Hilary Kaiser- Paris Story
Paris is very different these days than when I first moved here as a teenager with my parents and my younger brother in January 1962. Disembarking from the SS America in Le Havre, we got on a “boat train” that took us to St. Lazare Station. This was before “global warming” made our winters here much milder. That year, it was freezing, with snow everywhere in the countryside and city. The only source of heat in the small house my parents first rented in St. Cloud came from a coal stove in the kitchen, so we covered ourselves with blankets whenever we were inside. In the spring, when we moved to a ground floor apartment on avenue Victor Hugo, a “plastique” went off in the building where we were living. 1962 was the time of the Algerian war, and apparently the lawyer for one of the generals who were against DeGaulle’s giving Algeria independence lived upstairs, and that’s why a bomb was set off. Fortunately, nobody was hurt. A reporter took a photo of my brother sweeping up the broken glass of the front door of the building that appeared in Le Figaro. During the three years my father worked in Paris, my brother and I attended the American School, which was, at the time, housed in the former music pavilion of Madame Du Barry (Louis XV's mistress) in Louveciennes. One day, officials from the Embassy came out to the school to warn us to be very cautious when we were in Paris because of what was going on in Algeria. It was a dangerous, but exciting time, for us Californians!
From Bonnie Fields
My friend Nancy and I travel to Paris often together. This time we were staying in the Marais on Rue Vieille du Temple. It was around the time that the Amorino ice cream (glace) shops were becoming very popular. We had one not too far from our rental apartment. I was uncertain whether to try it or not. It seemed too popular, and I preferred the smaller glace boutiques in the Marais, of which there weren’t many at that time. Finally, one day we gave in and each of us bought a cone. As we wondered on down the street, a woman on a bench, who appeared to be homeless began talking directly to us and in a commanding voice. I understand some French, and realizing she was addressing us, I stopped. What was she saying? She was admonishing us, saying that we had gone to the wrong ice cream shop. That it wasn’t as good as the best in Paris, which was Berthillon. We shouldn’t waste our money on inferior glace and next time do it right, go to Berthillon. We said to ourselves, that only in Paris does everyone, even a homeless person, have an opinion and feels free to give it out. But we did go to Berthillon the very next day, and yes it was better.
From Ann Wexler- The Unisex Bathroom
When you think of the words “unisex bathroom” in English, what does your mind conjures up? A door with two little figures on the front, a man and a woman. You open the door – go in – lock the door – and sit there – alone. Not in France! My first time in a French unisex bathroom was like this. I finish my meal in a restaurant and go down the stairs, following the sign, “toilettes.” There are two doors – no indications for men or women. I go in the first door and see a large urinal on the wall, obviously in heavy use from the smell. In the back is a stall with a door. Obviously, I’ve gone into the men’s room by mistake so I try the other door. Same arrangement. OK – I’m not a princess. I can pee in the same room as a smelly urinal as long as no men are in there. I’ll just lock the door and give it a try. I search for the lock. Nothing doing. You can lock yourself into the stall but not into the bathroom.
I open the door and peer out into the hall. No one. I look up the flight of stairs and listen for footsteps. All clear. I dash into the stall and do what I have to do as quickly as possible. But as I start to pull up my pants I hear the door open. Footsteps thump in. The guy sounds big and he’s panting from running down the stairs. I stand there – afraid to make a sound. But the guy has no such modesty. I can see his feet under the stall door. He positions himself. I hear him struggling with his stuck zipper. A moment of silence while he tries to find – it. Then an endless flow of urine splashing loudly onto the sides. Meanwhile I’m paralyzed and claustrophobic in my stall. I have to get out. So I bolt. But there he is – all zipped up and graciously offering me the sink. “After you,” he says in French. I give him a weak “merci.” I can’t let him think I’m the type who doesn’t wash her hands. So I do. Then he does. Then I towel off. Then he does. He holds the door for me – walks up the stairs behind me – a bit too closely it feels. But after all we have shared this moment of intimacy.
Finally, I’m back at my table. The others are engrossed in conversation. I can’t say a word of course or they’ll think I’m crazy – or worse yet – an American. So, I have another glass of wine. This is France, after all.
Merle Minda-Losing my elderly husband in Paris
My husband and I have been frequent world travelers, and Paris is a favorite destination. As background, I must explain something about us as a couple – my husband, Roland, is 14 years older, quieter and more deliberate, takes his time to move forward, etc. I am faster, a quick decider and always in a hurry. When we travel, he slows up and I get faster!
One Sunday spring morning in Paris we were invited to one of those fabled Sunday lunches by Parisian friends of ours on rue d’Edimbourg in the 17th Arrondisement. We headed out of our Hotel des Marronniers in the 6th on rue Jacob planning to take a taxi. The sidewalk was narrow and I was walking ahead of my husband as usual. I wanted to stop at Ladurée on the corner to pick up their famous macarons as a gift. I thought I had told him this.
I zipped into the shop, turned to see that my husband was not with me. I glanced out; he was nowhere in sight. Now, Roland was 88 at the time and did not know his way around Paris and could not speak French. How did I lose him?” I thought. So now I rushed out onto the sidewalk once more to look for him.
From the corner of rue Jacob, I dashed up rue Bonaparte to Boulevard St. Germain, past the big cafes, around and down again on rue St. Benoit, back again on rue Jacob, looking everywhere. I did this route several times as I did not think he would have crossed the big boulevard. I increased my circuit up to Rue des Saints Peres; I began to ask restaurant maître d’s along the way if they had seen him, describing him – tourist, his age, tan jacket, khaki’s, scarf. Several times someone was pointed out to me but it was not Roland. No cell phone with me and he never carried one anyway.
Totally distraught, after 40 minutes of making this route many times, I headed back to the hotel. And there in the lobby was Roland. He had found his way back and was waiting for me. We called our hosts, picked up the macarons and tore up there – 90 minutes late. So it all ended well, but was scary at the time. I still remember how nice the French maître d’s and even dining customers were as I tore around and around the same circuit looking for him. What a Sunday! Our friends were very understanding, and it still makes a hilarious story.
From Lynn Loring
The august Joel A Rosenthal, is the most desired Paris based jeweler you probably never heard of,
JAR, as he is known , had an exhibition of his work in 2013 at the Metropolitan museum, the only living artist to be given this honor.
A few years earlier the Courtauld in London had a smaller exhibition with both museums hosting priceless jewelry loaned by the various wealthy women whom he honored by letting them buy from him. He won’t sell to you unless he thinks the piece will compliment you. That’s how it’s done, and no one is allowed inside his Paris atelier unless he invites you..
Not even the editor of a prestigious fashion magazine.
While waiting to try his perfumes at his Bergdorf boutique in NYC, a 60ish man with a shock of gray hair extended his hand and said “Hi, I’m Joel”. I said, “ the same Joel whose exhibition I just saw at the Met ? He was down to earth and said” You saw it? “, and then we talked about Paris, for both of us, our home away from home. He didn’t seem to be this demigod who anoints those who buy from him.
After this encounter, I wondered what I would do if I ever saw him in Paris, would I say "Hi Joel or Hello Mr Rosenthal"?
One day, a few years after our NYC encounter, I was walking near his atelier by Place Vendome,
I SAW HIM, and bolted away from my husband to say” Hello Mr Rosenthal !,” I recounted the story in NY, and how I saw both his exhibitions. My husband was not amused.
“Would you like to see my atelier?”came at the end of a 5 minute conversation.
I may not be Ellen Barkin whose sale of her JAR jewels from her despised ex husband was parodied on Sex in the City or am I rich like, Lily Safra,or Princess Marie Chantal of Greece, but I somehow became a rare visitor to his atelier, with my friend Lisa.
The interior was rather nondescript, not what you would expect from someone, who obtains astronomical prices both retail and more so at auction, since it is so rare that any of his jewels are ever given up for sale.
A client I’m sure bought him the Churchill letter that was displayed on his desk.
Not many people know who JAR is when I recount the story, but it was a thrilling day for me to meet him twice then be invited to see his atelier.
From Roberta Monahan- Without Reservations
It was my first trip to France and Paris was postcard perfect, the Hotel Paris France not so much. Entering the lobby of the Paris France my first thought was, this is what you get when you arrive in Paris in June without reservations. Unfortunately, my husband Fred didn’t believe in making reservations. This was only the latest episode in a continuing series of misadventures.
We had come to Paris to visit Fred’s childhood friend, Emilio, now an Italian legal adviser to the
European Union. Emilio knew we were coming but Fred had neglected to advise him of the exact date of our arrival. Later, at Emilio’s office on the Rue President Wilson, his secretary began calling hotels. At about the tenth try she found the Paris France. When we arrived at the hotel I understood why they still had rooms available.
The Hotel Paris France was in a working class neighborhood near the Place de la Republique.
I doubt that it ever appeared in any guidebook to Paris not even Europe on Five Dollars a Day.
The Paris France had seen better days, but probably not much better. There was a general air of grayness and the settled dust of decades. The hands of the clock behind the front desk had permanently stopped at 10:30. We guessed it had stopped at the time of the original owner’s death and that the hotel was being preserved as it was then as a shrine to his memory. But no, the older man behind the desk laughed and said “ No monsieur, I am the owner”.
I loved the open cage elevator, the only thing elegant about the Paris France. We rode that elevator to the third floor and entered our room. The room was large with beige walls in need of a paint job. The furniture was someone’s not too well off grandmother’s cast offs, not antique, just out of fashion or never in fashion.
The hotel had an international staff of three. In the morning a cheerful, efficient English woman served our coffee, chocolate and croissants in the dingy breakfast room. In the afternoon a vivacious, always smiling German woman walked with us to the Place de la Republique and explained how to use the metro, in German. The night clerk was a young Frenchman. We were never quite sure whether he was imagining himself in the role of a French aristocrat forced into doing a menial job or if he just didn’t give a damn, probably the latter
I loved everything about Paris, the museums, Notre Dame, the cafes and restaurants, just strolling around and finding something fascinating around every corner. But, what I loved most was the food. It was love at first bite. Emilio took us to his favorite restaurants and we sampled our way through the repertoire of French cuisine.
