Cinderella Part I
In Paris, the last Metro train runs at midnight. If I'm out late across town, my only way home is a long walk or an expensive cab ride. There are night buses, but it would take more time to find one and make the transfers than it would to walk. Around 11:30 Saturday night, I was across town in Bastille, and I asked my friend what time it was. He said something in French, and the only words I could make out were "metro" and "Cinderella." Realizing he wasn't talking about the band, the light bulb over my head smoked, sizzled, and flickered, and I hustled off to catch the train.
So I went to craigslist and found a cheap used bike. What better way to discover Paris, right? Cruise the grand avenues, tool around the Bois de Vincennes, get knocked to the pavement by a maniac on a scooter?
I met up with the vendeur in Bastille. She's a waitress from L.A. who skips from country to country every few months. Her sentences all inflect upwards, as if she were asking you a question? I took her bike for a spin around the neighborhood.
The first time you ride a bike in any city is scary, but this was more so than usual. Too much to process at once: figuring out where to look for the traffic light, finding a one way street to help you complete your circle, skinny streets, how do I signal a turn, is that a stop sign, cars whizzing by on your left, scooters whizzing by on your right, being lost...but like any city, if you survive your first ride, you're ready to go. I decided to buy it.
She told me she needed to keep the bike for two more days, so we made plans to catch up Monday night. She was going to meet friends for fondue in Montmartre, so I told her I'd meet her in front of the restaurant at 9 p.m. Easy enough--19 rue des trois freres, a block away from Sacre Coeur.
I have fond memories of Sacre Coeur. Last year, after a long lunch and a bottle of wine, I fell asleep on the lawn behind the basilica. I woke up to a sunny autumn afternoon and one of the best views in all of Paris. Realizing the correlation between good views and altitude, I perked up like a little kid about to pull the emergency brake on his Big Wheel: my ride home on the bike would be all downhill, with very little traffic. And I wouldn't get lost, because I live under the Eiffel Tower, which is very tall and bright.
Around 8:30 Monday night, I packed for my excursion and walked to metro. I have to "pack" every time I leave my apartment, since I'm still finding my way around. Passport, carte orange (monthly metro pass), map of Paris, cell phone, and if I'm going to buy anything, a backpack.
When I got off at Anvers in Montmartre, I realized I had forgotten two things: map and cell phone. Merde. Not good. I needed the map to find the fondue place, and I needed the cell phone to call the woman in case I couldn't find her. It wasn't a good situation: if I didn't see her in the restaurant, or if I didn't recognize her (possible after two days), I had wasted a trip and lost the chance to buy a very cheap bike.
I knew the restaurant was up the hill from the metro station, so I began walking. I poked my head into a store and asked a man if he knew where rue des trois freres was. He didn't know, and he said something about the "funiculaire." This is the little train that goes up the hill to Sacre Coeur, and I knew where that was. I found a map of the neighborhood there and headed off to the restaurant.
On the way, a French woman asked me if I knew where "Gabrielle" was. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it was reassuring to know that I didn't look as clueless as I felt. As gregarious as I can be, I'm shy and I get nervous in unfamiliar situations. So I felt a little better after that and finding the map.
On the way up the hill to the restaurant, I had one of those magical French experiences that seemed right out of a movie. In fact, it was very much like my favorite scene of all the films I've ever seen. In La Dolce Vita, Marcello's father surprises him with a visit and they go to a cabaret. His father comes to life there, full of reverie and braggadocio as he flirts with the dancers and reminisces about his wilder, younger days. While his father recaptures his youth, you can tell that Marcello, although delighted with the surprise visit, is seeing himself in 30 years. It's a touching scene already, and then a man with a trumpet walks out on a stage covered by balloons. When he finishes his corny, misty-eyed piece, he walks off stage with his head hung low. And the balloons follow him! Kills me every time.
Anyway, back to rue des trois freres. I was walking up this steep, windy, cobblestone street, when I heard what sounded like a Brazilian percussion troupe. I thought it was a street musician, but I looked down and there were 6 plastic beer cups following me up the hill. I guess because of the altitude and the wind patterns in these labyrinthine streets, sometimes trash just blows right up the hill. But it was only these 6 cups. Nothing else. They passed me, the clatter like unsupervised children running home from school. They they stopped. It was right out of Toy Story. I passed them, and a minute later I heard them a good distance behind me, the sound more faint this time, still climbing the hill. This happened several times, until I got to the restaurant and could barely hear them anymore.
I looked in the window and didn't see her. It was a tiny place: a wisp of an aisle down the middle, and a line of tables against each wall from end to end. There were chairs lining the aisle and booths against the wall. I had no idea how people got themselves into the booths. It was very lively and extremely crowded, all people in their late twenties twirling cheese and bantering. Several groups of people on the street walked up, hoping to find a seat, but they were waved away.
This wasn't a place I felt comfortable walking into and looking around for someone. Anyway, I could see the whole restaurant through the window, and I didn't see her. I reached for my cell phone to call her, and found nothing but a lighter and some change. Phooie.
I figured that she and her friends had seen how crowded it was and moved on to another restaurant. I stood there like a dunce, hoping she was late. After five minutes I saw a woman walking a bike up the hill. It was her.
So I went to craigslist and found a cheap used bike. What better way to discover Paris, right? Cruise the grand avenues, tool around the Bois de Vincennes, get knocked to the pavement by a maniac on a scooter?
I met up with the vendeur in Bastille. She's a waitress from L.A. who skips from country to country every few months. Her sentences all inflect upwards, as if she were asking you a question? I took her bike for a spin around the neighborhood.
The first time you ride a bike in any city is scary, but this was more so than usual. Too much to process at once: figuring out where to look for the traffic light, finding a one way street to help you complete your circle, skinny streets, how do I signal a turn, is that a stop sign, cars whizzing by on your left, scooters whizzing by on your right, being lost...but like any city, if you survive your first ride, you're ready to go. I decided to buy it.
She told me she needed to keep the bike for two more days, so we made plans to catch up Monday night. She was going to meet friends for fondue in Montmartre, so I told her I'd meet her in front of the restaurant at 9 p.m. Easy enough--19 rue des trois freres, a block away from Sacre Coeur.
I have fond memories of Sacre Coeur. Last year, after a long lunch and a bottle of wine, I fell asleep on the lawn behind the basilica. I woke up to a sunny autumn afternoon and one of the best views in all of Paris. Realizing the correlation between good views and altitude, I perked up like a little kid about to pull the emergency brake on his Big Wheel: my ride home on the bike would be all downhill, with very little traffic. And I wouldn't get lost, because I live under the Eiffel Tower, which is very tall and bright.
Around 8:30 Monday night, I packed for my excursion and walked to metro. I have to "pack" every time I leave my apartment, since I'm still finding my way around. Passport, carte orange (monthly metro pass), map of Paris, cell phone, and if I'm going to buy anything, a backpack.
When I got off at Anvers in Montmartre, I realized I had forgotten two things: map and cell phone. Merde. Not good. I needed the map to find the fondue place, and I needed the cell phone to call the woman in case I couldn't find her. It wasn't a good situation: if I didn't see her in the restaurant, or if I didn't recognize her (possible after two days), I had wasted a trip and lost the chance to buy a very cheap bike.
I knew the restaurant was up the hill from the metro station, so I began walking. I poked my head into a store and asked a man if he knew where rue des trois freres was. He didn't know, and he said something about the "funiculaire." This is the little train that goes up the hill to Sacre Coeur, and I knew where that was. I found a map of the neighborhood there and headed off to the restaurant.
On the way, a French woman asked me if I knew where "Gabrielle" was. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it was reassuring to know that I didn't look as clueless as I felt. As gregarious as I can be, I'm shy and I get nervous in unfamiliar situations. So I felt a little better after that and finding the map.
On the way up the hill to the restaurant, I had one of those magical French experiences that seemed right out of a movie. In fact, it was very much like my favorite scene of all the films I've ever seen. In La Dolce Vita, Marcello's father surprises him with a visit and they go to a cabaret. His father comes to life there, full of reverie and braggadocio as he flirts with the dancers and reminisces about his wilder, younger days. While his father recaptures his youth, you can tell that Marcello, although delighted with the surprise visit, is seeing himself in 30 years. It's a touching scene already, and then a man with a trumpet walks out on a stage covered by balloons. When he finishes his corny, misty-eyed piece, he walks off stage with his head hung low. And the balloons follow him! Kills me every time.
Anyway, back to rue des trois freres. I was walking up this steep, windy, cobblestone street, when I heard what sounded like a Brazilian percussion troupe. I thought it was a street musician, but I looked down and there were 6 plastic beer cups following me up the hill. I guess because of the altitude and the wind patterns in these labyrinthine streets, sometimes trash just blows right up the hill. But it was only these 6 cups. Nothing else. They passed me, the clatter like unsupervised children running home from school. They they stopped. It was right out of Toy Story. I passed them, and a minute later I heard them a good distance behind me, the sound more faint this time, still climbing the hill. This happened several times, until I got to the restaurant and could barely hear them anymore.
I looked in the window and didn't see her. It was a tiny place: a wisp of an aisle down the middle, and a line of tables against each wall from end to end. There were chairs lining the aisle and booths against the wall. I had no idea how people got themselves into the booths. It was very lively and extremely crowded, all people in their late twenties twirling cheese and bantering. Several groups of people on the street walked up, hoping to find a seat, but they were waved away.
This wasn't a place I felt comfortable walking into and looking around for someone. Anyway, I could see the whole restaurant through the window, and I didn't see her. I reached for my cell phone to call her, and found nothing but a lighter and some change. Phooie.
I figured that she and her friends had seen how crowded it was and moved on to another restaurant. I stood there like a dunce, hoping she was late. After five minutes I saw a woman walking a bike up the hill. It was her.
posted by disappearingink at 1:33 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home