. Barges on the Seine . Back at Hotel Bersolys on …

.
Barges on the Seine
.
Back at Hotel Bersolys on Thursday night, I was handed the key to the Pissarro room. Jackpot! It’s up in the eaves of the narrow, old five-storey hotel that is typical of the buildings lining my street in Paris, the Rue de Lille. I can see from my small window the roofwork of the city, a view comparable to the rooftops of London–the latter having been seared into our little American brains in the 1960s by Dick Van Dyke and his cavorting chimney sweeps in Mary Poppins. The rooftops here are, of course, distitinctively French–whitewashed and a little more irregular. Lots of chimney pots.

Pissarro happens to be one of my favorite painters. I love his work, and I think he’s a great historical figure. A Jew born in the Caribbean, he was in many was an outsider in late 19th Century France. This put him in a good position to stir things up, of course, which he did as the eminence gris of the Impressionists. He held the group together, mentored Cezanne and Gauguin, and reached out to Van Gogh. I’m honored to have his little room on the fifth floor, right across from the Cezanne room and next door to Degas. I’m sure he’d have approved the floor plan. Over my bed there is an amateur copy of his Boulevard Montmartre.

On Friday, I got up early and took a walk under cool, blue skies along the Seine. I did a little bit of shopping in the book stalls, picking up a CD of Boris Vian’s Paris jazz combo, Quintet du Hot Club de France. A few cuts are avec Django Reinhardt. There is a picture of a smiling Boris holding a pistol in his lap on the cover. More jazz later.

I walked to the Isle de la Cité and made reservations at a restaurant on the Place Dauphine for dinner. The Place is a shady, tree-filled park behind the government buildings near the tip of the island. Isle de la Cité is the original Paris, and it was once called Lutetia. It is dominated by the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Next island up is the quaint Isle de St. Louis. These are relatively small islands in the river.

In the afternoon, I set out to La Défense for an interview with the CEO of a company headquartered there. I ate lunch under the hulking arch there, a modern, rectangular structure with an opening the exact size, or so it is said, of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. La Défense is a monumental celebration of the “glass office tower” and the “state-owned corporation.” Off to the side of the city, behind the Bois-de-Boulogne, la Défense is a weird mix of Space Age and 1960s architectural kitsch. Kind of Franco-Jetson. It fits Paris in that it seems to speak with simultaneous disdain and pomp of big business. As for the arch, we prefer the antique—the cathedral that fits inside it.

La Défense was my “last call” for the week.

Rising up the escalator from the Rue du Bac Metro station near my hotel, one sees the afternoon sun illuminate the green canopy over the Boulevard Raspail. If, in fact, this is happening at the end of a travel work week, the light effect will tend to put the “lime” in “sublime.” The weekend stars you when you’re alone in Paris.

My first thought was to get a date. I was prompted to do so in my favorite art bookstore, Visions Livres D’Art on the Boulevard Saint Germain. In it this evening I saw a 30-Euro book on Delacroix that I’m fighting off buying. It would fill a hole in my library, however, and I will lose the fight. I also saw a book by Serge Poliakoff, whose grand niece, Celine, used to do public relations for a French chemicals and explosives company. She once slipped me her cell phone number and suggested that next time I’m in town we do the Louvre.

Celine is interesting. Her parents didn’t approve of her jointing the military, which was a dream of hers, so she decided to hang out with paratroopers and learn how to jump. She told me once of a jump when her main chute failed to open and her reserve got tangled. She said the voice of her instructor in her helmet radio said something like, “well, that’s it!” No way, she said. She untangled herself while plummeting, which is a good thing. She owns a baby grand piano and plays Chopin. Maybe she’s free tomorrow.

I set off before dinner to a big sports store to buy my daughter Maggie a soccer ball. The store was ferme, and had moved to another part of the city that I need to find tomorrow. I strolled around Notre Dame again, digging the gargoyles and arches. Then I went to dinner.

Le Caveau du Palais Restaurant is the best I’ve been to. The Place Dauphine is brilliant at sunset, and the restaurant service is prompt and still very French—no English on the menu, which is a good sign. There were a lot of super-bourgeois Americans at the table next to mine, but who am I to complain? I had asparagus stalks for starters that were the size of Chicago night sticks. And more duck, served with warmed and puffy potato chips. Great wine and tarte tartin aux pommes. I had a table outside. The walk back to the hotel extended the “brilliance” motif with barges lighting up the river and the sky streaked in jet streams of orange and purple, creating a crazy background for Henry V on horseback near the tip of the Pont Neuf. I caroused the Saint Germain des Pres neighborhood and found some downright jazz at Le Bilboquet near my hotel. There was a trumpet, two guitars, and an upright bass. The trumpeter was frontman, and he sat, Boris Vian-style, with crossed legs and head against the house grand piano. The bassist was tall and his hair was all over the place. They played hot jazz and Dixieland. All this meant more wine, so I wrote a poem. There were black wood beams inside and a lot of red wallpaper and a red spotlight on the band. The hostess at the door was an American.

I have tomorrow off, and hope to get to the l’Orangerie and tell you all about it.

Thanks for reading!
Vanx
______
Photos by Verb-Ops
The Pissarro Room view
Notre Dame
The arch at La Défense
Le Caveau du Palais Restaurant
…on the Place Dauphine
The Seine from Pont Neuf
Henry V