I will assume this task while Ryn writes about our wonderful evening with a new Parisian friend.

Our street, Rue de la Federation, sits on the border of the 7th and 15th Arrondissements (districts) in Paris.  Within a few blocks are the Eiffel Tower and the Ecole Militaire, France’s West Point.  We have a great many soldiers walking about in a variety of stunning uniforms.  Tourists congregate around the Eiffel Tower and rarely make it into our neighborhood.  We see only the French.

Military Academy

Our building is of 1960s vintage, very nice and very light.

We have numerous restaurants right across the street, including a brasserie and an extremely busy Thai place.

We go shopping on a daily basis for three reasons: we continually discover new needs, we lack the storage space for Costco quantities, and the fresh food is irresistable.  The neighborhood stores are “to die for.”

Our bakery, home to the pains de raisin to which we have become addicted.

Our Stop-N-Go store for quick needs of any kind, at any hour except on Sundays.

The florist where Ryn secured the herb garden on our balcony.

And, of course, the liquor store where M. Nicolas (not his real name – the name of the chain – but he laughs when I call him that) advises me in French about the “les vins rouge plus puissants.”

We spend a lot of time at the corner of Rue Grenelle and Rue Motte-Picquet (pictured above).  It is the location of a major Metro exchange, the source of most of our travels.  It is where Monoprix resides, a department store with a well-stocked grocery store on the second floor (or, in France, on the first floor).  This corner is also where Starbucks attracts an amazing volume of Parisians to purchase its coffees.  We have spent far too much time imbibing café viennoise and café cappuccino and café au lait in the French brasseries to feel tempted into Starbucks, but cravings are strange things and stranger things have happened.

Our walks home from the Metro are always pleasurable, even in the rain.  We pass news stands that help us understand what the French care about – in this case, Woody Allen and Bill Murray.

People are always sitting in the outdoor cafes drinking coffee, beer, wine – and talking.

The generations pass.

And the rain leaves stunning light in its wake.

Our neighborhood.  A good day.

Bruce

“The friend of my friend is my friend.”

This was the greeting from Sylvia as we entered her 19th century apartment on Boulevard Beaumarchais, near Bastille square, on Friday evening.  She motioned us into her living room where the champagne was chilling among a lovely spread of artisanal cheeses, nuts and crackers.  Her smile was broad and reflected a generous heart, and after knowing her just 5 minutes, we instantly liked her.

Let me explain.  Upon learning that Bruce and I intended to spend two months in Paris, Larry E, a friend and fellow alum from the College of Pharmacy at North Dakota State University, suggested that we meet an Eli Lilly colleague of his, Sylvia (also a pharmacist), a native of northern France and now residing in Paris.   We enthusiastically agreed and at Larry E’s instigation, emails bounced around from his home in Arizona to Paris to Fargo.  When we arrived here, an early welcoming message greeted us from Sylvia.  Because her work in diabetes requires frequent international travel, last evening (day 13, 28 February) was the first night she was available.

Sylvia booked a restaurant in her neighborhood, Gaspard de la Nuit, at 6 rue des Tournelles.  It is a charming, family-run bistro that was packed by 7:30PM.  “See? No tourists,” said Sylvia with a spunky grin.  Little did we know that this meal would rank highest so far in our first two weeks of French dining. Sylvia chose the wine carefully, a Bourgueil (made almost entirely from cabernet franc) from the Loire Valley.  Heavenly and nicely paired with three different plats.  My roasted salmon with braised endive floated on an lovely orange sauce.  Bruce enjoyed his pork with mashed potatoes.  Sylvia craved the kidneys.  Every aspect of the meal was memorable: impeccable service and authentic cooking surrounded by lively stories and much laughter.

As we rode the Metro back to Motte-Picquet , Bruce and I reflected on how much we learned tonight from Sylvia and how eager we are to see her again during our stay.  Here are snippets of broader conversations.

French health care: “It is the finest in the world but it is slipping. Bureaucratic. Copays and gatekeepers.”  Sounds familiar.

President Hollande:  “No one cares about his mistresses, but you’d think with France in so much trouble that he could manage his ‘avoir du chien’  for five years to run the country.  And why should the citizens pay for the consequences of this?”

Living in Paris:  “The Paris that tourists see is not the Paris that Parisians live.”  She invited us to shop with her at the markets, meet her butcher and then prepare and share a meal in her apartment. “Oui!” we shouted in unison.

What to see in Paris: See the Cimetiere du Pere LaChaise where Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf are buried.  Also see Marais and the Place des Vosges, the oldest square in Paris.

To top off this wonderful evening, Sylvia inquired about my book- in-progress and offered her assistance.  I am always surprised (and grateful) at the willingness of busy people to share their knowledge and contacts with an author.  With thirteen years in Paris and a rich network of health care professionals, Sylvia volunteered to introduce me to several French physicians and attempt to arrange a backstage tour of a central Paris hospital.  This is all pertinent for a few scenes in Placebo.  She then asked if I had any interest in meeting a policeman.  To an author, this is like landing the biggest fish in the sea.  Sylvia just happens to live next door to a high-ranking gendarme.

Friends, it just doesn’t get any better than this!  Thank you, Larry E and Sylvia!

Bonne nuit!

Ryn