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.