PARIS REFLECTIONS

Rick has been an avid motorcycle rider since he was fifteen. His mother had hoped that none of her sons would ever own a motorcycle. She was horrified when Randy purchased a Suzuki 200 cc Street Rambler; relieved when he decided to sell it and buy a car; dejected when Rick bought the motorcycle from his older brother.  I, too, had a love affair with a couple of deux roues when I was a teenager: a black Solex at first, then I “graduated” to a classic blue Mobylette. But those days are over for me: I traded helmet hair for the comfort and rain protection afforded by enclosed vehicles.

Motorcycles and scooters are a favored mean of transportation for many people in Paris: commuting at peak hours is more efficient than when traveling by car and they are much easier to park. Whenever we run across a herd of motorcycles parked on the street, Rick can’t resist checking them out a length. My interest wears off very quickly but I have found an entertaining way to keep myself occupied until he is done: I look into the bikes rear view mirrors hoping to catch an interesting reflection or an unusual architectural detail. Quelquefois, j’ai de la chance…

Vocabulary
Le deux roues: vehicle with two wheels (bicycle, motorcycle, etc.)
Quelquefois, j’ai de la chance: sometimes I am lucky

THE TORINO

Continued from The Arrival

Right after our protein-rich American breakfast, we picked up a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle to scour the classifieds in search of the perfect vehicle. Our knowledge of American cars was pretty much confined to what we had seen on TV and on the silver screen: Steve McQueen’s Mustang and Michael Douglas’s Ford Galaxie. But we knew American cars came in two sizes: huge and huger. We needed something in the "huger" category to transport seven passengers, suitcases, tents, and sleeping bags. We zeroed in on station wagons priced at $1000 or less and found two candidates. We split up: Fred and Jean-Marc took BART to check on the two leads, the rest of us stayed in Oakland to kick tires at used car lots on Auto Row. We would rendezvous at the end of the day at the Hilton where our first night was comped.

First off, we hunted down a Western Union office to send telegrams (telegrams!) to our families. We could find public pay phones at every street corner but they were not a good option because of the amount of change required for international calls. The nine hours of décalage horaire didn’t help either. Then we walked up and down Broadway in search of a suitable car. Dismal results. After several hours spent trekking in the sun and fighting sleepiness, we only had one viable prospect: a mustard yellow Ford Torino with 135,000 miles on the odometer and a price tag of $1200. We hoped Jean-Marc and Fred had better luck. Alas, they came back bredouille as well: the first car had already been sold by the time they got to that address; the second one, all the way south in Daly City, turned out to be a tas de ferraille.

We comforted ourselves with a meal of Big Macs, French fries and chocolate shakes. In our book, this was quite a treat: there were only two McDonalds in Paris in 1977 (or in France, for that matter) and eating at a fast food joint was borderline elitist. In retrospect, it sounds very weird. Summarizing our day, we realized that intellectual knowledge and life experience are two sides of a coin. Our tired feet confirmed what our foggy brains had known for some time: European cities are dense, American ones are spread out. Utterly exhausted, we retired for the evening with the assurance that tomorrow would be another day: we were in America and Scarlet had said so.

The next morning, we quickly gulped down a Continental breakfast. We knew we would have to check out soon and it would be impossible to go car hunting with all our luggage: we agreed to bust the budget and buy the Torino. After a bit of negotiation, we shook hands with the dealer for $1150 and a spare tire. Traveler's checks (traveler's checks!) were signed and I was now the proud owner of one seventh of a car, my first car. Set up with our own wheels, camping gear, and a brand new copy of the Guide du Routard, we felt free, independent, and confident. We were looking forward to the most excellent adventures. They started that very night when we camped in the hills of Berkeley.

Continues at Modesto, First Look

Vocabulary
Le décalage horaire: time difference
Bredouille: empty handed
Le tas de ferraille: scrapheap, lit. a pile of scrap iron
Le Guide du Routard: The Rough Guide (at that time, the Rough Guides were quite a bit “rougher” than their current edition. They were the hitchhiker and backpacker’s bible and promoted traveling on a dime.)

BANLIEUSARDS

You will meet three different types of people in Paris: tourists, Parisians, and banlieusards. It’s actually quite easy to tell them apart. Tourists go to the Eiffel Tower because it’s there. Parisians don’t go to the Eiffel Tower because it will be there next week. Banlieusards don’t go to the Eiffel Tower because they don’t have the time. When I lived in France, I was a banlieusarde; I didn’t take the elevator to the top of la Tour Eiffel until I was 21 years old and my (future) parents-in-law visited Paris for the first time. Our house was only 7 miles outside of Paris per se; I studied or worked in the city; I had a full schedule during the week, spent two hours (or more) in public transportation every day, and aspired to “stay put” during the weekend. Living in the suburbs, I was always dependent on the last métro, the last RER, the last commuter train to take me back home. It changes everything. It affects the way you experience Paris: you don’t really belong there, you’re just passing through. It was indeed a special treat when I could spend the night at a friend’s apartment in Paris: the accommodations were usually far from luxurious (!) but not feeling the pressure of having to get home was liberating: for one evening, I could feel and behave like a Parisian.

Actually, there is another type of people you might meet in Paris: parisophiles. They’re a rare breed and they’re hard to spot. They were not born in Paris but they chose that city. Maybe they started as tourists but felt such an intense connection that they were drawn back many times. They don’t just come for a week: they stay for a month or more. They don’t book hotels: they rent an apartment. They don’t go out for dinner every night: they shop the outdoor markets and cook “at home.” They have their favorite neighborhoods but they want to explore every nook and cranny of the city. They want to see and experience everything whether glamorous or ordinary, beautiful or ugly, historical or avant-garde, popular or secluded, permanent or pop-up. They have the luxury of time: they can afford to make mistakes and “waste” an afternoon at a so-so exhibit because tomorrow is another day… still in Paris.

I started out as a banlieusarde; I’ll never be a Parisian but I’ve become a parisophile. What about you? Who are you? Who do you aspire to be?

Vocabulary
Le (la) banlieusard(e): commuter, living in the suburbs.

LA GRANDE BOUCLE

How my grandfather Albert liked his Tour de France! Every afternoon in July, he would take a break from working in the fields, turn on the radio, and sit down at the kitchen table to listen to the live broadcast. When they finally got TV reception at the farm in the mid-60s, he could actually watch his favorite riders comme en vrai. Jacques Anquetil, Raymond Poulidor, Eddie Merckx were his heroes. Personally, I found the race extremely boring and saw enough close-ups of hairless legs pushing on pedals to last me a lifetime.

I've changed my tune, though. Not because I suddenly developed an appreciation for la petite reine: I just enjoy the scenery. The increased use of helicopters transformed how the race is filmed and won over a new group of spectators: armchair travelers who discover the variety of the French regions without leaving their living room and the 64” flat screen. It’s cheaper than a plane ticket and, if you care at all about the race itself, it gives you a fantastic overall view of the stage leaders, the peloton, and everyone in between. Muscular calves are getting short-changed but I don’t mind that.

Le Tour de France is believed to be the most popular sporting event in the world: where else can millions of fans watch champions compete in the most prestigious bicycle race sans débourser un centime? Just line up along the road; catch goodies thrown from la caravane, arm yourself with a bottle of sunscreen, or an umbrella. The weather can be unpredictable even in the middle of summer.

In July 1997, Rick and I spent a few days at my sister’s apartment right outside of Paris. That third Sunday of the month was the final stage of the Tour and the riders were scheduled to barrel around our corner right after lunch. The guys walked down the street to catch the action and a glimpse of le maillot jaune. It was a hot day. Francoise and I decided to stay in. We turned on the TV, hoping to spot our husbands’ sexy calves. No luck…

Vocabulary
La Grande Boucle: The Great Loop, nickname for the Tour de France
Comme en vrai: in person, lit. like in real (life)
La petite reine: nickname for a bicycle, lit. the little queen
Sans débourser un centime: without spending one cent, free
La caravane: the (publicity) caravan, a procession of advertising floats and vehicles that precede the race and distribute giveaways
Le peloton: the pack
Le maillot jaune: the leader of the race (he wears a yellow jersey)

Official Le Tour de France website

AMERICAN GRAFFITI

Everybody who grew up in Modesto during the 1950s has fond memories of cruising, that adolescent rite of passage immortalized by George Lucas in his 1973 film American Graffiti. Yes, the force is strong in Modesto but car culture is stronger yet! A spontaneous Friday night activity for teenagers anxious to show off their cars and pick up some dates, cruising originally took place on 10th street but had already moved to McHenry Avenue –the “new” main drag– by the time Modesto became my home; instead of a weekly happening, it had morphed into a once-a-year celebration (Graffiti Night) held on Saturday night right after graduation.

I personally never joined the bumper-to-bumper parade: I like to keep a bit of distance from noxious fumes… Rick and I preferred to walk down the street and admire the shiny classic cars and custom hot rods. Besides, the street offered terrific entertainment as well: 50s and 60s music, girls in poodle skirts, cops on horses, the very heavily tattooed guy who showed up with a huge python coiled around his neck year after year.

The City Council banned cruising in 1993 as the event had become too unruly. There were several dark years where Modesto seemed to forget its rich car history. Graffiti Night was finally resurrected into Graffiti Summer: throughout June, car aficionados from all over descend upon Modesto to enjoy several classic and custom car shows, festivals, Hula Hoop contests, and a “regulated” car parade that once again extends to McHenry Avenue. Maybe it’s no longer spontaneous enough for George Lucas; maybe he’d rather keep the memories of his youth intact. The Native Son has attended only once.

I did a double-take last year when I was in Paris: there was a car show right behind the Hôtel de Ville and all vehicles on display were belles américaines, like the legendary Chevys and Fords of American Graffiti, the true stars of the movie. Guess what: George wasn’t there either.

Vocabulary
Les belles américaines: the beautiful American cars (i.e. classics)

ON A WING AND A PRAYER

I’ll be flying to France today. I’ve lost track of how many transatlantic flights I’ve taken in my lifetime; it’s probably approaching two hundred. And yet, just like a young girl who knows nothing about physics, I still marvel that a huge, heavy metal tube can lift itself from Earth and travel through the air for hours. We take so much for granted but I guess I’ll never become blasé about that.

Perhaps people felt the same way in the 19th century when aviation pioneers were trying to defy gravity. Take Clément Ader, for instance. Inspired by the morphology of the bat, he engineered one of the first flying machines. And what a fantastic contraption it was! Three wheels suited for a child’s bicycle, 26-foot wings made of silk and bamboo, two steam engines powering crude propellers to –hopefully– carry 880 lbs up in the air.

It looks fragile. It’s a thing of beauty. See it for yourself at the Musée des Arts et Métiers in the 3rd arrondissement.

TIME TRAVEL

Tick, tock. On Sunday Rick will spring forward the hands of the grandfather’s clock in the living room. This twice-a-year ritual is a touch more ceremonial than my resetting the car clock: I’m not required to pause for the Westminster chimes at each quarter…

While in Paris on a Sunday afternoon in October, I nearly missed my train because I briefly forgot that we change our clocks three weeks earlier than they do. Daylight Savings Time is just not a traveler’s friend.

I’m sure my grandpa René never missed his train. He worked for the French railroads where punctuality was the foremost qualification. He was issued an official Régulateur pocket watch. The engraved guilloche on the brass case is quite ornate; the dial is marked with Roman numerals and the image of a steam locomotive; the crystal is not even scratched.

Timepieces made a hundred years ago were built to last a lifetime. Or maybe two. René’s watch still works perfectly. Tick, tock.

Vocabulary
La guilloche: engraved pattern on metal

CALIFORNIA DREAMING

I guess nostalgia can work both ways! I spotted this bi-national bicycle on rue du Grand Prieuré in the 11th arrondissement.