To Prevent Another Invasion

 Nearly two weeks ago, an alien clad in green, white and red landed in the middle of Paris, bearing artifacts eagerly anticipated by a line of people 1.5 kilometers (almost 1 mile) long who came to greet it.

No, the alien wasn’t Italian and the artifacts weren’t vital links to a distant galaxy. They are, however, prized in the place from which the aliens came.  And the people who so anxiously awaited an encounter with them had seen them, until that moment, only on large, glowing screens in darkened halls.

The alien’s colors were not of a flag or spectrum. Rather, they represented the emblem of the alien’s homeland—something known in the galaxy as a “chain “ or “corporation.”

Those folks in the queue were waiting to try something they’d seen in images from a faraway land—one where Ford F-150s roam.

By now, you might have surmised that the customers in Les Halles were waiting to try something that doesn’t exist in the galaxy of Parisian pâtisseries—a Kree-spee Kréme beignet.

I guess I shouldn’t have been have been surprised. Owing largely to movies, television and music videos, American popular culture is, especially for the young, a kind of yang to the yin of haute culture, couture and cuisine. Les jeunes have grown up watching Americans dig into iconic Krispy Kreme boxes.

The company says it plans to open 500 “access points”—which will include vending machines and kiosks as well as actual stores—all over France in the next year.

I mention this development because I hope that Krispy Kreme isn’t a sign of more, and worse, trends crossing the pond, just as seeing the Shake Shack font is a harbinger of the worst things about gentrification coming to your neighborhood.

Guardian Europe columnist Alexander Hurst describes America as a “hellscape” in which folks go for their fix of glazed donuts—in their SUVs and amped-up pickup trucks.

To be sure, I have seen such vehicles in Europe.  They are, however, smaller than their US counterparts. Also, when I took bike tours in the countrysides of France and other European countries, such vehicles were used by farmers, carpenters and others engaged in work that requires hauling a lot of equipment and cargo.  Even the SUV-like vehicles I saw on recent trips in Paris, Athens and Rome were usually emblazoned with the name of a store or some other business.

Part of that has to do with the higher cost of gasoline in Europe. Another factor might be the narrower streets and roads. But Hurst believes that France and other European countries must do more to prevent this:

Ford F-150 through  the years,
 1970s-2020s.Graphic by Will Chase for Axios

The bloat in American vehicle sizes, he observes, is not only an “environmental disaster.” It’s also a hazard for pedestrians and anyone operating a smaller, less powerful vehicles—including bicycles.

As I have pointed out in earlier posts, SUVs and the pickup-trucks-on-steroids (driven by guys who could use Viagra) give us little or no room to maneuver if the driver turns, swerves or veers. Moreover, their increased height makes cyclists and pedestrians (especially small children) less visible and their higher grilles are more likely to strike someone in the upper body or even head, which is more likely to result in paralysis or death than a blow to the lower extremities.

Mayor Anne Hidalgo has proposed tripling the parking fees for SUVs in central Paris and doubling them in the rest of the city. If her proposal passes, it will be a good start. But more needs to be done—in her city and country, and the rest of Europe—in order to prevent an invasion of alien vehicles grown and fueled by Krispy Kreme’s.

Me Revoila!

You haven't heard a day-by-day description because I really filled my days there and wasn't getting back to my hotel room until the wee hours of morning.  By then, between all of the bike riding, museum and cathedral visits and socializing, I was tired, though in good ways.

Perhaps, in reading the previous sentence, you might think I shouldn't be calling this blog "Midlife Cycling" anymore.  But I'll continue to do so because, well, what else am I going to call it?  Anything with "Old" or "Senior" in the title just wouldn't have the same ring. Besides, I want to stick to "Midlife Cycling" as an act of defiance, just as I continue to speak French for as long as I can get away with it after getting home from a trip.

But I digress...and now I'll confess:  I simply wanted to spend a few days un-tethered to my electronic devices.  I didn't turn on my laptop and or answer e-mails on my smartphone unless they came from my friends in Paris or anything else related to my trip. 

I mean, when the spire of the Eiffel Tower is peering from behind l'Ecole Militaire, across the street from my hotel (the Derby Eiffel), the Seine is a five-minute walk away, and art, great food, friends and new bike lanes--real ones!--beckon, why would I want to spend time with my face in front of a screen? 

During the next few days, I'll tell you more about my trip...including, of course, where and what I rode!

Not According To Plan, But I'm Happy

I didn't get a chance to try Velib today, as I'd anticipated.  For one thing, I woke up later than I'd planned. (Then again, last night--or, should I say, this morning--I stayed out later than I expected.)  Then, Jay called:  Isabelle was "invited" to an official function and wouldn't be able to accompany me and him tomorrow, as we'd planned. So he asked if we could see a film and have dinner today.

Of course I accepted:  As much as I wanted to ride, visit museums and such, I want to see them.  (Also, this afternoon brought the first rain of my trip, along with a significant temperature drop.) So we went to an old-school independent movie house--with red velour chairs and a "stage"-- called the Brady.  From what I understand, it's the same theatre in which Francois Truffaut started to view, and make, films.  

The Truffaut connection made sense because we saw "Armageddon Time"--in English, with French subtitles, which I read just to see how some things would translate.  Isabelle is a fan of its director, James Gray and I must say that she has taste.  In some ways, AT reminded me of "Le Quatre Cent Coups" ("The 400 Blows.")  In Truffaut's foundational New Wave film, as in AT, a boy who is misunderstood befriends someone who shares in his misadventures.  And, the final scene of each movies' protagonist had similarly enigmatic expressions upon running away.

After the film, which left all of us--and, it seemed, everyone else in the theatre--stunned, we went to a nearby bistro.  I chose one of the  specials for the day:  a large classic Lyonnaise salad consisting of frisee (a.k.a. curly endive),  lardons (chunky cuts of salt pork that are poached to remove impurities, then fried to a crisp), topped with a poached egg, two wedges of toast topped with a dollop of pate de foie gras and a light vinagrette dressing.  It sounds so simple, but the flavors are intense and as a meal, it's more than satisfying.  And, since I don't eat much meat and most of my animal-protein consumption comes from cheese (by choice), this was a great "splurge."  

This chair was in every one of Picasso's studio spaces.

Anyway, before meeting up with Jay and Isabelle I did manage to sneak in a visit to the Musee Picasso.  Part of the museum, which normally contains much of its permanent collection, was closed.  So, the admission price was cut in half (from 14 to 7 Euros) for the privilege of seeing three special exhibits: one detailing his working methods and spaces and two others showing works by contemporary artists influenced by Picasso.

Picasso

Atassi

Franco-Belgian painter Farah Atassi, who is of Syrian descent, takes Picasso's distortions of the human (especially different) direction.  While he tended to give his subjects oversize limbs and to exaggerate features of the face and body, she pares the limbs of her bathers, dancers and models down to angular forms, as if to accentuate only their function--which could mean anything from actually propelling or supporting the body to simply creating another form for the artist.  The bodies took on, not just the form, but the essence of their subjects:  the bathers' torsos were enlarged but wavy, if you will, while the dancers' bodies were rounded or angled by whether they were dancing, reclining or sitting.  And the models' bodies, like their limbs and heads, were just props for the artist, though one image suggests a "burining."

On the other hand, Pierre Moignard became obsessed with the drawings Picasso made during the last year of his life.  Some of his work consists of those drawings, or parts of them, superimposed on his own paintings. Is he trying to show how Picasso might have "finished" or "continued" those works--if, indeed, they are not complete?

Then again, what do we mean by "complete?"  I had planned to ride today, but didn't.  But the day was fulfilling, which is pretty good working definition of completeness, at least for me.

The Clues Lead To This

Yesterday's post contained clues to today's.

Here's another clue:

Now, that bike might tell you something else about this post.  Is its subject a bike

or a place where you might find it?

No, I'm not in Hell.  I was always very quick to remind my students that they weren't, either, when I assigned a paper on the image in question--or the literary work on which it's based.

I have, however, visited one cathedral

and another:

and  didn't have to hear "I am beautiful" from Christina Aguilera. Instead, I saw it from one of my favorite artists*:

OK, so you've probably figured out that this post isn't about a bike--or any thing.  It's also not about any person--except, perhaps, me. 

So now you know you're reading about a place.  I saw this last night, when I stepped out of where I'm staying

and this, on my way back in this evening:

Yes, I am indeed in Paris.  The weather has been remarkably Spring-like, minus the sun:  Daytime temperatures have been in the 10-12C (50-55F) range.  Of course, over the next few days, they could drop so, perhaps, bringing warm clothes won't have been in vain.

It may seem odd that I could take a ten-day vacation here for less than most trips in the US. Then again, I'm travelling after the holiday, and I'm not here during the Summer, which is the normal "peak season." That meant that in September, I got a really good price on  a package that included non-stop flights between JFK and Charles de Gaulle (CDG) and a hotel just a couple of blocks from..wait for it...the Eiffel Tower.    Also, I know this city well enough not to make the mistakes, money-wise, that first-time visitors make.  And, of course, I have friends here, whom I'll see.

I didn't arrange to rent a bike, as I normally do.  For one thing, some of the rental services, which also do tours of the city, are closed for the winter. (When I came four years ago and rented a bike, the owner of the service actually made a special trip in to town to rent the bike.  Had I known that, I might not have arranged the rental.)  So, I am going to try the Velib. It will be interesting mainly because it will be my first experience with a municipal bike-share system.

However it is, I'm still in a city I love--where friends end e-mails, not with "sincerely," or "best,' but "bises."

*--Je suis belle, my favorite Rodin work and one of my favorite works of art.

Mapping What’s Missing

 

From the City of Austin 

My first time in Paris, so many things impressed me.  Among them were, of course, the food and the architecture—and that an entire street—l’Avenue de la Grande Armeé —was lined with boutiques of every major French bike maker and a couple of étrangers like Raleigh.  

And the city’s Métro system seemed like a fleet of high-tech yachts compared to the only such system—New York’s—I knew at the time. The feature that seemed most other-worldly, though, was the interactive route maps in the major stations like Châtelet-Les Halles.  Three decades before GPS, it was about as high-tech as urban subterranean navigation got: You pointed your finger to the name of a street or landmark and a string of lights marked the route and transfer (correspondance) points.

Now the city of Austin, Texas has something that reminds me of that old Paris map. The city’s Public Works and Transportation Departments have collaborated to create the ATX Walk Bike Roll to solicit ideas for improvements to the Lone Star capital’s bike and pedestrian infrastructure. To that end, they’ve designed an interactive map where residents can drop a “pin” wherever they find, say,  “hilariously narrow “ or non-existent sidewalks or bike lanes that are more like “obstacle courses.”

If we had such a map here in New York, I—or any regular cyclist—alone could fill it.  And to think this city is better than others in the US—including, possibly, Austin—for pedestrians and cyclists!

Tout A Velo In Paris

 As I said on Saturday, and in earlier posts, if any municipality is serious about getting people to ride bikes rather than drive to work or school, or for fun, building bike lanes is just one step.

And it’s a legitimate step if and only if (See what I learned in my formal logic class?) those lanes are well-designed, -constructed and -maintained—and practical.  

On that last condition:  Building bike lanes that begin  and end in seemingly-arbitrary locations, without any markers or any other indicators, serves no one.  People will give up four wheels for two if, among other things, bike lanes actually connect places people ride to and from, safely.  Of course, I don’t mean that people should have lanes directly from their front doors to their desks or work stations. But bike and pedestrian paths should make it possible to go from, say, a central point in a residential neighborhood to a business or cultural district in the way of good mass transit systems—like, say, the one in Paris.

Photo by Ludivic Marin, for Agence France Presse

Apparently, the City of Light’s Mayor, Anne Hidalgo, has such a vision.  She won a second term last June on a platform that included making Paris a city “tout á velo”—totally cycleable—by 2026. To that end, the French capital is investing 250 million Euros to improve its cycling infrastructure.  

Among other things, 52 km (about 32 miles) of “coronapistes”—temporary lanes created during the pandemic—will be upgraded and made permanent. To that, another 130 km will be added to the existing 100 km.  These additions and upgrades will make it possible to cycle from one end to another, and to and from key locations, within the city as well as in the adjacent suburbs.Even more important, those lanes will be planned to make it safer for cyclists to cross intersections, thus addressing another concern of people who say they’d consider cycle commuting but worry about safety.

Hidalgo’s plan will also address another concern—bike theft—by adding 100,000 new secure parking spaces, including 1000 for cargo bikes.

A Few Weeks After A Summer Ride

Lambent sun rays flickered through leaves and skittered on rippled water.  I pedaled languidly along the canal path after wandering nearby streets, stopping near a steel footbridge to munch the cheese, bread and tomato, and drink the bottle of water, I picked up along the way.  Flirtation ensued:  I won't say whether they or I instigated it!

Afterward, I wheeled the bike to a cafe and enjoyed a cappuccino--and more flirtation.

You may have guessed, by now, that I was in Paris.  (Did the flirting give it away?) I achieved, without trying, a perfect--or at least postcard image--day in the City of Light. It was all but impossible to think about death, let alone any carnage leading to it.

A few weeks later, however, darkness descended.  On this date (a Friday the 13th, no less!) in 2015, the deadliest and most infamous terrorist attacks struck the city.  Just a couple of tables away from where I enjoyed my cappuccino--at Le Carillon--other patrons, possibly sipping on cappuccinos or cafe espessos--were shot dead.

Even though I've suffered two accidents and injuries just weeks apart, I am still fortunate.  After all, I'd been cycling for about half a century--including that perfect summer day by the Canal Saint Martin-- before my misfortune struck. If only those patrons at Le Carillon could have continued their journeys!

In Other Worlds, And Ages

Yesterday, on the 50th anniversary the first moonwalk, I wrote about Dr. Rhett Allain's wonderful article on what it would take to ride a bicycle to the moon.

If I live long enough to see all of that technology develop, and eat my vegetables and drink my milk (I do one of those things now!), I just might make it to the Sea of Tranquility.  

Now that I think about it, I wonder whether I'd want to take such a trip.  After all, if I could go to Paris and bump into someone I hadn't seen in twenty years, who knows who (or what) I might encounter in another world:

An Opportunity For Arkansas Cyclists

Say "Idaho" to most people, and they think of "potatoes."

You might think about them if you're a cyclist:  They are, after all, a good energy source. (An old riding buddy used to keep two baked spuds in his jersey pockets.) But you might also associate another word with the Gem State: "Stop."

Way back in 1982, the state passed a law allowing cyclists to treat red lights as "Stop" signs and "Stop" signs as "Yield" signs.  It also allows cyclists to ride through a red light if there is no cross-traffic in the intersection.  These provisions allow cyclists to get ahead of the traffic proceeding in the same direction, making it far less likely that they'll be struck by a turning vehicle.

Since 2011, a few cities in Colorado have enacted stop-as-yield policies.  A Paris decree, issued in 2012 and amended in 2015, allows cyclists to treat certain stop lights (designated by signage) as "Yield" signs.  It also permits cyclists to turn right at red signals or, if there is no street to the right, to proceed avec prudence extreme through the intersection.  To my knowledge, no other US state or other jurisdiction has passed a similar law, though a bill with essentially the same provisions as the Idaho statute was introduced last year in the Utah state legislature and is still making its way through the Statehouse.

But the Utah Yield won't be the second piece of statewide "red-as-stop, stop-as-yield legislation."  On Tuesday, Arkansas Governor Asa Hutchinson signed Act 650, which gives cyclists the same rights as the 1982 Idaho law.

So now that there's an Idaho Stop and it looks like there will be a Utah Yield, Arkansas has to come up with a catchy nickname for their law.  I should think any state that can call itself "The Land of Opportunity" shouldn't have any trouble finding one.

Clavier Crashes On San Francisco Street

He performed in front of the Bataclan in Paris just after terrorists attacked it in 2015:



And he's played in all sorts of "trouble spots", including war zones, all over the world.

Wherever he's gone, Davide Martello, a.k.a. Klavierkunst, has played the baby grand piano he's brought with him.  

Aside from his playing, what's interesting about him is the way he's transported his instrument--behind a bicycle.

That worked very well for him, even on some rugged terrain.  But neither his bike nor his piano made could navigate one American city's geography.

Ironically, he was on his way to San Francisco's Hyde Street Pier, a more peaceful spot than others in which he's played.  He was "in a hurry" to get there and find a parking spot, he said, when he started riding down Bay Street between Columbus and Leavenworth.  

What he didn't realize, until it was too late, is that particular stretch of Bay Street has a 17.4 percent gradient.  While Martello, his piano and his bike have survived all sorts of attacks and indignities, his brakes were no match for the descent.

He doesn't yet know whether the piano is salvageable.  At least he didn't get hurt:  He jumped off the bike before it crashed.

Saturday Ride: Empires And Connecticut

It's one thing to be reminded of Paris when you're in New York--especially, say, if you're walking down the Grand Concourse in the Bronx and looking at the Art Deco buildings--or pedaling along Ocean or Eastern Parkways in Brooklyn.  As I have mentioned in other posts, these places were inspired by the Grand Boulevards of Paris as well as the wide residential boulevards of London and other large European cities.

Also, I was in Paris a week and a half ago, so I have an excuse for thinking about it.

Now, it would be fair to ask what would cause me to think about Cambodia during a bike ride to and from Connecticut.  After all, there isn't much physical resemblance between the two places.  You might think that because I was riding on a cold day--the temperature didn't reach the freezing mark the other day, when I pedaled to the Nutmeg State--I was taking a trip, in my mind, to the warm weather I experienced in Southeast Asia.

Actually, I wasn't thinking about that.  Something I saw in the Greenwich Common reminded me, in an odd way, of something I saw in the land of the ancient Khmer kingdom.

Bare branches furled themselves around a monument to young men who marched, perhaps bravely, perhaps blindly, into their own slaughters.  In another year they are mourned, their young bones turned into mud:  They remain only as names on these stones after dying to capture hills and other terrestrial features that are recorded only as coordinates on a map or, perhaps, dates and times.  

All right.  I'll get off my soapbox.  When I see a war "memorial", I can't help but to think of what a colossal waste of lives--especially those of the young--result from the rise and fall of nations, of empires--whether said entities consist of real estate or simply numbers traded and sold from one electronic screen to another.

At least all those Greenwich residents who died too soon have names, at least for as long as those stones stand.  What, though, if the trees--not unlike the ones on the Connecticut state coin--were to wind themselves around those monuments?  What if they continued to grow, as they would if no one touched them, while the stones bearing the names of the lost were to crumble?

Somehow I don't think similar questions ever darkened the mind of Henri Mouhot.   He is often said--mistakenly--to have "discovered" Angkor Wat.  Of course, he no more "discovered" it than Columbus "discovered" America:  There were thousands of people already living in its vicinity, and they all descended from people who'd lived in the area.  Moreover, other French explorers and missionaries had seen and documented the temples decades before Mouhot.  He did, however, popularize Angkor Wat in Western imagination, in part by comparing them to the pyramids.

I have to wonder, though, what went through his and his colleagues' minds when they first saw Ta Prohm.

We know the name of the King--Jayavarman--who commissioned it.  Those who cleared the jungle, cut the stones, carved the statues and made the meals for those who did all the other work are anonymous to us now.  So are those who fought to build and maintain the Khmer Empire (or almost every other empire).  What we have now are what Mouhot encountered 160 years ago:  Trees reclaiming their home from monuments humans built.

Now, of course, I am not complaining about having gone to see Ta Prohm, or the rest of the Angkor Wat complex.  It really has been one of the great privileges I've enjoyed:  The temple sites are awe-inspiring in all sorts of ways, and the people are inspirational.  It should be remembered, though, that its glories, much like those of the Vatican and the grand cathedrals of Europe, as well as the pyramids, were the result of now-nameless people whose lives began and ended as fodder for the empire.  

And, I must say, it is ironic to be reminded of an ancient marvel in a tropical climate on a cold day in a modern suburban downtown--while riding my bicycle.

Home Again

By the time you read this, I'll be on my way home or already there.  Back to my "normal" life!

If you don't hear from me for a day or two, it's probably because Marlee wouldn't let go of me.  I guess I can't blame her if she's upset:  After all, I spent a week away, a couple of days home, and more than a week away again.  So far, I've been home for only three days in 2019!

Will the rest of the year be a journey?  For the world, it might be an arduous one, to say the least. It might be for me, too, but I hope that it will be as interesting and fun as it's been so far!

A French Lunch With Old Friends

On this visit, I've ridden more than 20 kilometers on only two of the seven days I've been here.  But cycling lots of kilometers (or miles) wasn't the point of coming to Paris, though I didn't want to go without pedaling the pave (cobblestones) as well as the paths and paved streets.

Yesterday I didn't ride at all.  I did, however, visit two more old friends who had me to their house for one of those wonderful and inimitable French lunches.  In many ways, it was the best of all worlds:  the lunch was both civilized and leisurely, and they live in a house full of sunlight in a town that feels like the country even though it's only 15 kilometers from the center of Paris.

I met Michele about 15 years ago through my late friend Janine, who lived nearby.  Since then, she re-connected with Alec, whom she met when they met in Spain.  At the time, they've explained, they were living as hippies and hitchiking around Europe--much to the dismay of both of their parents.


Neither of their parents approved and each of them eventually married people their parents approved.  From the way I'm telling you this story, you've probably guessed that their unions didn't work out.  Well, Michele's didn't, anyway, and Alec's wife died.  So, nearly four decades after first meeting, they reunited and married four years ago.

Our lunch started around noon, when I arrived and lasted well into the afternoon.  I, of course, am on holiday, and they are retired, so we don't really know--or care--when the lunch ended. (Does it end when you stop eating or after you take a walk and come back for more cidre rose and coffee?) 

The food was uncomplicated but exquisitely prepared:  a starter of sliced sausage, followed by three different kinds of salad:  one of shredded red cabbage, another of carrots and onions, and still another of creamy cucumbers.

What followed was a rare steak and some wonderful roasted sliced potatoes.  Of course, it was accompanied by bread.  Alec had bought some before we met, but in following an old French custom, I brought a baguette which we ate.  (I also brought a box of fancy chocolates.) And, after all of that, chocolate and cafe creme eclairs, with espresso coffee.

Don't believe for a minute that the French--even Parisians--are not friendly. When I toured the countryside by bicycle, I experienced all sorts of kindness.  And here in the Paris region, people have treated me well. They simply don't make friends with people immediately, as Americans and other people often do.  They have to get to know you, or meet you through someone they know well. 

Somehow, though, I suspect that I might've befriended Michele even if I hadn't met her from Janine, just as I would've been friends with Isabelle if she hadn't been married to Jay.  

He did more bike riding than I did today!

It was also fun to spend some time with Michele's grandson, who was spending the day with him.  Now, you probably think a prototypical (or stereotypical) name for a French boy is Jean or Jacques or Yves.  But this three-year-old boy has a name only a French person--or someone who loves impressionist paintings--could have given him.  Are you ready for this?  Matisse.  At first, I thought it was a French pronunciation of Matthis or Matthew.  But I learned that he is indeed named for the Picasso's friend and rival.

Don't you just love this water pump in the local park?  It actually works!

I would love to see what he becomes when he "grows up."  Will he rebel against it and become an accountant or lawyer, or even a physicist?  Or will he live up to the connotations of his name?

Of course, that is not the only reason why I want to visit Michele and Alec again, or have them visit me, some time soon!

A Market, A Canal, A Church And A Fountain

My bike ride today took me to alternative universes in Paris.  That's what they seemed to be, anyway.

I encountered the first one after riding some side streets near the Place de Clichy, I wandered up some cobblestoned streets (that were really more like lanes) and found myself at the Porte de St. Ouen.

If you are cycling, walking, driving or taking any other kind of ground transportation, you enter or leave the city through those "portes", which are usually passages under the Peripherique, a highway that rings the City of Light. The location of the "portes" are said to approximate the location of openings in the walls that surrounded the city itself and those outlying towns in earlier times.

Anyway, just after passing through the "porte", I saw a sign for "puces".  No, the French highway folks aren't telling you where to find fleas.  Rather, it's shorthand for "flea market" (marche de puces).  So, of course, I followed it.

I hadn't been to the St. Ouen-Paris flea markets in some time. The hyphenated designation isn't just marketing hype:  Although most of the market's stalls are indeed in St.Ouen, a whole section of stalls lies within the Paris city limits.

Notice that I used the plural:  "flea markets".  That's because there are in fact over a dozen different markets, each of them arranged along different streets of the city.  Or, you might say that the markets are like a city of open-air malls.   The only shopping experience that even remotely reminded me of St. Ouen is the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul.  Of course, they are very different because the GB is covered and, of course, because of the disparate cultures (even if some of the sellers at St. Ouen are Turkish). I don't know which is bigger, but they both dwarf any flea market I've seen elsewhere.

In both places, it's possible to buy just about anything, though there are certainly more antique and vintage-item sellers in St. Ouen than I recall seeing in Istanbul.  But St. Ouen made me think about the term "flea market", which is a direct translation of "marche aux puces". (The French usually call the markets "puces" for short.)  The term is said to have originated because the sellers in the original markets were often homeless, and covered with fleas.  According to what I've read, their practice began in the latter decades of the 19th Century, when much of the city was rebuilt under Baron Haussmann.  (He's the one who replaced the serpentine medieval streets with straight thoroughfares that radiated out from plazas and parks:  Think of the "Etoile" in which the Arc de Triomphe is located.)  As a result of this realignment, many old buildings were torn down, and their contents were left lying  in the streets--where they were scavenged.

Now, I must admit, some things indeed looked as if they were brought in by people (or even dogs or cats) with fleas.  But some other things certainly didn't.

And, while many of the structures that became stalls were old industrial facilites, others looked like they might have given a bourgeois lady or gentleman quite a view.

There are also some interesting contrasts, such as this:

I like it a lot, but it's kind of funny to see the kind of graffiti art you might see in Bushwick or Mott Haven on a building in which old paintings and prints are sold.

Speaking of structures, later in the day, at the other end of town, I encountered a church unlike any I've seen in this city--or anywhere else.

All right, from the outside you might think it's just another late-19th (or early-20th) Century church built in the Romanesque style.  And, in fact,it is, deliberately so:  It was built to replace another church similar in style--on the outside.

Once you get inside, the church still shares some characteristics with other Romanesque churches, including the high, vaulted ceilings--which, of course, are designed to get parishoners to look upward and be reminded of the vast power of God.  But then there's something you've never seen in any other Romanesque church--or, probably, any other church:

Steel girders!  If someone were to build a Romanesque church in Manhattan's Meatpacking District (when it was indeed a district where meat was packed) or Soho (when it was still industrial), I might expect something like this--maybe.

The girders inside the Notre Dame du Travail (Our Lady of Work) were taken from the Palais d'Industrie constructed for the 1855 Universal Exposition and torn down in 1891.  And the stone on the outside was taken from an earlier church that had become too small for the community it was serving.

Even though the city made a rather detailed historical marker for it, and the church offers pamphlets and other materials explaining the church's history, I guess they don't expect tourists to visit, as it is on the far southern end of the city, far from better-known sites.  Thus, the marker and the printed materials are only in French--which, fortunately, I can read, so I was able to write about the church (however sketchily) here. 

Along the way, I made other stops at interesting spots--and for a picnic lunch on the Quai de Jemmapes, by the Canal St. Martin.  And near the end of my ride, I stopped at Place Felix Eboue to hydrate:

Well, if I were my iPhone or laptop, I guess I could have hydrated there.  I enjoyed it nonetheless.  It's different and it's Paris, after all!