Spring in Paris -

Paris In Spring

 The first time I visited Paris it was in spring - at least in Boston it was spring, and it had been more than a month of spring in Washington D.C. where I had been with a colleague to spend part of spring break to see museums. We had seen cherry blossoms there, and now it was over a month later and I was in Paris, travelling alone. I was on my way to India for a first visit back after three years and had thought I might as well break journey and see Europe on the way, since it would not cost that much extra. Breaking journey was free, and I took care to find cheaper places to stay, using a guide book that advertised Europe on less than twenty five dollars a day including hotels and food – and various places including museums were respectful of the international student identity card, so that helped hugely.

 Getting around wasn't difficult, even with a little carry one - the airliner had misplaced my suitcase so it was really convenient, that they would bring it over - that I had travelled from London in. I have a dim memory of getting to the trolley from the train station, most probably from Gare Du Nord, so I must have travelled from London on train, and since there was no tunnel then, there must have been a ship as well; but there is very little memory of either.

Certainly the bus trip at the end of the week to the airport was a first, so I probably did not fly into Paris. It is surprising that the memory should be so uncertain about this little detail of if I flew in to Paris - but that year was really full of events and not the least of them was all the sights and museum seen in a short period since April, New York, Washington D.C., London, and now Paris. I had no idea that with all I had seen before in various art museums - Boston, Chicago, and a couple more, before that year; and the three big cities with rich museums in recent period before Paris - I was going to be so struck and mesmerised so very overwhelmingly yet again. 

 With the routine I had found working till then I went to the cheapest reliable place I could think of - the Y. But Paris was a surprise. Before long I found some colleagues, seniors really, who invited me graciously to stay the week, and guided and were very hospitable. But before that, on the first day in Paris I found I had lost fifty francs, and had no idea how, towards some time in the afternoon. That was an introduction to one of the possibilities of what could happen in Paris. 

 That day, too, was my first visit to Paris. A south American accompanied me and we got out of the metro at the back, and I had my first imposing view of Louvre. We walked through towards the front, and there was no pyramid then yet. The museum was under renovation and I couldn't see one of the two most famous possessions, Venus De Milo. That would wait until another millennium - which was not as long as it sounds, this was 1983. The other, Mona Lisa, or La Gioconda, was not yet so very barricaded behind the glass cage and so forth, and I could see it closer. That time, I found the other famous work of the same artist more intriguing and spent more time looking at it, with the two women and two infants. It was before I read anything about either of them or for that matter any of the art exhibits I had seen in any of the museums and liked on my own. Which was good - one could be free to walk around and discover and I loved the process of developing awareness, beginning to have liking for one and distinct recognition of some. 

 I spent two or three days looking at Louvre, and it was wonderful. It was not so crowded then and there were long corridors with rooms opening off and paintings hung everywhere on every side and it was a leisurely process of daylong walking and looking and so forth. I still remember some of the discoveries, particularly a small canvas in a very long, full, and dimly lit corridor where I walked looking casually and desultorily, stopping sometimes to see whatever would attract the eye, and I walked ahead before turning back to look at small canvas at eye level. It seemed to be a man lying on his back, with pain and peace pervading his expression. It was some time before I noticed the wound at the heart level. 

 Walking in Paris was a pleasure in itself, even alone. The gardens and other attractions from Louvre to Arc de Triomphe were quite something, though I was in no condition to shop really with the meagre student income and hardly any margin in savings. But one did not have to spend all that much to survive and have a good day, and that was helpful. 

The guidebook I liked had prescribed Parisian way of spending the day - a baguette and cheese from a neighbourhood shop picked up in the morning and eaten while walking or sitting on a bench in the garden, crepes from a vendor in the park, Maxim's for a special treat - and no problem being a vegetarian either. 

 Since the Louvre was largely closed for renovation I had more time for other places to see - and did see quite a bit. Orangerie was closed and that was a huge disappointment, and with a few more visits since then I still haven't seen it - it so happens it is closed for renovation every time I visit. Jeu de Paume in the garden was then still open and still a museum, and it was beautiful. The next visits it had closed as a museum (but then there was Musee d'Orsay, near Louvre). The greatest revelation for an art aficionado was yet to come though, and I had no inkling, none whatsoever. 

 I went on to see the city sights so famous, and stopped short of going up the Eiffel Tower - it was still cold then, quite windy and rainy that day, and I did not have appropriate clothes to stand the cold at a height, having arrived from a place warm at the moment and proceeding towards another that promised to reach mid century in celsius. So Eiffel Tower had to wait until I was married and arrived as a couple almost a couple of decades later. My hosts suggested I see the famous store that seemed to be pride of the city, Galerie Lafayette, which was a revelation too with its sheer beauty and the unexpected marvel of finding beautiful things I could afford, even after all the famous New York stores I had gone rounds of with the colleague from Germany looking for her wedding gown at spring break. 

And then I went to see a small museum off to one side of Paris, beyond the Eiffel Tower, mentioned in the guidebook.

Musee Marmottan was not far away from the Eiffel Tower and I thought I would save a little, and walked, enjoying some scenes on the way, with houses and little parks and children in prams and old women. It was more of a homely scene than I had seen in a few years since leaving India. After a little longish park was the museum tucked in a corner and I went in. Ground level was all right, and after looking at some nice things and a nice little garden seen through the window, I walked down the steps to the lower level. 

 And spent the next few hours totally struck, mesmerised, almost crying, with the beauty. I had to walk a little sometimes so blood circulation wouldn't stop or I wouldn't crumple with strain of standing or even just sitting in one place, staring. Of course, there was more than one wonderful painting to look at. But it was difficult to move from a particular one, and there was not enough time, not in a lifetime. I went on sitting before it teary eyed and came back after the usual lunch on a park bench with the baguette and cheese and looked and looked some more. How many hours I was there, I lost track. 

 It must have been a half hour before closing time when I went up to the shop - they did not allow photography, and it was a need to get some reproductions. Funnily enough the more I bought the more others got silently angry - they were under the impression I was American, what with my clothes and the then Boston accent - though I couldn't have spent much really, this was with the little cash saved on the aforementioned meagre student income. But nothing would make up for not being able to see those paintings all the time, and yet it was so wonderful, having seen them at all. 

 I went away on a high that was not quite high, but more like having bathed in a moonlit lake in high mountains. Flight home I don't remember, except when I was at the immigration they asked "when did you first come to France?" and I matter-of-factly, casually, looking around at the airport, said "three years ago" - I had visited Strasbourg on a day trip from across the border on a visit to Germany three years before - before seeing the shock on their faces and seeing them rifling through the passport, and having comprehended the confusion, laughing and saying "but you did ask me when I came to France first"! They laughed, and I went on to the plane.

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Somehow it was always spring when I visited Paris, which has been not that often – Paris is never enough, and this is true of any place so wonderful, one doesn’t want to leave and let go. 

The second time I was in Paris was after a gap of eighteen years, unbelievable – a lot had changed, now I was no longer alone, and longed to show him all I loved when I visited first, in Europe and in Paris. We were living in Germany for a while, close to Black Forest and in easy reach of France, Austria and Switzerland. We drove to a few places often enough, Switzerland most often, and it was beautiful and more. Come Easter there was a weeklong break and we took a train to Paris, where we had reserved a room in a hotel after taking care to inquire if there was a shower attached. Turned out they were literal in informing us that it was, but neglected to say it was only a shower, and other necessary facilities were across the hall, common to the floor. This coupled with the need to climb some four floors and that being a high risk for my injured knees and spine, we had to change hotels regretfully, this one was beautiful really. 

Luckily we found one with a beautiful room with very French windows, high and with wooden shutters. The view wasn’t much but there was something much more convenient, an Indian restaurant next door. So dinners were taken care of in respite after the day spent in walking and mostly going about looking at everything I wanted to show him of the beauty I had experienced the first time around. We did much more between this visit and the next year same time, a week each time, than I had on my first visit, taking in all I had seen - Louvre and Champs Elysees,– and more than anything else Musee Marmottan. 

We also saw  Musee d’Orsay, Musee Rodin, Eiffel tower and Napoleon’s tomb, and went on a bateau in Seine, apart from sitting in cafes a couple of times and eating lunch in restaurants unlike my first time – I then had only once lunched in one, and that because the guide book said it was a must, so I had been to Maxims and had a French omelette which the guide book had also said was a must, but mostly my lunch had been other easier musts, a baguette and cheese carried from the bakery early morning and eaten in the garden or a fresh crepe from a stall right there in the gardens eaten standing or on a bench; we did all this too, and more, but none of the usual tourist things such as night life. Too tired after a day of walking about the whole day, relaxing the evening with an Indian dinner was respite. 

Another favourite I loved to enjoy this time around was one I had been only introduced to in Boston, but was really French – Kir Royale. The last time I had the real one was as we were waiting for the train returning home to Germany and the restaurant on the railway station had one just as good as any in the city. Later in London and even in five star hotel with big name in Bangalore what we got in the name of the superlative drink was a lesser one in London, or simply fraud in Bangalore. In London it was flat, so I don’t know if that was due to the bubbles gone flat or simply the drink being made with average non sparkling wine, but if the bartender of the four star hotel we were put up at thought we were unlikely to know, he was jolted out of it by my asking what was wrong with the champagne he had used – it did not taste right and definitely no bubbles. 

At Windsor Manor in Bangalore which is the only place I later tried to recapture the wonderful experience, and that only because they had the drink on the menu and assured us they could make it, in reality they had merely used some colouring added to flavor mixed with some wine, it looked orange and had nothing to do with the real thing. When I called them to ask, they apologised, and brought another fraud in another colour, and then we enquired in detail. Turned out they had none of the real ingredients and had every intention of going on with the fraud – “this is how we make it” they said, which is also what they said about the fraud they served in name of Black Forest cake made with no cherries, no kirschwasser, hardly any chocolate and much more fraud. 

So I gave up expecting Scharzwaelde Kirschtorte outside Schwarzwald area and Kir Royale away from Paris.

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We were still in Germany when next spring break arrived, and naturally we returned to Paris, but driving this time – unlike last year he had been given the car we should have had the day we arrived but they had run out of, so this time we had a nice Mercedes and he loved it, and we took a longer route, driving through Switzerland and taking a few days in Geneva before driving on to Paris. All of it was lovely until almost the last day. And that too was after all much to gain from, as it turned out beyond all possible expectations. 

Driving through France on highways was yet different from doing so in Germany or Austria or Switzerland, each country with its own special little characteristic even with the standard facilities at what are called rasthof in Germany, and have their own names in other countries – restaurant, convenience store, souvenir shop, and restrooms being common while special inclusions being bakery in some places and high wines in France. Very good wines were also on lunch buffet menu, but we were informed we could only have one if we had a proper lunch, which could not be vegetarian according to their system – no vegetarian entrees on the menu! So that was a disappointment, but in Paris it was more than made up for. 

The hotel we had picked was in St Germain area with our windows on a main thoroughfare and a back road with bakeries, cafes, flower shops and so forth with creperies at the other end of the back road, so breakfast and dinner could be had in the neighbourhood, although we did go back to the Indian restaurant we had been next door to the last time around. We saw more of our favourite places this time and a bit more, but the museums I had missed the first time were still closed – Orangerie seems to close for renovation any time I am visiting so I have not yet seen the later Monet works exhibited there. But this time around also Jeu de Palme was no longer a museum, so I am not sure if I was able to show him everything I had loved the first time around after all. 

One of the creperies of the neighbourhood regretfully explained why he was unable to provide us vegetarian fare – he showed us he had only one pan he cooked on, so since he cooked all his crepes on the same it could not be vegetarian as per requirements of vegetarian, he said. We were impressed with his knowledge, his scruples and honesty, and went away marveling. 

The restaurant next door named Kashmir was far less of any of this – they did have a vegetarian section on the menu but the food, especially the daal tasted weird, and we decided not to make a disturbance but just avoid eating whatever tasted wrong. The good memory of the place was the French family at next table ordering vegetarian food and chatting with us, while bad was the manager and owner at the door asking us how we liked it. We were honest and told him what was wrong, and he not only admitted vegetarian in his restaurant was mixed with meat in reality (which makes it fraud) but claimed that is how the locals insist he do it. He asked us to return next day and promised the right stuff, but trust broken once in matters of importance is broken, and he had neither apologised nor shown real repentance. We suspect they had done it to us deliberately, inferring from name of the place, as a small hit inflicting pain on someone from India. 

But the rest of the visit this time too went well enough, us mostly walking and taking public transport, until the last day. We had this time around loved eating in the café at Louvre when we visited, and gotten around to experiencing the famous crepe suzette which we loved, and I wanted it one more time on the last day but it was too crowded and we decided to go out after all. We waited for a tourist bus that plies around where one can sit on the top floor and look about, since we were tired with longer than a week of walking, but the family from Canada that stepped in ahead of us had a short tempered driver order that family out when there was discussion about fare and currency, and he would not let us in and drove an empty bus off. 

Tired of waiting for another bus - it was hot and we had been standing for half an hour – we went to the underground transit station to take a train to Centre Pompidou, and at the entrance of the station he began to laugh at the notice put up by the police re beware of pickpockets, and I was alarmed. Due to various physical injuries I had been no longer used to going out especially in a crowd, and thought we might lose due to my being less than aware with pickpockets around. I had already had been a victim at least once each in Delhi, Mumbai, New York and Paris. There was the same or similar group of beautiful young dark eyed dark haired girls close around us that I had noticed on the last visit when we left for the station to catch our train out of Paris, and we were standing this time, so he told me to be close and hold on to him, and I held on to my handbag fast.

We were halfway from exit to Centre Pompidou which also I had seen when I visited first, when he went “where is my wallet?” 

There was no point attempting to see if he had accidentally lost it by any other means than the pickpockets, so we went promptly to the police station nearby. There was a young French couple ahead of us, and when finally our turn came the police laughed – the other couple had lost all of their luggage to similar thieves, they informed us. 

We finished reporting and came out, arguing about the next step. He wanted to go to the Indian embassy, I said first things first, take care of various cards stolen being informed so no major loss occurs over and above the money in the wallet. One idea turned out right; we returned to the hotel after using my card to withdraw any ready cash from the account and informed the hotel about the incident. They were more than understanding, and not only accepted the e-cheque card for settling the account but also helped us informing the credit card authorities. 

Then it was a matter of dinner and the drive home next day. Dinner at the Indian restaurant was soothing and more – he not only refused to charge us, he refused to take money for the bottle of champagne we had asked him (he said he dealt in it and could offer us a good deal), and we still have it with us some twelve years and several travels later, waiting for a good occasion. 

Drive home was fine despite his missing a passport and a driving license, partly due to no border checks – but we had been told it would be enough to show the police report. Then it was applying to get both, and that is another good story. It was a lovely experience meeting with the man in charge at the consulate in Frankfurt who not only made it easier and expedited the process for us but was very courteous and friendly. This was ’02, and later that summer we moved to England. 

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When we think of Paris I recall my first visit with its travails – losing money the first day I don’t even know how or where, surprise of the coffee with milk and sugar being so very much more expensive than the fraction of a price for the default espresso, the discoveries of Jeu de Paume and Louvre and Marmottan, and walking along Champs d’Elysees. 

I recall the Kir Royale from the second visit and the Crepe Suzette from the third, and our dinners at Santoor with the friendly manager hovering to make sure we were all right. Eiffel Tower I never went up on my own, it was then too cold and I was wearing an outfit more appropriate for spring in Boston in June than the windy rainy May in Paris, but we went up the tower together the first time we went, and my dismay at the immigrants from the subcontinent selling postcards and cheap souvenirs below wiped out any pleasure one might have had from the tower view. 

I remember the beautiful cherry blossom around the corner from our hotel on the way to Louvre and the lovely lilac I saw one day when at breakfast of croissant and coffee in the back alley – still wish we had bought it! – and more of the loveliness, including Marmottan more than anything. 

He remembers his pocket being picked for the one and only time in his life,  and his losing his passport, his driving license, his cards and money and all else it contained, and there were some things no one could replace, when we mention Paris.

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