A Walkabout To Reacquaint Ourselves With Paris

I am well acquainted with Paris, having been here several times and having stayed for two or three weeks every time I have been here. I am very familiar with the Metro and the bus lines that take us into the city from Suresnes, the suburb where we usually stay.

A couple of winters ago, we stayed in the Fifth Arrondissement, otherwise known as "the Latin Quarter" because of the many schools and universities found there. And, on another occasion, we stayed in the Eleventh Arrondissement, in a neighborhood that was less than prime but the apartment was cheap and very close to Metro and bus stops.

Like all large cities, you get to know the general outlay, and perhaps a lot of its particular places, but you never get to know it all. And, most importantly, like a lot of large cities, its keeps changing, improving, refurbishing, tearing down and constructing, in a fidgety, convulsive attempt to keep up with the demands of an ever growing number of inhabitants, and in the case of Paris, of visitors and tourists.

I've never been to Paris when one of its Metro stations is not being refurbished, or one of its main buildings does not have scaffolding surrounding it, or some principal street or boulevard is not closed for repairs. But then, we mostly come here in summer when a lot of these things get done because Parisian winters can be cruelly cold and wet with rain and snow.

So, the day after our arrival, I usually take the Line 1 metro into the city, or the combination of bus lines 144 and 72 if my wife is coming along (she hates the Metro and prefers the more scenic pleasures of the slow buses). The idea is to go to a center location, say the Hotel de Ville, and walkabout to get a feeling of the crowds and note any obvious changes and major works going on.

This time, got off the bus at the stop that is across the street from the Hotel de Ville and noticed that the square in front of that building had been turned into beach volleyball courts, complete with sand and players sporting beachwear.

For several years now, the city of Paris has turned the riverside walks of the Seine and several other venues into mock beach resorts. They bring in tons of sand, put out beach chairs and umbrellas, blast music out of loudspeakers, and hire dozens of lifeguards (in case anyone falls into the Seine), and instructors that encourage people to take dancing lessons or to play games, and generally try to supply a vacation spot atmosphere for the underprivileged or overworked who could not get away and join the hordes in the yearly August migration to authentic vacation spots.

We noticed that the crowds had congregated at the usual spots: Notre Dame, the Opera, the tunnel entrance where people leave flowers in memory of Princess Diana, the Louvre, etc. But, although plentiful, the multitudes did not seem as thick and restless as in other years. Perhaps it was the financial crisis or perhaps it was the fact that more Parisians had managed to get away but we agreed (for once!) that there seemed to be less people about.

So, after about an hour of walking about, I asked, "Well, what do you want to do now?"

"Oh, whatever you want," she said listlessly.

"OK, then, come along," I said. We walked by the sadly empty but still beautiful building of Le Semaritaine, a landmark department store that will be re-purposed as a hotel and apartment building; we crossed the Pont Neuf (ironically named since it is one of the oldest bridges in Paris), we passed the legendary police headquarters at 36 Quai des Orfevres (which has been now vacated and will be turned into yet another museum); and on to one of my favorite spots: the Place Dauphine.

The Place Dauphine is an oasis of peace and quiet midst that hustle and bustle of the city. Few tourists come here and those that do are usually on their way to or from the busy and popular Boulevard Saint Michel. When the Palais de Justice is active (that is, when it is not summer), the cafés and restaurants that line one side of the square are visited by judges and lawyers, or the clients and victims of these. On the other side of the square there are apartment buildings and a quaint, little hotel that is a throwback to the days when such an establishment was reached by going up a narrow stairs, and the owner, sitting in his office, just handed you a brass key and did not ask any questions.

The square is populated by beautiful trees that were fully dressed in green leaves and still had some remnants of the flowers that had covered them in the spring.

The air was a bit chilly in the late afternoon, so we took a table at the terrace of the "Rose de France", a charming (although a bit pricy) restaurant with excellent cuisine and even better service. We ordered two grand creme, my favorite, frothy type of coffee, and sat back to enjoy the afternoon.

The waiter was a friendly, chatty fellow, quite different from the usual snotty, harried waiters of other Parisian center-city restaurants. My wife wondered about the plain, sandy surface of the square and the waiter told us it was so because the local "petanque" clubs used it for their games. That game, if you are not familiar with the name, involves throwing heavy, metal balls as close to a target as possible while attempting to knock the opposite team's balls out of play. It is a quiet, peaceful game played mostly by older folks.

After our coffee and moment of rest, I asked, "What do you want to do now?" It is never safe to ask that of my wife but I am ever hopeful that she will say, "Oh, nothing. You decide."

She thought for a moment and then said, "I know! I have always wanted to go back to the Sainte-Chapelle! I haven't been there in ages!"

"Look, it is late. It is bound to be clogged with tourists. Perhaps if we came early tomorrow we..."

"Mais non!" she exclaimed. "I am sure most people have come in the morning and it will be quiet by now."

Off we went. We were, in fact, quite close to the chapel. As we approached, I spied a long like of people and a metal detector near one of the entrances.

"Look, there is along queue," I pointed out. "We'd better come back another..."

"Mais non," she insisted. "That must be for another thing. It says in my guide book that the entrance to the chapel is through the Palace of Justice."

"Your guidebook is twenty-five years old!"

"Yes, but somethings never change," she said and headed for the guard post at the entrance to the Palais de Justice itself. The chapel was built by Louis IX, a vary pious king, in order to house the holy relics he had bought (Christ's crown of thorns and other holy things). The royal palace it was part of had disappeared and it is now surrounded by the Justice Palace. It is, nevertheless, a stunning example of stained-glass art and Gothic architecture.

While my wife argued with the guard, obviously trying to get into the chapel by the Justice Palace entrance, I walked to the queue and took my place at the end of it. I could see her vehemently arguing with the guard and showing him the ancient guidebook. The man just calmly shook his head and pointed to the queue. She gave the guard one more tongue lashing and then came back to me.

"It is unheard of," she huffed. "The man insists we have to queue while in the guidebook it says that the entrance is through the Palais de Justice!"

"Dear, it WAS the entrance twenty-five years ago. Now it is not. Things change."

"Well, I don't see why they should."

"Why do you keep that old book anyway. It just keeps confounding you."

"Because I like it. It is much better than the new ones which talk about things I have never been to."

I was totally aghast at that piece of information so I shut up and looked at the queue behind us. "Jeez," I exclaimed, "look at the amount of people that have queued up behind us."

"You see," she said triumphantly, "I told you it was a very popular place."

"No, no; forget popular," I said, "this is a bad omen. Something is going on."

Before she could refute me, a man came walking down the line saying, "If you don't have tickets, you will not be able to come in. Only people with previously purchased tickets will now be allowed into the chapel."

"Augh! This is outrageous," she protested.

I took her by the arm and pulled her out of the line before she could attack the man shouting out the bad news. "Don't shoot the messenger," I said. "The man is only doing his job."

It was late and it had started to rain so she conceded we should take the Metro back home.

"What is this world coming to if one can't just walk into a place like the Saint-Chapelle?" she asked despondently.

"One should be careful what one wishes for because it might come true," I said. "Parisians wanted to make a lot of money from the tourist trade. Their wish has come true but now they can't visit their own museums and other great places."

"I guess," she admitted.

"We should get you a new guidebook," I said trying to console her.

"I guess," she concurred.

Tomorrow: A Grand Project gone Bad