Ode to Joy
Plodding through Parisian traffic in a taxi gives one plenty of time to listen to French talk radio. Plod, plod, plod; yack, yack, yack (en Francais). Oh look, a bus has stopped in front of us. Time to wait. Now there's a garbage truck. More waiting. Now there's a street sweeper. Plod, plod, plod; yack, yack, yack.
Then, in an absolutely surreal moment, Beethoven's immortal Ode to Joy comes on the radio. The driver puts his foot down as the chorus rises. We swing around the schools of cyclists who refuse to stick to the bike lanes, jank past pedestrians who're one step into the road before their light goes green, bank into curves and bypasses following some invisible laws of taxicab physics, all while the 9th Symphony concludes in rapturous glory.
We arrive at our hotel just as the applause begins.
Not a bad ride for 22 euros -- except for the fact that a half-hour after the driver scanned my carte, a $400 charge for a gift card showed up on my account.
Never change, Paris, never change.
L'Petit Troquet
One minute before L'Petit Troquest is slated to open, a motorcycle with two riders pulls up in front of the restaurant. The passenger dismounts and takes her helmet off. It's the owner! With all the bravado of a proprietor who arrives on the back of a motorcycle right as her place is supposed to open, she unlocks the door and welcomes us in.
Of course, the food is excellent as always. Half a bottle of a surprisingly-complex Cotes du Rhone? Yes, please! Grilled octopus with lardons? Right here! Lamb stew and boeuf bourguignon, followed by strawberry Pavlova and a brie so creamy that I half expect it to moo when I spread it on the bread? Shut up and take my money!
Then comes the magic:
"I remember you," the owner tells me as I pay the bill.
How? How is it possible that this amazing woman can recall me after four visits over the course of a decade? Thousands of diners must have enjoyed their meals here since 2015, yet somehow she still remembers my face.
I tell her she makes Paris special for my wife and I, then I bid her au revoir.
Never change, Paris, never change.
Staying in the 11th
A woman on Rue de Charonne, who looks like she just stepped off the cover of Vogue, brushes past another woman in a full, black burqa. Two Imams discuss vital matters in Arabic as they walk briskly down the narrow sidewalk. Tall, handsome men with skin the color of Ironwood laugh together at a table outside a wine bar. Corner cafes never host a still moment and their customers spill all the way out to the edge of the street. The busy-ness of Parisian life goes on display.
And fashion! Fashion, fashion, all is fashion! A bald man with thick-rimmed glasses sports a daring orange-and-mauve cravat; a woman of a certain age cuts a path down the crowded walkway attired in shiny brown leather pants that the cow itself would admire. Short dresses and sharp pleats; overcoats over undershirts; "look good to feel good" seems to be the motto on these early spring days in the 11th.
Halal Lebanese and a savory Savoyard place on one side of the street face off with a raw bar and cake shop on the other. A laundromat nestles up to a Monoprix. Graffiti and spray-painted tags cover walls, while an indescribably-lewd line drawing scrawled high on a wall overlooks the street below, invisible unless you happen to look up at exactly the right (or wrong) spot.
All the hustle and rush, the brushing-past -- pardon! -- and the slow ambles of its residents remind me more of New York City's 45th Avenue than the staid Rue Cler. Perhaps Rue Cler can be seen as Paris for Beginners; Rue de Charonne is where you can wade in up to your knees.