Paris, the last week of January 2011, passing through the Loire Valley
We stayed with our old Franco-Spanish friend Soledad (real name, Soledina) and her husband Jean-Paul, in the 17th arrondissement.
That's a long way from our usual haunts, so we left the car in the garage and took the bus to the Rive Gauche
Rolling down Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Près in the city bus
Froggy went along for the ride - he hates staying at home, poor guy.
I took August to see a medical museum, since he's fascinated by anatomical matters. This one is called Musée de la Santé Publique et des Hôpitaux de Paris (Museum of Social Welfare and the Hospitals of Paris). It's only open one day each week, and is located in a fine palace facing the Cathedral. I lived behind it back in the 90's but never went inside, so this was my chance to do so.
There weren't any amputated limbs and entrails for August to delight in, so he had to make do with some curious 19th century medical gadgets.
I explained how the forceps were used, in the days before Caesarian operations became widespread.
He thought there were too many paintings, but I enjoyed them. Here is a pioneering pediatrician with his students.
When I told him this surgeon's kit included a saw for amputations, he warmed up a bit.
He was surprised to learn that in the old days, mothers in dire straits often abandoned their babies on the steps of churches, to be taken care of by the Church. Most of them died, but some went on to become priests and even cardinals...
The foundlings' home was called "Les enfants trouvés". Jean-Jacques Rousseau disposed of his five babies by leaving them there, as he reports in his Confessions. This wasn't widely known until well after he wrote his famous treatise on child rearing and education, fortunately. August and I were both intrigued by the mummy-like swaddling cothes shown here.
At least there was a missing head on this statue, even if it was made of stone.
At noon we met Wijjie for lunch at our favourite Chinese restaurant in the Latin Quarter.
It is one of the oldest in Paris, famous for its delicious duck and pork (I've shown it in previous Parisian visits).
Soledad and Jean-Paul joined us. August still hasn't learned to eat with chopsticks, but he'll soon get there. I learned at age 7 or 8 in the Vancouver Chinatown, where we had lunch every Sunday at the "Bamboo Terrace".
This dish is as delicious as it looks!
After filling up, August had an on-the-spot nap.
I tried to make up for the rather academic nature of the the museum with something more gruesome and macabre, in southern Paris. I visited this unique place some 30 years ago - Les Catacombes de Paris. Here we are at Denfert-Rochereau, heading for the entrance.
We descended into the Paris Catacombs, where some six million skeletons are buried, equivalent to the city's current population. August didn't see any human flesh, but there were more bones than he ever dreamed of.
It is a spooky sort of place - the sign on the entrance says "Stop! You are entering the empire of Death". We had to walk a very long way down a narrow tunnel so low I almost scraped my head on the roof, until we got to the "ossuary".
He was a bit scared, actually. I explained the history of this place, which is quite different to the Catacombs of Rome, after which it was named.
In the 18th century, and long before the Revolution, the cemeteries of Paris were overflowing with decaying corpses. Most bodies were simply placed in common pits, which were so full that they had become mounds rising in the air. The stench was unbearable, wells were being poisoned and underground cellars even collapsed under the weight of the bodies in the adjacent pits.
It was decided to empty the cemeteries of their bodies and re-bury them in the disused gypsum mines and stone quarries in southern Paris. The long task began with Les Innocents, which stood in the current Beaubourg quarter, by the city's central food market, Les Halles (there is still a monumental fountain there called Fontaine des Innocents)
Every night for almost a century, carts loaded with bones from all the cemeteries, monasteries, convents and church graveyards of Paris - and there were hundreds of them - rolled through the streets and across the bridges of the Seine, followed by priests chanting the Office of the Dead, to ensure the living that their ancestors were being re-buried in accordance with religious dictates.
The workers arranged the femurs and skulls artistically in a front wall, throwing the other, smaller bones in the space behind. The "catacombes" became a great tourist site, attracting many Parisian families in search of a Sunday thrill of the morbid kind. Signs like this added to the "frisson" they felt, saying, in Latin and French, "Know that each passing day might be your last", signed Horace.
"Happy is he who keeps always in sight the time of his death, and who is always ready to die". Not very cheery, but in the 19th century people delighted in cemeteries, vampires and the like. A small exhibit was even created to add to the "chamber of horrors" effect, containing deformed skulls and bones that were supposedly of scientific interest (the chamber in which this museum was installed collapsed a long time ago, it seems).
The site is apparently the world's largest necropolis, in other words, graveyard.
These bones were put here in the midst of the Revolution, when the Church of Saint André des Arts still existed. It was later demolished to make way for the Boulevard Saint Michel, which runs through the Latin Quarter. I lived for several years on the street that still has the name of the vanished church, "rue Saint-André-des-Arts", in a cheap hotel also having the same name (it's not cheap any more, though).
These two memorials honour the victims of street fighting in the French Revolution. The great Danton was buried here during La Terreur, and Robespierre (who sent him to the guillotine) as well, but there is no way of knowing which bones are theirs.
As you can see, the evictions took many years. It began in the 1780's, and this one dates from 1850.
I picked up one of the femurs, to see what such a thing weighs after a few centuries - the answer is, almost nothing! August refused to touch it because he thought it might come to life.
A supporting column was attractively adorned with more skulls and femurs. The French are born artists, it seems, whether it comes to baking a lamb's leg or stacking human bones.
The worst part was getting out of there - 20 meters straight up this narrow spiral staircase! That's like six or seven stories of an apartment house, and there's no place to rest on the way, with other tourists huffing and puffing behind you (in fact there were only about 20 of them down there, perhaps because it was off-season).
August did very well, though, and so did I, considering I was just a few days from my 69th birthday, although my heart was pounding like the bells of Notre Dame by the time we reached the top. The guardian sitting there was equipped with a large device marked DEFEBRILLATEUR hanging on the wall, which he said was in case someone's heart wouldn't slow down. I was told that he's also there to give everyone a bone-check, in case the tourists make off with a skull or femur as a souvenir. It did occur to me, actually, and it would have been easy to sneak past him with one in my bag or up my sleeve, but for some reason I passed up the chance.
Some other plucky old folks came up behind me, gasping for breath, which made me think that there might have been a sign at the entrance warning visitors of the ordeal. It wasn't very reassuring, either, to learn that there is an electronic head-count at either end, to make sure that no one gets locked in for the night. August may well go down again one day for a second look, but it won't be with his Dad.
And a final word of advice if, like the 240,000 tourists shown for 2008, you decide to take the plunge, both literally and figuratively. Have a pee and a glass of water first, because down there, there are just bones.
We went down at Denfert-Rochereau and came up half a mile to the south near Alésia, where I posed for August in front of this beautiful fish shop, which I always admire for its paintings, whenever I drive past. Nice to see some bones with fresh meat on them, after our underground experience.
The big fish.
A well-deserved cup of tea for me and a sirop à la grenadine for speleologist August.
The church at Alésia, and metro station in front of the café.
We both needed a visit to the loo, where there was an unusual "pissoir" with a lid...
...as well as an unusual wash basin, in which you could almost have a bath. These relics must have been there for years.
We were too tired to find a bus so hailed a cab instead. I took this one of August on the way home...
...and he took this one of me. As you have seen in other journeys of ours, he is a born photographer.
The next morning we all went to the far north of Paris to see the Basilica of Saint Denis, the most ancient Gothic Church in France and famous as the graveyard of almost all of France's monarchs. You can see Wijjie and August in the left hand corner.
The basilica is far off the beaten path and I had never been there before, a grave (forgive the pun) shortcoming I was determined to remedy. It is a very elegant and graceful church, even if it has suffered from neglect and been patched up here and there by Viollet-le-Duc, the man who restored Notre Dame (brilliantly, I admit).
In the 19th century the north bell tower began to crumble and had to be taken down.
On the square in front of it stands the Mairie of the Seine Saint Denis department, a satellite town of Paris.
The church does not compare to Notre Dame for grandeur, but the gates are far more precious, not only because they are things of beauty in themselves, but because most of the façade of Notre Dame is a 19th century restoration, and these are untouched pre-Gothic medieval or "romanesque".
In fact, only the southern (right hand) gate of Notre Dame de Paris is the medieval original, la Porte de Sainte-Anne, and in my un-humble opinion it can't hold a candle to the un-restored bas-reliefs of Saint Denis. Unfortunately, they have not yet been cleaned of their centuries of soot.
This one alone makes the church a rare jewel, rivalling the best medieval wall carvings of Burgundy - and Paris is scarcely renowned for its Romanesque art. It is hard to believe that these masterful carvings have not been better cared for. Perhaps the French Government should sell them to the Americans, who could set them up in the Cloisters Museum in New York, where they would be the star attraction, for certain. Can you imagine the resulting howls of indignation from les citoyens?
The nave is an example of Gothic architecture at its most refined.
The "rosace" is nice to look at, but not genuine. It was built during one of the modern restorations.
The recumbent statues of the monarchs date from the Middle Ages (mostly broken by the Revolutionaries) and also the 19th Royalist Restoration under King Louis XVIII, such as the one we see above.
Louis XVIII had this statue built to the memory of his ill-fated brother, Louis XVI, and his wife Marie-Antoinette. The bones of the previous kings were torn out of their tombs by the Revolutionaries and thrown into a nearby pit, later gathered up and, being impossible to identify, put all together in the crypt. But after Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette were guillotined, they were thrown in a lime pit behind the Madeleine Church, and later exhumed, as I have explained in my visit to La Chapelle Expiatoire (see it in the index). Their bones were later taken to Saint Denis.
Some truly medieval carvings have also been salvaged for display.
One reason the basilica has been neglected is a social one - for the past half-century this part of Paris has become a ghetto for immigrants from both North Africa and "sub-Saharan Africa", as we are supposed to say nowadays (rather than Black Africa). The Saint Denis district has a notoriously high rate of juvenile delinquency, although when we went there we scarcely saw a soul in the streets around the church. The cab driver said it's OK in the daytime, not so good after nightfall.
Back in more familiar territory, the very trendy Le Marais quarter, August made friends with the cat of this building's "concierge".
It was l'heure de ça, eating time, and August was starving when we entered this business people's lunch place near Place des Vosges.
Things picked up when the food arrived - Wijjie and I were hungry too, after all that walking in the cold winter air.
She had steak and I had a boeuf bourgignon with gratinated cauliflower, which did the trick.
Afterwards we strolled in the old Jewish quarter, "la Rue des Rosiers", where Wijjie bought a Middle-Eastern pastry which reminded her of home.
I got a piece too.
A last burst of winter sunlight on the Pont Neuf...
...with La Conciergerie Palace in the background
The Loire Valley
After Paris, we set out to visit two castles of the Loire Valley. First, we stopped (that's my car outside) at this modest bistrot in a roadside hotel near the Château de Chambord, called Hôtel du Parc. Modest in appearance, and price - but food was magnificent.
August was starving again...
...but picked up when he had his hors d'oeuvre of paté de campagne. He is especially fond of pickles.
I had pig's tongue in piquante sauce, which sounded a bit strong in flavour. But in fact the meat was very mild and delicately spiced, not at all "hot", as the name suggested. Home-made frites too - increasingly hard to find in France.
Most places fry up frozen frites nowadays, which is a pity since the quality of a restaurant's fried potatoes used to be a point of pride. Autres temps, autres moeurs.
Wijjie had this filet of fish which had been poached in some aromatic "fumet" or fish stock. It melted in my mouth (I ate about half of her dish as well as mine, as usual).
August went for the sausage with lentils, all home-made (a lot of places are now buying these dishes factory-made in plastic bags for heating in boiling water, or popping in the micro-wave, so you have to be careful). He wouldn't let me try any, though. As you see, I now have some serious competition coming up there.
I recently saw a shocking report on the France2 channel about it, with candid cameras showing how much of the food served in Parisian brasseries is bought in vacum-packages marked "BOEUF BOURGUIGNON - IMMERSE FOR 3 MINUTES IN BOILING WATER". So what tourists think is real French cooking in Paris restaurants is often produced in factories, some of which - according to the report - aren't even in France, but Romania and Bulgaria... Even the venerable "soup kitchen" Le Chartier I used to eat at cheaply and happily 30 years ago is doing it, it seems. I got so depressed I had to turn the programme off in the middle. What I do now in Paris is eat either at friends' homes or in Chinese restaurants, and search for authentic places like this in the countryside. If you can afford places in Paris like Le Grand Véfour, you are OK, of course, but the thought of what such a place costs alone is enough to spoil my appetite.
Nice young chef in the background - and his young wife who served us was nice too, but I couldn't get a good picture of her because she moved too fast, waiting on all the tables on her own.
A happy man.
The whole bill, with two glasses of vin de touraine, came to about 45 euros.
It was getting late and we had to choose between Chambord and nearby Chenonceau, so chose the latter, hoping to see Chambord the next time around.
The Château de Chenonceau was built on the foundations of an ancient water mill spanning the River Cher. My first sight was a bit disappointing because all the photos and films I have seen over the years, usually taken from the air, make it look very large and monumental, while it's really quite small. Elegant and charming, though.
These "châteaux" of the Loire Valley were fairy-tale versions of medieval fortresses created as summer villas for the nobles in Paris - it's all just make-believe, moats, ramparts and turrets. But in the most tasteful Renaissance style, to be sure.
A Spanish tourist took father and son crossing the moat.
A view from the long gallery crossing the river. Unintentionally, the reflection of the window panes and my head came out in the sky, which I think is rather surrealistic.
A plaque tells us that in this gallery, several thousand wounded soldiers were treated during World War I. You can imagine the beds lined up on either side and the moustachioed officers with their bandaged heads, just like the film "A Farewell to Arms".
August is a great fan of Louis XIV, who was married in our home town Saint Jean de Luz.
The Gothic-style chapel of Chenonceau.
The weather was beautiful, but very, very cold. The only visitors were a busload of Japanese tourists, five or six of whom took photos of August, thinking he was a handsome little French boy. Even though he's officially Swedish and has an English father and a Syrian-born mother, his mother tongue is French so they weren't far off.
There is a maze or labyrinthe in the gardens, which August wanted to penetrate.
But I got to the middle first.
That night we slept downstream in Angers, where the only restaurant open was a spaghetti parlour. Any port in a storm!
The next day we headed west to Nantes, where we had lunch with my old friend Annick, in her little village by the Loire.
She is 77 and going strong - full of beans, as they say. Knows how to handle her wine, too!
The restaurant was once a nice, simple place, but now it seems that, a few years ago, it was taken over by an up-to-date young couple who "improved" everything. The disappointing result was that the prices are double and the food is half as good.
Such places are described by the French as branchés, meaning that they are trendy, stylish and purportedly original, but also fake, pretentious and over-priced. Next visit we'll go somewhere with less snob appeal, I think.
Annick gave us tea in her cottage by the Loire. She sold her boutique in Paris and retired there almost 20 years ago.
Two old dog-lovers from the Rue Mouffetard in Paris, circa 1982. She sold my pen-and-ink postcards in her gift shop for many years, and we became friends.
On the way home, next day, we stopped at our favourite restaurant south of Bordeaux, to lunch on their truly heavenly locally-grown white asparagus...
...asperges blanches des Landes, with a very subtle sauce
...and incredibly fresh, tender and flavourful lamb and duck, grilled on the coals. Rather gruff service, but who cares when the food is this good?
Magret de canard on the spit. I can still taste it in my mouth...
Next stop, Saint Jean de Luz!
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ALSO BY LAWRENCE BOHME
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WEB SITES
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(as well as this one, French Places)
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donlorenzo.com
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vivagranada.com
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EBOOKS
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about his life and travels, on
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amazon.com
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lulu.com
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