Time to 'fess up

OK -- I got it backwards in the last posting.

They don't start ringing the bells at 11:11:11 on the 11th. They start ringing them at 11, and precisely at 11:11:11 the bells, like the huge guns 87 years ago, go silent.

This has been a fantastic day, without reservation.

No, the sun isn't out -- it's one of those gray-on-gray days, with gray accents and hints of gray highlighting everywhere. Here's another secret: those are some of the best days to take photographs, because the colors are true and very brilliant versus the neutral background and sky.

No, it's just that I got out of the house on time, and I went into the right side of the metro station, and I caught a train immediately, and I just got to the Invalides station in time to (after the mandatory 1/2 mile walk between "connecting" stations) catch the RER as it was buzzing to shut the doors, so that I got to Notre Dame just as the great bell of the south tower, known as Emmanuel, began it's dolorous tolling. The bell is beyond mammoth, weighing over 26,000 pounds. The bell's clapper weighs in at over 500 kilos, more than 1100 pounds. It's perfect F sharp pitch is said to exist due to the significant amount of gold and silver jewelry donated by citizens of Paris and melted into the bell when the it was restruck in the 1600s.

I recorded that bell. I don't think I can post the recording here, but I'll figure out a way to get it to you if you want to hear it. Nothing can do justice to standing 200 feet below it in the square, however. You do not hear the bell, you absorb it. The percussive crash of clapper on bell can be felt in your jawbone, in your chest, and, after a while, in the vibrations of your feet and legs. These folks took the imprecation to "raise up a beautiful noise unto the heavens" rather quite seriously, and to splendid effect.

After about five minutes of setting a bass rhythm line, the bells two octaves higher, in the north tower, joined in and pealed joyously for another five minutes or so, and then it all stopped. Emmanuel does not just stop, of course -- once you've got 26,000 pounds swaying through a 160 degree arc, it takes a while to come to a silent halt, but the effect was still chilling. There was a celebratory mass at 3:00 commemorating the "permanent and undying friendship that France shares with Great Britain to commemorate the Day of the Armistice". Considering that these two entities were solely responsible for the Hundred Years' War, among many, many others (the French and Indian war you might remember having to study in school - General Wolfe and the Marquis du Montcalm, blah blah), its really astonishing to see a sign about permanent and undying friendship, but it also gives one pause to consider the possibilites that exist in our current areas of conflict around the world. Perhaps one day they, too, will celebrate "permanent and undying friendship".

It's a three day weekend. Most places are open, and the town is just CRAWLING with tourists -- Japanese, German, and more Brits than you could throw into Boston Harbor. The longer I'm in country, the more jarring it is to hear English spoken by people passing me on the sidewalks.

Back to the perfect day.....

I decided I needed to walk. So, from Notre Dame, I walked across the river to the Hotel de Ville (City Hall), then up into the Marais, which was our "stomping grounds" in January. It felt just like home -- everything was RIGHT where I had left it 10 months ago. Mariage Freres, the world's most elegant tea shop. Sascha Finklestajn's bakery, featuring "Yiddish sandwiches" (What? You don't know from a pickle in the middle and mustard on top? What kind of schlemazl are you, anyway?). {PHOTO ABOVE} And, L'As du Falafel, "The Aces of Falafel", which is simply the world's best falafel restaurant. Don't take my word for it -- Lenny Kravitz says so -- on second thought, DO take my word for it. It's the best around. When you come to Paris, you absolutely, positively MUST eat there -- get the deluxe with eggplant and chili -- and don't go on a Friday night -- you'll never get in.

From there, I wandered into new territory -- somehow, the last time we were here, we missed the Place des Vosges -- probably because I can not pronounce it without being in danger of drowning myself. 500 years old, it is a marvel of architecture -- one of the first spec built developments -- four streets surrounding a park, all built with colonnaded first floors. {THE OTHER PHOTO ABOVE}.Then, and now, one of the most expensive and exclusive addresses in Paris, which makes the large contingent of home-style San Francisco homeless people sleeping under the colonnade all the more poignant.

A few blocks away, smack in the middle of one of the oldest districts in the city, two brand-new modern stucco buildings stood out like John Bobbit's long-lost friend. I found myself humming a Sesame Street tune, "One of these things is not like the other ones, one of these things does not belong......"

Crossed the river to the Ile Saint Louis. On the bridge, one of those "only in Paris" scenes. A guy with a tiny upright piano and a fellow with a clarinet were playing their hearts out -- jazz -- on the bridge, while another music group nearby listened and applauded. People stopped -- I took photos of several who were trying to take turns as photographer in order to get enough pictures to prove they were all there. As the guys were playing, a young mother came by with her daughter of 4 or 5 years, long, long brown hair to the middle of the little girl's back. She was riding her Razor scooter around the bridge, slaloming through the amused musicians, and playing with her little brother who was old enough to walk (and to run away from Mom, who was desperately trying to roll up his pant legs) but not old enough to talk yet. The little girl was amazing in her ability to herd him and make him laugh -- it was one of those moments that just plain makes you tickled to death to be alive and paying attention.

Walked down the island's main street -- Le Sergent Recruteur is still there, so Kelli and I have one dinnner planned. My favorite boulangerie was open, and I got a baguette traditional to get me into the weekend. I crossed over to the Rive Gauche, or Left Bank, right in the heart of the Quartier Latin. Found a lovely vegetable store open, and they had romarin, laurier et sauge (rosemary, bay leaves and sage, all fresh on the stem). Needed them for a couple of recipes which I'm trying out tonight. The house smells like a home tonight.......

The greengrocer was cute -- first of all, he treated me very well because I didn't touch the displayed herbs, but waited for him to select them; then, when I was able to ask for what I wanted in French, including the item not visible on display, things went even better, so he wrapped up all the herbs in a small cone of paper and presented them with a flourish -- "vous bouquet, Monsieur". I tucked it into an inside jacket pocket so that just the rosemary stuck out of my jacket. With the baguette under my arm, I felt like a regular Parisian for the time being.

Walked home from there. That's no mean feat -- it's about halfway across Paris. I started at Notre Dame, walked east nearly to the Bastille, then back to the island, across to the Latin Quarter, then through St. Germain des Pres, then I got adventurous and turned south. Always remember, objects are larger than they appear in the right-hand mirror, and farther than they appear on the map.

I walked to the Luxembourg Gardens, which didn't look far on the map (it wasn't really), but it also looked FLAT on the map -- I always forget that once you cross the Seine and have it at your back, you are steadily walking uphill at about a 3% slope. Got to the gardens -- lots of people were there at lunchtime on a holiday. Still a lot of flowers, and the trees have not dropped everything yet. The gardens are about six blocks wide. Built by Catherine de Medicis in the 16th century so she would have some place to walk, they quickly realized that no garden worth a tinker's damn could just have four fenced-in sides -- one side just HAS to be a palace, don't you know? It's a big old thing, too -- about six blocks wide, and all.....

Across the park and clearly visible is the Sore Thumb of Paris, AKA the Montparnasse Tower. The top is visible from my living room; the whole thing just flies toward the sky until it suddenly gets embarrased by the whole idea and just cuts off about 35 stories above the streets of a town that has almost no other buildings over 7 stories.

From there, a walk across the rest of the 6th arr, and into the 7th, where the Hotel du Invalides and Ecole Militaire mean I'm almost home. Walking down the Rue de Babylone, I passed the City of Paris Guard of the Republic -- I think they are actually police -- an enormous gated brick compound with six buildings one after another inside. There was a van full of young cops sitting outside of the gate, and one policeman guarding it on the street, plus watching the entrance to a park next door. As I got to a main intersection a block away, a caravan of at least 8 police vans loaded with officers passed by with blue lights revolving, but no sirens. They turned in the opposite direction from the house, and I was happy they did. I suppose I'll see it on tonight's news, whatever they were doing.

Once I got home and began cooking, I opened the windows, and for about 20 solid minutes could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance -- not necessarily police sirens, but sirens. As I write this, they are starting up again in the far distance.

Total distance today, about 7.5 miles, plus about 700 stairs. My hips hurt, my feet hurt, and I finally feel like I'm actually here.