Author’s Note: This blog post is a compilation of two newsletters sent to subscribers in March and April 2020. It recalls the month I spent in Paris in February 2020. Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. Because of COVID-19, the newsletters were more like blog posts and that is why they found their way here. What I said then still stands: I invite you to leave the headlines behind for a few minutes. Instead, in the time it takes to read this, relax and come immerse yourself in Paris with me.
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February is my favorite time in Paris. The days stretch longer, the streets are not filled, and it’s often mild with a whiff of spring in the air, on the trees, and in flowerbeds. When I arrived this year on the first of February, it was so warm that people were enjoying ice cream cones in Place des Vosges! By the end of the week, I had discovered the history of the prefecture of the police and learned the name and story of France’s first serial killer (Landru); visited an interactive expo (“Faire Corps”) exploring the relationship between media and its effect on our sense of space; cried during a one-act play based on Holocaust survivor Simon Wiesenthal’s philosophical book, The Sunflower; admired a building that led to a conversation with a friendly Parisian who then went out of his way to show me the shortest street in the city (rue des Degrés); and stood in awe between two 17th century triumphal arches that mark the location of gates in the 14th century medieval wall built by Charles V to protect Paris. Then I boarded the TGV to Bordeaux for a long weekend. The train left from Gare Montparnasse early in the morning. On the way to the station, I watched the sun rise over La Conciergerie.
Beautiful Bordeaux hugs the Garonne River in the shape of an arc. One by one all the buildings on the tightly packed streets in the old city are being cleaned to rid them of the grime and soot built up over the years. There’s a lively market on Sundays along the riverfront with great people watching and music, sweet, tender oysters, and gâteau basque. I indulged.
Back in Paris, it was raining. Instead of taking the bus, I opted for the métro from Gare Montparnasse to my apartment. Ligne 8 was perturbé—a dreaded pronouncement if you are in the métro, and reason to find a different route. So I retraced my steps and hopped on the bus, then got caught in a downpour walking from the sheltered arcade of Place des Vosges to my apartment around the corner. All of which helped me understand why Parisians are sometimes bougon(ne), grumpy.
There were two things I didn’t do in February. One was an appointment-only visit to a very off script museum of, loosely speaking, cast moldings that I decided to skip in the essence of time; and the other was a Philharmonie concert with pianist Martha Argerich. The museum will be there for me to scope out next time. Martha Argerich is more problematic and I was disappointed to miss her. The concert was sold out but I added my name to the liste d’attente anyway, only to discover too late (because I was immersed in the apéro hour or three) the email that there might be some tickets. Oops! She will be in Paris again December 4. But I learned my lesson and snagged a fabulous ticket to the last seasonal performance of Giselle at the Palais Garnier. I don’t know what was more over-the-top: the building or the people arriving on a Saturday night in Paris for a ballet in a venue that calls to mind an enormous gilded Fabergé egg. Cinderella could have driven up in her footmen-lined coach and no one would have blinked. I didn’t feel out of place in my wool dress and boots, but I could have easily been at home in sequins and pearls.
Back down on earth—granted, Paris—I found myself late one Saturday near the Périphérique in a small art gallery marveling at the work of the street artist known as Seth. To my utter delight, a couple of days later, while tracing out a new itinerary in the opposite end of town, I turned a corner and stumbled completely by chance upon some of the same gallery pieces in their original street art form!
Parisians flock to the farm during the Salon de l’Agriculture. I’m always among them. The Salon was bigger this year, spread out among more pavilions. The main pavilion transforms into a big barn with the smell of the animals the first thing that hits you. Then it’s fun to wander, being careful where you step. The Salon pays homage to all the products produced on France’s farms and there’s plenty to sample. I’m still swooning over the yogurt that was unlike any other I’ve ever tasted.
My last day in Paris was rainy and blustery. But there was one more thing I had to do. Lafayette has to be one of the most discreetly buried well-knowns, his grave tucked away in one of only two private cemeteries in Paris. It is a heart-breaking place. Père-Lachaise may have Oscar, Jim, and Edith, and many gorgeous tombs that stand tall like a veritable city of the dead, but the tiny, ancient cemetery in the working class neighborhood where Lafayette rests tells a story that made tears stream down my cheeks.
In hindsight, it was a fitting end to the month. COVID-19 was already a gathering storm. As I packed my bag that last night in my apartment, I had a pit in my stomach, a foreboding, unsure that I would be back in five weeks. But of this I am sure: one day we will have Paris again.