I promised i'd never blog: A Walk in the 'Hood

Can you believe this is right in our neighbourhood?!
All photos courtesy of Dave

I walk out our door, down the tight wooden spiral staircase that leads to a small courtyard paved in large and very worn stone. I follow a short passage way to a large heavy door and push the button to unlock it. Outside is Paris. In this city there is something to see literally on every corner and our own neighbourhood is no exception.

At the end of our street are two cafes with tables and chairs crowding the sidewalk, usually packed with people. Across the street from the cafes is a park with a playground and benches. This is the gathering place for young children and old men. The street beside the park is permanently blocked off with attractive planters and is the local soccer field. Boys of all shapes, sizes and colour throw down their jackets as goal posts and have loud and enthusiastic games. They are unencumbered with coaches, uniforms, soccer boots, pylons or even grass! I saw 2 ten year old boys part with "Salute" and a hand shake. Seems they have things well worked out.

A little further on is our neighbourhood shopping district. Everything is here, poissonerie, (fish market) fromagerie ( cheese market) flower shops, boulangerie ( bakery) boucherie (butcher) Italian deli, Greek deli, kitchen store, organic roasted chicken shop, and vegetable markets. And that's just on the street! If you look closely you'll notice a small doorway with a faded sign indicating the entrance to The Enfant Rouge Market. Inside is another world of vendors of everything gourmet. The market dates back to 1610 and is named after an orphanage that used to be nearby where the children wore red smocks.

All is lush and fragrant and squeezed into the smallest spaces possible. The green and purple tipped artichokes are piled next to leafy cabbages and wooden crates of heirloom tomatoes. Four varieties of oranges are lovely next to three varieties of strawberries, all arranged with their pointed bottoms sticking up. Fresh bundles of basil, thyme, and sage nestle next to baby spinach and arugula. Steam and aromas pour from tiny kitchens where everything from Morroccan to Caribbean to Japanese to Italian are available to take away or eat on small tables crowded together. The flower stall is run by a young gentleman who is patient as I fumble with both language and money. He tucks a rose into the bundle of tulips I purchase. He asks where I'm from and says he is from Bangladesh, as though we are compatriots in a new country. Though of course his french is perfect.

If I am feeling brave and extravagant I shop at the market, where all manner of conversation is necessary. Choosing one's vegetables is fine if you can reach them, but they are piled high and deep, so asking the shopkeeper for "trois tomate s'il vous plait" is required. Oh the trepidation! The thrill of victory! The agony of defeat when one realizes one has said "I'd like here olives".

If I'm feeling worn out I go to "Franprix", the cheap grocery store (cheap is relative as everything here is expensive!) You know those chipper--oh--so--friendly cashiers at Thrifty's? They don't do chipper at Franprix. Security guards walk the aisles (ok, they can be helpful, as when I was looking for the right button on the do it yourself weigh machine. The security guy quickly stepped up beside me to push the carrot button I was searching for) The cashiers are tired and bored. The line ups are usually long, because the customers are remarkably slow. Our Paris mentor, Uncle Fred shrewdly pointed out that Parisians fumble terribly with their change. And it's so true! Young and old alike poke through their coins like they've never used cash before.

At Franprix it's pack your own groceries; the cashiers will occasionally throw some bags your way (though the french are well accustomed to bringing their own bags). So we wait patiently as a young fellow packs all his items into his roll cart (those things that only the elderly use in Canada are used by all here...very practical! Anyone for changing the trend?! Allie?! Scott?!) and only when his cart is full does he begin poking with his coins. The cashier and he have to discuss the coins before the transaction is complete. And so it is with the next customer, except this time the woman appears to never have used a bank card and a great discussion ensues about how to scan it. But the French are polite, and all wait without complaint.

Down our street the other direction are the famous shops of the Marais. Small independent designers and shopkeepers of all variety have made this area famous. "Nous sommes lèche-vitrines" (we are window licking) the displays of gorgeous made to measure lingerie, hand made hats, hand crafted belts, and delicate bags from Japan. I venture into a shoe store that displays shoes like museum pieces. A gentleman with a trimmed beard and crinkly eyes doesn't pause at my confession of not understanding french. He continues (in french) showing me the shoes, the little embroidered eyelashes on this one, the miniature change purse on the toe of another. I reluctantly leave them all behind, one pair would have cost our rent for the month.

We stroll on and Dave leads us to a 13th century cloister, the oldest in Paris. Immediately the calm and cool overtake us. There is an art show here, with modern landscapes hung on the ancient walls. The young artist sits in a corner with his book while we and a few others wander. He's sold many of them. We leave empty handed, would have been another month's rent.

The last surviving medieval cloister in Paris

And so it goes. Dave and I walk for hours, sitting for a while in a sunny courtyard, or leaning on a stone bridge overlooking the Seine. We search out Gougiere, (heavenly cheese filled pastry) only available in Isle St Louis, but they are sold out. We wander into churches built in the 14th century, and listen to the organist practice. All in a day in Paris.

KA