Paris Weeps in November

Paris weeps in November.  The days are cold, wet, and short. Lovers huddle close neath lovers’ covers.  The old pray and remember in churches, synagogues, and cathedrals. And on lonely park benches. Paris weeps for love, loss, and remembrance. 

On Kristallnacht I walked through the Tuileries and up the Seine to the Ile de la Cite, to call on lost friends at Notre Dame and the Deportation Memorial.  In the cathedral, an organist improvised in a minor key accompanied by a light show of popping camera flashes.  I wondered what medieval worshipers would have made of the brilliant play of flashing light.  I prayed that every photon capture a moment of holiness to be released like butterflies in Los Angeles, Kyoto, Nottingham, or Sioux Falls.  The light show added random beauty and mystery, as if Mona Lisa subtly widened her smile at my glance. I offered my poor prayers to those of the countless others who’ve worshipped there in the last 800 years.  Time slipped, we prayed as one for peace and justice; absolution.  Time regained its traction and I was back in November 2011, just across the Seine from Shakespeare & Co. Bookstore, another place of meditation.

The Deportation Memorial, behind Notre Dame, is a place of remembrance for the Jews, Roma, homosexuals, handicapped, resistance fighters, and others deported and murdered by the Nazis and collaborationist French government.  An old man docent searched my bag for explosives on entry. Nobody took flash photos. The place was empty in the rain.  I prayed alone.  Paris wept in shame and sorrow for her murdered children.

Shakespeare & Co. displayed the new biography of Hadley, Hemmingway’s first wife; the “Paris wife” Hemmingway betrayed, degraded, threw away, and never stopped loving. Paris is love, loss, and remembrance.  Already overweight and over budget I considered bringing the 40 Euro book home anyway, but realized that the story is too poignant to read. I’ll stick with Hadley’s own epitaph for their marriage, “I got the best of him.  We got the best of each other!”  She had that one right; but she had the worst of Hemmingway too.

Weary, I boarded the Batobus to pass time on the river watching Paris drift by in warmth and comfort. All the wonder of the city arises from the Seine. The Musee D’Orsay, Eiffel Tower, Grand Palais, and Les Invalides paraded by in antique splendor.  My destination was the Jardin des Plantes, one of Paris’ many vast island sanctuaries for plants and animals.  Parisians understand the importance of supporting the ecosystem within their city.  Birds, dogs, and children roamed the great garden notwithstanding the soft rain.  Diminutive cowboys and Indians darted among the lanes; young parents joined their children on the carousel.  Spirits of deported, lost children drifted in the fog among the living.

Throughout my ramble, I admired many fine street bikes darting like swallows along the avenues.  When Ms. Raleigh and I lived in Paris she was a configured as a bare naked bicycle; no derailleur, no luggage, just bones, brakes, and a saddle:

Two wheels

                                                            One cog
                                                            One speed
                                                            One God

I wished Mr. Raleigh had been able to join me in Paris.  We had some rare old times in the Bois de Boulogne, a city cyclist’s paradise.  It was time to ramble home to the green pastures and rugged coast of West Cork. 

So long, Paris.  Howdy Clonakilty.