Memories — Vignettes of Paris

I keep hearing complaints from both tourists and residents of Paris about conditions there, in the present, compared to how they remember Paris as it was in their childhood, or on visits in the past. Comments abound about the smog, dirt, traffic, crowds, and generally degraded conditions. I would like to share a few of my remembrances of Paris, and the French people, who made my time there such a wonderful experience; during parts of 1945 and 1946, after World War II. In many ways it was a glorious period: in others a time of sadness, for the suffering of the people, the struggle to rebuild the economy, and the political struggle between the communists and the Gaullists. My time in Paris, during that period, made me wish that I could have been there in the period after World War I which, for beauty, vibrancy and creativity had to rival the great period of the late 1800s. But I will never forget some of the pleasant memories of my time in Paris. Every visit I have made there since has made me realize that the past can never be relived but can be revived. I hope these scraps of my memories may be of interest to many of you. ******* Going to the boulangerie early in the morning, just as the bakers are removing the fresh baguettes from the ovens. Buying one for a few francs, placing it under the left arm and walking out: while before even reaching the door, breaking off a huge chunk and savoring the warm crusty outside and the soft bubble laden, and feather-light, piece of heaven within. ******* Walking the three miles back to our quarters, in a large Catholic orphanage, after an evening spent with the French family who had unofficially adopted me. The fog so thick that you literally could not see your hand in front of your face. Walking in the center of the cobblestoned street and, if the street lights were on that night, viewing the dull glare of the lights as a slightly lighter aura in the sky, but not seeing even this until you were directly under the light. As you had to walk under the railroad tracks, at the point where the train from the center of Paris discharged its passengers, it was often the case that you could hear others walking past you quite near, but without seeing them even if they passed within two or three feet of you. The only reason you could hear any of them was due to the fact that with the shortage of leather many people had their work shoes shod with wooden soles. The increasingly loud clomping of these on the cobbles was the only signal that someone was approaching. The hard sound of these wooden soles on the stones would eerily ring out as a distant sound and increase in volume until you could direct your path to avoid the person and then fade slowly away as the distance between you lengthened. A strange sensation indeed. ******* Coming down the elevators of the Tour Eiffel late in the evening after visiting the military nightclub, which today is the restaurant Jules Verne. At the bottom of the elevator, buying sandwiches from a young French couple. Sandwiches smeared thickly with brie, covered with nearly fresh tomato slices on now day-old baguettes and happily munching away on those 10 inch long, newspaper wrapped, totally unhygienic and totally delicious delicacies. ******* Walking down the Champs-Elysées on a chilly autumn evening and buying from one of the old women huddled against the front of one of the boulevards great buildings, a paper cone filled with roasted chestnuts. These nuts, whose odor could be detected a hundred feet away, were roasted in a very unique way. The ladies, I do not ever remember seeing a man doing this, had converted baby carriages containing a firebox fueled with charcoal. Over this they had a piece of perforated metal covered with the roasting nuts. Walking down the Champs under the still-leafy Chestnut trees, peeling and munching these treats under the soft gray skies of a Paris fall evening, I shall never forget. ******* Climbing the steps to the Sacre-Coeur Basilica in Montmartre. Walking in awe through the vast and beautiful interior of this structure. Marveling at its understated beauty and the magnificence of the huge dome. Then paying the fee to climb the steps to walk across part of the roof of the monstrously large building and climb the last winding set of steps to the cupola at the very top. Viewing almost all of Paris below. At this point you are about even with the top of the Tour Eiffel and the only other point where you can see as much of Paris is the top of the Tour. At this time strict height limits were enforced on all buildings in Paris. From here the view was of classical Paris not cluttered in any direction by tall, glass and steel monstrosities such as can be seen today. ******* Riding the Metro free, as an American Soldier (try that one today). At first repelled by the strong moist odors of the passageways of the Metro and the crowds of people filling the cars, then finding a strange attraction to this smell of humanity. Some of the smells must have lingered here from the first beginnings of these underground wonders. Riding until an interesting stop showed on the map over the doors and getting off to walk through another totally different area of Paris. Then climbing the stairs to the fresh open air laden with new and wondrous smells of patisseries, bistros, boulangeries, fresh air and other undefinable olfactory sensations. It was always amazing that the smells of the different areas of Paris conveyed their own sense of identity; as well as the buildings and people of each area also exuding a personality of place. ******* Then the ultimate Parisian experience, sitting at an outdoor table, under an umbrella if the sun was strong, with a glass of the deceptively weak appearing French beer or a glass of wine. Watching the people pass by, all the men with a briefcase, regardless of their occupation, most containing only their lunch but still important looking. The women of Paris, even wearing, in many instances, clothing much worn, still looking as elegant as in those days only French women could. It was reasonably easy…