It was a strange feeling; sat at my computer in bedroom, surrounded by bulging boxes, bags and suitcases as the liquid sound of a string trio, blended with the hubbub of the Saturday market, floats through my window on a very welcome breeze. The days leading up to my departure from Paris were been hot, sticky and stormy, compounding the usual stresses of everyday life and leaving everyone's nerves frayed and balanced on the knife edge between depression and explosion. Perversely enough it has been in this last month that I have discovered that, even here, there are little islands of calm where you can forget it all and just be happy in your own company.
This journey into a peaceful Paris began with the purchase of a little book called "Paris au Calme". Now, the titles of many guidebooks often promise much: great views, happening nightspots and bargain shopping amongst them, without actually delivering on said promise. Even "The Secret Gardens of Paris" sometimes fails on both counts, including les Tuileries and the Jardin de Luxembourg, hardly secret and more like jogging tracks than gardens. "Paris au Calme", however, does exactly what it says on the sleeve.
Paris is seemingly dotted with oases of solitude, all the more appreciated because of where they are. Two of the most serene are gardens found enclosed in the inner quads of two of Paris's major hospitals, that of Hopitale St. Louis, a stone's throw from bustling Place Republic and La Pitié Salpêtrière, the capital's largest, barely a few doors up from Gare d'Austerlitz. Those of you who associate hospitals with poor food, the stink of disinfectant and the threat of MRSA would be pleasantly surprised.
St Louis was founded in 1607 to ease the burden of the Plague on nearby hospitals. Now, however, its drooping pines and 17th century walls now protect those within from the fumes and decibels outside. Toddlers trace ancient footsteps around shaded corners, while mothers and nannies take a minute's repose from the stresses of la vie quotidienne.
La Salpêtrière has seen some historic medical breakthroughs, including Paris's first vaccination in 1800 and the world's first heart transplant in 1968 and was also the place Lady Diana drew her last breath. By the time of the Revolution thousands of women (of ill repute) had been partnered with convicts and sent to populate "New France". I wonder if the settlers knew what was coming. However an even greater claim to fame, in my opinion, was that for a glorious hour and a half inside its statue-strewn quad I couldn't hear the sound of a single car, bliss!
Back now in rural Kent, I have so much peace I'm almost longing for sirens again...no, I don't think I'd go that far.
Saturday, 3 August 2013
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
Les foibles des Français
Ten days ago was Bastille Day. The epitome of l'esprit Français, when the bold, courageous citizenry, yearning for liberty and equality threw down the yoke of their royalist oppressors and stormed their hated symbol of injustice. Apparently though, according to a recent article I read on the BBC, the majority of French forget that the 14th July celebrations are not to commemorate its bloody ancestor of 1789 but the more joyous occasion of the Fête de la Federation in 1790. Here royalists mingled, ate and paraded with their soon-to-be executioners and together, even marked the birth of the heir to the throne (meanwhile, on the other side of the channel in 2013....).
On 14th July 2013 l'esprit Français was still very much in evidence. The authorities made the centre of town about as impassable as French paperwork; the military tried to look chic; Monsieur Le Président sat there doing nothing and no Parisians had bothered to show up. The crowds thronging the Champs Elysées for the défile and clogging every Metro station that le Police Nationale hadn't got to yet, were tourists. Les Françiliens themselves were either (as was I) ensconced in their cantines, sipping a chilled demi and grumbling about the state of...well...the state, or already on holiday - but apparently the fireworks were quite impressive though.
The point here is that, although your average Blaise doesn't really give a purple mediterranean fruit about 'the big stuff', he'll rip your arm off for a ticket to a dingy warehouse to see a hundred over-exposed, blurry pictures of the inside of someone's mouth. As for getting him to reveal the whereabouts of his favourite little brunch place, you'd be as likely to hear him utter the words "tall, skinny latté" without keeling over.
A week after the history, it was time for the nation's most revered sporting occasion as Le Grande Boucle (better known as Le Tour De France) rolled into town in all it's yellow-jerseyed glory. From two o'clock the crowds were gathering in anticipation. Positions were staked out all along Rivoli, Tuileries and Elysées and fiercely guarded by flag-waving, 10 Euro-a-pint-beer-swilling, doing-my-best-impression-of-a-roasting-lobster cycling fans eager to embrace this quintessentially Gallic sporting spectacle.
It was mightily impressive; the pre-show caravanne was suitably silly, big and loud. The fun included a man in a hot air balloon on wheels advertising camping gas; a rolling pile of breadsticks (no free guesses on this one!) and (the most popular by far) mineral water being sprayed out of those pressurised tubs you use for weed killer.
Once that was past the tension rose almost as high as the temperatures until (almost two hours later) when the escorting police vehicles finally rounded the corner of the Tuilerie Gardens and the shining black train of the Team Sky riders was finally sighted, the thrill was as palpable as the wind created by the peloton as it sped by in a lycra and carbon fibre blur.
Many of you, I'm sure, would put this suspicion down to the poisoned words of a certain acrimonious American, but I think there was something else behind them. There's something of a superiority complex about the French. A nation that gave the world Napoleon, de Gaule, D'Artagnan, The Man in the Iron Mask, even Asterix; unbendable heroes, invincible (to a point), doesn't really like losing...well...anything really, especially on home turf. I mean, the people who set up L'Académie Française to protect the glorious langue matérnelle from heinous foreign languages were certainly not going to stand for a bunch of anglos coming over and winning Le Tour DE FRANCE, c'est n'importe quoi!
After hearing these gripes a few times, I began to feel some sympathy. Well, can you imagine: the Aussies coming over and beating us at Lords - anyone else apart from a Brit winning Wimbledon? No, neither can I!
On 14th July 2013 l'esprit Français was still very much in evidence. The authorities made the centre of town about as impassable as French paperwork; the military tried to look chic; Monsieur Le Président sat there doing nothing and no Parisians had bothered to show up. The crowds thronging the Champs Elysées for the défile and clogging every Metro station that le Police Nationale hadn't got to yet, were tourists. Les Françiliens themselves were either (as was I) ensconced in their cantines, sipping a chilled demi and grumbling about the state of...well...the state, or already on holiday - but apparently the fireworks were quite impressive though.
The point here is that, although your average Blaise doesn't really give a purple mediterranean fruit about 'the big stuff', he'll rip your arm off for a ticket to a dingy warehouse to see a hundred over-exposed, blurry pictures of the inside of someone's mouth. As for getting him to reveal the whereabouts of his favourite little brunch place, you'd be as likely to hear him utter the words "tall, skinny latté" without keeling over.
A week after the history, it was time for the nation's most revered sporting occasion as Le Grande Boucle (better known as Le Tour De France) rolled into town in all it's yellow-jerseyed glory. From two o'clock the crowds were gathering in anticipation. Positions were staked out all along Rivoli, Tuileries and Elysées and fiercely guarded by flag-waving, 10 Euro-a-pint-beer-swilling, doing-my-best-impression-of-a-roasting-lobster cycling fans eager to embrace this quintessentially Gallic sporting spectacle.
 |
| Come on Lance I think you over-did it this time. |
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| Philippe shows the world his Art and Crafts project |
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| When I said I was tired of being on duty... |
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| A pretty girl with a water canon, enough said! |
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| No, it's "Baguette" |
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| There's a British winner in there somewhere |
Back to the flags though. Among them I saw Norwegian, Croatian, Australian, Italian, Columbian (their rider Quintana came in second), somewhat controversially a Texan and of course a multitude of Union Flags supporting deserved winner Chris Froome. The Tricolor, however, was notably absent (aside from the one painted across the sky by the aerial display team).
Here's the thing you see, the French have come nowhere near having their own winner of their signature sporting event in decades, so they've resigned themselves to their other national sport, the aforementioned grumbling, at which they are European, world and Olympic Champions. Any French person I spoke to about Froome's domination of this year's event huffed disconsolately and said "B'off! He was very impressive, but he was probably doping."
Here's the thing you see, the French have come nowhere near having their own winner of their signature sporting event in decades, so they've resigned themselves to their other national sport, the aforementioned grumbling, at which they are European, world and Olympic Champions. Any French person I spoke to about Froome's domination of this year's event huffed disconsolately and said "B'off! He was very impressive, but he was probably doping."
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| The only Tricolor on display |
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| Some people will do anything for a view |
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...no, it's not this one |
After hearing these gripes a few times, I began to feel some sympathy. Well, can you imagine: the Aussies coming over and beating us at Lords - anyone else apart from a Brit winning Wimbledon? No, neither can I!
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Spot the nation of sporting excellence.... |
Saturday, 29 June 2013
Well met by moonlight
When most Brits think of amateur dramatics they most likely envisage a group of "Hempen homespuns" hamming up a panto in a draughty church hall with Joe Blogs the town clerk and Billy Miggins the baker stealing the show as the two backsides of a horse. This, of course, is neither true nor fair to the myriad souls who quit the day in the boardroom or in front of the blackboard to tread the boards, enduring months of rehearsals and lost nights of learning lines before the stomach churning first night.
So last Saturday, when I received the invitation, from good friend Caroline, to an amateur, French-language production of A Midsummer Night's Dream (in which Sophie, an old friend of hers, was performing), I wasn't quite sure what to expect.
Going to see any comedy in a foreign language is risky enough, as you will never be totally in-tune with the cultural quirks and jeux de mots that are the base of most comic works. To watch Shakespeare, about as English an institution as strikes are French, is even more so, as you risk spending the whole show just waiting for the inevitable faux pas and that's before we've even got to the fact that it's in a foreign language! Anyway, as I knew the story pretty well, I thought it would be worth it. If anything, just to see how my French comprehension has developed over the past year. I'm glad I did!
It was far from an auspicious arrival though. The white-tiled centre d'animations on Rue Mathis (Paris 19eme) looked a bit like an old swimming pool (funnily enough it shared the building with one!) and the only people outside when I arrived was a barrel-bellied pool attendant and a middle-aged, dreadlocked West Indian child-care worker supervising a motley, if incredibly happy, group of charges. Soon enough though the theatre goers began to role up and at ten past eight we were ushered into the appropriately named Salle Shakespeare for curtain-up.
Well, not really, as there wasn't a curtain, apart from at the back of the stage, the opening and shutting of which issued in the scene changes from Athenian court to fairy-strewn forest (black background/ white background). Scenery, however was the only thing this show lacked. From Egeus's complaint, through fairy feuds and asses made and unmade, to Robin's final amends, it was a delight!
The hatred felt for Hermia by a bewitched Lysander fairly spat off the tongue. Oberon cast his funky spell on Titania in tones more Brown (James) than Bard. A lanky, shaven-headed, rubber-necked Bottom and a bearded Francis Flute made a sublimely ridiculous Pyramus and Thisbe, with a stage-struck Peter Quince (or Patricia in this case) uttering the fastest lines of French I've ever heard. The fairies, including Sophie's Cobweb, even incorporated a sensuous mixture of martial arts, yoga and modern dance to enhance the performance.
Puck, however, was the magic that held it all together. Bending, twisting and contorting leather-clad limbs and elastic facial muscles into expressions of mirth, menace and mischief, she (or he, or it) manoeuvred both audience and characters effortlessly through the action. Mesmerising!
As for the prospective language issues, my knowledge of the play ensured that I understood at least 60% of what was said. For everyone else though, the wonderful simplicity of the story; the fact that the plot devices are of a more visual nature and the exceptional performance of the cast ensured that people from anywhere could have understood and thoroughly enjoyed the play.
This is a blog and not a theatre review however. So, after the show, thespian appetites sated and stomachs needing some more nourishing faire, Caroline, myself and two other friends headed for la Villette, only for Sophie to call us back to a little café just around the corner from where the play had taken place. The magic of the fairy forest then seemed to return briefly as the brilliant 'super' moon hung in the ink-black sky, bathing the arches of La Rotonde in its preternatural glow.
Back at Café des Sports, as we tucked into various cartons, tubs and boxes of take-away with the cast, I could imagine a similar scene as Bottom and co. return home triumphant, through the Athenian twilight, to congratulate each other on a play "very notably discharged."
So last Saturday, when I received the invitation, from good friend Caroline, to an amateur, French-language production of A Midsummer Night's Dream (in which Sophie, an old friend of hers, was performing), I wasn't quite sure what to expect.
Going to see any comedy in a foreign language is risky enough, as you will never be totally in-tune with the cultural quirks and jeux de mots that are the base of most comic works. To watch Shakespeare, about as English an institution as strikes are French, is even more so, as you risk spending the whole show just waiting for the inevitable faux pas and that's before we've even got to the fact that it's in a foreign language! Anyway, as I knew the story pretty well, I thought it would be worth it. If anything, just to see how my French comprehension has developed over the past year. I'm glad I did!
It was far from an auspicious arrival though. The white-tiled centre d'animations on Rue Mathis (Paris 19eme) looked a bit like an old swimming pool (funnily enough it shared the building with one!) and the only people outside when I arrived was a barrel-bellied pool attendant and a middle-aged, dreadlocked West Indian child-care worker supervising a motley, if incredibly happy, group of charges. Soon enough though the theatre goers began to role up and at ten past eight we were ushered into the appropriately named Salle Shakespeare for curtain-up.
Well, not really, as there wasn't a curtain, apart from at the back of the stage, the opening and shutting of which issued in the scene changes from Athenian court to fairy-strewn forest (black background/ white background). Scenery, however was the only thing this show lacked. From Egeus's complaint, through fairy feuds and asses made and unmade, to Robin's final amends, it was a delight!
The hatred felt for Hermia by a bewitched Lysander fairly spat off the tongue. Oberon cast his funky spell on Titania in tones more Brown (James) than Bard. A lanky, shaven-headed, rubber-necked Bottom and a bearded Francis Flute made a sublimely ridiculous Pyramus and Thisbe, with a stage-struck Peter Quince (or Patricia in this case) uttering the fastest lines of French I've ever heard. The fairies, including Sophie's Cobweb, even incorporated a sensuous mixture of martial arts, yoga and modern dance to enhance the performance.
Puck, however, was the magic that held it all together. Bending, twisting and contorting leather-clad limbs and elastic facial muscles into expressions of mirth, menace and mischief, she (or he, or it) manoeuvred both audience and characters effortlessly through the action. Mesmerising!
As for the prospective language issues, my knowledge of the play ensured that I understood at least 60% of what was said. For everyone else though, the wonderful simplicity of the story; the fact that the plot devices are of a more visual nature and the exceptional performance of the cast ensured that people from anywhere could have understood and thoroughly enjoyed the play.
This is a blog and not a theatre review however. So, after the show, thespian appetites sated and stomachs needing some more nourishing faire, Caroline, myself and two other friends headed for la Villette, only for Sophie to call us back to a little café just around the corner from where the play had taken place. The magic of the fairy forest then seemed to return briefly as the brilliant 'super' moon hung in the ink-black sky, bathing the arches of La Rotonde in its preternatural glow.
Back at Café des Sports, as we tucked into various cartons, tubs and boxes of take-away with the cast, I could imagine a similar scene as Bottom and co. return home triumphant, through the Athenian twilight, to congratulate each other on a play "very notably discharged."
Monday, 24 June 2013
Lost in a good bookshop
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.
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| A warm, Canadian welcome at the Abbey |
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| 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/
Saturday, 27 April 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 27 March 2013
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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| Now you see me...: Exit and entrance of Canal St Martin |
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| ...Attack: Street art from Da Cruz |
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| 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
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| Covering a multitude of sins: Point Ephémère |
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.
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| 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.
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Reflecting on the wonders of science: La Géode
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| Le top: Cabaret Sauvage |
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
Friday, 15 March 2013
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.
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.
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