I lay on my Parisian hotel bed and thought of William and his ambivalence toward travel. He's especially put off by my style of peregrination. I like to get lost and find my way home. I like non-chain hotels. I like trying new food and chatting to locals. William prefers luxury and secure surroundings. He wants to know exactly where he's going, how long it will take and what will happen when he gets there.
These differences do not make me right and him wrong. But they are differences nonetheless, and how can you join lives together when the rims of the canyon are so far apart? I wondered this as I lay on my bed in the "Irma la Douce" garret (I changed movies in my head).
I traveled by train to Versailles for a visit to the palace. So did everyone else. A mass of fellow tourists created a sardine-in-a-can experience and made it difficult to imagine what the day-to-day might have been like in the seventeenth century.
I'm a snob about these things, these people....I know I set myself apart and think I'm better — I do and I have no defense, none at all — and then I run. I got out of the palace rooms with their ornate wallpaper and brocade furniture, and went far away from the chattering crowd. I tripped lightly across the gardens in the backyard of the palace. I raced from the grandeur and found myself alone and wandering the town of Versailles.
I would guess most people take the train to this place, visit the main event, and then leave. A-ha, I discovered gold in my act of escape. I came upon a farmers' market where locals filled baskets and net bags with flowers and red apples. I ate an authentic Salade Niçoise in small restaurant. I read my book and listened to the beautiful language spoken by a group of women as they chatted and sipped white wine. I fantasized a life in a town like this. I would dress simply and my voice would ring musically in French.
I walked back to the train station, stopped at a pâtisserie and bought a raspberry tart. I unwrapped the tissue and bit into the sweet red berries floating in thick, pale yellow custard. William would like this aspect of my adventure. Maybe that was the answer: tempt him with tarts (or become one).
For my last two days in Paris, I planned trips to a flea market and a blues club. Because I now understood the late dining protocol, I left my hotel at six forty-five p.m., rode three metro trains and walked five blocks to the blues/soul food joint for a seven-thirty arrival. I was ready for some music and collard greens.
The tables, quaint with their in red-checked cloths, sat against stone walls decorated with photos of American blues and jazz masters. It made me proud to see the appreciation the French have of our music. It may be the only thing they admire about us, but it's a good choice.
I settled into a seat and looked around the candlelit room, dismayed that I was the only person in the place. This was after I killed time at the hotel and traveled slow to make a decent entrance. I crawled blocks, window-shopping to ensure this wouldn't happen. Dammit to hell, turns out I wasn't getting the Paris thing down at all.
I nursed my way through two beers and a fried chicken dinner until ten-thirty, when the musicians arrived to set up. I had the sad realization that Paris at night is not for the single woman who'd spent a long day sightseeing. I look forward to one day visiting Barcelona and Madrid, but I hear it's worse there...They don't eat dinner until midnight. That's a lot of gazing in windows and kicking pebbles over cobblestone.
At eleven I paid my bill and set off to locate my three trains back to the hotel. I hadn't heard a single note of jazz or blues, but I looked like someone living them.
My last day in Paris was spent at les Puces (the fleas), the largest location of antiques for sale in the world. Of course, I wouldn't be buying furniture, or anything, as it turned out; the plaisir is in the looking.
Because we are so young in North America, a European flea market is an overwhelming world of preserved history. Fine, polished carved wood expertly inlaid with ivory or tile could be an everyday bed for two. Marble side tables, gilt chandeliers, art-deco lamps, the paintings and the books....
I wandered awestruck for the entire morning. At one o'clock I was charmed by dealers setting up lunch in their stalls, for customers and themselves. Platters of fruit, cheeses and meats were presented on tea tables. Wine chilled in silver buckets sat next to etched glasses waiting to be filled. As a non-buyer it seemed inappropriate to partake, but I found a nearby restaurant to enjoy a salad, cheese platter and glass of wine. Civilization at its best.
My only regret on departing France was that I hadn't spent more time outside the city. Other than my trip to Versailles, I missed the gentle quiet of a small town and would have liked that. For now, au revoir, Paris, and merci beaucoup.
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