Joie de Vivre

Evenings in France are magical. Families, lovers, children, friends all go outside to stroll the boulevards until it’s time to eat around 20 h (8:00 p.m.) or even later. The street lights come on and it’s like a holiday party where everyone is invited.

After seeing Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle (do not miss the SC if you go to Paris), we found that the impressive Palais de Justice was next door and strolled over to have a look. On the marble steps stood a young man in a black avocat’s robe, his stylishly dressed mother at his side and a photographer taking his picture. He had just become a lawyer. Curious, I turned to a young woman, also in black avocat’s robe, relaxing on the steps nearby.

“Are you an avocat?” I asked in French. She was, and had been for only four months or so after serving a two-year apprenticeship. We talked of how hard it is for a young lawyer there, as here. Ingrid chose business law because, after serving a four-month internship in San Francisco working in Immigration Law, she decided that she wanted a field where she wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of families being separated from each other. At least in business you deal with a corporation, not a person.

“Anyone can do a bad thing,” she said, and I agreed. I know I have had moments where, but for the grace of God, I might have committed a big crime. A famous U.S. defense attorney whose clients included really sleazy people, even guilty ones, explained why: “Because everyone deserves to have one person on their side, to speak for them.”

Though Ingrid’s father initially didn’t want her to be a lawyer, he now sees that she can help people and is proud of her.

A clerk in the store where we bought camera batteries pointed us in the direction of some good, cheap restaurants (cheap for Paris, not for Barstow, CA). Relaxing after a full afternoon of touristing, we settled for a sidewalk table at La Baltarde. It was a early for Parisians to begin eating, only 6 p.m., but not for us. (Soon, our eating habits would switch to French time, but for now we were on a U.S. schedule.) A jaunty young couple took the table next to us and ordered wine. In a short while, Maria-Christina (for that was her name) asked Roussel to ask us if we minded if she smoked. (It seems to us that more French women than men smoke). Mary held up her finger, testing the wind, which brought a laugh, introductions, and a delightful hour of fun in Fren-glish.

We had to run off to the Louvre then because I’d promised my daughter that I’d take pictures of the ancient Roman and Greek exhibits, but most were closed for renovation. Fifty years ago, we got lost in the Louvre and it happened again. Mary was desperate to find a restroom (a Loo in the Louvre), but directions from guards and maps led us into confusion. Finally, when we were weary and cranky, we found success, relief, and escape.

It was a joyful escape because we discovered the Pont des Arts, or, as we named it, The Bridge of Love. On this, one of the first warm evenings of spring, the footbridge was crowded with young people sitting on the ground, eating, drinking, talking, filled with joie de vivre. Locks of all sizes and shapes hung from the fence along the edge. “Pourquoi?” I asked one couple. “Amour,” we were told. The lock is a seal to their love.

It must have been 9:30 by the time we grabbed a table at the very popular Le Paradis des Fruits, ordered elegant ice cream creations and watched the crowds of people passing by.

Here’s the thing – at a café, you can order just a simple thing and you “own” that table for as long as you care to stay. No tip-hungry waiter will rush you. because there are usually no tips. Waiters are paid a wage, and prices are high enough to cover the loss of having fewer (but happier) customers.

Last night I watched the documentary, “Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room.” That’s a scary movie. It uses clips from interviews with Enron execs and employees to show how deregulation of the energy business caused (and is causing) economic upheaval, especially for California where Enron “stole” $35 billion of electricity and sold it to other states.

A comparison might be of Paris cafes, small and friendly, where waiters are not dependent on a high turnover of customers (wages are set, as in regulation), to U.S. restaurants where customers are hurried in and out because waiters need (or want) more tips (no set wage, as in deregulation).

It’s just a thought.

Beginning with Food

I finally found the first disk of photos so now you can enjoy my delightful discovery of the patisserie (pastry shop) only two blocks from our Paris hotel. Is it any wonder I succumbed? They also sell bread, which, joined with soft, flavor-full cheeses and some pate, makes a perfect sandwich. Along that short block, we could buy fruit, fish, deli things with no name, sausages, vegetables. On one day there was even an outdoor market.

Do you know the English film “Enchanted April?” Four women rent a villa on the Italian coast to escape the rain and gloom of London. The trip there is long, cold and wet. They arrive by buggy at night, suspecting that the whole thing was a mistake and that they should have stayed home. The next morning, early, one of them wakes and opens up her shuttered window onto sunshine, singing birds, flowers, and the glorious Mediterranean below. It is April in Italy. For us, it was April in Paris.

After arriving on the 5^th at Orly outside of Paris, finding the Metro (subway), climbing with our backpacks up and down interminable corridors and stairs in the Metro, asking questions, following directions, we finally llimped into the Hotel du Commerce. It’s a small hotel on a tiny street on the Left Bank. Hauling ourselves up three narrow winding stairways cloaked in darkness (later we found the light switch), and down a one-person hallway, we found our 8 x 18 ft. inexpensive ($50 a night for two) room.

Opening the door, here’s what greeted us: Bright colors, one bed large enough for two, a sink, and a tall screenless window opening to an unencumbered view of our part of town. Across the way, apartments with balconies full of flowers and trees; on the street below, students sitting outside the bars talking and smoking. Cars managjing somehow to go both ways on the street, missing trucks and bicyclists.

The toilet is down the hall, just like home, and the shower is downstairs near the reception desk, not quite like home but it was OK. The breakfast room (pictured) was bright and happy. Several times we did our shopping then brought it back here to eat. I felt as if I was in a scene from the opera, “La Boheme,” or the movie, “Gigi.”

At the desk, you see Laurent, our charming and helpful host..

This gentle little corner of Paris was the perfect place for us to begin our lightly-planned adventure.