French Recollections

There’s nothing like a snowy day in Schenectady to make one dream of springtime in Paris. In fact, just as the sky released a heap of flurries across the Northeast, one of my best friends decided to purchase plane tickets for a 4-day pilgrimage to the city of unfettered romance.

Looking for some ideas off the beaten path, my friend asked me where I stayed during my two-week trip to France, on my first solo visit to Europe over five years ago. Top two reasons to keep a travel journal: mid-winter inspiration and travel advice for friends!

All I had to do was visit my parents' basement and dig out the vintage lined journal of random musings, sketches and ticket stubs to pull together a list of places to go, stop and linger in and outside of Paris, France.

It is such a thrill to absorb the essence of a city which prides itself on the daily art of living - street musicians on the bridges crossing the Seine and an endless array of chic cafés lined with wicker chairs facing the street, for effective people watching.

Near le Quartier Latin, the Gothic steeples of the Notre Dame preside over l’ Île de la Cité, with no signs of moving any time soon. There is a timelessness to the city but also a feeling that time is absolutely present, every moment alive and ready to experience.

As I passed over the pages I had written during May 2005, I relived the morning walks, park strolls, museum afternoons and quiet evenings eating French hot dogs “emporter” (to go) on the benches surrounding the Eiffel Tower.

And by hot dogs I mean two spicy franks smothered with melted Swiss cheese, walled in by chewy baguette bread. Even the simplest of pleasures are upgraded to pure mastery in Paris!

I came across a journal entry that seems to capture the full-bodied living that takes place in the hidden corners of this famous urban landscape and extends to even the most rural corners beyond Parisian borders:

Sunday May 22, 2005

It’s been a few days since I’ve written… a sign that I’ve been too busy just living. I’m in the train on my way to Strasbourg and my heart and mind are filled beyond their limits with wonderful stories and conversations, thoughts, faces and images, all pointing to the peacefulness and pure goodness that can be found and protected in this world.

In the hostel yesterday morning, I woke up early and packed my bag while my Swedish roommates Alex and Asa slept. I realize I could’ve packed even less. I originally planned to do some reading in the Jardin du Luxembourg and headed that way before 9:00am.

En route I realized I was near le Rue Moufftard and remembered the market! It was a tearfully calm morning. The roads were damp and most of the family-owned stores were still closed. I passed the Pantheon and the back of the Sorbonne and aimed toward Moufftard, a narrow cobble stone street rolling gently downhill.

As I entered the market area, it was smaller than I thought, which in my opinion was nicer, better, more intimate, perfect! My college French teacher, Chantal, invited me to stay with her family Saturday night and I was on a mission to get a nice hostess gift for Chantal’s mom.

I peaked down one of the first side streets and notice one vender, a flower stand with two shelves of fresh flowers and a small store front that read,”Le Passé Simple” (the Simple Path). I stopped and asked the woman who owns the shop what would be a nice gift to bring Chantal’s mother. She had some beautiful bouquets of dried flowers, which I concluded would be ideal.

After exploring the rest of the market, which took a total of five minutes, I returned to the flower stand while the shop owner and her husband prepared the bouquet with some extras. I asked if could take a photo of their flowers and they were flattered and pleased that I thought to ask.

That simple common sense gesture opened up a wonderful conversation with the couple about tourists and language, my heritage and their flowers. I was overjoyed when they thought I was Dutch. I like having an invitation to talk about my German heritage and can politely disprove that all Americans are rude tourists.

The couple gave me a souvenir postcard of the Rue Moufftard and I harbored a hope that I would one day find someone to open a small flower shop with.

I quickly headed to the Gare Nord (North Train Station) to meet Chantal and her boyfriend Carlos, where we would travel together to Chantal’s parents’ home in Chevincourt, just one hour north of Paris.

During the pleasant train ride into the country side of Compiègne, I admired a thirty-something mother and her baby, seated placidly on her lap. The image reinforced my conclusion that French mothers and their babies simply don’t fuss.

When we arrived in the Centre Ville of Compiègne, I could barely contain my excitement. Then we saw Chantal’s mom just beyond the train station entrance. She stood with a warm soft face, shoulder-length dark hair and mother’s arms. At that moment I found my new home - a kiss on each cheek and I am there.

Claudine (such a perfect name), drove us around the city, stopping briefly at the annual Medieval Festival. We viewed a monument commemorating Joan of Ark and later passed two old churches and one of Napoleon’s ornate palaces. Claudine also pointed out a castle in the countryside on our way to her home in the small village of Chenvincourt.

Chantal’s friend Aude, who had joined us from Paris, tucked her toy-size dog SoHo under the front seat, his face peaking out curiously toward me. It felt so grounding to have her little dog with us, a sign that nothing could possibly go wrong during the stay.

As we chatted about the age of the castle and Claudine’s new job in the south of France, I admired the rings on her right hand. She gripped the steering wheel as we sped around open roads, her soft round hands adorned with two pretty gold rings, one with delicate pearls. It made me think of Mom.

At Chantal’s house, I was introduced to her father Jean, clothed in tattered overalls and covered in dirt. A typical county Frenchman, he was busy gardening. Chantal showed me around the house, a whitewashed brick farmhouse that was used as army barracks over a century ago.

Jean entered the living room and insisted that I have an “imperatif” or before-dinner-drink. I was offered a sweet Portuguese liquor while others had rum. Shortly afterward, we gathered around their outside patio for a full meal.

First, the meat: free-range chicken and sausage with head-splittingly hot mustard. Then came the salads, marinated cabbage, cauliflower and herbs and beets with parsley. I sat across from Claudine and learned that she is French Vietnamese. She later showed me her beautiful collection of Chinese pottery and perfume bottles. Above a small Buda statue and petit cactus garden hung a picture of a fisherman’s boat made out of rushed egg shells.

Throughout the relaxed meal we conversed about the French language, and Jean, seated beside me at the head of the table, imitated all of the different regional accents. We eventually moved on to the cheese course and Jean gave me the background of each cheese. I love this tradition!

Then Claudine brought out, oh my goodness: raspberry ice cream with tropical fruits including mango, banana and a white fluffy Asian fruit. Responding to my fascination with each fruit, Claudine went inside to the house to retrieve a huge reference book on fruits, nuts and legumes.

As we lingered over small cups of thickly steeped café, my mind seemed to detach from my body, as I acknowledged how blessed I was to be sitting at the table. Behind Claudine, a full moon was beginning to appear while Chantal’s brother Jean Maris put on a mix of Latin music and classic jazz.

That night I slept in Chantal’s sister’s old bedroom overlooking Jean’s garden of pear and lemon trees. I smiled when Claudine, who had true oversight of the house and its occupants, announced, “lights out!” It was midnight when I finally put head to pillow, where I lay joyfully exhausted.