Archive | June 2012

Today All is Quiet on the Western Front

Jun10

Saturday, June 9, 2012
Picardy, France

Bonjour!

On the battlefields of the Somme, the poppies still bloom in profuse clumps as if streaking the verdant green with bloody slashes. Across the miles once ploughed by the regimental boots of millions, we walked in reverential silence to graves where lie the remains of what were once optimistic young men with hearts full of love and heads full of dreams.

But I should begin at the beginning.

A Visit to Picardy:
Picardy, that region of France best-known for its ancient cathedrals and the tragic massacres of World War I, is visited today mainly to pay homage to the youthful dead who went as teenagers mainly, gung-ho into battle, never knowing what the horrors of trench warfare would hold in store for them. As delineated so painfully by the poetry of Wilfred Owen, Seigfried Sasson and Rupert Brooks, they were eager to participate in what they mistakenly believed would be an easy victory over the Germans. War propaganda instigated an enthusiastic response to enlist (some fudged their ages to become eligible) and in posters of the period, their women are seen waving them bravely away. Little did the ‘Tommies’ know that they were marching off with wide grins right into the killing fields of the Somme.

The Western Front and The Battle of the Somme:
In a nutshell, the Battles of the Somme were fought to keep the Germans from advancing further west into France having already reached as far as Verdun. The British joined the French in this effort and fanned out all over the valley of the River Somme in Picardy, France, in 1914. If an artificial line were to be drawn to illustrate the wall of Allied troops that combined to combat the German offensive, it would stretch all the way from Belgium to the Swiss border. This came to be known as the Western Front.

The Creation of Trench Warfare:
It soon became clear to the Allied troops that the Germans were far better equipped than they were. When they became sitting targets for German machine-gun fire, they ducked into any ditch they could find to take cover. It soon made sense for them to actually dig trenches–long tunnels in the earth that could afford them cover, provide shelter and allow for strategizing attack.

After Verdun fell, the French and British believed that the way to keep the Germans from advancing was to make an all-out attack in great numbers. They did this on July 1, 1916, a day that will live in infamy, when thousands of soldiers rushed towards enemy lines straight into the jaws of death and knowing full well that they would be massacred. It has come to be considered one of the worst genocides of the 20th century. This was the Battle of the Somme. By the end of that day, the casualty list was so high that there were not even enough soldiers left to carry away and bury the ones that had died.

In 1917, only after German U-Boats began to torpedo American merchant ships, the US entered the war. With their arrival, strategy changed and by 1918, the Germans surrendered. Lonely Planet states that it is believed that one of the young soldiers fighting on the German side was one Adolf Hitler. The war came to an end on Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, a day that continues to be remembered in the Western World–as Remembrance Day in the UK and as Veterans Day in the US. Finally, all was quiet on the Western Front.

At the Historial de la Grande Guerre, Peronne:
At Chateau Peronne, about 50 miles east of the cathedral city of Amiens, is the Historial de la Grande Guerre (the Museum of the Great War). Of the original chateau, only the facade remains (that too almost razed to the ground by German bombardment). On the footprint of the castle, the Historial was built, twenty years ago, to remember French, British and German soldiers who laid down their lives for their countries.

The Wodehouse-Jeeves Connection:
On a gorgeous day, with the sun high in a blue, unclouded sky, we entered the Historial only to confront a special exhibit entitled ‘The Missing of the Somme’. It was a stark exhibition that provided pictures of the British soldiers whose whereabouts have remained unknown. Although tears sprang immediately to my eyes on reading diverse details about their economic backgrounds (so many were educated at public schools and were products of Oxford and Cambridge while others had trained as plumbers, carpenters and masons), the chap who sticks in my memory is one Percy Jeeves who, before the Great War, played cricket at Cheltenham. His name remains immortal because a certain P.G. Wodehouse happened to be at a cricket match in which Jeeves was batting. Three years later, when Wodehouse was looking to name the butler of his character Bertie Wooster, he recalled Percy’s name; and thus was created the irrepressible Jeeves. Of course, young Percy Jeeves himself did not live long enough to see his name made famous in literary history. His remains continue to be a mystery. I like to think they are in some happy Heaven where Percy is chuckling over the adventures of his namesake in Wodehouse’s hilarious novels.

The Museum’s Pits:
In the main hall of the Museum, pits have been created to contain the belongings of the soldiers who brought notoriety to the Somme. In ingeniously conceived ‘craters’, their uniforms, gear, weaponry and personal effects have been carefully arranged to give the viewer a sense of their meagre possessions. The peculiar-looking clubs with rounded maces attached to them were used to kill rats–a perpetual nuisance in the trenches. And the fact that every soldier, irrespective of nationality, carried his tin of foot powder, made it clear that they all suffered painful foot infections from standing for hours in soggy ground. The trials of trench warfare are well illustrated by large numbers of photographs that portray their torment not only during the incessant shelling but also in times of rest when the horrific mud of the winter turned the trenches into swamps.

Along the walls, in glass vitrines, war-time memorabilia from three countries is beautifully assembled and labeled together with pen and ink drawing by Otto Dix and others.

The Poppy Trail and the Poem:
And then there were the poppies: everywhere I looked, the flower bloomed. Not just in the fields and the ditches and the edge of the road, but in every showcase. Taking its motif from the poem by John McCrea, visitors are invited on The Poppy Trail. For us, it began in Peronne, a historic town that saw some of the fiercest fighting of the War. It was as good a place as any to achieve a short background on the fierce and catastrophic battles that brought such an expensive loss of life–a total of three million young men died–French, German, British and from countries that comprised the French and British empires: this includes Egypt, India, Cameroon, Barbados, Burma, Singapore, etc.

So here is the poem reproduced for those who have never heard of it:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

        
Remembering my Mother:
In the gift shop, poppies are everywhere–on diaries, file folders, umbrellas, pens, key rings, magnets. There is poppy jewelry and poppy tea paraphernalia–teabag holders and stirrers, even cups and saucers.

It was inevitable that I would remember my late Mum Edith, now exactly three months gone, who had told me that as a child in school in Bombay, in British India, she had made red crepe paper poppies to support the survivors of World War I. Again, tears sprang in my eyes and this time they flowed down for the memory of her loss is still too recent and happy thoughts of her still make me weep. How proud she would have been to know that I had trodden the grounds on which the soldiers had trod whose’ families she had supported by her small craft effort. Yes, the empire and my Mum’s generation remembered the war dead and understood the poignancy of the soldiers’ sacrifice far better than my generation does or the one after me ever will. Although the descendants of the war dead still come on pilgrimage to the Somme today to pay homage to a fallen grandfather or a missing great-uncle, a time will come when these fields will be reduced only to tourist monuments. For me, student and eternal lover of history, the poignancy of the visit derived not just from the very recent memory of my own Mother’s  loss but from the fact that I was able to walk in the footsteps of the fallen and in the trenches dug out by those who were never given the funeral they deserved.

The Town of Peronne:
I had lunch–a Croque Monsieur, which is a French composition of a slice of bread, a slice of ham, bechamel sauce and sprinkled Gruyere–and a salad, in the museum cafe before I wandered about in the Town of Peronne to take in its ancient Church–completely rebuilt after the war–and its Town Hall (likewise). Looking around these villages in the valley of the Somme, it is hard to believe that every single one of them was reduced to rubble between 1914 and 1918 when blood mingled with the placid waters of the river.

After lunch, we got back into the coach and started our tour of the battlefields and memorial monuments of the Somme.

The Battlefields of the Somme: 
Our tour wound its way by coach from Peronne along The Poppy Trail via narrow country roads into the heart of fields that were abundant with waving green stalks of what will be wheat sheaves, come autumn. Occasionally we passed by a field full of oats bordered by the ubiquitous poppy.There are countless gravestones everywhere and any number of cemeteries that one can visit. We chose to see the following:

Rancourt:
Our first stop was Rancourt, where there is a large French cemetery containing row upon row of white crosses. bordered by a private chapel converted into a small museum. Just a few meters away, across the road, is the British Cemetery distinctive for the uniform light gray gravestones each carved with the emblem of the regiment to which the soldier belonged. Just a few hundred meters from that is the German cemetery distinguished by the dark gray broader German crosses and the large brick-colored monument at the very end.

Delville Woods:
Our next stop was Delville Woods where we found a cemetery and a memorial dedicated to the South African soldiers who fought on the side of the British and were massacred in large numbers.

Beaumont-Hamel:
At Beaumont-Hamel, a regiment from Newfoundland in Canada suffered one of the worst catastrophes of the war when the entire troop, hiding in the trenches they had dug, was killed in one fell swoop by German dynamite.

Their memorial is a caribou, a large deer native to Canada, that is placed on a high ridge overlooking the battlefield upon which the Canadians breathed their last. All around them are trenches. The Canadians seem to be the only ones who have retained the grounds exactly as they were (most of the French farmers, in an attempt to forget that the war ever happened, filled the trenches, farmed over them and returned the fields to their former shape). If you climb to the heights of the Caribou Monument, you can see the shape of the trenches and the way they zigzag deep into the earth. If you get down again, you can actually walk in them so that you get a very graphic sense of what it might have been to have actually fought a war from that perspective. The experience was sobering and bone-chilling.

After walking through the trenches, I ventured far into the battlefield to the spot marked by a dead tree which suggests how far the Newfoundland regiment got before they were mowed down so mercilessly. In the distance, is a small cemetery where the remains of those whose corpses were retrieved have been given an honorable farewell.

Ulster Tower:
Further on the Poppy Trail, the route curved along to a tower that is a replica of one to be found in Ireland. It was a memorial to the foreign regiment of Ulster and is, therefore, known as the Ulster Tower.

Thiepval and Sir Edwind Lutyens:
The last stop on our tour was Thiepval where the British have honored the soldiers of their Empire and of the French by building an astonishing monument in memoriam. The designer of this monument is none other than Sir Edwin Lutyens with whose work I am well familiar as he is the architect of the city of New Delhi. As the leading architect of the Edwardian Age, Lutyens was called upon to design a number of memorial monuments after the war and he did so across the length and breath of what was then the British Empire. It thrilled me to learn that the War Memorial that I could see from the window of my flat when I was living in London at Holborn was also designed by him in the aftermath of the war.

As in the case of all the buildings he designed, Lutyens took his inspiration from the local archictectural idiom and used indigenous material to best advantage. It was easily evident to me in the buildings we saw in Peronne and later in another large town called Albert that red brick and cream sandstone had combined everywhere to create dual toned structures. Lutyens borrowed the same concepts. He incorporated the colors of the Picardy landscape as well as the clean straight lines of the buildings (as was seen in the design of the local village churches). However, what he brought to his design is an awesome impressiveness, achieved by the towering height of the monument and the neo-Classical elements he included–such as the laurel wreaths inside each of which is engraved the name of a major battlefield of the Somme and the iconography of Empire as in the British crown and the engravings of the names of all the dead on the wall behind the monument. Another Lutyens creation (seen at every British cemetery) is the stone tablet placed on steps–a sort of plain pedestal to the memory of the dead. On the Thiepval monument, he places the tablet in the very center, immediately below the main arch–a secular altar, as it were, and a nod to the varied religious backgrounds of those who died.

For me, the monument at Thiepval brought the tour full circle–because we had started out by seeing the special exhibition at Peronne entitled “The Missing of the Somme’–and it was when I finally reached Thiepval, at the end of our tour, that I realized that the title of the exhibition was derived from the words engraved by Lutyens at the very top of the monument–The Missing of the Somme. And indeed as one walked down the monument and on to the green grass-carpeted cemetery on the other side, made more sanctified by the presence of a cross upon which was engraved the Sword designed by Lutyens’ contemporary Sir Herbert Baker, we saw gravestone after gravestone with the word ‘Inconnu’ (French for Unknown) or “A Soldier Lies Here” engraved in English upon countless gravestones. Most of the soldiers buried on this ground remain nameless (either because only parts of their bodies were recovered or because they were never found; a French cross or British gravestone merely denotes their former presence upon our earth).

Visiting Thiepval was a hugely sobering experience and, in many ways, the highlight–although each successive battlefield experience only intensified emotionally the feelings that had been stirred by our remembrance of the war and its gruesome outcome. It was at the gift store at Thiepval that I bought a pair of poppy ear-rings–a feminine form of the paper poppy that the British still stick in their lapels every year for a month before they commemorate Armistice Day–November 11. I never did understand the deep significance of that gesture–and now I do! And I feel deeply humbled for it.

By the time we got back on the bus for the long bus ride to Paris, it was 6 pm. Someone brought out a bottle of wine and glasses and we had a small apero to mark the end of our long and thought-provoking day. We stopped en route at an auto stop for dinner (cafeteria fare, but certainly tasty for that) and by 10 am, we were dropped at our destination–the CISP. I had my colleague Jen for company on the walk back to the  Bel Air metro station and in half an hour, I was home.

I am still processing the impact of the day and trying to separate my emotional response from my academic and intellectual reaction to the historical elements of the visit. This I do know. I was enlightened in a way I could never have imagined by this visit and my sensitivity to the need to commemorate the ultimate sacrifice made by those who died has been tremendously heightened. Three years ago, Llew and I had visited the coastal sites in Normandy associated with the sacrifices of World War II and the brave actions of the D-Day Landings. I am so glad that by visiting the Somme, my sense of the history of those two wars has coerced brilliantly to provide me with a much more profound understanding and appreciation of the bloody warfare of the first half of the twentieth century that characterized Western Europe.

I was dead tired when I reached my apartment and it was all I could do to brush and floss my teeth and crawl straight into bed–it had been a long day in more ways than one.

A demain!              

Visit to Mont Valerian

Jun8

Friday, June 8, 2012
Paris, France

Bonjour!

I was a very good gal today and stuck fast to my resolution to preserve my foot health as long as I possibly can while still enjoying all the activities of our NEH seminar. After a cereal breakfast (oh, it felt so good to eat Jordan’s Muesli after such a long time!) I spent time finishing up my laundry and bringing my blog up to date. Email, calls, twitter, took up due time and before I knew it, it was time to get dressed for our field trip to Mont Valerian.

Strike on the RER:
Well, what do you know? When I crossed the street and got to the RER station, it was shut tight. A notice said that the employees were on a Greve–strike! Befuddled at the absolute unexpectedness of it, and because I had to be at the CISP by 1. 30 pm (it was 12. 20 when I left home), I decided to take the tram to Porte D’Orleans and board a metro there to Denfert-Rochereau and then proceed as planned.

Hoping I would not keep the entire group waiting by my delay, I actually found myself right on schedule because all my connections were immediate. At the Bel Air metro station, I found my colleague Jen alighting from the same train and I was so grateful for her company on the 13 minute walk to the Center.

Off to Mont Valerian:
We set off by coach for Mont Valerian at 1. 45 pm. Within minutes, we were on the Peripherique (the Ring Road/Highway that encircles Paris). And that’s where we crawled. It seemed that at all hours of the day, this highway is jammed. Mont Valerian is located in Suresnes, on the Northwestern edge of the city so it was a long ride. Our objective was to get to the spot which has a long and rich history but is most immediately associated with the destruction of thousands of French prisoners and hostages during World War II by the Nazis.

Visiting Mont Valerian:
It seems that Mont Valerian has been a place of Christian pilgrimage since Roman times. In more recent years, i.e. at the end of the 19th century, it developed into a fortification and was used during the Franco-Prussian War as a site for the defense of the city. Paris was lost, however, and the fortress was surrendered to the Germans then in exchange for the delivery of food to the starving city.

However, the site really came into its own during World War II when it was used as a prison to house political prisoners and dissidents under the Nazi regime. Although figures have been fudged, a few thousand French prisoners died here after facing German firing squads.

A tour of the memorial can only be arranged by groups and under the supervision of  a guide who accompanies the group throughout. Our tour was in French. Because I had done some research prior to the visit, I was better able to follow everything that was explained as we moved from one venue to the next.

We began by mounting the ‘Esplanade’ to get to the Eternal Flame which burns in memory of those who gave up their lives during World War II. A massive Cross of Lorraine dominates the venue just above the flaming altar. To get into the venue, the guide opens one of the doors in a wall with a key–rather neat as that’s the only way you can get inside to the historic sites. You then enter into the very throes of the mountain, verdant with thick foliage and fragrant in the freshly fallen rain.

A very steep climb up a curving ramp took us to the top of the mountain. Our group of 16 American academics was accompanied by a group of elderly French men and women, probably representing a local pensioners club. At the crest of the hill, the guide stopped at a huge metal bell on which were engraved the names of all known men and women that were killed on the site between the years 1939-45. It was interesting to note that many of the names were those of ‘etrangers’, i.e. foreigners, indicating that a lot of the people who opposed Nazi policies were not necessarily of French stock alone–there were Russian, Hungarian, Arabic and even an Indian name (Arpen Rajmal)–probably recruited into French army ranks from the South Indian colony of Pondicherry.

After we were explained the significance of the bell, we moved into a newish structure that contains an exhibition that provided detailed information about the Nazi Occupation of France, the role of the Resistance and the numbers of dissidents killed, including at Mont Valerian. We could not spend too long reading all of the details as we had to move on to other venues.

Just besides the exhibition hall, is an ancient chapel which used to be employed as the holding place for prisoners condemned to die. It was in this chapel that they said their last prayers and had the opportunity to make their last confessions to the curate Fr. Franc Stock who went on to prepare thousands spiritually for the firing squad. The blue walls are the original walls of the structure. Much of the scribbles of the prisoners on the walls have been plastered over–it was not clear to me why this was done. Fr. Franc Stock survived the war and went on to become a prominent arbiter in normalizing Franco-German relations.

From the chapel, we moved along the crest of a hill along another path to the actual spot where the prisoners were placed against a wall to face the firing squads. Visitors can only see this site from a height as closer proximity to the wall is reserved only for the relatives of those who actually fell there. In 1958, President Charles de Gaulle declared the site a place of national mourning and a memorial to the fallen and a stone was set into the ground to denote its sanctity.

When we had received more commentary from the guide, we left this revered ground and made our way back to the Esplanade for a visit to the Crypt where we saw symbolic coffins draped with the ‘bleu blanc rouge’–the French flag. There was also a sculpture of a flame to denote the gratitude of a nation to their unnamed fallen. As it is not clear where the Germans buried the ones they killed, there are no graves here–just a memorial. Outside, in a Visitors Book, the 1960 signature of Charles de Gaulle can be seen–based on his visit to the monument then.

The visit was interesting in that it brought home to me the number and variety of ways in which France remembers and immortalizes her war dead. In village after village that I have visited, through the years, in Normandy, Brittany, the Savoir, etc. I have seen memorial crosses to the heroes of the two World Wars. Here, however, it was clear that it was not just the Jews who perished in World War II, but so many other people representing a number of races, religions, nationalities. I am glad that their memory will be kept alive through these impeccably maintained sites of mourning.
      
The American Cemetery:
Just a few meters downhill is the superbly maintained American cemetery. While it may not necessarily be related to Mont Valerian, I would have loved to have stopped there. Indeed being that we are a group of American academics, I would imagine that we would find a great deal of interest in this venue. Row upon row of white crosses (as in the cemeteries of Normandy or the National Cemetery in Arlington near Washington DC) cover a few acres of pristinely maintained ground. I would suppose that each cross bears a name of the Americans who were killed on French soil. It brought to mind the lines from Rupert Brook’s poem ‘The Soldier’:

“If I should die, think only this of me
That there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever England”.

American, in this case, but still relevant. The US government is doing a brilliant job keeping the graveyard pristine and for that I am grateful.

Passing by Roland-Garros During French Open Tennis Matches:
In the bus, on the way back, we passed by what looked like rather exciting goings-on. As we skirted around the rather festive venue, it occured to me that we were at Roland-Garros! Right while the French Open Tennis matches were going on! You can imagine how excited I became as I had been thinking that I really ought to get out there and check out the event–even if I have no tickets to enter.

Well, I have to say that having been to Wimbledon at the height of the July tennis matches, this place was really subdued. Yes, there were crowds making their way inside the stadium and there were banners waving around the periphery of the venue, but there was not really any of the excitement, noise or festivity that one finds in London right from Wimbledon Tube Station and all the way up the hill to the courts when the matches are on.

The short introduction to Roland-Garros (albeit from a bus) was made more exciting by the fact that the Mixed Doubles Finals were won by India’s Sania and Bhupati yesterday. I guess the French would not be as excited about that as I am!

Back Home to Relax:
Although my colleagues invited me to join them for dinner at Bercy Village and I would ordinarily have jumped at the opportunity to explore another part of Paris, I decided to pass as I wanted to remain a good gal and not tax my feet too much. At Porte D’Orleans, we hopped off the bus which was still crawling on the Peripherique on the way back. I did a bit of grocery shopping and then took the tram back home. I spent  the rest of the evening Skypeing with Llew and reading up on the Battle of the Somme as we will be visiting sites near Amiens associated with this dreadful phase of World War I tomorrow. After having climbed and walked about a bit today, I want to make sure I am in good foot health tomorrow.

I will now go off and make myself a nice plate for dinner–figs wrapped in proscuitto for starters…and then? Maybe some roasted chicken with a nice arugula salad with lemon vinaigrette.

A demain!

Visit to Memorial A La Shoah

Jun8

Thursday, June 7, 2012
Paris, France

Bonjour!

Lecture on ’14-18: La Grande Guerre’ by Annette Becker:
We were all rather apprehensive about finding the IHTP (Institut Histoire du Temps Present) which is tucked away on the northwestern edge of Paris. In my case, commuting from Cite-Universitaire, it involved three changes in the metro. I, therefore, gave myself adequate time to get there in the midst of peak-hour commuters. What’s worse is that after alighting at the Guy Moquet metro station, one is required to walk about 12 minutes to reach it!

Well, as it turned out, those of us who were living in venues other than the CISP campus where most of the other participants are based, reached well in time. The CISP group trooped in ten minutes late–which meant that our session with renowned French historian Annette Becker began late. Annette cut a fashionable French figure in her tightly curled thick tresses that fanned around her head like a halo. She spoke in English, presenting a short introduction on the need to remember the Great War with sensitivity. She also spoke about Freud’s concept of ‘displaced mourning’ with which I am familiar through my own book on ‘The Politics of Mourning’ and posited the notion that for the descendants of veterans of World War I and II, the mourning is not yet complete.

An Introduction to the Historial de la Grande Guerre at Peronne:
Becker then used Powerpoint to illustrate the work she collaborated in doing to put together the museum of World War I called The Historial de la Grande Guerre which is situated in Peronne on the Somme and which we will be visiting on a field-trip on Saturday. It was a brilliant summary of the logic and intellect that went into the scouting, selection, acquisition and placement of objects to be found in the museum as well as the architectural mindset that created the building. I was excited by her speech and am now looking forward to a very rewarding visit–only hope the weather holds out.

Trekking to the Memorial de La Shoah:
Talking of which, it was pouring by the time we left the IHTP for the trek back to the Brochant metro station. One of my colleagues was kind enough to share her umbrella with me for I had been foolish enough not to put one in my bag. The 15 minute walk soaked my left sleeve but, surprisingly, it was only just damp by the time we reached Saint-Paul where we descended for lunch.

Lunch at L’As de Falafel in The Marais:
I suppose it was fitting that we treat ourselves to a Middle Eastern speciality–Falafel–at the spot in Paris best known for it–L’As de Falafel (don’t even attempt to translate it!) for we were spending the afternoon at the Memorial De La Shoah (The Holocaust Memorial) in the Marais. Every guide book advertises it as ‘the’ place to tuck into falafel: which are simply ground chick pea croquettes served in a pita bread pocket with salad and tahini–which is a sesame sauce. I usually do not care much for them as I find them rather bland. The rock singer Lenny Kravitz apparently so raves about this place that a prominent endorsement from him is found on the menu board outside.

The restaurant was packed and we thought that finding a table for six would be well-nigh impossible. Well, one presented itself in 2 minutes–so inside we trooped, sat ourselves down at the table and were ready to order: falafel for us all! Less than 10 minutes later, our lunch appeared, gigantic and bursting over with salad and stewed eggplant which was really delicious. It was worth every cent of the 7. 50 euros that it cost us (8 with tip). The falafel was so good that if time permits, I would love to return there for the chicken shwarma which is one of my favorite Middle Eastern dishes. Only goes to show that if something is prepared well, you will toss your pre-conceived notions aside and enjoy. And that I did! Indeed it was well worth trekking off in the rain to find the eatery.

The Memorial De La Shoah:
Paris’ Holocaust Memorial is located in the heart of what used to be (and, in some senses, still is), its Jewish Quarter. In the days before the extermination of the Jews, the place buzzed with Jewish immigrants from all over the world who had made France their haven. Today, the Marais (meaning ‘marshland’ for that was what it once was) is only a shadow of its Jewish self: there are a few synagogues, a few Yeshivas, many kosher delis and restaurants and bakeries and several upscale stores that have taken over the area.

Lecture on the Holocaust Memorial by Claude Singer:
Our visit began at 2. 45 pm with a lecture in French by the Directeur de Pedagogie, Claude Singer, up in a quiet conference room in which tea, coffee, jus d’orange and cookies were available to warm us up a little. I have to say that not being as fluent in French as the rest of my colleagues, I ws proud of the fact that I got about 95 % of the lecture. Singer spoke about the reason for creating a Holocaust Memorial in Paris, the manner in which state support and funds were raised to create it, a comparison between similar memorials around the world and public attitudes towards them. It was passionate and interesting and led to many questions.

Visiting the Holocaust Memorial:
Right after the lecture-discussion (which lasted about 2 hours), we were left to our own resources. I decided to tour the premises on my own, quietly, reverentially, absorbing as much of it as I could in French. So I was relieved to find that all plaques and text were translated into English–which made for a very satisfying visit indeed. The visitor enters through a stone courtyard in which a large symbolic cauldron stands engraved with the names of all the major Concentration camps. Just past that are the Memorial Walls engraved with the names of all the French Jews who were interred in, died in or survived the camps. The large stone tablets containing the names just go on and on and on–it is simply heartwrenching to think of how many Jews were destroyed in the Holocaust.

Once you enter the building, you see an eternal memorial flame to the lost dead that burns constantly in a vast empty room that resembles a synagogue. An inscription in Hebrew from the Torah surrounds it. It has the desired solemnizing effect and I felt quite overcome. Right next to the flame is a room containing Police Files on all of France’s Jews–the ones that were maintained to locate them, round them up and then deport them to the concentration camps. It consists of shelves and shelves and shelves of material closely documented on cards: a really great resource, I would imagine, for anyone doing research related to French Jews during the Holocaust.

The lower floors of the museum are a showcase of the history of the Jews in France from their very beginnings to the present day. Using mainly photographs, the display is a thoroughly well documented attempt at enlightening visitors on the role, contribution and  culture of French Jews, past and present. Needless to say, the portion that is most moving concerns the fate of the Jews during World War II with special reference to the role played by France’s General Petain in collaborating with the Germans during the Occupation in what comes to be known as the phenomenon of Vichy France.

Even though I have visited the German concentration camp of Dachau and the Polish Concentration camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau and there is never anything new to learn about what happened to the Jews and other dissidents in the camps, I always find it compelling and moving to watch footage or visual images that relate to the Holocaust.

One of the more unusual objects was a large wooden bin  that I saw for the very first time. It was used to gather up the ashes of the victims after they had been gassed and cremated. The wheeled cart was then used to scatter their ashes in the fields as fertilizer. This was for me the most horrific of the items on display.

Surprize on the Siene–Church of St. Gervais-St. Protais:
Deeply subdued by the extraordinary monument to loss, grief and resolution, I walked out into the Parisian sunshine–for yes, surprise, surprise, the sun had emerged and shone golden, if not warmly. I resolved to take a bus back to my digs rather than the Metro so that I could enjoy the city as I had once done on the red buses in London.

Never having taken a bus in Paris before, there was a learning curve involved. But by reading the bus map and the city map, I was able to figure out that No. 67 went from Rue de Rivoli to my lodgings. As I walked towards Rue de Rivoli, however, I passed by an ancient church and, of course, could not resist the temptation to poke my head in–that’s what I most love about ancient cities like London, Paris or Istanbul: they have a surprize tucked into every crevice.

Well, it happened to be the Church of St. Gervais-St. Protais, two Roman martyrs. This remarkable church dates from the 6th century and now houses a Roman Catholic order of monastic priests who retain the vows of monkhood. When I entered, Evening Prayer was in progress. The church was fragrant with incense and melodious with the sonnorous sounds of the organ. A group of monks and nuns were seated close to the altar from where the priest was reciting prayers in French. I sat there for a while to take in the fantastic Gothic heights of the church, its fan vaulting, the paintings and frescoes on its walls and thought:  “I have never even heard of this church and yet look how fascinating it is.” Outside, I took a picture of its three-tiered facade composed of Doric, Ionic and Corinthian columns–the oldest Classical facade in Paris.

Taking the Bus for the First Time:
Then, I walked to the Rue de Rivoli to discover that it was a one-way street. Making inquiries of a passer-by, I discovered that the bus I wanted ran from the banks of the Seine–I walked there, found my bus-stop, waited about 12 minutes, hopped on the bus and enjoyed a lovely 30 minute tour of the city past the Ile St. Louis. I was thrilled because I now know how to use the Parisian bus system! I can see myself using my Navigo pass in idle moments to traverse the city and discover it through the glass windows of the buses.

When I got off the bus, I saw a large Franprix right there–so in I went to buy a few groceries and armed with my bags, I made my way home for one stop on the tram. You see?  I have learned how to switch from bus to tram as well! That should give my poor feet some rest.

Tomorrow, I have a field-trip planned with my colleagues to Mont-Valerian which is the cemetery of those killed by the Germans in Paris during World War II. It promises to be another sobering experience, so I shall stayed rested in my apartment all morning before leaving for the Center in the afternoon–from where our coach shall leave for the venue.

Since it is almost Midnight in Paris, as the film titles it, I shall say…

A demain!
        
      

Several Surprizes on Ile de la Cite

Jun7

Thursday, June 6, 2012
Paris, France

Bonjour!
I am convinced that I am a walkoholic–put me on a road in a fab city with a map in my hand and I’m off. Either that or I’m a sucker for punishment. Because after everything I went through the last time Plantar Fascittis hit me, in London, four years ago, you’d think I’d have learnt my lesson, right? Wrong! Indeed, now that I know how to cope with the condition and because I have the absolute best pair of walking shoes in the world (Dansko Clogs), I have been pushing myself just that one step further.

So this morning, I decided to take it easy. God forbid a relapse of the foot pain! In fact, that might be the least of it. What will do me in is having to take the foot rest! Two whole weeks without moving from this place….it’s not even something that bears thinking about.

To help me stick to my resolve, I actually woke up after 8 am (instead of 5 am!)–which is such a good thing because it means I am finally over Australian jetlag. No doubt I have been going to bed only after 11. 30 pm–but then how can one possibly retire for the night when it is still bright outside? By the time I finished with breakfast, plotting and planning my forthcoming exploration and catching up with email, most of the morning had passed by. I fixed myself a cheese and pate sandwich for lunch and by 1.30 pm I was off.

Exploring Part of the Ile de la Cite:
DK Eyewitness Guide’s walkabout Ile de la Cite looked too ambitious to be undertaken in one go–so I decided to divide the venture into two installments. For this afternoon’s jaunt, I chose to do the bit that included The Cathedral of Notre-Dame and taking the RER to St. Michel–Notre-Dame found myself right in the midst of the island with possibly every tourist in Paris. I mean the square was just jumping. Outside on the Parvis (the square) I had to fight my way to get to the Main entrance for which there is no fee.

Just inside the great doors is a kiosk where I heard a woman with an American accent announce the fact that she was going to give a tour in English in 15 minutes– at 2. 00pm. Parfait! That would give me 15 minutes for silent prayer in the very front of the church from which tourists are debarred. But how mistaken I was! In defiance of every sign that prohibited entry to those who merely wished to click pictures of the Rose Windows, the nave was also jumping! Well, there was no way to avoid it. I tried to block out the din and almost succeeded….when I heard the same voice over the PA system announce the English tour.

Guided Theology Tour in English of Note-Dame:
There were at least 25 people awaiting the lady who arrived with a sign and introduced herself. Granted, she did say that she was giving a tour that would last between 60 and 90 minutes…possibly the longest tour I have ever taken anywhere! She also did warn us that her tour was based on Christian Teaching as Represented by the Sculpture–so I guess I should  have expected what followed. Still, I have to say I was suprized that not a single date was mentioned and the only secular name I heard was that of Viollet Le Duc. Everything was generalized: she spoke in terms of the 13th century and 19th century, the Middle Ages, The Renaissance. I would have loved some detail about the techniques involved in the building of Gothic churches–but of such matters, there was very little.

For the most part, she stayed outside the Cathedral, either very close to the main doors or in the Parvis as she named the apostles carved on the walls and explained the iconography attached to their depictions (keys for Peter, tablets for Moses–who, for some bizarre reason, she kept naming with a peculiarly grave and gruff tone–a yardstick for Doubting Thomas). She also pointed out the newer 19th century additions to the portals and the parables they depict. A great deal of time was spent talking about “the Smoking Place” and explaining the significance of the cauldron and the flames!

After more than an hour, when most of us were flagging, we did finally go inside…and what did she talk about…but more theological messages contained in the stained glass windows. No mention whatsoever of Charles Le Brun’s ‘May’ paintings that cover every single one of the side chapels (one was presented each May to the Cathedral by the different Medieval guilds). A passing reference to ‘The Pieta’ which is the central sculpture on the main altar–I bet the group did not know that Nicolas Coustou sculpted it or that the gorgeous wooden choir stalls were commissioned by Louis XIV in the 18th century in keeping with a promise he had made to his father. A lengthy oration on the pillars and the marks left by each stone cutter followed–I thought this was the only enlightening part of the tour.  Overall, I was deeply dissatisfied. So I guess I was shocked when one of the participants actually asked her if she had a background in Art History! “No”, she said, “I wish. My background is the Bible”. OK, that made complete sense to me. No wonder the tour contained no references whatsoever to the artistic aspects of the cathedral. Thank goodness for my book which filled in the gaps.

Little-Known Lanes on the Ile de la Cite:
On past visits to Notre Dame, all I have done is visit the cathedral and leave. This time round, I circled the exterior, noting the intricacy of the flying buttresses and the famous gargoyles. I walked down the Rue D’Arcole and discovered one souvenir store after the other selling the most beautiful souvenirs: aprons printed with Toulouse-Lautrec paintings, sets of coasters featuring Impressionist masterpieces, shopping bags featuring vintage soap packaging, porcelain mugs and cups and saucers with spoons built into their handles, table mats depicting Paris’ traditional shop fronts: le boulangerie, le patisserie, le boucherie, le cremerie,  and so on. I mean not your run-of-the-mill kitsch…this was really charming stuff. I do wish I had the weight allowance to carry back some of these goodies. I know a lot of folks who would love them.

Further down the walk, I discovered a delightful side street called Rue Chanoinesse which has such a multiplicity of architectural styles on just one curving street as to charm me right off my feet. I actually had to sit down in the Square Jean XXIII that is dedicated to Pope John XXIII at the very back of the cathedral practically at the end of the island. Filled with roses that were just past their prime, it was a real surprize as I did not even know such a sweet haven of serenity existed.

Then as I was making my way to the metro station (and it was one of those glorious Art Nouveau wrought-iron affairs that are now so rarely spotted in Paris), I noticed Le Marche Aux Fleurs et Oiseaux (the Flower and Bird Market). And, of course, I had to pause there as well and take in the sight of hydrangeas and azaleas and other summer flowers. I did not see any birds but perhaps they used to be around in days gone by. I understand that Paris was once full of such markets but this is the only one remaining.

More Foodie Finds on the Champs-Elysses:
Well, as you can tell, I was naughty and did not stick to my resolve. The fact that it stays bright until really late doesn’t help—I simply feel as if I have to use up every last ray of daylight! So taking the metro, I made my way to the Champs-Elysses to buy a dozen more caramel and hazelnut yogurt pots as I adore them. On the way to the store, I passed by Monoprix and I simply had to go and get my supply of Cote D’Or dark chocolate with hazelnuts. And when I found how cheaply everything was priced, well, then I had to buy some smoked salmon from Norway and some serrano ham from Spain and some salami from Genoa…not to mention my chocolate and then…there it was! The Carte d’Or ice-cream that I love–Caramel and Pecans. Of course, I had to get some!

Across the road was Laduree and how could I resist getting some of the Melange de Maison–my very favorite tea in the whole world?  Eventually, when I did get to M&S, guess what? They did not have a single pot of my favorite yogurt left. I was so bummed! Well, I could not leave empty-handed, so I picked up a Victoria Sponge–because how can you have tea without a slice of cake, right?

Equipped with my food buys, I finally made it home and without wasting a second, I sat down to a cuppa and a slice of cake–make that two! The evening passed blissfully with a shower and because I overdid the carbs at tea time, it was a healthy salad for me for dinner. I am getting very creative with the limited supplies in my pantry and concocted a rather good citrus dressing made with mayonnaise and orange marmalade! My roasted chicken loved it! Dessert was…you guessed it, my Carte d’Or. I missed Llew because he is the ice-cream champion and I know he’d have enjoyed it.

It was about 11. 30 when I switched off the light.

PS: So far, so good with my feet! Touch wood!

A demain!

Island-Hoping: Exploring the Ile St-Louis

Jun6

June 5, 2012
Paris, France

Bonjour!

First NEH Seminar Session:
Today I ‘metroed’ it to Bel Air and walked 12 minutes to the Centre de Sejours Internationale for our first NEH seminar session, the first half of which was devoted to what the Americans call ‘paper work’, i.e. obtaining signed agreements from all of us to observe Rules of Civility during session discussions! It appears that one such session (not in Paris, not under our lovely Director Richard–Joe–Golsan) got pretty heated. What were perceived as “unpatriotic” comments were made, a participant wrote to complain to his Senator who “took up” the matter and had to insist that since NEH seminars are paid for by the tax payer, we need to be ‘civil’ (read patriotic) in our attitudes and behavior. Signatures obtained, we moved to the next item on the agenda: Personal Introductions, Information about our academic projects while at the seminar, Introductions to our expert lecturers–Richard Russo, Nicolas Werth, Richard Golsan.  I feel deeply humbled by the expertise of my fellow-faculty who are steeped in French language, literature, history, politics. I am clearly a square peg in a round hole! Will spend the weekend reading to try to catch up.

Russo’s Summary:
A short break was followed by Richard Russo’s overview of how we shall be spending the next 5 weeks: Memory Versus History. The Lay Man Versus the Academic.  The Remembrance of Events from dual perspectives–Grass Roots Versus Ivory Tower. That is what I took from a brilliant summary. How does France (and the rest of the world) remember the pivotal military events of the early 20th century: World Wars I and II? Why has the role and significance of the academic historian been curtailed even as the role of the common man has skyrocketed in remembering and documenting those events? Why do the words of politicians count so much when it is their speech-writers who speak for them? And why do these words become the definitive last word on these events when neither the politicians nor the speech writers are either academics or actual ‘experiencers’ of what transpired?

As someone who believes in the power of ethnographic reportage and has does a great amount of field-research, I am all for the increased role of the observer in recording history. On the other hand, as an academic, I am sympathetic to the fact that without the support of trained scholarship, people like me would be out of jobs! Hence, as the weeks go by, I will be fascinated to find out how this paradox sorts itself out and how my thinking on the subject will become affected by the pontification of experts and my well-informed colleagues.

Off to the BHV:
The short session was followed by a vigorous discussion after which, the session adjourned at 12 noon. A few of my colleagues (all female naturally), decided to go shopping to BHV (Bazar de L’Hotel de Ville). I decided to join them as I need another adapter for my various gadgets. The long walk to the metro (Porte de Vincennes) convinced me that the stop at Bel Air is better for accessing the CISP.  At Hotel de Ville, we walked straight from the underground tunnel into BHV–a beautiful department store where I have lovely memories of shopping for a classy, superbly-designed German WTF can opener with Llew. It cost us a bomb but is the best can-opener we have ever owned. It is so clever that it makes a perfect slice around the can which could then be used as a lid! Well, I found my adaptor, said goodbye to my colleagues who were off for lunch “somewhere in the quartier” and walked out into the city.

Lunch in the Place de Hotel de Ville: 
The Hotel de Ville (Town Hall) of Paris is a gorgeous building that is stacked with carved sculptures of the important personnages who have played a role in the city’s history–Imagine London’s Guildhall with the sculpted images of all the Lord Mayors who have ever served the city carved on its facade! Interior tours are available only by appointment–but I understand the decor is sumptuous.

Outside, on the square, Le Terrasse–a newspaper, I believe, was sponsoring a gigantic screen that was telecasting French Open Tennis matches at Roland Garros. People sprawled on lawn chairs and watched as I drew out my homemade chicken salad sandwich and munched on it while catching a portion of the match. The sun had peaked out and the city was glowing with lunch-time strollers taking a break from office computers. After I left the pigeons my crumbs, I walked away from the square with its beautiful modern fountains and began my walking tour of the Ile Saint Louis–the smaller island in the river Seine that sits just besides the larger, more famous one–the Ile de la Cite.

I was Propositioned on the Quais de la Seine:
Then it happened! One of the beloved bouquinistes (book sellers) on the Quay made a pass at me. He saw me consulting my map and began with the tired line, “Vous etez Indienne?” When I said, Yes, the conversation began. I was too polite to cut it short and before I knew it, he was asking for my telephone number (I told him I did not have one) and then asking me out to dinner. When I tactfully refused, he asked me why. I said I have a husband and in extremely French fashion, he said, “So what?”  Well, that left me tongue-tied! I thanked him for the invitation and escaped when, attempting to hid his disappointment, he said, “OK, vous n’etez pas oblige, Madame”. The bouquiniste was clearly bored and happy to make conversation with someone on a slow afternoon. He was a black Algerian, about 45 years old and, I have to grant this, a very good conversationalist who was well-informed about French colonization of Tamil Nadu. It seems he was an intellectual of sorts in Algeria before becoming a bouquiniste in Paris!

Exploring the Ile Saint Louis:
If you can take only one walk in Paris, I believe it should be this one.It takes only an hour and a half (although I took much longer because I linger everywhere!) and encapsulates all that is beloved about the city. You walk along the quais, you climb up and down the steps that support the bridges and lead to the Seine, you can visit a gorgeous Baroque church (the Church of St. Louis-en-Ile), you pass by the most beautiful boutiques where you are offered degustations (samples) to taste (at La Cure Gourmande, par exemple, I was offered a chocolate filled cookie), you can buy the best ice-cream in Paris at Berthillon (I chose chocolat and noisette–hazelnut–and both were scrumptious) which you can enjoy slowly while dangling your feet on the parapets over the Seine (as I did) or sunbathe lazily while you doze off or wave to the folks in the passing bateau-mouches. You can stroll by and photograph some of the most beautifully decorated ‘hotels’ (grand manions), some of which housed well-loved personalities such as Marie Curie and Camille Claudel (the Muse and companiuon of sculptor Auguste Rodin), and much-humbler premises such as the one in which St. Vincent de Paul founded the order of the Daughters of Charity.  You get beautiful views of Notre Dame and the Pantheon from the island and if you are a hobbyist photographer (as I am), there are innumerable examples of architecture that you can shoot–from the Medieval to the Baroque.

I followed the 90-Minute Walking Tour laid out in the DK Eye Witness Guide to Paris and I had the best time. Because I rested frequently, I wasn’t too tired. Still, when I got home, I put the kettle on and had my cuppa with a slice of Tarte d’Abricot et Pistache (so yummy!) that I bought in a little boulangerie and slumped down on my bed for a rest with my laptop. When I could stir–much much later–I made myself a huge chicken salad with strawberries and kalamata olives, bacon bits and goat cheese and other delicious tidbits for dinner and spent the rest of the evening reading Apartment in Paris: Renting, Roaming, Wining and Dining by Erasmus H. Kloman, which I am very much enjoying.
      
By 11. 30pm, I shut off the lights and hoped to fall asleep immediately.

A demain!

Meet and Greet at NEH Seminar

Jun4

Monday, June 5, 2012
Paris, France

Bonjour!

Get this! I awoke at 11 am–that is to say, for the first time in a week, I had 7 hours of unbroken sleep. Good job I had decided to take it really easy and give my feet a break (pun unintended–bien sur!) I breakfasted (or maybe brunched?) today on the remaining hunk of baguette with my lovely cheeses and coffee and then sat down to catch up with email. Before I knew it, I was sleepy again. My poor body is so out of whack, it is having a hard time knowing exactly which part of the world it is meant to function in.

I fell asleep again but awoke at 2. 30 pm, to go to the Administration office here at Cite-Universitaire to procure a letter of residence from Thomas who provided it instantly. Armed with the letter, I went to the metro station, took instructions from a very sweet assistant on where to go and what to do to get a monthly pass. When I had last bought such a pass (25 years ago), it was called un carte mensuelle (the weekly equivalent used to be called un carte orange or a carte hebdomadaire). Well, all that has changed. The monthly passes are called Navigos and they are derived by proving residence in Paris–hence, the letter from Thomas. I took the metro to Denfert-Rochereau to the Agence Le Club where a very sweet man went through the paces with me (checked my passport for identification, took my picture and handed me the card). I had to go to yet another counter to pay 62. 50 euros–such a bargain for the sort of travel I intend to accomplish with it!

Back home, I felt sleepy yet again! But I had loads of personal grooming to do before leaving for dinner later in the evening. Face mask, tick. Shampoo, tick. Shower, tick. Nails, tick. Paris makes me want to keep my last toe nail impeccable! Finally, after doing all of this and calling my Dad in Bombay and sending out a few emails, I was ready to leave. I dressed, took the tram (believing that I was only to travel 3 stops) and reached the Center de Sejours Internationale only to discover that I was at the wrong campus–I was meant to be at the one at Bois de Vincennes–a good metro ride away. What a good thing I had started out early!

Well, off I sped with an address and directions and by the skin of my teeth, I made it on time at 6. 45 pm. I spent the next two and a half hours with my new colleagues who will be attending the seminar organized by the National Endowment for the Humanities. They seem a nice lot–for some reason, the majority seem to be associated with–of all places–Iowa! There is one Brit (from just outside of London) and one young woman who is originally from Tel Aviv, Israel. We seem to be the three transplants into America selected to participate in the program. Oh, and there are two French  professors who emigrated to the US–so I guess we are a pretty global lot. Most are historians, some are litterateurs, one is an art historian, one teaches Journalism and Media Studies and I am the South Asianist Post-Colonialist!

Meet and Greet occurred around glasses of kir when we met the Director of our Program, Richard (Joe) Golsan for the first time as well as the French professors and administrators associated with it. Dinner was eaten in a cafeteria but it was delicious after the rather slapdash meals I have been eating: a salad bar that included a Remoulad (made with celeriac, a rather unfamiliar veggie in America), roast pork with a mustard sauce, a side of roasted vegetables, chocolate eclair for dessert.

By the time we were ready to leave, it was still bright daylight and the sun was still shining–at 9. 20 pm! I had the company of a professor from Rutgers named Susan as I walked the 12 minutes to the nearest Metro. And by 10.00 pm, I was home, getting my sac ready for my first seminar session tomorrow.

A Demain!

Free Museum Sunday in Paris

Jun4

Sunday, June 3, 2012
Paris, France

Bonjour!
It bucketed down throughout the night and, upon my awakening, I discovered that it had turned miraculously cooler. My bathroom window that overlooks Boulevard Jourdan revealed that no one was about when I awoke at 6. 45 after a fitful slumber. Jetlag, still persisting from our Australia trip, is driving me nuts as I am only sleeping for an hour at a time. After a quick breakfast of Poilane’s melt-in-the-mouth croissants, I made my way out to the Metro station. This time I was wise enough to buy a carnet of 10 billets to use as I wish (cost 12. 70 euros). They might prove cheaper than the day pass.

When I emerged at Tuilieries metro station, I was greeted by a giant sculpted lion that guards the entrance as well as overlooks the fantastic monuments that are sprinkled over the enormous Place de la Concorde. My heart leapt at my first sight of the Eiffel Tower, albeit under terribly overcast skies. It remained dolefully grey all day and a fierce wind whipped uncomfortably around.

Free Museum Sunday:
A word about why I set out at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday: Every first Sunday of the month, Paris’ major museums are opened to the public sans charge. I was determined to make the most of this benefit and planned to see museums I had never seen before. Most visitors make an early beeline for the Louvre or the Musee D’Orsay. I chose instead to make a date with Monet.

The Musee de L’Orangerie and Monet’s Water-lilies:
At exactly 9.00 am, when the museum opened, I found that about 200 people in the line had beaten me to it. Situated at the southwestern edge of the Palais de Louvre, the Musee de L’Orangerie is visited for one reason alone: a chance to appreciate the amazing genius of Claude Monet in the series of massive paintings he made of the water-lilies in his garden at Giverny, about an hour and a half from Paris. Titled Les Nympheas in French, they are monumental works of art that changed the course of 19th century Art History. Monet’s obsession with light led him to paint the same subjects over and over again at different times of the day/night and under varied weather conditions. Much of his work, therefore, appears in series, eg. the Cathedral at Rouen, the Houses of Parliament from the Thames, Haystacks, etc. However, it is his water-lilies for which he is most renowned, partially because the Musee de L’Orangerie was especially constructed to display them to their best advantage. Hence, they have found a permanent home in this building and attract countless visitors.

Two large stark white oval rooms contain a total of 8 canvasses: Room 1 is devoted to the Waterlilies and they are simply stunning. I never dreamed they would have so moving an impact on me. I kept gazing at them and thinking only a genius could put two thick pink strokes on a blue background and be able to convince the viewer that they were flowers on a pond! The Second Room contains paintings of the pond with trailing willows in them. Both rooms exhibit their subjects with no perspective or peripheral points of context. Thus, your attention is forced on to the subject with no visual interference to distract. Monet intended it to be so: when supervising the installation of the paintings in the two rooms, he had stated that he wished the museum would provide a space of serenity in the mad bustle of life. And they certainly did–at least judging by the reverential silence with which viewers gazed at them.

The museum also contains the personal collection of art dealer Paul Guillaume whose varied Paris apartments in the beginning of the 20th century were decorated with his vast acquisition of Impressionist and Modernist masters. A whole room houses work by Chaim Soutine (with whom I was largely unfamiliar). Other prominent artists whose work is on display here are Andre Derain (his spectacular portait of Mme. Guillaume is riveting), Modigliani, Utrillo and, of course, Picasso, who was a close friend. Cezanne is very well represented with major works including the Two Young Girls at the Piano.

There was also an interesting special exhibition on composer Claude Debussy and his association with art and artists. In a few rooms filled with masterful works that had traveled to France from Berlin and Liverpool, the synergy between the diverse branches of artistic endeavor became clearly evident.

Strolling on the Champs-Elysses:
I left the L’Orangeie, and completely enthralled and exhilarated by the success of my visit, decided to walk along the Champs-Elysses, Paris’ best-loved avenue to the Arc de Triomphe de L’Etoile as it is a monument I have never climbed. Being that it was free, it made sense to garner views of the city’s brilliant design from an unusual vantage point. My stroll was just marvelous. Although it was chilly enough to require me to zip up my windcheater, I was not disheartened. I soon came upon the delightful statuary that punctuated the broad chestnut-tree lined avenue. Striding purposefully, as if straight into battle, is General Charles de Gaulle. Just behind him the monumental proportions of the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais loom and then sandwiched between them, albeit in the distance, is the commanding presence of Les Invalides with its embellished gold dome. I just adore the architecture of this divine city and my camera was clicking non-stop as I tried to capture some of the imposing spirit of these buildings and the feeling they must strike in every French breast of pride in the motherland.

Shopping on the CE:
For old times’ sake and because Llew and I have such happy memories of a stay there, I paused at the entrance of the building on Rue de la Boetie on which we had stayed, three summers ago. Sadly, the Monoprix on the corner was closed. In fact, the CE is an altogether different beast on Sundays when all of Paris’ commercial life grinds to a halt–obviously, les francais are not as devoted to Mamon as Americans are. Another landmark, Laduree, the oh-so-elegant tearoom on the CE and my personal favorite, was closed for renovation although it is still possible to purchase their sublime house blend tea (Melange) and pastries from a pop-up store. Guerlain was launching a new fragrance (Ma Petite Robe Noire–My Little Black Dress!), so I stepped in for a sniff! Lovely! It is fruity and warm: the way I like my parfums! Think I might have found a replacement for dear Jo Malone! And then, I sighted it!!! Marks and Sparks! And it was open! On the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, the shop was doing brisk business in the sale of Jubilee souvenirs. I was sorely tempted to buy a souvenir box of biscuits but settled instead for my old favorites: Coffee Walnut Cake and Salted Caramel and Hazelnut Yoghurt! Armed with my purchases, I strode on towards the Arc de Triomphe which was crawling with tourists.

For the next ten minutes, I tried every trick in the book to cross the broad circular road to get to the monument. No luck. Finally, I took my life in my own hands and zigzagged through the maddening traffic and made it! Rushed to the little window only to find that in my haste, I had incorrectly read my guide book: the free entrance is only available between November and March! Merde! Well, I wasn’t willing to cough up money on a day when I could go into other places for free, was I?

Sunday Mass at the Church of the Miraculous Medal:
So I zigzagged across the street again to the metro station and disappeared underground to catch Sunday Mass in the Church of the Miraculous Medal on Rue de Bac of which my brother Roger had informed me–a place in which he has frequently attended Mass while in the city. Mass was in French, the congregation was composed entirely of immigrants (loads of Haitians and Senegalese) with a rare white face sprinkled in although the ushers were all old white men. Nuns from every part of the world were around and while I was told no photographs were allowed, it seemed allowances were made for the clergy! The nuns were posing and clicking away and no one said a word to them!!!Privileges of the habit, I suppose! The church is small but gorgeous and the altar so beautiful that I felt sorry not to be able to preserve it in my memory with a picture. The church is also noteworthy because, although it is much less known than Lourdes or Fatima, the Blessed Virgin appeared before a local parishoner at a site not far from where the church was built.

Food Shopping on Boulevard Raspail:
With my feet protesting and my tummy demanding attention, I walked briskly to the organic market (“marche biologique“) on the Boulevard Raspail about which every guide book (and the Barefoot Contessa) raves. Enfin! After my wild goose chase of yesterday, I expected nothing short of perfection. And I was not disappointed. At the entrance on the Rue du Cherche Midi, there was a line for the marvelous potato pancakes (les galettes) of Les Gustalins. The handsome chef oiled the griddle, took orders, poured on the batter, collected money, packaged the goods–all with a calm tranquility and a lovely smile. The pancakes smelled heavenly and I could not wait to try them. But I would wait until I could give my poor feet a rest. A few stalls ahead, I picked up a chevre–goat cheese in fine ground red herbs–and a good wedge of Tomme De Savoir which the fromagier allowed me to taste. Yum! Another few feet ahead, I got the last of a thickly seeded baguette–studded with sesame, poppy, sunflower and pumpkin seeds. Alas, I could not purchase one of the roasted chickens as the lady informed me that they were all “reserve”.   Only in Paris are roasted chickens reserved for those with a toe-in.

Lunch at the Jardin de Luxembourg:
Armed with my goodies, I walked three blocks down to enter the stately Jardin de Luxembourg, a multi-acreage of chestnut trees, roses and sculpture. I found myself one of the famous jade green chairs, placed deliberately within full veiw of  stunning scultpure of a drunken Silene–to tuck into my yogurt. Then I cursed myself for not having bought many more–it was so deelish! Meanwhile, I enjoyed the spectacle of every passer-by stopping to pause in wonder and take pictures of Daumon’s amazing sculptural Silene. I also consulted my map to find out how far away I was from my next freebie and saw that the Maison Delacroix was only a few blocks away–which is to say that I would be passing two landmark churches along the route: the Church of Saint-Suplice (which Dan Brown made famous in The Da Vinci Code as the one that has the Thin Brass Line passing right through it) and the Church of Saint Germaine de Pres.

Suddenly, An Antiques Market Appears:   
That’s the beauty of this city: soudain, from out of nowhere, when you turn a corner, you come up slapbang with a market selling brochante! And because I cannot resist a good rummage, there was I looking enviously upon all manner of things old and interesting–books, carpets, paintings, china, silver, crystal, porcelain, jewelry, even Hermes scarves! And what’s more…there was no junk….everything was in impeccable condition–what they call ‘mint’ in the business. All beautifully arranged around a flamboyant marble fountain in the front yard of the church. Of course, I had a happy trawl through the stalls but then I hurried off, past two churches and the happy Sunday afternoon crowds of St. Germain.

A Date with Delacroix:
It was so difficult to find Delacroix’s home, partly because while I have a lovely laminated weather-proof map, it is not really that good. (Mental Note: Must visit the Tourist Information Center for a really good one.) After making inquiries (can you believe that the sales staff in several art galleries shrugged their shoulders as if they had never heard of Eugene Delacroix!), I finally found the entrance in a truly delightful little square on the Rue de Furstenberg (which, I learned later, is used a lot for filming and I could see why).

Upstairs, a sweet young thing greeted me at the entrance, informed me that it was “gratuit” today, took my bags away and left me to take a self-guided tour. For a small home, the place was packed–so many people took advantage of the free Sunday! Only three rooms make up the house in which the artist who painted France’s most iconic painting, “Liberty Leading the People” (which hangs in the Louvre) lived and died. We saw his modest 19th century drawing-room which contains a number of his sketches and studies, the bedroom in which he breathed his last in the company of his faithful servant, Jenny Gillou (whose portrait he painted and which also hangs in the room) who provided a heartfelt account of his passing and then, the piece de resistance, his studio (reached down a wrought-iron stairway fragrant with gigantic roses). The studio is vast and light-filled and looks upon a lovely little garden that Delacroix had loved. More contemporary paintings by artists he had known filled the studio in which his most famous work was accomplished. Then, I climbed down some more stairs to sit awhile in the lovely private garden and breathe in the fragrance of yet more David Austin roses in soft baby pink.

Back Home (with a few Detours):
Then, fairly fainting with fatigue and with serious discomfort in my feet, I returned to St. Germain-de-Pres but lacking the energy to visit the church, I quickly strode to take pictures of two of France’s most famous bistros: Les Deux Maggots  (made famous by the frequency with which the American writers of the Lost Generation, Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald–as seen in Woody Allen’s recent  film Midnight in Paris, had sipped and munched there) and Cafe des Flores (in which France’s Existentialists, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus and Ionesco, had paused to contemplate the nature of life and the world). How I would have loved a cuppa myself in one of these tearooms! I miss Llew so much on such occasions because while I might scour a city to its last crevice, I do draw the line at taking tea alone in a restaurant.

Then, I disappeared down the metro and was almost home, absolutely knackered, when Llew called to remind me that the Queen’s Flotilla Parade on the Thames was on the telly. Not having a set in my room, I borrowed the key to the basement TV lounge, had it to myself as I watched the pageantry. Ten minutes later, I dozed off and when I awoke, I seriously wondered where I was. The coverage, of course, was all in French. I searched for a channel in English but with little success. Still, my French is improving by the minute by immersion and I am very pleased.  An hour later, I left the lounge, got home and slept for a straight hour.  I awoke to have dinner: a toasted baguette pate sandwich followed by coffee and walnut cake. By then, I was so sleepy that I jumped into the shower and thought I would download and caption my pictures when I ran into a huge computer glitch that made me lose my pictures of the previous day. SOS messages first to Llew and then to Meredith, my clever computer consultant in the US who skyped with me, and my day was saved.

When I eventually fell asleep it was 4 am…and that is a record even for me!

A demain!

Meandering in the Marais

Jun2

Saturday, June 1, 2012
Paris, France

Bonjour!
The trouble with following walking tours is that I don’t. Instead of staying the course, I go off on serious tangents. This is especially true when I am in an exciting city like London…or Paris. In fact, after just one day on my ownsome in the City of Lights, I am totally in danger of doing my feet in–all over again.

So here’s what I did today: I meandered in the Marais. At random, I chose to follow DK Eye Witness Guide’s Walking Tour in one of Paris’s most vibrant neighborhoods and then, voila–suddenly 8 whole hours had passed on my feet! Not that the good authors had ever intended for that to happen. It was simply that their tour took me past 3 museums and since I have never met a museum, I did not like, I went right ahead to say Bonjour. The end result is that I visited The Musee Carnavalet (which is the Museum of the City of Paris)–the Musee Cognacq-Jay (both were a first-time for me) and the Maison Victor Hugo (which I had last visited 25 years ago).

Meanwhile, I am currently reading The Flaneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris by American author Edmund White. He writes: A flaneur is a stroller, a loiterer, someone who ambles through a city without apparent purpose but is secretly attuned to the history of the place and in covert search of adventure, aesthetic or erotic”. I don’t know about the last, but as for adventure and the aesthetic, bring it on. A flaneur have I become, and gladly, in a city that simply begs one to metamorphose into an explorer.

So, I began early–after a baguette and Nutella breakfast, I was out of my apartment at 9.00 am while everyone else seemed comatose. I bought a day pass on the metro as the monthly pass I intend to buy is not sold at the weekends. I shall have to wait till Monday to go through the paperwork, it seems. Mission One:  Unaccomplished. The day pass cost me 6. 70 Euros but I’m pretty sure it paid for itself with all the metro-hopping I did today.

 I decided to take the metro to St. Paul to begin my journey through the Marais. So with perfect weather conditions working in my favor, I walked towards Musee Carnavalet.


Musee Carnavalet:
The best thing about the Musee Carnavalet is that it is housed in one of the finest Parisian mansions (known as hotels particulier); the second best thing is that it is free of cost. The third best thing is that it is fabulous. If you want a quick insight into the colorful history of this city, it would be a good idea to start here first. I simply can’t think why I didn’t get here on earlier visits to the city.

Some of the Musee Carnavalet’s Highlights for me? The lovely building, the classically-laid out gardens, the magnificent marble staircase with 180 degree Brunetti painting enveloping the stairwell, the two rooms devoted to shop signage in an epoch when few people could read (this is also why street cries were so common then and unheard now), Napoleon’s Cradle, the G. Fouquet Jewelery store that was entirely designed by the Prague master of Art Deco, Alphonse Mucha, and a reproduction of the bedroom of Marcel Proust including the bed in which he wrote most of his masterpiece,  In Remembrance of Things Past. A visit is best made chronologically thorough the centuries starting with Archaeological Paris to the 20th century. The 18th century Baroque rooms of Madame Sevigny (its most famous resident) are stunning in their decorative excess and the18th century is best represented in the stark rooms of the French Revolution where I saw a wonderful replica of the Bastille and its keys.

Paris’ Jewish Quarter:
The Marais was the original settlement of the city’s Jews and they are still well-represented (as I discovered when my walking tour continued) in the many kosher delicatessens, restaurants and bakeries that did brisk business on this Sabbath day. You can get knishes, bagels, kugels and babkas galore and the delicious smells of good hearty cooking filled the crevices of every narrow street. Goldenburger’s is supposedly the best of them, but since I had carried a sandwich, I did not stop to find out how good it actually is.

Musee Cognacq-Jay:
My ramblings then took me to the quietly serene entry courtyard of a museum of which I had never heard before: the Musee Cognacq-Jay–which derives its name from Theodore-Ernest Cognacq and his wife Marie-Louise Jay who together founded one of Paris’ best-known department stores, Samaritaine. Although he did not have the time to acquire artworks himself and left that to an army of dealers, Cognacq did have well defined tastes. Eighteenth-century works were a special favorite and the collection has marvelous items by Boucher and Fragonard as well as masterpieces by Watteau and Tiepolo–including a study for Cleopatra’s Banquet (the finished version of which is the proud possession of The National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne, Australia–and which I saw just two weeks ago.

This small collection is also worth visiting because it stands in the actual home of this collecting couple–the Hotel de Donon, a hotel particulier that was built in the 1500s but decorated in the style of Louis XV and XVI with superbly carved and painted wood panelling in twenty rooms on four floors. Of great interest to me was the huge collection of Meissen porcelain figurines about which the couple was very passionate.

I found the nicest place to eat my pate sandwich lunch: the shaded front courtyard which I had practically to myself as the formal back gardens were closed. The thoughtfully-placed benches gave me much-needed  rest before I picked up the pace again and continued.
PS: This Museum is also free of charge.

The Place des Vosges:
This is one of Europe’s largest and best-known squares and it was crawling with sunbathing humanity on an afternoon that turned so warm I had to peel off my jacket.  It has everything you would expect to see in a formal European square: fountains, statuary (an equestrian Louis XIII), topiary trees and a periphery of formally designed blush-hued buildings–complete with wrought-iron embellished French windows and colonnaded arcades. I guess it is not surprising that France’s best-loved author chose to live here and it was at his home that I made my next stop.

Maison Victor Hugo:
Hugo towers over French literature like a colossus and, after the success of Les Miserables on stage and screen, is arguably France’s most famous writer. His personal and professional lives were as colorful as the characters he created and in his stately home overlooking the Place des Vosges, I learned a little more about both. He lived in exile for many years (following his fallout with the powers-that-were) on the English Channel island of Guernsey and, in the midst of a good marriage, fell in love with a much younger woman named Juliette Drouet with whom he became besotted. The house is preserved in much the same way as it was in Hugo’s lifetime with a few rooms being replicas of the chinnoisserie-decorated d home in which he had lived with Drouet while on Guernsey. In his bedroom, his fondness for medieval furniture (which he collected) is evident while the huge Sevres vase that a grateful nation presented him (once he had made up with it) is proudly displayed.
PPS: Lucky for the third time–yet another free museum!


Exploring The Bastille and Buying Loaves at Poilane:
Fairly falling with fatigue, I walked the short distance to the site of the Bastille (about which I learned so much today) marked by a tall golden ‘July Column’ in the center. The Bastille was a prison and it’s ‘storming’ on July 14, 1789, is possibly the most significant happening in French history. A handful of prisoners were released by a mob incensed by the monarchy’s excesses. They marched on the Palais Royale and then removed to Versailles, seat of government, imprisoned members of the royal family consisting of Louis XVI, his wife Marie-Antoinette and their young children, imprisoned them in the ‘Temple’ and, for the following few months known as the Reign of Terror, went berserk. A horrendous new instrument of death called the guillotine was fashioned to chop off the heads of the aristocracy in full gloating view of a blood-thirsty public: most of these one thousand odd executions occured in the modern-day Place de la Concorde (later renamed as such to repair bruised sentiments on both sides of the class warfare). French monarchy ground to a halt and the principles of ‘Liberte, Egalite et Fraternite’ were established in the new Republic.

Every trace of the Bastille has long disappeared. Today traffic whizzes around speedily in every direction. I escaped into the underground to accomplish my next mission: the procurement of a Boule–the famed round wholewheat loaf from the famed French bakery Poilane on Rue du Cherche Midi. By the late afternoon, all of Paris was buzzing. When I found Poilane, I also found a queue outside it. The boules are so gigantic that they are actually sold in halves and quarters. I bought half a boule and a croissant for my breakfast tomorro. Mission Finally Accomplished. I then took the metro back to Porte D’Orleans to accomplish yet another errand–the purchase of a local Lebara phone SIM card and a few other odds and ends for my pantry.

Then, when I couldn’t take another step, I hopped on to a tram and got off at the second stop, right opposite my building. It was time for a much-needed cuppa and I promptly put the kettle on. I skyped with Llew and my brother Roger, chatted with my Dad on my new phone and spent the evening relaxing completely and promising myself that I will not overdo it like this again.

As if….

Tomorrow is the first Sunday of the month and the most significant museums in the city are free! You know where I will be …

A demain…

En Route to Becoming Une Vrai Parissienne

Jun1

Friday, May 31, 2012
Paris, France

Bonjour!

First of all, I guess I’d better re-title this blog, “Rochelle’s Roost in London–and Paris”, seeing that I am going to be ensconced here for the next six weeks.

But, that said, I came just a little closer today to becoming that elusive creature: une vrai Parisienne. And here’s how it happened:

1. I tried out my rusty French for size after at least a couple of years and found myself having perfectly coherent conversations with the locals. Go me!
2. I went out in search of an adapter to fit French sockets and discovered that I needed to ask for “une piste electrique pour un system american”.  Succes! My American laptop, I-Phone, Continental phone and camera battery chargers are now happy campers in our new space.
3. I bought my first baguette traditionelle. (The corner boulanger told me that ‘traditionelle’ meant it has been “hand-rolled”.)
4. I also bought some pate, some Roquefort, and ingredients to make a salad composee. I fixed myself a nice healthy dinner and finished off the way French women do: with the tiniest piece of Cote d’Or Dark Chocolate with Noisettes (hazelnuts)–which always reminds me of our French friend, Jacques from Normandy who loves it.
5. I became a flaneur: I took a stroll around my neighborhood in the area of Porte d’Orleans and discovered it to be delightfully diverse (racially) plus surrounded by parks.
6. I am loving my appartement Parisienne. It has great big windows that overlook the serene greenness of Parc Montsouris plus is right opposite a metro station. Lucked out big time location-wise! The park shall make a runner of me yet! And the proximity of the metro station will keep me flaneuring in the city, sans doubte.
7. I am occupying the garden appartment in an ivy-covered red brick building in the Fondation des Etats-Unis with broad marble staircases, wrought-iron hand rails and the sniff of old Paris about it. Yes, sometimes dreams do come true!
8. Meanwhile, inside my appartement, everything is brand spanking new–and smells it. From the clean fragrance of freshly-painted walls to the packaging of newly-installed stainless steel kitchen appliances and bathroom fittings. I am enchante!

Only downside is I do not have a telly! How will I view the Diamond Jubilee celebrations across the Channel? Guess I’ll just have to find the time to nip down to the basement lounge to watch the communal telly. Bummer! On the upside, I do have a desk and it overlooks the garden! How lucky can one gal get?

All of this is like a sweet treat after the horribly-delayed Air France flight and a taxi ride that seemed to circumnavigate the entire City of Lights on the Ring Road before it dropped me to my new residence on Boulevard Jourdan. It was a grand relief to find myself safely delivered in a very Frenchified space with young folks all around me. Tomorrow, I shall investigate my new habitat from closer quarters.

I also made my first friend, albeit a 19-year old. Falak (Fal for short)  is of Paksitani-Baghdadi extract, was raised in Virginia, has spent the last year in Dubai, and hopes to spend the next four months absorbing all things Parisienne. She is also gorgeous and I am seeing heads turn as we go by–and, mind you, that’s here in Paris, where every woman looks like she stepped out of Vogue. She hesitantly asked if she could hang out with me as it is her plan to absorb the city like a sponge. I could not have found a better companion. Indeed I am very grateful for her fascinated company.

Tomorrow, we will go together to Denfert-Rochereau metro station to buy une carte mensuelle, a monthly pass for the underground system that will give us unlimited rides all over the city. Then, we shall survey the gastronomique offerings at the street market at Boulevard Raspail where the Barefoot Contessa has instructed visitors to buy a rotisserie chicken and potato pancakes. I intend to take her recommendations very seriously.

No doubt, that shall make me feel even more of a Parisienne.

Thanks for following me. It feels good to have reinstated this blog. I can now only hope my excited jetlagged mind will settle down, relax and allow me to sleep. It would not do to be late for my meeting with Fal at 9 am.

A demain!