intertext

So on Thursday afternoon, on my return from Mont St Michel, the sun was for once shining in Paris, so I took myself off to La Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, burial place of the famous, the infamous and the just plain ordinary.

I procured a map from a jolly stall holder by the gates. It was a good thing I did, because I think I would have become hopelessly lost and not seen the graves that I wanted to. It is a beautiful spot, criss-crossed with tree lined avenues, quiet and relatively peaceful (apart from the tourists tromping through). It did strike me several times as being a perfect setting for the opening scene of any Buffy episode - I half expected Spike to pop out from behind one of the monuments (too bad he didn't lol). My map came in handy, too, for others, as I was frequently stopped and asked for directions in several different languages: "Je cherche Edith Piaf" was a middle-aged French woman. Nous trouvons Edith Piaf - the woman and her husband went and got themselves a map and we ended up at Piaf's grave at the same time.

I, in the meantime, wended my way past Proust to the monument to Oscar Wilde (thinking of you, superfoo! As you see from the picture, it was covered with graffiti!! Thence to Gertrude Stein, but though I looked I couldn't find Alice B, who was supposed to be next to her. Then Edith Piaf, Sarah Bernhart, Chopin and finally Eloise and Abelard, whose monument was covered in scaffolding and being restored. Oh, and Simone Signoret and Yves Montand were in there somewhere. And no, I didn't bother with Jim Morrison - there were plenty of young Americans going in his direction so I didn't think he needed my respects as well.

Today I girded my loins and went to meet some fellow Flickr-ites at the "Frog and British Library" cafe out by the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand. When I say "girded my loins" understand what the people who know me well know: I am almost painfully shy, and it is almost physically difficult for me to face a room full of people I don't know. But I knew that there was a Flickr meet-up today and at this place, so I thought "damn it, I'm going" and I went.

It was nice. Not wonderful, but nice, and I'm proud of myself for going. They were all charming and welcoming, but once my French dried up and their English dried up, is was a little awkward. But I made the effort, and I have some photos to show for it, and so far three five six new "contacts" on Flickr, which is very nice indeed.

Afterwards, I went to the Orangerie Museum and looked at Monet's Waterlilies, which were wonderful.

Ps: My French may be crap, but I'm not a crap photographer, anyway :)

Today, my body is protesting the non-stop walking and sightseeing it's been doing for the last week and a half, and I'm at the half-way point in my trip (boo hoo), so I thought I'd have a quietish day. I'll take myself out to lunch later (mais naturellement), but this morning am doing some mundane things like taking out my garbage - in which it is discovered that the Parisians do, in fact, recycle, though there was in my courtyard no box with the yellow lid into which, according to the lovely sign by the garbage cans, I was supposed to put plastic bottles and bags. I managed to put all my empty wine bottles into the right place, anyway (kp would be proud of me).

marri was asking me earlier about cafes, and whether they were the same as cafes in Victoria. In a word, no. The only real similarity is that they both serve coffee.

How are they different? Well, to start with, when you approach a cafe, the first thing you notice is the rows of chairs and little tables spilling out onto the street, very close together. Everyone sits facing outwards, as at a play or performance, which, in a way, it is. The action is on the street, and the people going by. As you pull up, you will see two, three or maybe more, waiters hovering around, probably dressed in a white shirt, black pants, possibly a black vest, possibly a bow tie. The look is very formal. He (I have yet to see a woman server at any of these establishments - and he's proud of his job, no need for fancy euphemistic titles like barristo for him) will be holding a little silver tray, and will ALWAYS say "Bonjour, madame" as you approach or sit down. He will glissade up to you almost as soon as you sit down, with a menu.

So, what can you buy at a cafe that's different from Victoria? Well, wine to start with. You can - and people do - buy wine all day long and without food. The default coffee is espresso; if you ask for a coffee, that's what you'll get, in a tiny china cup on a saucer, with some sugar lumps. The better places will give you a glass of water as well, and sometimes a nice crisp little cookie. I usually buy cafe creme, which is the closest thing to a latte. These vary in size and quality. Sometimes you can taste the evaporated milk. At Les Deux Magots the other day, I had the best one, which was brought in two little jugs - warm milk in one, coffee in the other, enough for three cups if you are judicious with the coffee. There is no coffee "to go" - I can no more imagine anyone (except some poor hapless American tourist) going in with a portable coffee cup such as we use, than I can imagine a Canadian walking down the street eating a plain baguette as if it were a hot dog. Other popular items include orange presse (fresh squeezed orange juice, very good) and of course all the pastries. Most, not all, of these places also serve food ranging from salads and sandwiches to full course meals. I haven't quite figured out yet at what point a cafe becomes a bistro...

You can stay as long as you like, and it is customary to linger over a newspaper, a book, a journal or just conversation. Before you leave, you pay the waiter on another little silver tray. No need to leave a tip, though I usually do because the service is pretty amazing.

I'm going to peruse the Marais et environs this afternoon, and maybe do some light shopping - will post more later if anything greatly interesting happens.