~birthplace de oh la la!~
April 22nd, 2007
Walking down the Boulevard Clichy (where the Moulin Rouge still twirls it’s windmill and ghosts of absinthe, can-can, and Mistinguett, haunt daft, thrill-seeking tourists who titter at the giant neon sign SEXY) this: a man asleep on the bench, passed out drunk. In lieu of a 40 ouncer? Bottle of champagne. My kinda town.
Later as we walk over our neighborhood bridge I realize we are passing over the Cimetière de Montmartre, which can be seen through the railings. Alexandre Dumas fils the novelist, Marie Duplessis the courtesan, and François Truffaut are buried here. My new tourist photo technique is to make an image without composing, more like an impression, just point and shoot…here is another one.
The Flea Marche is a bust (Marché aux Puces St-Ouen de Clignancourt). Too expensive and nothing is just right. Ebay has ruined me for international shopping it would seem. But it is an amazing enclave, each market (I count twelve) within The Market, a little village of it’s own, complete with covered stalls of actually old things (unlike the US flea where “very old” is a term bandied about among items younger than my young Grandmother) in ever tightening spirals. My favorite is Vernaison. There are cafe au lait bowls, I try to tell a carte postale dealer here that 10 years ago I bought a Victorian series of the seven sins that hangs in my bedroom. An insane little cabaret Cafe la Lorriane is there too–a nearly subterranean nook of red lit patrons–French only–watching a woman singing Edith Piaf to recorded accordion with all her heart.
It was a three accordion day, with a school sighting on the walk to dinner, and a metro performance on the way home.
Our metro stop is Blanche, prompting much quoting of Tennessee Williams…unwashed grapes, kind strangers and such. Here is our apartment building. Our doorknob looks like a breast in silver (as do many here, all over the city), the pigeons rustle and coo in the courtyard (the neighbors also have 4.30am parties) and the bells of Sacré Coeur ring every evening.
tonight went here for dinner.
A thirty-year tradition for expat Jim, host to thousands of the hungry and curious. Anyone can come to Sunday dinner with Jim (a Louisiana saltydog if there ever was one), you just have to ask. We were well fed, well chatted-up and I nearly ambushed a woman to ask about her perfume and then realized it was the flowering trees in the garden.
Tiny French bats fluttered in the dusk sky. Sweet dreams.
