Cannibals and Carnivals: Nikki's trip to Paris
Mar 25th, 2011, 05:44 AM
#23
Original Poster
At the Gare du Nord, we are waiting for them to announce which track to use for our TGV to Béthune when there is a loud noise of drums and horns and shouting from a group of men marching into the station dressed up in long blond wigs and wedding gowns and fur coats and pink jogging suits and hot pants. We do not know whether their statement is meant to be political or artistic. It turns out they are taking our train, sitting in our car facing us. Off come some of the wigs and crocheted caps as they settle in for the journey. These men do not have the fashion sense or physical presence of the last men I saw in dresses, who were drag queens in Key West.
They are singing through a megaphone. When the conductor comes around, they tell the conductor they didn't validate their tickets. The conductor looks alarmed at the dozen or more men and goes, "Didn't validate!" "Haha, just kidding". Looks of relief from the conductor and companionable smiles all around.
Neither artistic nor political, I decide. I hope nobody was planning to sleep on this train ride because the singing and chanting keeps up for the whole trip.
After we pull away from the Paris area, the train picks up speed. We are paralleling a highway and leaving the cars in the dust. The ride is very smooth. The countryside rolls by. Since I was a child riding the Long Island Railroad, I have visualized a point on the horizon around which the enormous wheels of the landscape spin, using the train as its track. I have been waiting fifty years to hang some meaning on this image, and I'm not quite there yet.
We pass a field of wind turbines. Flat country here. What are they growing? I think this might be the area where Zola set the novel "Germinal", which I read last year. The novel describes the unbearably bleak conditions in the coal mining towns of northern France giving rise to union organizing and anarchism in the nineteenth century. Are there still mines?
The guy in the red evening gown standing in the aisle has too much body hair to pull off the look. And it is the wrong color (the body hair, not the dress) for the blonde wig. They are chanting "Carnaval, carnaval!" Ah, that is the statement then.
We pass slag heaps. This is indeed coal mining country.
The train slows as we approach a more developed area and does not regain its high speed. We get off at Béthune, passing through the car full of revelers. "Au revoir, Madame", one calls to me as I leave. "Au revoir, Madame", I answer him.
There are no taxis at the station. All the other passengers vanish into waiting cars. I ask at the ticket counter and am told we can take a bus to the center of town where our hotel is located. The bus driver drops us off a couple of blocks from the Grand Place and gives us directions, which we follow, but we do not see the Grand Place. We pass the rue Emil Zola. I ask a man who is walking with his young son, and he points us in the right direction. It turns out he is going there too, and we soon see why.
A huge carnival is in full swing- literally. A screaming armload of revelers is passing in front of the old belfry in the center of the place. The belfry, which dominates the place,
has been reconstructed after being heavily damaged in bombing during the second world war. The immense arm of a brightly lighted carnival ride swings back and forth in front of the belfry accompanied by the screams of the adventurous souls being turned upside down and the amplified cheerleading of the ride's operator.
Our hotel, Le Vieux Beffroi, is directly on the place, and our room overlooks all the action. While Eileen tries to take a nap, I wander around the square taking photos and foraging for lunch. I pass by the cotton candy and the fried dough stands and find the best food in the world at the bakery and the charcuterie. I find the bakery first, so lunch begins with a brioche suisse, a doughy concoction with chocolate chips and drizzled with milk chocolate. For dessert I have a slice of terrine of foie gras and duck breast. Manna from heaven.
I return to the hotel and find that the room is even noisier than the one I shared with my husband in Lisbon, where a street performer of dubious talent stood outside all day banging on a drum. It is my turn to try for a nap. Then we go downstairs for a drink at the hotel bar and I catch up with the news from the local paper.
This is where I learn about Carnaval in the north of France. Tomorrow will be the big day in Béthune, when four neighborhoods of the city will compete by entering the giants they have created in a big parade. Sadly we will miss this event, as our train to Paris leaves in the morning. Evidently there are celebrations in many towns in the area. Who knew?
They are singing through a megaphone. When the conductor comes around, they tell the conductor they didn't validate their tickets. The conductor looks alarmed at the dozen or more men and goes, "Didn't validate!" "Haha, just kidding". Looks of relief from the conductor and companionable smiles all around.
Neither artistic nor political, I decide. I hope nobody was planning to sleep on this train ride because the singing and chanting keeps up for the whole trip.
After we pull away from the Paris area, the train picks up speed. We are paralleling a highway and leaving the cars in the dust. The ride is very smooth. The countryside rolls by. Since I was a child riding the Long Island Railroad, I have visualized a point on the horizon around which the enormous wheels of the landscape spin, using the train as its track. I have been waiting fifty years to hang some meaning on this image, and I'm not quite there yet.
We pass a field of wind turbines. Flat country here. What are they growing? I think this might be the area where Zola set the novel "Germinal", which I read last year. The novel describes the unbearably bleak conditions in the coal mining towns of northern France giving rise to union organizing and anarchism in the nineteenth century. Are there still mines?
The guy in the red evening gown standing in the aisle has too much body hair to pull off the look. And it is the wrong color (the body hair, not the dress) for the blonde wig. They are chanting "Carnaval, carnaval!" Ah, that is the statement then.
We pass slag heaps. This is indeed coal mining country.
The train slows as we approach a more developed area and does not regain its high speed. We get off at Béthune, passing through the car full of revelers. "Au revoir, Madame", one calls to me as I leave. "Au revoir, Madame", I answer him.
There are no taxis at the station. All the other passengers vanish into waiting cars. I ask at the ticket counter and am told we can take a bus to the center of town where our hotel is located. The bus driver drops us off a couple of blocks from the Grand Place and gives us directions, which we follow, but we do not see the Grand Place. We pass the rue Emil Zola. I ask a man who is walking with his young son, and he points us in the right direction. It turns out he is going there too, and we soon see why.
A huge carnival is in full swing- literally. A screaming armload of revelers is passing in front of the old belfry in the center of the place. The belfry, which dominates the place,
has been reconstructed after being heavily damaged in bombing during the second world war. The immense arm of a brightly lighted carnival ride swings back and forth in front of the belfry accompanied by the screams of the adventurous souls being turned upside down and the amplified cheerleading of the ride's operator.
Our hotel, Le Vieux Beffroi, is directly on the place, and our room overlooks all the action. While Eileen tries to take a nap, I wander around the square taking photos and foraging for lunch. I pass by the cotton candy and the fried dough stands and find the best food in the world at the bakery and the charcuterie. I find the bakery first, so lunch begins with a brioche suisse, a doughy concoction with chocolate chips and drizzled with milk chocolate. For dessert I have a slice of terrine of foie gras and duck breast. Manna from heaven.
I return to the hotel and find that the room is even noisier than the one I shared with my husband in Lisbon, where a street performer of dubious talent stood outside all day banging on a drum. It is my turn to try for a nap. Then we go downstairs for a drink at the hotel bar and I catch up with the news from the local paper.
This is where I learn about Carnaval in the north of France. Tomorrow will be the big day in Béthune, when four neighborhoods of the city will compete by entering the giants they have created in a big parade. Sadly we will miss this event, as our train to Paris leaves in the morning. Evidently there are celebrations in many towns in the area. Who knew?
Mar 25th, 2011, 06:24 AM
#24
I also follow your TR with interest. It's wonderful to experience different parts of Paris and France through your writing. I hope you post some photos for us to enjoy.
We love riding the train through the countryside of France, so I particularly enjoyed that part of your report.
We love riding the train through the countryside of France, so I particularly enjoyed that part of your report.
Mar 25th, 2011, 06:26 AM
#25
Join Date: Sep 2003
Posts: 1,762
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Ah Nikki - I am now in search of reasonable air fares to Paris... your report is tugging at my heart. Your Pig snout reminds me of a luncheon Matt ordered last year Tete de Veau.... a lovely slice of a calf's head .... he won't be ordering that again either....(but we both now marrow is another story!)
Mar 25th, 2011, 07:21 AM
#26
Original Poster
We walk to the municipal theater where Sanseverino is to perform. Seating is general admission, so I figure we will get there a half hour before the concert to get good seats. I forgot that it's hard to be earlier than the French audience. When we arrive, the seats in the orchestra are all filled and we are sent up to the balcony.
Since falling in love with this performer, I have often wondered who else might be in his audience. Turns out this concert is aimed squarely at my demographic. And the people here look more like my US contemporaries than the people in Paris. The style, especially that of the men, is more relaxed. These are not the country people I met in Trie-sur-Baïse when we had our house exchange there. They look more like the middle aged Massachusetts suburbanites with whom I spend most of my time.
I am not loving the latest stage in the evolution of Sanseverino's sound, which I can only describe as a cross between Johnny Cash (he actually sings a translation of A Boy Named Sue) and ACDC. I am not alone. When he switches from the electric guitar to the acoustic one and sings in a more melodious style, the audience really comes alive. The audience favorites are the songs that incorporate the gypsy swing sound that Sanseverino has used so successfully. By the end of the concert we are all on our feet and demand multiple encores.
We have a late dinner at the brasserie in our hotel. Os à moelle. Mussels in cream sauce. A guy is walking around in a ballerina costume. We get it now. It is carnaval. At 1 AM the thumping rhythm and pulsing lights outside our window are still going, but we get to sleep despite them and have no idea at what time the square finally becomes quiet.
Since falling in love with this performer, I have often wondered who else might be in his audience. Turns out this concert is aimed squarely at my demographic. And the people here look more like my US contemporaries than the people in Paris. The style, especially that of the men, is more relaxed. These are not the country people I met in Trie-sur-Baïse when we had our house exchange there. They look more like the middle aged Massachusetts suburbanites with whom I spend most of my time.
I am not loving the latest stage in the evolution of Sanseverino's sound, which I can only describe as a cross between Johnny Cash (he actually sings a translation of A Boy Named Sue) and ACDC. I am not alone. When he switches from the electric guitar to the acoustic one and sings in a more melodious style, the audience really comes alive. The audience favorites are the songs that incorporate the gypsy swing sound that Sanseverino has used so successfully. By the end of the concert we are all on our feet and demand multiple encores.
We have a late dinner at the brasserie in our hotel. Os à moelle. Mussels in cream sauce. A guy is walking around in a ballerina costume. We get it now. It is carnaval. At 1 AM the thumping rhythm and pulsing lights outside our window are still going, but we get to sleep despite them and have no idea at what time the square finally becomes quiet.
Mar 25th, 2011, 12:08 PM
#32
Original Poster
Over breakfast in the hotel bar, I read the local paper, La Voix du Nord. News items include homophobic tracts found in mailboxes in Lille; a neighborhood group organizing a place to serve food to local revelers at Carnaval; and an upcoming performance by the national police orchestra.
Our train ride back to Paris Sunday morning is significantly more peaceful than Saturday's journey, and we return to our apartment without incident. I am off to see Cendrillon by Massenet at the Opéra Comique. This is a very enjoyable opera with which I have no prior familiarity. When I bought this ticket, I didn't know Eileen would still be in Paris, so I go alone.
Dinner Sunday is at Chez Margot in our neighborhood. I have already crossed the city three times today since the train ride and am ready to do something within walking distance. After a smoked salmon platter and duck confit, I am ready for bed. It is Eileen's last night, and she packs. It has been wonderful spending this time with her, a real luxury. I feel like I have packed a lot into our week together and wonder whether the next week on my own will feel anticlimactic.
Eileen leaves for the airport Monday morning. I go to a course at the Collège de France in the afternoon. This course taught by a contemporary artist is called "Art Survivra à ses Ruines". Not really sure what it's all about. Something about imposing geometric forms on landscapes and female nudes. Lot's wife becoming a crystal, a pillar of salt. Floorplans superimposed on the ocean. Seeing the geometry in natural forms. Greek columns and their proportions and their conflicting angles. Soviet and Nazi architecture.
There is a chart showing the number pi represented as an unending spiral of digits. The idea is that pi is a metaphor for art. You can never arrive at the final digit of pi. The artist can never arrive at the completion of a work of art; one can approach it but never attain it.
I stop at a charcuterie for a takeout dinner after class. Feeling deprived of vegetables, I buy a container of mixed small vegetables and two marinated artichokes. I add some good charcuterie and a blood orange for a very satisfying supper at home.
Our train ride back to Paris Sunday morning is significantly more peaceful than Saturday's journey, and we return to our apartment without incident. I am off to see Cendrillon by Massenet at the Opéra Comique. This is a very enjoyable opera with which I have no prior familiarity. When I bought this ticket, I didn't know Eileen would still be in Paris, so I go alone.
Dinner Sunday is at Chez Margot in our neighborhood. I have already crossed the city three times today since the train ride and am ready to do something within walking distance. After a smoked salmon platter and duck confit, I am ready for bed. It is Eileen's last night, and she packs. It has been wonderful spending this time with her, a real luxury. I feel like I have packed a lot into our week together and wonder whether the next week on my own will feel anticlimactic.
Eileen leaves for the airport Monday morning. I go to a course at the Collège de France in the afternoon. This course taught by a contemporary artist is called "Art Survivra à ses Ruines". Not really sure what it's all about. Something about imposing geometric forms on landscapes and female nudes. Lot's wife becoming a crystal, a pillar of salt. Floorplans superimposed on the ocean. Seeing the geometry in natural forms. Greek columns and their proportions and their conflicting angles. Soviet and Nazi architecture.
There is a chart showing the number pi represented as an unending spiral of digits. The idea is that pi is a metaphor for art. You can never arrive at the final digit of pi. The artist can never arrive at the completion of a work of art; one can approach it but never attain it.
I stop at a charcuterie for a takeout dinner after class. Feeling deprived of vegetables, I buy a container of mixed small vegetables and two marinated artichokes. I add some good charcuterie and a blood orange for a very satisfying supper at home.
Mar 25th, 2011, 12:56 PM
#34
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 3,585
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Nikki, I love reading your trip reports! You must spend a good deal of time researching before you leave home.
I sometimes feel like quite a dullard when I can spend a week or more in Paris just roaming around, eating and drinking, delighted to be there but doing nothing cerebral! I admire you taking all of the classes and finding all of the concerts.
I sometimes feel like quite a dullard when I can spend a week or more in Paris just roaming around, eating and drinking, delighted to be there but doing nothing cerebral! I admire you taking all of the classes and finding all of the concerts.
Mar 25th, 2011, 01:23 PM
#35
Original Poster
Tuesday morning I wake up with a bad back. Uh oh. I have had some episodes of disabling back spasms in the past and I do not want to bring that on. I wonder whether I should go to the activities that are planned for today, and I decide to take the day and the decisions one step at a time. I do as many stretching exercises as I can, and I put heat on my back. By lunch time I feel it is possible that I can walk to the cafe on the corner, so I do. I have lunch at the Sully, and I am somewhat optimistic about getting in the rest of the day's agenda.
I take the bus to the Collège de France for the course on 1966. My timing is off and I am there over an hour before the class. But it is impossible to get anywhere too early for the French audience, it appears. The lecture hall is about one third full already. I read my book and settle in to wait for the class. With half an hour to go, the room is completely filled. When the class begins, the old gentleman next to me is asleep.
Today the professor speaks about one of the books on his bibliography that I am in the middle of reading, and it actually helps me to make some sense of a very complex book (Blanche ou l'Oubli, by Aragon). The guest lecturer for the second hour talks about the contemporary art scene in France in 1966 and shows lots of pictures.
So far, so good. The heat and the stretching appear to be working on my back, and I have a croque monsieur and a salad at a cafe before going to the theater. I have tickets to see Quelqu'un Comme Vous, a new two man play at the Théâtre du Rond-Point. This turns out to be a happening place in a round building containing one large theater and one smaller one, showing contemporary plays by living playwrights. The restaurant on the lower level appears to be doing a brisk business and there is a bookstore well stocked with theatrical works. I am reminded of the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh where I saw several plays during the Festival Fringe a few years ago, as well as the Magic Theatre in San Francisco, where I spent a very enjoyable evening at the theater in February.
The current play stars an older established actor, Jacques Weber, and the younger singer Bénabar, making his theatrical debut. I am very familiar with Bénabar's music, and that is what called my attention to this play. I am not sure whether I will catch all the action in a comedy that I have not read, depending on how fast paced the dialogue is, but it will be interesting in any case.
The play is over in less than an hour and a half, and it appears that I am not the only member of the audience who is somewhat perplexed. The play has elements of the theater of the absurd, but it appears to morph into a different genre entirely and becomes a mystery, sort of. It is not entirely successful for me, but it has been an interesting evening in any event, and I buy the book so I can read it and see what I missed. It turns out that I missed a few crucial points, so I am glad when I do read it back in the apartment.
I take the bus to the Collège de France for the course on 1966. My timing is off and I am there over an hour before the class. But it is impossible to get anywhere too early for the French audience, it appears. The lecture hall is about one third full already. I read my book and settle in to wait for the class. With half an hour to go, the room is completely filled. When the class begins, the old gentleman next to me is asleep.
Today the professor speaks about one of the books on his bibliography that I am in the middle of reading, and it actually helps me to make some sense of a very complex book (Blanche ou l'Oubli, by Aragon). The guest lecturer for the second hour talks about the contemporary art scene in France in 1966 and shows lots of pictures.
So far, so good. The heat and the stretching appear to be working on my back, and I have a croque monsieur and a salad at a cafe before going to the theater. I have tickets to see Quelqu'un Comme Vous, a new two man play at the Théâtre du Rond-Point. This turns out to be a happening place in a round building containing one large theater and one smaller one, showing contemporary plays by living playwrights. The restaurant on the lower level appears to be doing a brisk business and there is a bookstore well stocked with theatrical works. I am reminded of the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh where I saw several plays during the Festival Fringe a few years ago, as well as the Magic Theatre in San Francisco, where I spent a very enjoyable evening at the theater in February.
The current play stars an older established actor, Jacques Weber, and the younger singer Bénabar, making his theatrical debut. I am very familiar with Bénabar's music, and that is what called my attention to this play. I am not sure whether I will catch all the action in a comedy that I have not read, depending on how fast paced the dialogue is, but it will be interesting in any case.
The play is over in less than an hour and a half, and it appears that I am not the only member of the audience who is somewhat perplexed. The play has elements of the theater of the absurd, but it appears to morph into a different genre entirely and becomes a mystery, sort of. It is not entirely successful for me, but it has been an interesting evening in any event, and I buy the book so I can read it and see what I missed. It turns out that I missed a few crucial points, so I am glad when I do read it back in the apartment.
Mar 25th, 2011, 01:30 PM
#36
Original Poster
Thank you for all the continuing encouragement.
Cathinjoetown, I am not familiar with that book. Thanks for the recommendation.
Ted, just don't take the apartment when I want to go back. You can come over any time though.
Seafox, I have a tete de veau story too. When I was in college, I traveled to Paris with two friends. We all understood enough French to know what tete de veau means, but we couldn't really picture what would arrive if we ordered it. So we asked the waiter, who brought over an English speaking waiter who said, with a solemn expression, "head of veal". Yup, that's what we thought. We did not order it, so I still do not know exactly what shows up on the plate.
Cathinjoetown, I am not familiar with that book. Thanks for the recommendation.
Ted, just don't take the apartment when I want to go back. You can come over any time though.
Seafox, I have a tete de veau story too. When I was in college, I traveled to Paris with two friends. We all understood enough French to know what tete de veau means, but we couldn't really picture what would arrive if we ordered it. So we asked the waiter, who brought over an English speaking waiter who said, with a solemn expression, "head of veal". Yup, that's what we thought. We did not order it, so I still do not know exactly what shows up on the plate.
