Autumn in Paris: A Memoir

Yes, “April in Paris” is lyrical, but autumn in Paris? I will never forget: It was in the waning days of September 1954. The wings of our late wartime-developed Constellation airliner arched gracefully into Le Bourget. We were fifty in number — the first flight by a Los Angeles party with an ultimate destination of Israel. I was a free-riding junketeer for a metropolitan newspaper. A four-day stopover in Paris was frosting on the cake. The tour group’s few French-speaking passengers became tour guides by forfeit. Where they went, we went. We could only provide the “ooohs!” and the “ahhhhs!” But the spirit of adventure in me rose to the breaking point. One morning — unaware of where we were, but somewhere deep in the suburbs — I quietly murmured to the day’s leader that I would be leaving. “But,” he flustered, “where are you going?” “I don’t know,” I smiled wickedly. At least, I knew my way back to the last metro station to catch an inbound train. The miles flew by. Station after station. Then, like a game of eenie-meenie-minie-mo, I picked one at random from which to disembark. Like Columbus, I had sailed on. Like Columbus, I didn’t know exactly where I had landed. But the natives? Ooh, la la! They were friendly. It was time for lunch. And lunch, too, I would make an adventure. I found a tidy little hideaway café, the J. Rivory’s place on the Rue Perrault. The patrons were smartly dressed. The soft, musical sound of French conversation wafted over the diners. Not a word did I understand. There was at least one English-speaking barfly — well, at least he gave remote signals of a command of English, adulterated by a wine-soaked blur. He was from South Carolina. I was a Yankee. I decided that my limited French from World War I songs like “Mademoiselle from Armentières” would have to do. The bright-eyed young man who waited my table produced the French menu. I couldn’t read it anymore than I could read the menus in an elite Manhattan restaurant. “Parlez vous – ‘er – ENGLISH?” I think his answer was, “No,” with a polite “monsieur.” We sparred in frustration and despair. It was very cordial. He shrugged his shoulders and ran out onto the narrow street. I watched him through the window. He whistled loudly. He beckoned. Another young waiter responded from a nearby sidewalk café and came running. “Monsieur!” he said breathlessly. “Uh, bonjour.” That’s all I could say. And then tentatively, “You speak English?” “Oui, monsieur. . .” “Escargots?” I was about to exhaust my French vocabulary. “Oui. ” And then he tried out his English. “Are you from America?” “Oui, garçon. . .” (Ahah! Already my vocabulary was expanding.) “From where in America?” “Pasadena.” But he only shrugged. “Where they play football in the Rose Bowl,” I added. Shrug. I kept trying: “California? Los Angeles?” Only a glimmer of some recognition. “HOLLYWOOD!” I blurted. Touché! He vouched for his up-the-street rival’s escargots. “You have escargots in Hollywood?” he asked. “Si, señor. ” I’d lapsed unforgivably into my high school Spanish. Yes, I assured him, we have escargots in Hollywood. “Every morning,” I said with warmth glowing in the conversation, “I go into the garden of my, ‘er, Hollywood home, and…” “Yes, monsieur? ” “I kill them all with snail bait.” His eyebrows jumped. He looked me in the eye: “Monsieur! ” he cried. “THEES EES MURDERRR!” The drunk at the bar had been eavesdropping. He wanted to be accommodating, too. The Louvre was just down the street. The Madonna? Winged Victory? I couldn’t imitate his Southern drawl with alcoholic induced slur. It sounded something like: “I’ll show you some great nudes!” Ah, Paree, and its burnt-orange sunsets of autumn. Copyright © Paris New Media, LLC