The Real Emily in Paris

When Emily arrives, we go to Pierre Herme, a few blocks away in Beaupassage, a little enclave between les boulevards, for coffee and something sweet to begin my sweet time here.  Emily has recently found that she's gluten-sensitive (all those buttery croissants pour petite dejeuner out of range...and she a pastry maker...merde!) , so we have macarons, which Herme is famous for, having once begun his career in the realm of that other famous macaron maker.

I like Emily right away...she is open, and funny, and great company...very knowledgeable about her adopted country and life, which she clearly enjoys, but isn't afraid to mention the downsides of (no beach, for one). We exchange stories, and though I know a lot about her life from her entertaining blogs and instagram photos, there is so much more in person.  The coffee is good and most welcome, and my favorite macaron turns out to be pistache.  Mmmm.

Soon, we taxi over to the brocante, since early is best.  She remarks on everything we pass on the way, a few I recognize, but mostly I am busy learning its history.  She's made herself quite at home here during her native Australian and London school days, not only settling in to rear a family of her own, in a language and country she's had to learn from scratch, but now with her new citizenship, calling la ville her own, as well. (If you don't know her blog, find that pleasure at [therealemilyinparis.substack.com]...she's on Instagram, too.)

The brocante goes on for blocks, and Emily is a market devotee, my kind of companion. Street to street, tent to tent, we dawdle, and pick up a few treasures along the way.  For better or worse, I have brought on this trip only a small suitcase (I pack light) and so there is no way I can buy up the beautiful French dinnerware, ceramics, and linens I am eager to exchange, or more likely add to, the sets I already own.  (I'm afraid those are my weakness...I love setting a fine table with stuff that absolutely no one else in my own or the younger generation wants to fool with any more.)  But I find a lovely botanical print that looks exactly like my sister Ann's spirit, a blue ceramic vase (small, which sadly breaks on the way home), and a wonderful metal bracelet...I know whose gift this last will be.  There are some old wooden tools and sculptures we also admire.  

One of the things Emily is looking for is a handsome barometer, preferably from the 18th century, we joke (later, I email her a photo of one from the Carnavalet, but alas they don't sell them in the gift shop).  Then, nearing the end, we find a rug that she has seen in a market before; she loved it, but once again has to leave it behind...it's way more than a mortgage payment, and her husband (who works in finance) shouldn't know about even the wish for it.

Then, too soon, the adventure comes to an end.  "I'm sorry we have to part just now!" she tells me, ruefully.  But she needs to get home to gather her children and head out of the city to her inlaw's, where Emily's two oldest will stay with their grandparents for a week; the littlest one will be home...she's just barely a toddler...and work will happen around her.  (Do you remember those shuffling work days?) All that because...

...did I mention that, unawares, I had scheduled my trip during school holidays in Europe and the UK?  

We ride back to Ste. Germaine, our neighborhood-in-common, and I face the rest of the day first by heading to the my Parc Luxembourg, where I begin my eleven days of walking and walking...and sitting for a while, coffee or tea in hand, sometimes my knitting.  It's Paris, and everyone and their children, out of school, out of country, are strolling, talking, running, playing, standing in line for the Louvre and other sites popular, populus, poplar (the word takes on multitudes of meaning this week).  There is plenty to see and listen to.  I breathe it all in and find other places to see and enjoy that most ignore.

At the Museum of Modern Art, there is not only the high, room-rounding Dufy mural of the birth and history of Paris, but the Albers (Josef and Anni, the latter I am meeting for the first time, to my delight) and a long film of their lives which is captivating. Their contemporary collection in that wide white set of rooms dazzles me.

 Now that it's open again, I rush to the Carnavalet to their fascinating exhibits on the city and its historical treasures, including some stories.  I go on to the Picassos and his fille at the Picasso Museum National, and twice at least I relax in the lovely gardens of the Rodin, when most people are inside the museum (I've seen those exhibits already, at least twice), because to me it's just another introverted park I seem always to be on my way past.   One day, inattention where I'm turning brings me to a Museum of Latin American Art, quite a find for both photography and three-dimensional art of the sort I like...copper twisted on canvas and twirled into figures.

Les Invalides, just up from the Rodin, draws me, too, with a few roses still in bloom and the military clipped shrubs and trees upright as those who once manned the lines of cannon in its courtyard, now so silent and still, in contrast to the Navy guards in their makeshift tent checking us at the entry.  I am surprised that I understand so much. 

 

From there, as I do often, I walk out over the Pont Alexandre III, its gold flagrantly regal in all weathers.  I send my Alexander a postcard.

Sadly the Palaces, Petit and Grand, are closed for renovation...there's a lot of that going on here...

...I find myself at the foot of the Champs Elysees, where usually I have absolutely no interest in walking; it's lined with shops and restaurants you can find in any large city, for once thing, and is crowded with those who a) like shopping and b) like being seen to be shopping.  But there is plenty of people-comedy.  The line to Louis Vuitton curls around the shop with the most unlikely "buyers".

Around the Vuitton corner and back toward the river past the George V, a woman glides from the door of the hotel, dressed in the shoes, slacks and pony tale of everyone in her chic set, and passes without blinking at the shiny restored coupes parked at the doors.  I follow her, amused; I am going the same way, anyway.

Pistache, oh tempting "deli", corners me.  Fortunately, it's closed.

And so it goes, each day a different or a same direction, each morning an intention which may or may not be abandoned for a better one after my cafe and...

Though the Varenne and the Deux Madames are my favorite morning spots,

I mostly try a new restaurant or cafe wherever I find myself. I return to my first, the Botaniste, for dinner a second night, where fortuitously I meet two women, friends, from Mobile, Alabama and England respectively, and spend a lingering time in conversation (enjoying more wine). The British woman gives me her card for "next time you visit London".

 I show up twice also at Les Fous de L'ile for brunch, where the fish and egg dishes are superb and the interior pleasant.  And so is the wine, which is a light but flavorful white from the Loire Valley, as annotated by my server who is also the manager and who remembers me from the last visit. (Will took me there on my first trip to Paris, and I haven't forgotten them, either.) It's also an easy restaurant for the middle of the day...walking in from or out into any direction, there always a new way, intended or not, to go.  

One night I walk from the hotel, the Eiffel Tower lit and growing higher and more grand the closer I come to the American Library in Paris, to hear a talk on women and economics. 

Alas, France's version of the finacial resources for women are quite different than ours...theirs being better in everyday ways for women and families...child care, parental leave, schools, personal career advancement...but not so in the echelons of the economic heirarchy, where because there are few women at the tables where men  forecast and manage the theories of economy, perspectives and actions don't consider us who buy groceries, struggle with day care, and try to make a reasonable living, still invisible to their charts.

The library itself, however entrances me.  I vow to go back, just to stay and read or look at the exhibits of what that institution was and how it has survived (and, no mean feat, helped others survive).  There are novels about that, but being here is much more educational and inspirational.   

What, I ask myself as I browse, does it take to keep a community literate and welcome in a homey, bookish environment, no matter where in the world it is, for three-quarters of a century?  This photograph, of 1950's children's reading groups, answers it for me.

I attend concerts in the chapels, my favorite the ones at the Orthodox St. Julien le Pauvre, tucked into its tiny corner in the shadows of the brilliantly lit (but still damaged) Notre Dame across the river.  It's a few steps shorter, too, from the famous Shakespeare and Company, which, though I enjoyed a late afternoon snack there, I couldn't enter...almost like the Vuitton, the lines to get into that crowded, narrow, winding book store were formidable. 

 Each concert evening, as the music plays, I look up beyond the old carvings into the church's windows above and see the wounds of the World Wars patching the walls.  

Fame brings in millions for the restoration of the Cathedral; concerts bring in pittances for the less known, though historically significant.  But how haunting the strains of voice, strings and piano in this intimate space.  I wonder what music it plays to itself when we are not listening.

And on and on my Paris days go, cafe by museum by park by concert by wander.  Wandering, as my friend Jim reminded me only yesterday, gets you pretty far and pretty entertained.

You may recognize that I've compressed a lot of this.  The farther I get from those halcyon days, the less I want to blog about them.  Paris instead stays with me, in mind and psyche, as last fall's path back to being a flaneuse, an admirable trait I mean to (and some days struggle to) keep even at home.

There is so much more to show you and say, but you will just have to come here and read it for yourself.  It's on to the present for me.

Mais, attends!  One more adventure to relate.  I am not two days in the city before I look in the mirror one morning and discover that my hair is getting a bit ragged.  This is Paris!...mon dieu...this won't do.  Before leaving the US, I'd gone into my wonderful Mia complaining about the mess my mop had become. "It certainly is," she agreed, and began to cut this way and that...soon I walked out happy, with an easier and much spiffier style.

Short hair grows, though.  Now in Paris, precisely on the morning of October 23, I research some salons and find one nearby with busy, welcoming hairdressers who wash and fuss and begin to cut and shape, and cut and shape, and cut even more, strand by strand, holding left strands against right strands and back strands and top strands for evenness.  Dominique, my cheerful, eager attendant, turns often to change scissors...clearly she is a woman who knows the value of the right tool...and call in others to consult.  Also it is clear that I haven't learned the French for "a little trim". 

So, this morning leaves me with less than half a head of what I had.  But the result is very French, and everyone...even I...am pleased.  (The whole procedure reminds me of the hour and some I spent getting a haircut in Rome years ago, not only the look, but the fun of the barber there.)  

I wish I had a selfie, but I don't...the best I can show you is this one of Isabella Rossellini...you'll have to imagine that on me, a bit shorter.  I'm in good company.

Post-script

Finally, this past Saturday, I went back to Mia for my first trim since that October day.  It had taken three months to grow, but done so remarkably well...even Mia was impressed.  Eileen tells me I should keep that hairdresser in Paris...and perhaps, after I have learned the French for "just a trim, s'il vous plait", I will.

Journey II: Home away from home

I leave Scotland by train: Dunblane to Edinburgh, then Edinburgh to Kings Cross, London, where the world switches directions, it seems, and then walk across the side street

 to St. Pancras, where the Eurostar to Paris awaits me.

On the train rides, I meet people easy to remember...a woman on her way to a college reunion who points out the landscape to me as we ride from Edinburgh to London; we get on so well, I give her my card and tell her to come visit me.  

On the way to Paris,  I am seated with a Brit who lives in Paris and turns old buildings into new appartements.  I know this because for the first part of the trip, he spends a lot of time on the phone, speaking the kind of French that long-time British Paris residents know; therefore, I learn a lot of new words for building and renovation while he talks.  Then, when we converse, he tells me he thinks I should move to Paris...he has just the place in mind.  Right.  But genial, he is good company for the last hour of the trip.   Across the aisle is a whole family of Parisian Chinese who smile at me a lot, and wonder about what, how and with what yarn I am knitting.  I knit a lot on the trains and planes and in parks.

When we arrive at the Gare du Nord, it's late (see photo at top), and the taxi line long.  But as the taxi pulls up to the hotel, which I don't at first recognize, it's so tucked away in the quiet Rue Chomel, the lights are on and a young man inside is ready to meet me.  

Welcome! he says in French and English, and looks and sounds like he means it.  (Welcome to your home in Paris, the letter on the desk in my room says; even the room key is marked with Bienvenue, Mlle. Mills!  I want to correct them, to tell them I am definitely Madame, but somehow I never do, so Mlle. Mills in Paris becomes me.)

 

It sounds like hype, but in their hands, the Signature Hotel Ste. Germaine is genuinely homelike.    Downstairs, I ask about a restaurant or cafe still open...I'm hungry, having had only a complimentary but surprisingly tart rose' which I don't bother to finish on the Eurostar.  

Oh, right.  My first dinner in Paris:  Mais oui!  The young man on night duty tells me there is an excellent place only a few doors down the street, Les Botanistes.  I will see the canopy.  There is one table, by the window, and they seat me, kindly, since reservations are scarce.  It's a small place, run by a family...in attendance tonight are pere et fils.    Since it's so late, I opt for an arugula salad and a first course of lentils with a poached egg on top.  Perfect, and perfectly made.  

Wine, too, of course, just right.  From my seat, I can see the whole room...not large, but amiably holding about ten tables.  Among the other patrons are two American women who live in Paris (I can hear their conversation), two or three French couples, one young, two middle-aged, and a party of six friends or colleagues enjoying themselves at the last table in the back.  I take my time enjoying the food, the wine, the scene before me, and as the restaurant slowly empties, I leave, too, promising to be back.  A neighborhood family restaurant is what seems right for this laid-back trip.

I slept that night as if I were at Will's and Dorothy's, sound and long. In the morning, downstairs in the cheerful front room, there is a woman with a bright smile and easy conversation to greet me...Manuela.  

We exchange bon jours.  She asks what my day will be like, and I tell her that I am waiting here for a friend this morning.  Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait? she asks.   Non, merci...my new friend and I are going out for coffee before our brocante adventure this morning.  But I have to ask her about the hot water in the room shower...I haven't figured out how to turn the spigot to hot.  Oh, she says and immediately picks up the phone to ask the maid to check it.  We want everything to be perfect, she tells me.  Come, we'll try it out.

And up we go to my sixth floor abode to learn how the hot water works.  It turns out it's quite simple, but she doesn't bat an eye at my silly mistake, and neither does the femme de chambre, happy to educate and ask if there is anything else I need to make my stay comfortable.  Mais non! I tell them.  It's lovely.  

Manuela is one of the staff...no!  that's not the right word...other hotels have staff...this one has people who are helpful, warm, funny, friendly...not in a practiced, distant way, but sincere.  They become instantly the virtual compass point of my Paris stay. Over time I learn about their lives, too, and they mine. 

 But let's begin with the lobby, warm bright colors to greet you at any time of day.  Mirrors on the back and side wall reflect light and the facade of the balconied French buildings across the way.  

Chairs are living-room comfortable, and the two yellow cases near them hold books to borrow and read, books to travel by, books to get one into Paris life.  I choose one nearly every day to read at night or in the morning, though I am more often likely to take it out with me to read in a park (when I am not knitting or chatting).

In the lobby, guests come and go, never without a greeting, or advice...sometimes life lessons, too.  Coming down one morning, I catch Manuela sitting in a cosy clutch of chairs with a couple of Americans who, though in late middle age, are clearly not travelers. She is telling them in perfect English that Paris is a big city, like others in the world, lots of things to do and see, to take time taking it all in.  Also, they need to be careful to keep their belongings safe.  "Leave your treasures in the hotel," she says, with the kindest and least patronizing voice I have ever heard a professional hotelier use...it's as if she is a friend imparting her own earned wisdom.  "And ask us anything!  We are happy to help."

I smile a little at her as I pass, and she turns to say, "Bonjour, Rachele!  Comment ca va?"  I'm off to a museum (maybe the Rodin...can't remember now), I say, and she wishes me well.  Then she is back to her new guests, who are looking very much as if their children had given them this new adventure as a gift, one they are still bemused by.  But they are listening to her and nodding, a little less anxious after our exchange.

Even by the small-room standards of Paris homes, rooms have the illusion of space. No tripping, no maneuvering.  There is a desk and two chairs, two bedside tables, everything one would need and yet uncrowded.  

A bed with a mattress and linens to fall into dreamland each night, a large double window looking out over the nearby rooftops and apartments next to us.  The closet had room to keep a wardrobe for a year, neatly compartmentalized, and still included a small refrigerator and a safe, which I didn't use.  

The attached bathroom was one you wish you had thought to install at home, well-appointed and elegant.  Its only flaw for me and my poor balance is a tub instead of a shower stall, but the shower it comes with is exactly right and I climbed in carefully.  Even the nice toiletries, exchanged each day for new, whether you used them or not (I travel with my own), are collected and given to a shelter. (When I learned that, I donated some of mine, including masks and wipes.  More homelike...)

About a week into my visit, I am continually amazed by the way things run without appearing to run.  So I ask if I can interview Delphine and her mother.  I'm by now curious about that spirit they manage in their hotels.  The hotel where I am is one of three each run by family members.  We find her mother Isabelle at the second hotel down the street, which Delphine helps with (she must work 18 hours a day all week); the third they own is near the Eiffel Tower, also her mother's.  I am intrigued by their sense of hospitality, clearly many years in the learning and doing, one generation after another.  But those who work with them, like Manuela, are also clear about what hosting guests (rather than the industrial mislabel, hospitality) means.  You can see each of the people who work there in any capacity on their website...it's one of the things that charmed me into making a reservation.

Delphine and her mother are so easy to talk to, even with my awkward French.  Their ventures began with their grandfather, who long ago owned a boulangerie in Montmartre, but found out he was allergic to the dust from flour!  Eventually he bought a hotel and then his daughter (Isabelle) and her busband bought another in addition, and then another, which in time their daughter Delphine took over.  Delphine had been in the jewelry business, quite high-end, which took her to England for a while, but she came home, bought this building from her parents, and transformed it utterly; she clearly has an eye for good design and good designers who know not institutional but real comfort.  

Another thing:  booking is kept to themselves...I think I told you in an earlier blog how I'd found this one by accident.  They prefer that because so many people return over and over.  Both women were clear to say that the most important reason they work so hard is because of the people from all over the world who find them...they are their pleasure...they become friends.  I, too, am lucky to have found them, so that on my next trip to Paris, I can "go home" again.