The Western European Blitz: Day 8 - Paris by foot (part 2)

September 28th, 2019

The metropolis is limitless.  From a top the Arc de Triomph you can see the pockets of skyscrapers in the distance and boulevards lined with green treetops stretching to the horizon.  They create pieces of a pie filled with the jelly making this city tick or jiggle. I like getting a bird’s eye view of things. The beauty and scenery are one thing, but more so I like having a frame of reference to check in with.  Because as much as you can take in from that high up, it’s really when you are foot to pavement and face to face that you understand you haven’t cracked the service of this place yet.

The march to the Eiffel Tower brings us down one of the tree lined boulevards.  We spot the top of her from the middle of the street.

I can’t say enough about what the passing rain clouds have done to the backdrop of all our sites.  The sky is a huge part of Paris.  We’re not surrounded by tall buildings grasping at a stretch of horizon.  They are wide streets here with non-uniformed buildings stretching high enough to only slightly advert your eyes upward.
As we pull closer, the Tower presents itself a little more.  Once we break out of the park, it’s is on full display.

It’s a bit of a mad house as to be expected, but we pick out a patch of grass to rest for a bit and take in the attraction.  You can spot little dots making their way up.  Elevators shooting up and down from the top.  We have no intention of doing either.  We’ll get our memories from the ground.
Surrounding us are couples sitting in the grass doing what lovers do.  It’s like scenes from a 90’s rom-com. Ingrid and I share a peck then decide to take a nap.

Recharged and refreshed we lace ‘em up again for the next 17-minute stretch under the Eiffel Tower and head into the park.  A couple more mental and actual photos and we are moving on.

Our sights are set on Rue Cer Market St.  It’s another very Persian street this time with some fresh fish and produce stands.  We turn the corner and the last of the day’s sun is splashing on a couple of brasserie’s.  Luck is on our side, there’s a empty table.  Legs crossed fancy cocktails in hand we sit side by side with our shades on taking in the atmosphere until the sun sets behind the apartments stretching down the street.

We’re trying to chase the sun and find a dinner spot outside.  It’s futile. Our legs are jelly and feeble. Through sheer will and determination for bread and cheese we tack another couple miles onto the odometer though.
At an intersection near the Esplande Jacques Chaban- Delmas there are a couple options.  Without a lot of thought we pick one and grab a table outside.  The maitre d’ hands us the menu and on the top it reads Café Basil.  The B is the Boston Red Sox logo. We have unintentionally picked an American bar.  Oi Vey.  Whatever, Go Sox.  Let’s eat some chicken.

Quickly we scarf down the American dish.  It’s actually a hearty and filling meal and exactly what we needed.  I’m not sure if it’s the chicken or the couple next to us making out on and off, but Inga finally LOSES it.  I’ve been waiting, preparing.  The mind can only endure so much.  And a mind like Ingrid’s can be triggered with the slightest infraction. The word was sponge.  That’s it.  Full on hysterical meltdown. Tears, red faced, indescribable squeaking noises, the whole shebang.  It’s good.  We needed to get that out of our system.  Next, we spend a night in Paris.

The 6th Arrondissment has some action.  Off the Blvd St. Germain there are streets littered with cafés all shoulder to shoulder full. The string lights on the awnings illuminate the street. We have a quick stop at a little wine bar to grab some iPhone juice. The bar tender is playful. He’s older guy that acts as if he’s seen it all. We get along. With a wine warmth we map out a route to La Jacobine.  Friends of ours once spent a Thanksgiving here. It’s a cute place and the food looks delicious. We are in more of a pick, drink, and move mood though. Very not French of us.

It’s fun aimlessly rounding corners.  The lighting and ambiance has made us forget about the bald tires we’re riding on at this point.  We join a crowd to watch a pair of tap dancers on the street.  One older, working the music waiting for his turn, the other a young boy with an outfit from an earlier generation.
One more Vins Rouge before the real fun begins.

It’s easy to miss Chez George even if you’re looking for it.  The google map blue dot has turned chaotic.  It takes a couple strolls up and down an alley until we find what I would call barely a doorway where a man stands dressed in all black.  We ask “Chez George?”  He nods and points down a stone stairwell bending right into the dark.
Down the stairs you enter a cave.  It’s a stone cement cellar converted into a bar. It takes me back to a memory as a kid.  My Grandparent’s house had an old stone foundation with a dirt floor basement that even as a 6-year-old I could barely stand up in.  That’s what this place reminds me of.  The room is no bigger than 12 x 12 with a few tables pulled together for a group of 6 or so.
To our right is an opening we walk through.  I’m basically in a squatting position to make it under the arch. It opens to a larger room with a small bar to the left.  We grab a table and Ingrid slides into the bench seating against the wall.  I head to a small stone framed window that is the bar. 

The ventilation is clearly not a priority.   It’s warm and muggy, but everyone’s smiling.  Next to us are two older couples.  I don’t know if they are American, but they are acting like it. The women are up dancing in the confined space while the men sip their beers and give us the look.  They aint dancing.
I grab another beer.  The weak European suds are going down easy.  As I come back to the table I find Ingrid chatting it up with some co-eds. Three Parisian Girls drinking some fluorescent skinny cocktails. We’ll spend a bulk of our time at Chez George chatting them up.  Music, politics, travel, school are all subjects on the table.  They head back to school Monday, so this is their Bonvoyage evening.  

The music is loud, so the conversations are the kind that involve a lot of agreement via head bobbing not really knowing what their saying. However, the music is good!  The girls tell us they rarely play this tribute to Americana classics.  We must have spawned a movement!  The conversations are interrupted with dancing.  If your not careful you’ll hit your head on the stone ceiling.  “Stay in the middle of the room when cutting rug.”
The room is starting to fill up with willing participants.  Still no movement from the potentially American men. The playlist has taken us from Chuck berry through Ray and the Beach boys, up the Stones.  That’s it for American music though. We’ve hit The British invasion era.  The Co-eds sarcastically ask me not to talk about invasions while in France.
We bid farewell to the girls and wait for 1 AM. At 1 AM this dungeon bar turns into a full-on Israeli dance party.  It’s not 1 second past 12:59 and a Traditional Jewish wedding song comes blaring through the stone walls.  Every table is singing and clapping to the beat.  A group of young men are arm in arm ducking and twirling in the center of the room.  Let’s stay for a couple tunes to enjoy the show. Strike a pose you handsome minx.

On our walk home it seems we’ve exhausted even the late-night pizza joints.
What a day and Such a night in Paris.