Ah, Paris, the City of Light! La Ville-lumière! What images it evokes — the Seine, la Rive Gauche, Notre Dame, Montmatre, laTour Eiffel, l’Arc de Triomphe, Moulin Rouge. The arts, the intellectual community, the Sorbonne, café society…

Out workshop was done. Hugs and good-byes followed imaging and final critiques. We loaded the last few things into the car and left the wine country of Bourgogne for the Autoroute to Paris for a few days on our own.

I had downloaded directions, but fortunately, I also had my Michelin Road Atlas, as the signage returning to Paris can be confusing, especially in heavy traffic! And of course, we were right in the middle of Friday-afternoon traffic. At least we were heading in the opposite direction from most of it.

We missed our turn off the Peripherique, the road that circles around Paris. Fortunately, traffic pressing in on us from every side, I was able to fairly quickly find an alternate route that actually did not take us much out of the way. We dropped off the car and keys, and rolled our duffels up to find a taxi to take us to our pension.

I called ahead to alert the family who owned the pension. “We are not expecting you until tomorrow!”

“We’re in a taxi heading to your hotel.”

“We have no room; I have you down for tomorrow’s arrival.”

It turned out that while I had checked and quadruple checked our arrangements for the workshop, I had mixed up the dates for the beginning of our Paris soujourn. The workshop ended on Friday, and I mistakenly put down Saturday for our start in Paris. Wrong! Arghhh!

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“I will meet you in ten minutes,” she replied.

She could not have been nicer. Not only did she call and make reservations for us about a block away, she let us leave our heavy duffels in her office.

Off we went, our smaller duffels and camera gear in tow. We were right in the middle of the Montparnasse area of Paris, the heart and soul of intellectual and artistic life in the city in the 20^th century. People were attracted to the Bohemian lifestyle and sat and conversed in cafés. Greats such as Picasso, Modigliani, Hemingway, Cocteau, Fitzgerald, Henry Miller, and Miro, among many others, gathered here.

It is still full of cafés that open early in the morning and don’t close until the wee hours of the morning in some cases.

We had never stayed in this part of Paris before and found it to be really convenient to most of our favorite areas — the Latin Quarter, St. Germain, Rive Gauche, Notre Dame, the Louvre, and the Eiffel Tower.

Once we were settled in our temporary hotel and washed up, we took to the streets. We love to walk in Paris. We started off by finding a café and ordering a glass of wine to celebrate our arrival. It was lovely to sit and relax, chat about what fun we had had with our workshop group, and talk about some of the things we wanted to do in Paris. We decided to have no plan and simply walk in the general direction of the river, and so we did.

Armed with the little tourist map, as I had no wish to carry any more weight in the form of a guide, however small and discreet, we ziggled and zaggled through Paris streets toward Jardins du Luxembourg. I hadn’t been here since I was a teen, and I’m not sure that Arnie had ever visited it. We enjoyed the cooler temperatures of the shade of the gardens and took in old men reading their papers, mothers with their children in the play area, and couples snuggling on park benches. We saw an area for boules, called bocce in Italy, that wonderful game played with base-ball-sized metal balls on a narrowish strip of dirt or sand. No one was playing, but we hoped we would catch a game or two before we had to head home.

We came out the other side of the gardens to find a poetry festival going on. Book stalls were set up, and small publishers of poetry were selling their offerings. Some imprints I recognized from my days of studying French in Europe. Others were new to me. It was hot, so I kept gravitating to the fountain. There, I found three people enjoying the fountain, and sharing some music.

We found a little place to have supper, and returned afterwards to the poetry festival before heading back to our hotel. I stopped to photograph some bicycles whose chrome caught the night lights. The night air had cooled, and we stood by our hotel window and photographed the café scene below.

Saturday was market day on the Monparnasse. How could one resist? We didn’t go too far afield, because we had to move to our regular pension late morning. The market was perfect. The arrangements of flowers and vegetables, the cacophony of color, the friendliness of everyone, and the hustle-bustle were all wonderful.

There was a charming organ-grinder who gave me permission to photograph him. He had a twinkle in his eye (I think most Frenchmen have a twinkle in their eye for the ladies), and his music was wonderful. He would finish one song, remove the music (think of a miniature version of a player piano’s music) and make another selection amongst the boxes at his feet to accompany his next song. He had such flair; it was a delight to watch. Farther along, a woman was trying on a hat, admiring it in the stall-keeper’s mirror.

After making the move to our pension, we headed for the river, again through the rabbit warren of Paris streets. Paris reminds me of Boston in one way. They are both old cities that originally were not laid out in a grid. The streets twist this way and that, and unless one has a good sense of direction, one can get confused.

At the river, the Bateaux Mouche (literally Fly Boats) and other water craft chugged up and down under the watchful eye of Notre Dame. We puttered and browsed amongst the book stalls on the left bank. This was where my English granny, who studied under a famous pianist just outside Paris in the 20’s, would come and pick up wonderful lithographs. I still have many of them. She had quite an eye for the good artists.

As we wandered along the river, we saw a movie being made. It seems that every time we are in Paris, a movie is being made somewhere along the river. Actors and actresses strolled along in late-19^th-century dress; another sat in a little skiff across the river, fishing rod in hand, patiently waiting for the Bateaux Mouche and other boats to pass and for the director to give his signal.

Farther along, lovers sat at the edge of the river, enjoying the sunny day. A young artist sketched a river scene. A father and son looked down from an upper story window. This is Paris.

We ended up at the Louvre. For all the times I have visited that museum, I am always amazed at what an incredible complex of buildings it is. In the various arch ways, we heard opera. The acoustics were fabulous, and the arches were spaced far enough apart, so the different music did not complete with one another.

We came out to the I.M. Pei pyramids and triangular pools that surround them. People were sitting on the edges, legs in the water, enjoying the refreshment it gave. It looked so inviting that we joined the throngs. Although there were lots of people around us, it somehow did not feel crowded. Perhaps it was because everyone was relaxed.

I love the houseboats, so after an hour or so, we left the cool of the fountains and went back to the river. We recognized many familiar boat names. These people either live in Paris or return each summer to enjoy time here. People were getting ready for supper; some were already eating.

We turned around and headed back to one of our favorite bridges, Pont des Arts, a pedestrian bridge built in 1804. No vehicles are allowed, and in the late afternoon or any weekday, groups have laid out picnics, complete with the obligatory wine, musicians play, people sit on the benches in the middle and watch the passers-by. It is a wonderful scene.

What we didn’t realize when we originally set our dates, was that our time in Paris coincided with the music festival we had enjoyed so much two years ago. We wandered along the bridge, photographing, of course. One group looked particularly interesting and bohemian-looking, and I asked permission to photograph them.

I got chatting with one of the people who was playing some fascinating Asian flute, evoking sounds that reminded me of our native American flute music. I asked him about the flute, and we got to talking music. He offered me his flute to play, but it had been so many years since I had practiced, I thought I would save myself the embarrassment of trying and mangling any music I attempted to play.

“Won’t you have some wine?”

Silly question! I’m in France. This is, after all, the country of great vineyards!

I’m going to say, “Non, merci?” Definitely not!

Two glasses were pressed into our hands, and we chatted some more. It turned out that Oleg and his Russian friends were part of a well-traveled music group who had come to Paris to play in the festival. It was fun talking with them and listening to the flute.

The wine and cheese reminded us that we were hungry, so we bid our good-byes and headed to one of our favorite restaurants in the Latin Quarter after listening to more groups on the way.

After a very satisfactory meal, we started back to our pension but got waylaid what we think was either a Greek or Russian group. It had that Balkan tone and feel in the music and dancing. We were captivated by the energy and enthusiasm of everyone there.

We were not to get much sleep that night, as the revelers reveled well into the wee hours. After all, it was la Fête de la Musique, and it was Summer Solstice. It was a time for reveling and celebration!

We had two more days in Paris; sleep could wait.

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