pianomd

April 25, 2017

This was indeed a lazy day until about 4 pm when we finally got out of the apartment. I did wake up early but then read another couple of chapters of The Strangled Queen (Book 2 of the series The Accursed Kings by Druon recommended by my cousin Linda who is a student of the Middle Ages).   Went back to sleep and finally got up and started reading emails and news before brunch.  I should note that George spent 3 hours working in his studio on the 7th floor of our building — in the little room that came with our apartment where the maid is supposed to stay.  (Not everyone has such a room.  Some people sell them off separately for a goodly sum.  The people we bought from had the good sense to keep theirs.)

We decided to go to the Marmottan – the museum of Monet in the 16^th. I’ve talked about it before. It is in the home of an industrialist who left his collection and home to his foundation stipulating that both be open to the public. We love this little museum although it isn’t the easiest to get to. We are always trying different ways to get there and today we did an all bus route: the #28, to the river, and from there the #63 to the last stop. The bus was packed with school kids with their nannies and some moms. As is typical , French people do not move to the back of the bus even though there are big signs requesting that one do so. Everyone gathers just at the entrance making it almost impossible to pass through. I’ve learned to just push through with my, “Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait”. It works but not with out determination to get to the back. I did and both George and I found seats. We had a 20 minute ride through the 16^th arrondissement (district) which is a high-end residential area with beautiful apartment houses and embassies, lining a grand avenue. Our stop was the last one, Porte de Muette followed by a short walk to the museum. It was 5 pm by the time we arrived. We had one hour to view the new special exhibit: Pissarro.

It was well worth the trip – simply wonderful. Photos are not allowed or I could share with you the beauty of these paintings. It has been 36 years since Paris has seen an exhibition dedicated to this early impressionist’s work. The exhibit moved from his earliest paintings which were straight forward representational to his development as an impressionist with short brush strokes giving the impression of landscape – water, snow, sky, fields, and sun. I was going to buy a book of his work but none of the photos came even close to conveying the mastery of the originals.

Since the time was late the galleries were not full and we could walk back through the exhibition looking at our favorite paintings and lingering. We were pretty tired when we finished and sat next to a couple on a bench in a long hallway of the mansion. We started to talk. They were from the Netherlands in a small town just 3 hours by high- speed rail from Paris. Thus, they came often for a day or two. When I asked what else they had gone to see on this trip the man confided that he was a cemetery buff and they always go to find graves of famous people because that this the way they learn history the best. Interesting!

We started our return trip on bus #32 from right out side the museum and got off at the Trocodero between two great museums and the best view of the Eiffel Tower. There were more venders today than tourists – and for the first time I felt sorry for these poor guys trying to sell trinkets to the few tourists around. The gypsies with their usual scams were nowhere to be seen.

From here we walked down the impressive stairs across the Seine, right up to the base of the Eiffel Tower. We decided not to go through security which would have allowed to walk underneath it to the park area.   Instead we walked up Avenue Suffren what felt like several miles to a place close to home where I knew we could get a good meal. It was again a corner café type place with seats outside and lots of young people drinking (happy hour) and eating fries. We went in and had a really nice waiter give us a warm friendly reception. He smiled and asked us in English, “where are you from?” And I replied, “From down the street.” He was so surprised. I explained that although we have been coming here for 10 years I still have a great deal of difficulty with the French language. He laughed and we continued in very slow French. He was so nice. Dinner was very good, too. We had two kirs (white wine with peach liquor) for an aperitif with a small bowel of pommes frites (French fries) as an appetizer. For dinner we each had a small stuffed white fish, called Bar…

We headed home but on the way picked up some necessities from our local grocery – a Monop – a small version of MonoPrix.  Tomorrow we are locked in to wait for DHL.

Our first selfie ever!  Here we are on the Trocoadero… truly the best place to view the tower, especially at night when it sparkles.  I don’t know the name, but these blossoms these are all over Paris .There was a really funny scene just a few minutes before I shot this with lots of Asian tourists running in to this shop… I had never noticed a duty free shop in the middle of the city… I guess they exist.  These might not look great in the photo, but they were absolutely delicious — crisp and hot and we were hungry!  Some of my relatives really like French fries — thus I’ve included these…The little grocery with everything!  These shops are new — a smaller version of the big MonoPrix stores that are everywhere in Paris.Our apartment house — we are on the 5th floor, but really the 6th the way we count.  In France the second floor is called ‘the first floor’ because the ground floor is the ‘rez de chaussez.’  (I think I got that right!).

Paris

April 25, 2017

We arrived from Boston (transit London) almost 4 days ago. Exhausted, rode up to the 5^th floor in our little two-person elevator, and opened the door to our apartment with a sigh of relief. The apartment was sparkling clean, thanks to Gladys, the ‘guardienne’ of our building who also doubles for us as a house cleaner (and other, as well).   ‘Guardiennes’ were once called ‘concierges’. Women took these jobs in return for a place to live and a small income. They cleaned the building, handled the mail and received packages for occupants. They had the keys to the apartments and could watch over things in one’s absence. Thus, every building had to have a small apartment on their ground floor for as their abode – a place from which they monitored all the goings and coming in the building.

A concierge was the main character in Muriel Barbery’s NY Times Bestseller, The Elegance of the Hedgehog, a wonderful read. For some reason, which is probably based in very old connotations with the word which was thought to be demeaning for women, concierge was changed to guardienne. Other things have changed, too. Once, having a guardienne was mandatory, but today many condo associations are opting not to have them given that the cost of one has gone up and that firing one who is not satisfactory is difficult. Our condo association opted for a compromise. Gladys works through an agency and is not directly employed by us, and works here 3 ½ hours in the morning 6 days a week. Since most business here in the building is conducted during that time it works out very well. She is extraordinary in her abilities to get the job done in that time and is so convivial and even-tempered that everyone in this building loves her. Including us! She has our keys and two weeks or so before we come, either a neighbor informs her or we call her, and she cleans the apartment for us and puts the mail on our dining room table. She will have also let the electric meter readers into the apartment once a month in our absence and thus keeps an eye on things for us. It works very well.

(Well – I’ve certainly gotten off the main story line talking about Gladys.)

Back to our jouney –We arrived on Friday and had a lovely evening with our upstairs neighbors – appetizers galore, which served as dinner as well, and Aperol Spritz for drinks. Aperol is an orange based Italian aperitif made quite delicious when mixed with proseco and seltzer… So we enjoyed two of these and retired around midnight…

The next morning, up early and were headed for our ‘marche’ –our street market, when George discovered that his credit card carrying case was missing… and along with that his driver’s license, insurance cards, social security card, etc. etc. An hysterical search came up empty and slowly we began to understand that the case was gone. Gary, our nephew, conducted a search of our house in Lincoln – with similar results. We called Uber and our driver in Boston – again: nothing… We filed with British Airways – and again: nothing. The next two days were spent in a kind of mourning – for things lost and for what might have happened. We did everything one needs to do with credit card companies, a task made somewhat easier because I had made copies of our cards and licenses before we left and was carrying them separately.  We’ve still a lot to do regarding this minor disaster, but the good news is that no one has tried to use the cards. Visa is sending a temporary card to us by DHL tomorrow, and fortunately, our debit card with our bank here worked and so we were not in the cash-poor house…

So – after all this – and trying to recover from jetlag and the fatigue we had before leaving Boston, we have tried to settle into Paris and start to enjoy our time here.

Oh yes – did I mention the presidential election here and the threat of more terrorism?   Well – now that I’ve mentioned them both I can move on. You must know that the first round election yielded a win for a centrist, unknown, without any party affiliation and an extreme extreme right wing candidate. So, it looks as though the centrist will win on May 7 though no one knows what his plans will be or what his program is. There were no more terrorist events which were expected on election day – which was good.

Regarding terrorism … we are being careful, alert, staying away from places that might be appealing targets, but at the same time feel that a terrorist act simply reminds you of the crazy world we live in and the dangers we are all surrounded by. It is no different a day before an event than it is a day after an event (as long as you weren’t a target). So life must go one – though vigilance is in order.

Yesterday was the first day we actually got out in the streets of Paris and walked. We’ve picked several exhibits we want to see and started with the one we thought was open yesterday (most museums are closed either Mondays or Tuesdays)… So we walked and then took a bus over to the river, the Quai de Conti, to visit the Musee de Monnaie to see a special exhibit of abstract art. But, alas, it was closed. Somehow I missed that on their web page and so we simply came back home and then headed out at 6 pm back again to the Seine, across the river this time to the demonstrations and commemoration for the Armenian Genocide, as yesterday was April 24.

We stayed for an hour as we couldn’t understand the speakers (in French), but were impressed by the number of young people gathered – in the hundreds! There were about 1500 by our estimate and most of them were young. It was amazing and good to see.

We headed back, walking across back to the left bank,  enjoying the beauty fo the day, and the trees in full bloom.  We checked out a number of restaurants which we couldn’t get into as we didn’t have a reservation, and ended up at the square, Ecole Militarie.  We ate at a large café called La Terresse.   (my accent keys are not working..) We didn’t sit outside because smoking is allowed out-of doors.

Though a very common place the food was quite good. We started with an avocado with a vinaigrette dressing and then cod with stir-fry vegetables. We walked home and collapsed, but not before calling Serine and having a lively conversation with her back in VA.   Just about the time we were going to bed we had several messages from our nephew Stephen that let us know all is well with regard to our kitchen renovation which he is overseeing for us… Thank you, Stephen! (He ran his 22^nd Boston marathon last week – congratulations!)

The Eiffel Tower will be without light all day today, April 24th, in memory of the victims fo the Armenian Genocide.

Napoleon’s tomb is in the background.

At the commemoration — many people had their faces painted with the tri-colors of the Armenian flag.  This woman has also written 1915 in the tri-colors.  The crowd was huge with many carrying these placards. From somber to delicious:  At the end of the day there aren’t many pastries left… but those left in this window are still beautiful.  We resisted!

We arrived the afternoon of the 26^th  after a late night flight aboard British Airways.  We slept all the way and thus arrived at London’s Heathrow tired but OK. After a short layover we boarded a second flight to  Paris –  Orly.  We prefer Orly over CDG because it is a much smaller airport and closer to our apartment which means a shorter less expensive ride even with traffic.

We passed through boarder control (about 2 minutes), got our luggage and walked out –passing by customs (didn’t see any officers) which took about 10 minutes in total.  The cab ride to our apartment was another 20.   No sooner had we opened the door to our apartment than we looked at each other with a sigh of relief – ‘home’ – that’s really what it felt like.  Hard to understand – but it is so comfortable and maybe with so little of the life’s everyday problem crowding in, the relief was immediate.  (The woman who is our  ‘guardienne’ –who works for the building keeping watch, taking in deliveries, and who distributes the mail everyday had cleaned our apartment already (as we had requested).  After 5 months absence it was really nice to walk into a shiny clean space.)

Though fatique was beginning to make a weary, we unpacked quickly, took the sheets covering the  sofas and lamps off, turned on the coffee maker and plugged in the electrical equipment – TV, internet, telephone, and the cellphone – all necessary for our home away from home.

With that all done and a quick shower, we headed for the market and the Orange store, where I  buy minutes for my cellphone.    While I took care of that, George went directly to the organic (bio–) supermarche shopping for basic necessities — — yogurts of different kinds, milk, cottage cheese, eggs, and then from Picard’s next door (France’s famous frozen food chain) frozen foods to stack in the freezer for emergencies.  Before heading home, we stopped in at one of the many small grocery stores found on every street in Paris for our bottled water and some fruit; and I forced myselt into one of the three  boulangeries in our neighborhood for some fresh bread baked on premises twice a day.  Our favorite: a multigrain baquette -a pain cereal.  Though most of the pastries which usually fill the cases — at least until 2 or 3 pm — were gone, two tempatations remained –  baguettes baked with olives and cheese and a few with chocolate chips!  (Now when do you eat a baguette made with chocolate chips?  Probably when you might eat a chocolate croissant!).   The sales woman looked at me, “S’il vous plait –” and I pointed to one of each.  She smiled.

Home we went, dragging our shoppng cart behind us, in through the lobby and up to the 5th floor in our tiny elevator with just about enough room for George, me, and the cart.  We filled the refrigerator, checked emails, had a sliver of olive bread, checked more emails, and started contacting friends and neighbors about getting together .

We tried not to nap afraid that if we put our heads down we’d sleep half the night and be up at 3 am.  So we struggled and fortunately the urge to sleep passed.

At about 7:30 p.m. we began wondering about  where to go for dinner — having quickly fallen in step with French custom (despite our jetlag) to not eat before 8 pm if it can be avoided.  Unable to make any decision about where to eat, we again meandered out of our apartment down the street to the next big avenue – Ave Garibaldi – where there are a string of small restaurants we’ve not gone to. We read menus pasted to the windows, peered inside of several and kept on walking.

The name of one attracted us – loosely translated  “My foot is in your plate!” Ha!  It might have another idiomatic translation – but I don’t know what it is.  A small cozy looking place, colorfully decorated, with only one waiter bustling about serving the obviously mostly French diners – we decided to try it.  Indeed it was a local find for us.  Our appetizers were excellent -sautéed spinach with big slices of delicious parmesan cheese and  salad followed by pasta with gorgonzola sauce (for me)  a bowel of spaghetti with shellfish (for George).   The bread must have been baked on the premises – a crusty chunky bread infused with rosemary.   All was enjoyed with a ½ carafe of wine, conversation with the folks at the adjoining table, and the very cheerful waiter – we spent a most pleasant time.

Day 2:  This morning- I had to prepare for my French lesson via Skype which would take place at 1 pm.  (My teacher lives in Bretagne, France.)  It will be my last lesson for a while as these are set lessons each week and keeping the schedule now would be hard.

However, my first task was to call  EDF – the French electric company.  Now—let me say – I had a problem with the electric company and some of you reading this might remember my story so I won’t go into the details again.  Meters have to be read at least once a year by a company representative.  With great difficulty we had made arrangements for the meter to be read last September.  The young man arrived at the appointed hour, read the meter, and left.  So, you can imagine my surprise when 6 months later, just as we were again leaving Paris,  we received a letter informing us that we hadn’t met the requirement for the yearly reading and had to make arrangements lest by law the electricity be turned off.  UGH!

Immediately I called EDF and informed them that the meter had been read.  The woman, who spoke very good English, searched our files but said she could find no record of a visit or a reading.  OH – now what?  The woman assured me that the meter could be read the next time we came to Paris and not to worry – the electricity will not be disconnected.

So, this morning when I called EDF to make arrangements for the meter to be read again.  A woman answered the phone, and I responded with, “Bonjour madame.  Est-ce-qu-il ya quelqun  qui parle anglais?” (Is there someone who speaks English?). She responded, “I understand you!”  You can imagine my further surprise when she informed me after checking our file that there was no problem, the meter didn’t have to be read, and all she needed from me was the current reading.  I read the the numbers  off the meter to her, thanked her and said good-bye.  I was so shocked that I called back to confirm that indeed what she had just told me was correct.  It was, she reassured me.

With that done and my French lesson finished, we had a bit of lunch and took a long walk – first to Bon Marche the department store and then up Ave Rennes to BO Concept.  We’re looking for a couple of pieces to put our TV on but still haven’t found anything.  Nonetheless, the walk was pleasant – the air quite warm and lots of people all around very busy!  We had un café – and a thin tart de pomme at a little café near Bon Marche.  People out everywhere, walking, riding, talking, sipping coffee, wine, eating a bit of pastry – enjoying the warm sunny days after what has been a long, very cold winter here.  Every inch of sidewalk is covered with chairs overflowing from bistros — and did I mention waiters and waitresses running through the seated patrons delivering their orders.  All is done in a quiet frenzy — if you know what I mean.  And, if you know Paris – you can for the price of a coffee sit outside (or inside) all afternoon and never asked when you might be getting ready to vacate your table!

We arrived back at the apartment at about 5 pm.  En route, about three blocks from our pad we passed a long park which leads all the way to Napoleon’s Tomb — the gold decoration sparkling in the sun.  Usually the park is quiet with only a few nannies pushing strollers, but today — today it was teaming with young children playing, running, singing, jumping — as if they knew about brownian movement and were trying to emulate it! Teenagers on the other hand were lying on the grass — seemingly not bothered by the little kids.  They, in contrast, had slow motion – or no motion  — the joy of spring here.

Before we knew it, It was 7:30 pm and we needed to start thinking about where to go for dinner.  We decided to head over to the  St. Germain area and revisit a restaurant we’ve been to many times before, Fish La Boissoinerie – owned and operated by an Australian and an American.  It is on Rue de Seine in an area which is always hopping with activity.  The narrow streets here are lined with restaurants, galleries, cafes and all sorts of places that give the passer-by lots to look at.  And, La Boissoinerie itself is no exception — a small place with a distinctive glass store front bordered with inlaid mosaic of fish.  Not unexpected, the restaurant was packed and also not unexpected – it was filled with tourists speaking English.  Usually a sign that the quality of food and the service might be lacking we nonetheless decided to wait for a table. A glass of wine in hand, we stood on the narrow sidewalk in front of the restaurant watching folks go up and down the equally narrow street making the wait both pleasant and sometimes entertaining.

This restaurant’s bread is baked in a brick oven in a sandwich shop facing it, on the other side of the street. Every  10 minutes of so a waitress would make her way from La Boissoinerie across the street returning with  a load of bread in her basket.  We commented to one of them as she passed us  that we knew that bread (and we did) and loved it.  After delivering her bread to the patrons  inside, she surprised us — returning with a basket of bead for us. There we stood for the next half hour eating the most delicious bread hot out of the oven and sipping our wine.

Finally, we were seated at a small table for two crunched between the bar (which had lots of people standing around it) and a group of 4 very large diners.  Normally, I would have said to George, “Let’s go — this table is terrible”– instead we sat down and ordered our meal.  OH MY!  After the first course arrived I could have been sitting on the bar — it wouldn’t have mattered — the food was beautifully presented and simply delicious! Later we learned that they had a new chef which explained why their food had gone from good to nearly excellent.  George had a most savory mushroom soup (veloute), and I had a lentil salad (done with a tangy mustard sauce) and topped with ribbons of carrots .  We both had scallops for our main course – simply delicious.  Poached pears and vanilla ice cream for me –    for dessert.  G. had something equally wonderful – we were both very happy that we’d picked this restaurant and had decided to wait for a table.

We walked home – another mile added to the two we’d already logged in earlier – hoping it consumed some of the calories we had just enjoyed!

Not sure why, but I haven’t been able to start writing my Paris blog this trip until now. Seems old habits die hard — as the saying goes. I give into doing other things first instead of writing. OK — here we are again. It has been three weeks of glorious weather in Paris, hard as it is to believe. We’ve enjoyed friends and family- and now we are almost to the end of our time here. But, now I had to write about the events of this past weekend – April 23 and 24 — here in Paris. April 24 as many of you know, is the day Armenians commemorate the Armenian Genocide, as on that day in 1915 there was a major round up of Armenian intellectuals in Istanbul. It was not the beginning, but that day heralded in the worst of what was yet to come.

I found online the French Armenian community website which listed events for the weekend – starting on April 23 at Republic Square and finishing on April 24 at the Gomidas statue and memorial to the Armenian Genocide. We decided to attend as much as we could to add our bodies to anyone who might be counting and to get a flavor of these commemorations in Paris. On the 23rd, the occasion was sponsored by the young French Armenian community. And, indeed, mostly young people were in attendance gathered in Republic Sq. , partially closed to traffic with a stage set up for performances, a tent for the discussion forums and a poster exhibit addressing denial of the Genocide. There were probably about 250-300 people present at any one time, gathered all around and even sitting on the large monument in the center of the square.

The rather detailed exhibit addressed ‘denial’ on several levels, but most interesting to us were the before and after photos of Armenian villages, historic Armenian sites and churches in Turkey: photos taken in or around 1915 and compared with those taken in the recent past. A photo is worth a thousand words? Yes! Comparative statistics were provided as well – number of inhabitants, Armenian churches, monuments, etc.

The first musical presentation was of an Armenian folk ensemble which included instruments such as the tar and the duduk. Well done! Then followed a number of non Armenian singing groups. Since we couldn’t understand the introductions given made in French well, we don’t really know why these groups were included. Perhaps it was the at the groups request to show solidarity with the Armenian cause against Denial.

We read through the exhibit, we listened to the speeches and music, and satisfied to happy to see this degree of involvement by Armenian French youth, we left. Interestingly, not a word of Armenian was spoken on either day, which surprised us! However, when we had occasion to speak to people a few times, we spoke in Armenian and the response was in Armenian. So — I have to conclude that most of the people present spoke and understood Armenian.

April 24: The commemoration began at the Arc de Triomphe, but we were late and missed that ceremony. But, in fact, we don’t know if the ceremony took place. There were military formations at the Arc, and beautiful French flag flying from the pinnacle, and shortly after we arrived, a military band appeared, marching up the Champs-Elysee toward the Arc. As nice as this was, we were disappointed thinking we had missed the Armenian Genocide ceremony. We started to walk down the Champs-Elysee with our purple tulips in hand (for laying at the Gomidas statue later) when we saw a huge red banner across George V Avenue, right in front of the Louis Vuitton multistory store. In French, “Genocide Armenien” written across the banner made it clear we hadn’t missed much and were now in the right place. Again we stayed, listened to the speeches, but more interesting we observed the gathering of many French Armenians – at least 3000 – all gathered and all quite nationalistic. (See the photos). The Armenian tri-colors were worn as shawls, as shirts, hats, scarves, carried as the flag it is, and even painted on faces. After an hour or more, we decided to walk to the Gomidas statue on our own and not wait for the procession.

The Gomidas statue is itself a majestic monument which gives us a sense of pride every time we see it. But today, it had even more significance and effect on us as we thought about this composer-monk, tortured physically and emotionally by the acts of the Turks, who lost his mind and died in Paris in 1935.

As we approached the area we saw that a number of Armenians had already gathered around the monument waiting for the procession to arrive. And, we noted that there must have been a ceremony here earlier, as bouquets flowers had already been placed at the base of the statue by the Armenian Ambassador to France, the Mayor of Paris, the representative of “Haut-Karabagh”, and several other Armenian groups. Interesting — we wondered if these had been done prior to the general procession of Armenians coming, almost secretly, for security reasons. We have no idea!

George and I laid our purple tulips at the base of the statue in honor of our families and all Armenians everywhere, and especially for the little children who were murdered or enslaved by those who perpetrated this heinous crime of genocide.

It was a beautiful day. We crossed the Seine toward the place we call home when we are in Paris.

Another day full of adventure, but not the kind we were hoping for. Earlier this week, problems arose in Armenia — silly problems, problems of a bureaucratic nature that have nothing to do with the substance of anything. Simply, George’s name was spelled differently on some key documents that needed to be processed. So, with a sense of urgency, several days ago, on three continents, two sets of lawyers and some great minds began speculating as to how best to solve the problem.

Finally, the best course was decided upon and we were sent a document which we needed to sign, have notarized, have an Apostile affixed, and then sent by express mail to Armenia. (For those of you who don’t know, an Apostile is a seal placed by the local government verifying that the notary seal is legitimate. At least that’s how I understand it. )

Yesterday, George had found a notary and he had also located the Apostile office in the Palais de Justice, so we thought this would not be difficult. So, as soon as we had all the information and the document in hand, at about 1:30 pm, we headed to the notary on Garabaldi Blvd, just a few blocks from us. Oops — lunch time — wait a bit – and take a walk — come back at 2:00 pm. We arrived back a little before 2 –and the notary kindly let us in and placed his seal on the document. So far so good! Now to the Palais de Justice!

Over to Metro #10, we headed for Odeon, and there we changed to the bus #96 which would take us to the Palais de Justice, on L’île de La Cité.  We decided that I would go into the post office which was right there to inquire about sending an letter to Armenia, while George went to the Apostile office.

Tourists were in line to get into Sainte Chapelle –the chapel with magnificent stained glass windows. We attended a concert in the chapel a couple of years ago. It is a great way to soak in the beauty of the place while listening to classical music. (Just a side travel note — go to the early concert so that there is still sunlight coming in through the windows. )

Back to today……

My job was completed at the post office with ease as the young clerk spoke very good English. I crossed the street, walked around the Palais, and the part where Marie Antoinette was imprisoned, down a long street along the river to find George. At the back of the building, I saw the steps George had mentioned which mark the entrance I had to go through. I climbed them and somewhat out-of-breathe, once inside, I asked the guards where the Apostiles were done. They pointed to a door a few steps away. I passed through security and found George.

He was standing at the counter talking to a clerk through the bars that separated them. The look on his face told me something was very wrong. As I approached, he let out a sigh of relief, and the clerk asked me, “Parlez-vous francais? “ “Oui,” I responded, “un peu.” (a little).

With that she explained that the seal the notary had used was not the correct on for obtaining an Apostile. He had used a square seal; for an Apostile, a round seal which is for non-commercial documents, is needed. She further explained that if we went back to him he would stamp it correctly. Oh my! We looked at each other distraught.

The woman added that the office closed at…. “quinze heure” or 15 hours. In an earlier post I explained that the 24 hour system of time is used in France. Tired and upset, I forgot to subtract 2 from the last number and to George’s quizzical look I said, “they close here at 5 — we have plenty of time.” It was 2:10. We ran down those stairs, over to the bus #70 this time, which left us close to home and to the notary. George got the right stamp this time, and I found out where DHL offices were. We were off again, Metro #10 — to the bus – over the bridge — down the street — up the stairs — through the door – to the security guards. They looked at us and said, “C’est fermé.” (IT IS CLOSED!) No — it can’t be, we argued. We were just here — etc., etc., etc. I was near tears. The guards wanting to help said, “OK, come in and knock on the door, but we’re sure they won’t let you in.” (No – not in English, but in French and I did understand.) George knocked on the door several times but there was no response.

Sometimes, no matter what you do, it just isn’t going to happen.

Since Paris is Paris, and it was a sunny, warmish day, we walked all the way home, but not without stopping first at a little eating place on Rue de Seine, one block down from Blvd St. Germain. Everything is cooked on the premises including their delicious bread baked in a big oven visible from the order counter. It is a kind of health food place, where the food is organic (including the wine) and many items on the menu are marked with Veggie or V-Veggie (for vegan)

We ordered two big bowls of sweet potato soup (without cream) served with hot, freshly baked crusty bread topped with olive oil and sprinkled with chives and basil. We each had a glass of red wine which by this time was badly needed.

After lunch, we decided to walk home slowly. Walking slowly and tired as we were, we lingered at almost every shop window in a way we don’t usually. We gazed through the windows of the pastry shops, windows filled with fig and apple tarts and with cream cakes decorated with chocolate squares and strawberries, and yet others with breads and cookies. We almost went into a specialty chocolate shop called, Weiss, which on its sign said ‘since 1852’. The chocolates must be good here! Nonetheless, we moved on . Down Rue Cherche Midi, to Rue de Sevres, to Duroc, down Invalides, over to Breteuil, Avenue Saxe, and home. Home !! We collapsed and began thinking about packing and how we would get the Apostile affixed tomorrow morning before we leave for Boston.

C’est la vie!

Palais de Justice, stairs leading up to back entrance

Today was a day for walking and exploring though not new places. Part of the fun of being in Paris is that there is always something new to discover even in the most familiar places. It makes walking around adventuresome, even through the streets and around the sites we know well. Just like the day about a year ago when we stumbled over the magnificent statue of Komidas, the revered Armenian composer buried here in Paris. The statue is close to the Seine on the Right Bank, on Avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt . It is close to where we wait for our bus, the #28 when we come out of an exhibition at the Grand Palais or the Petit Palais. How could we not have seen this?

On that day of the discovery, we were walking in a slightly different path, coming up from the river after having finished a tour boat trip along the Seine with our Aunt Hassie. George starting walking toward the the statue when he saw it, thinking “this statue has an Armenian style….” and sure enough, it was. So, we never hesitate to revisit an area we think we know.

After lunch at home, we took the metro, made a few changes and arrived at the stop ‘Madeleine’. Here in this large square, the church, Eglise Ste-Marie-Madeleine – in the style of Roman temple according to the guide books dominates. All around the square are elegant shops and all along the streets approaching and leaving the square. Baccarat, Fauchon, Ralph Lauren, Hédiard, and Caviar Kaspia, just to name a few.

It was a sunny 60 F. plus some-degree day, in February. We started walking around he square noting Baccarat’s window which is always done with exquisite taste, and then stopped to read the menu at the wine bar, L’Ecluse. People filled the outdoor area, finishing up what looked like delicious lunches. We’ll have to try it some day!

Hédiard’s is a favorite food shop we like to poke into to look around – one of the best purveyors of food and drink in Paris, and the only place we can find Crème de Pêche de Vigne de Bourgogne (the best pêche liquor) except in Bourgogne itself. Added to white wine (a “kir”) or champagne (“kir royale”) it makes a wonderful aperitif. The store is a food-lover’s paradise their displays tantalizing to the eye and stomach! And with Valentine’s Day approaching, the displays were even more beautiful with candies, fruits, and wines decorated with hearts. In the center of the store there is a large machine for processing coffee beans to guarantee freshness. (Hopefully you can make it out in the photos below). We bought two bottles of the liquor, and headed out before we gave into the temptation to buy anything else.

We decided to walk home window shopping all the way. First, we headed down rue Royal, passing Dior, Chanel, Gucci and then Maxim’s, the famous Paris restaurant of yore, just before entering the Place de la Concorde. We crossed, passed the ferrous wheel just at this end of the Jardin de Tuillaries, and crossed the bridge over the Seine to the Left Bank.

There were tourists everywhere – busloads, and on foot, taking photos, sitting around, buying cotton candy, riding the great wheel, and riding the tour boats of the Seine. What a day!

On the Left Bank, we were in area of the General Assembly, rue de L’ Université, where Julia Child’s lived while in Paris. We looked for her apartment, but couldn’t find it. (George thought it was #71, but it is #81 – and now I realize that we walked right by it.)

We continued walking, looking for shade as much as possible, up rue de Bourgogne where several art galleries we had visited before were sadly now closed – as if for good. We passed our favorite lunch spot, a second floor restaurant aptly called, L’Assemblée. If you don’t know it is there, you’d never find it.
The husband and wife team of own the restaurant, M. and Mme Viala, run the Tabac on the ground floor, along with a bistro in addition to the restaurant.

We’ve never had a bad meal here and usually get there once on every trip, but haven’t this time. Last time, the friendly, chubby, elderly woman who greets always greets the patrons, seats them and takes orders all while chatting away in a most pleasant way, slipped and fell. There was a call for a doctor, and so I took a look. Her wrist seemed to be badly sprained, but not broken (but it is hard to tell – I gave what I hope turned out to be appropriate instructions.)

Rue de Bourgogne leads to Varenne and to the Musée Rodin, and from there we continued to head southwest, past Les Invalides (Napoleon’s Tomb) and home.

We were exhausted, not by the length of the walk, but by the heat of the day. It is easier to walk in cold weather than in warm weather – we discovered that today.

Komidas Statue, Yerevan Park, Paris

La Madeleine

Baccarat and Fauchon above, and two photos of Hediard including their coffee processing machine. Me — Another chocolate specialty shop with a beautiful Valentine’s Day windowMaxim’s Restaurant — never been there either! and, the busy Place de la Concorde below.Crossing the Seine…. at the end of this shot you can see Notre-Dame.

continued from the last post

We were greeted at the door by a tall handsome woman who introduced herself, shook hands and kissed those she knew on both cheeks in the usual French manner of greeting which we, too, have grown accustomed.  Coats off — aprons on –  and into the kitchen.   A large square table in the center of the kitchen was set with 8 red placemats as two more women joined us.  The conviviality of our group continued – jokes, and laughter and lots of chatting.  In fact, the tempo seemed to pick up a bit and I found myself straining again to understand what was being said.  Our cooking teacher, Caroline, began to explain what we would be doing: first,  we would learn how to make macarons, a special cookie not like the macaroons Americans think of, and then we’ll learn to make a salmon torte.  Véronique was sitting next to me and quietly asked, “Did you understand her?” I simply replied, “Not a word!” ( and chuckled!) Our teacher’s mode of speaking – staccato and rapid—was very difficult for me to understand.  Fortunately, again, there were many friends on all sides willing to translate.  Nothing was lost!

Soon we were all up and doing —weighing (even the egg whites) ,  mixing, sifting ( by hand with a strainer and two spoons), beating the egg whites to stiff peaks, adding one kind of sugar here – another there – carefully,  being sure everything was  just right.  After slowly combining the dry ingredients into the egg whites – by hand with the stirring movement always in the same direction,  getting to the bottom, mixing slowly, mixing well – our teacher stopped us.    She stopped us when the consistency was exactly right.  Holding the spatula high above up and she let the egg whites mixture, now a soft dough drip down to the bowl — not too thin, not to thick — but just right.

In the meantime, some of us had used a bottle  she’d given us  to trace circles on cooking parchment – just the right size for a macaron.   Next, we put the dough which had been prepared with so much care and labor into a plastic bag – one with a spout which would,  when squeezed  over the circles we’d drawn,  make a round soon to be half a macaron.  Not quite finished –good macarons have a slightly crunchy crust with a soft inside,  and since we didn’t have all night to let the dough dry out, we simply spent 10 minutes ‘blow drying’ the dough.  Ingenious!  Voilà – they were ready for the oven and now we were ready to make the ganache.

I won’t go through the details, but two types were made.  One was the most delicious caramel (ganache caramel au beurre salé to be exact) I’ve ever  tasted, and the other a lemony lemon- like custard filling (ganache citron).   Baked and cooled, the macaron halves were ready to be assembled with a bit of ganache gently placed between them.   Yummy isn’t the word!  What you learn from all this is that one wouldn’t dare eat more than one – possibly two of these cookies.   Why? Making them is too much work and second they are rich as can be!  Just a little is all you need to be totally satisfied and in heaven!

I won’t go through the details of the Tourte Saumon Poireaux (salmon torte with leeks) – and with crème fraiche and salmon eggs –also known as caviar!) except to say, this was much easier to make than the macarons were.   The pastry was bought all ready to bake.   (Most  French grocery stores and supermarkets, sell the various types of specialty doughs used in French cooking.  How nice!  The one we used today is called pâte feuilletée which when taken out of its box unfurls into a large round more than 12” in diameter. )

On one pâte, which formed the bottom of the torte,  chunks of  salmon were spread, then the sliced leeks layered over it,  and the crème fraiche and salmon egg mixture poured over all.  A  second pâte was placed over everything and the edges of the two pâtes pressed together, painted with egg yolk and scored.

So beautiful and amazingly easy!  Since there was no time to bake it, we each got a slice to take home along with our macaroons.

Holding my torte and macarons carefully, as Véronique made her way through the rush hour traffic back to Paris from Versailles, I was happy not to be balancing these treasures on a train to Gare Saint Lazare.

My slice of the torte was baked for diner and George got to enjoy it while I went on and on about how much fun the day had been.

I’ve really gotten behind this time. So much happens in the course of a day there is little time to write. (Again, Susan Tiberghien’s advice — keep a pad handy and jot down notes). Since the concert on the 1st the next big event was a trip to Versailles to take a cooking class!

No – not at the palace, but in someone’s home. Most people who are not French think the only thing in Versailles is the famous palace. But, in fact, Versailles is a town just like any other where people live and work, where there are other attractions and things to do.

I’ve no words to tell you just how much fun last Friday was from the time I took left our apartment at about 9:45 a.m.until I arrived back home.

The goal? To attend a cooking class in Versailles given by a woman who loves to cook and has begun to give cooking classes in her home. We were going to have lunch first at my friend’s sister’s home in Versailles before the class, and then drive back to Paris. Since my friend Veronique was not in Paris, the plan was that I would take the train to Versailles from Gare Saint Lazare meeting up with two other women (whom I’d didn’t know) along the way who were going as well. Names, cell phones numbers were exchanged and the time was set — we would get the 11:15 train arriving in Versailles at about 11:45.

I had reviewed the best ways to get to Gare Saint Lazare and decided that since I had plenty of time I’d take the bus — Bus #28. Gare Saint Lazare is the last stop. Well — I then decided to walk a good part of the way catching the bus just before it crossed the river so I could stop to buy a small pot of flowers for our hostess. The walk was wonderful with the morning air cool and misty, the streets freshly washed and Rue Cler, which I took to find a good flower shop, usually packed with shoppers and diners, was nearly empty. Good — I got to the bus stop and waited – and waited — and waited. No bus! This was highly unusual and equally unusual was the fact that there was no GPS information giving the minutes to the next bus. What should I do?

I knew that the minute I moved from my spot the bus would come. I called Amanda — one of the women I was to meet, “I’ve been waiting for nearly 20 minutes — there is no bus — I don’t think I’ll make the 11: 15. “ She was cool and said not to worry. We’ll get the 11:30 if I miss it, but to let her know so she can call Helene who was going to get on the train one stop after Saint Lazare. OK. I started to walk toward the metro and just as I was almost too far from the bus stop the bus appeared rounding the corner 3 blocks away. I turned back and started running as fast as I could (which isn’t that fast), and as the bus passed me and stopped to let a passenger off at MY stop, still running, I was yelling, “Entendez!! Entendez!” — which means “Listen! Listen!” — but others around the bus realized what was happening and started signaling to the driver to wait. At the same time I realized my error and started yelling “Attendez! Attendez! S’il vous plait!” (Wait! Wait! Please!)He waited, I thanked him and I made it to the train station in time to buy my ticket from a clerk, and get to the train in plenty of time to meet Amanda.

Helene joined us and exactly as planned, Veronique pulled up to the station, Versailles Rive Droite, as we came out and we drove the short distance to her sister’s home. She had already dropped her mother off – a wonderful, lively, energetic self-sufficient computer savy women in her late eighties. We were quite a group!

It was noon. The aperitifs came out and were poured before lunch. The jokes flew fast and furious and when I looked totally lost, someone would explain. Everyone at the table spoke English from excellent to pretty good, but they and I wanted the day to be in French. When I started to speak — ask a question or tell a story – in English, the group would turn to me and say, “En francais!” for my benefit. I so appreciated their willingness to listen to me plod along, correcting my mistakes and supplying the right word when needed.

It was like listening to a 33 rpm record at 78 rpms at first. (Remember what that sounded like?). At high speed — French – fast – everyone speaking at once (or so it seemed), jokes, laughter, fun. I felt as a little baby must upon hearing spoken language for the first time – “these sounds –what are they? I’ve never heard them before. Mommy! Help!” They all did. Little by little my ear began to become accustomed to the tempo and chatter more and more the sounds became understandable words. Of course, the women helped me with the specifics. I loved it!

Everyone was relaxed, even our hostess who was serving lunch. She did it with such ease, as her sister has so many times when we’ve been to her home for dinner (mind you –for never less then 8), and her mother, too, at her home. How gracious they are — how easy they make it look. No stress — no rush – take your time – enjoy – relax. The moment was to be enjoyed and shared around food and drink, friendship and family the key and the link. At least that is how it looks to me. It is what makes being here so special.

When the time came, the 6 of us piled into Anne’s car, and headed to our class. Tomorrow’s blog…..

For those of you who have never been to Paris, I thought it would be good to say two words about the overall geography of Paris. Paris was built around the banks of the River Seine. Each succeeding group of settlers built next to the previous group, fanning out from and around the river. Thus, the Seine became a dividing line between two parts of the city – the Right Bank (Rive Droite) to the north, and the Left Bank ( Rive Gauche) to the south. Each of the new settlements became a new district circling the city and each was given a number. Thus, the arrondissements follow one number after another circling the city around the river. (Look at a map which shows the arrondissements and this pattern will become clear.)

There are two islands in the central part of the river Seine in the heart of Paris:  L’ ‘île de la Cité, on which is located the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris (considered the ‘Heart of France’), the Palais de Justice, the famous Saint Chapelle and Le Conciergerie — the prison where Marie Antoinette awaited execution. The second island, right next to it, is L’île de Saint Louis which has shops, restaurants, hotels and apartments, and is home to the famous Paris ice cream, Berthillon.

Here we were – in the heart of France, the heart of Paris on a cold wintery night. (Pinch me! Am I really here?) A light freezing rain was beginning as we walked along the Seine, on L’île de la Cité, toward the cathedral Notre Dame de Paris. As we turned a corner along the north side of the island leading onto the square in front of the cathedral we were shocked to see scores of people there before us, ticket holders like us, already standing in a long line waiting to get into the church. We were almost tempted to turn back. Fortunately, the line moved quickly and soon we passed under that great edifice, so well-known to students of architecture, students of Paris, and tourists – and to George and me.  Even as we waited,though, we weren’t bored.  Tonight, as on every other night in this City of Lights, spotlights shone on the edifice which towered above us as we waited, cold, in line.

( Am I really here? It seems just yesterday that I was a young girl in The Bronx making my way on the subway to a concert in New York City, or to my piano teacher’s studio in Manhattan.)

We moved forward quickly and once inside found 5 seats (for friends we were meeting), not in the central nave which was already completely filled with concert goers but in the side aisle parallel to the central nave, under the beautifully vaulted high arched stone ceilings. One of the large thick columns which supports the church was a few aisles in front of us and partially blocked our view. It didn’t matter. We could see the conductor and most of the performers. Our friends arrived, found us, and we settled into our seats waiting with anticipation the start of the concert.

A stage had been erected in the central nave, at the back of the church, under the great organ. (The structure and history of this church, with its magnificent rose windows can be rediscovered at the web site below. Check it out!)
http://elore.com/Gothic/History/Overview/paris.htm

Back to the concert — 10 minutes late, the concert began — the orchestra , three choirs — a children’s choir, the conservatory choir, and members of a military choir having filed in, followed by the conductor.  Faure’s Requiem was performed — elegant, melodic harmonies – wonderful impressionism – blends of sounds, familiar yet heard a new in this magnificent performance in this wonderful space. Stravinsky followed after an intermission and organ interlude — the Symphony of Psalms, in some ways more appealing to me than the Faure as Stravinsky’s dissonances and rhythms evoke strong responses in me. These young performers from the Conservatory of Paris met the challenge –rendering a superb performance of this difficult music.

One word about the conductor who was a joy to watch. Without being overly demonstrative, his movements elicited clear responses from the performers. He brought them in on cue and helped shape their phrases , without drawing attention to himself. His hand would arch up and outward and then back close to his body — the instrumentalists and choir followed his delicate movements.  The refrain,  “Ah –le – lu-ia”  —crescendo — decrescendo to pianissimo — sung so beautifully,  each time.  Watching him enhanced my understanding of the music —the nuances and the structure — much like a ballet dancer might.

The concert ended with to a standing ovation for the performers, the conductor and choral masters. We exited through the same doors we had entered, made our way across the bridge (now covered with ‘black ice’ )linking L’île de la Cité to the Left Bank. We found a small restaurant next to Shakespeare & Co., where I ‘d had my writer’s workshop a couple of weeks ago. Still open at 10:30 and willing to seat 5 of us, the waiter was full of jokes and quite lively even at this hour. Charming and seemingly very old, the restaurant had yellow walls,  a low beamed ceiling, slanted wide plank floor, and little tables covered with white cloths where other diners were finishing their meals. It didn’t matter that the other diners were unusually noisy — we were happy to be in a warm cozy place. (Did I mention that none of the great cathedrals are heated?).

George and I enjoyed a favorite — warmed potatoes with herring! Not always on the menu, we are finding this dish frequently listed among appetizers this time of year. We ate, drank, and laughed with our friends and then headed for the metro. We are always sure to get home before the bewitching hour of 1:00 a.m. when the metro closes down and one would have to exit regardless of where you are. We made it! It was a lovely evening.

It wasn’t the best morning today. We were both tired from a very long walk yesterday from our apartment to Eglise Saint Eustache where we met Melody and Steve for an organ recital. The distance, as best I could calculate, was about 3 miles — but it was cold and we walked at a good clip. So, this morning was a slow start. After coffee, George went up to his studio to paint. I planned to continue reading the book I’d picked up here at the Village Voice bookshop,  Ararat: in Search of the Mythical Mountian by Frank Westerman, a Dutchman.

As I was about to stretch out on the living couch, I heard the mail being delivered — a lone envelop (another joy of being in Paris — there is rarely more than one envelop when there is mail) was slipped under our door. My relaxed mood quickly turned into annoyance when I saw that it was from the bureau of taxation. I opened the letter, and without carefully reading it, but saw that the check I had paid the tax with last week was being returned. I assumed that is was because there was an interest charge (received last week) on the tax which was not included in this check.

You see – the situation was even more complicated in my mind because I had paid the tax in good time with what is called a ‘TIP” which allows the recipient of the TIP to withdraw from the donors bank account the amount designated on this little form. The TIP which I sent in a December had been returned for a reason I never quite understood. After we arrived in Paris, I went to the bureau of taxation and paid it with a check (I think I described that experience a couple of posts ago– and described how happy I was that it was easy to accomplish. But, last week we received another letter from the tax people stating there was a 10% interest charge and, I assumed, for that reason my second payment was being returned.

OH MY! Frustration! George and I discussed the situation and we decided that it wasn’t worth my time and energy to argue about the interest payment, though it was a tidy sum of 168 Euros.  However, reading my book about the tribulations of the author trying to get permission from the Turkish government to climb Mt. Ararat I changed my mind. (One has nothing to do with the other, but in my mind it was a fight against bureaucracy. I decided that, although I might have to pay the interest in the end, it was worth arguing over it.

So, at about 2:00 pm or so, I bundled up (though not nearly enough), put my papers together for the confrontation and headed out. I should add that I looked up a few key words in French so that I could express my self adequately. “I am very upset” translated: Je suis très affectée.

On the way over to the square at Saint Sulpice where the finance offices for our arrondissment are, I stopped in to see Steve and Melody for a few minutes. Steve’s brother had just arrived from Texas, they’d finished lunch and we chatted about this and that. They asked me where I was headed and after I explained, they admonished me, “Stick to your guns, don’t pay the interest….” , etc.

Now I was really psyched and fortified for the fight! Although it was very cold I decided to walk so that I would have time to go over and over my speech in my head — in French.

“I have a big problem…. It is very complicated…. I don’t speak French well… please excuse me.” And then the sequence of events, “First, this came… and I sent this… and then this happened…” and on and on. I thought I had it all down. Ready, get set — GO!

I entered the building and went directly to the office where I had paid the tax (for the second time), took a number and sat down. (My speech was running through my head like a ticker-tape). My number came up. “This is it,” I thought, “My big chance! I’m on my own!”

I approached the clerk, a middle aged man, who smiled as we greeted each other, “Bonjour Madame — Bonjour Monsier”.

“J’ai un gros problèm. C’est très compliqué” at which point he said something which made me understand that he couldn’t fix a complicated problem and that I needed to go to another office. He punched a machine and out came another ticket with‘R24’ in blue. I thanked him, we smiled and bid each other good day — “Bonne journée” (not to be confused with Bonjour).

I stopped at the information desk at the entrance of this grand building to ask where the room was where this ticket indicated I should go. The receptionist was very polite and pointed to the door opposite the one I’d just been in. ‘Merci madame — bonne journée” we echoed each other.

Through the door, I saw my number in blue above the second cubicle, R 24… and stepped in. A young woman greeted me and I began my speech again. She interrupted and said in French, Je ne parle pas anglais  (I don’t speak English) and asked if I would like her to call someone who did speak English. Feeling a little insulted, though she was only trying to be helpful without any hint of annoyance, I told her I’d prefer trying again in French. But with my second attempt she again interrupted and this time I agreed.

She made two calls, and then handed the phone to me, “Madame,” the woman on the phone said in a most gracious and accommodating tone, “would you prefer to speak in English?”

“Yes, I think it might be better. “ and now started my litany about the payments, checks, etc. this time in English, but before I could say more than a few words, she asked for my name and address. Then she asked me to give the phone to the young woman behind the desk – they spoke a little and the phone was back to me. Now, I thought the fight over the interest payment was going to start.

Speaking beautiful and perfect English, the woman explained that the original payment made by TIP had been returned because the needed computer numbers found at the bottom of the TIP were missing. She continued, “The check had been returned, not because of the interest payment, which doesn’t matter and which you certainly don’t have to pay, but because the written amount on the check does not correspond with the amount written in numbers. It is required in France.” She went on to say, “Numbers in French are very difficult and everyone has trouble learning them.” And if she hadn’t made me feel good enough by then, she added, “… just as I have trouble with numbers in English.”

Well by now, I was thinking, “I don’t believe this… how easy was this –not only easy, but civilized, polite and gracious.”

I gave the phone back to the young woman at the desk, and the English-speaker told her what to write and how to write the check out and to hand it back to me to review. When all was completed, I turned back for a moment before leaving and asked (in French), “And what error did I make just so I can learn.” The young woman smiled and pointing to the written numbers, she said, “You wrote ‘soixante’ instead of ‘six’ (sixty instead of six –the same as in English). Which meant I was paying a tax which was “one thousand sixty- hundred” — instead of ‘one thousand six-hundred…”

Parting I remarked to her, “Un comédie des erreurs!” and we both laughed!

Still very cold and feeling as though ice packs were sitting on my shoulders, I walked all the way home nonetheless thinking about how delicious the lemon yogurt I had just purchased at Le Grand Epicerie de Le Bon Marché would be.