Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 5

The joys of Montpellier

Here I am, relishing life in beautiful downtown Montpellier. Lynn is cooking dinner and Denis is reading Le Monde. All is right with the world.

Monday night, Lesley, Duncan, and I watched a Paul McCartney live concert video, because Lesley loves him too. It’s impossible not to be swept up in his joy, his absolute dedication to what he’s doing. At that point — 1993 — he was in his prime, singing and playing all his own songs, with his wife on stage with him. Delightful.

Tuesday morning, L and D drove me to the train station in Poitiers. I’m very grateful for the care these kind people took of me. A bond has been made.

It was a long day, almost two hours on one train to Bordeaux, then catching the train to Montpellier that stopped at lots of towns and took five hours. Luckily the trains are efficient and comfortable here, and I had marvellous John and Paul that absorbed me during the journey, except when I looked at the scenery, which was farmland and villages. Tidy at first, less so as we went south.

Enfin, Montpellier, my friend waiting, walking back to their apartment in centre ville for apèritif and dinner and much much talk. Lynn and Denis, the other L and D couple, have been married over fifty years. I was at their wedding in 1971. Incroyable.

Today, be still my beating heart, exploring the city and shopping. My friend is a shopper extraordinaire. She’s very thrifty, as are the French generally, knows quality, knows what looks good. We went of course to Monoprix, where she immediately saw an inexpensive shirt with bright blue stripes she knew would look good on her, and in fact, when we got home and I tried it on, I went back and bought one too. It’s very French. I found some loose light pants for summer. Most of all, I needed sandals and was convinced I’d have trouble finding my great big size. Not at all, I left the shoe store with the perfect sandals, reasonable, and in my size.

What a happy day. If all shopping were that pleasant, with my personal shopper by my side, I’d look different, I assure you.

But best of all, Lynn sent me to her hairdresser Fabrice. Mine in Toronto — my former hairdresser, as I will not go back — did a disastrous job before I left; my hair was dreadful in Paris, bits sticking out, straggly bits at the back. Fabrice took one look and knew how to tidy me up. I emerged with one of the best haircuts I’ve ever had, at half the price I pay in Canada. Lynn told me flowers and haircuts are always inexpensive in France.

When we came home, Denis was working — he volunteers with an organization that advises migrants on how to cope in this country — so we went out again for a glass at her favourite place on a busy square. The city is extraordinary, full of life, laced with narrow medieval streets crowded with university students, with free public transit for locals and a mayor who’s planting trees everywhere and working to get rid of cars in the city centre. Civilized, quoi. If only, Toronto.

So that’s it. No art and culture today. A bit too much food and wine, as always.

Supper — Madame made pork, Swiss chard gratin, and salad, followed by cheese, and a yogurt for dessert. We watched the first two episodes of Douglas is Cancelled, a new British series. Hilarious and terrifying – in British fashion, skewering just about everything, social media, British newspapers and TV news, feminism, woke-ism … The two last episodes tomorrow night.

Tomorrow – my only plan is to go to a hardware store for anti-moth stuff. They have much better stuff in France. Exciting, no?

I’m wearing my new sandals with my pyjamas. But I’ll have to take them off for bed.

Pix: 1. Place de la Comèdie, the huge central public square. 2. Both styled by Fabrice. 3. M. Blin at work. 4. Madame Blin and her friend of 58 years doing what they do best. One of us, as you see, knows how to smile. She’s wearing a coat I bought for her some time ago at Doubletake. I’m wearing a scarf we bought together on one of our stays in Paris. We go back, she and I. Denis told me the tablecloth they were using last week was the one I gave them as part of my wedding present in 1971. “It has a few holes now,” he said. Thrifty.

Oh, and while we were having our drink, my phone rang. It was Chris, FaceTiming from Gabriola Island to a bar in the middle of Montpellier. He knows L and D through me and once stayed at their place here, on the sofa where I’ll be sleeping tonight. We chatted there and again at home. Two of my best and oldest friends are themselves friends. That gives me pleasure. A great deal gives me pleasure.

News? What news?

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eating, eating, eating

Today I congratulated myself on doing something very clever: I chose a fourth cousin who over twenty years ago moved from England to a small town in France. Brilliant of me, if I say so myself. I told Lesley, if you lived in Swindon, I would still visit you. But not with the same degree of enormous pleasure.

This morning Lesley and Duncan spent two hours driving me around the countryside, to take in villages and a divine chateau, now a luxury hotel, in a middle of the village of Dissay. The French countryside is so different from England’s; as Lesley pointed out, the populations of France and England are more or less the same, but France has far more land and is far less crowded. All around us, green fields dotted with small villages, with, always, a medieval church spire pointing to god in centre ville. As we drove through the yoke-yellow fields of rapeseed lined with rows of trees, I kept saying, David Hockney would want to paint this. And probably has.

We stopped to look at the family home of French philosopher Michel Foucault, who grew up in a classic French maison de campagne with huge Paulovnia trees in bloom outside. These colourful trees are heavenly, as is the wisteria everywhere.

Home for a pit stop, and then a 20-minute walk along country paths to a gourmet restaurant, also a wine shop; I was taking my hosts for lunch to thank them for their kind hospitality. OMG! A superb meal. I had the daily specials: mousse of beet mixed with local chèvre, to die for. Pork with veg. A dessert medley with espresso. Accompanied by two bottles of wine — a frisky rosé and a Chinon with the meal. Let me tell you, more lunch than I’m used to, and far, far better.

I loved looking at the diners around me, especially the tables of men — several groups of five, both youngish and older, laughing a lot. Lesley reminded me that workers in France get meal vouchers and two hours for lunch, so these men were probably on their lunch hour, eating a superb meal and enjoying each other’s company. It was heartening. The female mayor made the rounds, shaking hands. She wrote a very complimentary note about Lesley and Duncan when they applied for French citizenship, and they were accepted into this exclusive club easily.

The bill came to $145 CAD. That is, three three-course gourmet meals with two bottles of good wine (and of course limitless bread) for not even $50 each. Yes.

We walked home along another leafy path, passing a field with sheep hired to keep the grass low, and later where they showed me something truly moving: the community, in 2004, began a tradition. Every child born that year had a small tree or shrub planted in a municipal ceremony, with a plaque in front with their name and dates. We started at one end with last year’s newborns and their tiny shrublets, and as we walked, the plants grew taller and stronger. What a brilliant way, first to attach young people to their community, but also to plant beautiful trees. Why didn’t we think of that?

I know this country has huge problems. But Lesley and Duncan have never for one second regretted their decision to uproot themselves and move here, and I understand why. Lesley told me that before their move, every time she and Duncan came here on vacation, as the car drove off the ferry, she felt she was finally at home.

And now she really is. And, in a strange sense, so am I.

Last night we watched a DVD of a fine British film, One Life, about Nicholas Winton, “the British Schindler,” who found a way to save 669 mostly Jewish children from Czechoslovakia just before the war. Very moving, with two great actors, Anthony Hopkins and one of my favourites, Johnny Flynn. Another story of struggle and courage against great odds. Winton was born Wertheim to German-Jewish parents, a fact mentioned but not highlighted. He was a hero. Recommended.

My last evening here. Tomorrow Phase 3 begins: after seven hours south in a train, a week with Lynn and Denis. We were lucky to have sun here yesterday afternoon and part of today, but it has not been hot, and is not in the south.

I joked with Lesley that I’m getting out just in time; “after three days, guests and fish stink.” But I’ve done my laundry here, so I hope I smell good.

Pix: sorry, out of order, can’t get them to move. Michel Foucault’s house. The chateau de Dissay. My family at lunch. And a happy camper.

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my new family

Last moments in Paris: after packing and cleaning I went out to buy a sandwich for the trip and a pain au chocolat, took it to the Tuileries and sat for the last time by a fountain in that spectacular garden, savouring each bite. And then, off on the metro to the high-speed train, which left and arrived exactly when it was supposed to.

Watched a family of four as France whizzed by outside the window, parents and two teenaged children. They sat, two facing the other two with a table between them. The parents put on headphones, the kids pulled out their devices, and that was it for the two-hour journey, not a word exchanged; they barely looked up. It scares me.

What a treat, and what a surprise, to connect with the British side of my family in the middle of France! Yes, distant family; Lesley is my fourth cousin. In Northamptonshire, in 1797, our mutual great-great-great grandfather Thomas Campion was born. Lesley is a phenomenally dedicated and organized genealogist, and in tracing the family tree, she found my mother’s obituary — as she explained, it wasn’t hard because Sylvia Leadbeater is not a common name, no kidding — and through that, my website, and got in touch. Funnily enough, she used to live and work very close to Potterspury, the village where Mum was born, and to Bletchley where Mum worked during the war. Our families were all humble folk; Thomas was a shoemaker.

She and her husband Duncan were, as she puts it, “committed Francophiles,” often travelling there; they decided over 20 years ago to sell their marketing business and move to France, ending up in Neuville de Poitou, a town of over 5000 close to Poitiers. They picked me up at the train station in Poitiers and, though it was pouring with rain, we sightsaw. She took me to the cathedral which is massive for such a relatively small city, but is on the route of the Camino pilgrims.

Then back to their home, a newish house on the edge of town; outside the windows are fields of bright yellow rapeseed. Later we had local champagne with hors d’oeuvres of charcuterie and rillettes, then a delicious dinner of fish in a blood orange sauce, accompanied by a white Beaujolais, followed by a superb chèvre and Poire Belle Helene – baked pear with chocolate sauce. Wonderful! Almost all the food and drink comes from local producers, most of whom are now friends of theirs.

Lesley gave me a folder to read — for years, Duncan wrote essays for a column called Expat Life in the Telegraph newspaper about their lives in France. The only English-speakers in town, they were welcomed with great kindness into the community, and immediately volunteered for everything, including running an English conversation group and with the summer jazz festival. They are both big Beatles fans, Duncan a little older than I — he saw the Beatles play in 1963 — and Lesley six years younger; we put on CDs and records and sing along. Memory lane.

This morning we walked ten minutes to the Sunday market, which had me swooning with pleasure. We were the only non-natives as the French lined up for cheese, veg, meat, fish. And of course bread; I bought our dessert for today’s Sunday lunch, a selection of patisseries, I’m drooling just thinking about them. As part of their Sunday ritual, we sat in a marvellous café. I’m ashamed that although they had rosé, I ordered a grand crème. I just couldn’t drink rosé at 10.45  a.m.

Duncan is cooking guinea hen. I am waiting anxiously.

Later: a great late lunch. Lesley made the hors d’oeuvre, very exotic: a cup made of smoked trout filled with a concoction of taramasalata and a kind of cream cheese, loved it. And then guinea hen roasted with pearl onions, asparagus, potatoes. I couldn’t finish, except that then we had cheese, and then the patisseries. My stomach is distended. But happy.

Resting now. Of course my Rogers email has decided to torture me; it suddenly requested that I sign in, said it would confirm my identity by sending a six-digit SMS which never arrived, so I asked it to send the confirmation numbers another way, but the only other way is to my email, which I can’t receive. Infuriating. I will have to go to an Apple store in Montpellier. In the meantime, some emails do come in via text. Thank heavens for What’sApp.

Truly, being at home with Lesley and Duncan, new kindred spirits, is an unexpected treat in my journey through France. Lesley showed me a beautifully-made and detailed scrapbook of a trip they took to Ontario and Quebec in 2009, unfortunately long before we connected, and I haven’t done half the things they did! They’re intrepid. You’d have to be, to pack up your lives and move to a foreign country. They’ve made a huge success of it.

Pix: Poitiers’ town hall sous la pluie, with drenched wedding guests, and a square. Lesley and Duncan in line at the boulangerie. The café, full of interesting things to look and laugh at, run by a father and son, very friendly. And last, the view from my bedroom window in today’s brief, appreciated bit of sun. Can you beat it?

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Last day in Paris – on the path of the parents

Last day in Paris, and it’s another beauty. People have let me know reading about my schedule here exhausts them, whereas I wonder if I’ve done enough — less than I would have when younger, certainly. But I did plenty, and am nourished by the riches of this spectacular, endlessly beautiful city.

Today, the #1 line to Etoile, getting out beside the Arc de Triomphe — the French sure know how to celebrate their victories with tiny humble monuments! Strolled down the Champs Elysees, taking in its luxury emporia, although the only store I went into, the famous drugstore Publicis, didn’t have the one thing I need, a small tube of travel toothpaste. But I was there to do more than sightsee; I wanted to find the Hotel Chateau Frontenac, on the rue Pierre Charron. I know from letters I inherited after my mother’s death that my parents had a romantic rendezvous there in August 1947. Dad had come from New York, where he was studying for a Ph.D. in biology, to do research that summer in France. Mum was working in northern Germany with the U.N. Refugee Association, resettling Holocaust survivors. Dad wrote telling her he was coming and suggested they meet in Paris. She was happy to do so.

They spent three nights at the Chateau Frontenac, just a long block from the Champs. It’s now a four-star hotel, though it surely wasn’t in 1947. But even so, my father could not have afforded it; he must either have wangled a deal of some kind, or got his long-suffering father to pay. It makes me happy he was really laying it thick on for this woman. After their time together, they went their separate ways back to their work; they were in love but had not made a firm commitment to a future together. At least, Dad had not.

I also know, from letters, that a few months later, Mum discovered she was pregnant and had to have a back alley abortion — in an enemy country decimated by war. It’s miraculous she survived. She wrote a moving letter to him about it in December, and by December the following year, she was on a boat to New York, to see if things would work out with her Yank. And luckily for me, they did.

So I’m grateful to the Hotel Chateau Frontenac.

I walked on to the Grand Palais, where I’d bought an entry pass — a mere 5 euros — to the Foire des Livres, an enormous book fair. But when I got there, there was the usual endless lineup; it turned out President Macron was visiting, and they were waiting for him to leave. I decided not to wait, just to go see a whole lot of books surrounded by an enthusiastic French readership. The French are fantastic readers and supporters of print; magazines too thrive here. Huge respect for writers. A writer girl can only dream of something like that in her own country.

Instead, I walked right beside the river — where people seem actually to be living on houseboats — back to St. Germain. To the Café de L’Empire, near home, for lunch. Lynn and I discovered this place after leaving Orsay when I was here last year; she knew it had what they call bon rapport qualité/prix from all the reviews stuck to the door. And it does.

Refreshed, I walked to see the Grande Epicerie at Bon Marché department store, perhaps the biggest food emporium in the world. Overwhelming, so much of everything — right now, miles of chocolate as you enter, because Easter. There’s a whole wall of different kinds of honey, and a section selling foodstuffs from other countries, including Mexico. Nothing is cheap here; a little plastic tub of raspberries, smaller than I’d pay $4 for at home, was 9 euros. Mind you, the French aren’t big on raspberries, it seems. Had walked through the actual department store to get there and was nauseated by a special section they have now, selling expensive stuff for and about dogs, cute little dog mats and leashes and chachkas. Criminal.

Bought nothing, as is my wont. I hope I won’t regret not shopping here. I purchased what I needed: two bras at Galeries Lafayette and cotton pyjama bottoms at Monoprix, and that’s it. That, too, is new. Partly it’s my small suitcase, and partly I really don’t care that much anymore, I have enough clothes. Mind you, on Tuesday I’m headed to Montpellier to be with Lynn, the savviest shopper on earth, in a walkable city full of great stores. So … who knows?

Tomorrow, however, looking forward to a trip to near Poitiers, to visit fourth cousin Lesley and her husband Duncan. It’s supposed to rain. Things will be quieter. And that’s necessary and good after a busy week.

My final outing this evening: I went across to the Tuileries and sat with a thermos of rosé and my book. You know which book. Sat for two hours in the sun, reading, misted occasionally by the spray of the fountain, with the Louvre towering nearby. Can’t beat that. The book is fantastic, thrilling; I’ll tell you about it another time.

Now I need to pack and clean up and get ready for the next phase. Won’t you join me?

Pix (there are lots more from the whole stay, I’ll upload when I have time): 1. the entrance to the Petit Palais, opposite the Grand Palais. Decoration, anyone? 2. Strolling along the Seine. 3. In a store window – exotic animals in stone, a raccoon and a kangaroo. Ha! 4. Lunch in a corner by the window, watching the world go by. 5. A sight that made me sad: students lined up outside a place that sells bagels and cream cheese, next to a stunning old boulangerie. 6. Not sure you can see, but this couple are wearing thousands of dollars of ridiculous designer clothing, the man in gold gladiator sandals and a horsehair purse. For some reason, the Japanese are especially fond of dropping big big bucks on this kind of thing. 7. A jug of wine, a terrific book, The Louvre. All that’s missing is thou.

Onward!

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David Hockney superstar

Wednesday. Another miracle of where I’m staying – a walk across the Seine to the Palais Royale metro stop, and straight out on the #1 line to the Bois de Boulogne and the Fondation Vuitton, on the opening day of the David Hockey retrospective. I’d had a fond plan that after the exhibition, I’d stroll for a bit in the woods. But 2 ½ hours of art later, I could hardly walk and headed for home.

David Hockney – what to say that’s not been said? “I believe the very process of looking can make a thing beautiful,” he once said, and that’s what he proves to us; we see the world through the eyes of a man who looks hard and makes things beautiful. What’s clear is that, despite being born to a humble, non-artistic family in northern England, he had a phenomenal talent from the very start; he was born in 1937, and the first work in the show, a portrait of his father, was done in 1955, when he was eighteen, at art school. The piece next to it, done in 1956, stole my heart, and that was it, I was done for.

Room after room in this overwhelming show — perhaps the man never sleeps. He works in every medium — watercolour, oils, acrylics, photography, stage design, and more recently with tech tools like the iPad, which allows him to work in nature without a lot of equipment. It’s all beautiful.

He moved around the world. His California paintings are perhaps his most famous, the swimming pools and the multi-coloured highways. But then he moved back to England and captured his home country in many paintings and sketches, often of the same place in all seasons; then he lived in Normandy for some time and painted that. He studied and honours great artists of the past; some of his background slashes look like Van Gogh’s skies.

For me, he’s a modern Picasso, though I like his work much more; it’s joyful, filled with bright colour and sensitivity and, often, humour. And dogs, he loves dogs. It didn’t surprise me to learn in reading about him that he’s close with his four siblings and adored his mother. There’s a warmth and happiness in his work. Below, he painted British hawthorn trees in spring, and described them as being “showered with champagne.”

One of his latest, on iPad — a self-portrait. His button says, “Stop bullying soon.”

The museum wasn’t too crowded and the art was easy to see, partly because the rooms are large and some of the art is enormous. One tip, though — it was so overwhelming, I took a break halfway through and went out into the park behind the museum to find lunch and sit in peace. But lunch was elusive; there was a food truck with a long lineup right outside, but I could not find an alternative in the park, at least not without a long walk, which is not what I wanted after a lot of standing. Luckily I’d brought some nuts — thank you Jean-Marc! — which kept me alive until I got home and could eat. If you go, I advise taking a break to clear your palate, so to speak, but also, for the good of your palate, bringing something to eat.

And as I walked away, what did I see a few blocks from the museum? A stop for the ubiquitous #63 bus. It looked like a great trip through the heart of the city to take me right home, but the woman waiting at the stop had a vicious cough. So I walked to the metro, then through the Louvre courtyard – mad mad crowds – and home.

That evening, an exotic dinner with Juliet, a blog companion, a Canadian who’s lived in France for many years but will be moving to Spain next year. We sat at the bar in a small restaurant and ended up chatting with the couple next to me, who assumed we were American. “Non non non!” I cried. “Canadiennes!” And we talked, of course, about the monster. Le fou.

A walk home through streets crowded with people carousing at cafés. Today, again, at lunchtime, it felt like millions of people sitting lunching on the street. Things are expensive in Paris, and I wonder — how do people make enough money to live here if they spend so much time in cafés? But doing that is symbolic of the French way — making time to enjoy life. When I’m in NYC, looking in the shop windows at the ridiculously expensive stuff for sale, I feel a bitter anger at the financial inequities of our world. But here, even though the same absurd stuff is for sale — nearby, a store that sells bespoke men’s shoes for 700 euros, not to mention the priceless antiquities on sale all through this neighborhood — but it doesn’t feel wrong, it’s part of life here, the celebration of the finer things in life, even if you can’t remotely afford them or want them.

This morning, the Ligne 1 metro to Bastille, then walked along the Faubourg Ste. Antoine — this area is the real Paris — to the Marché d’Aligre, a flea market, scores of tables laden with junk and treasure, chipped dishes, broken ashtrays, faded handbags, shoes, books, posters, silver, jewelry, Arab vendors shouting at each other, the usual bunch of savvy pickers and weirdos like me sifting through. Luckily I cannot buy anything because my suitcase is too small. I once bought a lovely little bowl here, that gives me pleasure every time I use it. But today, just the pleasure of being there. There is also a big food market, veg, fruit, cheese, meat — white asparagus — beautiful.

A few streets over is the restaurant L’Ebauchoir, where I’d booked a table for lunch. Lynn and I discovered this place by chance, a classic French resto, almost no tourists, not expensive, great service, good food. A treat. I had the menu, two courses for 17 euros, plus a little glass of Cotes du Rhône and an espresso. Happiness.

And then down the street to the Danish shop Flying Tiger, where I always buy my reading glasses. The price has gone up, they’re now 6 euros, but they’re terrific, I bought four pairs. And this time, I also bought one of those necklace eyeglass holders. As Chris says, that’s how you know you’re old, when you wear your glasses on a chain around your neck. But then, I know I’m old.

I know because once, on a beautiful day like this, I would have walked the very long way home. This time, I happened upon another terrific bus, #83, that took me all the way back to St. Germain, winding through streets crowded with people still having lunch. Got out a stop early and went into l’Eglise St. Sulpice, another massive monument to the power and money of the Catholic church, now busy getting ready for Easter.

Stopped to buy a pain au chocolat, just because. And now, a nap. Tonight, another challenge: La Musée d’Orsay.

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“John and Paul,” Jean-Louis and François

I have been extremely lucky with the weather. It’s not been so on some past visits, but this time, perfection. On Tuesday I headed out on another glorious morning, to get the #63 bus to the Marais. Many big streets in Paris have dedicated bus lanes, so even if traffic is bad, busses flow through. But there are some streets without and a lot of traffic-snarling construction here, as at home. By the time we got there, I was hungry for lunch. Oh look, there’s a beautiful boulangerie. Would they have anything to take out for a picnic, or just the usual? Well of course — stacks of sandwiches and tubs of salad. The place must be well-known, because just after I left clutching my heated sandwich in a nice box, scores of schoolkids poured in.

I went straight to the Place des Vosges for my picnic — just one of the prettiest, most pleasant places on earth, the green square with its perfect border of 17th century buildings. Next to my bench, a group of schoolboys were punching and taunting each other in a friendly way, just like my grandsons, whom I miss. I also remembered having a drink at a restaurant on one corner with Lynn, years ago, and a few years before that, how we had a meal at a small bistro nearby that was very good and very cheap, and were never able to find it again.

Onward to the Musée Carnavalet, a fabulous free museum that details the history of Paris. I wanted to see the special exhibition about the filmmaker Agnès Varda, but it turned out to be just opening, only for the press that day. So I explored some of the rest. It has amazing artefacts from all the centuries of this city’s life, including an extensive section on the revolution, the extraordinary step by step process by which the people deposed the monarchy. I thought, these days the Americans need a revolution. An overthrow with some beheading would be good.

LOL.

Off again to wander the tiny maze of streets, including rue des Rosiers, the centre for Parisian Jewish life, where some stores have signs in Hebrew announcing what they offer for Pesach. The usual very long lineup outside L’As du Falafel, the famous falafel place, where one day I promise myself to endure the lineup so I can have one. They look delicious.

I passed a W.H. Smith English bookshop and went in to enquire about the book I’ve been hopelessly searching for, John and Paul. No, they didn’t have it. But wait … there’s one copy at the other Smith bookstore at Place de la Concorde. OMG! Ask them to hold it for me please, and I’ll pick it up, I said, tomorrow or Thursday. But instead, after more wandering in the Marais, I happened on the metro station Hotel de Ville and realized that line goes straight to Concorde. I hopped on, walked along the exclusive rue de Rivoli, and there was my book, waiting for me. I explained about the recent rave review in the NYT, that they should get more copies; they said they would. Had a delicious grand crème in their café as I started to read.

Then the perfect Paris experience — walking across the street to the Tuileries, finding a chair in the shade with a view of the Eiffel tower, and sitting to read for a quiet hour. Sublime — a beautiful spot, Ian Leslie is a very good writer, and this is a very good story. “A love story in songs.”

A few tears, as I thought back to arriving in this city in 1964 as a lonely lovesick 13-year old Beatlemaniac, how I spent the year inventing stories about Paul to keep me alive — as detailed in my first memoir All My Loving — seeing the Beatles’ first movie not far from here, on the Champs Elysées, and seeing them in concert in June 1965. And now, sixty years later in April 2025, here I am, a grandmother, still filled with admiration and love for this band and this one musician. A very long faithful love. Paul and peanut butter have never let me down.

Strolled home along the Tuileries, with its fountains, flowerbeds, and flowering pink Paulownia trees, so lovely — to get a few groceries and rest before dinner, which was another flash to the past.

As I may have explained, my father’s dear friend Jacques Daudier lived with his wife and 3 sons in a small apartment in the Communist suburb of Gentilly. For the year we lived in Paris, Jacques found us an apartment to sublet two floors below. His boys were then ten, eight, and six. Laurent, the middle son, died of an aneurysm in his early forties. The other two took me to dinner last night.

It could not have been nicer — La Méditerranée, a twenty-minute walk away, where we had the luxury of a private room. We met at 7.30 and finally left at 11.15, Jean-Louis heading back to Gentilly where he still lives, Francois – whom I called first by his child name Fifi and who became a commercial artist like his dad, only with far more success — walking me to the rue du Bac before getting the metro himself. Much much talk over fish, two bottles of Chablis, and for me many slices of the best bread, about our past and present lives and our parents. At 18, Jean-Louis visited Canada and stayed with my parents in Ottawa, and still speaks with awe about my father, his “brilliance, charm, and energy.” Francois compared my mother to Greta Garbo, which is apt. Jacques was a reticent, caustic socialist, an artist who did commercial work to support his family; their mother Henriette was the sometimes ferocious engine who kept everyone going, raising her sons while holding a full-time job that paid far better than Jacques’.

A friendship rekindled. I invited them to Canada, but the chances are better we’ll meet again here, when I return.

Because, God willing, it’s sure I will return.

There are so many pictures, I don’t know where to start. Promise I’ll start soon.

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A beautiful old Lady

Readers have spoken — long posts. We’ll see. Maybe not every day. And I have a big backlog of photos to post too. At some point. It’s WORK, this blogging business! But it’s companionship for me, too; you are all keeping me company.

Except for this morning, today was doing errands, the shopping I needed to do here, so not as interesting probably.

Woke at six and could not get back to sleep. Went online and discovered almost all museums are closed Monday. Logged into the Notre Dame website and amazingly, after days of trying, snagged a ticket for 10 a.m. — this morning! A twenty minute walk along the river to the cathedral. Another stunning day – chilly and fresh at first although with full sun. Chic cyclists streaming by. Crazy traffic still, though.

Our Lady was beyond packed, people pouring in. Very difficult to feel a spiritual connection to this sacred place when jostled on all sides by hordes of people with their busy cellphone cameras. But better too many people to view this masterpiece than too few. Our lady is now bright sparkling clean, what a difference from the smudged gloom of before. Merci, Macron!

The building is a complete miracle — how did they build something so complex and magnificent — and huge! — starting in 1163? It boggles the mind. And that it survived many hundreds of years, revolutions, two world wars … The only good thing to say about Hitler is that he spared Paris. Even a depraved monster succumbed to this city. I think our current monsters would not give a damn about saving Paris.

I sat in a central sanctuary “for prayer only, no photos,” and, of course, because me, wept. Once again, for such beauty, for the miracle of human creativity. Each of the many little side chapels is a miracle unto itself, all with a large painting and other art. But one, near the entrance, is special, with two tapestries by Matisse and a baptismal font from the 1600s featuring a tiny bronze John the Baptist with his hairy loincloth.

I brought my children to France in 1994 and of course, with just a few other tourists, we visited Notre Dame. Anna was entranced by the rose window. “If I ever decide to believe in God,” she said, “it’d be because of this place.” I sent her a picture of her window and lit a candle, as she’d requested, for all those we know who are suffering.

And then, because shallow, off on the bus to another sacred place: Galeries Lafayette, a sparkly cathedral not of faith but of consumption. Did a bit of shopping and went up to the roof for the first time, to look at the view — just me and hundreds of others and their cellphones. Endless endless cellphones. Endless slate grey roofs, the immense Opera building right in front, and the Tour Eiffel, naturally, in the distance.

These people have always cherished their history and its buildings. We tear ours down. Old? We need new!

Looked for a bus home but ended up walking, past the Opera, down to the Louvre – very long lineups waiting outside the pyramid – and the river, across and home for lunch and a quick nap. Can’t imagine standing in line in the sun for a few hours and then trying to take in the overwhelming immensity of the Louvre.

Another task: I needed a few things from a big Monoprix, walked half an hour to the Gare Montparnasse because I’d been to the one there. Got lost but found it, got what I needed after much deliberation — it’s a fantastic store. But then — how to get back? I got completely lost, but completely. Google Maps out every step of the way, trying to figure out in the rabbit warren of streets if I was even heading in the right direction. Every bus stop I came to, I checked if one was going my way, but they never were. Finally, thirsty, legs aching, I stopped at the perfect café, sat outside in a shady seat facing a quiet, elegant square, and had a cold Belgian beer and the fat green olives that came with it. The quintessential Paris experience — when in need, sit at a café and figure things out.

It was nearly six, and all the beautifully dressed kids were getting out of school, mothers and nannies shepherding them home. I state with satisfaction: there are brats in France, too, I witnessed not a few tantrums. There’s a myth French children are far better behaved than North Americans. Maybe. Maybe not.

Despite my rhapsodizing yesterday, there is quite a lot of garbage in the street, let’s face it, and some busses are slow to arrive. Many here smoke or vape, and everyone, everyone has an opinion on everything and expresses it loudly. But the joy in lovely public spaces, the appreciation for beauty and art — everywhere.

At last I stumbled on the rue du Bac — close to my street, still far from home, but at least I knew exactly where I was. Stopped at a bakery called Du Pain et des Gateaux – Bread and Cakes — for a small quiche and a tiramisu, and at a Picard, with its marvellous assortment of frozen food, for a delicious looking shrimp dish. Had the quiche and the sublime dessert with wine. It’s 8.30 and I’m ready for bed.

PS. It’s now 11.30. I’ve been figuring out my schedule, which is getting pretty packed. Tried to buy a ticket for the Louvre for Friday evening, my last night — it would be a shame to be right across from it and not go, and evenings are the best time. The website is picky and difficult, they didn’t like this, didn’t like that; finally got through to paying, and my Visa was refused. That’s not a good sign. I’ll try again tomorrow.

So, Paris Day 2, your faithful correspondent and her aching legs — just checked, 19,107 steps — over and out. (My average, it says, is 3,064 steps. Of course, I don’t walk at home, I bike. No wonder my legs are aching!

The post A beautiful old Lady appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

Paris diary April 2025

Saturday April 5, 2025

It’s the most beautiful hot sunny day in Paris — 24 degrees! — yet I am not doing well. I’m woozy with jetlag after the usual sleepless night crossing the Atlantic, though this time I was organized, with a little bag hanging from the tray table with my water bottle and other things I needed. Nice thick blanket. I watched A Complete Unknown again and loved it even more the second time. So much music! But also Chalumet’s performance — truly spectacular. A difficult feat to portray a man as closed and enigmatic as Dylan. He does it brilliantly. As does Ed Norton as Pete Seeger, one of the great souls of the earth.

We landed on time at 7.30 a.m. and poured out into CDG airport, for the nightmare. The worst immigration experience I’ve ever had – almost an hour and a half in a tortuous lineup, maze-like, winding back and forth, I with my carry on and heavy backpack. People were outraged, rightly so. When the line I was in – by bad luck the slowest and most convoluted – got close to the end, we saw there was one immigration inspector on duty for this line. One. The city crawling with tourists, a Saturday morning in spring, and a line of empty immigration windows, almost no one working. A giant fuck you, go away! from the French, as usual.

Finally got through and headed for the metro to Paris, proudly tapping the Navigo transit card I got last year. But no, a loud angry beep, not accepted, gates not opening. At this point, sleepless and aggravated, I would have screamed, but luckily, on my Paris visit in 2019, when I bought a metro ticket to go to the airport, I bought a return ticket for when I came back. I had it with me, and six year later, thank god, it still worked! Today I went to a metro stop to investigate. In New York, London, Toronto, you put an amount on your pass, and when it runs out, no matter when, you buy more. Here it’s I think a stupid system – a weekly pass goes from Monday to Sunday. I didn’t know how to recharge. But luckily — a leftover ticket from six years ago.

The train was packed with every nationality on earth. When I hauled my weary body out at the St. Michel stop and climbed the stairs to the street, I nearly burst into tears; the city is so beautiful and so familiar. I walked west along the Seine for about 25 minutes to get to Monique’s sister’s apartment that I’m renting for the week. And then another challenge – figuring out the doors and the keys. The instructions I’d been given were not nearly clear enough; at one point, I had to call my landlady to ask how to get out of the building through the locked gate. So many buttons to push.

However. That’s travel. I went out a bunch of times, and will say: this part of Paris is very crowded. Mind you, it may simply be this quartier, which is very touristy, especially on a sunny weekend. St. Germain is full of interesting shops, lovely twisty streets, and a hop across the Seine — the Louvre, which I can see from a window here. I walked over the Pont Royale to the Tuileries and was shocked — many thousands of people strolling, sitting, wandering, like me.

I was also bewildered by the heat — it was 24 degrees! Summer! For a Canadian who suffered through an ice storm this past week, it was astonishing. So with jetlag and general confusion, I was not a happy camper today, despite the good sandwich jambon I had for lunch and the lovely day. What the hell am I doing here? was the general tenor. I walked in the ‘hood, got some supplies at the Monoprix nearby, had some takeout dinner and rosé, and managed to keep myself up till  8.30 p.m. Which was 2.30 p.m. my time, after no sleep the night before. Crawled up to the loft, to bed.

Sunday April 6, 2025

Woke at 3 and forced myself back to sleep.

And what a difference a day makes.

Perky! Happy! A stunning Sunday in Paris, and your girl is fine. I made coffee, ate bread with the peanut butter I brought from home and the pain au chocolat I bought yesterday, and at 10 a.m. headed out into the day.

One of my favourite things about Paris is the busses. Yesterday I’d already decided to go to the Jardin des Plantes when I noticed a bus on Boul. St. Germain with that name on the side. I checked — yes, the #63 a few blocks from here goes straight to the Jardin — so today I went, using another six-year-old ticket before my Navigo kicks in tomorrow.

As you may know, I scattered some of my father’s ashes at the base of the magnificent cherry tree in the Jardin, so every time I visit Paris, I say hello to him. This time, the place was so overwhelmingly beautiful as I entered that for a moment I could hardly breathe. There are notices posted on the flowerbeds, explaining why the gardeners chose this particular colour combination. The superstar tree was at its height of glory. There were tears. My father gave me the gift of this language, this country, and this city. I honour him here. Sat and revelled.

From there, up to my former haunts in the 5th – I was lucky enough, several times years ago, to rent a perfect little apartment near here, and this part of Paris remains one of my favourite places on earth. I went to a local Monoprix I love but it was closed. So on to the rue Mouffetard, the best little street in Paris, for lunch outside on the Place Médard, as the church bells rang, and a little group played the accordion and people danced, as they always do on Sunday. Perfection. After my asparagus risotto with four slices of bread and a café noisette, I walked up the street, passed the Place Contrescarpe where Hemingway lived with Hadley, ended up walking to another of my favourite places, le Jardin du Luxembourg, packed of course on this beautiful Sunday. Down a favourite street when I was a kid, Boulevard St. Michel, to visit the Gibert bookstore, which was closed. On to the famous bookstore Shakespeare and Company, open, only there was a long lineup outside. I asked security – They’re waiting for the café, right?

Non, Madame, she replied sternly. Pour la librairie.

A superstar bookstore. I’ll come back another day.

So, went a stone’s throw away to see the great lady herself, the restored Notre Dame.

I happened to be here in April 2019 when she burned, saw the fire from a bridge, came the next morning to stand and weep with the crowds and smell the char in the air. Now she’s magnificent again. I will try again to get a reservation — you need to book to get in if you don’t want to stand in line — but it’s difficult, they say between 10 and 15 thousand people a day book to visit, and I have always missed. But I sat and looked at her and realized this time one reason she is so stunningly beautiful, besides her perfect symmetry — she is solid and yet delicate. Her arches, windows, carvings, statuary – delicate, intricate. Yet she has stood squarely, solidly there for over 800 years, and will stand, we hope, for at least 800 more.

I wandered over to the right bank, was excited to happen upon one of the demonstrations happening today — this one motorcyclists, many scores of them blocking a street with loud speeches, no idea what the problem is, and perhaps they don’t either. Oh, there’s La Samaritaine, a giant department store that was closed for many years, has been refurbished and reopened, so I went in and up to its famous top floor, a snazzy restaurant, very beautiful. Too bad, it’s yet another luxury shop, all the top marques, extremely expensive. How boring. But it’s a lovely place.

Wandered along the bouquinistes by the river, bought postcards, and got home at 4 to eat the tarte citron I’d bought at my favourite bakery on Mouffetard, where, when I got there, there was no one, and by the time I left with my treasure in a pretty box, there were fifteen people waiting behind me. My tarte was a little squished but divine. A nap, then back to Monoprix for more essentials — wine, milk. Dinner, leftovers from yesterday with a glass of rosé, then an evening stroll around the Louvre grounds right across the river — stunning, glowing ivory tinged with gold in the dusk light, many people picnicking on the nearby lawns or sitting in cafés. For me, a bit more dinner at home with a glass of red and later a tarte aux pommes also from Mouffetard. Writing to you.

What I note about this city and country: as always, transit — efficient, constant. The busses are electric and clean; the stops show you exactly when the next one is coming and where it goes. But there are also bicycles everywhere, with separated bike lanes, almost no one wearing a helmet. I myself, the avid cyclist, would not dare ride in Paris. Considering there are millions of tourists here, the streets are amazingly clean. On the Boul. St. Germain as I rode along, I saw very long lineups of tourists at the famous cafés Le Flore and Aux Deux Magots, and very long lineups of French people at cinemas and bakeries. A woman bustling by with six baguettes under her arm. Quite the family.

There are places to sit everywhere, parks, green spaces, accessible toilets — huge respect for generous, welcoming public spaces that we do not have at home, at least in Toronto, not even close.

It’s true, almost everyone is effortlessly stylish. How do they do it? I feel old and plain and schlumpy. Of course, it takes a lot of time, effort, and money to keep up, to get the latest whatever; again, I don’t know how they do it. But they do. Even, as I’ve noted before, very old women are stylish. It’s the law. I think if we Canadians lived with such beauty around us — buildings, streets, trees, all so lovely — maybe we’d find it natural to present ourselves with taste and care.

This is a very long post. I will try to shorten in future. Just getting my sea legs. Pictures to follow. Onward. En avant!

The post Paris diary April 2025 appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

“Adolescence” and strikes in France

Have to keep turning off the news, because I just do not want to hear the word ‘tariff’ again. Trump is in heaven, because the media is going crazy and he’s front and centre, just where he’s desperate to be. Makes me puke. But good news from Wisconsin! That’s the world we live in now — a woman living in Toronto writes, Good news from Wisconsin! as if it’s going to save the world. Because it just might. Wonderful op-ed in the Sunday NYT by great American writer Stacey Schiff, a friend of my cousin Ted’s, about the many unsuccessful American attempts to take over Canada. I got her address from Ted and wrote to thank her. It turns out, she’s married to a Canadian. May they come home soon.

Yesterday was beautiful, sunny and almost warm. My gardening helper Jannette and I spent hours in the garden, pruning stuff damaged by the harsh winter — the holly tree and the roses, especially, much of them shrivelled and brown. But it felt like life returning, so wonderful to be out there again, making things right.

Welcome to Canada. Today — unbelievably bad weather. Walking out of the Y, I was nearly blown off my feet by wind and sleet. Then snow, and now it’s a downpour, the streets a pile of slush. How extremely fortunate I do not have to go anywhere – and that I’m not scheduled to travel today! It’s a big birthday for Monique, but dinner at a good French restaurant was cancelled. Stay home.

News from France: the SNCF, the French rail system, has announced probable strikes starting April 17 through to June. Oh joy. That means I’ll get to Montpellier by train on April 15, but the following week, when I need to get from Avignon, near where we’ll spend Easter, to Paris, to get my plane home the following day, it may be difficult. The marvellous fast train journey for which I have a ticket would take not even three hours to traverse the entire length of the country. If there’s no train, the bus takes ten hours or more. Please keep your fingers crossed for me.

It’s France. There will be strikes.

Everyone is talking about Netflix’s Adolescence, with good reason. 13-year old Jamie is accused of stabbing to death a female schoolmate; the series explores his arrest and its aftermath. It is indeed riveting viewing, only partially because of the technical expertise involved, with each episode filmed in one uninterrupted long shot, hard to fathom the difficulty of that. But the performances! The work of Owen Cooper, as the boy Jamie, is phenomenal; he’s the best young actor I’ve ever seen. But so is everyone else, as is usual with British television.

The film shows that these days, parents have no idea what their adolescent children are doing in the privacy of their rooms; it illuminates the cruelty and brutality of online bullying, and the toxicity of the “manosphere,” with its emphasis on success at sports, sexual confidence, bravado, meanness, brute strength.

One of my favourite pundits rebelled against the film, saying there’s no evidence any random boy, especially one like this from a loving home, could easily be pushed to murder. But the malign influences beamed into every child’s bedroom are something parents must grapple with. The last episode, dramatizing what tragedy does to a family, shows the guilt Jamie’s parents feel; they assumed their boy was safe and did not investigate what was going on in his life.

The vision presented of a typical British high school is horrifying — inept, feckless teachers, rude students, all watching videos in the classrooms. Although the uniforms are good.

Jamie in some ways, though obviously not in violent behaviour, reminds me of my grandson Eli, who’s similarly closed-mouthed and secretive; unlike his little brother, who’s as guileless and open as a sunbeam, what Eli thinks and feels is a mystery known only to him. He’s only twelve, but he’s now as tall than I am, very handsome, and silent. A mystery.

His mother is totally, 100%, as much as possible, on the case.

I’m packed, more or less, though there’s still a long list, and tomorrow is busy – at 10 a last session with my tech helper Patrick; at 11.30 going through the house, discussing plants and cat etc. with upstairs tenant Carol, who’ll keep it all running. At noon, lunch with Jean-Marc; later another garden visit from Jannette, though everything may still be covered with snow. At 1.30 a Zoom call with a friend in Vancouver, at 2’ish a last visit from Sam and Bandit, and at 5.30, Monique’s for dinner, a blessing as my fridge is nearly empty. On Friday I hope to get to the Y for a last bit of exertion before heading to the airport.

And then a foreign city and country, my routines, so ingrained, blasted apart. Good for the soul. Even if, temporarily, it hurts.

Sent this shot from the NYT to Lynn, saying, “Thinking of this for my look for spring. How about you?” LOL.

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Dr. Strangelove, and Your Tomorrow

Saw TWO kind of depressing but entertaining films recently. Today, Ruthie, Annie, and I went to see the National Theatre Live production of Doctor Strangelove, a daring and clever stage adaptation of the film with the mercurial Steve Coogan playing the three Peter Sellers roles, plus one extra. Although set more or less in the mid-sixties, like the film, there are clever allusions to right now, as a group of lunatic, heedless American men cause the end of the world. There were a few lame bits, but mostly it hit hard. Coogan was terrific as a hapless Brit, a floundering President, an insanely macho fighter pilot, and mostly as Dr. Strangelove, the ex-Nazi genius whose mechanical arm keeps rising in a fascist salute despite his best efforts to force it down. Elon, anyone?

The brilliance of the original film and of this adaptation is taking an unthinkably dark topic, nuclear annihilation, and making it funny. That’s a feat. Entertaining, but also terrifying, because it doesn’t feel like a joke right now. Lunatic, heedless American men ARE wreaking planetary havoc, and who knows where that will end?

Last night, I watched a TVO doc, Your Tomorrow, about Ontario Place, a valiant venture opened in 1971 as a beautifully designed waterfront gathering place for Ontarians, which closed in 2012 through government neglect, and was sold — our public land! — by our loathsome current government to an Austrian spa. The film showed its crowded glory days, children screaming with pleasure on the various rides. More recently, crowds gathering at one of the few wild lakefront retreats in this concrete metropolis, a man planting tomatoes and sunflowers for the edification of everyone, people gathering to swim in winter or sit on the beach in summer. Many, many birds. A fox.

And then it showed the place being fenced off, and its over 850 mature trees being cut down. I almost turned it off, it hurt so much to watch.

It’s a flawed film, self-indulgently long, unfortunately, but with a very important message — beware whom you vote for, because they may end up destroying something of enormous value. That is also sort of the message of Strangelove.

Which, by the way, has as a comic character a wimpy, deferential Canadian, part of the team in the US war room. It’s funny, but it also isn’t funny at all. We’re not that nice. Just watch us.

On another note, this was the front row of the Shopper’s Drug Mart magazine section this week: Elvis, Pink Floyd, Jesus. When did Jesus become a rock star? I find that disturbing. Are fanatical Christian nationalists taking over here too?

Your faithful correspondent is gearing up for her next trip — to France, on Friday, for nearly three weeks. Much careful packing in the carryon, for walking around Paris, a fancy dinner, a visit with relatives in the countryside, and then with my best friends Lynn and Denis in Montpellier and Easter in their country house in Provence. Comfortable shoes are key. Scarves, lots of scarves. And layers, because it may be cold, it may be hot. And of course, there may be strikes. Because France.

But for sure, there will be raptures about cheese. That book about French cheeses is 236 dense pages long. Be still my beating heart.

Stay tuned.

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