October 2, 2016, Our Daily Bread

October 2, 2016 – Sunday

It’s Sunday, the “Lord’s Day.”  Sunday in Paris has a special, relaxed rhythm, as I’ve mentioned before.  When one has interacted with someone, instead of ending with generic greetings, such as “Bonne journee!,” “Bonne Fin de Journee!,” “Bonne soiree!,” Bonne fin de soiree!,”, “Bon appetite!,” “Bonne route!,” or Bon whatever is coming next for you, on Sunday, everyone says “Bon dimanche!”  “Good Sunday!”  It’s special enough to merit its own farewell salute.

Most Sunday morning religious services in Paris are Catholic, and it felt right this morning to attend Catholic Mass.   I opted for the local parish church, St. Jacques du Haut Pas, right down the street and around the corner.  This church started as a hospice for pilgrims on the road to St. James of Compostelo in Spain, in the 1000s.  The hospice, or place of rest and recovery, was run by a medieval order of Italian brothers founded for the sole purpose of caring for the needs of pilgrims to St. James or Jacques or Iago or Giacomo, from all over Western Europe.

The grave of the apostle St. James was discovered in western Spain, at Compostelo, around the year 1000, and people who made the walk to visit that spot were said to be granted immediate entry into Heaven after their death. For three or four centuries, until the Black Death, in the 1400s, many, many individuals pledged to visit Compostelo, and major pilgrimage routes studded with hostels and hospices were established across France.  The road on which the present day St. Jacques du Haut Pas stands is the same route as that followed by pilgrims from the early years of the common era.

Interestingly, however, aside from the hospice chapel, a parish church was not erected on the site till the early 1700s.  The reason is simple.  Very few people at that time actually lived in houses in this area. The earlier thriving Roman city had fallen into ruins and given way to fields and farms (pre’s, or champs).  From the 1400s to the 1600s, monasteries and convents moved into these open spaces,  one next to the other.  Many orders were represented:  Augustinians, Carthusians, Carmelites, Feuillantines, Ursulines, Dominicans, Jesuits, Benedictines, Oratorians, Mathurins, and even an abbey of English Benedictine brothers and priests.  So there wasn’t much of a lay population to create a parish.

By the early 1700s (18th century) enough people were interspersed among the convents to begin thinking of pulling together a neighborhood spiritual community, and at that time a very simple, classically designed church was built. The builders were affiliated with the monastery of Port Royal (Catholic Jansenists or Calvinists strongly influenced by the Reformation), so the church is plain, without stained glass or interior ornamentation, and for a time it was actually used as a Protestant place of worship.

Today’s Mass, therefore, unlike many celebrated in Parisian Catholic churches, with their Gothic or neo-Gothic ornamentation, felt very simple and down to earth – an experience I found agreeable.  The Mass started at 11:30, and it was a High Mass, with organ music and singing.  The organ and the organist were both excellent.  I felt my heart melting with the mysticism and ritual of the Mass and its prayers, combined with the majestic music through which I could hear the church’s bells tolling the midday hour. I was appreciating the deep traditions represented in these different sensory perceptions, and, through them, feeling gratitude for this moment of oneness with the parishioners present, and with the neighborhood of which they are today’s representatives.  It was a beautiful, heartfelt moment.

I had promised Nancy I’d find her a croissant, and so after the Mass, I walked back up Rue St. Jacques to a bakery I hoped would be open, where I’d previously found lovely pastries as well as tasty bread.  It was open, and very lively, since a lot of bakeries do not open on Sunday (with others closed on Monday or Tuesday, so that all the bakers have a day of rest without depriving people of their daily bread – fresh bread being a crucial basis of the French diet.) Two dogs were already tied to posts outside the bakery — a bichon and a small terrier — and a line of chattering neighbors had formed out the door and around the corner.  The line moved quickly, as each person selected his or her pastry or loaf, paid, and wished everyone “Bon dimanche!”  When my turn came, I got a marzipan fig, a strawberry tart, an apple turnover, and a croissant for Nancy. This bakery will be closed tomorrow, but we’ll be well provided for till Tuesday.

I’m now enjoying my Sunday afternoon rest, feeling well nourished with daily bread, both spiritually and physically.


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October 1 2o16, Building a Relationship with Paris

As Nancy and  have been riding the bus to this trip’s destinations, we have recognized cafes, streets, churches where we have enjoyed moments of previous stays in Paris. We’re building a relationship with Paris, little by little — bus ride by bus ride, meal by meal, concert by concert, shop by shop. Yesterday, coming back from the American Cathedral, an Anglican beauty on the right bank, amid 5 star hotels and renowned fashion houses, we recognized the Place Bourbon, where in May we had found ourselves a bit lost, in search of a late lunch, and where we had stopped for a very decent bite to eat at a café right across from this historic building, in a section of Paris we had not previously discovered. There is no reason to go back to that street — nothing it presented to fascinate or mystify us. But it now carries a little heart throb of recognition and remembrance.

I also have a relationship with Paris that dates from before I visited here. Perhaps these are memories about places in Paris that I learned about when I was in school. But sometimes my memory of a place or street name is much sharper and more personal than I would expect from academic studies. It’s almost as if I’m recognizing a place I’ve been before my first visit to Paris in this lifetime.

On the same bus ride during which we passed the Place Bourbon, we also rode down Rue du Vieux Colombier (Street of the Old Dovecote) – one of those street names inexplicably burned into my memory that I know is important for some reason that I can’t remember—a remnant of some earlier experience. The majority of these street names that I learned early on but don’t remember why — like Rue Jacob, Rue de Vaugirard, Rue du Bac — have turned out to be on the Left Bank.

But a few are close to the right Bank splendor of the Champs Elysees. Besides the Champs Elysees itself, the address of the American Cathedral, Avenue George V, is one of those familiar names that I feel I learned about long before I visited Paris, at least in this lifetime. I suspect that the Right Bank addresses have something to do with my first visit to Paris as a Fulbright student. The Elysees area of the Right Bank is the familiar neighborhood of diplomats and of plutocrats like the Rockefellers. But I don’t know why I know the Left Bank streets named above, where I have never actually hung out. I sometimes have an eerie sense that I must have known Paris in another life as well as this one. Who knows?

Today, Nancy and I attended a program on one of the Right Bank streets, at the American Cathedral, where we met another retired American couple who, like us, has been visiting Paris for a month or two each year for the past five years. It was fun to learn how similar our experiences have been. We learned that our friends have a sense of building a life here, in sequential segments, and that now, when they return, they pick up that life where they had left it off on the preceding trip. That struck me as a good way to express what is going on. My own way of perceiving the effect of coming back to Paris repeatedly has been that we are building a relationship with Paris. But really, on reflection, I think we’re all building expanded versions of ourselves.

As a human, I fall easily into habits – ways in which I can act unconsciously, to avoid being challenged. When I follow well-established habits, I feel at ease; I then have the time to enjoy my illusory sense of competence. Putting myself into a different habitat, as it were, forces me to reinvent each response as I go along. I try, I fail, then I retry in a slightly different way, until I find new success, and remember what I did right, to start establishing a new habit, a new short cut to living the present moment. But the better job I can do staying aware, the more I am able to grow in depth of experience. By coming back to Paris, I am creating new habits of being. In so doing, I also create tension between my two inner sets of habits, one American and the other French. In this way, i repeatedly force myself into “Beginner’s Mind” – where I have to pay attention to the details in each moment – I can’t simply fall back on the comfort of old habits!

The process of deepening my awareness by returning to the same situation for different experiences and, in the process, building a life or a self, or a relationship is one philosophy of travel, one that emphasizes ongoing growth and challenge. Another approach to travel is to enjoy the constant stimulation of always visiting new places. It feels to me as if doing this would allow me to experience the world from a stable relationship with myself, without challenging or changing my perceptual habits. This could also be enjoyable, from a different point of view. These contrasting travel philosophies target different personal objectives. I’m enjoying the challenges and gratifications of the path that I’ve chosen. I’m loving the process of building, reinforcing, and living from a French side of myself.



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Trip to Montmartre – an Adventure on Parisian Buses

Unbelievably, in the whole 50 some years since I first visited Paris, I had never been to Montmartre. It felt like time to fill that gap! The tourist photos of Montmartre always make the area seem beautifully quaint – a place outside of Paris (it’s actually within the borders of the city) — an earlier, simpler more lighthearted quarter.

Let me digress a little here, before we get into the particulars of Montmartre, to talk about Parisian bus adventures. There are two ways to navigate Paris by public transportation, the Metro or Underground, and the bus system. Of the two, the Metro is dramatically simpler, with its well defined stations that are often used as the names of sections or neighborhoods of the city, and where one can call a cab for a pickup at such and such Metro, with no confusion. To travel by Metro is deceptively simple, because a single Metro “station” can extend for a square half mile of underground tunnels that one walks to change from one train to another.  With regard to the city itself, the Metro creates the sense of Paris as a series of islands.  You pop underground in one place, and some time later, you pop back up someplace else, much as I imagine a gopher or prairie dog popping down and up as it navigates its underground maze.  

The Metro is also easier for newcomers to Paris to navigate because mostly, on a first visit to a large city, one wants to hit just the highlights, and they’re all named on the Metro map. In addition to the original 12 subway lines, there are 5 suburban lines that also crisscross under the city and intersect with the Metro. These additional lines are named RER (Regional Electrical Network), and after their (very deep) underground passage through the city, they emerge into the light as surface riding suburban light rail lines.  You can talk about taking either the Metro or the RER (air-eu-air). But they’re all shown on the same map.  

Buses can be a bit more complex.  For one thing, according to one of the bus guides, there are 111 bus lines crisscrossing and circulating around the city.  Some lines quit running around 9 pm at night, but most continue till 11 or so (23h). They come at different intervals at different times of day, but even quite late at night, the longest we’ve had to wait at an eerily dark and quiet bus stop is 18 minutes or so. Most often, the wait is less than 10 minutes, no matter what the line.  So most of the time, it’s not worth the effort to consult bus schedules ahead of time.

The major complexity with buses is planning ahead for what buses to take to arrive from your specific location now to where you want to end up. For instance, for our trip from the Latin Quarter to Montmartre, four different buses would be involved. Even with two buses, the trip often turns into an adventure.  Four guarantees it.

What’s an adventure? It involves the unknown and the certainty of confusion, wrong decisions, and feeling lost.

There are really helpful bus guides that begin to make it possible to calculate a route plan. The best I’ve found is a book called “Paris Bus” published by the guidebook company “L’Indispensable,” which also publishes my favorite navigation map for getting around Paris, called “Paris Pratique par Arondissement. ” Both guides have well laid out information and legible maps, and they are both published in relatively lightweight paperback format. When you’re lost somewhere at a busy intersection, the last thing you want is to try to spread out and read a four foot square map filled with microscopic print, to figure out where you have ended up and which direction to follow to try again to get where you thought you were going.  Smaller maps only make the print smaller, while multiplying the confusion factor by splitting the city into different sectors and printing these discontinuously to fill the whole page with rectangles. Much of what you want to see will be depicted in one of the discontinuous random sections, making it hard to imagine how they connect to the rest of the city, or they will have been left off entirely because not central enough.  If you opt for a book of maps of the Paris arondissements, these bulky, weighty tomes, which seem relatively benign when you’re still at home, begin to weigh more and more heavily each hour you’re on your feet navigating your desired itinerary. The same is true of any items you choose to carry – umbrella, raincoat, sweater, etc…To avoid carrying anything unnecessary, I always look at the hourly weather forecast on my phone before sallying forth on any significant excursion in Paris.  

Besides the printed bus guide, the other way to calculate a route is to use the free “RATP” app on your smartphone. RATP is the abbreviated name of the Paris Transport Network, which controls both buses and Metro. You can enter your departure point and destination into the app, and it will return to you a possible itinerary for taking buses from Point A to Point B. This will be only one possible route of several, and will vary according to whether you told the App you wanted to walk less or to take fewer transit legs. And you will find other possible variations as well, if you ask a passerby, or research for yourself in the printed bus guide.  Most Paris bus routes run across the city in a primary direction, starting in one nearby suburb and ending in another at the other side of the city.  Consequently, it’s always extremely important to find a stop on the correct line AND also going in the right direction. 

Having mastered these pieces of how to travel by bus in Paris – researching, mapping, and planning — you’re ready to start your trip. First you go to the nearest bus stop on the line you will take first. Finding bus stops is one of the biggest parts of every bus adventure. Stops with the same name on different lines can be spread out over half a square mile, in a way similar to the Metro’s underground tunnels for connecting with different lines. In contrast to the Metro, however, where each turn is meticulously marked, there is no indication at one bus stop where to find the same-named stop for a different direction or a different line. Because most central Parisian streets and avenues are one way, the place you got off the bus may be a couple of blocks away in any direction from the place you will get back on the same bus for the return trip, and discovering the right place is always a needle in a haystack adventure. Several lines pass through most central neighborhoods, in close proximity to each other, but with different stops. So even finding the first bus stop can be an adventure in itself.  

One more piece of useful information for you if you wish to start taking Paris buses, is to get a bus/ Metro pass or a pad of 20 bus or Metro tickets.  The tickets are usable interchangeably on bus or Metro. The inconvenient part is that you can only get the tickets or passes by going into a Metro station. They are not sold on buses.

The cash bus fare in 2016 is 2 Euros per adult per leg of a trip (in case you want to take a bus but don’t have a pass or tickets). The Navigo pass is a delight, once you manage to obtain one (it requires taking and gluing on a smaller version of a passport photo). For 22 Euros (in 2016), it gives you unlimited rides anywhere Paris transit goes, for a week, from Monday to Sunday(your pass is electronically loaded with the dates for the week purchased, one week at a time). You can also purchase a month at a time, if you will be in Paris close to that length of time. We generally stay in Paris for two and a half to three weeks, and make it a point to get to a Metro station on Sundays to charge our passes for the upcoming week. We have had the same actual passes for the past 5 years, and just bring them back and recharge them each time we come to Paris. Approximately ¾ of bus passengers use a Navigo pass, and almost all the rest use tickets. The occasional uninformed tourist ends up lurching along with the bus, standing next to the driver as s/he empties pocket and purse, looking for the exact change of 2 Euros.  

Now that you have that background information, I’ll share our bus adventure from the Latin Quarter to Montmartre.

Finding the first bus stop was easy. We started taking buses in the first place because the nearest Metro stop is a good 12 minutes away on foot, while the bus stop is only two doors away from our apartment. It was a no-brainer! According to the RATP itinerary on our Smart Phones, we were to take our neighborhood bus and get off two stops away, and pick up the second bus there,  at Luxembourg. Piece of cake, right?  

We got off at Luxembourg, which for us was at the intersection of rue Gay-Lussac and Boulevard St-Michel. It’s a major intersection, complete with a huge roundabout, fountain in center, where five streets intersect. It’s at an entrance to the Jardin du Luxembourg. We knew that our bus stop where we got off only served the two lines that pass by our house. And we knew there were three or four more bus lines that waited or stopped across the intersection.

Getting to that other set of bus stops meant crossing two wide streets at right angles, and walking 150 feet or so down another street. We did that, to find three bus stops along that other street, serving four different bus lines – but not the 85, the line we needed to find. Standing there confused, we saw yet another bus stop across and back up that street, and went across and up to look at that stop – but it was still not the line we wanted!

Meantime, I had seen two buses with the number we wanted swinging around the fountain to go in a different direction. I had seen the second of those buses on yet a fourth street, around the corner, so we went there. No bus stop in sight, as far as the eye could see. Hmmm…those buses must have just been waiting for the light. Then, in the distance, back further up the street we had originally come down, but behind the stop at which we’d gotten off, I saw a bus with the number we wanted, stopped. Aha!

So we crossed yet two more streets, now having made a full circle, and started walking up the hill past the stop we’d gotten off at to get to the bus that was stopped further up. As I got closer, I could see that there were people gathered around the front door of that bus, which was just stopped. And there was no bus stop in sight. When we reached the bus, the gathered people turned out to be bus drivers from the bus we had seen and three more of the same line (the one we wanted) stacked up behind it. We asked where we could get on the bus, and the driver let us get on the one waiting there (at the end of its run – the first bus stop for that line was about a half mile down the next to the last street we had crossed). The driver told us to change to the next bus at a stop different from the one I had been told by the bus guidebook.

So now it was about 45 minutes after we had left the house, and we were still in our neighborhood, about a mile and a half from home, boarding the second bus we needed, the 85, essentially where we had gotten off the first bus, the 27, but where there was no stop for the 85.

Pretty immediately, the bus we’d gotten on started off, and turned at a right angle toward its first stop, where about 25 people got on, filling all the seats. (Parisian buses assume people will stand, so the seats are relatively sparse). Now that we were going in this new direction, we were seated on the sunny side of the bus, with hot sunlight pouring through the huge windows. I had apparently gotten overheated on our hike in search of a bus stop, and with the beating sun, I began to feel faint, with powerful cramps going on in my torso (on the right side – at least it was the wrong side for a heart attack). As the bus wended its way down the crowded Boulevard St.  Michel and across to the Ile de la Cite, stopping repeatedly to wait for traffic or pedestrians, I began to sweat and feel faint. We got over to the right bank, and turned on to Rue de Rivoli, where we’d been told to pick up the next bus, the 67. I couldn’t reach the call button for the bus to stop, and as I slowly, dizzily, made my way to my feet to squeeze down the aisle to a call button, the bus flew by three more stops. I pressed the button, finally, just on time to watch the third stop whiz by (all of them had been named Rivoli). I swore under my breath, as the bus then continued to barrel down rue de Rivoli another half mile or so, and then, abruptly turned up another street.  By this time, since I had pushed the button, the bus did finally stop, on the next street. I felt as if I was in a bad dream.

Also as if in a dream, this stop, too, was called Rivoli, but I was half unconscious, and didn’t really care any more. I stumbled off the bus, and stood there collecting my senses, my knees trembling. Nancy, who was with me, looked up at the bus stop and said, “Oh, Look! This is the stop where we can pick up the number 67! Serendipity!

But I wasn’t in any condition to get on another bus just then. Fortunately, in central Paris there is a café at virtually every corner, and we stumbled into the café on that corner, sat down, and ordered cold beverages.  It was extremely helpful to drink a cold, sweet Orangina, and sit out of the sun for a bit, and after about 15 minutes, I was back to normal.  Whew!! They had a display of refrigerated bottles at the café entrance, and we each bought bottled water to take with us when we returned to the bus stop. Now it was almost two hours after we had left the house, and we were about to get onto the third bus.

We ended up waiting more than 15 minutes for the next 67 bus to appear (they were supposed to come every 11 minutes), so we got to explore the bus stop shelter in detail. It was a stop that served four different lines, the numbers of which were listed on the end of the shelter’s back wall. Atop the shelter, on a narrow beam, the different lines were listed by number and beside each number flashed an electronic square with the number of minutes before the next bus of that line would appear. Below waist level, on the same beam, were the bus numbers next to little buttons we could push. We couldn’t figure out what good that did until we realized that below the column of buttons, behind a cute cover we could slide up, was a USB port, for plugging in a phone, perhaps. Under the printed bus schedules on the front of the shelter’s wall, was also a QR square for finding out on one’s phone, via another method, how much time remained before the next bus would pull up. And then a young woman arrived, looked at how much waiting time we had left, plugged her phone into the USB port without pushing any buttons, and sat down on the shelter’s bench while giving her phone a mini-boost of electricity. There were seven of us gathered at the shelter when the next 67 finally did arrive, and we got aboard for the third leg of our trip – this time being sure to stay on the shady side of the bus.  

We knew we had to get off at Place Pigalle to catch the fourth bus, which would take us up Montmartre to visit Sacre Coeur Cathedral and enjoy the majestic view over Paris. Again, there were multiple lines and multiple stops. As we got off the 67, we asked the driver where to pick up the Montmartre bus, and he pointed to the stop next to where we were getting off. Piece of cake! We had now ridden from the Left Bank Latin Quarter, through the heart of the right bank cultural and shopping and financial districts, and to the base of the Montmartre hill, and it was two and a half hours after we had left the house.

The “Montmartrobus” was smaller than other Paris buses (to navigate Montmartre’s very narrow streets), but otherwise everything was similar to other buses. Amazingly, this bus had a couple of seats side by side. Wow!  As soon as we left Place Pigalle, we were riding up at a steep angle. The bus negotiated several hairpin turns as we laced our way up the hill. Outside the windows, in contrast to the Montmartre I’d seen for decades in tourist photos, the buildings were typical 19th and 20th century Parisian apartment buildings, perhaps on a slightly smaller scale than deeper into the city center. Paris is largely flat, aside from Montmartre and the Left Bank’s “Montagne Ste Genevieve,” which is a long, but not steep upward slope. So the hill experience was definitely unique in Paris.

We disembarked at Place du Tertre, where the small village charm of Montmartre begins. We still had several blocks to go on foot to get to Sacre Coeur. On the way, we stopped for an ice cream – a mid-afternoon Paris tradition we thoroughly enjoy.  The famous, oft-photographed, quaint Montmartre buildings all contained souvenir shops or atmospheric cafes – a Mecca of Paris Kitsch! It was disappointing.

We did discover, however, in visiting the Sacre Coeur basilica – that white domed hilltop sanctuary visible from most anywhere else in Paris – a beautiful end to our odyssey, which had taken us a full three hours to reach (about 45 minutes of which we spent on buses actually moving toward our destination). The basilica is beautiful and serene within. About a dozen Carmelite nuns in the sanctuary were seated in stalls facing each other, chanting the sacred office in high, pure voices, and we stayed to pray and meditate. We hadn’t known that Sacre Coeur is a place dedicated 24/7 to praying for all those injured in war, and for peace finally to envelope the world. The basilica had been dedicated to this purpose when it opened in 1871, after the tens of thousands of tragic deaths of French soldiers and civilians during the Franco-Prussian war, waged from 1870 into 1871. Through World War I and World War II, and all the wars that have occurred since (thankfully, since the end of World War II not on Parisian soil), the prayers have continued.

The energy of Sacre Coeur was pure and loving and deeply peaceful – a stark contrast to the massive carnival of Kitsch that surrounds it. Nancy observed, and I agreed, that it would be lovely to spend a part of every day at Sacre Coeur.

We could have stayed longer in prayer, but it was past 6:30 pm, and we had dinner reservations for 7:30 back down on the Parisian plain, on Boulevard Montmartre. We walked back to the Place du Tertre, and decided that at the rate at which we’d come up to Sacre Coeur, we’d never make it back down in an hour and actually find the restaurant (never mind the bus stops!). We chose to return to the central city by taxi. We arrived at the restaurant with a generous 12 minutes to spare!

I can now happily say that I’ve been to Montmartre. More than that, Nancy and I can look back on a major adventure on Paris buses!  The advantage of traveling by bus rather than by Metro is that we get to know the city itself — the relationship of one section to another.  By bus, more than by any other method of travel other than by foot, we can become more knowledgeable Parisians, trip by trip. 

(I took pictures, and will post them at a later date)

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September 27 2016 A Grand Concert at Notre Dame

Some of our most enjoyable moments in Paris (as in London) have been concerts of sacred music in historic churches where those pieces were meant to be performed. Over time, we’ve enjoyed concerts in Paris at Notre Dame, St. Louis en l’Ile, St. Eustache, and la Sainte Chapelle. The acoustics in some of these places are amazing. La Sainte Chapelle, the lofty chapel in what was the royal palace, now the palace of justice, is a jewel visually and acoustically. It is the perfect 13th century setting for measured, dainty music performed by a small ensemble of voices or instruments.

In contrast, Notre Dame de Paris, another place of worship completed in the 13th century, is enormous. The cathedral’s nave, the central portion from the altar back to the majestic doors in the façade, is 225 feet, although the whole length of the cathedral is about 400 feet. The height of the central vaulting is about 100 feet (about 10 modern stories). The width of the nave is around 40 feet (if tilted vertically this would roughly correspond to a 4 story building). These are interior dimensions. So performers of any kind at Notre Dame have to fill a vast space with sound, or not be heard. When we’ve attended Mass at Notre Dame, it’s typically been extremely difficult to understand the words of the mic’ed priest (especially since many priests in France these days are African or Caribbean and speak a differently accented French). In contrast, the wonderful choir of Notre Dame, the “Maitrise,” knows the space intimately and its engineers have studied how to shape sound there, so the singers are much easier to hear and understand.

 I had never attended an organ concert at Notre Dame. However, it is a famed instrument, of a size to match the cathedral. The floor of the organ loft is situated about 60 feet up the interior of the façade, and the organ itself – console, pedals, and pipes – fills the remaining space, meaning the organ must measure about forty feet wide by about forty feet tall. It’s hard to imagine a musical instrument four stories tall and wide!

This evening, we had the extreme pleasure of hearing a demanding concert performed by the master organist of Notre Dame, Jean Guillou. Maestro Guillou, at age 86, has been a principal organist at Notre Dame for over 50 years (He was the titular organist of his hometown parish church in Angers, France, by age 12, in 1932!)  He has performed on many major organs of Europe and South America, and is renowned for his mastery and creativity. Tonight’s program included a very modern piece by Guillou himself (he makes one of his own pieces the first performance of all his concerts, apparently, as well as all his recordings). It also presented pieces by Widor and Franck that were composed for this organ at Notre Dame, and a masterwork by Franz Liszt that challenged the organ in every way imaginable, in turns showing off its lacy pizzicato possibilities, its depth of serene sonority, and its booming fortissimo.

For over an hour and a half, Maestro Guillou teased out of the Notre Dame Organ an incredible variety of sounds and rhythms. His playing in turn tickled the chandeliers and rattled the rafters, while invoking the angels in the hearts of his listeners, who filled every seat in the nave. At the end of the concert, the hundreds of listeners sprang to their feet as one, in thunderous appreciation for a truly virtuoso performance. We stood and turned to look up and there he was, a tiny white haired figure of a man bowing and waving to us from behind the loft’s railing – seeming so small as to be almost imperceptible against the background of the enormous ranks of organ pipes. It was hard to realize that this one human had enticed from the organ such magnificent music for the preceding hour and a half to so generously fill the cavernous depths of the cathedral and send soaring into rapture the hundreds of souls who were present. It was harder yet to imagine that anyone, let alone someone who is 86 years old, could then turn back and provide for us not one but  two energetic encores!  I got the impression that being one with an organ for hours every week has to keep someone in top form (as a church organist myself, decades ago, I know a little the athleticism needed to play even a very modest church organ, dancing on the pedals while also working multiple keyboards.) I was picturing Maestro Guillou’s  ordinary human form in constant motion during those 90 minutes, working the pedals, the keyboards and the rows of stops on his magnificent console.  

As we exited the cathedral through the three story-tall front doors, opened fully for the occasion, we felt somehow as worthy as princes or prelates, as we greeted the beautifully lighted late evening skyline of central Paris. To hear a sample of Maestro Guillou playing Liszt on the organ at Notre Dame de Paris, go here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UGDew9Ph9OY.

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September 21, 2016. Rhythm and Blues

September 21 2016. Rhythm and Blues

Time is life.  Time is one of the essential variables in travel.  This time in Paris, as previously, our first days are consumed with shifting biological rhythms.  Unfortunately, jet lag becomes more challenging as one ages.  And we are jetlagged —  as is true at the start of each Paris stay.

Our bodies require rhythm and regularity to function at their peak, and as a result, we are attuned to a daily pattern of play, work, eating, and rest.  We mess with that rhythm at our peril.  Travel stimulates us to perceive anew and to notice all to which we have previously become accustomed that we therefore ignore.

I was surprised last evening when, after dinner and our after- dinner shopping for basic necessities, I felt sleepy and ready for bed. At home it was only three in the afternoon!  I slept well, and awoke at 7 am Paris time, ready to get up.  So far so good.  But now at 12:30, I feel ready again, not for lunch but for sleep.  My body seems a bit confused.  But I’m on vacation – Maybe I should  take a nap!  The only problem is that, whatever my body may require, my mind  expects to plunge into doing and experiencing.  I find myself in judgment mode, thinking I can sleep at home! What a waste of vacation time!  Really??

I find myself surprised, too, that even after all these years of practice, switching contextually to a second language drains energy, even as I find it energizing to have the opportunity once again to dust off and polish up my skills in speaking French.  When I first came to Paris, as a new college graduate in 1961, speaking only French – although I had learned well in the US – felt exhausting every day for several months. Back then, there was no jet lag, because one crossed the Atlantic by boat. On my first transatlantic  trip, aboard the “Flandre”, a smallish  ship of the French Line, the seven day crossing provided ample time, while ship’s time moved ahead an hour each day, to be on Paris time when we arrived here.  I didn’t feel a whole lot better though, after being seasick for a week!  I’ve read stories of Americans who loved to travel to Paris in the 17th to the early 20th centuries – by sail! Everyone seems to have survived the rigors of traveling that distance.

Another aspect of rhythmic switching involves the unconscious task of synchronizing with the human community that surrounds us.  Not only languages, but also cultures, pulse at different tempos.  After less than 24 hours, I’m still attuned to the relatively languid pace of the southern US.  Within a week or so, as with my now topsy turvy physical functioning, I’ll also be ready to interact and respond at the rapid pace of Paris.  At the grocery store this morning, I got to the register, put down my selection of purchases, and was still looking down as the clerk (someone we knew from preceding years) was already in mid-welcome.  Finally, I looked up and recognized our friend.  Also, we had to call a doctor today, to check Nancy out, as she had rapidly become ill after we arrived.  My tempo was also too slow in my interactions with him.  He expected me to respond much more quickly than I was able to do.  My brain isn’t yet used to thinking that fast.

As is true with many international visitors to Paris, I’m all too aware that I’m also not moving at the agile and rapid pace of Parisians.  Oh, well. That, too, will change over a week or two.  On the one hand, this experience of temporal disarray is uncomfortable, unpleasant, and downright challenging.  On the other hand, I can also see its benefits, as it requires me to adapt by tuning up basic mental skills.  By the end of the trip, I will find this very challenge to be one of the experiences I will enjoy most about our visit to Paris.

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First Day Back in Paris – Satisfaction!


SEPTEMBER 20, 2016 First Evening in Paris

We’re here!  It seems a bit hard to believe.  Both of us have focused for months on building and maintaining sufficient physical conditioning to handle all the walking and standing of life in a large city. Living where it’s a twenty minute drive to almost everything — an ordinary American semi-urban place – requires different strengths and skills from the relentless walking and stair climbing  required of dwellers in large, densely populated global cities.

On this fourth annual odyssey, we are like kids returning to grandma’s house summer after summer.  We love the familiar places, feelings, thoughts, and flavors. Oh, those flavors!.  We sat down this evening to our first dinner of this trip.  It found us in a neighborhood café in the Latin Quarter, near the Luxembourg Gardens.  We ordered two simple plats du jour – I had the “steak frites,” and Nancy ordered a lovely composition of shrimps and lobster pieces, with salad and potatoes.  After we had enjoyed every morsel,  Nancy topped the meal off with that quintessential Paris dessert, Tarte Tatin (a pie made with caramelized apples, that virtually every restaurant in Paris has on its dessert menu, and that is infinitely varied, as conceived by each chef.).  I had a yummy homemade strawberry sorbet.  And then we sighed comfortably as we enjoyed the rich aroma and taste of Parisian espresso.

Contentedly, I mused on the name of the street at whose corner we were sitting. Long before I set foot in Paris, I knew already  of the Boulevard St. Michel, savoring its mystique as I repeated its name in a long lost slang I’ve neither heard nor used while actually in Paris – “le Boul’ Mich.’”  Like so much of Paris, this is a place I’ve both known and dreamed of virtually all my life.  The reality is intense as the dream was hazy. I savor these simultaneous realities as I savor the espresso’s flavor – signals of uniquely personal delight.

We’ve been looking forward for months to this moment of arriving from a challenging all night flight, to find ourselves in this familiar neighborhood, this homey apartment, this sweeping primal energy of people who, for the most part, appear young, stylish, fit, and well-educated ( at least – in our seventies — we qualify for the last item on that list!).  We find ourselves settling into wicker chairs in the late afternoon light.  At one of our favorite cafes across from the largest entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens, we enjoy mingling with and watching the tide of humanity. Fur us, this corner has come to symbolize Paris. University students gather in polyglot clusters around tables, while others stream past.  A lively and colorful group of young Italians occupy several tables around us, animatedly laughing and talking, switching tables, sharing tastes of whatever they had ordered.  Several of them sit at two tables outside, and the others share two tables inside.  The café’s front window- walls are open, so “inside” is an extension of the terrasse, but a step up from sidewalk level.  Because of this, although we are sitting “inside,” we feel like front row spectators of the streaming humanity passing  the corner of Rue St. Jacques and the Boulevard St. Michel. Before us flow trim students from Africa in beautiful suits jostling next to high-heeled secretaries and fashionable lawyers, who make way for the hundred plus male runners, clad in tees and shorts.  The runners’ soft- soled shoes create a muffled rhythmic swooshing that we hear above the passing  motor scooters and buses as the lithe sprinters patter past us. Both men and women in the passing throng provide a fascinating catalogue of current fashion, from flaring mini skirts to luscious cashmere jackets.  Here, students clearly participate in urban chic.  I wonder what Parisians must think upon arriving at an American university, where the prevailing style veers startlingly toward blue collar grunge.

We had a simple mission for this first foray into Paris.  After resting this afternoon to recover from the flight and from less than ideal food and way too few fluids, we wanted to top up our transit passes so they work again (every week requires a recharge, and the last one had been in May), to get a directory of events in Paris for the coming week, to eat our first Parisian meal, and, on the way home, to stop at the corner grocery store to get basic provisions.  It was enough for a first afternoon and evening.  As we walked, we avidly devoured announcements for shows and events – from posters plastered profusely on walls and windows.  It prompted us to start our list of things we want to do – places to eat, experience, see, and learn. At this point, our visit is all potential – a wonderful moment in any new experience.  We feel grateful for being able to be here and enjoy!



Nancy’s Crevettes

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Spring Symphony

Symphony in pink and green

How do the trees find out each year
The one right day to send forth leaves
In unison,
A symphony of greens
With pizzicato notes of pink and princely purples?

Yesterday, the branches stood against the sky
In silent browns and grays,
And then the Maestro gave the downbeat,
for the symphony of Spring.
My heart fluttered into joy,
And set my soul to singing.

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