June 24 - Last Tango on Pont au Change

Writing in an air conditioned hotel room with a desk and refrigerator is P - O - S - H. Anyway, I should be napping but it's my last night in Paris and my trip is coming to an end. I wish I could go to two jazz concerts tonight, one on each side of the Seine. Duc de Lombards and Riv34 are on the other side of the Seine. Caveau du Huchette and Cafe de Paris V are on the left bank, but very touristy. After checking who's playing, I buy a ticket to Riv34 and think about dinner. I haven't had many fancy dinners this trip but those have been memorable. Why not just go for the top? Both La Dome and La Coupole have tables available at 5:30 p.m. and I make the reservation for the gorgeous Art Deco La Coupole. I hang the green silk outfit into the bathroom, rinse off and hope the steam will straighten the wrinkles, then settle down to think for a bit.

I love this area of Montparnasse. I feel a sense of urgency, like this is the year to split and live in Paris. But there's Archer. I can't just dump my dog on anyone and my daughter now has a dog of her own. Could I give away a dog I love so I can live my dream as a writer abroad? Do I really need a 3/2 house with a guest room that's rarely used? I might see more people if I moved. I could buy a Golden Visa and live in Italy. Rome is a bit of a shit show, however. Too busy and full of Americans. I'd never learn to speak Italian. Rouen was a great size and level of energy, but might be pretty cold in the winter. Miriam says I belong in Europe, that I can't find the culture I love in the U.S. This is true. If only I could speak French and Italian. If I'd learned Latin, it wouldn't be so hard. Maybe learning a language would keep my brain going. I could live pretty cheaply here, buy a Vespa or rent a car if I wanted to. Buy a train pass. Soak up the beauty and ignore the reality of another Biden-Trump showdown. How depressing.

***

If you had told me 40 years ago I would look forward to a complicated subway ride with a few switches, I'd have vomited. But tonight, I havae an easy commute. First, I walked to the Denfert-Rochereau metro under the beautiful wrought iron sign. I took the purple 4 train three stops, to Vavin. I'm so good at this now that I'm 20 minutes early for my reservation.  I can see the famous sculpture called La Terre by Louis Derbre. My dress blends perfectly and I wonder if I can get a selfie in without looking like a tourist.

No chance. My waiter arrives, and I savor just looking at the menu. So many fruits de mer to choose from. The seafood arrives from the coast every day.  I choose Choucroute de La Mer. One choucroute, one creme brulee, two glasses of sancerre and one bottle of Perrier add up to...68.50 euros, tip included. 

Every bit of bread, butter, silky sweet sauerkraut/choucroute was perfect, but the seafood was stupendous. I couldn't finish the choucroute but didn't leave a bite of anything else. 

The purple 4 metro line dropped me off at the Cite station, near my favorite church in the world, La Chapelle. The Notre Dame is still fenced off and I smiled as I remembered my virtual Notre Dame tour with Judy as we held hands and crashed into the exit in front of 20 people. I had a 17 minute walk, a walk I needed to accomplish without breaking a sweat in the 85 degrees. 

I found the rue de Rivoli, counted the blocks and joined a line outside a narrow, blank-painted door. A young man was talking excitedly to everyone, and I told him I already had a ticket.

He pointed me inside, and I walked down one, two, three levels of stairs to a beautiful cave underground. Many of the jazz clubs have Caveau in their names for this reason. At 38 Riv, I'm told the French underground had frequent meetings here. The owners have done a beautiful job with this club. The bar is in the back, so you interact with everyone as you move through the small venue. Seats are only about 16 inches tall, so knees are near chins. We're crammed in, but some guys on the side scoot over and I sit on a velvet cushion, my back resting against the wall. 

Then the Parisian owner comes in, starts cracking one liners in French, switches to broken English and we laugh at his terrible puns. He's a great warm-up act, though, and five young musicians take the stage, including the young man from the doorway. The guys to my right fell asleep, and I thought, how sad they're in the front row. I had hoped to hear my moldy fig jazz, a bit of swing and a lot of something other than this. Still, listening to music in the cave where the underground plotted was really cool, literally and figuratively. The beer was cold, too.

I thanked the owner, and he said come back for the 9:30 show. Nope. I have a sunset to chase. It's 9:00 p.m. now, and the light should be amazing. Here's what I saw, walking along the right bank of the Seine.

On the Port au Change, a band played and I sashayed down the bridge. They sounded a lot like the Stanford Band. But, this bridge affords a great view of Pont Neuf and since all of the young women were doing this selfie pose, I tried it. A bit windblown, but definitely happy!

A few steps past this photo stop, here's the band.

Now in the Left Bank, I stop to take one last shot of the old lady. Three weeks ago, only one huge crane was working. Tonight, two are locked in opposite positions.

Next time I return to Paris, the Notre Dame will be open. I'll enter, curtsey, and hope to see the Pieta at the end of the chapel. It survived the fire, its white marble darkened with ash, but I'll bet it will sparkle in December. Oh to be in Paris over the holidays! I can't believe they're going to swim in this river for the triathlon. 

Time to head underground. I remember the St. Michel station near my 2018 airbnb has a cool staircase. I can take the 4 back to dear Denfert-Rochereau and start packing.

I can't help smirking a bit. The quality of these signs is nothing like I navigated in 1984. Everything is ready for the Olympics. Except for the venues. I hope they can finish everything in time.

Back at the hotel, it's 10:00 p.m. I set my alarm for 4:00 a.m. after asking the bellman to reserve a taxi for 4:30. While my flight on British Airlines leaves at 8:00 a.m., I want to be there two and a half hours early, just to be safe. I have to unzip only one expando zipper on my backpack, and everything else fits. I have a glass of monoprix chablis left and as I sip it, I know I won't find this wine in the U.S. I smile as I remember trying to buy a bottle yesterday. No wine sales on Sunday! she screamed at me. I'm a bit sad now that I'm organized and really leaving.

That's the thing. I really don't want to leave. I want to stay in this neighborhood, write my mystery, and walk by beautiful buildings, enter jazz clubs and museums, and soak in all of the beauty I can, until I can't. Maybe I've walked around too many cemeteries this trip, but for the first time in awhile I have some focus. Could I really become an American in Paris? I've done enough research to know I could afford it, especially if I rented my house. Do I have the guts to pull up roots for a year? I'm going to dream about it.