Today, we started by going to
Stefanie’s neck of the woods, which is the Bastille area of Paris. She wanted
to show us her favourite shop, Merci—and
it’s a good thing because it was the only shop that was open (check times for
stores and museums when here: suffice to say that the shops of the Bastille and
Village St. Paul in Le Marais are mostly closed on Mondays). It's tucked inside a courtyard off the main strip. No great photos of
the inside, but this is a store that is full of the best and funkiest in
clothes, books, films, dishes and shoes. Deb, if you don’t know it, you would
lose your fricking mind! No, it’s not cheap, but that’s never stopped me from
admiring the wares. I always treat stores like this like they’re galleries, but
where you can fondle the stuff and no one will come by and “slap” your wrist.
After Merci, we were ready for lunch. If this doesn’t make time-sense
(no, we did not spend hours inside), keep in mind that with the jet lag, you
may, like us, allow yourself to sleep in a bit and make up for your tardiness
with late nights. Also, keep in mind that one lingers over meals here. You
savour your morning croissant and coffee, you enjoooooooooy it. So, after Merci, we were ready for lunch. And Merci has three different, excellent
eating options, all gorgeous. We chose the offshoot café and had a huge bowl of
salad, mozzarella, fig, and roasted veggies, and a glass of homemade ginger
lemonade. Sooo delicious.
Then we walked the streets
for hours, looking into shop windows—St. Paul is known for its vintage shops.
As I said, none of them were open, which is just as well because the delights
and treasures featured in every window make you want to buy them all, cost be
damned: mais, it’s French! It’s
one-of-a-kind! It’s so old it makes our North American antiques look like Ikea-era tchotchkes! We explored more gardens—which all have the sense of being secret gardens, the kind you suddenly
stumble upon, apropos of seemingly nothing, and not at all crowded (well, it is the
fall). Usually in large courtyards surrounded by grand abodes and accessed
through porticoes and archways and ornamental gates.
After hours of walking, we
needed another break and so we landed on the narrow street-side patio of this
café. Parisians stay outdoors for as long as they can. Drizzly, damp and cool
weather is no deterrent for sipping and people-watching (and, yes, smoking) on
the Paris sidewalks. Most (but not all) are heated. I’m not tolerant of coffee,
so my go-to is always tea. But here, I enjoyed my own delicacy: chocolat. Which is what you say for hot
chocolate. This is a cup of silken dark chocolate that either comes mixed with
hot milk, or for which they provide the small pitcher of hot milk and you mix
it yourself to your taste. Sugar is provided to sweeten it, but I liked mine as
it was. We sat here for a long time, resting our feet and enjoying the view and
the atmosphere.
Next stop: Stefanie’s
atelier—the designer’s shop where she works with the designer and three other
interns. This was very exciting as we really wanted to place her stories with
the real setting.
 |
| Jean Paul Gaultier started in this building: his boutique on the ground floor and various studios on each floor up from there, with the "atelier" (where they design and build the patterns and samples) on the fourth floor. Which is the same atelier where Stefanie now works! These inlaid tiles are left over from his time here. |
Then, even more important,
seeing her apartment! As I said yesterday, this is a small studio on the "fourth"
floor (the actual fifth floor to my tired legs!). She served us “aperos”—or cocktail
hour. She’d bought a gorgeous wheel of cheese—a Vacherin, one of the tastiest
creamy cheeses you can get—and saucisson
(cured meat), with an excellent baguette, washed down with a bottle of good French wine—Crozes Hermitage. This is the first time our daughter has served us
in her own apartment. It was such a treat for all of us!
After dinner we headed over
to the St. Germain area to watch a concert in a 6th century church.
But when we got there, we realized that the concert we wanted to see was
actually the next night. So we did what all good wanderers do: we wandered. We found ourselves outside Shakespeare and Co again; they were hosting a reading and Q&A with novelist A. M. Homes. We sat under a tree on a bench in the dark and listened to her lively chat. Then we looked for a place to eat dinner. On the way, we happened by the Notre Dame
Cathedral (you know, the most famous of them all) and found its doors thrown
open, music pouring out and a kind welcome to all visitors. It was literally
divine to be able to walk into this ancient, venerable church, with an angelic
boys’ and men’s choir lifting to the impossibly high ceilings, while people
worshipped in the pulpits, and the priests burned frankincense. We were allowed
to pass through (in reverential silence, of course). My friend Josée told me
later that Notre Dame routinely invites priests, choirs and officials from all
over the world to participate in the services—and that the last time she and
her family had gone, the priest officiating had been from a parish in Montreal
near their home!
I’m not religious, but I have
to say, I used this sacred time to think of all the difficulties I knew to be
happening at home—including those being suffered by some of you in the storm (thinking of
you, Lori and Kelly! And you know who else I mean…). It was a powerful, moving
experience for me.
This wasn’t the end of our evening
(that would be the late dinner in an outside café), but, yes, we fell into bed
at the end of it!
Thanks for all your lovely comments!
xoxo
