Bonjours, Paris

After a long day of travel from Cortona to Paris, we met our friends who had been with us both in Sicily and Tuscany. We were headed to a soirée held each week by an ex-pat American. Other friends who were staying in Paris for two months told us about this event and met us there. Usually, there is a chef friend who cooks the dinner for 40 or so people, but this night, the chef had cancelled, and a friend of a friend cooked. While it was tasty, it certainly was not of the caliber we were expecting.

That said, there were interesting people attending. Conversations were held in French, English, American, Italian, and any combination thereof.

I enjoyed chatting with Claude, friend of our host. It was good to practice my French again. I found, however, that I kept saying, “Si,” instead of “Oui!”

“C’mon, get your countries straight,” I thought, “We’re not in Sicily or Tuscany anymore!”

We were all tired, so we took a taxi back to our hotel and settled in for the night.

The next morning, the four of us walked around the corner to a café Arnie and I frequent and that the other two remembered from last year’s workshop here.

We sometimes forget that many French words were introduced into the “English” language back in the time of “Billy, the Conqueror” in 1066.

It was raining. Hey! It’s Paris!

There were parapluies galore. People walking quickly to gain shelter as soon as possible. At one point, the skies turned almost black.

We were sitting under the protection of the awnings, but our waiter, the same we have had every visit in Paris, kept looking up at the ominous skies, flashing with lightening, rumbling with thunder, and questioned our sanity as the winds picked up. We laughed, and yes, the waiter did, too! He remembered us from years past once he saw us with our cameras.

“Ahhh, les professors!” he exclaimed.

The lights from the café caught the raindrops in the image above, as the man sped toward safety.

Other scenes also presented themselves.

I loved the reflections in the wet sidewalk, the grates around the tree reminding me of a big ring from a huge raindrop. You’ll recognize the various elements from the previous image.

After gathering our things back at the hotel, we headed over to Jardin du Luxembourg. We always love photographing here.

There was an exhibition of new and historic photos of La Tour de France, and we remarked that we were singularly unimpressed with the current versions. No sense of composition, bad sense of timing, in short, ho-hum, so-what boring.

The historic photographs, however, were most compelling. Wonderful vantage points, great angles, perfect timing. We felt as though we were there, too, wearing our own sabots, too, watching this exciting race.

Suddenly, “I hear music,” I said, “Like last year.”

We could see the photographs any time during the week, and we will revisit them, but for now, there was a band playing. There is much music in Paris leading up to La Fête de la Musique, that wonderful celebration of Summer Solstice.

Paris was the first to hold such an event. Now, many cities around the world have them. For us, though, this is the special one.

There was a band from Kansas. The conductor had won the Kansas musician of the year award, and the high-school students had been chosen from schools all around the state. What an opportunity for them! Many had traveled no further than Kansas City, perhaps even not that far.

We enjoyed listening to them. They had come from London, and were headed to Switzerland, Italy, and Germany after this.

The performance was over, but we lingered to find more photographs. An elderly gentleman, an artist, as it turned out, was sitting in the dappled light reading “Le Monde.” What could be more French? I asked permission to photograph him, and it was a good thing, as he said he did not like being treated without respect. He told me he has called the police on people who click, click away, as he suspiciously eyed Arnie and our friends off to the side.

After a lovely conversation — in French, of course — about South America (he was born in Venezuela but sounded far more French than Latin American) and France and art and whatever, he graciously said I could photograph him.

We wandered off to the ballustrade that surrounds the lower level and sailboat pond and found some chairs. It was lovely basking in the sun, until, that is, we decided it was getting too hot.

Meanwhile, we heard that our friends’ extended relatives were in Brussels. Their flight to Paris had been diverted because of the dark, stormy skies we had witnessed earlier. Eventually, their plane made it back to Paris, and we met them and headed off to dinner.

Our favorite evening restaurant in the 5e (5e arrondissement, also known as the Latin Quarter) was closed for a private party, but madame said they would be open tomorrow.

Could she suggest some other place? And she did … just there, around the corner.

It was excellent, and the atmosphere of the sub-street-level cave charming.

The newest arrivals were bushed from their overseas flight and delay, so we paid the bill and walked back to the hotel. Well, maybe not directly back to the hotel.

We had to stop at Place du Panthéon, so the girls and their mother could see la Tour Eiffel lit up at night. On the hour, the lights flash and sparkle, and it is quite spectacular. They were all entranced.

As we walked down the hill toward the hotel, there was an ice cream shop that beckoned, and the teenagers in the group, toothpicks propping up eyelids, suddenly perked up. The ice cream was similar to gelato, and we all had different flavors.

It was a good way to end the day.

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