LETTER FROM PARIS #5 - odds and ends

I’m used to panhandlers. Downtown Toronto is full of them,. But there are none so creative as in Paris. Exiting the tunnel under the Arc de Triomphe, at the foot of the steps is a hunched over man, his hands together, fingertips touching, in a kind of Eastern obeisance. In front of him is something to drop alms into.
Cut to an hour later. This same man, no longer in the position of a begging supplicant, is having a spirited meeting with three ladies. They appear to be Romany, perhaps the same ones who loiter with intent next to where the sightseeing buses stop. He is smoking a cigarette and seems to be in charge. He has been transformed from prayerful beggar to industrious entrepreneur. Do those three women work for him? Are they colleagues? Is he a kind of pimp for shadowy thieves and consters? It looks pretty organized.

Cut to St. Severin. Horrors you say. St. Severin used to be a self-contained little village just below the south fork of the Seine opposite Notre Dame. There is a sign that proclaims a kind of sovereignty over the neighbourhood reminding visitors that people live here and asking them to respect the surroundings.
It is a mecca for tourists, and for the crowd who “hang" around ‘Boul Mish.” The little side streets throng with tourists and endless restaurants from fast food “gyros” to some kind of elegance. Who would put the French reputation for fine dining at stake in a touristy jungle? All I can tell you is: we had prix fixe 3 course lunches. We started with onion soup, went to the mains, then to dessert. The chicken was good enough, the fries crisp, the beef bourguignon a little tough but tasty, the tarte aux pommes acceptable and the cheeses more than just good. And the bread? No one can beat a French baguette.
Nothing was great. But nothing was bad. The best was that it was 10 Euros! Don’t be a snob. Try St. Severin.

Third bit was a trip to Saint Louis cathedral, Napoleon’s Tomb and the museum of war at Les Invalides and perhaps some musing about Saint (?) Louis.
I will write at some length about the tales French children grow up with and the hubris that accompanies it. Later.

For now we await the arrival of Michele and Henri and perhaps an afternoon at their home in Chantilly. I remind myself that I have to try to rent an electric keyboard so my virtuousity does not get rusty.