Lost in a good bookshop

Two months since I last posted! It's almost as if I've had nothing to talk about (how can you write sarcasm?) In the last nine weeks I've been north to Lille, where I discovered a canal that everyone seems to fall into and a French version of Welsh rarebit (God knows why); south to Marseilles and Aix-en-Pronvence, where I spotted the far from elusive cagolle and ran a half marathon with more ups and downs than a week's worth of Eastenders (well done on your first semi-marathon Elodie) and east to Duisburg, old German stamping ground and home to some of the finest examples of what people brought up pre-Facebook would call 'friends'. I've also been the star of a film student's video, beat a backgammon nemesis and oh yes, decided to leave Paris (not for discussion now).

This week, however, has been a little more arty. Music has featured strongly, with Tuesday's pilgrimage to Zenith to marvel at the longevity and get on down with the sheer rhinestone-studded cool of Texan blues-rock granddaddies ZZ Top. A lot less hip, the annual Fete de la Musique (or "how many times can somebody butcher U2?") on Friday saw the customers of Chez Gudule having the chance (or misfortune) to witness dancing a la Kad.

More sedate, though certainly not lacking charm, was the book signing at the Abbey Book Shop (29, Rue de la Parcheminerie, 5eme, home of the Canadian Club). The apartment opposite is allegedly home of French movie siren Isabelle Adjani, but we weren't here to spot celebrities. Perennial maitresse de la culture, Elodie, had invited me along to this little gem of a literary corner in the Marais to hear extracts from the book "Je t'aime, me neither", a tale of romantic adventure and misadventure in the City of Light, by her friend and self published Canadian author April Lily Heise. Though Lily herself was brilliantly bubbly - as was the free flowing champagne - and there was the occasional opportunity to meet the odd literary celeb (among them "A Year in the Merde" author Stephen Clarke, though not the fabled Adjani) the real star was the librairie itself.

A warm, Canadian welcome at the Abbey

Genius minus the gimmicks:give me this over Waterstone's anytime!

                                 
Set up in 1989 by amiable Canadian expat Brian Spence and squirrelled away in a cobbled alleyway, barely four people across, the Abbey is everything you'd want a little, old bookshop to be. In a kind of literary Tardis, warm, wooden shelves stretched for miles, literally piled from floorboards to rafters with fact and fiction, poetry, plays and prose (see photos). Forget a few hours, I could have lost myself for days in there, amongst the teetering towers and criss-crossing corridors, there was even a cellar for everything they couldn't fit upstairs.

As I left, clutching my signed copy of Je t'aime (for a friend!) and a novel in verse on the possible post-mortem exploits of Christopher Marlowe, I couldn't help wondering if Carlos Ruiz Zafon had found inspiration in the Abbey for his mythical "Cemetery of Lost Books" and if Isabelle Adjani actually knew how good a bookshop she had across the road.

Links:

The Abbey's Facebook page (I had too!):
https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Abbey-Bookshop/19922251361

Lily's book and blog:
http://jetaimemeneither.com/about/

Manger comme une marathonienne (Le first course)

Note: This post will vaguely resemble "The Hobbit" film (one short story, three parts, plenty of little treasures, minus the hairy feet)

My brother and his fiancée recently announced their engagement. What better place to spend the weekend than the romantic capital of Europe? However on this occasion the future Mr and Mrs Ben Kadinopoulos were not here to smooch along the Champ du Mars. No, they were down to run the Paris marathon - most people just go out for a nice meal - and my mum and step dad and I were here to lend our support.

My brother is a veteran of several IronMan triathlons and Pippa (his financée) too is a keen marathon runner, so they both knew exactly what had to be done to minimise pain and to optimise performance in the crucial 48hrs before the race. Ben had unfortunately had to pull out at the last minute due to illness, but that meant he became "super coach".

Intersections of key kilometre markers on the marathon route and metro lines were plotted on the smartphone; wake up and meeting times were to be noted and adhered to as were (just as importantly) types and times of nutritional intake (for Pippa, not the rest of us. As the host and so judged to be more in the know about such things, I was tasked to find the eateries for the marathon weekend, "Gulp!" But I needn't have worried. In terms of impact on the race I will call the three meals "Bulk", "Balance" and "Bonanza", for reasons that will become apparent. Anyone not doing a marathon anytime soon, don't be concerned these restos are well worth a visit no matter your athletic prowess.

T-36: BULK: Mission: Carbo-cramming to store up enough energy for the exertions ahead.
Venue: Au Père Tranquille, 16 Rue Pierre Lescot (Metro Station: Les Halles, Exit: Porte Lescot):

A word of warning for the uninitiated: anybody wanting to reach this lovely bistro will have to navigate their way through part of Europe's largest metro station. With more possible exits than there are hours in a day, the terrible triumvirate of Chatelet, Chatelet-Les Halles and Les Halles, cause even the most adroit Parisien to lose their cool, their nerve and their way. This is before you have to negotiate the labyrinthine, 4-level building site of a shopping centre. Needless to say I picked the wrong exit and so it was half an hour (and a long walk) later before we finally sat down in the gorgeous, mirror-cielinged, book-lined first floor of Au Père Tranquille.

Menu:
Pippa: Penne a la Chorizo a family-sized salad bowl of carb and wonderfully spicy sausage. - Crepe au Nutella
Ben: Omelette Auvergnant  or in Ben's word's "a proper omelette", at least a four-egger stuffed with jambon paysan. - Crepe au Sucre
Moi: Salade de Berger or "has anyone seen my lettuce?" where the salad stuff came a poor fifth place to creamy rounds of chèvre on crispy toast with more jambon paysan and set off with crunchy walnuts - Crème Brûlée
Wine: (none for the runner of course!): A well rounded Côte du Rhône
Service: Easy going with an easy smile. L'addition: Easy going on the wallet too: 52 Euros the lot.

Notes: 1: It is incredibly poor form to crack the top of SOMEONE ELSE'S Crème Brûlée!
           2: I swear, the metro sign told me to take that way back!

Mes dammes, mesieurs, Le second course will be with you shortly.

La Mélange St Martin

It's been quite a couple of weeks. After "The Run" (Paris Half Marathon, phew!) came "The Holiday" (see last post) and then "The Match" (Wales thrashing England to regain the 6 Nations). Life chez Fourfolds needed a dose of normality. Amongst other things, this meant getting back to pounding Parisian walkways on the Sunday run with Elodie.

True to form, though, we had a new route which, thank God, avoided the tourist-choked banks of the Seine. This one was all about canals. Mind you, you would never have noticed it at first glance, as we trundled past the brocante browsing folk along Boulevard Richard Lenoir (10th). The only clues were the wide, riverine strip of grey-brown gravel separating the two parts of the road and the randomly spaced,  round concrete structures topped with what appear to be steel tent frames.

A sweeping curve took us onto Blvd Jules Ferry, then, just as a glance left would have revealed the column of Place de la République, the central reservation fell away and revealed the Canal St Martin, which had been previously hidden below street level all the way down to just south of Place de la Bastille.

Now you see me...: Exit and entrance of Canal St Martin

The doughty wooden locks dividing the waterway are framed by flat-arched bridges, upon which you can pause and gaze down upon some of the best-named streets in Paris. To the northeast you have Rue de la Grange aux Belles ('The street of beautiful barns'), to the southwest Rue Dieu ('God Street') joins Rue Beaurepaire (sounds like 'well renovated street') and further north, my favourite, Rue Vinaigriers ('Vinegar makers street' - they had to be somewhere!). Hopefully no need for their services at BANG! a local restaurant, well known as a paradise for Parisian carnivores, fitting, as the area used to be home to the city's abattoir and slaughterhouse district.

...Attack: Street art from Da Cruz

Art...

As anywhere else in Paris, graffiti was an ever present feature here, the most impressive examples being  from the portfolio of DaCruz, a specialist in strikingly geometrical forms with somewhat of an ancient central American theme. His and other street artists' work was probably the only reason you would have stopped outside Point Ephémère, just south west of Métro Jaurès, unless you also happened to know that it was artist workshop, dance studio and

Covering a multitude of sins: Point Ephémère

music venue rolled into one.


Less obtrusive, yet still eye-catching, colour had been added to the scene through the macaroon pink, green and yellow triptych of shopfronts declaring the wares of Antoine et Lilly, purveyors of fashion and fripperies to young and slightly less young.

In the pink: Just part of Antoine et Lili

Following the waterway into the 19th now, we negotiated a mini Spaghetti Junction of road and railway, under which the canal was squeezed only to double its original size upon entering the Basin de Villette - if you missed the time of your film showing on one side, there was an identical picture house on the opposite bank. The wide, cobbled towpaths must provide a wonderful post-séance repos in the Summer.

All major transport arteries have their junctions and Canal St Martin's was mightily impressive to behold. At the point the stream divided - northwest as the Canal St Denis and continuing northeast as the Canal de l'Ourque - stands ( or rather sprawls) Parc de la Villette.

Abutting the circling Peripherique, Villette appears to hold something for everyone. If lounging on, or jogging around, the massive expanse of lawn isn't cerebral enough for you, you could try a visit to Leanardo da Vinci expo at the Cité des Sciences, the giant steel-girded exhibition hall. An otherworldly cinema experience can surely be found at La Géode, a structure resembling a massive ball bearing fallen from the sky.

Reflecting on the wonders of science: La Géode

This hungry caterpillar gorges on rock stars: Le Zénith

Continuing on the theme of the gigantesque, concert hall Le Zénith appears to be made up of huge, red Lego bricks attached to a roll of tin foil. Here you'll find major pop and rock acts, recently including  Gorrillaz and Bruno Mars and I'll be heading there in June for a dose of the old school from hirsute stalwarts ZZ Top.

Le top: Cabaret Sauvage

Across the Ourque the red plush big top of the Cabaret Sauvage caters for less typical tastes. Dotted along the north bank of the canal are also péniches, barges or narrow boats, some decked out as music venues, theatre spaces and more; two of note were l'Improviste, a mecca for Jazz-jammers and Abricadabra/Péniche Antipode, a floating arts festival of music, drama and various exhibitions.

Turning back along the footpath now, we headed home toward respective hot showers and fortifying food. On the way, we past a point where Elodie explained you could wait in sunnier weather, with numbered pink balloon, until a server from the well-know local pizzeria - the Pink Flamingo - located you and handed over your meal. As a little grey cloud briefly dampened proceedings with what the French call a petite giboulée de mars, I wondered whether, after this morning, anything about this city could ever be called 'normal'.

List of links found in this article:

BANG!: www.bang-restaurant.fr
Point Ephémère: pointephemere.org
Antoine et Lili: www.antoineetlili.com
Cité des Sciences: www.cite-sciences.fr/ 
La Géode: www.lageode.fr
Zenith: www.zenith-paris.com
Cabaret Sauvage: www.cabaretsauvage.com/
Péniche l'Improviste: http://improviste.fr
Abricadabra/Péniche Antipode: www.penicheantipode.fr/
Pink Flamingo Pizzas: www.pinkflamingopizza.com

Here and There

  There's something about the light down here in the Gers. It gives every colour a vibrancy that makes the whole place feel alive. The bare, taupe branches of the Indian bean tree in my mother's garden seem to reach like contorted fingers into the cloudless blue. In it's lower reaches the bird feeders are adorned with a russet and terracotta cacophony of sparrows that, anywhere else, would simply be described as 'brown'.

  The flowing landscape of hills and troughs - so reminiscent of Tuscany that the first locals christened the nearby town 'Fleurance' - muffles any sound that isn't entirely natural. The rumble of a ploughing tractor, the lazy, inconstant hum of cars on a distant road, even the throaty growl of a labouring troop transport plane, are absorbed into the newly furrowed fields. Yet, the trilling song of a skylark, spiralling upward until you have to squint to see him, is crystallised, a mist of notes hanging in the stillness.

  Another sound, the contented sigh of one of our Breton spaniels as he slumps down beside me in the spring sunshine, echoes my feelings. I must head back to Paris this evening; four and half hours and I'll be back in the 'naval of the world'. How can it be the same world, here and there? There, everyone on top of one another, here, the nearest house a kilometre away. Here, the gentle flow of the breeze, there the grating grind of the commute.

   Yet, you cannot appreciate the one without the other. Some of the wine I drink in my favourite bars in Paris comes from here, but the train I took to get here comes from there.

   You cannot have the colour without somewhere for the grey to go. You cannot have the calm without somewhere for the buzz to be. Sociability needs solitude to be special.

   After all, only when it's raining can you see the rainbow.

Taking the piste

   The last thing I had expected to hear in Place Pigalle was the sound of bagpipes. However, as I stood waiting outside the metro, huddled against a nipping late-January breeze,  that same blast of air brought with it the unmistakable reedy notes down from the hill above.

    Against the grey winter backdrop the throbbing groin of the 9th arrondissement appeared subdued, the neon pinks, blues and reds biding their time before the evening's carnalities, but I wasn't here for that...

    Along with three new-found friends - Béné, Matthieu and Béné's brother Manu - we were here for a jeu de piste, a French mix between a treasure hunt and a walking tour that would take us up and down and all around this most intriguing of Parisian quartiers. The game was simple; read the clue/riddle in the book that pointed toward your start point. There you would then find out something interestingly historical, architectural, or downright weird, before your next clue pointed you on your way.

Before the wizard of Oz started on the roads (rue André Antoine)

Our first énigme led to a post box at the bottom of rue André Antoine. After being momentarily confused by a right angle turn (on the same road), we followed the cobbled street. This was now lined with painted bollards and decorated wrought iron tables bringing a splash a gaiety to the otherwise grey day. Up a flight of stairs we went on to to find Place des Abbesses and the source of the bagpipes!

   Here was a little fête de Bretagne in full flow and what it lacked in size it made up for in noise (the aforementioned pipes, or veuze), smells (sizzling savoury rye-flour pancakes, or gallettes) and colour (mostly Breton black and white). Béné and Manu are proud Bretons and plenty of pictures were duly snapped in front of a giant Breton flag, impeding the arrival of a troupe of dancers in traditional garb. (n.b. check out the photo of a proper Galette Bretonne in this recipe on http://www.banlieusardises.com/crepe-banlieusarde-toute-garnie )

   Clue-master Matt then pulled us onwards, to Théâtre de l'Atelier on Place Charles Dullin. This colonnaded, but understated theatre seemed somewhat out of place in the surrounding melange of tacky tourist shops and restaurants and avant garde designer fashion boutiques.

    Back down on Avenue Rochechouart we were soon the ones out of place. "C'est le quartier le plus populaire de Paris." Béné told me. In parisian parlance "populaire" means "poor" and the evidence could not have been more stark. With some trepidation, we edged our way through crowds of women (many in headscarves or rainbow-coloured robes) rooting through bins of sales items outside bargain clothes stores (rather aptly named Tati), or haggling for bargains at makeshift market stalls beneath the Metro tracks. On every street corner track-suited or leather-jacketed groups of men smoked, exchanged news or sipped on sour yoghurt with a nonchalant yet threatening air. It could have easily been Algiers or Agadir.

  Turning up into the area known as Goute d'Or Béné informed me of the infamous apéro organised here by the right-wing Front National, who set up a barbecue offering up beer and pork sausages in this mainly Muslim area. It was easy to realise who really feels threatened here.

Taking a break at Café Commercial

Told you it looked like a theatre!

 
We adjourned for a while at the Café Commercial (on rue Pierre Picard) whose booths, bulbous lamps and peeling stucco reminded us of an old cabaret lounge fallen on hard times. The staff, who struck me with their resemblance to the cast of Fame, looked like they might be about to stage a revival. If they did, any costumes for the show they could have been made from the myriad fabrics sold over 5 colossal floors of the nearby Marché St Pierre

Five floors of fantastic fabrics at Marché St Pierre

  Around the next corner, rising like stiff peaks of meringue above the steps and gardens of Square Willete, was perhaps the second most iconic building in Paris after the Tour Eiffel: le Basilique du Sacré-Coeur. Though it resembles an over-elaborate wedding cake ornament and the area around it has become the most inescapable of tourist traps, it is hard not be impressed, by the view of the city from the top at least.

Soufflé anyone? (Basilique de Sacré Coeur)

No thanks, I fancy a pancake (Moulin de la Galette)

Dodging the caricature painters of Place du Tertre, we meandered on through the cobbled lanes of Montmartre. We barely paid much attention to the clues now, as the eclectic nature of the quartier was all around us: from the Moulin de la Galette (a windmill perched above an old pancake restaurant)

French waiters have changed a lot since this guy was in town (Lapin Agile)

to the Clos Montmartre (the city's only operating vineyard) and from Lautrec's le Chat Noir (you must have seen the print, if not have it yourself) to le Lapin Agile (the first parisian cabaret).



 The cold was biting hard  nowand we decided to head for home. As, way down in the city, the hourly light show on the grandest of all radio masts twinkled through the descending dusk, the Breton bagpipe bands broke up and we echoed their parting sentiments, directed as much to this fascinating area of Paris as to each other, "Bonne soirée et bien joué."

PS: If you're visiting, or live here and would like to try one of these, check out www.jeux-de-piste.com or Jean-Richard Matouk's book "Jeux de Pistes et Enigmes à Paris" (Hachette, 2008).

Photos: Luke Kadinopoulos

A Parisian Pinch of Salt this Christmas

"What I hate about Christmas, is the obligation to be happy." Thus said one of my students last Friday morning. I didn't know what shocked me more; this sudden outburst of dislike toward the most joyful of festivities, or the fact that the sentence was grammatically faultless. Moreover, this was not the first time that I'd heard this sort of 'Scroogery' in the last couple of weeks.

Just the week before, I'd heard a mother tell her son the cold, honest truth about Father Christmas. To emphasise the point she informed the child in both French and English, just in case he hadn't understood the first time. The little boy must have been, oh, about five! Cue, expansive howling and no doubt very expensive psychotherapy.

A good friend of mine has gone a step further and changed her name to 'Grinch' for the holiday period; a stance that rather amusingly backfired when she had to help her grandmother wrap a small mountain of Christmas shopping.

It's easy to take all this holiday 'humbuggery' at face value. After all, thanks to the last mad dash for presents, the major Parisian shopping centres are now no-go zones - or rather cannot-fit-any-more zones. The five-minute walk from Havre Caumartin Metro to my office has become an terrifying battle zone where casualties could be the result of  anything from trampling, by hordes of Louis Vitton-wielding Chinese tourists; 3rd degree burns from the upturned drums of roast chestnut sellers or near-fatal tinitus from the combined effects of Salvation Army bells and battery-powered Rudolfs. A week of this and you would have to admit that the green furry one has a point. However, somewhat randomly (as is my want) my first proper foray into French literature for sixteen years has made me consider this a little more deeply.

'Dessine-moi un Parisien' by Olivier Magny, is, as the cover blurb puts it, 'a plunge into the strange world of the Parisian'. Each mini-chapter is a firmly tongue-in-cheek look at something that defines this most contradictory of species. Be it their inane insecurities about education, their origins or accent; their undisguised hatred of  Les Fachos or les Américains (this despite all secretly longing to be New-Yorkers);  or their simple joy at the sight of an organ grinder, snow or sunshine.

'La Première Gorgée de Bière' by Philippe Delerme, on the other hand, is an undisguised,  delightful hymn to all the little things about life that make your average Pierre or Pascalle feel warm inside. Perhaps my favourite was the 'Le croissant du trottoire'  about the surplus, oven-warm pastry joyfully consumed on the cold Sunday walk home from the boulangerie. Or it could have been 'Invité par surprise' describing the gently subtle etiquette of an off-the-cuff dinner invite; or maybe it was 'On pourrait presque manger dehor', 'We could almost eat outside', as I shared the twinge of hope felt at the first pale, sunshine of Spring.

'What was the point of this little literary interlude?' you may well wonder. Well, it occurred to me that  anyone who can take unbridled joy from a shaft of sunlight; laugh at their own inability to accept an error or break into a mile-wide smile at the thought of an al fresco lunch, cannot be labelled Grinch, Scrooge or curmudgeon.

It's not that they particularly dislike Christmas, they're just asking the question: "Why only now? What's there to be happier about now than any other time of year?" Good point! 

Bonne Fêtes!

Sweetness and light (and maki)

    For once the grey shroud had lifted. The sky was a piercing blue that, unlike its colour-absorbant predecessor, reflected the sharp winter light onto every surface. Paris looked beautiful. The normally drab and imposing Haussmann buildings looked like they had been given a seasonal re-spray.The spires of Notre Dame glistened as we jogged along the banks of the suddenly shimmering Seine.
    This is my favourite weather and I joyfully gulped down gallons of the searingly fresh air and thought about what the day ahead might bring. My friend Elodie had suggested visiting a very special market in the 3rd arrondissement and we agreed to meet there for brunch. She'd posted an article on it on my Facebook page to whet my appetite, but reality, as we all know, has a habit of surprising us.
    Le Marché des Enfants Rouges, dating back to the early 17th Century, originally took its name from the inhabitants of a then abandoned orphanage who used to wear a uniform of bright red. There was nothing bright nor special about the creaking iron gates that marked the market's entrance on rue de Bretagne and if I'd been on my own I would have walked straight past it.
   Upon entering we weaved our way through a labyrinthine collection of the usual market stalls selling the usual fare: fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, cous-cous. Wait a minute, cous-cous? Making up the rear section of the market is a sensory confection of food stalls. There were mounds of fragrant spiced Moroccan specialities, served on clay tagines and unctious cassoulets and confits from the south. On one side of an aisle an Italian waiter sung orders for five more rissotto de cèpes, while on the other a character straight out a manga cartoon was dishing up variety boxes of bento. Behind that the air was filled with the sounds of sizzling, spicy acras from Martinique.

   We plumped for the Japanese and sat in a corrugated plastic greenhouse, warmed by induction heaters, sipping life-giving, smokey thé grillé trying to pry the last grain of soy-soaked rice out of our trays with our chopsticks (luckily they also supplied forks!) After the grating grind of the working week, this was a gloriously disorganised time-out that was, at 4 o'clock, still doing a roaring (no doubt hangover-inspired) trade as we wandered back, sated, into the world outside.

    We weren't done with the 3rd yet though, as we had to go back past rue Debelleyme and "Popelini", a purveyor of petits choux. I guess we'd call them 'mini eclairs', but size was the only thing small about these cluster bombs of flavour, whose glutinous fillings included luscious raspberry and rose, creamy vanilla (you could feel the seeds!) and a dark chocolate that was so bitter it needed counselling. www.popelini.com

(photo courtesy of Elodie Salares) 

     As befits the randomness that is a parisian weekend, we ended up sharing these (inexpertly halving them with a coffee spoon on an unused saucer) at the "Rush Bar" (32 Rue Saint-Sébastien), a Liverpool Football Club supporters' pub around the corner from Elodie's flat. There was no doubting that that Sunday's combination   of sunshine, sushi and sweetness was a hat-trick of the quality that even the eponymous Ian would have struggled to surpass.