Thanks to everyone that sent their favorite Paris stories and I loved reading them.
From June Rives-Meeting Jean-Paul Belmondo
One of the many great things about living in Paris is all the interesting people one can meet- even celebrities. I was at the Cafe Bourbon on Place Bourbon years ago having a cafe before an appointment nearby. I saw a car drive up and several older men get out in front of the cafe, one with a Boxer dog. I looked closely and held my breath, It was Jean-Paul and some of his cronies The Boxer dog was his. I discovered that these men met at the cafe a couple of times per week as Jean Paul lived in this tres chic neighborhood. As luck would have it, they sat at a table right next to me. I got up my courage as I was leaving and went right up to Jean Paul- I looked him in the eye, smiled and said in French that I was an American living in Paris and that I thought he was impeccable- that is pretty much the top compliment I could give him. He looked at me, smiled, and then gave me a huge kiss!
I floated off down the street! As coincidence would have it, a year later I was at the Turner Classic Film Festival in LA. Their premiere film that year was "Breathless". And lo and behold, I ended up sitting across the aisle from him and then wife Maddie to watch his movie! By the mid 2000's he was already in his 80's, but boy did that man have SEX appeal!
From Laurie and Blair Pessemier
A nearly brand-new used stove we located through the ex-pat magazine FUSAC. The petite brunette selling it was a model from America, who posed for fashion several years in Paris, and planned a return to California. Her apartment located north of Les Halles. She sold some items before our arrival, but not the gas stove, nor her small kitchen accessories. Knowing what it was like to come to Paris with nothing, she offered us the Arthur Martin stove for fifty bucks, and for another ten dollars, included a coffee maker, two enamels bowls, a water filter, a couple of pans and miscellaneous kitchen utensils. After lugging the cumbersome stove down four flights of stairs, we strapped it onto a folding luggage trolley brought with us. Darkness had descended on exiting onto rue Réaumur. We tried hailing a taxi, but getting one to stop took ten minutes, and in our attempt to squeeze the stove into his trunk, pieces from burners and rotisserie dropped in the street. It started raining. Buses and taxis began a symphony of raucous music. The cabbie took off, leaving us to pull together parts and get it out of the road. We took a break and called Selena from a payphone. When our small friend appeared, we tried to bring our purchases into the Metro Sentier, but the stove was too wide for any door. Finally, at another station with Selena forcing an exit door open, we squeezed it into the Metro Réaumur-Sébastopol. Again, down and up six flights of stairs, changing at Opera for the number 8 line to Ballard, where we exited at Ecole Militaire. We hauled the stove up three more flights of stairs to avenue Bosquet, rolled down six more blocks, and finally, up the 98 steps to our apartment. We would have liked to made dinner for Selena in recompense, but were too tired to move, and had no confidence the used stove still functioned.
Every addition to the apartment seemed to take the same inordinate amount of time, whether finding pots and pans, dining chairs and table, or, a bed. Chairs and our table, we located in the circuitous group of shops, as you entered the Clignancourt Flea Market. At the first vendor, we discovered our table, at a second the chairs. By one stand, dealers were lunching at a table set with fancy dishes, polished silver, and fine wine. On a corner near Chez Louisette (where Edith Piaf impersonators belted out her passionate songs), two gay guys were having a tiff. In front of their boutique, laid out on the ground, was a beautiful Art Deco carpet featuring a floral design. The rug measured five by eight feet and looked to be in excellent condition. Really, five unnoticed slits ran several feet in length. They quoted an equivalent of 25$US for the carpet, so we bought it. Loading everything onto the dining table, four side chairs, and carpet, we hauled the whole kit and caboodle the half-mile to the Metro, shoving it into an open car. One passenger, in accented English, inquired, “Do you move all your furniture this way?”
From Rebecca Scully
My friend and I decided to tour the Gobelins factory but arrived too late for the morning tour and too early for the afternoon tour. So it seemed a good time to go to lunch. We found a brasserie nearby, it’s name long forgotten, and proceeded to order lunch. It was past the lunch rush and they were out of several things. We each ordered the chicken but they only had one plate. We ordered the same appetizer and again they only had one. The lady suggested the “betterave “ and my French didn’t extend to that word. I said, “Je n’sais pas le betterave.” She diplomatically replied, “Vous n’connez pas le betterave?”, politely correcting my verb. She then let loose a string of French, the only words of which I recognized were “Avec moi”. So I followed her to the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator and pointed to a lovely salad plate of beets and potato salad. I exclaimed, “Ah, oui madam, mon favorite!” Smiles all around. She then went over to the stove and picked up a small, flat steak and slapped it back and forth between her hands and indicated that I should order it as there was only one chicken (for my friend). Best lunch ever.
From Del Lancaster- A Catholic Conversation
In 2010 my husband and I visited Paris, staying in a beautiful neighborhood near the Arc de Triomphe. It was the first time my husband, Jim, was in Paris, and we had a fabulous trip.
One morning we visited Notre Dame Cathedral. My husband comes from a devout Catholic family, and Jim was in awe once we entered the cathedral. Before leaving Jim noticed one of the priests was hearing confession and he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity. I knew we had done that just a couple of days before leaving New Orleans, but I said, “sure.” Later, my husband told me he explained to the priest his recent confession but felt he could not travel thousands of miles to see Paris and have the opportunity to be in Notre Dame without receiving the sacrament of penance. Once the priest found out we were from New Orleans, he asked Jim about the Creole food, jazz and the recovery of the city from Hurricane Katrina as well as our personal rebuilding. The short time spent in the confessional made my husband feel like he had a French friend!
That conversation still remains special to my husband after all these years.
From Jan Levine
My favorite Paris story isn’t about me. It’s about my son and Barack and Kathleen. In 2007-08, my son Jake did press advance on Barack Obama’s campaign; in the summer of ’08, he was assigned to advance Obama’s trip to Paris. His job, among other things, was to keep the press on the trip happy. That entailed finding snacks (he told me of careening around the 6th with a shopping cart full of treats from Bon Marché,) games, funny hats etc to keep them fed, entertained and generally in good moods. He realized he needed some help and so he enlisted our Parisian friend Kathleen Espie, (now Messier); she is the brunette with long hair to the left of Obama in the photo below, and with Jake in the other photo below. Needless to say, the press loved Kathleen, loved her fluent accented English, her sense of humor etc. They were so happy that Jake thought he had really nailed it — until the last day in Paris when Kathleen couldn’t work, and when he got on the bus without her, he was greeted by “where’s Kathleen??” and boos when he told them it was just him that day. On the other hand, Kathleen was, and remains, eternally thrilled to have met Obama!
From Vicki Newton
My first time in Paris was Summer 1978 en route to the Cote d'Azur. My husband and I traveled from our home near San Francisco to first spend a week with friends in London. They invited us to go with them to Port Grimaud near St. Tropez for a few days. We all would then continue to Italy, Switzerland, Austria, back through the French countryside and return to London. The Grand Tour! We took a hovercraft ferry from Folkestone to Calais, collected our car and drove to Paris to put the car onto a wagon-lit to travel overnight to Frejus/Toulon. I was elected interpreter due to high school French. We had been given wrong information and had to wait four hours until we could board the train. We were looking around in the vast Gare de Lyon and, being an American on her first trip to the Continent and not knowing better than to speak to a stranger, brazenly went up to a middle aged woman juggling a couple bags of groceries. With a big smile on my face, another cultural taboo, I asked her if she could advise how one would spend 4 hours in Paris. I wasn't sure I was even understood because she simply stared at me for what seemed like forever. I immediately doubted that singing along with Yves Montand on my car's 8 track player had given me the facility necessary to ask a question let alone understand a response. She finally found her voice. She put her hand to her heart and passionately questioned, "Four hours?!"
I was overjoyed to have been understood but certain I'd offended her. I waited for her to walk away. But she didn't move. She was simply flabbergasted! She couldn't understand why that was all the time we'd allowed ourselves to visit Paris. After explaining our situation I included that a British travel agent had planned the trip, sold us the hovercraft and train tickets, and mistakenly assumed we had previously been to Paris as we were headed directly to the South of France. She looked very relieved and suggested we go to Notre Dame. When I asked for directions she threw her hands into the air, grocery bags and all, and nearly shouted that we didn't have a moment to lose. SHE would escort us to Cite, our destination.
She graciously traveled the entire way. What a huge kindness! She had stopped her day, took four grateful tourists in a direction completely opposite from her home and led us to the center of Paris. We could never thank her enough and have always tried to pay it forward.
She was absolutely correct. Four hours?! Four lifetimes wouldn’t be enough for us to spend in our beloved City of Light. I have now traveled to France an incredible 26 times. We always spend several days in Paris and make France our only travel destination. We are impatiently waiting for a vaccine that will allow our annual return.
From Michele Gross-A Bit Too Creative Timing
I have the regrettable tendency to put things off till the last minute or overestimate how much time I have.
I often pay for it later.
Early one Sunday afternoon, I had plans to meet several cartoonists, editors, and like-minded, living looney toon characters for a festival in Montmartre. Did I manage to? Nope.
Here’s what happened.
If any of you out there are or work with “creatives,” you’ll be nodding your head and /or rolling your eyes by the end of this little ditty.
We had convened that Saturday with one of my many talented French cartoonist buddies and his wife to attend a function in Montmartre together. (Word to the wise: in French when you say “on s’appelle,” the literal translation becomes “we’ll call each other,” now a phrase able to plummet uncertainty into my heart like a dagger of doubt.)
That meant we were both responsable (or not) for calling the other one, so... I waited to hear from my friend on Sunday to arrange the time. Did he call? Nope. Did I? Eventually, catching him as he was apparently leaping into the metro from the sound of his voice. Caught off guard, I began maniacally scurrying around like a chicken with its head lopped off, trying to collect the essentials to bring with me such as sketches,metro card, and ID. In my heightened haste, I rang for the elevator and prepared to lock the door. Bad luck, it arrived and someone called it before I had a chance to snag the door. I swore a blue streak and tried to use the precious time to double-check that I’d grabbed everything necessary. Instead, I ended up doing quite the opposite. Unfortunately, my neighbor came out of the elevator and in my surprise I inadvertently slammed the door closed, leaving my keys inside. No problem, this was actually the neighbor who holds a spare set. Sounds easy, right? Nope. In my rush, I’d left my key in the lock on the other side of the door, blocking the spare from entering the lock and turning. By now, late already, crabby, and heading towards a full blown meltdown, I tried every trick in the book. Thanks to makeshift tools donated to the cause by various neighbors, we ended up attempting to get it open with plastic folders, x-rays, credit cards, and even to shoulder-break the door down Hollywood blockbuster style. (FYI, not as simple and infinitely more painful than it looks on screen.) After making sure there was no swat team in riot gear below her apartment, a sweet but very proper neighbor came down to suggest a locksmith, something that on a holiday weekend would be a whopping price worthy of a depressed Kardashian therapy shopping at Gucci after breaking a fingernail. In any case, half the time, locksmiths use exactly the same methods we were. To wrap this up, after over five hours in the hallway with two short breaks- one pit stop to use a neighbor’s bathroom and the other to gratefully accept a cup of coffee from another, not one but two cartoonists showed up, including the one I was originally supposed to meet. He was probably terrified to find me, currently a foreign psychopath lurking in her own hallway, silently cursing him for causing her mishap. Despite the charmingly gentle, French Woody Allen, self-effacing quality about him, wonders never cease because after an apologetic mumble about not being very handy, low and behold in less than a minute, no exaggeration, perhaps even 30 seconds, he had it open. Feeling, in a good sense, somewhat like a balloon slowly losing air, we adjourned to a nearby friend's place to celebrate our victory in true elegant Parisian style with a Champagne apéritif.
From Tom Kulaga and Philip Desiere- Stranded in Versailles
My boyfriend (now husband) Philip and I were in the midst of a splendid two-week vacation to Paris and London in the summer of 2000. We planned our first trip to Versailles around one of the grand son et lumière nighttime shows taking place in the gardens.
Philip checked the train timetable carefully online to ensure there was a late return to Paris and, to our relief, trains ran through the night, allowing us to stay the entire day at Versailles and enjoy the nighttime spectacle. We spent a glorious day at the chateau, taking a guided tour of the Queen’s private rooms, visiting L’Hameau, the Petit and Grand Trianon and walking through the gardens, marveling at the damage from the previous winter’s “la tempête du siècle” that had torn through northern Europe and uprooted centuries-old trees.
Following a restorative early dinner at nearby Trianon Palace Hotel, we thoroughly enjoyed “les Fêtes de Nuit,” an artistic depiction of Louis XIV’s life seen through the dreams of a dancer. Hurrying to the train station, we discovered that the last train to Paris had left; the next would not leave until 5 A.M. We were stranded in sleepy Versailles!
The train personnel suggested we take a taxi back to Paris. We stopped an English-speaking, 20-something couple in the street asking how to get a taxi. We went to their apartment building where we stood on the sidewalk while the young woman used her mobile phone to call taxi companies. All were closed! She went so far as to flag down a car on the street to ask if they would give us a ride but they were not going to Paris.
We thanked them, then headed back to Trianon Palace Hotel with the hope that a taxi, a car service, a room – something – could bring relief. Along the way Philip spotted three couples. In his high-school French he explained our predicament. After some thought this man arranged with his friends to take one of his passengers home to make room for us. Good-byes were said; kisses exchanged. We were on our way, and within 20 minutes were dropped off in the 7th Arrondissement.
Today, of course, with Uber and our own cell phones there would be no dilemma. But back in those prehistoric days, we truly depended on the kindness of strangers. We have always loved the French but this experience sealed the deal. And Philip, now a New York City tour guide, goes out of his way to help any tourist who appears lost or in need of guidance. Vive le France!
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.
Staying at the Paris France was an unforgettable experience. We saw a part of Paris that most American tourists didn’t visit at that time, a small slice of everyday working class Paris. On future trips we stayed in the upscale 16th Arrondissement near Emilio’s apartment. I barely remember most of the hotels where we stayed in Europe….but the Paris France. Yes, we’ll always have the Paris France. And that is the story of how I fell in love with Paris without reservations.
From Larry Chrysler
In 1998 I began what was a frustrating and often perplexing search to buy a pied-a-terre in Paris. I began my search reading the want ads in the newspaper Le Figaro, walking the streets looking up at windows that had a Vendre sign, and going to four different real estate agencies where often an agent might condescendingly agree to show an apartment without any attempt at establishing a relationship with the potential buyer - me.
Although in Paris there are real estate agencies on almost every block with pictures in the windows of apartments for sale there is not a Multiple Listing System and therefore, an apartment may be for sale in the same building as the agency but the agent has no idea it is on the market..
After two years of continuing my search I found and apartment in St. Germain, an arrondissement where I stayed in during my Paris visits. The process of buying the apartment began a French bureaucratic experience.
To buy an apartment one needs the services of a Notaire. The Notaire is a lawyer specializing in real estate and all legal matters pertaining to the purchase or sale of property. In my case a lengthy search had to be made to be certain the property was still not owned by the nearby church of St Sulpice as it had in god knows what year. Then there is a 10 percent down payment - La Promesse de Vente - which begins a 90 day escrow. And then a final meeting to sign the purchase papers.
The meeting was at the presiding Notaire’s office. Included in the meeting was me (the buyer), a required by law translator being I am a foreigner and might not understand the proceedings, the sellers who were a husband and wife - he looking very uncomfortable and she with a perpetual tight lipped grimace plus their two agents. One of the agents for the sellers spoke perfect English smiling at me each time something was being translated by the less than able official translator.
After much discussion, reading of documents and endless translations a question was asked: How was I to pay for the apartment? Luckily, I had been previously informed of a law stating should a bank loan be refused I had 10 days to cancel the purchase. I replied, “With a bank loan, of course”. There was a lot of huffing and puffing, speaking to one another and the Notaire in very rapid French, none of which I understood. Then haughtily the sellers said since they had spent so much time here and negotiating with me they would agree to the terms. Documents were signed and we all shook hands.
Walking to the elevator the wife turned to me and said, “Monsieur vous avez etes tres merchant ave le prix”. (You were very bad about the price). To which I replied in French that the apartment needed a complete renovation. At that with a heaving chest she blurted, “Bien! Chacun a son propre gout!” (Well! Each has his own taste!)
From Michele Kurlander- How I discovered a zoo in Paris
I’m just a wanderer I think the appropriate term is a “flaneur” – someone who strolls and discovers. That’s me- particularly when I am in Paris , a truly walkable city where I unearth wonders just by starting out with no particular route or end point in mind but with my eyes wide open.
One afternoon maybe 10 years ago, I felt like walking along water, so I descended the stairs near Notre Dame and walked along the Seine heading east. I love the boats moored there –a couple look like houseboats. I found a sculpture garden on my right. (the Jardin Tino Rossi with the likes of Zadkine and Brancusi)
Reaching Quai Saint-Bernard near rue Cuvier– maybe 15 minutes from Notre Dame- I looked across the quai and spotted behind an iron fence what appeared to be a huge and beautiful park. There’s a park there? I crossed the quai, and entered through the gates,.
Expanses of lawns and flowers and paths and buildings and on the southwest side, a maze of walkways designed to meander up and down along narrow paths turning around and through lush foliage and trees.
What was this place?
I looked for a sign and discovered it was called the Jardin des Plantes. Ok. That made sense. The Garden of Plants. It was a beautiful spring day with a blue sunny sky, so I decided to continue to wander within the confines of this beautiful garden, along the curved paths through the lawns and flower gardens.
I passed a large building with stone hippopotamus sculptures.
Then, through the trees, I thought I noticed some kind of animal. A large one. Maybe a deer? No – much bigger. And there it was - a giraffe.
Where was I?I stopped at a hut, paid a fee, and walked in to discover, in the heart of the 5th arrondissement, La Ménagerie
A zoo! Right there on the left bank not far from Notre Dame.
A zoo with a colorful history; a zoo that once housed the first giraffe to set foot in France and has housed at times over 2000 animals, representing 200 species, almost a third of which are endangered; part of the National Research Institute of the National Natural History Museum - also there on the grounds- the second oldest zoo in Europe- large enough to be interesting but sufficiently small and accessible to permit a short visit rather than an excursion, and not far from Notre Dame.
I return often.. Plenty to see, including a wonderful snow leopard; snakes and reptiles; crocodiles; giant porcupines; deer and other hoofed animals; kangaroos; winged predators skulking on high ledges, their wings held partially spread as if a dracula cape; the bright pink display of a nm group of flamingos. monkeys and apes – including the guy I now think of as my buddy – a large and surly orangutan.
You can also get there by taking rue Lacepede east from the Contrescarpe on rue Mouffetard, by the way.
I love Paris!
