It must have been three specific events --
the enchanting movie, “Midnight in Paris,” the recent novel, A Paris
Wife, and Varenna’s new class, Conversational French -- that propelled my
thoughts back to November 1981, when I spent three days alone in that lovely
city. In this period of my life Dale and I were living in Sydney and in
Jerusalem where Dale was working for a company developing the then state of the
art video tape. Our round-the-world tickets allowed us to stop anywhere and
spend time as long as we continued on in the same direction. Our trip from
Sydney took us through San Francisco where we spent a week visiting our grown
kids, on to Massachusetts to visit Dale’s family in Western Mass and mine on
Cape Cod. Then Dale felt he needed to get to work, so he left for Jerusalem,
leaving me to spend a few days more with my folks. I decided I’d like to see
Paris again, this time alone and able to do as I pleased, when I pleased.
I arrived in Paris but my luggage didn’t.
Although I went through all the procedures to have it sent to my hotel when it
showed up, it never did. Since it was November and cold and I had come from
warm climates, I made do with my thin jacket and cotton shirts, shivering all
the time. I didn’t buy any clothes, since I kept thinking my luggage would
arrive at any minute. This, however, was the only negative thing about my
visit.
I found a small, intimate boutique hotel
right on the Seine. My room with a small balcony looked directly across the
river to the entrance arches of the Louvre. As a result, I walked everywhere,
and took the Metro only once. After settling in, I poured myself a glass of wine,
filled the tub with bubble bath, and soaked away the travel aches and stress. I
had a good night’s rest and in the morning, prepared to do my thing. With no
luggage, I found I needed a hair dryer, so I called down to the concierge,
using my very limited French, and asked for a dryer. The person on the line
kept asking to repeat, and obviously didn’t understand what I wanted. After a
few frustrating minutes, he began to laugh. It seems I had been asking for a
"horse dryer" since the word for “horse” is “chevaux” while “hair” is “cheveux.“
So much for my bi-lingual efforts!
Since I had no one else to consider, I
planned to spend lots of time visiting museums, cathedrals, and historic
places. One highlight was the Rodin Museum, the place he lived and did most of
his work. The garden, full of his statues, was delightful. Another fascinating
place was the Conciergerie, the prison where Marie Antoinette, Robespierre,
etc. were imprisoned and prepared for execution. Rather grim to say the least.
The Pompidou Center was unusual and interesting, and I went into Notre Dame at
night. It is so magnificent with the lights on it. I went in and sat down, just
taking in the beauty and awesome surroundings.
Eating in Paris is always a delight. At lunch
I usually found a small café and enjoyed a simple yet delicious bowl of onion
soup served with a crusty baguette. It cost so little yet tasted so expensive!
Dinner was also in a small place, oozing casual charm. I feasted on poached
salmon with a delectable sauce one night, and crispy duck another. These were
accompanied by wine, salad, and wonderful cheese for dessert with thick coffee.
I don’t know if I had had these dishes in Appleby’s would they have tasted as
good, or is the ambiance a big part of how I respond?
Since I was a woman alone, and far more
comely than I am now, I found that the general opinion about French men was
quite in evidence. One evening as I walked along the quay to my hotel, a man
made a persistent attempt to pick me up. He was pleasant, well dressed, spoke
some English, and walked alongside of me. After some general conversation, he
asked me point blank if I cared to “fait amour.” When I replied with an
emphatic “merci, non,” he continued to pursue me, asking if I’d like to join
him for an aperitif and dinner. He said he knew a nice restaurant and we could
just be friends. Then I said I had a husband arriving soon. He smiled and asked
if he was the jealous type. I said “Very!” His last words were a quick “au
revoir!” Similar things from men happened a few more times, and at first it was
rather flattering, but then it became distinctly annoying. But in each case, I
never felt threatened or afraid.
The last day I decided to spend the whole
afternoon in the Louvre. In the morning I walked again, and stopped at a little
patisserie to buy some special treats to bring to Dale the next day when I got
to Jerusalem. After entering the museum, I checked my jacket and pastries with
the cloak attendant, and sauntered my way through the endless, countless
corridors of this wonderful place. From time to time I would sit and just watch
the passing parade of people, although it was not at all crowded because of the
season. I had my trusty Frommer’s travel book with me which helped immensely
with what to see and where to go, etc. I glanced outside and saw that it was
getting dark, but according to my book, I had a few hours before closing. An
announcement came over the loudspeaker, but once again my high school French
abandoned me, and I couldn’t comprehend the message. About fifteen minutes
later, much to my surprise, all the lights went out and doors slammed shut.
Only the small lights along the floor gave any light. I hastened to leave, but
the doors wouldn’t open. I began to call out, and finally a guard appeared, much
to my relief.
He was not happy with me, and I indignantly showed him my
Frommer’s which clearly said the Louvre closed at 8:30. He pointed out these
were summer hours, and it was November so winter hours were in effect. I wasn’t
allowed to leave by the normal routes, so he took me down a back hallway to a
service elevator. There at the entrance, the little check out lady was waiting
impatiently with my jacket in one hand and my pastries in the other. Such a
strange feeling to be the last visitor in that magnificent, enormous place!
Many people have said the French, as a
people, are not friendly, act very superior, and are not very helpful to
tourists. I find this not to be true, and if I even try to use my little
French, they immediately respond in a friendly way. However, they are, and I
realize it is dangerous to make generalities, somewhat reserved to visitors. I
used to teach foreign students at the University, and I had one very delightful
French young woman who became my friend more than just my student. She said to
me once, “You Americans as so arrogant!” Stunned, I asked why she would say
that.
She answered, “Because you are under the
impression that you are the only ones the French don’t like. We don’t like any
outsiders: we’ve long disliked the English, God knows we hate the Germans, the
Belgians speak French but really are beneath us, and any Frenchmen not from
Paris are not worth noticing. Therefore, you are not as special as you think!”
She was, of course, kidding -- or was she? Given a chance, I’d like to return
and make a study.
