ninasdream

Really enjoying your report. It's like being there again. I put a return trip to Paris together with help from this board a few years ago. As a solo, I recognize: feeling a little blue at times, afraid of being mistaken as a predator if I photographed children for too long, stocking my little frig from local markets, but I love hearing what makes the trip uniquely yours. Keep it coming!

adrienne

Last October I remember having quite a few meals of tomato and cucumber salad and slides of ham with bread, of course. You're right that you can eat inexpensively in Paris, just like at home.

Thanks for the tip about St. Denis. I was there quite a few years ago and I'm putting it on my itinerary for my next trip.

LCBoniti

Oh, that last entry had me laughing as well!

However, it's not just the French. Years ago we were in Mexico visiting my then-father-in-law and my Spanish was not yet very good. He used to try to communicate in verrrry slooowww sign language, as if I were not just unable to speak Spanish but mentally retarded as well.

Of course, I have since seen people here in the US practically yelling at non-English speakers as if not speaking English means they are also hard of hearing. Somehow it is more charming when done by a Frenchman or a Mexican.

Apres_Londee

I spent quite a few moments on this trip feeling mildly retarded, but then who I am kidding? I feel that way at home.

The royal tombs at the St Denis Basilica are fascinating, and anyone with an interest in history should make them a top priority in Paris. I spent a good two hours wondering through this part of the basilica, and was delighted to discover lots of old graffiti scratched into some of the statues. I love graffiti to begin with, but when it's centuries old I get a real thrill. I should put up some photos, even thought they didn't turn out super great.

Speaking of which, when I was going through my pictures deciding which ones to put up online, I noticed a strange thing in a couple of my photos from St Denis.

In one, I caught a guy sort of grabbing his crotch. Nice, I thought. Perfect timing, Apres.

Then again, another one of a guy with his hand at his crotch. I must have a special talent or something.

Then I looked a little more closely and saw it was the same guy in both pictures. I looked again and realized the guy grabbing his crotch was Vladimir Putin.

Not THE Vladimir Putin. MY Vladimir Putin.

My Vladimir Putin is a weirdo I encountered at St Denis, and I call him that because he looks a lot like...(you guessed it)...Vladimir Putin.

That I inadvertently caught him more than once on camera with his hand so suspiciously positioned makes me go ewwww. But I need to back up a little before I get into my Vladimir Putin story.

Apres_Londee

When I first came up from the metro in St Denis and walked to the basilica, I took note of my surrounding right away.

Things were shabbier here, the buildings not so attractive or well maintained. The main street that runs down the centre of the town was full of people-white, brown, and black; fat and thin; young and old. Definately working class.

The street was lined with discount stores, halal food shops, and take-away windows. A few non-descript, busy cafes spilled out into the public square in front of the basilica. There were cars and vespas zooming around at a pace more akin to the traffic as I remembered it in Florence.

There was a certain kind of intensity and energy in St Denis, very different from that in my neighborhood in Paris, and very different from that in the Marais.

I took an instant liking to St Denis and knew right away I would do some exploring once I done touring the basilica.

I had a lot of fun walking down the main street in this carnival atmosphere. The delicious scent of roasted meat wafted from the doner kebap windows. Sometimes music would blare from the front of the shops, or from a passing car. Groups of teenage girls in tight jeans and heavy make-up shopped in groups at the discount clothing and shoe stores. Mothers pushed their babies in strollers, surrounded by their other children who skipped and played as they followed along.

People made an effort to flag down anyone they saw whom they knew- when friends and acquaintances ran into each other, they shook hands (the men) or kissed (the woman) and they always stopped to chat for several minutes. I was so taken by all this, I was snapping pictures like crazy.

One thing I did find a little unnerving was the staring men. In the midst of all this buoyancy were lots of men, young and old, sometimes alone and sometimes in groups, always with an intense look on their face and and always staring.

You can see this look in a couple of my pictures- men staring directly into the camera.

During my entire time in St Denis, I had several pairs of eyes looking at me exactly like that. They don't try to hide it, or look away if you meet their gaze. And it wasn't just young men but old men too, with grey beards and leathery skin.

Sometimes the old men had the slightest (and I do mean slight) glimmer of humour in their eyes. Not so with the young men. They were always dead straight and serious.

It was unnerving, but on the busy streets full of families I never felt unsafe or even all that uncomfortable. I walked the length of the main centre street, then tuned to the right and walked up the length of a parallel street that wasn't so busy, not a shopping street but more residential with apartment buildings and more traffic zooming down the road.

I wandered a bit through some side streets that connected to the main centre road. I passed by an old building that has been converted into a covered market- the market was unfortunately closed by the time I walked by. I was getting hungry by this time.

Apres_Londee

I finally spied a large, impeccably clean and tidy produce store. I thought I'd go in and pick up some fruit. I was putting my camera away as I walked towards the entrance, when suddenly a man in a red coat came running out waving at me, "Bonjour, bonjour!"

He wanted me to come inside and take a picture of the store. He was so warm and genuine, I was happy to come in and take a picture. He yelled to some unseen employees at the back of the shop- "there’s a tourist here, she’s going to take some photos. Fix yourselves up!" We all laughed.

He posed for his photo- I’ve got it up online, it's quite funny- then he suggested I take a picture of the apples, which I did. He was pleased with the results, which I showed him on my camera. I couldn't understand everything he was saying, though I think he wanted me to show the picture to people back home. He hugged me and patted my shoulders, smiling the entire time, and we said our au revoirs and he wished me a bonne journee.

As I walked away from the store, I realized I never bought any fruit for my lunch. Darn.

And yes, I did check my bag and my wallet, I'm a little ashamed to admit. Everything was there and in order, of course.

I was still hungry but in good spirits. I made my way back towards to the main square in front of the basilica. I heard some music, it sounded like folk music, some sort of horn maybe and it sounded live.

As I approached the square, I had to stop and rub my eyes. There, sitting outdoors at one of the cafes having a beer, was a small group of men dressed in white robes and turbans. The slippers on their feet even curled up a bit at the toe.

Now I knew that St Denis had a prominent Muslim population, but this was ridiculous.

I thought I must be hallucinating.

It turned out, however, that I wasn't hallucinaing at all. These men were musicians, and they were playing for a huge Arabic wedding, and the festivities were unfolding over on the front steps of the hotel de ville. As far as I was concerned, I'd struck pay dirt. I knew this was going to be fun, and I was right.

fieldtripcoordinator

Apres_Londee, I so thoroughly enjoyed reading all your posts. Did you keep a travel journal during your trip?

Your photos are fantastic! it inspires me to do the unordinary.

I have a trip planned to 5 countries in Europe next May. You're an inspiration!

Apres_Londee

I wasn't the only one hanging around to watch the musicians and the outdoor wedding events. It almost seemed like the entire town had congregated around the square, shopping bags in hand, to see the wedding and listen to the music. Those sitting at the cafe tables had prime spots. Everyone else found benches, ledges, and steps to sit on, or just stood or wondered around.

Sometimes the musicians would start up with their horns even when the wedding party was inside, just to amuse everyone else. Kids in the square loved it, toddlers would start wiggling their bums and kids would start dancing and skipping around.

One older man actually started dancing, he was good doing all this fast foot work. I never would have thought an older man like him would be capable of it. People were cheering, laughing and clapping, and some of the women would make that high pitched yodel, lalalalalalala.

The wedding party would come out on the steps of the hotel de ville every once and a while and obviously the bride and groom were doing some sort ceremonial things outside but it was impossible to see them because they were surrounded by their HUGE wedding party, which was multi-racial and multi-ethnic, a very diverse group of people. Sometimes rice was tossed. At one point they released a pair of white doves.

People applauded, even those who not a part of the wedding but just hanging around watching. It was like a gigantic party where everyone in town was in attendance.

The whole time kids played in the square, football or riding bikes or skateboards or rollerblades or just plain old running around playing tag. There was such a strong sense of community here. Everyone looked happy. There weren't even that many sullen staring men around the square.

I stood for some time near the tables of a shabby little cafe, watching and taking photos. Other people were taking pictures, too so I didn’t feel completely ridiculous or out of place. I know I was smiling the whole time, and I was really enjoying myself. That's when a man who had been hanging around the cafe with a bunch of other guys came over and said bonjour (not Vladimir Putin)

He was black, from Senegal he said and he asked me to take his picture. I was in a good mood and had just come from the friendly and fun experience I had with the man in the red coat at the produce store, so....

I warned him that it was a digital camera- no photo would come out like a Polaroid.

He sounded sincere when he said I could take his picture and then show my friends back home in Canada that I had met someone from Senegal.

He wasn't a dodgy sort, and seemed nice enough. I agreed and took his picture, and we had a chuckle when I showed him the image on the back of my camera. I figured that would be the end of it, like with the red coat man at the produce store.

Senegal man seemed to ask to for a copy of the photo. As his English was as good as my French, we weren't really able to communicate all that smoothly, and I felt a little bad because I though maybe he had misunderstood me.

I apologized and explained to him again that I wouldn't have any photos printed out, it was impossible to give him a copy. He seemed to accept this, and we parted ways, meaning he went back to his friends in the cafe and I stayed where I was watching the wedding party and the crowds.

A few minutes later Senegal man came back. He suggested I come back tomorrow to bring him the photo. My stomach sank. I was pretty sure he understood me when I said there would be no paper photos. Besides, he would know what a digital camera was.

He was asking me to print out the photo and come back to see him. I remained polite and told him no, I was sorry but I wouldn't be coming back this way again. He tried to talk a little more, but I told I didn't understand. He left me alone again. I was kicking myself.

I felt stupid and a little guilty because I knew better than to have agreed to take his photo and chat, no matter how briefly. I was about to move along when seconds later he materialized again. This time there was no pretense about the photo, his face was more serious and he was asking me to come back somewhere with him right now since I wasn't able to come back tomorrow.

I took that as my cue to leave. I said no and shook my head, no longer smiling, and walked away. I felt like the world's stupidest girl. It was embarrassing to have been so naive, and I hoped not too many people witnessed our exchange. I could just imagine other people rolling their eyes at the stupid white girl tourist.

That's when Vladimir Putin made his first approach- this strange little middle-aged white man who darted in front of me muttering something about taking his picture.

No way.

I shook my head and kept walking. Now I was more than a little annoyed. I thought about the vendors at the market the day before, the ones who were staring and calling out.

They seemed so especially benign now. At least they had a sense of humour and did what they did in fun. And I remembered how I regretted leaving the market, too shy to buy anything. I didn't really want to leave St Denis just yet. I wanted to keep looking around, and the wedding was still in full swing.

I decided I wouldn't give up just yet. I decided to leave the square for now and walk around the area to the left of the basilica.

Before I made it around the corner, Vladimir Putin swooped in for another try. More muttering. I said "Non, non, non" and waved him away and ignored him and kept walking. He quickly darted out of view, like an insect.

My decision to stay and wonder down the street on the other side was a good one. This was a narrow, crooked little street, not too busy but still with people about.

Lots more serious staring men, but none approached me so what did I care? I took a million photographs and my good mood was restored.

I saw an Islamic bookshop that sold religious and scholarly texts. Outside there was a spinning carousel of postcards, each depicting a single Arabic hieroglyphic done in blue ink calligraphy. They were beautiful, and I wanted one for a souvenir.

I peered through the window of the shop. At the cash was a thin young man who looked severely intellectual. He had a studious, handsome face and skin the colour of coffee and cream. He wore thick chunky glasses and a kufi, and his head was bent down in front of a book.

The shop looked as quiet and reverential as a library. I may as well have been staring through the looking glass. There was no way I could barge in there with my bad French and my fists stuffed with postcards, dusty and sweaty with my hair down around my shoulders and melting red lipstick on my mouth.

It would be a travesty to violate that cool, studied atmosphere. I just couldn't do it. I sighed and put the postcards back. I wish I could have taken a picture of the young man through the window, but it just wasn't possible.

Apres_Londee

Thank you, fieldtripcoordinator- you must be looking forward to your trip for next May, what countries are you planning to visit?

I didn't keep an actual diary or journal because I'm too lazy, but I did jot down notes so I could remember little things that struck me, conversations I overheard and the like.

These posts here are pretty much just me rambling on (and on and on and on) and I know I'd better start cutting the fat and speed it up and spit it out already. I never shut up once I start talking in real life, either.

I really didn't do anything or go anywhere out of the ordinary on this trip, and my itinerary was far from action packed. But being alone and trying to do the trip as low budget as possible afforded me some opportunities that I otherwise would have never had. Nothing big and splashy, but little things.

kerouac

It is indeed possible to get flustered from just one unfortunate encounter, but I'm sure you saw how quickly the incident is put aside, if not completely forgotten.

It's one of the reasons that I carry my camera in a ratty plastic bag in certain places and just whip it out from time to time for a quick photo.

Travelnut

I enjoyed the 'people' photos, too, but have always been too self-conscious to take photos of people where I thought they would notice me doing so. It seems intrusive somehow, and I thought there was some privacy/legality related to it in France?

Apres_Londee

Another interesting thing I saw on this street was a hookah bar, with tables and chairs outside on the sidewalk. And this wasn't some trendy place for Nathan Barleys either. A few men sat at the tables outside, smoking and staring. Again, I would have loved to take a picture but didn't dare.

I returned to the square and decided to find a seat on a bench when who should pop up but Vladimir Putin. This guy was getting on my nerves. He was easy enough to wave off, but the problem was that he kept coming back.

I drank some water and ate a half-melted zone bar I found at the bottom of my bag. The sun was hot. I people watched and took pictures. Vladimir Putin darted by a few more times, always the same thing. As if I had changed my mind in the 10 minutes since he last asked me to take his picture.

The wedding party had broken up, and families were starting to go home. It was after 4pm and I had been in St Denis since 10am that morning. I had also had enough of Vladimir Putin. It was time to leave. I figured I could still make the Musee l'Orangerie if I hurried.

While walking to the metro station, I turned back to look at the square one more time and that's when I saw that Vladimir Putin was following me. He saw me notice him and he zigzagging off to one side, in that weird, insect-like walk he had.

When I stopped to take some photos of kids playing basketball, there he was again. This was getting tiresome. As I walked, I would around every once and a while and there he would be. This was just what I needed. He even approached me again, this time muttering how I was "tres belle" and how he would like to -

"Non, non, non!" I kept repeating. He was starting to really creep me out. I flipped open my cell phone and pretended to make a call. Thankfully he scattered away.

I kept the phone to my ear as I came up to the metro entrance. I looked around. No sign of him. I wasn't reassured. Vladimir Putin had a bad habit of appearing out of nowhere.

The metro steps were empty, with no other people coming up or going down. I knew it was a bit of a long walk through the tunnel to the train tracks. I looked around again. No Vladimir Putin to be seen.

He was relatively short, and not at all muscular. I'm almost 5'9", and my legs are pretty strong. It was a one in a gazillion chance, but if worst came to absolute worst, I was sure I could take him on. Well, sure enough, at least, to calm somewhat the alarm bells going off in my stomach.

I was hot, I hadn't had enough to eat, and for the first and only time on the trip I was actually nervous about my safety. And I was angry at myself too, because it was all my own doing. I am sure Vladimir Putin saw me with the man from Senegal.

Well, the metro stairs weren't getting any more populated, so there was no sense in waiting. I was going to miss the l'Orangerie if I hung around much longer. That gave me a push, the thought of missing the l'Orangerie because I allowed myself to get too scared to go down into the metro because of someone as stupid and ridiculous as Vladimir Putin.

I made my way down, glancing over my shoulder every few steps. When I reached the bottom I looked ahead and breathed a huge sigh of relief- I wasn’t alone.

There was an old Maghreb man with a turban and brown leathery skin and kind brown eyes selling what looked like produce from a garden. He was sitting on the floor with a make-shift table in front of him and handwritten signs indicating what he had for sale and at what price. He didn't stare. He had a gentle air about him.

With a sense of gratitude I bought two small cantaloupes. I handed over my money. He gestured and put a coin back into my hand, smiling. I had overpaid. The melons were two for 2€, not 2€ each.

He had a face like a kind grandfather. I knew instinctively he wouldn't let anything terrible happen to me. If Vladimir Putin showed up, I'd have nothing to worry about.

Feeling much better, I made it to the metro tracks without any problems. I was home-free and feeling more than a little silly for having been so nervous. It wasn't until I got home (I mean home home) that I realized I have a couple of photos of Vladimir Putin grabbing his crotch. So I have some lovely souvenirs to remember him by.

Apres_Londee

MUSEE L'ORANGERIE

I was tired after my day in St Denis, but I was determined to make it to the Musee l'Orangerie that afternoon.

Of course I walked in the wrong direction after coming up from the Concorde metro station, and this stressed me out because it was after 5pm and I worried about the time.

I was also dying of thirst- I stopped in a tabac on rue de Rivoli and bought a bottle of spring water. I over-paid (again!) and again my mistake was corrected with a smile. So twice in one day someone had the opportunity to make a couple of extra euros off a dumb tourist, but didn't.

I finally made it into the museum, doing my best not to visibly limp. I needed to sit down. I headed directly to Monet's Waterlilies and found a spot on the bench. There were other tourists but the museum was far from crowded. I think it was about 5:30pm.

It was a lovely spot to refresh, cool and quiet and surrounded by those beautiful paintings. I loved seeing people's reactions as they entered the gallery, especially one group of three tittering American teenaged girls whose mouths literally fell open and whose eyes actually bulged as they walked in and saw the paintings. They were speechless. For several minutes. That first look on their faces was priceless.

After 15 or 20 minutes I was good to get going through the rest of the museum. Knowing my time was short I decided to bypass the very pretty (but perhaps somewhat dull) Renoirs in the hallway and headed directly to the good stuff around the corner.

Once again, I was transported to heaven by what I saw.

Once again, I overheard a silly English-speaking tourist in front of a Picasso. This time it a younger guy announcing to his female companion, in all seriousness, "You know some of his stuff isn’t all that bad."

I'm sure I shot him a dirty look. Me, I loved the Picassos, especially "Woman with Comb". I loved the Derains. I loved the Modiglianis.

But most of all, I loved the Chaim Soutines.

I was envious of the museum employee who got to sit in his chair and gaze at those Soutines all day. And in that gallery he could be quite lazy, no telling people to turn off their flash or to stop leaning in so close to the paintings because 99% of the people in the museum just walked by the Soutines without giving them a second glance.

It was as though that gallery was an exit through-way.

It really annoyed me, seeing everyone ignore Soutine like that. I wanted to pull those people back and scream, "Are you blind? This is the best painter in the whole museum!"

(It's possible I may have gotten a little too much sun in St Denis)

The museum was starting to close up when I left. It was beautiful outside. I found a spot on a bench to give my feet another rest. Then I walked back over the Concorde metro station, taking picture of the Jardin Tuleries and the Place de Concorde along the way.

To my surprise, at one point I heard what was by now a familiar refrain at my side- a male voice calling "bonjour, madame!"....or was it mademoiselle? I can't remember, but it was getting tiresome. I didn't turn around, just walked away.

I was much too tired to go to the concert at St Merri that night. All I wanted to do was go home, have a shower, eat dinner, and relax, so that’s exactly what I did.

Apres_Londee

Travelnut, I did my best to be discrete when I was taking "people shots" (zoom lens feature on my Canon came in handy for that)Usually I would take street shots and then zoom in on someone interesting. They were taken very quickly, and I have a million shots, many of them botched attempts. Most of the ones I kept and put online aren't so great.

I'd also take a bunch of photos all around the person I was hoping to get, so when I aimed at them it didn't seem so obvious (I hoped). No one seemed fazed by it. There were many, many shots I would have loved to have taken, but knew I couldn't without being obvious or rude, so I didn't.

Kerouac, I did indeed put the incident aside, though I was more annoyed at myself than anything because it was my own fault. I've chalked it up to experience and a silly memory.

nessa_L

I love your writing! Please continue.

kerouac

Soutine's daughter lives in the same corridor as my mother in her nursing home. She paints in her wheelchair all day. I don't know what happens to all of the paintings. She has no financial resources, and she receives no visits.

Apres_Londee

What a sad, sad thing to hear. And so strange to think that someone here more or less knows Chaim Soutine's daughter.

I know very little about Soutine. I did a google search and it took me some time but I finally found this article written for the Smithsonian Magazine in 1988:

http://tinyurl.com/53hjko

The only mention of his daughter is this: "An affair with a Russian Jewish model produced a daughter, but he refused to support the child."

I would imagine she had a very hard life.

I wonder if her mother ever married, and how did she survive the holocaust? I can't stop imaging it, this lonely old woman in a wheelchair painting canvases like crazy all day long. What a story she must have to tell.

Back to Soutine himself, I like this quote from the Smithsonian article:

"A visitor to the Musee de l'Orangerie...will feel the power and fury of Soutine like nowhere else on Earth."

I'm making a plea to anyone who is planning a visit to the l'Orangerie-please remember to pause a while in the Chaim Soutine gallery, and take a good look at the paintings there.

I know they knocked the breath out of me.

Nikki

Thanks for sharing so many of your personal thoughts and reactions; I really enjoyed reading about your adventures in St. Denis. Now I'm off to the Orangerie website to see if they have pictures of the Soutines that I must have under-appreciated while concentrating on those pretty Renoirs in the hallway.

moolyn

Apres, I just had a chance to catch up on your very informative and enjoyable report. I loved your portraits of everyday and not so everyday people and your inclination to concentrate on places you especially enjoyed rather than impossibly trying to see everything. I look forward to meeting you at the Toronto GTG in August.

kerouac

Today, I attended the Mother's Day festivities in the nursing home. Tomorrow is Mother's Day in France, so the nursing home does it a day early, since a few mothers will actually be taken out by their children tomorrow. Today there was one old lady in tears. "I'm looking for my son!" I don't think her son ever came. He might not even be alive. Who knows?

Anyway, I just wanted to say that Anna Soutine was there in her wheelchair. She's a very nice lady, but absolutely nobody ever visits her except for the professional volunteer visiting people. She said hello to me and I said hello to her, as usual. The nursing home does really good foie gras canapés, little crab cakes, smoked salmon triangles and 20 other little goodies... and then they bring out the little desserts. The champagne flows well beyond reason.

I am just happy that nursing homes in Paris understand there there is no reason to deprive old people of good things, and that there is absolutely no reason to force them to consume only things that are good for them.

I would have liked to say to Anna Soutine that people still greatly admire her father all over the world, but I don't even know if she remembers her father.