Most of my friends know me well. Once again, you can see it in the books that have been gifted to me over the years. Anything about Paris is usually a good bet. My friend Ron gave me Adam Gopnik's book: Paris to the Moon many years ago. It was perfect then and is still perfect today. Not long ago, Ron mentioned that he had a "little happy" for me. He's usually full of "happy" surprises when we get together. This time, it was a hard back copy of The Only Street in Paris-Life on the Rue des Martyrs, by Elaine Sciolino.
I love getting books about Paris, but this one was particularly special. I've traveled the Rue des Martyrs many times, although I'd never stopped long enough to explore. I was always "on my way" between Madam Vera's and William's, not unlike I'm always only briefly on my way through Paris these days to get home to the Chatette.
Although I had my "day" in Paris for me for my birthday in 2014, a day is never really enough. It won't be this summer. But, once we're back in 2017; I'm going to find enough time to take Sciolino's book in hand (or at least make some lists) and wander that Rue des Martyrs piece of my route that I have only breezed through all these years.
As I look at what life and living are going to be for me once Sammie Cat and I are back home in 2017, getting back to my writing is already on my list. A pilgrimage to the Rue des Martyrs and some extended time in Paris fit right in. That novel I've started and never finished is set in Paris. It just so happens that "Morgan" is wandering in some of these same neighborhoods and places, as you can see from the excerpt below:
"Morgan wakes on Wednesday with the daylight, which doesn't arrive until 10am. Even though "her" best part of the day has escaped, she starts out on foot in the direction of the Louvre. Even with map in hand, she zigzags around Paris. Streets stop. Streets angle. Streets change names in the middle of the block. Cold and frustrated, she ducks into a cafe on the Boulevard Haussmann for a grand creme. It feels good to sit down, even though she knows she is an obvious outsider. She isn't sure where she is or where she is going and has no idea of how to ask for help. She wants to cry.
Rejuvenated by the sweet warmth of the grand creme and a chance to sit in a dry warm place, she heads outside to try one more time. Heading down the Boulevard des Italiens changing to the Boulevard des Capucines, she finds the Opera and somehow gets turned around on the Rue du Quatre Septembre to the Place de la Bourse to the Rue Reumur and in some unknown configuration meanders her way to Les Halles. Morgan is drawn to the contrast of the gothic grandeur of St. Eustache beside the modern architecture of Les Halles. Both surround the statue of the leaning head with the cupped hand.
Morgan gives up and sits down on a ledge by the "head" to pull out her map.
"God I look like a tourist, but this is self preservation. I don't have a clue how I got here. Maybe I can just walk around and get a feel for the place," Morgan wonders.
After three turns around Les Halles, Morgan plots the route back to the hotel: the Rue de Louvre to Rue Montmartre to Faubourg du Montmartre to Rue des Martyrs.
The head in the heart of Les Halles becomes a place from which Morgan can always find her way.
Sometimes I feel like I'm still trying to find mine.
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