Oct 19

Oct 19 Expat in Paris (II)

Architecture, Cityscapes, Demonstrations, Donald Trump, Travel

My walk along the Canal Saint-Martin took me toward the north. The following day, I headed south, but also encountered the canal as it led to the Seine. Before meandering those waterways on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, I first stopped in the Musée Carnavalet, which is the oldest museum in the city. It had an exhibit entitled, The People of Paris, 1926-1936, that looked at the city through three population censuses. Much to my surprise, I learned that Paris hit its peak population in 1921, with 2.89 million inhabitants. Its current population is just over 2 million people, creating an anomaly: the population is down, but real estate prices are way up, at least when I looked at the postings in real estate offices for pied-à-terres. Mine will be furnished with some of the hideous Beaux-Arts decor on offer in the antique shops lining the streets of the Sixth Arrondissement.

Based on the posters I had seen all week while venturing out, I had assumed the exhibit would be image centric. The exhibit had lots of photographs, but also lots of text, which is not what I was looking for on a Sunday afternoon. After a brief break in the museum’s garden cafe, it was back to the street of the Marais. Heading to the Bastille, I fought the crowds, but was rewarded when I came across a trio playing Hot Jazz. Business was good. Their basket was overflowing with coins and bills.

After brief stops at the Place de Vosges and the Victor Hugo Museum, I spent the next three hours walking along the Seine. For those who want to partake in testosterone-fueled skateboarding, there is a makeshift skateboard park across from the Bastille. The kids were friendly enough. Nobody objected to my photographic efforts.

As an alternative to splattered brains and broken limbs, people can take advantage of the Bocce ball (in French, pétanque) courts lining the stretch of the Canal Saint-Martin leading to the Seine. I spent about ten minutes watching one match. The three participants were kind enough to explain the rules. I tried to reciprocate by adjudicating a dispute over whose ball was closest to the wood marker. All agreed it was a tough call, but they rejected my ruling.

[Click on an Image to Enlarge It. The Images Are Not Necessarily in Exact Chronological Order]

**Friends Meeting Up in the Place des Vosges**

**Dad’s Got His Hands (or Should I Say Legs?) Full**

**Making the Necessary Calculations Before Takeoff**

**A Snoop Dog Doppleganger Dismounting**

**Playing Some Traditional French Music for Those Enjoying a Drink Along the Seine**

**Making Nice Crunchy Sounds on a Fall Bike Ride**

**Making His Second Attempt at Getting Closer to the Marker**

**Singing Out Along the Right Bank of the Seine**

**Heading Toward the Seine While Walking Along the Canal Saint-Martin**

**Holding on Tight: Does He See Me, or Is He Mesmerized by His Lady Friend?**

**Just Another Drinking Establishment on the Île Saint Louis**

Père Lachaise. A trip to Paris would not be complete without stopping by Père Lachaise, a cemetery which was established by Napoleon in 1804. Over the years, I’ve returned probably 15 times, building a photography project around it and several other cemeteries located in Paris. The attraction is the terracing and heavy foliage. Both contribute to the shadows that evoke the spirits lurking in the ether.

I’ve seen plenty of tour guides leading small groups through the cemetery. By now, I know where every notable grave is located, which may be why people often ask me where someone’s grave is located. The residents include Sarah Bernhardt, Frédéric Chopin, Colette, Stéphane Grappelli, Marcel Marceau, Michel Petrucciani, Édith Piaf, Camille Pissarro, Marcel Proust, Gertrude Stein, and Oscar Wilde. In addition to memorializing individuals, Père Lachaise has memorials to the Holocaust, WW II resistance fighters, and other victims of wars and genocides.

Of course, it was Jim Morrison who first drew me Père Lachaise 31 years ago on a very cold December day. His grave has since moved to a more visible section of the cemetery; I suspect to reduce the vandalism inspired by the so-called Wild Child. I no longer see “This Way to Jim” etched into gravestones. Jim always draws a crowd, if five or six people are considered a crowd.

For me, the saddest marker in Père Lachaise is located just five or six plots north of Jim’s on the opposite side of the pathway. It memorializes 20-year-old Suzon Garrigues who was murdered on Friday the 13th, November 2015, when a group Islamic terrorists attacked the Bataclan theater, leaving 90 people dead. I remember when her grave had just been freshly dug.

On this visit, I only spent four hours wandering the grounds. The sky was flat gray, which meant no shadows.

**A Stylized Frence Gangster Takes to the Streets Adjacent to Père Lachaise**

**In Life, He Loved Stendhal, Pavarotti, Kids, and Pink Floyd**

**He Now Has Plenty of Time to Continue His Searh**

**What's Another Word for a Wooden Storage Box?**

**Returning for Another Conversation with Jim—This** ***Time Riders on the Storm*** **Came to Mind**

**And Still Exerting Her Influence (The French Don’t Forget)**

**A Much Needed Reminder for Our Times**

**A Memorial to the WWII Resistance; Will There be Another Memorial to Another Resistance?**

**A Forbidden Love Affair that Led to Abelard's Castration by Heloise’s Uncle**

**Did Not Survive the Mass Shooting by Islamic Terrorists at the Bataclan Theater on Friday the 13th (November 2015)**

**Voices and Fists Raised in Unison Adjacent to Père Lachaise**

Demonstration II. Yes, I stumbled upon a second demonstration. Despite the agreement between Israel and Hamas, pro-Palestinian demonstrators staged a late afternoon demonstration in the Marais. Once again, the French took a rather subdued approach. Maybe 200 people stood in a small plaza. I didn’t hear any speeches, but a conductor stood in front of a choir, giving them directions as they sang from a paper hymnal. These weren’t raucous chants, but melodic songs. In back of the choir, a man stood playing an accordion as the backing track. I wish I had a photograph of him, but he was uncooperative, bending below a large banner every time I raised my camera.

Once again, I asked if there would be a march. None was planned. The organizers had quite the merch tent. I wanted to buy one of the stylish green hoodies, but I was told I would be sleeping in a different hotel if I did.