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Preface

A homeless man was living under the awning of the restaurant downstairs while it was closed during the fall Covid lockdown. He was one of those ageless fellows you sometimes see living on the street, with a scruffy beard and unruly salt-and-pepper hair that rose high over his ears. Could have been 40-years-old, could have been 70—couldn’t tell. I’d walk by him while leaving and entering my building, especially in the evening since he was often gone during the day, and furthermore I was in the habit of taking evening walks during that period. Bonsoir monsieur, I’d say on my way out. Bonne nuit, I’d say on return. I tried several times to engage a bit of conversation—asking him how he was doing or if he’d eaten that evening—but in response he just half-smiled, half-nodded. I guessed he didn’t understand French. Perhaps it’s better that way. I mean, how friendly do you want to get with someone living on the street?

I can’t imagine what it’s like to walk a mile in his shoes, but he wore a pair of old sneakers that didn’t look to be holding up too well as the autumn damp took hold, so I took him down an old pair of shoes that I should have gotten rid of long ago. He just sort of looked at me and nodded when I set them down beside him. He didn’t try them on in front of me, just nodded.

The next day he was wearing them.

He never looked at me as though he was asking for anything. Thankfully. Anyway, I’m sure there are organizations that provide clothing for the homeless. He actually had a nice fall jacket, grey with fur-like lining. It looked warm enough in mid-November. Nevertheless, I also took him some socks, some underwear, a couple of pair of old pants and a few t-shirts. We’ve all got too many t-shirts. He was smaller than I am but not by much; I figured they’d fit. Nothing special. Honestly, I am not a generous guy, but there he was, and I had some stuff… You know how it is, right? He never said anything when I brought him these things, just a kind of a nodding greeting or maybe thanks, a slight mumble, a sort of nmmn.

He slept on an old mattress placed on top of lots of cardboard to keep the mattress dry, and he used other big sheets of cardboard as a blanket. The cardboard had images of bicycles on it because bike shops were receiving lots of them in preparation for Christmas sales.

In late November the weather turned colder and damper. I had an old tattered blanket in the closet, so I took it down one afternoon. I left it for him between the mattress and the cardboards. Just an old blanket—I hadn’t used it in years.

He also had a little three-legged stool that I’d see him sitting on some evenings. He’d sit there eating dinner that an association for the homeless brought by or that he’d brought back from the make-shift soup kitchen up the road. And here’s something curious: Sometimes, late in the evening, I’d look out the window and see him sitting on his stool just beyond the edge of the awning, in the light of the streetlamp, writing in a notebook. Occasionally he’d be writing when I went out from my nighttime walk. I once asked him what he was writing (after all, I’m something of a writer myself) but he just nodded, mumbled a little nmmn, then sort of stared at me until I said good night and walked away. As I say, he didn’t seem to speak French.

People go to sleep so early these days, and I like writing at night myself, so I’d be up in my flat writing and the only other person I knew who was awake would be him, down on the sidewalk, writing in his notebook, just beneath the edge of the awning, in the light of the streetlamp. I felt a strange kind of communion. Like we were the only two people on earth to describe the world as we respectively knew it at that moment.

One afternoon a couple of weeks ago, when he was absent, I took down a notebook—I have plenty—and left it on the stool for him, along with a few pens. That’s pretty much it. End of story. It wasn’t as though we were buddies or anything.

But I do wonder where he’s gone. You see, he stopped sleeping there sometime during the past week. I don’t know when exactly because on December 15 we entered a new curfew period where you couldn’t be out without a valid reason from 8pm to 6am and my view of his dwelling space is blocked by the awning of the restaurant below. I didn’t see him at all during the day this past week, though that wasn’t unusual. I’d look out my window at night hoping to see him seated on his little stool beneath the light of the streetlamp, writing in his notebook. But he wasn’t there. This troubled me, and it kept me from working. For a few nights I went downstairs toward midnight to peek out the front door just to see if he’d returned—feeling a bit clandestine just stepping out onto the street—but he hadn’t. Could someone who lives on the street be subject to curfew? Maybe he’d been given a bed in a shelter. Or else he just moved on.

This evening I saw that all of the items that made up his dwelling area had been cleared away. The mattress was gone. The big cardboard sheets were gone. The three-legged stool was gone. The city clean-up crew must have taken everything away. Just a few scraps of cardboard remained on the ground along with a mask, an empty milk box, a plastic-wrapped sandwich….

Then I saw, peeking out between two pieces of cardboard, the notebook that I’d left for him earlier in December. The brown-beige cork-like cover of the notebook is the same color as the cardboard, so I guess the crew didn’t see it when they cleaned the area.

I picked it up and saw there was writing inside. So I brought it upstairs. I feel like a bit of a thief, to tell the truth, but apparently he isn’t coming back and eventually it would have gotten trashed if left outside. I can always give it back if I ever see him again. Inside there’s writing in all directions and in different types of characters: Latin, Greek, logograms, cuneiform, hieroglyphics, and even some figures that look like Neolithic wall painting. And strangely enough, there are a few pages written in English. Imagine that: for the six weeks that he’d been there I’d been walking by him and saying a few words to him in French—Bonsoir monsieur, Comment allez-vous? Vous avez besoin de quelque chose? Vous avez mangé ce soir?—and it turns out that he speaks English, or at least writes in English. So while I was trying to speak to him in my second language, we could have communicated better if I’d used my first.

Among the pages in English, there’s a poem. It’s near the back of the notebook, unless it’s the front—depends on how you open  it, because it starts in one direction then you have to turn the notebook over to continue reading. It’s entitled On Winter Solstice Night… which is weird because this is December 21st, night of the winter solstice.

Here’s the poem I found:

On Winter Solstice Night

‘Twas the night of the Solstice, when all through the flat
Not a creature was stirring, not even the cat;

Cute, right? You recognize that? Riffing on a visit from Old Saint Nick. But it’s more than that. Better that I read it to you. Give a listen. Sit back. I’ll start again.

Audio – A Reading of On Winter Solstice Night, Author Unknown
Read by Gary Lee Kraut

Preface, audio, poem © 2020. All rights reserved.

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Still, something has to be done with them, so two weeks ago I set the end of the year as my deadline do something with these pages torn from different size notebooks, these partially legible Post-its and other bits and pieces, odds and ends and scraps and fragments of text.

It was easy enough to clear the brochures and press kits that lie about the room (to the garbage for most), but some of this may be gold dust.

Late at night—always at night—I’ve been filing, processing, digitalizing or trashing them: knickknacks of ideas, pieces of intended articles, wise phrases that may or may not be mine, descriptions without objects, analyses without context, dialogues without place, places without event, restaurant reviews set aside before the waiter arrived, notes from interviews that fell flat, daydreams from the rails (I like writing on trains), conversations heard and overheard, half-finished vignettes.

A friend came over the other day. Can you tell the difference? I asked. He looked around the room. Well, it looks like you made piles.

But the piles then shrank, and now, the new year almost here, there’s only one small pile left. Only a handful remain.

June. Standing on my balcony. A couple seated at the single table on the terrace of the restaurant across the street. A man scrapes his plate repeatedly with his forks. He then switches plates with what must be his wife and starts scraping hers. “Hey,” my neighbor Mme C shouts from her window. “can’t you eat normally? Eat some bread if you’re still hungry.”

At a party I go into the kitchen to look for a corkscrew. The hostess is in there putting a pie on a plate. “Get out of here,” she says, truly distressed. “I hate having men in the kitchen.”

M’s restaurant recommendations: Ratapoil, rue de Faubourg Possonnière; KGB, rue des Augustins; (illegible), rue du Faubourg St Denis; Pierre Sang, rue Oberkampf.

Walking with a long-lost friend around Chatelet-Les Halles looking for a place to have lunch. We pass a bistro where I have a vague recollection of a fun evening at a table by the stairwell, though I can’t recall with whom and whether the food was any good. I suggest we go there. We have a great time catching up, but the food is horrible. I have a limp and chewy steak with greasy fries. He has tasteless duck. We share a small carafe of teeth-staining rotgut. I now remember the last time I was there. The food was horrible then too. I was with A. and G. We’d laughed about what a poor wine choice G. had made and agreed that I should choose next time.

Metro. A man holding a large can of beer tells a story to himself about the time his protagonist was accused of not paying for his coffee. In his story there is a Chinese man, an Algerian woman, a fat bartender, a man lying on the street. “He’s tired. He slept on the sidewalk. You almost stepped on him. He was by the side. You could see him.” As he speaks, the man’s eyes are fixed on the shoes of a fellow standing nearby, who then moves his feet to escape his stare.

Sully-sur-Loire. 1 of 27 chateaux Sully owned. Copy of tomb here, original in Nogent. Bombardment by Italians in 1941, by Allies in 1944 (to destroy the port). 80% destroyed. Joan of Arc was here. Ark of the Covenant, Germigny.

“Strasbourg mon amour” press conference. Strasbourg is now promoting itself as a Valentine’s Day destination to copy its own success as a Christmastime destination. Christmas Market dates to 1570. Massacre of Jews in Strasbourg on Feb. 14, 1349.

Everyone looks old at a funeral.

A 15-year-old boy hugs me at the end of a week-long tour I’ve been giving to a school group. “I love you,” he says. I’m touched and embarrassed and glad that the accompanying teachers didn’t hear. Then a giant of a girl, 16, hugs me and says that she loves me, too, and several others, mostly the girls, do the same. Saying they love someone is apparently their thing. The oldest of the boys, 18, laughs. “How come you don’t love me?” I ask. “I don’t need to tell you,” he says, “you know I do.”

There, done, the final scraps of 2014 have been processed… with you as my witness.

I am so looking forward to sharing 2015 with you.

Dec. 30, 2014.

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Not just any Black Friday, but LE Black Friday, so evocative and so directly imported from the New World that no one even bothered to translate the words, let alone explain the concept. One major retailer promised “jusqu’à“ (up to) 15% off… for those armed with a membership card discounted to 10€. If they plan on inciting a stampede and some shopper-on-shopper violence in Paris they’ll have to do better than that! As it was the so-called discount didn’t promise anything more than the usual salesperson-on-shopper abuse.

But now that France has gotten a whiff of Le Black Friday, can Le Thanksgiving be far behind?

Nevertheless, there’s no denying that the holiday season is upon us in France as elsewhere and that a traveler may well wish to embrace it. The City of Light, which, ironically, has some of the wimpiest holiday lighting of any major capital north of Belgrade, has actually perked up a bit this year in some quarters. You’d think that high brand shops were about to invade the Marais the way they’re stringing lights up there this year. (Well, actually the invasion has begun.)

A Christmas Tour of France
France may be a deeply secular nation, but everyone gets into the spirit of what are called “les fêtes de fin d’année”, the year-end holidays, meaning Christmas and more. Allow me then to take you on a tour of the Christmas season through Alsace, Champagne, Lille, Lyon, Provence, Nice and Paris in an article naturally entitled A Christmas Tour of France. The tour starts here.

A Winter’s Woodcock Tale
The approach of winter, in addition to bringing phone scammers invariably called Anne-Sophie promising to send burly men with accents to check out the electrical installations in the dangerously wired apartments of little old ladies (and writers working from home), has inspired a wonderful little essay about woodcocks (recipe included) by British journalist Janet Duignan, who lives in Dordogne. Read ” Winter’s Woodcock Tale here and learn about 250 years of fine-feathered cuisine and the ideal woodcock wine.

Paris Restaurant News: Eggs-istentialism and Dining à la car(te)
Meanwhile, back in Paris, contributor extraordinaire Corinne LaBalme presents two worthy restaurants and a side order of less worthy puns. First, on the Champs-Elysées, Corinne goes dining à la car(te) in order to test drive the menu at Renault’s newly re-conditioned showroom/restaurant. Then, in the Odeon Quarter, where philosophers, revolutionaries and writers once roamed, she visits a chic new bistro that offers diners tasty lessons in eggs-istentialism and the pleasures of carpaccio-diem.

On the radio with Peter Greenberg
Someone also forgot to tell me that I was on American radio a few weeks ago. That someone is the producer of Peter Greenberg’s show The Travel Detective. But no harm done. An astute and most thoughtful reader, to whom I’ve now promised coffee and a kiss on each cheek, eventually tipped me off with a message asking “Was that you on the radio on Nov. 1?” as though there might be a parallel universe where another Gary Lee Kraut operates a web magazine called France Revisited. Luckily the Nov. 1 show is available in podcast for those curious to know how I answered Peter Greenberg’s questions about how travelers should best to approach Paris and where to find the best macaroons and chocolates in the city. You can find the podcast by starting here.

The gift of travel
Finally, I’d like to tell you how you can contact me and my little elves to order a most fantabulous tour de Paris as a holiday present for your friends or family or self. But after the French Black Friday fiasco I don’t want to do anything to encourage Le Cyber Monday. So I’ll get back to you on that next week.

Happy travels always,

Gary

Read the next post on the Editor’s Blog here.
Read the previous post on the Editor’s Blog here.

The post The November Newsletter: From Le Black Friday to Le Cyber Monday appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

I did indeed take great pleasure in putting together the current issue of France Revisited, and I like to think that those who contributed to this issue enjoyed doing so as well, as will you in reading/traveling with us to four very different parts of France: Paris, Auvergne, the Riviera and the Loire Valley.

25 Paris Restaurant: A List Beyond The List

A 2-part article that discusses why so many travelers have the same restaurants on their list (part 1) and suggests 25 restaurants to expand that list (part 2), including recommendations kindly contributed by six Paris-based French and American food journalists and bloggers.

Moulins (Auvergne) and the National Costume Center

I travel deep in the heart of France to the little-known town of Moulins, which reveals the fabric of great theater at the National Costume Museum. This year the museum celebrates the 450th anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth with an exhibition of costumes from some of the bard’s most emblematic plays.

Le Ciotat: A Splash of Reality on the Riviera

Corinne LaBalme forgoes the Saint Tropez glitz-krieg and heads for the refreshingly quirky (and under-hyped) port of La Ciotat to enjoy great food, unspoiled beaches and affordable prices in one of the all-too-rare Mediterranean enclaves that’s escaped paparazzi pollution.

Blond Girl in Saumur: When Our Eyes Met for the Second Time

A photo/video-log from the Loire Valley in which I remember when travel was less about fooding and more about flirting, less about getting reservations and more about losing inhibitions, less about looking for recommendations and more about following your own nose.

Enjoy the read. Enjoy the travels.

Happy Labor (of Love) Day.

Gary

Gary Lee Kraut
Editor, France Revisited

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I understand that only the pope is infallible and that his eyes can’t be everywhere, but the next time you’re printing up a poster to place in front of the most visited monument in the world’s most touristed city please consider sending it to me first to be proofread.

Though I am not one of your faithful, I have spent many precious moments with you and your sisters, each more lovely than the next, and so I will gladly provide my services free of charge in exchange for a few earnest prayers.

Rest assured: I am not mocking you—certainly not in the way that someone has recently ridiculed poor Corneille up on the hill near the scant relics of your beloved St. Geneviève, patron saint of this lovely city with the sad sky.

Forgive me then for drawing attention to your little mistake… but perhaps not too quickly, for as Corneille himself wrote:

Qui pardonne aisément invite à l’offenser.
He who forgives easily invites offense.

Respectfully yours,

Gary
May 19, 2013

P.S. Break at leg at the concert — or Merde, as the archbishop might say.

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If it were to be sunny in Paris on March 20, which it won’t be, what significant event could you witness around the corner from this wall?

And the correct answer, drum roll, is:

A circle of sunlight through a hole in the wall of the southern transept of Saint Sulpice hits a marker on the floor to indicate that the March (or vernal or spring) Equinox has arrived.

Kudos, congratulations, glory and a kiss on both cheeks to those who knew it.

Click here for some images from inside Saint Sulpice and an explanation of why the Church wished to “mark” the date of the March equinox.

Enjoy the spring!

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Wishing you healthy, happy travels throughout the year wherever you may go, whether overseas, over the border, over dale or over to visit friends and family.

And through the year we hope that you’ll stay close to France Revisited so as to remain informed, surprised, amused and entertained as we meander curiously about Paris and throughout France.

Meilleurs voeux pour 2013.

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A closer look:

Here’s another one, part of the same ad campaign, at a bus stop:

The post What Parisians Want, Exhibit 9 appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

* * *

While I fully understand the desire of Americans, among others, to want to visit the beaches, cemeteries and WWII sites of Normandy, I can’t help but note the relative lack of visitors to the war memorials and cemeteries within far easier reach of Paris. For example:

– the American WWI cemeteries and memorials near Chateau-Thierry, including the Aisne-Marne Cemetery and Belleau Wood, 60 miles east of Paris,

– the Suresnes Cemetery, originally a WWI cemetery and now also containing the remains of soldiers from WWII, four miles west of the center of Paris, or

– the Escadrille La Fayette Memorial in Marnes-la-Coquette, six miles west of the center of Paris.

I recently attended the American Memorial Day commemoration at the latter.

The monument honors the flying corps comprised of American pilots who, having volunteered to take part in the First World War under French command (1916-1918), lost their lives in aerial combat. Sixty-eight of them are entombed below in a wide semi-circular crypt.

The monument, constructed 1926-1928, is in the form of a triumphal arch with porticoes to either side. The names of Lafayette and Washington are inscribed on the central portion, emphasizing the monument’s role as a symbol of French-American friendship. Inscriptions of the names of those who are entombed in the crypt join Lafayette and Washington in overlooking the Escadrille’s logo.

There’s no need to compare the significance or appeal of this and other cemeteries, monuments and memorials with those in Normandy.  It’s simply worth noting that for Americans visiting or living in Paris, one can pay homage to American involvement in war in Europe without complicated logistics or a full daytrip.

To reach the Escadrille La Fayette Memorial from the capital, take the suburban train from the Saint-Lazare station to the Garches/Marnes-la-Coquette stop, a 20-25-minute ride. From the station, turn left and walk for 10 minutes along Boulevard Raymond Poincaré to the entrance to the park, then follow the path several hundred yards to the clearing where the monument stands in the distance.

Update: When I wrote this brief illustrated text in 2012, the memorial was managed by a foundation, created in 1930, that oversaw its maintenance and operation and had to rely on stopgap measures to ensure its maintenance including funding from the French Ministry of Culture, local government and private donations. A letter of intent signed in 2012 between the American Embassy in France and the French Ministry of Defense promised to support continued financing of the moment. With the blessing of Congress and the French government, the American Battle Monuments Commission (ABMC) took ownership in 2017 and has operated it since, including opening a new visitor center there in 2018.

I leave you with this 5-minute video created by the American Battle Monuments Commission that provides a dramatic overview of the overseas cemeteries, monuments and memorials operated by the ABMC.

© 2012, Gary Lee Kraut

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