But where to go?
The parameters; I must be able to take the train. I don’t want to rent a car. I will be going alone. I don’t want to be lonely. I do want it to be peaceful. And different from Paris. Not a city. I would prefer that the journey does not involve more than 3 hours on the train.
How about Bretagne? I seem to recall reading about St. Malo on the northern coast of France and it seemed lovely. I’d recently read “The Little French Café Bistro?” which transported me to Bretagne. It sounded charming and different and peaceful. I pulled the book up on my Kindle and found it wasn’t indeed Bretagne, but Kerdruc, more than 200 kilometers from St. Malo, more than 500 kilometers from Paris and not accessible by train. Google images showed it was indeed exactly what I was looking for but it wasn’t going to work.
Could I make St. Malo work? There is the old Grand Hôtel des Thermes on the beach that looks old and stately and very very restful. Should I go there? I’m desperately wishing I had my copy of “Hungry for France” which I left in San Francisco, too big and heavy to fit in my suitcase. It was full of ideas for restaurants and small inns and places to stay. Maybe I should go buy a new copy here in Paris. I’m envisioning a quiet place to think and write and look at the seaside, a cozy restaurant nearby with only the freshest seafood and delicious local wines.
Hmmm, would Philippe fit into this picture? Maybe this is a trip better saved for a month or two from now, after we figure out exactly what comes next.
So how about Lyon? I have always loved Lyon. And while it doesn’t fit the “not a city” requirement, it’s certainly smaller than Paris. That charming hotel we stayed at in Vieux Lyon, Coeur des Loges, was small and cozy, tucked deeply into the ancient part of the city, amongst the traboules and shops and cafés. Lyon is known by its local gastronomy. A first class train ticket is only 65 euro and the trip is just under two hours. How about two nights in Lyon and then on to Geneva for a couple of nights? I remember having dinner on the terrace of a beautiful hotel on the lake. I google the hotel and find I can get a room for three nights for a reasonable rate. I see myself taking a boat ride on the lake, maybe to Evian. Or a train to Lausanne or Vevey or Montreux for the day.
It breaks all the rules. It’s not even in France. But it sounds lovely. And not lonely. Maybe a trip is born.
And another trip conceived. For later. And not alone.
Hunan Food, Bartleby, Guy de Maupassant and Tattoos
Friday night was another Elliott curated evening; first apéro at the Hotel Parister, where I had met Elliott, Joan and Joao the week before enroute to the “only good” tapas restaurant in Paris. Then to L’Orient d’Or, a Hunan restaurant right around the corner from the only good tapas restaurant in Paris. Elliott seems to have a thing about Chinese. Personally, as many times as I’ve been to China in my other life, I could happily leave it behind. But I go for the conversation, not the food. Good thing too, at 50 euro for a Chinese dinner, plus taxi fare to and fro, the Chinese food would have to include foie gras, which it didn’t!
But the conversation and the sense of community is always well worth it. I sat next to Pierre -Yves (my first Pierre in Paris!) who introduced himself by saying that I knew his wife, Deborah. Hmmm, I don’t think so. But Pierre-Yves turned out to be a very interesting dinner partner and well worth the 50 euro price tag for so so Chinese food and drinkable rosé.
Pierre-Yves is a collector of rare first and second edition novels. He told me with great excitement about his latest find, a second edition copy of somebody I’d unfortunately (and making me feel ignorant) never heard of, for a veritable steal. Bravo Pierre-Yves! I mentioned Ninon to him and for once discovered I had met someone who actually knew about her.
But the seventeenth century literature and courtesans was not really Pierre-Yves’s thing. He preferred to talk about Emilie-Louise Delabigne , or the Vallee de La Bigne, a nineteenth century courtesan, who started her career as a Lorette before transitioning into a very famous bedmate to the who’s who of the art world. Pierre’s English was far far better than my French, but still he struggled at times and while I understood there to be some issue with Napoleon III that put her career in danger, I wasn’t clear at all what exactly it was.
Pierre-Yves is currently reading Herman Melville in French. “Moby Dick?” I ask.
“No! A much shorter book!”
“Bartleby” I grasp from my college literature classes.
“Oui! Do you say ‘je ne préfère pas.”?
“Oui! That is the essence of Bartleby!”
We talk some more about the challenges of translating authors from English to French and how hard it must be to capture the feeling the author intended to convey with his carefully chosen words. And then the conversation transitions to Guy de Maupassant and his rampant syphilis (“Everybody in Paris in those days had syphilis,” said Charlotte) and his mistress, Blanche Roosevelt, an opera singer and novelist in her own right, and a night in a restaurant with Henry James in London.
Where would I ever have a conversation like this in San Francisco? With a stranger. Or at least with a new friend! I must remember to ask Elliott for Pierre-Yves’ contact information. I wonder if he would be interested in a monthly book group. He can even choose the book and the other participants! I just want to be in a world where these are the kinds of things we talk about.
Then we pony up our 50 euros and move on to a bar nearby; nearby being, as Elliott puts it, “two blocks away.” Warning: when a Parisian (having lived in Paris for 20 years, Elliott qualifies) tells you two blocks, it’s probably five. Eight of us hightail it to a bar five blocks away where we manage to find tables reasonably close to each other. This time I find myself sitting with Magella, a fifty something Irish woman, cum Australian, cum Parisian who’s newly married to a twenty something very handsome Tunisian and Jeremy, a twenty something American software engineer who is currently working in Berlin. The conversation of the next hour or so is tattoos, what and where ours are, who did them, and who are the most awesome tattoo artists in Europe.
When did tattoos become the lingua franca of the day? I remember when we had a good idea and we got a T-Shirt with the message. “Seize the day” “This too shall pass” (Jeremy’s message along with a pocket watch on the inside of his left arm). A bale of wheat representing the meals that he and his best friend had in University on his right calf. A massive tree with roots on his chest and stomach representing something that completely went over my head. I wonder what that one will look like in years to come when wheat is replaced by barley and Jeremy is a fat middle aged man. Well, maybe he won’t get fat.
(For the record, I currently have none, but am considering a very small one on the inside of my wrist of a grasshopper, wearing a beret and playing a fiddle.
“How is your pain tolerance” Jeremy asks me? “Inside the wrist is a very painful place.” He shows me his “Go button” tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. “But wait, you have kids… did you give birth?”
“Yes…”
“Well then you should be fine.”
Whew! I’m so relieved. But wonder about maybe getting a temporary tattoo.
After another twenty minutes of so of looking at tattoos done by the best tattoo artists in Europe on Jeremy’s phone I start to monitor precisely how often taxis go by this bar with green lights, an indication that they are available. Maybe every few minutes. I think perhaps it’s time for me to take my leave. I give Magella my share of the tab, and start the lengthy process of la bise. As luck would have it, a green taxi nears just as I step onto the sidewalk. I walk into the street and flag him down (to think I used to be afraid to do this!) and in half an hour and 10 euros I’m back in the tranquility of my own little neighborhood.
Life on the outside is endlessly fascinating. But it’s good to have one’s own sanctuary to come home to!
Life Happens Outside
Saturday night
rolls around and I have no plans. A week of living with Ninon left me exhausted. Although force of habit pushed me to go to GCA and write, something told me I needed a break, so I spent a lazy afternoon lounging around home doing chores, tending my garden (that took about ten minutes) and laying on the couch in front of the fan with Bruno. This was evidently to be my summer with Bruno. I was now on book number four of the Chief of Police series. I sleep with Bruno. I wake up with Bruno. Today I spend a lazy Saturday afternoon lounging around with Bruno.
By evening I was trying to decide whether to have popcorn or scrambled eggs for dinner, about the only two things I had in the larder. Neither particularly tickled my fancy and I decided to pull myself, and Bruno, together and go to Le Clou.
I didn’t bother with a reservation, thinking if I got there by eight, Thierry’s crew would surely accommodate me. Accommodate me they did! Every table had a little yellow sticky, indicating a reservation, but the guys managed to secure my regular table on the terrace.
I propped Bruno up against my carafe d’eau and enjoyed the ambiance of So-Pi (sans Thierry tonight). My entrecote “saignant” avec frites was perfect but the ambiance was better. I found myself pulling out my notebook to jot down a few notes about the groups sitting around me.
An elderly trio adjacent to me; two madams and one monsieur. One of the women has clearly exceeded her plastic surgery quota and her very open eyes ogled me throughout their meal. For some reason she clearly wasn’t happy with my being there. Because I was alone? Because I was drinking an entire bottle of Côte du Rhône? Because I had the very good fortune to be dining with Bruno? Maybe her eyes just didn’t close any further.
A British family sat at the table next to mine; Mom, Dad, boy teen and girl preteen. All wore glasses. Clearly they were genetically related. They spoke enough French to transact their requests. The teenage boy quickly got on my nerves. By the end of their meal, I wanted to murder him. I put it into my iphone translator and told my server “s’il était mon fils, je devrais le tuer!” They ordered fish and chips.
The two servers tag teamed each other in making sure I had everything I needed. The older of the two had both arms full of tattoos. I considered asking him for a reference for my grasshopper. His jeans are rolled up about 6 inches above his bare ankles. For some reason what works in Paris would never work in California. He’s already got a significant belly and I only briefly wonder what tattoos are under that shirt. Back to Bruno. No gut, no tattoos, no bad habits.
The restaurant is very busy. I can stop worrying about Thierry and whether or not he’ll be able to pay his bills! The boys turn away several people without reservations. They are running all night. Le Pirate (My two year old granddaughter Izzy tagged the bar manager a pirate when she was visiting and it’s stuck) comes out to check on how I’m doing and if I need anything. Nobody seems in a hurry for me to move on so they can turn my table. Bruno and I are doing fine.
No dessert thank you, but I’d like a glass of cognac. The pirate brings it to me. Later Monsieur Rolled Up Jeans brings out the bottle and refills my glass. And then again. I think I will be swimming home.
The sun had long set and So-Pi has a special glow. If I were not so toasted from the Côte du Rhône and the cognac I would consider walking to LuLu White’s for an absinthe nightcap. But I know that I’m at my alcohol limit for the day.
Nothing much happened Saturday night but it was perfect. Me. Bruno. The boys at Le Clou. Much better than popcorn for dinner.
Housekeeping
I’ve got to get out of my head. Out of Ninon’s head. I find myself making stuff up; having conversations with people. I’ve had long one way conversations with Philippe, Daniele and even Caroleen. I think that I’m so used to my life filled with people all the time that conversations beyond the brief give and take of a restaurant or shop is weird after too long.
It may be good for figuring things out. Or maybe I’m making up what I’m figuring out! So by the end of the day yesterday, I figured out that Caroleen is probably actually crazy. She’s certainly paranoid. And Daniele is an egotistical one note pony. And I really don’t know anything about Philippe.
Yesterday evening I lost my internet connection. I was completely cut off from the outside world! After a day inside, in front of fans all day, I played Candy Crush (there I said it) for hours on end, moving from the rocking chair by the window to the couch. Never moving from in front of some blowing device. I had planned a quiet dinner of popcorn and an evening with Bruno. It was too hot outside to go anywhere. I deserve a break now and then, I rationalized. Then the wifi went out. Even though wifi didn’t play into any of my extravagantly exciting plans for the night, I felt panicky!
I brushed my teeth, washed my face, packed my computer bag, put on real clothes and went to Cépage. Whew, a connection! I texted Stephanie with the problem and told her no amount of unplugging and plugging seemed to help. Her response: “Have an aperol spritz and if it isn’t working in the morning give me a call.” Well… pretty much. And no, it wasn’t working in the morning. Personally, I think it’s the cable box. I can see when I plug it back in it tries to connect and the lights flicker for a moment, but then no, it doesn’t work. I’m no technician but….
So I get ready and pack up and head back to Cépage. Stephanie’s response; “Hi K, Stéphane will pass by this morning as I myself have to leave Paris this morning (some personal problems, I hope to be back for our apero on Thursday.”
This probably isn’t the best time to remind her that our apero is on Friday so I let that slide. “Does Stéphane have a key? I won’t be home.” Back to the “you’ll get it when you get it and you’ll be happy with what you get” Parisian thing. And this is supposed to be from a friend. What if I was one of her other clients, here in Paris for one week? No wifi is not an option. No telephone or television isn’t an option. And yes , I still love Stephanie (and hope everything is ok) but she seems to have a lot of personal problems or health problems or vacation!
But I guess I will get it when I get it and will be happy with whatever it is.
So it’s not happening at Cépage. I catch an Uber to GCA. I’ll write. Maybe I’ll figure out what’s going on with Philippe. On the way I feel like I’m going towards an end. So be it. I can move on. I can dive into Ninon. I think she has an important lesson or two for this loser.
I’ve never been to GCA in the morning. When I arrive it’s just the new waiter, no Philippe. I take my working table and ask for a cafe creme. Darn. I forgot my kindle. I was going to bury myself in Ninon’s own words this morning. Pas de problème. I will just look at the book I need on my Amazon Prime account. Nope. I don’t have the password on my Mac. Darn. Everything is heading downwards. I’m scowling and frustrated when Philippe comes from the kitchen and comes over with kisses. “Ça va?” I scowl at him. (But still I notice something new as he kisses me; cologne.” Can I be charming? Can I say good morning? No. I simply grunt “j’ai un problème”. Nice. I’d want to be around me! Not.
OK, I’ve calmed down. Got my Amazon password so I can read Ninon’s words online. I’ve had two cups of coffee so I’m adequately caffeinated. I’ve caught up with my emails and messages. And now I’m sitting comfortably and watching Philippe work. His morning is interesting. There are deliveries. Some he sends into the kitchen. A beverage delivery man arrives and a trap door opens under Table 30. All the times I sat there for dinner and jazz and I never realized I was sitting on a trap door. He pushes a button and a lift comes up. The delivery man loads boxes of beverages on it and leaves. After a bit Philippe lowers the lift again and closes the trap door. Who knew the secrets of Table 30?
There are the regulars. They come in, grab a quick coffee, catch up on the latest gossip, read the front page of Le Parisienne, and then blow out. Some get handshakes. A few get la bise. I still can’t get over the whole la bise thing. Women. Men. It makes no difference. And the transition from handshake
to la bise. When does that happen? I tried to remember the first time Philippe gave me la bise. Was there something that changed that caused it to happen? Was it when I took the liberty of tutoyering him? Thierry has given me la bise a couple of times. Most of the time it’s just a wave across the room and then later a small conversation. I remember the first time, being very surprised by the roughness of his beard. La bise has surprised me by letting me experience the scent of a man. When Stéphane Jego came in for la bise (why did I earn it from him?) I was surprised by his clean soapy smell at the end of a long lunch shift. Today I was surprised by Philippe’s cologne. There’s an intimacy provided by la bise. And then there’s not. They seem to be rather freely given.
There’s a much livelier selection of music on the stereo than in the afternoon. And Philippe always has a song on his lips. He sings along. He whistles along. I think of it as his personal soundtrack. This is definitely my preferred writing place. For whatever reason, I feel connected to something.
Wherever this goes or doesn’t go. It’s going to be hard to stop ... stop whatever it is I feel for this man.
Worlds Collide
Sitting in GCA. It’s incredibly hot. I’ve just eaten lunch and I’m writing and finishing a bottle of rosé. Philippe is doing all of the tricks that keep me on the line; walking by making comments, making sure I have what I need, singing snippets of songs as he passes, and keeping an eye on my business. I looked up, and at the bar, enjoying a beer is Thierry!
“Thierry?” I call out!
“Ah!” he comes over... la bise.
“Would you like to sit?”
“No” he defers and points to my laptop. (Philippe watching all the time) I ask him about my St. Malo vacation idea. I fumble with terrible French and he assures me that it’s a great idea and that it will be much cooler than Paris. He says five days is perfect and I will find great restaurants and will not be lonely being alone.”
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 15
