You could be mistaken for thinking people living in a nice corner of Paris might have the gift of civility about them. Now there might exist one or two antiquated kind and educated souls who understand the importance of manners, but they are a dying breed.
For almost the past decade Mme. Grenouille has put the washing machine on at 11pm so as to economise on costs. There is a lady on the ground floor partially deaf who we do not disturb and a young woman who has been renting upstairs for the past six months or so who has not complained about our washing times, I believe because the washing machine is on the opposite end of the apartment and is never very loud.
At 12:30am last night there was a BANG, BANG, BANG at the door. I would have slept through it if Mme. Grenouille hadn’t awoken me. In my state of slumber I said she’d probably imagined it and to go back to sleep, but she insisted on getting up to have a peek through the spyhole. Somebody was there on the other side! I think it freaked her out so she ignored it and snuck back to bed wondering if we had an intruder in the building. This morning the spyhole was covered up so I opened the door and pulled off a note that had been stuck there. It very impolitely demanded we not use the washing machine after 9pm (I think it should technically be 10pm), and that she would go to the owner of the apartment (it’s actually Mme. Grenouille’s apartment) or the police (who would really wouldn’t care less) – bearing in mind the washing machine had stopped itself by the time her blow-up had begun. When we opened the door again we hadn’t noticed that our outside doormat had been picked up and flung across the hallway and was halfway down the stairs; she must have thrown a hissy fit because we hadn’t responded to the banging on our door. If she had the courtesy to speak to us respectably at a sociable hour we would have apologised for unknowingly disturbing her (despite the fact she has woken us up on countless occasions) and changed our washing times.
Mme. Grenouille was quite annoyed by it this morning, but I told her not to react in anger because that’s how neighbour wars begin. Instead I wrote a note, included the original note from our door and stuck them (with La Poste prioritaire stickers as I ran out of sellotape) both to the main outside door so that any tenants in our building passing through the courtyard might read it. I was opting for the shame tactic so hopefully they can reflect on what is a wholly irrational way to behave.
Mme. Grenouille translated into French (just in case you thought I had girly handwriting!), but in English it reads.
“To Whom it concerns, Our mat was very traumatised last night, having been removed from its favourite spot and thrown without mercy down the stairs. We will refrain from washing after 9pm, but please do not take it out on the mat who is completely innocent in all matters.”
This is a catch up post. Mme. Grenouille is away in Switzerland and I thought it an opportune moment to update the Paris blog, although I cannot neglect my duty of renovating the kitchen units and door lest I face the infamous wrath of a Parisian unleashed.
Fur is back in fashion. You’ll always see an old lady or two wearing fur in Paris anyway, but now it’s everywhere you look. I peered through the window of a fur shop and these things don’t come cheap; it’s really just a showy flash of affluence for the older lady to try and gain one over her neighbour. I’ll stay clear of any ethical debate, suffice to say if this were London those coats would probably come with a designer streak of white paint from a semi-militant animal protestor and the shops would undoubtedly look a little worse for wear with an arty graffiti streak or air conditioned, brick through the window job.
Last weekend I was walking around the top end of the district, and passed by Trocadéro and the Eiffel Tower. The irony is, now I live here I actually visit such places very infrequently and certainly less than when I came in my capacity as a tourist. I was very surprised by the number of visitors about, and maybe the rise of the dollar to the euro has prompted more Americans to pop over. There was a peaceful protest going on to say no dictatorship in Madagascar.
Building top close by to Trocadéro.
Wednesday gone, I went to Lidl to do a spot of grocery shopping. It was only recently we discovered there was a Lidl not a million miles from us so I have only been twice, and am wondering how I managed to miss this mini when I came down the road on my first visit. I also briefly caught the gloaming because when you’re surrounded by tall buildings almost everywhere you go, sometimes you have to look to the skies for signs of nature. I do miss being able to see a horizon.
This is the Orève restaurant on 25 rue de la pompe, comprised of interesting mosaic walls and windows. Probably out of my price range for dining, but one of many interesting pieces of architecture within walking distance.
A couple of weeks ago we went to visit friends in the suburb of Bois-Colombes, which still has a lot of the Paris character (being very close to the city) and ironically they can probably get to the centre of Paris and places like Opera quicker than I can. To get to Bois-Colombes from inside Paris you have to go via the St. Lazare station which brings with it a real mix of character and people. Monet painted a few impressionist pieces of this place and I am always quite taken by this strange clock sculpture directly outside the entrance. It just needs a few droopy looking clocks to look Daliesque.
I’m still keeping an eye on the dog poo issues (it’s hard not to if you want to keep clean footwear). A few people replied to that thread saying they had not experienced it in the same way. I may take a video camera and film one particular street very close to me that I take on my way to La Poste. It may just pass for the biggest turd infested street in Paris, and with no exaggeration there is something to avoid every one to two steps.
This also reminds me that I must do something about my excessively long shoelaces. I stood in Monoprix this week to buy some fruit juice and a well meaning Parisian pointed out how my laces were dragging over the floor and might trip me up. I thanked them for their warning but explained they were just extraordinary long laces and I was aware of my precarious situation in wearing them (I didn’t quite use those exact words, I think it was more like ‘Oui je sais, c’est trop long’ followed by a shrug that said, what can you do, because my French is still very much work in progress). He then seemed inquisitive as to where I was from and thought I was Dutch, so I told him I was English so then he spoke a few words of English but possibly in the heaviest French accent I have ever heard. I continued to reply in French otherwise I’m never going to improve. The next till became available and he went to that one whilst I got held up by the women trying to replace the receipt till roll. He turned and apologised for going before me, which wasn’t necessary because he couldn’t have known I would be held up, but I thought hold on a second, here’s a polite Parisian. Ordinarily people push into the queue and there’s misery and impatience all around from the people at the checkout to the customers twitching and writhing in disquietude. A small gesture of goodwill is a notable event. Anyway back to my rambling point – if your shoelaces are too long, and the streets are paved in merde, it is not a good combination, but it is the same as dragging a heavy trolley back from the supermarket and then wheeling it into your house. Suddenly washing your hands whenever you return to your apartment is no longer the realm of the OCD sufferer, but a necessity in hygiene.
If I can randomly hop whilst on this free topic association lark, Mme. Grenouille is carrying a froggy/roast-bif hybrid due late July/early August. I figured just in case moving to Paris, trying to make a living and learning the language wasn’t challenging enough, let’s see how easy it will be to raise a bilingual baby in the city. That isn’t really want I wanted to talk about, as the subject of other peoples’ babies is boring to anyone other than the expecting parents (and you’re probably thinking ‘excessively long shoe laces’ is a fascinating conversation?!) I wish to return to the lack of manners in city-dwelling folk, which I believe to be a true generalization of city’s worldwide, it just so happens Paris is the only city I’ve happened to live in. You would think, or at least hope, that if you saw a very obviously pregnant, tired looking woman on a train or bus, that a kind soul would give up their seat. Earlier in the month Mme. Grenouille saw an even heavier pregnant lady get on the bus on her return from work, and as nobody was prepared to get up for her, she gave her, her own spot – a pregnant lady giving up a seat for another pregnant lady. Nobody batted an eyelid. The behavior is typical and it is very infrequent indeed that a young and healthy individual will use their legs to stand for the old, the frail or expecting mother. Our mutual Italian friend in Paris was on the bus recently with a very pregnant friend and kindly asked two young girls if one of them would mind if she could sit down. Their response was simply ‘we have our problems too’.
When I think back to our holidays in Les Pyrénées last summer, the people are so open and friendly. Strangers in the supermarket would spark up a conversation; in the bank staff struck up a polite, ‘hello, where are you from?’ when I wasn’t even a customer being served. Locals would talk to you when you stepped outside despite knowing you were only a tourist. Such behavior in Paris is met with the deepest of suspicions – why are they talking to me? What’s their motivation – do they want money from me? Why are they wasting my precious time? I nearly ignored a person today in Passy until I did a double take and noticed they had a map and were simply looking for a particular metro stop. It’s sad, but it hardly comes as any revelation. I had expected the city mentality to be such as it is, and it is what it is, lump it or leave it.
With all this said, there are nice people living in Paris, but generally you have to know them to scrape through the hard icy exterior and that takes time.
Well I can’t stall kitchen renovations much longer now. We have a kitchen that is straight out of the 1960’s. It is not a modern retro styled kitchen, it’s the real deal and as such it’s looking a little tired. The kitchen units were custom built in the 1960’s to optimise as much space as possible as your typical Parisian kitchen is a little on the small side, ours being no exception. The cupboards start over five foot off the ground and go up about ten foot to the ceiling and we were led to believe they were made from high quality wood. After I peeled back the veneer it turned out whilst the frame was quality timber, the 12 doors were chipboard. My plans for painting them were severely compromised, but we bought some wood filler (enduit) and using my oil painting knives I have managed to create a smooth but firm surface for painting. If it’s not a complete DIY disaster I may post some photos later, but how long it will take me to saw off the rusted hinges from the other unit is anyone’s guess.
Just one more photo to share before I go. Mme. Grenouille’s office looks down on the Arc de Triomphe so if I meet her for lunch or in the evening I usually stand around waiting idly at the Charles de Gaulle roundabout. I’ve never actually been inside it and up to the top; I’m sure I’ll get around to it one day, but for now I generally watch the traffic amazed by the lack of collision and recalling my own attempts at driving here (I no longer own a car). I also remember coming to Paris when I was twelve years old, on a holiday with the school. None of us had noticed the underground passages to the centre, and so we crossed by foot in what can only be described as a insane game of frogger! If you’re into high-adrenaline dangerous sports and pursuits, I highly recommend it.
Beneath the feet of the living lies the empire of the dead; six million bodies filling the former Roman tunnels, seated beneath Paris, in desperation to stop the spread of disease. The official name given to this spectral realm is l’Ossuaire Municipal, and known to many simply as the catacombs.
The transfer of bones from surrounding cemeteries took place between the middle of the 18th century until the middle of the 19th. Eventually the caverns and tunnels were replete with pile upon pile of neatly stacked tibias, femurs and skulls, lining the walls from floor to ceiling.
The legendary figure of Philibert Aspairt, a door keeper to the Val de Grâce hospital, descended into the catacombs in November of 1793. Eleven years later he was discovered in skeletal form in the rue de l’Abbé de l’Epée, gnawed by rats, clutching his keys only a short distance from safety, yet unable to have seen his way. The dangers of the catacombs exist today, which is why unofficial escort has been illegal since the 1950’s, however they are often frequented by cataphiles. The cataphiles have a particular affinity with Paris’ underworld and gain access by unconventional means. They have to contend with the hidden dangers of the unstable catacombs, and should their lights fail, may await the same fait as Philibert Aspairt. The police also partrol parts of the labyrinth imposing fines on anybody caught.
Under my own district in the 16th arrondissement, cataphiles had gained access through a drain next to the Trocadero (nearby the Eiffel Tower), underneath the Palais de Chaillot. The group (claimed to be La Mexicaine de Perforation) set up an underground amphitheatre having installed electricity and phone lines. The story can be read here – In a secret Paris cavern, the real underground
cinema
For members of Joe Public with no desire to squeeze their way into the tunnels by unceremonious means, there is an official tourists’ entrance. The details in English can be found here – The Paris Catacombs.
I paid a visit there in 2005 just a few months after my journey to the ‘Church of Bones’ in the Czech republic which I wrote about on another of my websites – Sedlec Ossuary, Church of Bones
You have to go down a number of steps before you reach the tunnel, and follow the path for about a mile before you resurface. A lady in front of me brought her young child down to this unearthly dominion, struggling to get the pushchair down the steps, and then carting the young toddler through the darkness with looming skulls and bones leering out at him from all around. I don’t imagine the visit was for the benefit of the child.
My prior visit to the Sedlec ossuary near Prague very much softened the effect of my catacomb visit, and as my thoughts often tend to our own mortality and short lived lives anyway, I don’t recall being philosophically challenged by my surroundings. I do however think it helped build upon my perspective of Paris not merely as a city above ground. Like the grandest of trees, Paris has deep cavernous roots.
Just what on earth is a PACS, why would you want one, how do you get it, and how might you get out of it? I myself went through the rigmarole just after I moved to Paris (that’s to say, obtaining it and not getting out of it), and had no idea what I was really signing into, and still remain a bit clueless when people ask me, “so what’s a PACS? Are you married or what?!”
A PACS is a civil partnership. Homosexual couples often go down this route because they can’t get married in France, but plenty of hetrosexual couples like Mme. Grenouille and I who aren’t into the whole tradition/superstition/institution of marriage can take this option instead. A PACS is a contract; there is no real romance in it, and it is a little like a marriage from a legal viewpoint, but the individuals are still considered ‘single’ with regards to family status. It offers advantages such as declaration of joint income tax just the same as married couples, and that was perhaps the main reason for taking it… And by Jove it is hard to obtain!
Unfortunately I can’t elucidate on all the details of how to obtain a PACS because much of it was in the capable hands of Mme. Grenouille. Being of two nationalities complicates things a little. You could pay a notaire to sort things out for you, but you’d probably be looking at 1000 euros when you can do it yourself for a tiny fraction of the cost.
Naive me thought my original birth certificate would be enough, but alas no. I had to obtain a long version of it from my birth town of Norwich, which was about £7 or £8, but that alone is not enough. You must pay an official French translator to translate the certificate into French (you cannot do this by yourself), and have it stamped with a seal of approval by them. That was between 30-40 euros.
In the mean time there are free templates online for drawing up a contract, which states which possessions and finances belong to whom should the two parties go their separate ways. As far as I know, to annul the PACS you can do it merely through writing, sent off in the post, so I’ve no idea how solid these contracts are supposed to be.
I had to write to the British Embassy in Paris to obtain a certificat de coutume which is a single sheet of paper costing about 75 euros which simply stated that I didn’t have a PACS and wasn’t married to anyone else. Unfortunately they returned my payment saying they could not accept a cheque, and would only take banker’s cheque or a postal order, so it did end up costing a little more (I should have read more closely as their website does state no cheques, though I can’t think why not).
As the clock kept ticking away, we became more and more aware that my translated birth certificate was only valid for 6 months, after which time I would have to pay for another translation (French bureaucracy is astounding, non?) We desperately tried to push the date through, and finally got one for last November. Just a few days before the event I discovered my cerificat de coutume did not cover me for France! I had to urgently get another declaration to prove I didn’t have an existing PACS in France (I had assumed the one from the British consulate would have covered me). I raced across to the other side of Paris, passed through tight security at the building entrance, and met with a miserable lady who could print and sign this much needed piece of paper (fortunately they are free here). Finally, it was all sorted, and following our earlier visit to the Tribunal to arrange everything and hand over our bits and pieces (it also includes things like a copy of your passport and proof that you live at the same residence), we returned to the local Town Hall. There we met with a friendly lady who went though everything, signed a few documents and it was job done! Like I say, not romantic in the slightest, although I did hide some rice in my pocket and threw it at Mme Grenouille when we stepped outside which I found highly amusing and must have looked ridiculous to anyone watching.
This is Paris 8:30am this morning from the apartment window. I was catching the news and heard about the snow in the UK, chuckling to myself how the whole infrastructure crumbles with just half a cm of the white stuff, let alone several centimeters, but then I drew back the curtains, and found the above.
It’s still only 8:45am, and I’d love to run outdoors and start snapping up photographs of Paris in the snow (whilst it’s still pristine and white), but I’m waiting on an urgent package from Colissimo post (24/48 hour delivery). So far they’ve proven themselves dishonest and totally unreliable, and something I should have received during the middle of last week has still not arrived. Touch wood, they’ll deliver it soon (I hold my breath), and then I’ll run out to grab some more photographs to post – perhaps a stroll down to the Eiffel Tower, although I’m sure the snow’s already gone brown there!
update : Despite the criticism I had for Royal Mail, La Poste is much worse, and has now cost me several hundred euros because of their inability to deliver on time. Alas, they’ve also lost my Paris in the snow photo opportunity as now it’s reached 12pm, the rain has come down and taken it all away. I think it’s going to be one of those weeks.
The Paris Métro is a necessary evil. Its sixteen lines cover over one hundred and thirty miles stopping by more than three hundred stations (conveniently pour moi, one of those is directly outside my apartment). With 4.5 million users a day you can kiss goodbye to your normal boundaries of personal space but at least with the knowledge that nobody else really cares to be there either.
Securing Oneself
If you’re taking a single line across many stops your best strategy is to try and secure one of the inner seats away from the door openings. From here you can sit relatively unbothered unless you have long gangly legs like mine that get in the way of the person you’re facing opposite. The tacit etiquette of the pull-down seats next to the door is such that if too many people start jumping on, then you should stand up and give some space and priority to those on their feet. In practice this only works about fifty percent of the time. If you have to stand I advise grabbing hold of something if at all possible (this is where height and high grasps become an advantage). Failure to secure oneself can result in embarrassing brushes with complete strangers as I experienced first hand after being catapulted and thrust towards a woman with full frontal body contact. I apologised, stepped backwards, anchored my legs in a wide stance, but was embarrassingly hurled in slow motion back towards her for a second volley – squish.
On the subject of ‘securing oneself’ in the other sense, I’ve heard stories of pick-pocketing although do not personally know anybody who has been a victim. I’d apply sensible caution and make sure you have nothing valuable in a loose pocket or bag. I recall standing on a crowded metro last summer and a small American family called out within earshot of everybody in the carriage “everybody, hands in pockets, keep hold of your valuables!” It seemed like the perfect ‘how to make yourself a victim’ advertisement to me. I also recall the tourist who walked around with an uncased Nikon D2x (a pricey camera) hung loosely over his shoulder as he walked around the underground. Again it’s unlikely anybody would take it, but better safe than sorry.
What to Do with your Eyes
Depending on your disposition, you may consciously have to decide what you’re going to do with your eyes. If I can, I gaze blankly through the window, but sometimes positioning can prevent this and you either have to pick a spot that doesn’t look like you’re brazenly staring at somebody, or you can simply look downwards. The latter has given me insight into Parisian footwear; the youths opting for trendy new trainers and the more mature in shiny polished leather shoes. It’s in these moments that I look down at my old tatty trainers or shoes (the sum total of my footwear collection that probably have a good twenty years combined life between them), and realise their decay lends little to their life expectancy.
I can’t bring my eyes to meet the walls because a certifiable interior designer has created something that best resembles that flash of your own eyes’ network of capillaries, after the optician has commanded you keep your eyes wide open for one minute (at the same time scorching your retinas with the equivalent of a 42-led flashlight).
If I bring my eyes up to the window it’s usually too dark to see anything other than the reflection of everybody else who is in the train. Should your gaze meet with another ‘reflection watcher’ it can induce that momentary flicker of uncomfortableness as two ghostly reflections connect.
I’ve sometimes taken to looking at the names of the stops above the opening doors and committing them to memory, but this can give the affect of starring at somebody and has resulted in some starring back.
The Strong Pincer Effect
Through my idle metro gazes I have also become very familiar with the little rabbit guy who warns about sticking your fingers in the door due to the strong pincer effect (the French warning is more descriptive than the English, although the illustration gives the general gist no matter what language you speak). I was on the train one day when I saw a lady’s arm stuck in the door. She didn’t wail but she did look uncomfortable, then her young son started crying until a couple of seconds later another lady on the outside prised open the doors for her. I’d hate to imagine what might happen if the safety mechanism didn’t kick in and the train took off.
Fare Avoidance
If you buy a weekly pass it operates from Monday until Sunday, so if you buy it midweek you could be wasting your money and may wish to opt for ‘un carnet’ (pronounced kar-nay – don’t hit the ‘t’ or you won’t be understood), which is a reduced price for ten tickets. Be sure to have a small passport sized photograph of yourself to include (you might need to ask for one of the small free plastic wallets to put it in), write down the number of your ticket on the accompanying identity card too; I assume the whole identity thing is to prevent other people from using your ticket. If you’re using single tickets, keep the ticket on you, even after you’ve passed through the barrier because the ‘ticket police’ do check from time to time and it would bring momentary joy to their day to impose a fine upon you. Let’s keep them perpetually miserable.
Fare avoidance is common place. I guess if you do it often enough it would offset the cost of any fines although for those of us who buy our tickets, it does leave a small taste of resentment. Those stations that simply employ a turnstile offer weak resistance to a simple leapfrog of free passage, but more often than not there’s a large gate just beyond it. Occasionally you’ll feel somebody lining themselves up and getting really close up behind you and they’ll squeeze themselves through, unannounced on your ticket. I’ve seen this happen many a time, although it has not happened to me yet, but it does remind me of a story.
I’d gone down to the station outside my apartment which was particularly quiet on this day. A slightly plump young girl, ahead of me, walked towards the top of the stairs that led down to the turnstile, but there she stopped and waited. As I reached the stairs myself I got the distinct impression she was a fare dodger. I descended at speed and could hear her following, so with my long legs started taking the steps two at a time with ticket in hand and arm outstretched so I could push myself through the stile and gate with maximum efficiently. I could hear the echo of her footsteps quicken, trying desperately to match my impossible pace. My ticket went in with accurate precision; I strove through both stile and gate and sat myself down. After a minute had gone by I surreptitiously caught a glimpse of her in my periphery vision and she was caught like a mouse in a humane trap, held prisoner between the stile and the gate unable to move forwards or backwards. Another minute later and a kind soul let her through with the use of their ticket as I glimpsed down and pretended to be using my mobile phone to avoid the evil glare she must have been bearing down on me. My mean Parisian streak is finally beginning to show!
Metro Entertainment and Begging
Tourists are frequently wooed with accordion music; sometimes with puppet shows set up at one end of the carriage, occasionally a little karaoke will flare up or a polite announcement to address the carriage and the retelling of a hard luck story followed by an outstretched palm. People do give, but if you’re not interested in doing so you can stare blankly as they walk past. If you’re in Paris for more than a day it’s extremely unlikely you’re going to avoid in-carriage metro entertainment at some point or another, and who knows it might even liven your spirits.
Tales from the Dark Side
I’ve yet to experience any real shenanigans first-hand, but if you’re female and have anything on show (e.g. the tiniest bit of cleavage), there’s always going to be somebody who will gawp at you. Mme. Grenouille will testify to that too, but it was one of her colleagues who had a couple of warier stories to tell. On one occasion she was flashed at by a female flasher who exposed her breasts at her as she sat opposite onboard the train. I must say this was the first time I had ever heard of a female flasher, and I dare say some men may now be rushing to book their holidays in Paris upon reading this (if you’re from the Paris tourist board, please feel free to send a contribution my way). The other incident occurred when she was walking up the stairs of the metro stop and felt something tugging lightly at the back of her skirt. She turned around to find an old pervert trying to lift it up in the hope that she wouldn’t notice – he soon took flight when rumbled.
So there you have it, the Paris metro in a nutshell. In my usual unplanned way, I seem to have ended my piece on a downward turn. Generally there’s little to fear from this mode of transport. It’s efficient, inexpensive and the maps are clear making travel from A to B simple (I say that but line 6 of the Trocadéro is currently closed until May which is a pain in the butt). If you can get a bus (the tickets work for both the metro, bus and trams, and even the little funicular at Sacré-Coeur!) it usually makes for a more pleasant view. With that said there are small stretches of the Paris metro that surface above ground, but most of it is contained under the streets, where hundreds of miles of tunnels, sewers and catacombs also combine into Paris’ dark bellied underworld.
It is possible to talk for endless days about the niceties of Paris, but one major problem here are the dog turd infested pavements creating obstacle courses only the observant and agile can navigate. This is not just a Parisian problem, but one that seems to plague France as a whole. The fines are rarely enforced; the French have no incentive to clean up after their dogs and well, here in Paris I think a lot of them are simply too posh to scoop that poop.
Fear not for I shall not subject you to any photographs despite my temptation by a particular gravity defying, vertical construction, rising up like the leaning tower of Pisa on my way to Lidl last weekend.
For the most part the art of safe passage is a subconscious affair. The eyes briefly scan downwards taking in the next six or seven metres of pavement before you (this can vary depending on whether other city dwellers obscure your view), and then you can walk forwards in moderate confidence before the process repeats. Occasionally you’ll see evidence of doggie doo victims: a large skid mark at the source and a pattern of diminishing patches where the victim has tried to remove the obnoxious filth from their shoe.
The problem is really quite severe with some pavements completely littered with the stuff. This becomes an even greater problem for those poor folk with pushchairs, white sticks, wheelchairs, or when dragging a trolley back from the supermarket. In the autumn when the leaves fall from the trees you have to refrain from walking over them or romantically kicking them about for fear of what lies beneath. When it snows and many feet turn the pristine white flakes to a brown slush you never quite know if you’re walking over mucky snow or a snow-merde slush puppie surprise.
You can glower all you like at a French person walking away from the scene of a crime, you might also try to reeducate them in the errors of their ways, but do not expect them to take it with good grace. The brown knolls of foul odour will adorn the streets of Paris for years to come.
Eventually one has to get to the topic of why the French eat snails. I have to confess I don’t actually know the reason why a little garden dwelling gastropod now rises to the status of becoming gratifying gastronomic grub. The Romans used to eat them and if I had to guess I imagine during hard times the French yokels (not intended as a derogatory term) required them to supplement their diet and get some much needed protein.
“Gav, you’re in France, you’ve got to try them! Even my ex-Aussie boyfriend gave them a nibble”, I’m told, my contortioned face rolled up into a ball of disgust. All I could mumble was, “Well, obviously he’s a better man than I”, but then another argument presented itself to me; sorry two arguments. Actually now I stop to think about it there is a third argument because Mme. Grenouille is a vegetarian who happens to love snails (living snails that is) so shouldn’t have been trying to force escargot onto me in the first place! It had also been explained to me that snails by themselves have no real taste and it is the garlic buttery sauce that gives them their flavour. Surely that in itself is reason enough? My third argument simply demanded “Why not slugs?” They’re longer, surely just as high in protein and you don’t have to mess about with the shell! Mme. Grenouille face turned a little downward at the corners with this suggestion.
A couple of years ago I was at Mme. Grenouille’s 88 year old grandmothers in the countryside, and spied some very large snail shell shaped ceramic. I hardly dared ask what they were for, but yes they were a receptacle for holding lots of cooked snails. You do see snails on most Paris restaurant menus, or if you pop into the local Picard (a frozen food store) they have great big bags of icy snails sitting alongside crêpes and the like. If you are partial to new culinary and cultural pursuits I must recommend you don’t pick your own and eat them raw for fear of meningitis (See this news story, Warning: Don’t eat slugs)
This Christmas just gone, Mme. Grenouille’s mother bought me something I can stomach – chocolate truffle escargots! Looking at the bottom of the box these are actually made by Nestle.
If you’re coming here for holidays be sure to wrap up warm and do remember keywords such as l’escargot or cuisses de grenouille (frog’s legs). If you watch this YouTube video (Maïté et l’anguille) and you’re a hypocritical meat-eater (such as myself) with a weak stomach then do not hit the play button. With that said the chef, Marie-Thérèse Ordonez, does scare me just a little bit more than the eels themselves. You may wish to add l’anguille (eel) to your vocab list.
If my posts have been a little lacking of late it is because I took a sojourn to the UK over Christmas and the New Year. I flew back from Birmingham on the 3rd January (a 6:25am flight) with temperatures down to -8C! Back in Paris it was -4C, and yesterday (6th January) there was actually snow on the streets and cars. Even now looking down into the courtyard I can see some traces of it.
Bercy was the place Parisians came to get merry when once upon a time it stood as a rural village serving cheap intoxicating liquors (untaxed). With time the area turned to squalor until its revival in the 1970’s. The dilapidated wine storehouses (chais in French) have been revamped into dedicated commercial shops, and a modern complex/cinema which I sometimes frequent, stands to one end.
I came to Bercy, in the 12th arrondissment, today with Mme Froggy (I swear I’ll invent a more creative name when my brain has some rest), to do a little Christmas shopping. She was the one to make the observation that there were many window shoppers, but scarcely anybody with bags full of purchases. It does seem the recession has come to Paris and France as a whole and Parisian’s are tightening the purse strings this year.
It was nice to see some festive decorations, although the French are far more conservative than the Brits in their luminary pursuits. Along the road some strange paganistic characters on stilts danced over the cobbles, drapes flowing from their arms as they lent over and leered with evil faces at passing shoppers.
I took refuge in the nearby sweet shop where the various candies and nougats were all home-made in ye olde-styled boxes, but found the prices a little more frightening than what lay outside the door.
A few shops down is O&Co, mainly dedicated to selling fine olive oils and balsamic vinegar. The staff stand with spoons close at hand so you can try samples of fig vinegar or Moulin de L’Olivette – yum! Many months back we purchased a bottle of Pollichino Olive Oil which we use with cheese, salads and pasta – it’s very kind to the taste buds. I tried a cherry vinegar, and told the chap that British cough medicine often had a cherry flavour. Fortunately it didn’t quite resemble the same flavour, but was very acidic and sweet.
Right next-door to this pedestrianised shopping centre sits Parc de Bercy, a 173 acre park which is interesting by day, and well, dark by night. I took a quick snapshot of a heron lurking on the pond but I’m still having to ‘guess, point, click’ with the broken camera. A lone man stood with a laptop watching videos (nearly all the Paris parks have WIFI – it’s funny because I hear the French refer to it as ‘wiffy’ not ‘why-thigh’). I was trying to imagine a park in the UK (especially a city park), where you could stand with a laptop in the dark within a secluded park and not get mugged!
It seems those pesky space invaders won’t leave me be. I walked to the end of my road this morning, the same walk I’d taken many a time, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t find another of the little mosaic freaks looking up at me with two sinister black hollowed square eyes.
[April 16th 2009 Update] – This mosaic is no longer in existence. A couple of months ago I noticed two of the tiles missing, and now the entire thing has been removed.
Then just a minutes walk from the apartment I’ll be monkey’s uncle if there’s not another on Rue Jasmin.
In the backdrop Mme Froggy’s doctor was shaking her sheets clean from the balcony window.
Unfortunately the little portable camera’s LCD screen is still broken, so it’s now a question of ‘guess, point, click and hope’ to see if the camera caught the subject. I decided to take just a few snapshots of some of the local architecture on my way home despite the grey skies and drizzle. We have some interesting buildings by Hector Guimard, but I’ll save that for another entry.
Amongst the classic Parisian architecture is a whole mixture of styles; one day when the sun shineth I will have to go on walkabouts as the 16th district is full of foreign embassies and some of those are impressive alongside other gems tucked away off the main road.
On Rue Jasmin you can find this huge elaborate doorway which I’m told used to be the entrance to a former post office.
This is a red brick building (66 avenue Mozart) on my road which stands out in contrast to neighboring buildings, but still manages to fit in context with the street.
Alongside the Christmas trees a white lorry is often parked. If you’re going to turn to the dark side and graffiti something, might as well do it in style.
The stone built building is a style of architecture I don’t see too often, but there are a few more examples scattered throughout Paris and in some of the suburbs.
This is another building tucked around one of the side streets, which is different again but still suits Paris.
Back on the avenue Mozart, this corner facade is quite typical and very eloquant.
