A Night Alone in Paris
10.29.2011 
Street art by Pole Ka
Richard is sick in bed. He caught the flu at L’Alliance Francaise (one of the hazards of being in school), so I went alone tonight to pick up a book at Shakespeare & Company. And I got sick too, but in a different way.
A bookstore that stays open till 11 p.m. suits me just fine. Since I work at home, I often forget the difference between weekdays and weekends. Walking down St.-Germain at 9:30 p.m., I was surprised to find the cafes packed with people, the art galleries open, everyone in convivial spirits. Oh, right, Saturday night. I stepped into a gallery where a man in a beret was playing a violin, while a dark-haired woman writhed like a serpent in front of a seated audience. It was not particularly artful. Yet the seats were all taken. More people like to watch than get up on stage and perform, so the balance worked.
At Shakespeare & Company, I asked a young woman behind the counter if my Alain de Botton book had arrived. She searched the shelf behind her, speaking to me in English and French. Her English was so perfect, I assumed she was British, but no, she had just started learning it 11 years ago. She gets a lot of practice at the bookstore.
She handed me Botton's, How Proust Can Change Your Life. Margarita recommended it, and she loves Proust the way I love Proust. She’s also reading a biography of Proust, which she said makes him seem like a nasty man, but I find that hard to believe.
I browsed the fiction section and found two Jennifer Egan novels I hadn’t read, Invisible Circus and Look at Me. Extravagant, but I learned from my mother extravagance in buying books. She used to leave bookstores with a box of them in her arms. When I was a child and my parents had more children than money, she’d take us to the library every day for another Wizard of Oz. The passion for reading came from her, and she got it from her mother, Esther the poet, who ran off to Columbia for a year of graduate school, leaving two small children (one of whom was my mother) at home with her parents. While it was an agreement she’d made with my grandfather, who could start his medical practice now after finishing medical school, it was still a shocking thing for a small-town Minnesota woman to do, and I think cost her dearly in her husband and daughter’s affection.
On to the poetry section to see if the book I longed to read last night was there. I’d gone to every bookshelf in our apartment, unsure if we’d brought it or donated it to Antioch, our MFA alma mater, when we moved. Hélas! It was nowhere to be found at home.
But here! Here it was at Shakespeare. I grabbed the only copy of Ezra Pound’s The Cantos, and headed for the red theater chair in the next room to read a little of each Egan, and decided, of course I needed them both, and then dipped into The Cantos.
The French woman clerk came in with an English colleague to put some art books to bed. They were bedding the books above me, and to both sides, so I offered to move. No, no, they said, in the relaxed way that characterizes this bookstore.
We talked about learning English and French. Terry said that he surrounded himself with French people, played soccer with an all-French team, sang phrases while he showered, just bore down on it like a jackhammer. He practiced saying words with French friends, asking them over and over, “Am I saying it correctly?” After four years, he was fluent. Both were fluent in both languages. But, they teased each other, “I can still tell you’re French when you say certain words.” “Well, I can tell you’re English,” she sing-songed back.
I listened to a couple speaking German.
Another couple came in and spoke Spanish, from somewhere in the Americas.
And then a couple spoke what sounded to me like Chinese, but perhaps was not? Japanese? No, they looked and sounded Chinese.
I went back to reading The Cantos, and read a line about Chinese or Japanese. Hmmm. That was strange.
I asked the woman if she spoke English or French.
Street art by Tristan des Limbes
English, she said.
“I was just wondering if you were speaking Chinese or Japanese,” I said. “And then I read this.” I showed her the line.
She nodded, as if to say, Very strange indeed, but she was looking at me, not the text.
I came in for two books, but I wanted all four. I’m trying to be frugal—the exchange rate from dollars to euros is nuts right now; imagine everything costing one-third extra—but frugality doesn’t apply when it comes to books. I was programmed that way in childhood.
I meandered out into the cooler autumn air, past the oldest tree in Paris, a robina planted in 1636, which has a crutch beneath it like a figure in a Salvador Dali painting. Maybe I’d try a new restaurant I’d passed on the way. I wanted healthy tonight more than delicious, and Le Grenier de Notre Dame promised wholesome vegetarian fare. It was intimate and beautifully lit, and the waiter was warm and wall-eyed, and recommended a vegetable pie, and I sat and read The Cantos, and ate a perfectly delicious, perfectly healthy meal.
I was again ensorcelled by Pound’s way of weaving myth, history, poetry of other times, astronomy, astrology, philosophy, beauty of place, Italian, French, English, German, Chinese, Latin, Greek, his own memories, his obsession with economic justice and wise rule, and the occasional expression of a heart that seemed cracked with scapegoating and hatred—the works. Oh, but the richness.
I read:
“nothing matters but the quality
of the affection—
in the end—that has carved the trace in the mind
dove sta memoria”
The couple two tables away spoke Italian, he in a caressing soft tone, she like a barking dog. She had tattoos on her arms that looked like the exquisite graffiti on the walls around here. I glanced at each of them. I’m fascinated by volume, how some nationalities speak loudly, some softly. Italians, like Americans, speak as if they’re on stage. French people tend to speak as if they’re in the bedroom, and sometimes as if they want you to get in bed too.
I was struck by how softly this Italian man was speaking. But the moment after I glanced over at the two of them, he began to bark back at his companion, as if caught in the act of being too gentle, too refined.
And I walked home at 11 p.m., feeling perfectly safe on a Saturday night in this city where my soul is so at home, sick—sick with love.
Reader Comments (23)
"I'm wild again, beguiled again, a wimpering, simpering child again... ensorcelled, bothered, and bewildered by you."
Only Kaaren could naturally weave "ensorcelled" into a narrative that perfectly evokes reading Pound in a Parisian cafe on a late Saturday night with R home in bed. Hey, I was already ensorcelled at the red chair!
Hi Kaaren,
I enjoyed your Paris Play "A Night Alone in Paris" and was particularly interested in your comment:
"I’m fascinated by volume, how some nationalities speak loudly, some softly. Italians, like Americans, speak as if they’re on stage. French people tend to speak as if they’re in the bedroom, and sometimes as if they want you to get in bed too." You also mention that some nationalities sound as if they're "barking like dogs." My maternal grandmother was German. She and a couple of her many sisters definitely had that barking dog quality(?) in their voices. But Grandma sounded like a Great Dane, while her youngest sister, who turned 101 years old last month, sounded/sounds more like a poodle, and not a French one.
I'm glad I finally responded to one of your great plays. I just hope you receive this message. I am "no" to low tech.
My best to you both. Get well soon, Richard!
Thanks,
Wendy Pippin
I am sick too, but not like poor Richard with the flu or lucky Kaaren in love with her Paris night alone. I'm sick of getting in my car to drive to a cafe, to drive to an art gallery, to drive to a bookstore, to drive to the gym to exercise! That is what I'm sick with after reading your lovely piece, A Night Alone in Paris--sick with jealousy and sick with longing for my many nights alone, walking in Paris last summer. Which is not to say that life here in Berkeley is entirely devoid of the pleasures you speak of. Oliveto Cafe last night delivered everything a great cafe can, even if one has to drive to it: A chance encounter with Willis and Sarah Barnstone who I last saw in August in a cafe in Paris! A glass of wine with Linda Kenyon, the actress who will portray Julia Child today at a benefit I am hosting for the Berkeley Food and Housing Project. And a chat with Bob Klein, co-owner of Oliveto who is launching his new grain company, Community Grains, to great fanfare in the food media. And, last but not least, a lovely roast chicken breast from Oliveto's wood-burning pizza oven, surely a match for any chicken breast in Paris. Yes, Berkeley has virtues, including fine cafes, and Oakland these days even more. But your posting made me sick with longing for the walking, day or night, rain or shine, which is really what Paris is all about.
I think it was in Tom Robbins' book "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" where he talks about the sounds of various languages... how Hawaiian uses so many vowels and the words are so mellifluously filled with air, whereas Slavic languages are so hard sounding with lots of jagged consonants. I used to work for a Russian whose speech I once described as sounding somewhat like loudly clearing one's throat while aggressively chewing a mouthful of unshelled walnuts.
And only Stuart could introduce song into Paris Play! Stuart, thanks a million.
I don't throw that word "ensorcelled" around. Only an enchanter earns it. But Pound is the most maddening, mysterious combination of the best and the worst in human nature. I adore the muse Calliope, she of epic poetry, and he worships her with devotion. There are very few modern minds as complex and cultured as his. And at the end of his life, he acknowledged that his heart had been twisted by hatred. But then he was a Scorpio, and some of 'em have to go through that.
We are grateful to you for this, and grateful for you!
Kaaren & Richard
Wendy!
It's wonderful to hear from you. I laughed out loud reading your description of your grandmother, the Great Dane, and her sister, the poodle. I know what a poodle's bark sounds like, but am not sure about the Great Dane's. I love it when readers/friends provide more nuanced metaphors and similes than we've offered. What KIND of a barking dog was that? The Italians in this restaurant sounded like German Shepherds to me. And you've made me aware of something else: those of us who are hyper-sensitive to sound and who like more modulated voices, probably prefer cats to dogs.
Richard thanks you. He's well now. And we're both besotted with Paris.
Much love,
Kaaren & Richard
Dear John,
We read your comment at a sidewalk cafe, Les Editeurs, and completely identified with it. Being able to walk everywhere is one of the chief allures of Paris, and a major reason we moved here. Your words set us to dreaming (as cars wove on the street in front of us): what if we could take it up a notch and get rid of all cars in Paris? Wouldn't that make it the ultimate dream city? But how would goods be transported? How about Metro trains (alternating with those for passengers) solely for the purpose of carrying goods? And more people could be hired to run the goods upstairs and into stores and restaurants. Okay, just dreaming.
But Berkeley is a fine alternative to Paris. We loved hearing about your evening at Oliveto Cafe. Give Willis and Sarah, Bob and Maggie hugs from us next time you see them. I had a great salmon pasta tonight. That roast chicken sounds yummy.
There is only one cure for your sickness, John. Get thee to Paris! We're glad you'll be here next summer.
Much love,
Kaaren & Richard
Stuart,
This is a fascinating point. And the character of Hawaiians versus Russians might be reflected in both their respective landscapes and natures. From my time living on a schooner in Hawaii, I'd say Hawaiians are an unusually relaxed people; and the Russians I know I'd describe as strong, tough. That is such a fresh description, "clearing one's throat while aggressively chewing a mouthful of unshelled walnuts." I'll ask a Russian friend what she thinks of that...
I love Tom Robbins' writing. I should read more of his novels again.
Much love,
Kaaren & Richard
Thank you.
Wonderful.
For the occasion of Les Animaux I wrote what is subsequent.
B
Such melliferous honeyed wanderings you had. I too am yearning for such an evening of exploration with beautiful city filled with intrigue, history, great book stores, food and architecture such as your beloved City of Lights. With peoples from many other worlds exuding their cantatas of languages it creates the perfect “underscore” for the Proust “Cantos.” Add the synchronistic Chinese murmurs punctuating “word spotting” and it certainly anchors “right place, right time”. I’d say it was a perfectly enchanting evening.
It’s great to wander solitary and be open to respond to what ever magic calls you forth or wherever a spontaneous inclination may lead (albeit alone together with a maze of other beings.) We are different creatures when flying solo. It is a seductive thought, especially with Paris as a Lover….mmmm
<;-) Joanne
Maybe Proust can change my life, but I know you have. Our lives are changed when those we know and love continue to think deeply, to feel completely.
Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Dear Bruce,
Thank you for your appreciation. And for celebrating Les Animaux!
Much love,
Kaaren & Richard
Dear Joanne,
I had to look up "melliferous," thinking it was a typo for "mellifluous," but of course not--you wrote it, it's an edible word of its own. There is no element in my magical evening that you don't have in L.A,--except for the ease of walking everywhere. But since you live in Venice, you can do that too. The thing is, though, there's something amazingly intimate about this city, in spite of its having so many cultural offerings that we couldn't do it all if we went out every day and night, though who wants to go out every night. Why don't you and Stuart just spend some time here and we'll do SOME of the ten thousand things there are to do in Paris.
And isn't it fun to go out on a date by yourself once in a while? A date with life!
Much love and gratitude,
Kaaren & Richard
Oh Anna,
You are always so full of blessing. I think of you every time I hear Italian, and I remember your amazing stories and your melliferous, mellifluous, voice.
Grazie mille!
Un milione di baci,
Kaaren & Richard
Dears,
Words: it's funny because I hadn't read Stuart's entry with "mellifluous" in it before I wrote mine. Actually, I'm not such a smarty pants because mellifluous is what actually came to my mind first because of the musical quality of languages mentioned in your post (Stuart, being a composer was in that groove too). However, not being a spelling "genius", I looked it up and discovered the honeyed cousin "melliferous" which was a sweet surprise. <;-)
CITY: To me L.A. is not a City, it's a Megalopolis; sprawling, intriguing, potentially dangerous and very Noir. It can be great fun and even residentially specific to "walkable." It's just far enough away from the action to dampen the urge. (We’re a mile+ away from the friendly hood activities.) It's the in-between, non-city spaces with blocks of dark driveways and fences that say "keep to the sidewalk" which render “an evening stroll” uninviting. Henceforth, The Car, which takes a whole other motivation. One must mount these vehicles and travel miles to resource the gems. San Francisco is a City, a western lady of a city and Beautiful Paris must be the Haute couture Grand Dame of Cities. These are elegant “architectured” places of intrigue, layered with the jewelry of history — great history. One can sense messages imbued in their dense fibers of “place”. There are echos etched beneath the surface. Los Angeles; loud, creative and modern, has trampled the quiet footsteps of the Native Americans who lived here first. We live on top soil. (L.A. is infamous for being superficial…)
So, yes to a million things in Paris — Yes!
Love,
Joanne
I do love our Venice CA but we still have to get in the car…<;-)
I thought Shakespeare invented melliferous to describe the evil that lives AFTER Mel Gibson, sort of like Caesar. But what do I know; I just take pictures. And our readers who are also friends of Mel will have to get used to my sense of humor. We're just getting used to his.
--Richard, who takes sole credit for this nonsense.
Fabulous photo of the Eiffel Tower. I so enjoy "seeing" you in the bookstore, reading, buying, treasuring books. You are truly a lover of literature, in fact, you seem to approach all aspects of your life with love and appreciation; I adore that about you.
I used to buy tons of books, kept building bookshelves to hold them. Still they were stacked all over the house. Trying to be more frugal now, afraid to go to bookstores too often, as I never can resist walking out with more words that I can ever read. And I'm trying to keep my home simpler. So my house is more fluid - books come in and books go out. When I have trouble letting go of a book, I always remember how amazed I was that you were able to let go of a whole library.
I'm confident that the books we read will always be with us, whether we still own them or not. Somewhere deep within, we carry with us every story we have ever read, and every story we will ever need.
Oh Kaaren and Richard,
Now this is what I call a satisfying night out on the town, for Kaaren anyways. I grieve a bit with every book store I see going out of business. The smell of a used book store has always been particularly intoxicating to me. The best I experienced were in San Francisco.
My mother has always been an avid reader too. She'd take us to story tellling every saturday at the library. I'd check out the maximum allowed for a child. Ten, if I recall correctly. Once, during elementary school I was sick for 3 days and completed my reader for the semester in those three days. My teacher accused me of lying. My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Carter, another Libra, whom I wish I could contact and profusely thank, probably healed any wounding from the previous teacher's accusation. She gave me A's in creative writing and became my pen pal for about two years after I went to middle school.
This nugget you gleaned strikes my heart so sincerely. Thank you for putting ample space around it.
“nothing matters but the quality
of the affection—
in the end—that has carved the trace in the mind
dove sta memoria”
And Joanne, being a native of L.A., your contribution put words to my experience... ooooh, the dreaded required driving. I invested a lot of energy in scheduling around getting my provisions and hunkering down at home in a timely manner.
Then your metaphor below spells out the undercurrent and overcurrent there. Brilliant.
"Los Angeles; loud, creative and modern, has trampled the quiet footsteps of the Native Americans who lived here first. We live on top soil. (L.A. is infamous for being superficial…)"
Melliferous, Mellifluous. Now say that ten times really fast, even twice. You and Stuart inadvertently created a tongue twister.
And Richard, thanks for the frivolity. ~~~~~giggles~~~~~ Maybe it was malicious or malevolent... no, that would make too much sense.
I always thought that when my grandmother yelled she sounded like a screeching crow, otherwise it was melodious. Speaking French seems to require having your mouth puckered as though kiss-ready. I find Spanish and German to be very staccato, like you'd give commands to a dog. I find Spanish and German fun. And my favorite to listen to; Portuguese sounds like romantic French with a twist of sensuality and Latin warmth, a wonderful ear embrace.
Love,
Marguerite
"...elegant 'architectured' places of intrigue, layered with the jewelry of history..." Joanne! Very nice! And "...trampled the quiet footsteps of the Native Americans who lived here first. We live on top soil." I like that!
Speaking of solo dates with oneself, I took a hiatus from teaching at Berklee College of Music in 1976 and spent three months in Europe. Bought a motorcycle in Paris and drove through France, Spain, Italy, Austria, and Germany. I had many moments, walking through Paris, where I'd turn a corner and catch my breath at something I saw. One such scene was finding myself unexpectedly at the edge of a gigantic chasm. I had never seen a deeper whole, taking up an entire block, in the middle of a city. Tiny dumptrucks and earth movers at the bottom looked like toys. I later learned that it was the beginnings of Centre Georges Pompidou.
Ah, the sound of Portuguese! I agree with Marguerite. But especially Brazilian Portuguese... their speech embodies their music, and vice-versa. I was reduced to a puddle just listening to the liquid cadences in Rio.