Seasonal signals

Damp, breezy, fresh, the first Sunday in March feels like winter is reluctantly ceding its seasonal lodgings in the city. Rue Cler is empty-ish partially because of the also-cyclical vacances scolaires, so I easily slip into a ringside seat on Tribeca’s terrace and watch while volunteers hand out more of the same political pamphlets and argue about the municipal elections next week. As changing temperatures have made me unusually lethargic, I thought of simply writing about the spectacle of online dating. My tentative steps on Meetic and Match.com the last few days have been curious, giggly, a mix of feeling humble and nervous, while technology isolates us all in a weird voyeurism…

Instead, I get distracted when the Tribeca blackboard-menu topples BOOMing onto the street, a pigeon flies out from somewhere under the canvas overhang, a lanky resident of the market street at rue Daguerre walks past, an ACP-er shows up to chat about the fitness workshop last week. Meanwhile, a couple of French women greet me as they sit down at the neighbouring table and a friendly dad orders hot chocolates for his two young boys seated next to them.

Murmurs are overheard that Rachida Dati will also be making an appearance today, as signs are placed across the street, “La greffe DATI ne prend pas dans le 7ème” – grafting Dati onto the 7^th arrondissement won’t take. Brochures add the phrase “le 7ème LIBRE”, whose pitch seems a bit over-stated coming as it does while I’ve been reading up on the Roman republic and Julius Caesar’s assassination.

Ah, and down the street I can see a small crowd in black, must be the justice minister herself, as a couple of unmistakeable security guards have posted themselves in front of the Café du Mars next door. Suddenly there is loud chanting, “Panafieu au boulot, un toit pour les séropos” and “Panafieu – elle s’en fou!” and a handful of young guys in political t-shirts, notably “ActUp”, push by, almost too quickly to read their signs calling for AIDS funding.

As Dati’s group sloooowly approaches and the street gets increasingly crowded, a shrill trilling of bicycle bells announces another political campaign as five velibs manage to roll through, each attached to a gaggle of bright pink balloons that broadcast “Laurence Girard and Bertrand Delanoë”.

And now amid cameras flashing and popping arrives the glamorous Rachida Dati and her entourage, again evoking images of Roman politicians and their obligatory following of clients. Tribeca’s owner comes out to greet her, and – it can’t be accidental! - she spots the two adorable boys at the next table and hey-presto it’s an instant photo op. She holds back from actually kissing them, but they delightedly get hugs as the customers all smile, and the press eats it up. Then she drifts inside, a blonde also holding a bouquet follows, first greeting my neighbour, shaking hands with us all. I shake back, everything quiets down as the journalists hover and wait for her exit, and I find out that I’ve just shaken the hand of Francoise de Panafieu.

Diverse-city

Got to rue Cler late today, had to stay and hear the sermon twice this morning at the ACP - the pastor actually addressed out loud the issue that’s been silently eating away at the congregation, the question of homosexuality and Christianity. Without getting into details, despite confessing that he is one of those who consider homosexuality biblically forbidden, he was able to preach unity, love and tolerance. And he accomplished it with grace, dignity, humour and intelligence, and more - I wasn’t the only one who had to dig for tissues. Hats off to pastor Alex Aronis.

But the kicker for me was that afterward I looked for cheer in the faces of my fellow supporters of gays in church matters, and found instead glum looks of “he didn’t go far enough”! They sounded as stubbornly suspicious and intolerant as the homophobic members of the congregation!

So at noon, walking in the blinding sunshine away from the church, I met and spoke with my 3^rd floor neighbour, discussed the upcoming elections – is Rachida Dati really being parachuted in by Sarko? – and the diversity topic came up again. How the 7^th arrondissement risks losing its community feel because no one but the rich can afford living here anymore. She said there is discreet government housing in the 7^th – one apartment building right on St. Dominique - but everyone knows that it goes to people who know the right people, who hardly need cheap rent.

There are still surprises here, though. As a bike races past me, I look up and the cyclist is not a flashy guy in tights, but an elegant businessman in an impeccable black suit, pedaling fast. Heading down rue Cler, where gypies are selling jonquils and street entrepreneurs are hawking sunglasses, I find the usual diverse Sunday strollers along with politicos and their cameras, and even more circus than usual despite the vacances scolaires starting this weekend.

Eating lunch at Tribeca with next-door neighbour Vincent, we wonder, how far does diversity go on a personal level? Cheap rent would be great but do we want to live next to those who can only afford it with financial support? We’ve all had neighbours from different cultural backgrounds whose mode de vie clashes with ours – late-night partiers, smelly food-lovers, early risers who blithely turn up the radio at 6am. Love thy loud, smelly, obnoxious neighbour? That’s a challenge – and we’re talking on a trivial level, let’s not even try to figure out places like Kosovo and Israel.

Then a big American thrusts his way into the conversation of the French trio dining next to us: “You gotta great dog, your Pekinese, does he bark at people he meets like mine does?” Speaking too quickly, he repeats himself, “does he bark at people?” Smiling, the dog-owners are trying to compute the word “bark”, I translate, everyone is happy – they thought he said “bite!”

And monsieur tells a great story about going through airport customs coming off a Paris/NYC flight, jetlagged, tired, and the agent asks his reason for the visit. His brain is sluggish, so turning to his companion in line behind him, he asks loudly, “C’est quoi le mot pour vacances?” And 100 waiting Parisians yell out, “holidays!” Big laugh from the douane, as he waves him through.

Diversity – culture, language, wealth, sexuality – despite the hiccups, in the end it’s half the fun of being here, isn’t it?

Changing comforts

Ageing is such a habit-driven process. Comfort, expectations, the illusions of security, all encourage our bodies and minds to fall into patterns that eventually refuse to accommodate change, whether it is a work shift, an emotional jolt or even a bumpy ride on a bus.

Take Sunday on rue Cler. My timing was off this morning, arrived too early, while the delivery vans were still lingering, empty dollies clattering past, stacks of canned goods on pallets waiting to be liberated. At Tribeca, the heat was only just warming the terrace, and I sit trapped among the smokers who’ve arrived for their morning caffeine and nicotine fix. The guy waiting tables is inept and slow, my croissant is cold, and I see the regular serveuses just now drifting in, along with the manager rolling up supplies for the kitchen.

Ah well, the sun is out, the coffee is hot, and I have some time to spend. But what’s this – there are women running the bookshop across the street, a teenager at the cash register, her mom at the shelves, and the third generation talking to customers. What happened to the young guy who is faithfully there each week? And – gasp – the fish van drives past with one of the vendors from La Sablaise at the wheel, and the van says Poissonnerie du Bac! I thought my fish market was one of a kind!

Then Tribeca’s owner comes over to shake hands with the lovely dark-eyed man on my right and I listen in while they discuss the food biz. Afterward, I politely ask him about Café Vergnano, closed a few months ago, and he confirms that it has been bought by someone new, not a chain. We start talking about the US, and the live-ability of different cities. He is a native Parisian, been travelling around the world all his life, and he thinks that European cities – especially Paris and Rome - stand out for comfort, culture and beauty. Seoul, Tokyo, LA, even New York – where else can you have access to the cultural treasures of the whole city without a car? He confessed that he is now one of those Parisians who start feeling uncomfortable as soon as they get past the périphérique.

So much for change. I gather my things to head out, and then learn one more thing about early Sunday mornings on rue Cler: the accordionist starts playing at exactly 10h15. La vie en rose…

Sunshine silliness

The sunglasses are out in force today, even a cool 5-year-old boy poses in his shades, leaning casually on his trottinette. Also dozens of small, perky dogs who talk and sniff at each other, leashes straining, nobody hurrying. Except the sunshine has clients discreetly fighting for the sunlit tables on the terrace, so the serveuse was a little out of temper, "ils courent, ils crient..." I got there early, snagged a few seats for Pat and Damon, while Brendan’s sympa family hung out with the kids behind us.

Thought I’d have something to say about prepping for Valentine’s Day today, but no inspiration despite the parade in front of me. I did get some useful information, including the precious name of a super bricoleur: SOS Alan, he does everything and at a good price. Let me know if you want his contact details!

A friendly American guy named Fred is sitting at the table next to me, he’s in from Washington for the annual antique car show and he informs us that – GASP – there is a French restaurant in Durham, North Carolina, called Rue Cler! And it’s true, I found the website: www.ruecler-durham.com/, it is part of a renewal project for downtown Durham. Ouf. I suppose it’s just as well that it has little to do with anything found on MY rue Cler, offering as it does: “truffled potato soup” and “sautéed pumpkin slices” - and the wine is way expensive. Sniff. Imagine a Tribeca in the Chicago suburbs, where dining-out dogs wouldn't get to sniff in your handbag for chocolates, and toddlers would have to stay in their seats.

Meanwhile, one side of my face has gone tan, time to turn the other cheek!

Sunday politics

Rue Cler on a crisp, cold, sunny morning, and tout le monde is abuzz with – what else? - the marriage of Sarko and Carla, who quickly tied the knot yesterday morning at 11am at the Elysées. Rumor has it that the bride wore white, although the grapevine is also whispering about pregnancy tests and visits to the American Hospital.

Caught up with an acquaintance who works high-level at Societé Génerale, says the weakened bank is facing a bitter takeover, perhaps from BNP who didn’t get hit as hard from the sub-prime scandal. That would make it doubly harsh given that the players degenerated to name-calling a few years ago; “pauvre con” was one insult exchanged.

Suddenly the space in front of the café is crowded, and the chat level rises a bit as French justice minister Rachida Dati passes through. Shaking hands, flashing her brilliant smile, greeting friends at the next table, she leaves brochures describing what she’ll do for the 7^th arrondissement if she is elected mayor next month.

And what is happening in Italy? How did Prodi lose his grasp, and why oh why is Berlusconi being given a chance to lead again?

Meanwhile my ex from down south, who was running for councillor in the Agde area, calls to say the fisc has caught up with him and he is likely to become a clochard in the next few days. Sigh.

So here I sit at a café terrace with my chocolat chaud, while he and others struggle to stay warm; disgusted with my job, but grateful for it nonetheless; wishing I could afford to buy a nice apartment, but able to rent a decent one. “Live for today” is the slogan I grew up with, but “watch out for tomorrow” is what I’m hearing from my peers today. Without being foolish, should I concentrate on quality of life or quantity of security? History teaches us cynicism, religion preaches hope, in the end the only thing that is sure is change. I guess I’ll just do the usual Libran balancing act, put off life-changing decisions until politics and prices turn to my advantage!

Municipal selections, rue Cler

Crisp winter sunshine today brought out the sunglasses on rue Cler, and gaggles of flaneurs, Sunday sauntering in groups. Part of it is because of the municipal elections coming up, so sincere young men and women have converged to hawk their parties’ brochures, the Front National leaflet warning about clandestine immigrants, another promising cheaper lodging for young families and better handicap access in the 7^th arrondissement. Yet another suggests a Velib service for cars, an Autolib, with 2,000 cars available for short-term uses, I like it! Can it work? Berlin tried it at one point, but that was back in the alternative 80s.

More municipal talk with Brendan, Pat and Damen, about capital gains taxes – the difference between handing 33% of profit vs 50% of profit to the state depends on whether you look like a speculator or not, doesn’t matter whether you are French or an EU resident. US stateside, Obama has won South Carolina, looks like the next US president will be either an idealist/Obama, an insider/Clinton or a hawk/McCain.

Meanwhile, a group in the street facing Tribeca has started arguing politics but I can’t understand the dialogue because there is a bilingual group at the table next to me, with a very LOUD American. Makes me feel like a Front Nationaliste…

Smoke-Free Paris

Omigosh - yes, the cafes and restaurants are now clean and clear, no more wafts of smoke floating through the wine or cigarettes waved under my nose, or smoke-saturated clothes to be aired at home. While regretting the loss of this oh-so-Parisian motif, it will be lovely to just choose a cafe, any cafe, instead of monitoring for breathability before sitting down.

But guess what? The smokers are claiming the terraces! Guess it should have been expected. Instead of the smoke evaders sitting out in the fresh air for morning coffee, we are now better off inside, while the smokers are claiming the sidewalk.

So this morning Tribeca's terrace was almost full by 10:30. Although perhaps that is because of the New Year rentree. Everyone has returned from the holidays and shopping to refill the fridge. So rue Cler was lively again, with crisp sunshine, the music buskers and shouting vendors, strollers and shoppers, dogs and babies, brand new scooters, a few shiny fur coats. What will 2008 bring? At least it won't bring a Starbuck's to rue Cler!

Festive and Feisty

It’s the first Sunday in December, and Christmas lights are up! This year the Gros Caillou neighborhood gets red bells lighting up the streets, and this weekend the annual brocante was crowding the cobblestones and sidewalks on rue Cler. Unfortunately the morning was grey, windy and wet, so the merchants must have been disappointed, along with the families, bargain-hunters and shoppers who wanted to browse.

I got mine in yesterday, spent a couple of hours examining the glassware and silverware, old farming implements and antique mirrors, old well-read books and shiny new editions, paintings and posters, CDs and DVDs. There were brass candelabras, art pieces from Thailand, strands of freshwater pearls, handmade wooden toys, stacks of china plates, precious Limoge boxes. I asked the price of a wine cork with a golfer on top, a perfect gift for Mom, but it was made of silver, and the seller wouldn’t be bargained down from 50 euros. Ran my hands over a soft Moroccan rug, got offered it for only 2,000 euros – a real bargain, I was told, as it sold in the shops for 8,000. New this year were fur coats and fur hats, mink and beaver. The vendor called it “le rat américain” because 100 years ago trappers would claim government bounty for having killed a “rat”, and profit also from selling the beaver pelt.

I managed to stay sage and succumbed only to my usual weakness, came away with a handful of silver forks and spoons, and a few linen pillowcases. So this morning I was just as happy to follow my umbrella through the mist to Tribeca, being followed part of the way by a homeless man singing through the rain, with a smoked-out voice repeating a verse from a French love song. He must have got lucky at a fruit stand because I saw him later walk by munching on a bright green apple.

Lucky him – he got by before a gust of wind shook the café’s tent-roof, flapping a wave of rain water onto passers-by. It also missed a little 3 or 4-year-old struggling to balance a tremendous green-wrapped bouquet of flowers almost as big as he was.

A young man to my left is drawing the street scenes in black and white, the women on my right are conversing in English, and voila - here are Molly and her girls, Esther and Miriam, come to share the festive, feisty morning with me!

Café Couleur

Heading down to rue Cler for Sunday morning post-ACP, the bakery at the end of rue Jean Nicot is covered in faux log-cabin wood as workers are constructing the annual holiday deco, which if I remember correctly will include a waving Santa from an upstairs window. Walking down St. Dominique, I passed the shiny new Starbucks, just open, and of course there's a buzz of hungry clients and steamy chatter. Sigh. Yes, I will eventually stop in for a coffee milkshake or a fancy flavoured latte, but it's a jolt to know that my neighborhood has been chosen by a mega-chain. It's all the fault of Rick Steves.

Next disconnect comes from a couple pushing their baby toward me down the sidewalk – it’s a colleague from the office! The brain scrambled, sirens blaring, to mesh the Alison personas, fumbled a bit then – clunk, personalities syncronised, introductions, small talk, move on quickly. Turning down rue Cler, passed a gorgeous black sofa upended on the sidewalk, while a meter a way a couple of homeless guys are begging seated long-legged on the sidewalk. I suppose if they sat on the couch it wouldn’t look serious?

Approaching the market, I could hear a violin and classical music, turns out two young women are playing, lovely, while I made my way to Tribeca for a ringside seat and, gasp, the sun pierced through the clouds (direct quote from the waitress). Un grand crème and a warm croissant finally clears the overdose of wine from yesterday’s Salon des Vignerons Indépendents (note: find out how Sabrina did, we kept up with each other at each tasting booth!).

Here comes an elegant French woman with a stylish bright purple hat and scarf set – the red lipstick and heels help pull it off. And there goes a woman in a pomeranian hair style with matching dog. Meanwhile, a little boy in a yellow helmet is struggling with his bike in front of the grocery store, as a dad pushes a toddler by in in one of those push-tricycles, but wheelie style, her front wheel in the air, wonder what she thinks floating off the ground like that. My downstairs neighbour trundles by, no chance to nod a hello, as a waitress walks out looking like she spent the night in an SM dungeon, all breasts and naked arms, outlined in black leather and silver chains, leopard belt on her hips. Friendly enough.

And omigosh, here’s another purple scarf, on a man this time. The sun has faded, I’ve plotted out my mom’s agenda for her visit at Christmas, just about finished my orange pressé, when here comes the purple coiffed lady again, this time with a white fluff dog she is setting on the ground. Looks like it’s time to get home and dig out my own purple scarf.

Life’s spectacles: Sunday on rue Cler, Paris – pedestrian market street extraordinaire

Coffee and croissant at a terrace table at Tribeca on Sunday mornings, what a yummy and privileged position for watching the Parisian parade, the postures, the clothes, the boots, the ages and energy. Overhearing conversations in French, English, Italian, American, Spanish, the fruit vendors crooning their musical sales pitch, children squealing at the front table, customers shouting for the waitress, the knock of shopping trolley wheels against the cobblestones. So much to absorb, from the clichéd to the crude, the tots and tourists, shoppers and strollers, spotting the occasional jogger and VIP, with street music and Paris chiens oblige.

This morning was lovely, brisk and not sunny enough to over-crowd the terrace, had a clear view of the street after saying goodbye to Damen and Pat, heading home for Christmas. I settled in with a second crème and became an audience of one, craning my neck as I watch a homeless man join the hapless music vendor, singing “La vie en rose”.

Just as a shiny BMW rumbles slowly through the crowd, steered by an elderly gent with a beret and glasses peering over the wheel, his English spaniel leaning on his shoulder as navigator.

And the pretty, tough newspaper vendor across the way leaves the stand to the charge of the fleabitten vendor of toys, tapping the door code of the building behind her, going in for change? The young bookstore owner en face is busily re-arranging books in the shelves outside, and my attention is caught by a young father and his giggling little girl sneaking up on mom who’s walking slowly ahead, waiting to be surprised.

Meanwhile the table on my right has changed couples three times this morning, each pair sitting down, ordering their coffee and settling down to read the morning papers. Here comes a single woman to take the table on my left, and her longhaired pup, with bangs perfectly combed, politely pokes his head between us to say hi. His attention is diverted when the waitress sets down coffee and tartines; an eager bark, and, yes, they are sharing breakfast. The couple on the right snarl disapproval, but the canine and his mistress ignore them.

I look up to see that the music vendor and his crank organ have been liberated of the unwanted accompianist and are now churning out Montand’s “A Paris”. Yes, it’s a perfectly content Sunday on rue Cler, à Paris.