No Surf, But Great View

 

 

Yes, it's that time of year. During the dog days of summer, when Paris is practically empty anyway, and a surprising number of Parisians are off at their country homes, those of us who are left get to sun ourselves on a one-kilometer-long Right Bank beach smack in the center of Paris for four weeks, from today through August 18.

The city closes the Voie Georges Pompidou on the Seine at water level to vehicle traffic, trucks in tons of biscuit-colored beach sand, and erects beach umbrellas and chaise longues. It provides foosball games (called "baby foot" over here) and refreshment stands, and small pavilions for tai chi lessons and dancing. There's street art, too, in the form of commissioned (and impromptu) sand sculptures. We all hum "Surfin' U.S.A" and "Help Me, Rhonda" as we loll about in our jams and bikinis (huarache sandals, too).

This is the twelfth year of the Paris Plage program, and, even when it rains, it's a popular family outing. There is a satellite plage at Porte de la Villette in the 19th arrondissement, but the main stage is definitely in the shadow of Hotel de Ville. 

Two Men, Two Women, Six Ducks

The Seine meanders through the center of Paris. 

There are two eyes in the middle of the river, the Île de la Cité and the Île St.-Louis. Just look on a map.

Artists tend to gravitate towards the left eye, the intuitive-feeling eye, the eye of dream.

Maybe it wasn’t coincidence that we chose to live within a few blocks of the left eye, the Île St.-Louis.

We often cross the Pont de la Tournelle over the Seine and stop to look at Notre Dame where the river forks around the Île de la Cité, the eye of judgment. Every time you look there are new things to see.

Mid-summer, walking to meet Richard for dinner in the Marais, I saw ahead of me the most startling street person I’ve seen so far in Paris. He had a vast hairy bare belly. Not only was he shirtless, but he was also missing the entire seat of his pants. No problem—it was a hot day. He stood by a trash can and picked out bottles to throw. His face and chest were so red that all the bottles might well have been downed by him. Passersby mostly stayed on the other side of the street, for this was a hairy bum with a hairy bum. Even seen-it-all Parisians kept sneaking peeks at his big furry butt, which at least was covered half an inch down the crack by what seemed to be a pair of cowboy chaps.

I sent him a silent greeting, Bless your hairy bum, oh hairy bum, but kept a comfortable distance.

On the way back from dinner, Richard and I paused on the Quai d’Orléans. It was 9 p.m., still light, the time of year you wish would never end.

Richard leaned over the quai to snap an overhead shot of a group of young people having a picnic.

Below them at the edge of the Seine, I watched six ducks in a row, as if in line at Poilâne Bakery.

Richard showed me the close-up photo in his viewfinder. “Their picnic seems to be mostly chips.”

There was an array of bags open, as well as wine. “Those ducks are smart. They know the picnickers will tire of the chips and toss them snacks.”

“Look!” Richard said, “Someone’s in the water.”

I peered out over the murky Seine and sure enough, a man with his head submerged was struggling back to the quay with choppy strokes.

“That’s one way to get a disease,” said Richard.

We had learned in reading The Secret Life of the Seine, our friend Mort Rosenblum’s book about the history of the Seine, of the dead bodies that are still found in the river. A few Japanese tourists were watching him too.

He seemed to be having trouble lifting himself out of the water onto the steps of the quai. Then, a dripping merman emerged. He was trim, perhaps in his 40s, sun-weathered, with a leaping panther tattooed above his heart. He wore dark blue swim trunks. Up on the quai he pulled a dark blue T-shirt over his head that said “Champion” and something else I couldn’t see, “Barcela?” “Barcelona?”

He glanced up, and seemed to be scanning for any watching females who might be impressed.

Two young women in sundresses and sandals passed speaking American English, their arms around each other’s waists, and stopped at the corner near the bridge. Oblivious to the onlookers, they turned to kiss each other.

“Look how the world has changed,” I said. “American lesbians are perfectly comfortable expressing their love in public.”

“All over the world,” said Richard.

“Maybe the world is becoming a more loving place…?” I wondered aloud.

 

A Dance to the End of Summer

While it was an Italian invention, the French took to ballet like canards to l'eau. Catherine de Medici, the Italian who married French king Henry II, and who was responsible for much of the French Renaissance in art, and culture, and architecture, was ballet's first major patron in France; but Louis XIV, a passionate dancer whose nickname "Sun King" came from a 12-hour ballet in which he danced five different roles, cemented its place in French history and culture.

 

But this post is not about ballet.

It's about choreography, the kind of subtle choreography we're learning to see in Paris, where it seems that not only individuals dance to their own internal drummers, but even groups are often arranged by some master choreographer like Balanchine, or the Sun God, Apollo.

Richard and I will be standing on a Metro platform and there, across the tracks, a sudden rearrangement of waiting Parisians becomes a dance of its own. If he's quick, he can capture these moments in the Metro, in the streets, at cafés. If not, at least we saw the moment, and, like rainbows, we know they'll reappear when the angle and the light are right.

Here then, some of the choreography we've noticed, from soloists, duos, or ensemble players. Call it Paris Play's dance to the end of summer. May you keep an eye out for your town's tangos, tarantellas, or full-out ballets, and enjoy them as much as we do.

A Chorus Line

Channeling his inner Gene Kelly

A mosh pit

Sometimes, your hair can dance for you

A dog who thinks he's a cat

Dances with not-quite wolves

Street art by Miss-Tic