June 24 - Montparnasse Cemeterie

Breakfast was decent at my hotel. Included with the cost, I expected the usual crust of bread, piece of cheese and a cup of coffee. I ate the banana and yogurt and saved the pastries for later. I plan to go to the Catacombs this morning to see if I really want to write a mystery novel set in France.

Alas. The Catacombs are closed on Monday. If I'd known that, maybe I could have found an earlier flight from Rome. That part of the trip itinerary was booked in Europe, as it's usually a better deal. I'd chosen the cheapest, of course. Happily, I realized I'd just have to come back to the tombs and the story some time in the future.

Fortunately, the Montparnasse Cemetery was open and I walked down to the entrance. While this sign was a bit off-putting, I will say it was the most relaxing cemetery I've ever seen.

I was not alone in my quest to find certain gravesites. An older couple from Ireland asked me, in English, if I'd seen Samuel Becket. I showed them my picture of the cemetery and gave them the location numbers.

Another young woman was looking for Guy de Maupassant. I asked her if she was a writer, and she said, "I hope to be one. I'm here for a semester abroad." You are a writer, I replied, if you write. Together, we found the author of "The Necklace" and 300 other short stories.  Maupassant was a protege of Flaubert, and I paid my respects.  I smiled at the fact I never had any idea when I was in college, as much as I loved their writing, that one day I'd decorate their graves.  In 1984, I had no time for cemeteries, but 40 years later, I'm coming to grips. I'm an incurable romantic.

I took far too many pictures of literary and artistic heroes, so I'll just put a few here. Can you recognize the sculpture whose memorial is below?

If you guessed Bartholdi, the artist who made our Statue of Liberty, you are correct. Just a reminder that this is an active graveyard. Diggers use machines for the front row sites, but must dig by hand in the middle. Thoughts of Hamlet began as I listened to this digger's French folk songs play on a radio.

I include Henri Langlois here because I loved his films, but was astonished by his grave, covered with images from his masterpieces, including actual filmstrip encased in lucite. Somebody must tend to it daily, for it was spotlessly clean.

I ran into the Irish couple again. I showed them the map and plot numbers and they went in search of Beckett once more. While the Irish searched for Beckett, I found Eugene Ionesco, one of my favorite post-modern playwrights. I thanked him for writing The Rhinoceros. I vowed to write another play, so I've made myself a promise I have to keep, probably early in 2025.

I wasn't looking for Charles Pigeon, but how many gravesites have you seen where a couple is reading in bed, on top of their permanent resting place? And, with a plaque of gold-leaved mosaic proclaiming their names? After working at Le Bon Marche, he invented the Pigeon lamp, a non-exploding gasoline lamp, in the 1880's. This made him rich, and for many years his grave was illuminated by a similar lamp.

I found Beckett! Now I'll play Waiting for Godot and hope to find the Irish couple I've seen taking laps. Because Beckett's grave is low, flat, and kind of humble, it's no wonder they couldn't find it. After I waved them down, they left these flowers for him.

I did forget to find Jean Paul Sartre, and as it was more pleasant sitting on a bench across from Beckett, I waited a bit too long. The humidity and heat were rising, so I needed to move. I'd been in the cemetery for almost three hours, walking up and down in the shade of the trees, admiring the art, thinking about my own plans for my ashes to be spread in my beloved Sierra Nevada above Serene Lakes, and wondering how much a site cost in this cemetery.  I took one last stroll to the back of the cemetery that bordered Blvd. Edgar Quinet, and thought this is about as close to Cafe Flore as Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir could get. At first, I didn't recognize their memorial.

Covered in messages, clumps of dirt and the rocks often left on Jewish graves, I was surprised at the number of lipstick kisses on the headstones. Were they a recognition of the love between two writers? A love of existentialism, which wasn't a subject to love, I always thought? But here in a cemetery planned by Napoleon and full of French and expatriot lovers of self-expression through artistic endeavors, maybe kissing the headstone was the right thing to do. After I applied pink lipstick, I felt I should apologize to Sartre for not understanding him after the first two or ten attempts. Reposez en paix.

On my way back to the hotel, I picked up an ink drawing in front of an art studio. Instantly, the owner came out and started talking. I couldn't keep up, so his friend, in the striped shirt, interpreted. I bought an ink and watercolor drawing of the painter, in the glasses here, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Oscar Wilde standing in front of a bar along the Avenue Voltaire. For the next hour, we chatted about art and poetry and music, and they made me an espresso, insisting I try their cinnamon cake. Delicious Albanian recipe. I'm amazed at how friendly immigrants are here and remember that Randy said Parisians aren't friendly. Hmm.

June 23 - Evening on the Rue Daguerre

Louis Daguerre was a famous Parisian artist, a painter, scene designer, and photographer who, in 1839, went public with his new invention:  the daguerreotype. The street named for him was reserved for pedestrians by 1910, with a long, canvas covered market most days. Today, many fresh fruits and vegetables, cheeses, and meats can be bought on the street and each individual shop has its own awning. 

After a nice nap, shower, fluffy towel wipe down, and a quick hair style with a blow dryer (!), I was ready for an adventure. I didn't know about the chic and hopping Rue Daguerre, but two blocks away I stood at a stoplight, and looked at a garishly-lit corner restaurant called Cafe Daguerre. I walked across the street to check out the menu and the people inside. At 7:00 p.m., there were still a few places to sit, but I decided to explore some more. 

As I walked down the street, restaurants on my right caught my eye. 

I walked about 4 blocks down, then returned back toward the beginning of the street and looked at the bucherie, fromagerie, patisserie, boulangerie, chocolatier on the left and thought, hmm, great neighborhood street. 

I found a street called Danville Avenue and thought that might be a fun address for a few months. Later I would look up the address on a real estate website and learn it was tres cher, too expensive for me. The Haussman-style buildings were gorgeous and I yearned to knock on an intricately carved wooden door and have a friend buzz me inside.

As the light began to dim, and my stomach gurgled for food, I returned to what I thought was the nicest restaurant on the street. It had tables outside with a few openings, and an interesting interior. Without a reservation, I felt I wouldn't have a seat. But, I was wearing my second-nicest dress and walking like Miriam. Why not try my most polite French and see what happened? 

Inside or outside? the maitre d' asked, nodding her approval of me. When I hesitated, she led me to a tiny table for one with the table outside the bi-folded window and the chair inside. I could see everything and was ready to watch the Parisians (and tourists) enjoy their food.

What to order from this traditional restaurant? It was when I opened the menu for Maison Peret that I learned I had extremely good taste in restaurants. This brasserie had opened as a bistrot a vin in 1908, and began serving farm to table food shortly thereafter. In the same family for four generations, they proudly state they "serve no frozen food, no microwaved food, and only freshly prepared foods from local suppliers." I thought this was typical of French restaurants, but had learned earlier in the month that many Paris established restaurants were "cheating" and serving frozen foods. My friends Randy and Jack considered that to be food blasphemy. Still, I needed to decide what to eat and the roasted duck sounded divine. Did I dare?

I forgot to take a picture before I devoured my duck, but here's an idea. This very simple dinner of roasted small butter potatoes, spring greens salad and duck was perfectly cooked. The butter for the tiny dinner croissants was from Normandy, and the table pepper was some of the freshest I've had. I began my meal with a glass of chablis, noting that I'd never find something this perfect for a warm summer evening at home. California wines are great, but we don't make chablis like the French. I asked my server his recommendation for a wine with the duck, and he said it had to be a light red. He chose a 2020 Chinon AOP from the Chateau de la Bonneliere. Like the DOC of Italy, the AOP Appellation d'Origine Protegee designation means the wines were made with the cultural knowhow of the specific region. This glass also had a green "AB" with a leaf next to the price, which means it's made in a sustainable winery. All this to say the wine was a great match for the duck, but an even better one for the buttery croissants. While I drank the chablis far too quickly, I savored the Chinon, having never tasted any red wine quite like it.

One of my favorite parts of a French meal is the pace of service. Attentive but not intrusive, I felt taken care of. Yes, it did take over half an hour for my duck to arrive, but I enjoyed people-watching and seeing the reflection of the light on the charcuterie window change as the sun set. I spent about an hour and a half at Maison Peret, didn't have coffee or dessert, and felt appreciated. Such a different experience than 40 years ago, when I spoke no French, didn't know the expected customary greeting whenever one walks into a store or restaurant, and was treated like a scumbag American tourist. After the frenetic nature of Rome and the quiet tranquility of La Romita, I welcomed the elegance of French manners. I'm becoming a snob.

There's still some sunset to chase tonight. Did Monet paint these clouds for me? Ah, now I'm pretentious, too.

June 23: My Dear Denfert Rochereau

I had a quiet ride to the airport, wondering if I'd be standing in the security line for three hours like I'd done in 2022.  Just like the flight from Geneva to Rome, my flight from Rome to Paris was easy. I wasn't in the overseas international area, but in a smaller terminal dedicated to intra-Europe flights. I had time to visit the shopping mall, have lunch, and see the art on display. Even the line-up lanes were artistic!

Easy Jet is very, very easy. If you told me the company had bought older Southwest Airlines 737s for their fleet, I would have believed you on the flight from Geneva to Rome. The seats were Southwest blue. Today's plane was an Airbus. They have another inch or two of legroom, which didn't really matter on a two-hour flight. Still, I'd reserved a seat on the right side of the plane in the hope of seeing the Alps on the way. First, a final look at the lovely Italian beaches. Funny how this picture looks upside down, but the fields were east of the Mediterranean.

We flew within range of Lake Bolsena, and I made a mental note that I had to go there next time. I was getting a crick in my neck, drifted off for a bit, then a few neighbors started oohing and ahhing. Yes, the Alps. Is it possible this is the back side of the Matterhorn, showing her peak only to those above 15,000 feet? Hard to say.

Upon landing, I walked off the plane, through the baggage claim area and kept walking through Orly Airport until I found the transportation area. The Blue RER train line I'd intended to take to Denfert-Rochereau was delayed by an hour, which must be making the commuters in town crazy. The next bus would leave in 25 minutes, but dragging my suitcase and backpack onto a crowded bus seemed unfair to people going home from work. So, I found the taxi line. Nobody seemed interested in checking my passport. I felt like a local.

The vibe was very different in this taxi queue. Nobody would dream of cutting in line. We were protected from the sun and a breeze blew through the line. Security guards were at the front, in the middle, and directing people to the end of the line. The contrast between Rome and Paris was blatantly pro-Paris. Is this because of the upcoming Olympics? Due to high security alerts? When I got to the front of the line, a hunky young security guard rolled my bag to the taxi for me, lifted the bag and backpack into the trunk and gave a slight bow of his head. Wow. I thought he might click his heels together, but no.

And then, I arrived in my dear Denfert Rochereau plaza and the Metro stop I depended on to survive 40 years before. Something about the freshly painted green wrought iron and a young man struggling with a suitcase on the stairs took me back to my first visit to Paris in 1984.

My college buddy and post-college roommate Lisa had finished her first year of medical school and had snagged a coveted internship in a Paris hospital. She was staying in the dorms of the City University of Paris, which was on the edge of Montparnasse. She invited me to stay with her and it was so hot I slept on the roof, with a few other international students. When I arrived, I bought a handful of Metro tickets and lost them all in a few hours. I didn't understand how to navigate my first subway rides, and kept going to the wrong side of the platform. I wondered why they chose not to name stops after streets or landmarks. Then, I lost 10 francs in a day, and chose to spend another 25 francs on a carte de l'orange, which was also a paper ticket in a bright orange color.  It was valid for a week, and as long as I didn't lose it, I could get lost in the Metro and still make it back to Roguefort Dressing (my mnemonic device for Denfert Rochereau). After a few days of failed navigation, I took to the streets. What a good decision. Here's a Metro map from 1984. Denfert Rochereau is a main hub, and the Cite Universitaire stop is just below it. Thank goodness that stop was related to my home location!

Now I know you just need to know the names of the end stops on each line and you can always get to the correct platform. Thank goodness for today's plastic Metro d'couverte - it never expires! I have leftover euros on my one from 2022. Hopefully it works tomorrow.

But this afternoon? A shopping trip to the Monoprix around the corner, a rest, and a hunt for dinner.

My Montparnasse hotel has an elevator! And as requested, they gave me a room in the back so I wouldn't hear the street noise. Why did I ever want to stay in hot, dirty, intense Rome when I could be in leafy Montparnasse and sleep near where the writers lived? A bus across the street, the RER Blue line downstairs, and restaurants, restaurants, restaurants!

Dreamland for awhile in a queen-sized bed with the AC on! I'm living in Montparnasse, writing in the mornings, walking around in the afternoons to see art, enjoying evenings of music and literary salons with friends...

June 23.- I found six of the seven hills of Rome

Oh, to be lazy, sleeping in a lofted bed in the chic Trastavere section of Rome! Miriam had put yogurt and berries in the tiny fridge for me, so I didn't have to go out for breakfast. Church bells were calling believers to Mass as I stripped the sheets off of the bed. Excellent, modern bathroom with plenty of hot water and special shampoo made me sad to leave Rome, but to be honest I was beginning to be really excited about returning to Paris. 

I had several hours before I'd head to the taxi stand and I needed to walk a lot since I'd be sitting in the Roma airport for a few hours, flying for an hour and a half, then commuting to Montparnasse. On an old map I saw the Fonte Acqua Paola, and started walking up the winding streets toward the large green spaces on top of the hill. 

The rain started in about 30 minutes, and again, I bemoaned the loss of my phone and raincoat. It was a light, cool rain so I was happy to get wet. What on a map appeared to be a twenty minute stroll turned into a major workout. Instead of hiking up to the Via Garibaldi, which looked like a main boulevard, I chose the smaller, side streets. I saw Santa Maria Trastavere from behind and knew I was heading in the wrong direction. Staircase after staircase! Up via d. Paglia and via Biondi, up a private lane (oops) next to the Spanish embassy.

The guard detail didn't speak Italian or English, and had their hands on the trigger the whole time they walked me off the property. Their camo jumpsuits had water beading down them and their helmets had some fake plants sprouting from the top. This was so funny looking I forgot to be scared. They didn't need anything to hide them in the bushes; their pop-up tent was red and yellow, visible from a distance, just not in my path of vision from the staircase below. 

At the end of the lane, I found a six-street exchange. Really? I had to walk a long circle around the plaza to find the right street. And the fountain in the middle of this was dry.

The possibility I had been on a wild (dry) goose chase would have been funny, but I'd made it all the way up 118 stairs of the Via Glorioso hoping to find the fountain, only to start limping! My knees... 

Maybe the Spaniards had given me the curse of Juan Ponce de Leon and I would never find the fountain of youth. A bar man unlocked his gates (at 10:00 a.m. Sunday?!) sold me a bottle of water and I kept walking.  

I found more embassies, and an American school. Finally, the actual fountain! It's a beauty. An entire soccer team was taking pictures in front of it. I think they'd just won a game as they were biting their medals, reminding me that the Olympics would be starting soon.

From this fountain, I found the via Garibaldi and decided the sidewalk would protect me from the speeding cars. I took one last staircase down to the lane, and wished I'd had a way to carbon date the cobblestones. My knees were hurting, so I gingerly stepped over these and hoped my ankles would stay put.

At last! The gate in Trastavere that is near my apartment. Time to find a taxi.

June 22 - Just One Evening in Roma

 Paris has been called the City of Light, and I've seen what writers mean. Rome's twilight, especially next to the sycamore-lined Tiber River, has a less formal charm. This river doesn't flow as quickly as the Seine, and it's amazing to me that I will walk along the Seine tomorrow. What a life. How lucky am I?

We had a long walk from the art gallery, past the temporary outdoor theater in Piazza San Cosimato, and down the main Viale Trastavere, over the Garibaldi bridge where we paused to look at the old Jewish Quarter.

I remembered the Rick Steves episode that discussed how this bridge allowed the Jews to cross over and work during the day, but they were required to return home before sundown.

Here is the top of the famous synogogue. We walked through the streets and Miriam remarked how the  palaces (right next to the large trash cans) were incredibly opulent on the inside. 

She pointed to one doorway, and said the owner was a patron of the arts and a wonderful host for events. The doorway was from the 1400's and I tried to imagine the kinds of marble and art inside the home. The lyre decorating the penthouse window suggested the family also loved music.

I was walking too slow. We had a reservation for dinner at 9:00 and needed to keep moving. But, I had to stop when I saw this fountain. Take a close look at the turtles! Someone had a sense of humor hundreds of years ago.

We picked up the pace, crossed over a very touristy part of the Ghetto (I tried so hard not to be a gawking tourist, but it is what it is), and found our destination:  Angelino's, the famous restaurant featured in the 1962 version of the Pink Panther, with Peter Sellers and David Niven.  As we hurried down the streets, people moved aside on the sidewalk and stared at my friend. I started walking with my nose (freckled) in the air and with a little more sway to my steps. Being with Miriam gave me such a burst of confidence. I was starving by the time we arrived at the restaurant.

And the food did not disappoint. They sat us right by the doorway so everyone could see my stunning friend! Black and white pictures of every famous movie star from the 50's and 60's lined the walls. We had pasta and a glass of wine and laughed and talked and laughed and ate. We must have been sisters in another lifetime.

Two years ago, I ordered pasta amatriciana at every Italian restaurant. Tonight, I had a seafood caponata pasta with red sauce, which surprised me. Spicy and light, I ate the whole thing.

Landscape lighting slowly changed the twilight to street light as we walked around the rest of the neighborhood. Taking side streets and alleys, we avoided the tourist street until Miriam wanted to show me another ruin. She posed me on a guard rail and I pretended to be an influencer. So much fun. Well, I guess my Skechers kind of ruined the whole thing.

Views of more ruins, then a building with apartments for sale for only 150K. Beautiful building with no running water, no working sewer, but electricity 24/7.  What a place to write a book! I made the mistake of looking at my phone to see how far we'd walked. 3 miles this afternoon and another 4 tonight. And, we still had to walk back over the bridge to Trastavere. At the river's edge, we stopped and indulged in a gelato and I had my customary pistachio and stracchiatella. The heat meant we had to wolf down the top scoop and yet, it was terrific. As we crossed the Garibaldi, I saw a photo op. I trotted down the riverbank about 25 yards and took this. Can't wait to make a copy of it for my wall at home.

I've been in Rome for 11 hours and taken over 250 photos. Is this one really real?

June 22: Roma Turista on the Streets

 

Laura and I disembarked in Roma and I told her what a crazy station it is. Fortunately, she let me use her phone when I couldn't find Miriam at the meeting place. We changed plans, and I joined Laura in the taxi line. This is like the lineup at Southwest Airlines in the 1990's, before the open seating plan came with boarding groups A, B, and C. Italians cut in front of the tourists in line, and when a big taxi van pulled up to me, I gave it to the British family behind me. A few more taxis passed me by, so I stepped in front of the cutters and jumped into a taxi. When in Rome...

The nice taxi driver spoke a little English after I greeted him in Italian, and he asked me if I liked Roma. When I told him the energy was crazy, he told me that's because too many crazy Americans lived there. We laughed and I felt less like a tourist.

Trastavere at noon is a very hot place. Miriam's pied a terre is on a narrow street and the delightful lofted townhouse is completely remodeled and air conditioned! We dropped off my stuff and went for a quick bite at a walkup around the corner. Small Roman artichokes dipped in clarified butter, with a fresh loaf of bread, made a perfect meal. I washed it down with a small glass of beer, and we were off on a quick site-seeing tour. Looking at an ancient town with an art professor has to be one of the most pleasurable experiences I have ever had. My love of architecture and her knowledge of the history of the buildings made for non-stop conversation. We have such similar tastes, which is why we call ourselves Sisters of the World. While our bio-parentage may differ, we must share some cultural DNA.

Here we are in front of the Santa Maria of Trastavere Church. I'm sweating buckets and she's fresh as a daisy. Inside, another expert view of the gorgeous art of the 12th century. The earliest church at this site dates from about 221-227 CE, during the time of Pope Callixtus I. What we saw was completed between 1140-1143, but the mosaics by Pietro Cavallini date from the late 13th century. So young.

The sheep are so interesting, and the fact Mary is on the same level as Jesus is an interesting comment on the hierarchy of the early church. Here's a closer look.

The thick old walls of the church hid the fact the temperature outside was above 95, with similar humidity. We walked back to the apartment and planned to meet at 5:30. Boy was I thankful for a siesta!

When I woke up at 5:00, the downstairs floor was covered with moisture. I found a mop, thinking it was just a small streak, when I realized it was throughout the entire apartment. What had I done?

Miriam's knock at the door made me panic a bit.  When I saw she wore a beautiful golden jumpsuit with spectacular jewelry, I knew I had to change out of my Columbia stretch shirtdress. It took her a bit of time, but Miriam figured out the cleaners had reset the AC and accidentally turned on the humidifier, instead of the dehumidifer. So when the temperature inside went up, so did the humidity.  When I returned later that evening, everything was fine.

I changed into my new green silk ensemble, and had a first experience. At my age, that's saying something! I've never been in Rome with a knockout blonde, and about every other block men would brush up against her, stop her and say something, or generally make sure she noticed them. After nearly a month of not wanting to be known as a solo travel who didn't speak the local language, it was pretty hysterical to be accosted on every corner. The two of us must have made a study in contrasts: curvy Miriam with long blonde hair and high heels and sporty Spice Girl me, with an athletic walk and Skechers sandals. In a short period of time, we saw everything. Back and forth over the Tiber River we found churches and bars and gelato and views.

After Miriam's lecture on dating, we stopped by this store. Notice the hearts. I made a wish.

We decided to walk across Trastavere to find the St. Cecilia Church and again, a piece of marble struck me dumb. Fortunately Miriam explained it all.

The carved canopy above the altar was quite the work of art, too.

The sculptor honored Cecilia with this perfectly rendered homage. Her neck is at the same odd angle as when she was found murdered. In fact, the body and arm placement are identical. Taken together, it's quite horrific to think about what happened to her.

We wandered back towards the center of Trastavere and found this unique art boutique whose owner was working inside.

Below the sign in English, we found a few little bistro tables set out for patrons to look over the catalogue.

The least expensive piece of glass-blown art was 10,000 euros. She was a charming hostess for a tour around her gallery.

Miriam wanted to stop by an old hospital and show me the inner architecture. The security guard wasn't helpful, even to her. He told us we could enter in 30 minutes. So, we stood outside his guard station and he finally realized we were serious, even though we were dressed up. And in half an hour, we were inside.

The hospital is actually an old monastery, completed in 1069. It fell into disrepair in the 1400's, and was later rehabilitated into a hospital. Inside these gardens, you can sit amongst urns from the 6th century.

Hiding behind the arches so the security guard wouldn't kick us out, we sneaked back to the guard post and waved to the man who'd let us in.  Time to cross the river again, and find dinner in the Jewish Ghetto.