It has been almost a year since I went to Paris and the riverbanks with the grungy-parked boats are still there. I can still smell the ever-changing water of the Seine. The flower sellers who tell me to dress warmer are still handing out purple Irises. The crepe seller who always adds extra Nutella for me is still on the corner. The newspaper seller who tells me I am a communist for reading Libération is still selling papers. La vielle Sorbonne is still there waiting to be explored by new students. The women who worked in La Charlotte de l’Isle who I always thought were “secret witches” are still making coffee. The smells of the macarons in the boulangeries are still filling the streets. The kissing couples on Pont Neuf are still kissing. And Paris—a gem of a poem in the middle of the world is still there.
I wake up early in my dorm room to the sounds of the tram rattling “La Fondation des Etats-Unis.” I had wanted to take a quick jog in Parc Montsouris, the park opposite to the Cité, but I slept in. I get ready quickly and throw on some clothes and my winter coat. Catching breakfast at the Spanish House is the best kept secret of the whole Cité Universitaire. The scrumptious petit déjeuner consists of a baguette and jam, a croissant and butter, café au lait and orange juice. All the beautiful Spanish waiters speak French with a superb thick Spanish accent which makes me feel like I am in the Basque region of Spain.
I dash out of our house and into the park of the Cité to catch Spanish breakfast before 9am. I pass the Mexico House which has a huge sculpture-replica of the ancient, Aztec calendar in their garden. I pass some joggers. The Cité soccer team is completing their morning run.
I eat quickly, it is time to head to class. I head to the “Cité Universitaire” metro stop were I catch the RER B. I pass the outside-bookseller who never sleeps but is perpetually draped on the steps of the entrance to the Maison Internationale. He calls out to me, saying he has new books for me to check out. I quickly skip by him with a coy smile. I do not need more old books.
The metro is peppered with beautiful French ladies drowning in traditional French garb. French men wrapped up in scarves read “Le Monde.” French couples make out while young men grip their lunch baguettes. A gypsy girl and her mother pass through our car begging for “une pièce” (a coin).
I purposefully get off at a metro stop that is further away from Reid Hall, so I can walk through Jardin du Luxembourg. I climb the ancient stairs of the metro and I look up to Latin Quarter. Because it is winter, the gardens are stark and desolate and merely echo the forgotten image of their latent grandeur. I pass little children bundled up in winter clothes buying balloons with their parents. More joggers scurry by, and classic couples walk the stretch of the park.
I exit the park, and I am in Montparnasse, one of the “belles quartiers” among the daunting Haussmannian apartment buildings. I stop at the Boulanger/Patisserie on Rue Vavin for a chocolate macaron and a café creme before class.
I arrive at my art history class at Reid Hall, and Mme Moll is again struggling to get her overhead projector to work so we can look at the likes of Manet and Courbet. The class has a visit to the Musée d’Orsay planned later in the week. It seems like ages until I can get back out on the streets of Paris and explore.
After class, I stop at the old bookseller on the corner by the school and grab a copy of “Ecrits sur L’art” by Emile Zola, a book I need for class.
I grab the four at the Vavin metro stop and head over to the Rive Droite for lunch. I want to go to a café in the Marais with the best goat cheese sandwiches. The Marais is the Jewish and gay district in Paris and is home to many galleries, Israeli restaurants and the famous Rue des Rosiers. It has been my favorite neighborhood in Paris since walking down Rue Saint Antoine during my first week in Paris and seeing the street peppered with fruit sellers, fish sellers, honey shops, boutiques, cafés and restaurants.
The waiter gives me that endearing French waiter look and says, “Vous désirez?” (What will you have?) I have kept him waiting while I decided what cookie I want, and now his time is wasted.
I order the goat cheese on baguette sandwich, an Orangina, and a cookie aux pépites du chocolat. I have yet to find another café who can do such a perfect goat cheese crudite. After receiving my food, I leave the café and head over to Place des Vosges to eat lunch in the park. I pass Hassidic Jews speaking beautiful French and young couples eating falafel sandwiches from Rue des Rosiers. Slumping down on a park bench, I look at the Parisian skyline of chimneys, apartment roofs, rooftop gardens, trees and infinite sky.
An old Parisian woman stops and says, “C’est beau Paris, non?”
“Oui, c’est beau Paris…” *
*“Paris is beautiful, no?”
“Yes, Paris is beautiful.”
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