I awoke today to what is consistently the best day of any trip—the second day. The second day of any adventure is the moment at which one swallows the first bite of the fruit that tempts the compulsive traveler; it is the warm rush of calm washing over the body injected with the antidote for wanderlust. The spirit of adventure is always in full swing when I wake up for the first full day in my destination. That helped with the six hours of walking.
It was a productive day during which Molly, Magpie and I came across a few diamond mines. The first inspired more joy than the view of the Champs Elysees lit up from the top of the Arc de Triomphe; it was more beautiful than all the treasures of the Louvre and the gentle elliptical tessellations of the cobblestone streets on the Place de La Concorde……we found Wawa. Be still the racing hearts of every South Jerseyan reading my report; it was not a true Wawa market. As you all know, transatlantic shipping would ruin the principle of fresh, local supply that defines our precious convenience store as the finest in all the galaxies of the universe. It was, however, a French market with prepared salads, cheap coffee, multiple smoothie options, tempting sandwiches, walls of extensive and exotic refrigerated options, and a cornucopia of snack bars. The name of the impostor that offers me consolation is Chez Jean. Mere blocks from the hotel, it will doubtlessly be a common pit stop over the next year of my life. I even saw a man with a bright violet NYU hoodie walk in. His wheelie bag and bountiful mustache made him look professorial, so I look forward to being educated by a man of such obvious good tastes.
Next we hiked down through the 3rd arrondissement in search of Monoprix and Carrefour, two European supermarkets we planned to visit in order to compare prices with those of the local “eries” (patisseries, boulangeries, charcuteries, etc) Monoprix was of course closed promptly at 12:50 pm, but in our pursuit of Carrefour (which turned out to be a small café called the Carrefour café…thanks iPhone walking directions), we stumbled across a Carrefour city, which is apparently some type of different Carrefour with all the exact same Carrefour brand products. We found here the place I will be visiting weekly to pick up all or most of my groceries. Without providing the boring details of the prices, which we found to be incredibly generous (“THIS much salmon for HOW MUCH?”), I can probably just tell you that the next thing we did was wander straight across the city of Paris.
We actually walked a relatively direct route across the entire town--from the third arrondissement, to the eighth (LGBT Paris featuring a Renaissance garb-clad percussion brigade giving out phone numbers for something spoken in rapid French), all the way down the Rue de Rivoli into the history-and-tourist-packed lower numbered arrondissements (first, second, third, etc); we caught glimpses of the Ile-de-la-Cite as we came near the Seine and the Eiffel Tower, and then we crossed into the realms of the rich and famous where I will study at NYU’s academic center (located, as is NYU’s practice, above some sort of obscure boutique behind the gates to a courtyard under the cobblestone streets in a dimly lit passage with booby traps, over the river and through the woods and across a rickety bridge under which is dug a den of hungry wolves and into an alcove where a giant toad asks three questions and out through a maze which ends in a high-stakes game of baccarat with an impatient magician wearing Versace.) Our destination was in the heart of the swanky sixteenth, where well-to-do residents strut quietly up and down the rolling streets and pretend not to judge the well-to-do English tourists strutting less quietly up and down the rolling streets who have a silent understanding with the uncool Americans who probably struggle as much as they do to understand why all the sandwiches on the café menus are listed under “snacks” and not “dejeuner.” Either way, I began what I think will be a long-term affair with the croque-madame. For any reader who doesn’t understand the nature of the croque-madame, let me explain. It is virtually the same as the croque-monsieur, the fried ham and cheese sandwich with shell of melted and crusted cheese on the top bun---but there’s a fried egg perched prettily on top of the whole scene like a gooey bonnet of golden sunshine. In France, eggs are used in a (ironic) Reaganomic way; they are placed on top of stuff and are meant to trickle down onto everything else to be eaten as part meal component, part sauce, and part shepherd of stray baguette crumbs. However the citizen chooses. Perhaps wisely, they confine this practice to dishes involving eggs. It’s possible that the egg-Reagan (Reggan?) parallel, however, is loose and inaccurate, because the eggs here cost enough to incur tax-based revolution. I haven’t seen them for less than 2.50 euro per dozen; this dashes many of my hopes and dreams of eating oatmeal and eggs until I can afford train tickets to fantastic places where I’ll eat to my heart’s content (a lofty and time-consuming pursuit for a heart like mine) and return to Paris full and ready to graze lightly until my next journey. On the tentative list are Brussels, Munich, and Venice. On the dream list are Florence, Chamonix, Zurich, Lisbon, Athens, Madrid, Barcelona, Marrakesh, Dublin, Howth, St. Malo, Stockholm, Geneva and literally anywhere else that isn’t St. Petersburg (I would love to go but have learned it costs about 200 euro at the French consulate to get into Russia as a tourist. Fuhgeddaboddit.)
We took the metro back under the Concorde where the city’s roots converge in the twisted iron of the Eiffel Tower, we saw a woman who looked just like Queen Latifah, and we got back to our hotel somewhat tired and not very hungry for a decadent French meal since we had just recently made love to our late croques-madame. A little later, Magpie suggested that we go out for beers in the bar next to my apartment building. There was a sign that read “Guinness” hanging outside of it, so we, following our magic summons as people of Irish descent, decided to go. Alors, it was closed. We walked down Rue Oberkampf until we saw a strange little place tucked away on a distant corner, the name of which is “Oxxy’D Bar, Restaurant, and Jazz Expo.” If one were to design the interior of an opium den based on the box art from the game Clue, then consult Hugh Hefner and employees of Hot Topic and Nifty Fifties on the nature of the décor, then decide that the best entertainment is youtube requests and low-quality speakers, one would come up with something like Oxxy’D Bar, Restaurant, and Jazz Expo. The small main room is laid out in two separate alcoves on either side of a column. One side is enclosed, features humungous studded leather chairs, and is lit by a lone wax drip candle. This was our side. The other side has no wall and faces the street. Behind it are two rusty metal cafeteria tables and maroon 50’s diner chairs. This is lit by moonlight and a kitschy disco laser ball that shifts firefly- sized neon beacons of pink and red and blue and green and gold across the dark-stained walls and the projector screen of questionable functionality. This side was occupied by the band, (presumably the people who make Oxxy’D part jazz expo), who were off-duty. The bass and guitar players were potbellied Frenchmen with wrinkled blazers, messy goatees, and stiff, bright ascots. The singer, who crooned softly in the corner something beautiful and treacherous to hum around the rim of my well-mixed Manhattan, looked like a street rat taking shelter in a Forever 21. She looked almost like a vaguely attractive witch; a crooked downbent nose and a mess of stringy dark hair piled atop precarious regions of her scalp and held in place with a heap of butterfly clips and age-inappropriate barrettes framed themselves mysteriously through the moody light. The drinks were excellent—a gin and tonic for Molly, the aforementioned Manhattan for myself, and a Long Island Iced Tea for Mags. Snack mix baked into the shapes of playing card suits and spiced olives completed the still, quiet scene. There was also a dark library in the back, a la Beauty and the Beast.
Our server and bartender, whose name I intend to acquire on my next visit, was a narrow- shouldered young man with skin and accent that suggested heritage in the Middle East. He was incredibly friendly and a good partner with whom to practice my French because he (not being a Frenchman) spoke very little English. His French, German, and language he spoke with his shady friends who floated in and out of the bar area were all sharp and quick, and it took a few sentences to get me to be able to talk music with him. I told him I liked what was playing, so he asked what else I like and gave my companions and me a pad on which to write our requests, which he searched on youtube and blasted at drastically varying volumes. I think the constant changes in sound were an appropriate complement to the wildly eccentric nature of the bar. I wrote down Miles Davis because I thought his music would fit the ambience, and Magpie asked for some Ella Fitzgerald. He played both of these artists with a bright smile from behind the bar that searched for and found our approval, but then he took some free reign in searching for the music of my country because I had told him I was American (the success in this story is that he didn’t know because he, too, spoke French with an accent. I now consider us to be close friends.) Mariah Carey’s “Hero” was the next song to pulse loudly then quietly then loudly then quietly through the overhead stereo, and then the musicians left as the scene got totally awesome when our bartender-turned DJ hit us with a culturally spot-on coup de grace: a double whammy of the immortal Barry White. He and I engaged in a little more small talk as we prepared to pay and leave, and then we sauntered back down Oberkampf through the rain-soaked streets and to our hotel for the night. That’s how you earn patron loyalty.
No comments:
Post a Comment