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A bad night last night: too tired and too worried I suppose.

However I managed to sleep in this morning and rested until lunchtime.  Then I ventured out into the rain for some exercise and fresh air.  Off to the wonderful book shop at Hotel de Sully where I bought a book about this area and its relationship with the kings of France from Henri IV.  The pleasant bookshop man said it was just the kind of day for sitting indoors reading with some tea!

Off down Rue St Paul to make a dinner booking for my friends’ last evening: was about to visit the Red Wheelbarrow but Penelope was out at lunch, so off I went along St. Antoine to an ATM and look for a Post Office.  Not so many tourists about today so it was easier walking.  I did not hurry and stopped whenever I saw an interesting piece of architecture to take a photograph.

When I arrived home my bank rang me on my mobile to say that somebody was using my credit card fraudulently: thereafter followed several phone calls, and long conversations over a bad line with awkward accents, to investigate everything I may have used it for since I arrived.  There are three frauds: one is an on-line supermarket shop, another is to pay off a huge mobile phone bill and the third is for an Arms Foundation (NOT a charity).  It will take the next few days to sort this out but the bank is being really helpful and supportive.  But I feel even more beleagured just at the moment.  What next?

So my credit card is now useless and is in bits on the kitchen work surface.  However, tomorrow I am due to collect some tickets I booked last week and I will need to show my credit card.   Oh well, we’ll see.  I’ll take the pieces and my passport and see what they make of that.   I still have my debit card which will at least withdraw cash from ATM machines, but I dare not use it for any payment since if that becomes useless for the same reason, then I will have no way of gaining any money at all.  My new card should be with me within two weeks.  Two weeks!

So that was the day done really.  Some phone calls with family and friends finished off the day which was nice but I am having to work really, really hard just at the minute to stay positive.  Just too many straws.  But it will all sort eventually. Just have to hang on in there.

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Another glorious day, we woke to more blue sky and bright sunshine.  Today the bells are tolling for All Saints’ Day, a public holiday.  Everyone slept in after a couple of hard days’ enjoyment: a slow start, coffee and tea and gradual surfacing.

Yesterday the youngsters came home with a beautiful pink box each

from a very special Patisserie near by, Gerard Mulot.  After a meal out at the Place des Vosges they came home (I was in bed by that time!), and split a small bottle of champagne and each ate their special cake:

to celebrate their last evening in Paris.

This morning they  have gone out to eat breakfast at a cafe, then on to Pere Lachaise cemetery to see Oscar Wilde’s and Jim Morrison’s graves, then a stroll down the Champs Elysee, a look at the Arc de Triomphe, and whatever else takes their fancy, before returning here in the late afternoon for their evening Eurostar home.

Incidentally, this is a magnificent graveyard.  I visited several years ago and Edith Piaf, Moliere, Marcel Proust, Chopin, Balzac, are amongst the famous people interred there.  It is well worth a visit: many of the graves are really magnificent.

 

Jim Morrison

Proust

Oscar Wilde

Chopin

Edith Piaf

Moliere

I’m taking it easy, catching up on e-mails and blogging: nephew’s cold has decided to try to get a hold and I still have not fully recovered from last week’s migraine so I am resting today and drinking plenty in order to get 100% again.

Yesterday afternoon I went on a small trip out.  Wanting a good dictionary (mine at home is far too large and heavy to travel with) I took myself down to Rue St. Antoine, crossed over, went down Rue St. Paul and into The Red Wheelbarrow.

The Red Wheelbarrow

http://www.theredwheelbarrow.com/bookstore/home.html

 

 

 

 

 

 

This little bookshop is rather like a Tardis: small on the outside  but holding an incredible amount inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The books are shelved from floor to ceiling, two deep, and often on top of each other and stacked on every available table and chair, and a good portion of the floor, but the owner, Penelope knows exactly where everything is: you only have to ask, and she knows whether she has a copy and where to find it if so!  The name of the shop comes from the title of the poem –

The Red Wheelbarrow –  1932

William Carlos Williams  –  American Poet.

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

(For more about this poem or Haiku, not sure which it is, see the end of this post).

The word which had finally precipitated me on this quest was ‘bourdaine’ found on the jar of honey I bought yesterday.  Google translation had given me ‘blunder’ or ‘howler’ – clearly not right!  Working on the various translation tools I had come up with a species of Magnolia, then a species of Buckthorn.  It turns out that both these are related so I was getting nearer the truth.  But the time it took to get that far made me long for dictionary that I could quickly rifffle through.  I just don’t have that kind of time when reading.

So Penelope and I looked up ‘bourdaine’ in both the small and the very large Collins Dictionaries thinking this would be a good test of the breadth covered, but neither had it. Clearly this is getting into the realms of the botanically exotic.  However, I decided to go for a good pocket size dictionary anyway trusting that most of what I shall need to look up will be nothing like as abstruse!

I mentioned that so far I had heard nothing back from my tutor, Blanche, and was getting rather worried since I do not have time to sit and wait around: did she by any chance know of anyone?  Silly question, she not only knew but gave me the name and card of a tutor and said to mention her, Penelope’s, name when making enquiries.  Not only knowledgeable then, but also kind!

This tutor is an actress, Natalie, apparently a quiet, kind lady with a good reputation for getting good results.  I feel much happier now that I have two strings to my bow.  I cannot really expect to hear from Blanche today being a holiday, but since I e-mailed her last Thursday, if I hear nothing on Tuesday morning I shall lose no time in contacting Natalie instead.  I will already have been here for over a week and although I have been very happy settling in and reacquainting myself with my surroundings I shall have to begin to get down to work.

Penelope comes from “an island off an island off Vancouver”  – Hornby Island.   She came to Paris 20 years ago, found this property for sale, stayed and created this gem of a bookshop.  She has made this which is  one of the nicest I’ve ever been into.

I can do little better than quote another blog by Rob of http://www.thefictiondesk.com/blog/the-red-wheelbarrow-profile-of-a-paris-bookshop/

“What really makes the Red Wheelbarrow special, though, is the sense of community that surrounds it. I visited one afternoon last month, and while we talked bookselling and drank ginger beer, a constant stream of people entered both the shop and the conversation: there were tourists looking for guidebooks and leaving with a stack of novels; locals paying their daily visit while walking the dog, friends dropping in to catch up on the gossip of the night before (plenty of readings and other events take place here in the evenings). At one point, an American couple appeared, known regulars by virtue of an annual visit during their vacation. Several times Penelope made introductions among her customers and there was the sense of new friendships being made.

While I left with a book—and would have taken a great deal more if I’d had a fatter wallet that day—it’s not the richly stocked shelves that makes the Red Wheelbarrow special, so much as the role it plays in the local community. It’s good to know that there are still bookshops like this, places where ideas are exchanged and lasting friendships are made, where you can while away the afternoon talking even without the assistance of a coffee concession. It’s the kind of place you’d want to exist if you’d just moved to a new town. Ultimately, it’s also a reminder that independent bookshops like The Red Wheelbarrow can have an importance to the community that even outweighs their importance as bookshops. And that’s saying something.”

Me again: although I was not spending a lot of money Penelope was very helpful.  When I asked how I might join a Parisian library she gave me all the gen: it was only later that I realised that this may have been a less than tactful query in a bookshop.  But of course she is selling books in English and the library will contain mostly books in French.

We were talking about her bravery in moving here so young and I asked her if there were any other lives she would like to be living.  She looked thoughtful and said that “Yes there were three lives she would like to try:  1, being a Literature Professor in Cambridge UK, 2, being a housewife in Canada with no living to earn, and 3, being an author somewhere warm.  With priority at the moment to no. 3.  It would be a sad day for the Marais were she to leave to pursue these other dreams.

I note that on 29 November there is a reading at the shop by Ben Crystal, author of Shakespeare on Toast, so I might try to get to that.

Then on to take a cup of tea with my friends.  Crossing Rue St. Antoine there was suddenly a great howling of sirens and flashing of blue lights as three fire engines roared out through a narrow archway, across the road and down the wrong side of the main road.  The Pompiers of Paris were on their way to a fire.

A scantily clad Pompier in a bright yellow vest was keeping the road clear of people and traffic so that the engines could negotiate their way through the gate way.  The engines are very narrow but they have to be considering the age of the gateway.  As soon as the last engine was out he flung the doors shut very fast indeed, I could only manage to snatch a photo as they slammed.  All very slick!

Then home for a last chat and another cuppa with the nephew and his lass, and they were off to catch their train.  They did not want to leave and I felt so sorry for them having to go.  If I could have helped them extend their stay I would

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For anyone interested in the poem here is an analysis:

By May Monten from http://www.helium.com/items/1625486-discussion-of-the-red-wheelbarrow-by-william-carlos-williams

“The 1932 poem “The Red Wheelbarrow” is the most famous poem that the doctor/poet William Carlos Williams wrote. It’s in many anthologies, where it is often the shortest poem, unless the anthology also contains haiku.

It consists of one sentence, broken up into two-line stanzas. Everything except for the first stanza depicts a concrete image: “a red wheel / barrow / glazed with rain / water / beside the white / chickens.” What stands out the most, on first reading, are the colors – the red wheelbarrow, the white chickens. The image is simple and soothing, and has a Zen quality to it. All the words are short, only one or two syllables each (wheelbarrow and rainwater would have three syllables, but in the poem they are each written as two words, which keeps the maximum syllable count to two). The simplicity and directness of the words adds to the Zen feeling.

The first stanza, though, is different. It says “so much depends upon.” Unlike the rest of the poem, this is an abstract statement. It’s also mysterious, leading the reader to ask, What is it that depends upon (the red wheelbarrow and the white chickens)? Why does so MUCH depend upon that?

I think there are two basic ways to answer those questions. You can consider the objects in the poem, and say that it is wheelbarrows and chickens that matter, perhaps because they are useful objects, or because of their everyday nature, or because the countryside matters more, in some sense, than the cities.
Alternately, you can say that it’s not the objects themselves that matter, but the image that they create. It’s the redness of the wheelbarrow and the whiteness of the chickens that matters, and the pleasing contrast those colors make when found next to each other. The line “glazed with rain water” appears to support this interpretation, with its suggestion of a painter or a potter’s decorative glaze.

Finally, the form of the poem is interesting. Lines in poetry are usually measured in syllables, but here the lines are measured instead in words. Each stanza has one line with three words and one line with one word. But the three-word lines do not all have the same meter. half have three syllables and half have four”.




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A lovely quiet night although it felt rather eerie at first all by myself: I had to keep my ipod playing a book to keep me company until I got used to the silence!

At 6.30 I was rudely awoken by a cockerel crowing: those of you who know me or have followed this blog for a while will know how fond I am of a cockerel crowing in the early morning.  However, this was not welcome.  The previous tenants had left the alarm clock set for both that time and that particular sound.  Not happy, was I.

Could not get back to sleep knowing that guests were coming about 10.00 so got up and made a veggie soup to keep me fortified.  Then found an e-mail saying the time difference had been forgotten so no-one appearing until 11.30.  Some last minute shopping and then welcome visitors.

After tea and chat they set off about their adventures and I set off to add a further few sophistications to the flat, ie some T-towels.  Clearly I am expected to use the dish washer but for one that seems rather pointless.  Also there are not enough dishes to last the length of time it would take for me to fill it!

Despite my earlier forebodings there is a tea pot here: in fact it is a large teapot.  However, even without the excuse of needing to buy a teapot I still felt I needed an excuse to visit my favourite tea selling emporium.  So, off to the Place des Vosges to the best tea selling shop I have ever seen.   It is called Dammann Freres.

http://www.boutique-dammann.fr/?gclid=CN69vZHw-qQCFdD-2AodfC0Piw

Inside it is floor to ceiling boxes and tins of tea: Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Russian, African.

 

The location, the high, wooden, beamed ceiling and the dark interior already give a feeling of sophistication and romance as soon as you put your nose through the door. The packaging of the  tea is simple and elegant: a black square tin with subtle block letters and cinnabar colored trim around the edges which gives it pure class.

One wall comprises richly colored Chinese traditional iron teapots along with more modern glass and architectural shaped ceramic ones.

A really neat idea is a  ceramic mug with a built in strainer and ceramic cover to keep your tea hot while it steeps.

And if you are traveling and want to bring your tea with you, there’s a pretty, pastel-orange, pressed leather mini suitcase with four small tins inside to add to your luggage, along with the vanity case and hat boxes!!

In the centre of the shop is an ingenious way to sample the tea: there are  over 100 individual small cupboards which have doors you flip open, so you can sniff away freely at various varieties without having to bother the salesman to keep bringing out the canisters.

Although you can barely see it in this picture the wooden beams have all been painted beautifully: they are very faded now but the remains are still there to be seen.  A visit to the Hotel de Lully afterwards showed me exactly what this ceiling would have looked like if kept in good condition: there they have such a ceiling which has been preserved:

This ceiling is in what is now the bookshop of  the Hotel de Lully which is the Centre for National Monuments of Paris.  I could not resist buying a few books – they are wonderfully tempting.  One is a novel of all the women, low born and high born, religious and secular who have lived through the centuries in this area: another is a small illustrated book of examples of Art Nouveau in Paris: and the last is an illustrated History of Paris, with old photographs, paintings and cartoons. I also bought a Christmas present for my daughter in law!

Laden down with goodies, I made my way home, to find today’s busker underneath the arches: a man singing opera to an instrumental recording, with a tenor voice.  Only he kept changing to what sounded like a castrato (for the pedants amongst you and yes, I know you are there, I know there are no more castrati, but that is still what he sounded like when he sang falsetto, so there!) and back, it was extraordinary.  Not perhaps the greatest voice ever, but far better than most and a sight and sound not to be missed.  As he sang higher and higher, he lifted his chest, lowered his chin and straightened his back:

My friends came round and we went to the opening of new Art Gallery to which they had been invited: unfortunately the imagery was lost on me.  One of my friends who is Jewish explained that they referred to a Kabbala (not sure of the spelling) in Judaism and that the juxtaposition with Christian imagery was very provocative.

Then on to a favourite restaurant where we had a sublime meal.  I had goats cheese creamed with herbs and garlic set on stewed aubergine (eggplant) followed by wild boar braised in red wine and mushrooms with pureed root vegetables.  Absolutely divine. I cannot explain it except to say you had to be there and taste it for yourselves.   I shall take any friends who come to stay with me and who are interested in good food for a meal there.

A walk back with my friend to her house and then back again to mine, stopping for a sneaky ice cream on the way!  Now, that’s what I call a Saturday.

 







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