Paris - when it drizzles

I always tell people who ask about weather that the color of Paris is gray.  Pearl gray, soft gray, dove gray, misty gray.  January in Paris is just that.

We’re long past the days of chasing monuments, but we’ve been walking and bussing and metro-ing around town for a few days, through the touristy and not-so-touristy parts.  Went up to Montmartre to check our the Marché Saint Pierre, a famous fabric shop, which turns out to be surrounded by other fabric shops and provided a riot of color, even in the rain.

 

On the Place du Tertre, the artists just stuck up their umbrellas and kept on sketching, trying to hustle a few customers.  We stopped for lunch and listened to the piano player do a jazzy version of ‘Singin’ in the rain’.

 On the only day when the sun came out for an hour, we walked through Notre Dame Cathedral.   2013 celebrates the 850 year anniversary of the start of the building of Notre Dame.  Here  is one of the rose windows (there are three).

In another mode entirely,  January’s also the time of the semi-annual sales in Paris, and everything but everything is on sale.   I’m not much of a shopper, but it did give me an excuse to visit the Galeries Lafayette, one of the big department stores.  Here’s why it's worth a look, even if you're not buying.

 So - not entirely gray in Paris.   But would you believe - they're forecasting snow for tomorrow!

The French National Sport

Don’t know why I thought we could spend almost two months in France and not encounter a day or two graced by the great national sport of France.  No, not soccer – but `la grève’  - a strike.

This time it’s the taxi drivers who are on strike, which wouldn’t disturb us at all were it not on the very day that we’re taking the train from Lyon to Paris, and had decided, in view of our heavier now suitcases, that we’d just take taxis to and from the train stations and relax. 

So when I asked the desk clerk at the hotel last night whether we needed to reserve the taxi the night before, she said, ‘well, normally, it’s no problem, except that there’s a taxi strike tomorrow.’

That’s the thing about French strikes.  They’re scheduled – and announced in advance – and so although the aim is to disrupt the normal flow of things, there’s usually some sort of alternative.  In this case, it involved hauling our suitcases to the tram stop in Lyon and riding the tram to the train station.  

And then, at the other end, figuring out what was the smoothest metro connection in Paris, with the least number of stairs, because of course,  it’s a NATIONAL  strike.   Not only are the Parisian taxis on strike too, but they’re out doing something called an opération escargot, which means they’re driving the highways and main roads into Paris six abreast at a snail’s pace, snarling traffic (and not picking up passengers.)

But thoughtfully, the metro and buses are running, though the buses had to alter a few routes to get around.

All of this is finished now and everyone's gone back about their business, the point having been made.  Till the next time.

Lyon-izing

We’ve traded the sun of the south for the journey north, and arrived in Lyon to gray skies, which have only broken once so far.  I heard one man say that the air tasted like snow.  Not yet.

 Our first full day here was Sunday, so we set out to walk from our hotel to the center and see what was happening.  On Place Carnot we found the dog and cat market, with breeders showing off their dogs – the full array of chihuahuas and yorkies and jack russells and all the other small dogs we’ve seen everywhere. 

Another side of the Place held the food market and the third side the forein – clothing and household stuff.

Further along, after a stop at the tourist office, we found the big Saint Antoine food market, running along the river, with the vertical Old Lyon in the background.   

This is a gorgeous big market, the air filled with the smell of roasting chicken (Sunday dinner!) and food stands punctuated by flower stalls selling perfect tulips.   

 

We kept going and came upon the book sellers (just like in Paris, only newer stands).  

I was disappointed that we hadn’t been there on the right weekend for the book fair in Nice, so I got my fill of browsing.  On the wall near the booksellers’ quai is one of  Lyon’s famous painted walls.

Crossing the river – the Saone on this side of town – we found the artists’s market, where people had strung up their canvases and other work despite the cold.   

And another painted wall.

 On the following day we explored a little the Croix Rousse, the old silkworkers neighborhood on the north hill of the city.  Another steep hillside, which we walked down, getting lost along the way.

Lyon is famous for the hidden passages that run through old buildings and courtyards. , the traboules, which were used by the silk weavers to transport their goods down the hills to the merchants, (and much later, to foil the Nazi occupiers during the war).   Some are accessible to the public, but it takes a bit of searching.

Lunch - on the rocks

 An addendum to the post on café sitting.

Back to Nice again on a bright sunny day.  We got off the bus somewhere before the Negresco so that we could walk up the Promenade des Anglais with a good view.  

We learned on a previous visit that going the other direction in the afternoon means you're looking into the low-slanted sun and all you see is glare and silhouettes.

What we found was that the restaurants had moved outside and set up directly on the beach, which in Nice is mostly composed of pebbles.  

 Tables, tablecloths, chairs, and waiters carefully de-boning the fish on silver platters.

 They even brought out comfortable seating to watch people playing by the water.

One restaurant followed another, five or six of them, leading up to where the beach got too steep and too narrow.

 

January - Riviera style

The Fine Art of Café Sitting

Happy New Year!

Or as the French say, meilleurs voeux pour le nouvel an!

It’s the pleasures of the day-to-day that this stay in France is about, and café sitting is one we never tire of.   No matter that it’s winter and that, even in the south, mornings are nippy and later the air cools with the setting sun.   The café terrace remains center stage.

In Paris and other northern cities, cafés are glassed in for the winter with portable walls, but here those are a lot fewer.   People may be bundled in jackets and scarves, huddled under the heat lamps, but sit outside they will.   Some cafés have a partial awning in deference to the occasional shower, some don’t.  Doesn't matter - outside is where everyone wants to be.

 Café-sitting requires that you take your time.  It’s all about NOT rushing.   It’s true that you can sit for a long time for the price of one cup of coffee, though doing this through the lunch hour is not appreicated.    

 Once the tablecloths and silverware are set out, you’ll be told politely (or maybe not so politely) that the tables are reserved for those who order food.

If you don’t want to eat much, morning – sometime between 9 and noon, and afternoon, from about 3 till 6 or 7, are prime times for just sitting and watching the world go by.

You must, of course, choose a seat looking out on the passing scene.    

You can shift the chairs around to share one of the tiny tables, or take up two tables if it’s not a busy day.  But sitting with your back to the passing crowd misses the point.

The café of course is only partly about the coffee or the wine or the food – it’s about surveying the passing scene, while you yourself become part of it.   

Some café  sitters are solitary, some hang out with a friend or two, of whatever species.

Alas, café-sitting is no longer an inexpensive tourist activity.  Still, it’s true that the croissant always taste better with a café wrapped around them.

Happy New Year! from the

A very French New Year commercial - dating back to 1976 and created by the inimitable Serge Gainsbo


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1nnNyVHqJg&feature=endscreen