Although I Couldn't See All Of The Statues, The Ride Wasn't A Bust

Today I cycled to a place where I shed tears whenever I visit.  Yes, on purpose.





 

 

For those of you who have never met me in person, I'm going to share a little secret:  I cry, sometimes in embarrassing, if not inappropriate, situations.  More than once, tears have rolled down my cheeks when I've shared a particularly beautiful piece of writing--like Caliban's "The Isle Is Full of Noises" soliloquy in The Tempest--or when some sense-memory overtakes me.  I can also cry with and for another person, as well as for myself. 

 

So where, you may ask, is this place in Paris that opens up my lacrimal duct?





 

He's at the "gate", so to speak.



That bust, and the statue before it, are studies that became part of Porte d'Enfer by Auguste Rodin.  I went to the museum that houses most of his work.

 The only problem was, the main collection was closed.  So was most  of the rest of the museum.  To be fair, the Hotel Biron, at 77 rue Varenne, has been in need of repairs.  And, as with any museum, ventilation systems and other infrastructure need to be repaired and replaced in order to keep the artist's works from deterioration and other damage.

 

 C'est une injustice! I exclaimed to the guide when she explained the situation.  "J'ai venue d'amerique", I told her, to see Le Baiser, Le Penseur and--my favorite objet d' art--Je suis belle. 

 

 

Thinking about....?

From the day I first encountered photos of those works in an art history class I took as an undergraduate, Rodin has spoken to me, moved me, in ways that only three or four other artists, in any medium, ever have.  For me, seeing the ways he could draw out despair, courage, empathy, isolation, inspiration and so much more--sometimes all in the same work--in such static materials as stone and metal has been a sort of guidebook to the soul.  He doesn't merely  render, express or depict emotions; he makes his materials a conduit for la force vitale.  To me, the only other Western sculptor who did anything like that is Michelangelo.

Sometimes, in museums, I see.  Or I might think, or feel, or simply enjoy.  When I am in the presence of Rodin's works, in his milieu, I live.  You might say it's like  at least for me.

Anyway, the museum is apparently building a new wing as they renovate the old space, and are going to exhibit the works in new ways.  I hope that the newly-restored museum doesn't sacrifice too much of the intimacy of the old one and become another big building full of glass boxes that hermetically seal the artist's works away from the people, from the world, as too many other museums do.

 As the renovations proceed, there is an exhibit of some of the castings Rodin made as studies for his masterworks as photographs taken of them, and him as he made them.  Most of the figures you see in his completed works are clothed, but he made nude studies for all of them to get, not only the proportions, but the ways in which they moved and interacted with their environments, before he created the "final product", so to speak.

 And the gardens are still open.  Even if you aren't a fan of his work, or art generally, it's a great place to unwind--after or before a bike ride in Paris.

 After I left the Rodin and had a picnic lunch by the Seine, I rode some more, spent some time in the Musee d'Orsay and rode some more.  I'll talk about those later.

Another Long Lunch And Late Ride--And A Confession

Today I enjoyed another long lunch with another French friend I hadn't seen in a long time.  And I took another late bike ride.

I had seen Michele more recently than I'd seen Jay, but we agreed that it had been trope longue. Interestingly, my conversation with her--like my conversation with Jay--was not a sentimental repetition of temps perdus.  Rather, we picked up where we'd left off eight years ago, when she came to New York.

That is probably a good thing because, since we last met, the friend who brought us together--Janine--died.  Michele is nine years older than I am, as Janine was, so it's hard not to think of aging and mortality and other related topics.  That may be the reason why we didn't dwell on the past. 

She asked me the question she didn't ask when I told her, via e-mail, that I was coming to Paris.  I said, only half-jokingly, "Donald Trump sera le president."  She chuckled in the way one does when one could just as well sigh:  She knows that neither his election nor the prospect that it would drive someone like me out of my own country is out of the question.

Perhaps I shouldn't worry so much about The Donald going to Washington.  After all, he might make the White House look something like this:

I took that photo of the Versailles palace from about a kilometer up the road.  You can see all of that gold glitter from that far away. 

 

 

Yes, I rode there after Michele and I parted.  In this part of France, there's about half an hour more of light at the end of a summer day than there is In New York or other places at or near the 40th parallel.  All Paris museums are closed on Monday, as is the inside of the home of Le Roi Soleil. But the gardens around the palace were not and, having ridden there during two of my bike tours, I knew the trip would be pleasant.

 

 

 

I also had another motivation for taking the ride.  To tell you about it, I have to make a confession:  I am really a big magpie in a human body.  Why else am I drawn to glittery, shiny things and looking at my reflection in them?

 

 

 

Anyway, the gardens are interesting.  They're so formal that even this bird is all  dressed up. 

 

 

 

Maybe he's going to a party in Paris.

 

 

 

 

Can you beat that for a navigational aid?

  

 

 

 

What If Charles V Had A Bicycle?

The hotel in which I'm staying is literally around the corner (all right, and a block away) from the Gare Montparnasse, a railroad station that from which trains depart to, and arrive from, Atlantic coastal cities such as La Rochelle and St. Malo.  It also happens to be very close to a some other interesting places--one in general and the other to me personally.  I cycled to them, and other places.

First to the general interest spot:  Rue Daguerre.  It's been closed off as a pedestrian mall where stands and shops sell everything from Asian fabrics to fresh-baked bread and crayfish that are scooped from a tank when customers buy them.  Most interesting of all--to me, anyway--were the two organ grinders who plied their trade.  Seeing and hearing them on a cool but bright Sunday morning mirrored and echoed the joie de vivre of Paris in the summer. 

On one hand, it seems sad that a street only a couple of blocks long should honor Louis Daguerre.  After all, very few, if any people, contributed as much to science and technology as well as art as he did with his daguerreotype.  What he did was, in essence, was to make it possible to create reproducible--and therefore transferrable-- images directly from real life. 

On another hand, it somehow seems appropriate that such a pedestrian mall would be named for him. Can you imagine what kinds of images he would make from it?

(What's commonly forgotten is that Daguerre was also an accomplished painter.  Then again, people forget that Albert Einstein was a better violinist than most and that Michelangelo was quite a good poet.)

From la rue Daguerre, I pedaled along the southern periphery of the city, past la Place Denfert-Rochereau to Cite Universitaire, the site of dormitories and maisons culturelles that are part of the University of Paris. The first time I came to this city, I stayed in la Maison Norvege.

The funny thing is that the first time I showed up there, the receptionist addressed me in Norwegian, which I have never spoken.  She later told me that I could have passed for a Norwegian--which, given my colorings and facial structure, makes sense.  Almost everywhere I have travelled, people have taken me for Scandanavian, Dutch or German.  Or, when my French was better than it is now (I can still get by with it), people in France, upon seeing and hearing me,  thought I was Breton, Normand or Alsatian.  Now, when I speak French, I am told that I have more of a German than an English or American accent.  How that happened, I don't know.

Anyway, from there I cycled over bridges and overpasses, into and out of Paris.  I rolled by belle epoque buildigs as well as glass-box towers that had even less charm than their stateside counterparts.  And I pedaled through suburbs as well as parts of the city no tourist ever sees.  In one of those suburbs--Ivry--I stopped in a store to buy some fruit and the African proprietors treated me royally.

Speaking of royal:  The highlight of today's ride was the Chateuau de Vincennes.  Think of Versailles without all of the fancy accoutrements and set up to house military weapons, prisoners, manuscripts and religious items as well as the king and his family, and you have Vincennes.

People often forget that a chateau, or castle, is usually not just a single building; it's a compound encompassing a number of buildings over a fairly wide expanse of land.  So it is with Vincennes. 

About Charles V, who commissioned and lived in it:  One might argue that he brought the Renaissance to France.  He commissioned translations of the Greek and Roman classics of literature and science into French, and classical influences can also be seen in the public works commissioned.  Perhaps it's no surprise that his cousin, Charles V of Bohemia, is also considered one of the master builders of that land, which now comprises much of the Czech Republic.

I think he could have used a bicycle to get around that compound, though!

A Night Ride And A Long Lunch

Today I didn't ride.  I didn't go to any museums.  I have what are, perhaps, reasons or excuses--depending on your point of view--for both.

One is that after I wrote yesterday's post, I took a late night ride into the wee hours of morning

and through a rainstorm I should have seen coming. Clouds thickened and skies darkened even before night fell; I guess I was fooled when hours passed and it hadn't yet begin to rain. 

I had just pedaled up the hill of Montmarte and was starting my descent of the Rue Ronsard when the la deluge a commence.

I zigged and zagged down the Right Bank streets and across the Pont de la Concorde faster than Lindsey Vonn on the slalom at Val d'Isere.  Then I dodged cars picking up and dropping off very fashionable (even by Paris standards) at cafes and nightclubs in the Latin Quarter.  By the time I got back to my apartment, I was soaked and giddy.  Despite the very late hour, it took me about an hour to fall asleep. 

Getting back so late from a bike ride meant, of course, that I woke up late.  It was probably just as well:  If I'd awakened earlier, I probably would have tried to do some shopping, drop into a gallery--or take another bike ride--before a lunch date with a friend I hadn't seen in eleven years. 

Even though dejeuner translates as "lunch", those two words don't mean remotely the same thing.  The French are known for long lunches during the week.  But on a Saturday that happens to be a fete nationale (L'assumption), dejeuner can fill any and all of the hours between the morning coffee and sundown.  At least, that we somehow managed to do that:  After we finished our crepes, we walked from the Montparnasse to St. Germain des Pres and St. Michel, crossing the bridge to l'Ile de la Cite (where the Notre-Dame Cathedral and Sainte Chapelle are located) into Beauborg and le Marais--stopping a couple of times along the way for coffee.

The walk was, I felt, as much a part of "lunch" as the crepes and coffee.  I wouldn't mind another lunch like it with Jay, my old friend.  I just hope I won't have to wait another eleven years for it.
 

The Easiest Way To Get A Date In Paris

When I was living as a guy named Nick, I never had an easier time getting dates than when I was teaching in a language institute near the United Nations.  My pupils included tourists, business people, students who were trying to improve their English skills so they could attend American colleges and universities and young Japanese women from wealthy families who sent them to New York for the summer.  It didn't matter whether I was actually looking for a date; at the end of every week I had at least one.  

I was, at best, an average-looking guy, though I was in really good shape from cycling. I never thought I was particularly charming, intriguing or even intelligent.  Could teaching English really be that much of a turn-on?

Whatever the answer might be to that question, I believe that, today, I just may have found the easiest way to get a date now that I am a woman of, shall we say, "a certain age".  Within a span of a few minutes, three different men offered themselves to me.  Now, you might say that it's because I'm in Paris and some would argue that the true "national sport" of French men isn't cycling or football, but flirtation.  I wouldn't disagree.

Actually, I think it had to do with other things. One is the specific location in Paris.  Yes, I was on the Left Bank--but not of the Seine. Rather, it was the starboard side, a.k.a. le Quai de Jemmapes, of the City of Light's other major--and, to me, equally romantic--body of water:   the Canal Saint Martin, which connects the Seine with the Marne via the Canal de l'Ourcq.

I have always enjoyed spending time there.  Once I even took a barge ride. Today, though, on a nearly perfect Parisian summer afternoon, I kicked off my shoes and sat with my feet dangling over the water.  I wasn't trying to attract attention: I was just enjoying the light that softens the green tint of the water and the leaves flickering in the breeze.   But I wasn't the only female swinging my legs over the water--and I certainly wasn't the most attractive.  And although my sandals are, if I say so myself, kinda cute, I wear them because they're comfortable.  I couldn't understand why one of the men who asked me on a date was staring at them and said they were "sexy."

Hey...I just realized what was attracting their attention.  It was...the bike.

I'd parked it beside me while I was drinking some Badoit and munching on a "pumpkin" tomato I found in a market along the way.

That tomato was really good but I'm not sure that anyone was paying attention to me while I ate it.  Usually, guys watch girls when they're eating cherries or strawberries or other things I won't mention.  I don't recall a woman eating a tomato in an image that's supposed to titillate men or lesbians. (Then again, I haven't looked at a lot of such images.  Really!) 

So, really, what else could have gotten three guys to ask me on dates in a few minutes but the bike?

Perhaps I should tell that to Paris Bike Tour, from whom I rented the bike. 

Then again, bikes always attract attention.  Just take a look at this

hung on a building across the street from the Picasso Museum.    Or this, in the window of a lighting shop on the Boulevard Raspail:

Flick off the switch on that one and it's really "lights out"!

Sur Les Paves Et Dans Les Jardins...

Coline responded to the post I wrote yesterday with the observation of the day:  "Those look like Paris cobblestones".

Paris cobblestones indeed look different from the ones in New York or other cities--including South Bend, Indiana. (Do they have cobblestones there?) or any other place that has a Notre Dame in it.  That means only one thing...

No, I'm not in South Bend. I am Lutece, the City of Light, thanks to a generous late birthday gift. Would you pass up such a thing?

Anyway, I haven't done any bike riding yet on this trip.  I plan to rent a bike tomorrow, but I don't think I'm going to use Velib for the same reasons I don't use Citibike.  (Well, OK, I have one other reason not to use Citibike:  I have bikes in NYC.)  For one, I don't want to be bound by time constraints such as having to return the bike within 45 minutes or whatever it is.  For another, I'm just not comfortable putting my bank card in one of those machines and having it place a hold on some of my money.  And, finally, the rental shops probably have bikes I'd like better than the ones in Velib, Citibike or just about any other bike share program.


In walking toward the Luxembourg Gardens, I saw a couple of bikes with details we rarely, if ever, see in the States:

I would love to see how that striping was done.  It lends even more definition to the "hammered" pattern in the fenders.  Can you imagine if Velo Orange or Honjo offered it as an option.  Of course, it would cost a lot of money for them to match--as best they could--the finish on the frame. Then again, I guess it wouldn't have to match:  Black stripes would go with a lot of bikes, and other combinations (e.g., red stripes for a blue bike, green for an orange frame or purple with pink) could be done.

All right--enough about accessorizing bikes.  I'm in Paris, for crying out loud.  Hmm...Maybe that's not such an inappropriate topic to discuss while I'm here. Accessories, bikes and Paris:  It all works together.

Now here's something almost none of you have seen:

 

Ok, the fenders (in the photo preceding this one) are cool enough.  But look at the chain guard.  And the chainstay-mounted rear derailleur.  I suspect it's a Huret:  Based on my admittedly- limited experience with such derailleurs, I don't think it's a Nivex.

But the best part is the lugwork, which would be par for the work of the best custom builders.  Oh, wait...

it is the work of an old master: Oscar Egg.  It's truly amazing to see it on a utilitarian city bike parked on a street in Beauborg, near the Pompidou Centre.

 

These Brakes Made Me Stop--And Take Notice

On this blog, I have said that almost every "innovation" or "revolution" in cycling is simply a reiteration of something that was done earlier.  Some examples include non-round chainrings and aluminum frames.

The same can be said for "U"-brakes, which were found on many mountain bikes of the late 1980's.  Like cantilevers and "V" brakes, they mount on studs that are usually brazed onto the frame. They look like oversized centerpulls, which is what they basically are.  On one model, a cam mechanism replaced the straddle cable and yoke found on cantilevers and centerpulls.  This helped to make the brake more rigid and powerful, but also were prone to getting clogged with mud or fouled by debris when the brakes were mounted, as they typically were, on the chainstays.

They actually bore a striking resemblance to these brakes made from the 1930s until the 1960s:

I suspect this particular model was made by Jeay because Mercier, among other French bike makers,  equipped their tandems, touring bikes,  randonneuses and city bikes with them.   

Those brakes, like "U" brakes, are operated by a cam that's pulled by the cable.  Also like U brakes, they mount on studs that are higher on the forks or stays than those for cantilevers but lower than the ones used for centerpulls. 

The Mercier in the photo has other features--such as the frame tube configuration and rear pannier-- rarely, if ever, found on bikes that made their way to the US:

That means, of course, I am not in Kansas, let alone the US.  More on that soon.
 

I'm Such A Fast Woman That....

Since April, when I visited my parents in Florida,I've been cycling more than I've cycled in a while.  That, after a winter of little riding.  Still, I feel as if I'm getting back some of my former condition:  I'm passing other riders who would've left me in the dust back in March.  Also, I see that--without even trying--I'm shaving time off my regular rides.

Am I turning into a fast woman?  Yes!  How fast?  Well, the next post you read from me will be from another time zone.  Actually, it will be a few time zones from my home.

I'll tell you more about it in that post.  For now, I'll just say I got luckier than I've been in a while.  I hope it's a sign of things to come.

A really fast woman: Rebecca Twigg.  Photographed by Annie Liebowitz

Nonpareil: Nothing Like It, Ever

For many years, my favorite candy was the chocolate nonpareil.  During my childhood, they usually came on waxed-paper sheets.  I think part of the appeal (pun intended) of the nonpareil was peeling it off the sheet.  It was sort of like pulling a button off a shirt.

I haven't eaten those candies in years.  Now I see they're sold in little bags for about five dollars.  I'd probably like them if they were made from really good dark chocolate, which would be a nice counterpoint to the sugar pearls that coat them.

(I've often wondered whether I'd like some of my other favorites from childhood--like Nestle's Crunch and Kit Kat--if they were made with high-quality dark chocolate. The dark-chocolate Kit Kat that's sometimes sold in the US seems to be just a Hershey bittersweet bar with wafers in it.)

Back when my grandmother was bringing those sheets of nonpareils, I didn't know any French.  Later, I'd learn that "nonpareil" means "without parallel"--or, if you like, "There's nothing like it", which is how I probably described my favorite candy at one time or another.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that this is also called "nonpareil":

 

The Classic Cycle website describes it as "the missing link in the evolution of the bicycle".  Apparently, it was built around 1890, after bike makers moved away from the "hobby horse" design and had been making "penny farthings" (high-wheelers) for a decade or so.  

The Nonpareil seems to have been one of the first bikes with wheels of equal size.  Most likely, it's also one of the first chain-driven bikes.  I must say, though, there's nothing remotely like its chain on modern bikes:

 

For that matter, there's nothing like that frame, either.  Given that everything that's been done (in bike design, anyway) gets done again,  I have to wonder whether someone's designing a frame with a single tube that slopes from the front to the rear stays.  It eliminates the top or down tube, depending on how you look at it.  Can you imagine how much weight that saves?  I'd bet that, rendered in carbon fiber, such a frame could be built into a complete bike that weighs less than 5 kilograms.

Of course, unless the UCI changes its rules, no racer could use such a bike in competition.  But someone would want it anyway just because it's, well, nonpareil.

 

P.S.  I'd love to find the oil lamp that fit on the fork.  There's definitely nothing like it made today! 

Past The Max

Today I rode to test a new electronic device and, well, ride.  It was a perfect day for both.

But I had to test the electronic device before I could out of the house, let alone get on my bike.  To be fair, Max has never given me as hard a time as former partners, roommates and others (including an ex-spouse) have about going out without them.


He didn't say "Vous ne passerez pas!" mainly because he doesn't speak French (though he understands some).  But he insisted that my first photo on my new camera would be a portrait of him.

Anyway... Today was another near-perfect day for a ride. The temperature reached 30C (86F), but it dropped as I neared the water.  The humidity was low and the clouds were high and sparse.

Actually, I didn't take a direct path to the water:  I wandered through various parts of Queens and Nassau County before heading toward the southern bays of Long Island.

For a moment, I wondered whether those folks might be in trouble.  I couldn't see what, if anything, was propelling their watercraft.  (I'm not sure of whether to call it a boat or something else.)  From my admittedly limited perspective, they didn't seem to be in any distress.   

One thing about the ocean: It's pretty easy to tell whether the tide is in or out, and its clock, if you will, is fairly predictable.  On the other hand, the bays and inlets from East Rockaway to Freeport can ebb or swell in an instant, and the tides and currents seem to have even more random effects than those of the ocean.  You can see the results of what I'm talking about in the waterfront residential areas:  One home seems to have been untouched by Superstorm Sandy or any other natural phenomenon, while a house next to it looks, nearly three years after the storm, as if it's being held up by the boards nailed over its windows and doorways.

On this day, however, almost nothing besides those houses even hinted at one of the worst natural disasters this area has experienced in its recorded history.  Looking at the sky and the sunlight, such a catastrophe doesn't even seem possible, let alone probable.

Vera knows all about those things, but she rode like a magic carpet.  She almost always does.

P.S.:  I bought the camera because of something I'm going to talk about a couple of posts from now.