Whipped and kissed at the Cirque d'Hiver: Nikki runs away to Paris
Nov 29th, 2009, 04:14 PM
#1
Original Poster
Whipped and kissed at the Cirque d'Hiver: Nikki runs away to Paris
I didn’t see it coming. It was only later that I learned the whip had passed just inches from my face before hitting my seat. The llama lady apologized profusely in rapid fire French, while Moo chatted with the guy from Oklahoma who had apparently run away to join the circus in Paris. But I am getting ahead of myself…
One night last June as I was getting ready for bed, I checked my e-mail and took a last look at the internet message board to which I am addicted. A post caught my eye about a freak middle-of-the-night fare sale on Delta from some cities in the US to some cities in Europe. I checked the Delta site and found flights from Boston to Paris in November for fares I hadn’t seen in years. I had no business planning a trip at all. I had two European trips planned in July and September, one with my husband Alan and one without.
But the heart was racing and the adrenaline was flowing as I checked apartment availability and found that a really nice apartment I had stayed in before was available for the dates I could get away in November. Around two in the morning I made the decision and pushed the button. I would be running away from home for two weeks alone in a Paris apartment.
I started buying tickets to the opera and ballet and concerts and plays. Then I learned that my friend (we’ll call her Sue) and her sister in law (we’ll call her Moo) were going to be in Paris for one of the two weeks I was there, along with their mutual mother-in-law (we’ll call her Ida), three of Ida’s friends, and assorted other daughters and daughters’ friends. Ten women in all were going on a package from Show of the Month Club.
So I started thinking about things that people would enjoy who did not speak French on their first visit to Paris. That’s when I came up with the idea for the circus. I just didn’t realize I would be part of the show.
One night last June as I was getting ready for bed, I checked my e-mail and took a last look at the internet message board to which I am addicted. A post caught my eye about a freak middle-of-the-night fare sale on Delta from some cities in the US to some cities in Europe. I checked the Delta site and found flights from Boston to Paris in November for fares I hadn’t seen in years. I had no business planning a trip at all. I had two European trips planned in July and September, one with my husband Alan and one without.
But the heart was racing and the adrenaline was flowing as I checked apartment availability and found that a really nice apartment I had stayed in before was available for the dates I could get away in November. Around two in the morning I made the decision and pushed the button. I would be running away from home for two weeks alone in a Paris apartment.
I started buying tickets to the opera and ballet and concerts and plays. Then I learned that my friend (we’ll call her Sue) and her sister in law (we’ll call her Moo) were going to be in Paris for one of the two weeks I was there, along with their mutual mother-in-law (we’ll call her Ida), three of Ida’s friends, and assorted other daughters and daughters’ friends. Ten women in all were going on a package from Show of the Month Club.
So I started thinking about things that people would enjoy who did not speak French on their first visit to Paris. That’s when I came up with the idea for the circus. I just didn’t realize I would be part of the show.
Nov 29th, 2009, 06:29 PM
#4
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I've been curious about the Cirque d'Hiver because the bus from the apartment for my last two trips passes by that yellow building. Looking forward to hearing about that. Which ballet did you see?
Nov 30th, 2009, 02:55 AM
#9
Original Poster
I arrive in Paris early in the morning on Saturday, November 7 after an uneventful flight (just the way I like it). There is very little traffic and the taxi arrives at the apartment half an hour before I am expected. Nobody is there yet to greet me, so I sit on my suitcase in the entryway while the building’s cleaning lady hauls in the trash containers and mops the hallways. The sun rises late in Paris, which strikes me as being in the wrong time zone. Longitudinally France should be in the same time zone as Great Britain and Portugal, but it is instead grouped with Italy and Germany, presumably for reasons of convenience. But in November the sun does not rise until 8:00 AM. The lights in the hallway are on a timer, and they only stay on for a minute or two at a time. So I wait in the semi-dark. The cleaning lady gives the light switch a helpful pat for me every time she passes by.
At 8:00, the woman arrives who is to let me into the apartment and we go in together. I have rented this apartment once before, when I visited Paris with a friend, so I know the layout. I am really glad to be back here. http://www.vrbo.com/24464. There is a large living and dining room running along the wall that faces the street. The plaster moldings on the high ceilings show that this used to be three rooms. There are three floor to ceiling French doors that open out onto a narrow balcony and let in lots of light. There is a bedroom and kitchen on the other side of the corridor that runs the length of the apartment, and these rooms face a courtyard. The kitchen has a door out to a covered balcony large enough for a small table and chairs. The bathroom is at the end of the hall.
Once I am settled in, I go to sleep. When I wake up, I go out in search of provisions. There is a letter taped to the inside of the door in the entryway from one of the residents, apologizing for any inconvenience caused by her birthday party. If I were one of the neighbors I would not have minded the noise as much as the lack of an invitation.
The apartment is in the fourth arrondissement, between the Seine and the Bastille. I walk to the rue St. Antoine, where I stop at a bakery and a produce store and get the feel of the neighborhood.
Dinner is at Chez Margot, 25b Boulevard Henri IV. When I stayed in this neighborhood before, there was a restaurant called l’Ecume in this spot that I enjoyed but it is gone, and this new restaurant has been here for about a year. I read some reviews and it sounds good, so I am giving it a try. It is warm and lively inside, with classic movie posters on the walls.
The waitress is in black skinny jeans and a black skinny tank top and high heeled black boots. I later learn this is her place. Her partner is the bartender. He is smiling and chatting with two similarly dressed women at the bar. When their friends arrive, there are kisses all around.
I start with terrine de campagne maison. Ah, I’m not in Kansas any more. Several parties of women friends are dining together, but there is more noise from the party of three men and a woman in the corner. More friends at the bar, more kisses. Right cheek, left cheek. I noticed it was the reverse in Gascony in September. A couple arrives with a young child and they are greeted by a chic blonde grandma. “Bonjour, mon petit choux.” The little cabbage accepts his kisses sleepily. Two more beautiful women arrive. More kisses from the bartender, and this time the kisses are accompanied by a bouquet.
A young woman has been sitting alone since I arrived. Three good looking guys in jeans show up to join her. Oops, make that four. She looks much happier now. There are some celebrations going on. People are snapping each other’s photos.
My souris d’agneau is a perfectly cooked lamb shank in a delicious sauce, with pureed potatoes. Cheese and salad finish off my first Paris dinner, and I walk the few blocks back to my apartment happily.
At 8:00, the woman arrives who is to let me into the apartment and we go in together. I have rented this apartment once before, when I visited Paris with a friend, so I know the layout. I am really glad to be back here. http://www.vrbo.com/24464. There is a large living and dining room running along the wall that faces the street. The plaster moldings on the high ceilings show that this used to be three rooms. There are three floor to ceiling French doors that open out onto a narrow balcony and let in lots of light. There is a bedroom and kitchen on the other side of the corridor that runs the length of the apartment, and these rooms face a courtyard. The kitchen has a door out to a covered balcony large enough for a small table and chairs. The bathroom is at the end of the hall.
Once I am settled in, I go to sleep. When I wake up, I go out in search of provisions. There is a letter taped to the inside of the door in the entryway from one of the residents, apologizing for any inconvenience caused by her birthday party. If I were one of the neighbors I would not have minded the noise as much as the lack of an invitation.
The apartment is in the fourth arrondissement, between the Seine and the Bastille. I walk to the rue St. Antoine, where I stop at a bakery and a produce store and get the feel of the neighborhood.
Dinner is at Chez Margot, 25b Boulevard Henri IV. When I stayed in this neighborhood before, there was a restaurant called l’Ecume in this spot that I enjoyed but it is gone, and this new restaurant has been here for about a year. I read some reviews and it sounds good, so I am giving it a try. It is warm and lively inside, with classic movie posters on the walls.
The waitress is in black skinny jeans and a black skinny tank top and high heeled black boots. I later learn this is her place. Her partner is the bartender. He is smiling and chatting with two similarly dressed women at the bar. When their friends arrive, there are kisses all around.
I start with terrine de campagne maison. Ah, I’m not in Kansas any more. Several parties of women friends are dining together, but there is more noise from the party of three men and a woman in the corner. More friends at the bar, more kisses. Right cheek, left cheek. I noticed it was the reverse in Gascony in September. A couple arrives with a young child and they are greeted by a chic blonde grandma. “Bonjour, mon petit choux.” The little cabbage accepts his kisses sleepily. Two more beautiful women arrive. More kisses from the bartender, and this time the kisses are accompanied by a bouquet.
A young woman has been sitting alone since I arrived. Three good looking guys in jeans show up to join her. Oops, make that four. She looks much happier now. There are some celebrations going on. People are snapping each other’s photos.
My souris d’agneau is a perfectly cooked lamb shank in a delicious sauce, with pureed potatoes. Cheese and salad finish off my first Paris dinner, and I walk the few blocks back to my apartment happily.
Nov 30th, 2009, 03:05 AM
#10
Original Poster
Photos are posted here: http://www.kodakgallery.com/gallery/...3%3A2071465024
Nov 30th, 2009, 04:50 AM
#11
Original Poster
Sunday morning I walk to the Bastille market. Along the way I notice a young father holding the hands of his twin daughters at a crosswalk. They are standing on twin scooters and wearing twin wool coats, belted in the back. One has a headband holding back her long hair. Is that how they tell them apart? I think of a family I know with identical twin girls. When they were teenagers, the mother tells how they would get into arguments, and one would shout at the other one, “You’re ugly!”
At the doorway to a café, I watch the red and the black. Two white-haired couples are deciding whether to go inside. One man has red pants, his wife has red heels. The other couple is more chic. She has a red coat, scarf and bag. He is all in black.
The Bastille market is crowded and overwhelming. I am not hungry, which makes it harder to decide what to buy. Finally I buy some charcuterie, cheese, and paella. It is too crowded and hectic to take photos and manage my purchases, and I am pressed for time because I have theater tickets this afternoon. I make my slow way back to the apartment for a quick stop to drop off the groceries, then I head to the métro.
I buy a carnet at the ticket machine. I think I remember using my credit card for this before, but now my credit card does not work, so I waste more time. Eventually I use cash and I am on my way. I emerge from the métro at the stop right in front of the Comédie Française with fifteen minutes before show time. An orchestra of street musicians is playing the Pachelbel Canon. This is how I know it is not my funeral. (The chamber group with which I have played for twenty years has strict instructions not to play Pachelbel at my funeral.) The warning bell is ringing as I climb the stairs in the theater, check my coat, and find my seat.
This is the first time I have come to the Comédie Française without first reading the play (unless you count that time in college in 1972 when I saw Cyrano de Bergerac and I have no idea how much I understood at the time). It is La Grande Magie, an Italian play by Neapolitan playwright Eduardo de Filippo, apparently written in Neapolitan dialect and translated into French. Being a twentieth century play it is performed with more rapid speech than the two French classical plays I have seen here previously. I get a lot of the dialogue, but plan to read an English translation to see what I missed when I get home. It is a dark comedy based on the interplay between illusion and reality, with an excellent comic actor playing a magician in the lead role.
I have a dyslexic taxi driver on the way home. I spell my street name several times and he repeats it in increasingly garbled fashion. I know my French pronunciation isn’t that bad. He starts to write it for me. Wrong letters, wrong order. I write it for him, he punches it into his GPS and we are on our way. There is horrendous traffic along the quays, but we bypass it in the taxi lanes. What a great concept!
My friend Sue has arrived in Paris today and she meets me at the apartment. We go back to Chez Margot for dinner. It is close and convenient and open Sunday. I get a warm welcome (but no kisses). The restaurant is very full but they find us a table inside. Out on the terrace a large group is celebrating a birthday. Every new round of shots is preceded by a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday, sometimes in English and sometimes in French. The volume rises appreciably as the night wears on.
We share a wonderful platter of charcuterie as a starter. Much better than a similar platter we shared last week at a restaurant near home. Then Sue has risotto and scallops, while I have an excellent rare steak of Salers beef.
When I return to my apartment, the zipper on my leather jacket breaks. This is annoying. I did bring my winter coat but I don’t want to wear it. So far, in 36 hours in Paris, there are four broken things: the washing machine, my iPod charger, my zipper, and the cable TV. This does not bode well.
At the doorway to a café, I watch the red and the black. Two white-haired couples are deciding whether to go inside. One man has red pants, his wife has red heels. The other couple is more chic. She has a red coat, scarf and bag. He is all in black.
The Bastille market is crowded and overwhelming. I am not hungry, which makes it harder to decide what to buy. Finally I buy some charcuterie, cheese, and paella. It is too crowded and hectic to take photos and manage my purchases, and I am pressed for time because I have theater tickets this afternoon. I make my slow way back to the apartment for a quick stop to drop off the groceries, then I head to the métro.
I buy a carnet at the ticket machine. I think I remember using my credit card for this before, but now my credit card does not work, so I waste more time. Eventually I use cash and I am on my way. I emerge from the métro at the stop right in front of the Comédie Française with fifteen minutes before show time. An orchestra of street musicians is playing the Pachelbel Canon. This is how I know it is not my funeral. (The chamber group with which I have played for twenty years has strict instructions not to play Pachelbel at my funeral.) The warning bell is ringing as I climb the stairs in the theater, check my coat, and find my seat.
This is the first time I have come to the Comédie Française without first reading the play (unless you count that time in college in 1972 when I saw Cyrano de Bergerac and I have no idea how much I understood at the time). It is La Grande Magie, an Italian play by Neapolitan playwright Eduardo de Filippo, apparently written in Neapolitan dialect and translated into French. Being a twentieth century play it is performed with more rapid speech than the two French classical plays I have seen here previously. I get a lot of the dialogue, but plan to read an English translation to see what I missed when I get home. It is a dark comedy based on the interplay between illusion and reality, with an excellent comic actor playing a magician in the lead role.
I have a dyslexic taxi driver on the way home. I spell my street name several times and he repeats it in increasingly garbled fashion. I know my French pronunciation isn’t that bad. He starts to write it for me. Wrong letters, wrong order. I write it for him, he punches it into his GPS and we are on our way. There is horrendous traffic along the quays, but we bypass it in the taxi lanes. What a great concept!
My friend Sue has arrived in Paris today and she meets me at the apartment. We go back to Chez Margot for dinner. It is close and convenient and open Sunday. I get a warm welcome (but no kisses). The restaurant is very full but they find us a table inside. Out on the terrace a large group is celebrating a birthday. Every new round of shots is preceded by a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday, sometimes in English and sometimes in French. The volume rises appreciably as the night wears on.
We share a wonderful platter of charcuterie as a starter. Much better than a similar platter we shared last week at a restaurant near home. Then Sue has risotto and scallops, while I have an excellent rare steak of Salers beef.
When I return to my apartment, the zipper on my leather jacket breaks. This is annoying. I did bring my winter coat but I don’t want to wear it. So far, in 36 hours in Paris, there are four broken things: the washing machine, my iPod charger, my zipper, and the cable TV. This does not bode well.
Nov 30th, 2009, 08:24 AM
#14
Original Poster
Monday morning I set out for the Collège de France. I am planning to attend a class about a passage from the Hebrew Bible. I have been coming to classes here the past few times I have been in Paris. They are free and open to the public and there is always something interesting. It strikes me as a more compelling way to work on my French language skills than studying the subjunctive in a French class (not that I wouldn’t benefit from that). I figure I have a better chance of understanding today’s class than some of the others I plan to attend, since I have been doing some studying and I have even read the passage in question.
The classroom is not open when I arrive. A few others show up but the class start time passes. We ask the man at the front desk whether there is a class today and he tells us to wait. Eventually he announces the class will be held later this afternoon, at 3:00. A few Gallic shrugs later, the small group leaves.
Now I have a conflict. There is a class at 2:30 that I have been following on line about Gaul, emphasizing the interplay between archeology and history. I have already invested quite a bit of time in this class, and I will probably go there instead of the one postponed from this morning. Oh well, I figure the time I spent studying the Biblical passage was not wasted in any event.
But now I have time to kill. I am not really hungry. This is a perverse phenomenon. At home I am always hungry. In Paris, where I love the food, I am not. It could be the jet lag. But I now have three hours before my class. I decide to walk a few blocks to La Ferrandaise, a restaurant on my list to try. Closed Monday at lunch.
I walk back by way of the Place de la Sorbonne, where I take some photos and decide not to stop at one of the cafés there. I am headed to Le Pré Verre, just down the street from the Collège de France. Also closed. Should I have checked my horoscope today? Or preferably Zagat’s? I go to the nearest open restaurant, La Petite Périgourdine. By now I am ready for lunch. I have duck confit with wild mushrooms. Tarte tatin? Oh, sure.
I stop at a drug store to buy something for blisters, but I don’t know the word for blister. The pharmacist shows me something for ampoules. Yes, that’s it. He points to the light bulb and says it’s the same word. I try to say it is the same shape, but I can’t think of the word for shape. Such are the frustrations of having thoughts I can’t put into words. Words are pretty much all I have, and I’m used to them coming quickly. Just shoot me.
I have been listening to lots of things in French, and I understand French speech much better than I did a few years ago. But I seldom get to speak French, so speech is my weakest skill set. Aside from writing. I haven’t written anything in French since my first semester in college in 1969.
Across the street is the Hotel California. I’ve noticed this hotel on previous trips, and I can’t help but think the name is an unfortunate choice. Such a lovely place.
I am ready for a nap now but I go back to the Collège de France. I am early, but I can wait and read. I am not the only one. There are at least thirty people ahead of me. I know from watching this course on line that the amphitheater will be filled. People get here early to be sure of a seat. The room holds 420 people according to the website, and it is standing room only by the time the lecture begins.
I am fighting off drowsiness for the first hour. The second hour I perk up. The lecture is about the Romanisation of Gaul, based on archeological and historical sources. The guest lecturer is speaking very quickly to cover a lot of material, and it is quite an effort to concentrate hard enough to follow him. I will be able to watch this class on line when I get home though. I do catch references to architectural styles from Rome and Pompeii, thanks to a wonderful free course offered by Yale that I have been following on line.
As we all file out of the room at the end of the class, I see a woman in the back who has succumbed to her drowsy urges. Better her than me.
Dinner tonight is at home. My evening entertainment consists of watching the live television coverage of the commemoration of the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall.
The classroom is not open when I arrive. A few others show up but the class start time passes. We ask the man at the front desk whether there is a class today and he tells us to wait. Eventually he announces the class will be held later this afternoon, at 3:00. A few Gallic shrugs later, the small group leaves.
Now I have a conflict. There is a class at 2:30 that I have been following on line about Gaul, emphasizing the interplay between archeology and history. I have already invested quite a bit of time in this class, and I will probably go there instead of the one postponed from this morning. Oh well, I figure the time I spent studying the Biblical passage was not wasted in any event.
But now I have time to kill. I am not really hungry. This is a perverse phenomenon. At home I am always hungry. In Paris, where I love the food, I am not. It could be the jet lag. But I now have three hours before my class. I decide to walk a few blocks to La Ferrandaise, a restaurant on my list to try. Closed Monday at lunch.
I walk back by way of the Place de la Sorbonne, where I take some photos and decide not to stop at one of the cafés there. I am headed to Le Pré Verre, just down the street from the Collège de France. Also closed. Should I have checked my horoscope today? Or preferably Zagat’s? I go to the nearest open restaurant, La Petite Périgourdine. By now I am ready for lunch. I have duck confit with wild mushrooms. Tarte tatin? Oh, sure.
I stop at a drug store to buy something for blisters, but I don’t know the word for blister. The pharmacist shows me something for ampoules. Yes, that’s it. He points to the light bulb and says it’s the same word. I try to say it is the same shape, but I can’t think of the word for shape. Such are the frustrations of having thoughts I can’t put into words. Words are pretty much all I have, and I’m used to them coming quickly. Just shoot me.
I have been listening to lots of things in French, and I understand French speech much better than I did a few years ago. But I seldom get to speak French, so speech is my weakest skill set. Aside from writing. I haven’t written anything in French since my first semester in college in 1969.
Across the street is the Hotel California. I’ve noticed this hotel on previous trips, and I can’t help but think the name is an unfortunate choice. Such a lovely place.
I am ready for a nap now but I go back to the Collège de France. I am early, but I can wait and read. I am not the only one. There are at least thirty people ahead of me. I know from watching this course on line that the amphitheater will be filled. People get here early to be sure of a seat. The room holds 420 people according to the website, and it is standing room only by the time the lecture begins.
I am fighting off drowsiness for the first hour. The second hour I perk up. The lecture is about the Romanisation of Gaul, based on archeological and historical sources. The guest lecturer is speaking very quickly to cover a lot of material, and it is quite an effort to concentrate hard enough to follow him. I will be able to watch this class on line when I get home though. I do catch references to architectural styles from Rome and Pompeii, thanks to a wonderful free course offered by Yale that I have been following on line.
As we all file out of the room at the end of the class, I see a woman in the back who has succumbed to her drowsy urges. Better her than me.
Dinner tonight is at home. My evening entertainment consists of watching the live television coverage of the commemoration of the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall.
Nov 30th, 2009, 10:01 AM
#16
Nikki, you might want to read the French historical book Métronome, by the French actor (!) Lorànt Deutsch. It is the history of Paris from ancient times, told in reference to the nearby metro stations for the various events.
Nov 30th, 2009, 11:15 AM
#17
Original Poster
Thanks for all the encouraging comments. It really helps to know somebody is reading.
Fifi, I saw three contemporary dances at the ballet: Amoveo/Repliques/Genus. I will write my impressions when I get up to that date. Unlike the family in front of me, I stayed for the whole program.
Kerouac, after my day at the circus, my fear is not of getting pulled out of the audience but of pulling the circus out of the ring. Your book suggestion looks interesting; have you read it? I see it is newly released.
Fifi, I saw three contemporary dances at the ballet: Amoveo/Repliques/Genus. I will write my impressions when I get up to that date. Unlike the family in front of me, I stayed for the whole program.
Kerouac, after my day at the circus, my fear is not of getting pulled out of the audience but of pulling the circus out of the ring. Your book suggestion looks interesting; have you read it? I see it is newly released.
Nov 30th, 2009, 12:57 PM
#19
Original Poster
On Tuesday I figure out why the block between my apartment and the Boulevard Henri IV smells like piss. I have been puzzled by this. It is not an area filled with bars and there are no visible signs of men making their way home at late hours and marking their territory like cats. I grew up using the New York subways, so I am not unfamiliar with such smells, but I have not seen any telltale rivulets on the sidewalks. After a bit of research, I realize that the very large building that fills the entire block is the Caserne des Célestins, which houses the cavalry of the Garde Républicaine, and that there are horses in the stables inside. The odor seems more respectable to me now.
On the other side of the street there is another very long building. This is the former arsenal, which is now a public library building. If you follow my street in the other direction, you get to the Bassin de l’Arsenal, which is the beginning of the Canal Saint-Martin. This is now used as a marina. Before the revolution, there was a ditch on this site to draw water from the Seine to fill the moat of the fortress at the Bastille. After the revolution, the ditch was widened and used as a commercial port. Now the water goes underground from the Bastille until it emerges near the Place de la République. While I am visiting, the Bassin de l’Arsenal is the site of a large antique show that has erected tents along both banks of the marina, blocking the view, which is a pity.
I meet Sue for an early dinner at the Bistrot du Peintre, 116 avenue Ledru Rollin, in the eleventh arrondissement. We are going to a show around the corner, and this place has continuous service so we can get dinner before the show. It is a lively spot in a beautiful art nouveau space with tables on the ground floor and up on the first floor, as well as tables on the terrace. There are people outside, but it is chilly, so we eat inside in front of the old bar.
I order os a moelle, marrow bones served with toast and coarse salt. Fantastic comfort food. Then duck confit with sarladaise potatoes. Sue orders a plate of charcuterie and a plate of cheese. Everything is good, and we have fun watching the passing scene.
“Mon amour, bisous à demain,” says the tall woman in motorcycle gear to the bartender as she leaves. A father with a boy of three or four is standing at the bar. He lets the boy sip his beer. Then he takes him downstairs to the rest room. Time to leave now. The boy starts whining, wants to climb up on the bar stool. This sounds the same in any language. Dad takes the boy outside before putting on his coat, scarf, gloves, and motorcycle helmet. We imagine him picking up the boy after work, stopping at the bar, driving home on the motorcycle for supper.
When we are finished, we walk to the Théatre de la Main d’Or, on the Passage de la Main d’Or. This area is riddled with narrow alleys that were traditionally filled with furniture makers’ shops. The theater is a funky venue with a bar and some tables in the lobby where we have drinks while waiting for the doors to open. We are here to see the show “How to Become Parisian in One Hour” by comic Olivier Giraud: www.oliviergiraud.com. This turns out to be very, very funny.
The audience is about half French and half English-speaking tourists. The act is entirely in English. Giraud spent some time living in the US, and his American friends encouraged him to develop an act in English for people who come to Paris and do not speak French. It has been a great success playing two nights a week at this theater, and the run has been extended several times. At the end of the show, Giraud notices a ten year old boy seated in the audience. He seems a bit embarrassed, and says, “I hope he didn’t understand.” There is quite a bit of off color humor in the act. We thoroughly enjoy it, but I would leave the ten year old at home.
On the other side of the street there is another very long building. This is the former arsenal, which is now a public library building. If you follow my street in the other direction, you get to the Bassin de l’Arsenal, which is the beginning of the Canal Saint-Martin. This is now used as a marina. Before the revolution, there was a ditch on this site to draw water from the Seine to fill the moat of the fortress at the Bastille. After the revolution, the ditch was widened and used as a commercial port. Now the water goes underground from the Bastille until it emerges near the Place de la République. While I am visiting, the Bassin de l’Arsenal is the site of a large antique show that has erected tents along both banks of the marina, blocking the view, which is a pity.
I meet Sue for an early dinner at the Bistrot du Peintre, 116 avenue Ledru Rollin, in the eleventh arrondissement. We are going to a show around the corner, and this place has continuous service so we can get dinner before the show. It is a lively spot in a beautiful art nouveau space with tables on the ground floor and up on the first floor, as well as tables on the terrace. There are people outside, but it is chilly, so we eat inside in front of the old bar.
I order os a moelle, marrow bones served with toast and coarse salt. Fantastic comfort food. Then duck confit with sarladaise potatoes. Sue orders a plate of charcuterie and a plate of cheese. Everything is good, and we have fun watching the passing scene.
“Mon amour, bisous à demain,” says the tall woman in motorcycle gear to the bartender as she leaves. A father with a boy of three or four is standing at the bar. He lets the boy sip his beer. Then he takes him downstairs to the rest room. Time to leave now. The boy starts whining, wants to climb up on the bar stool. This sounds the same in any language. Dad takes the boy outside before putting on his coat, scarf, gloves, and motorcycle helmet. We imagine him picking up the boy after work, stopping at the bar, driving home on the motorcycle for supper.
When we are finished, we walk to the Théatre de la Main d’Or, on the Passage de la Main d’Or. This area is riddled with narrow alleys that were traditionally filled with furniture makers’ shops. The theater is a funky venue with a bar and some tables in the lobby where we have drinks while waiting for the doors to open. We are here to see the show “How to Become Parisian in One Hour” by comic Olivier Giraud: www.oliviergiraud.com. This turns out to be very, very funny.
The audience is about half French and half English-speaking tourists. The act is entirely in English. Giraud spent some time living in the US, and his American friends encouraged him to develop an act in English for people who come to Paris and do not speak French. It has been a great success playing two nights a week at this theater, and the run has been extended several times. At the end of the show, Giraud notices a ten year old boy seated in the audience. He seems a bit embarrassed, and says, “I hope he didn’t understand.” There is quite a bit of off color humor in the act. We thoroughly enjoy it, but I would leave the ten year old at home.
