Fête de la Musique

What can I say?  The French will celebrate anything.  They celebrate everything and anything.  The end of World War I.  The end of World War II.  The signing of a strategic alliance between Britain and France before World War I.  A celebration of wine.  A Fête du Pain.  A Fête du fromage.  A holiday celebrating sheep, cows, pigs, gâteaux, and even la grève [i.e. the right to go on strike although this fête is poorly attended.......       ]

Okay, maybe I am exaggerating but today and all of tonight, was the Fête de la Musique.  The French may also be celebrating the summer solstice, but June 21st is the celebration of music.  I was here last year for the fête but everything was so new that I didn't really grasp the magnitude of this celebration.  Last year I walked around to one or two places and gazed, like a deer in the headlights, not knowing what to expect or experience.  This year I was prepared.  But first a quick note.

France has a population of 64 million.  Paris has a population of 2.2 million and the greater metro area has a population of 11.4 million.  This year, competing with the fête, was the World Cup with 3 games being played today.  Maybe not quite the Superbowl [yet] but at least the playoffs.  You would think that would keep some people away.  But no.  Apparently, 82 percent of Parisians were out in the streets.  And from my walking around, they were all  in my neighborhood.

For perspective, and for those of you who have visited us, normally it takes 3 seconds to reach Blvd St Germain from our apartment - today it took about 3 minutes to work our way through the crowd just to reach the Blvd!!  We could hear a drummer across Blvd St Germain by the Cluny - he was drumming his heart out.  No, this wasn't just some head-banger beating the tom-toms.  This guy was good....no, great.  To date myself, think Ginger Baker or Keith Moon great.

After a few minutes of listening to the drummer, we ploughed our way back over  St Germain and worked our way down our crowded street, the music was hypnotic.  There was a band or artist nearly every 15 meters or so.  I must point out that it is illegal to play loud music on public streets but this is the one day that it isn't.  Everybody turns out to play, sing, dance, or just watch and listen.

Slowly, we made it to the bottom of our street, across Blvd St Michel, and towards Place St Michel.  It was a madhouse.  A sea of humanity and at least 10 different bands, dancers, drummers, and singers, all competing for your attention.  We crawled down rue St André des Arts, stopping at a steel guitarist playing Dylan and bluesy Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, a heavy metal band playing god knows what, and an accordian player accompanied by a singer before making it to our favorite band who now call themselves "Walking the Dog".

 

They play in front of La Dernière Goutte, one of our favorite wine shops in the 6ième..  Juan, the wine shop owner and who is unfortunately blocked from view by the lead singer, is the drummer.  Advertised to appear are four bands but, as we learned last year, "Walking the Dog" is their fourth incantation so it's just one band with four names.....but that's okay because they are very good.  After listening to a set, we continued to walk around the 6ième.  We probably listened to about five or six more bands [and I use the term loosely].  One colorful troupe consisted of sisters done up as clowns - les Soeurs Jacquines - not my verre du vin but they had great voices and were singing some wonderful old French standards, handing out the lyrics, and asking everyone to join in....which most of the folks did.....my excuse was that I haven't had time to learn to sing in French, I am still trying to learn to speak it....that, and the fact that I sound like a cat getting run over by a steamroller.

Anyway, on our way back home, we stopped off at one of our favorite restaurants, Fish La Boissonnerie to wet the whistle.  After downing a glass of  wine, we were ready to crawl back through the crowds to our flat.  The weather was perfect.  The crowds were friendly. The artists were encouraging but one glass of wine is not enough encouragement for me to sing.  However, on a final note, if you are planning to visit Paris, the 21st of June and the Fête de la Musique is not to be missed.

The World Cup & La Crise Économique

I just have to blog this rant. No pictures, just words.

We just got back from native Parisian Olivier Giraud’s one-man comedy show “How to Become a Parisian in One Hour.” The show is mostly in English, peppered with Olivier’s favorite French expressions (no, I cannot repeat them here!). There were more Parisians in the audience than English-speaking folks. That’s ironic. Parisians going to an English-speaking show to learn how to become Parisian (ou peut-être plus parisien?).  Olivier’s first lesson on how to become a Parisian is to be arrogant because “we are!” And as I’ve blogged before, the French are arrogant. Not “in-your face” arrogant. Sophisticated arrogance. So sophisticated, in fact, that they aren’t even aware of it. It’s a national characteristic. Pas de problème. And so is their irony.

As you know, the French are a world power in football [soccer to us Yanks]. They were actually 8-1 odds on to win the World Cup. Well, they drew with Uruguay [0-0]; lost to Mexico [0-2]; and then went on strike! En grève! Yup, these super-rich, spoiled, superstar elite athletes went en grève. They refused to train, to practice, or to listen to their coach. They even foul-mouthed their coach in the press and the media.

Of course, the French were livid. How could their national team disgrace themselves and the nation by going on strike? The final straw was losing to South Africa [1-2]. South Africa, a team whose only qualification for getting into the final 32 teams of the World Cup was that they were the host nation. In response, the team was sent back to France in steerage. Even Sarkozy demanded that he personally debrief Thierry Henry. The “en grève” French team had to explain itself to the President of France. I would like to have been a fly on the wall of the Palais de l'Elysée that day!

Now, for those of us not living in Europe, the Eurozone is in the crapper. Two year ago, when the US starting bailing out companies and loaning out money via TARP, Europeans were dismissive; we were overreacting. Today, the bankers and financiers are looking longingly across the pond and kicking themselves for not following the US lead.

Sure, we have an $8 trillion national debt but France, Germany, and the UK each have $1+ trillion debt. So now they are tightening their belts, making important budget cuts, and trying to reign in their social security systems. Just like Greece had to raise the retirement age from 55 to 60, the UK is raising the age to 67, Germany to 65, and the French, to the whopping old age of 62.

Needless to say, the French are going ballistic or at least 50 percent of them are. Last Thursday, nearly 50 percent of the country was en grève. Fifty percent! Subways, buses, regional trains, TGV, car factories, manufacturers, airports, pilots, farmers, students, teachers, everyone is on strike. The next morning on the news, François Fillon (France’s Prime Minister), repeated one more time that malheuresement, France can no longer continue to subsidize retirement ages of 60 years with full benefits and pay…

Ok, so here’s the irony. The Eurozone governments are all making the tough decisions to balance their budgets. And their people, for the most part, understand and are going along with the necessary cuts. So while the French national football team has disgraced the nation by going on strike, the French people find no problem in taking it to the streets. Power to the people. We deserve our full retirement at 60 with full benefits. Forget the fact that we only work 35 hours a week. Or that our schooling and medical care is provided for. Or that we get 6 weeks vacation a year plus holidays. And all civil service employees get paid 13 months salary for what I recall, even in France, is still a 12-month year. Spoiled? Pampered? Nope, en grève. Ironic, n’est-ce pas?

Fête du Pain

The French love their bread.  I love their bread....almost as much as I love their wine [which explains a lot about my expanding waistline].  On top of that, the French love festivals - they celebrate everything here - they have festivals to celebrate their love of festivals!  To the point, there must be a few thousand individual boulangeries and patisseries scattered throughout Paris.  There's an annual baguette bake-off where hundreds of artisinal bakers from all over France come to compete for the "Best Baguette in France" title.  So on an evening walk through the Notre Dame Cathedral courtyard, we came upon the "Fête du Pain" festival.

It was closed but due to open at 9AM the following morning.  As we walked around the courtyard, we could see all sorts of interesting, albeit, closed stalls, exhibits, and one very large tented hall.  Interesting enough to cause us to wake up early the next day and walk down for a real visit......and we weren't disappointed.

As noted, the stalls and exhibits were about all things bread AND what you may want to put on or in bread....think saucisson, beurre, and fromage.  And just in case you need to wash down this bread there were a few coffee and tea salons as well as the ubiquitous "magasin du vin."

But the really interesting thing was the huge hall.  Although we couldn't see everything inside the hall last night, what we saw was very interesting.  Outside the hall were huge electric distribution panels because inside the hall were dozens of massive commercial ovens.  During our nighttime walk, it didn't look like much.  But in the daytime, with the hall open, we were presented with an incredible sight.

Dozens of bakers were mixing flour, kneading dough, rolling all sorts of rolls, breads, buns, cookies and cakes.  And they were doiing it on a commercial scale.  In this one section, there were 4 or 5 bakers making baguettes.  Two dozen baguettes on a single tray were being made.  One baker would roll out the baguette and place it onto this canvas roll that wrapped around, what looked to me to be a bread gurney!  Except that the bread gurney didn't rise up and down like a gurney for people.  As he made each baguette roll, another bakery would take a simple razor blade that was attached to a straw, and put a slit down each baguette roll of dough.  When all 20 loaves were slit, the gurney was moved in front of the oven.

Now this huge oven contained over 20 bread trays, 10 trays on each side, all baking away.  The gurney was raised to the level of an empty tray slot, the oven opened, and the entire top of the gurney rammed into the oven.  Then the crank was turned and the gurney came out of the oven, sans the bread tray.....20 new loaves of bread a-baking.

Then the empty gurney was placed in front of a fully baked bread tray and rammed into the oven.  A repeat of the cranking and out came 20 fully baked baguettes.  And then these bakers would pick up 4 or 5 loaves at a time, right out of the oven, and bare-handedly carry these steaming hot loaves into a bread basket.  I guess one requirement for being a baker is not to be able to feel pain...or at least heat.

Of course, eating the fruits of their labor is the point but when bread is not enough, buy a sandwich.....

Another Mystery - Padlocks of Love

After solving the mystery of those rolls of carpet that are found on every street in Paris in our last blog, I mentioned those padlocks found on the guard rails of the walking bridges that cross the Seine. I guess I didn’t really notice them last year. I guess I was too agog looking at the Louvre, the Seine and the gorgeous Institut de France as I was walking back and forth on the Pont des Arts.  I mean, really, who would notice these padlocks of various sizes attached to the fences on either side of the bridge when you are staring at the Louvre? But having taken a 3 month break from Paris to get warm in Delray Beach, quelle difference?

I guess last year, I sort of noticed the locks; at least enough to ask Katherine what she thought of them. And as the year progressed, you don’t really notice two or three locks growing into 6 or 7 locks, then multiplying to 20 or 30 locks. You get the picture. Walking frequently over the Pont des Arts, the small, gradual increase in the number of locks goes unnoticed. It’s like looking in the mirror every day and then one day you become aware that your hair is way too long and you need a haircut. 

Well the first time this spring we walked over the Pont des Arts, it was like a lock plague had occurred.  Hundreds, no thousands, of locks were attached to the fences. This time I had to find out what these locks were all about.  Last year I thought that maybe the locks were remnants of bike thefts. You see these remnants all over Paris.  People park their bikes and lock them up next to a fence or lamp pole. Sometimes all you see is a broken wheel attached to the pole; the rest of the bike is gone. Sometimes you see a smashed bike. Sometimes only a bike lock. But on closer inspection, these padlocks are different.

Some of these padlocks are so small they can barely close around the chain link. And upon a really close look, there is writing on the locks. And then the mystery is solved. They are padlocks of love!  Names, initials, dates, and hearts are scraped in the metal lock surfaces. Undying love, forever declared, permanently on display for all to see.

So when Ross and his girlfriend, Diana, came to stay with us for a few days, we took them to the Louvre. We walked over the Pont des Arts and showed them the locks. Shock of shocks, the French lock police had swooped in and removed all the locks…..or at least most of them…..or more locks had been added since the lock purge just a few days before (the padlock purge made all the news, both the telly and the papers).... In any case, Ross and Diana continued on to explore the Louvre and we went shopping at le marché Maubert, our local market. 

On rue Monge, after Katherine had had her fix of "pain sucré" from the famed boulangerie "Eric Kayser," we spied a store selling several kinds of padlocks. We bought one for Ross and Diana.  That night, they worked on “engraving” their padlock of love (or "cadenas d'amour") and the next morning they placed it on the Pont des Arts.  Diana gave us strict instructions on where to locate it - "face the Louvre, then look for it on the left in the middle of the crossbar, after the second "poubelle" (garbage can)."  Sure enough, a few days after they left, we strolled over to the Pont des Arts and, voilà, there was their cadenas d'amour.  Katherine frequently walks across the Pont des Arts on her way to the shops on the rue Rivoli on the Right Bank so she's been checking on it (more regularly than I would like, I must say...) Soon enough,  the "cadenas d'amour" police will surely come along in the dark of night and snip it off along with the other accumulating hordes.   Until then we'll keep our eye on it until we leave Paris in October.  And who knows, maybe Katherine and I will lock our love on the bridge…

A Mystery of Paris

I love Paris. I really do, even if I am not fluent in French. I love what I see and understand.  I love the differences. And I love what I don’t understand; things that make you look twice and you’re still not sure what you’re looking at or why something is what it is.  For example………

Ever since last year I have been puzzled by two things. First there were these rolls of carpet that seemed haphazardly placed in the gutters all over the streets of Paris. Then, there were all kinds of padlocks that appeared on the Pont des Arts, the walking bridge between the Louvre and the French National Academy.

Now these rolls of carpet, about 1 ½ feet long and 4 to 6 inches thick and tied with a piece or two of string, just lie about in the gutters.  Which is hard to understand because the "maires de Paris", the mayors all 20 of Paris' arrondissments have the Green Machine (cleaning crews) out every day cleaning the streets. And these cleaning crews don’t mess around. They descend on streets in teams of 4 to 8 [maybe even more]. You can’t help but notice them; all dressed in their bright green uniforms. Everything about them is green. Their clothes, trucks, cars, street-cleaners, hoses, even their plastic garbage bags that they place on the garbage can hoops that are located all over Paris.

These guys come driving down a street; their water truck alongside the men with their hoses, power washing down the sidewalks. All the debris is directed into the street. Then they turn on the street water to flush the debris down the drains. Whatever doesn’t float or move into and down the drains, gets swept into the middle of street so that the street-cleaning truck can pick it up. But nothing or nobody removes the rolls of carpet?!?! They are like the Terminators of debris. Mini-monuments to street debris like plastic bags and cigarette butts that will never degrade.

But like a French foreign legionnaire looking for an oasis in the desert, I kept looking for an answer to these rolls of carpet.  I mean, they are just plain ugly and left in the gutters to unravel when, lo and behold, someone tosses out the old one and replaces it with a new fragment of carpet carefully tied with string!  The mystery is not too hard to unravel once you walk around when the gutters of Paris are being flushed.   You see, Paris has two water systems - the one that supplies fresh water to homes, businesses, etc and the other that flushes the gutters all around Paris.  Anyone who's been to Paris can't fail to notice this marvellous Parisian street water system.  The Green Machine turn them on to flush the debris down and into the sewers. You can’t walk through Paris without seeing at least one street with a gush of rushing water flowing down one or more streets and into a sewer. So you write it off as street cleaning; which it is. But then there are these rolls of carpet……

One fine morning just a few weeks ago, I woke up around 6 AM. A great time to get a jump start on the day. Do some grocery shopping or watch the marchés and the merchants set up their stalls. So on my walk around the neighborhood, there they were, the Green Machine out in full force, right in front of my apartment in the "Quarter Latin."  What a perfect time to ask about those carpet rolls. 

I must have spoken correctly, because without a word, one of the Green Machine "mecs" walked me down the street to the nearest carpet roll. Still silent, he kicked the carpet roll to one side of the water coming out from the street hydrant, looked up at me, and smiled. Then, he kicked the carpet roll to the other side of the street hydrant and exclaimed, “voilà.”  And the penny dropped. These carpet rolls are not the terminators of debris, they are water diverters placed strategically to shunt the water to either side of the spout from which the water is gushing (and the water can be quite torrential at times!).   Mystery solved….it is so endearing to think that although the French have invented and implemented the most ingenious of street cleaning systems, they have nevertheless come to rely on little pieces of rolled-up carpet tied with string to make the sytem work more efficiently!   You have to love it!   The only question that remains is who actually makes up these carpet rolls and puts them in place - is it the Green Machine or is it the proprietors of the shops and businesses?  I have a mental image of members of the Green Machine sitting around smoking (probably in some place where smoking is strictly "interdit,") chatting away and tying up these little carpet rolls!  Where do these little uniformly-sized pieces of carpet come from? Perhaps one of our French "amis" can enlighten me?   And what about those padlocks on the Pont des Arts???.....aaaah, more to follow.

Just A Quickie

Apparently, I seemed to have caused some confusion with my last blog.  From the comments received, I appear to have suggested that it was my last blog and that I must, as Hemingway, continue to write.....Okay, maybe Hemingway is a bit of a stretch.  So to set things straight, here is a quick update on our latest Paris adventure.

As is customary for this time of year, Roland-Garros [the French Tennis Open] started this week.  I've blogged on this last year so I won't rant on about the French and how they think this is the most important tennis tournament in the world.  Every match, every stroke, every serve, is televised.  And Wimbledon, what's that?  You're lucky if you even get a box score.  But I digress.

On Friday, Pierre [you all remember him from an earlier blog....he taught me how to butcher and prepare my own rabbit],  came over for a drink.  With Roland-Garros on the telly, I was reminded of Pierre's friend, Olivier, whom we met at a dinner party chez Pierre last year.  Olivier is "un orfèvre," a gold and silversmith,  who owns "Lapparra" an ancient and highly renowned  Atelier in the Haut-Marais.   Lapparra has been in business since 1893, so it is one of Paris' venerable institutions.    And, to the point, Lapparra designs and fabricates the Roland-Garros trophies; the big one that you see the champions raise and the individual ones that they each get to keep.  They also design and manufacture by hand, important trophies for various events, including Longchamps - for those of you who are horse-racing fans.  So I asked Pierre if it was possible to visit Olivier's studio.

Turns out that this weekend was the "Nomades 2010," an annual event where over 100 art studios and artisans in the 3rd "arronde" open their galleries, factories and studios to the public.  So on Saturday, we took a walk to the Marais and Olivier's studio.  Et voilá, there was Pierre to greet us  - turns out Pierre was helping out in the Lapparra showroom while Olivier gave tours.  We joined up with several  people as they embarked on Olivier's tour of the "Atelier."

For security reasons, we didn't take any pictures, but Katherine was absorbed looking at all the gold and silver bits and pieces that were hanging around waiting to be joined up to form a trophy or punch bowl or some such item.  Just listening to Olivier describe and demonstrate how the artisans shape the gorgeous knives, forks and spoons that they make was fascinating.  I was blown away by the antiquity of the tools and machines used to fabricate the tableware and artifacts.  It was amazing to hear how much manual labor went into preparing a trophy, cup, or spoon.  I was even more fascinated by the "piles" of gold and silver "trash"-scrapings, dust, ribbons of gold and silver filling up trash cans.  I even touched some dust and discovered that I now had a 24 carat fingerprint! 

After the tour, we spent the next hour in the studio talking with Olivier and Pierre about some of the more exotic creations like a huge centerpiece made for the King of Morocco.  You have to see it to believe it.  One table was set with an entire line of Art Deco silverware which is destined for an upcoming showing in New York. 

So if you ever make it to Paris, visit Lapparra.  You will be warmly welcomed and amazed at what you see. Here is the URL:

http://www.lapparra.fr/en/goldsmith-silversmith-lapparra.htm

La Rentrée - Part 3

Today was an incredible day; incroyable! It’s Saturday and we’re off to our local market, Marché Maubert, just a couple of blocks from our apartment. The market is here 3 days a week (Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday) but Saturday is the “big one”….at least for our little neighborhood. Our merchants come from as far away as Normandy to sell their wares. These are the merchants who have given me advice on how to cook the meat I was buying, what wine I should serve, to the cheese that should follow, and the dessert. A different merchant for each course. I have to tell each one what the meal is, based on the input from the previous merchant. It’s hard for me because it’s all in French but it’s the raison I am living in Paris.

Today was the first time since I left Paris in December that I was in the market again. Would they know me? Would they remember me? Would they still be in business?...Talk to me?...Give me advice? La crise économique has been difficult. As we walked along Blvd St. Germain yesterday, we noticed that Duriez, one of our favorite stationery stores in Paris, was closed forever.



But today was beautiful. Unusually warm for avril and dry. Blue skies, light breeze, and very few tourists. The marché was busy with locals and a few tourists (that’s not us, we’re locals!). Even last December we had more tourists but the nuage de cendres from the volcano was still wreaking havoc although it doesn’t seem to be making the news anymore [at least here in Paris]. And all the merchants were busy. There seemed to be an abundance of fruit and veg folks. But I was determined to start my purchases at my favorite boucherie.

And there was Stella. Busy with a line of locals buying their weekend meats. I snuck in at the end, determined to be incognito until it was my turn. It worked. She didn’t see me or Katherine until we said “Ça va”? And then 3 months of missing us, came out in one sentence, maybe two. I’m not sure, my French is getting better but not when the French talk at lightning speed. But Katherine got it all. And apparently, our Stella missed us. She thought we were coming back at the beginning of April…probably because it was me who was telling her when we would be returning. So there it was; somebody remembered us.



And as I paid for our meat and turned to leave, there was Katherine chatting away (en français, naturellement) to her jewelry vendor. I didn’t know Katherine had a jewelry vendor but apparently she does. And apparently the vendor remembered her since they were deep in conversation ….but I am not sure I am happy about this merchant knowing us [or Katherine]….



The line in front of our fruit and veg man (fermier artisanale) was short; at least for him; only 3 or 4 people. But as we approached and got on line, he stopped, came over to shake our hands, and asked us how the winter was in the States and welcomed us back to Paris….he remembered us! We loaded up on veggies and started to make our way over to our wine shop.

We never made it. Before we got there, our local vintner was walking across the market. He stopped us in our tracks and asked us how we were doing. I don’t think this is because we buy a lot of wine. I think it’s because I fracture French so badly when I discuss wine with him that I am unforgettable as opposed to memorable.

So we trundle back to our flat, laden down with fruit, veg, meat, bread, wine (but no jewelry). Just as we are entering our building, our local creperie guy comes up to us with a big smile and says bienvenue à Paris! We chatted for a few minutes about le commerce and the cold, long winter they’ve had in Paris. This is like your local BurgerKing guy saying “hey, I haven’t seen you in a while; welcome back”. We’re so glad he remembered us and so glad we’ve come back to the same apartment – it’s like coming home. After unloading all of our market goods, Katherine is dying to walk up to the Jardin du Luxembourg – it’s a beautiful afternoon and spring has definitely sprung in Paris.

And it looks great. All the flowers are in bloom. It’s probably the first really warm day and weekend day since last autumn. Winter was hard in Paris this year. Not much snow but very cold. I think every Parisian was here in the gardens. The trees that had been stored for the winter in L’Orangerie were already out basking in the sun. New beds planted and in bloom. And every seat, bench, and more, occupied…especially in the chess and bridge area. So we walked over there and got a few nods, winks, and Ça va’s? from the regulars that I played with last year.

And then there were the “regulars” who play boules. No we don’t play boules or pétanque but we remember the ones who do. We love watching them play. Teams of men, women, and young lads….they all play and they all play together. Some of the young lads and women are better than the men. It’s quite a melting pot and a pleasant way to pass a Saturday afternoon.

But in the end, whether we were remembered or not, it’s April in Paris and it’s merveilleux.