Again From Paris in January---What The Parsien Cabbie Is Driving & Other Assorted Hodgepodge

I see Parisian taxis everywhere I go, and of course I am very interested in the makes and models everyone is using.  Be clear, unlike the American taxi, at least in Paris there is no standardized color, like Yellow is in New York City, Seattle and elsewhere though generally the cabs here are either various shades of grey or just that most basic of colors, black.

While it can be difficult to tell what kind of car it is as the cabs whiz by, the majority of cabbies appear to be driving Skodas, Citroens, Volkswagens, Toyotas, Mercedes, Volvos and Peugeots, and all of them seem to be fairly new.  One thing they are not is dented, which sets them apart from the average Seattle cab, including my own YC 1092.  Yes, an un-dented cab is a beautiful cab, so I am guessing that the local regulators hold the taxi industry here to a higher standard, requiring that the dents and dings are promptly repaired.  Given the amount of Parisian traffic and how fast everyone is driving I am assuming there are a number of collisions daily but I have yet to see one.  In Seattle on any given day I see 3-4 or more minor accident aftermaths, people either standing next to injured cars exchanging information or waiting for the police to arrive.  Yes, an undamaged taxi is a wonderful thing!

And today, being Monday, January 29th, my nearly three week long journey is essentially over, and tomorrow I fly back via Reykjavik to Seattle, and to what hopefully will be a very successful year, because I certainly need one instead of the past "nine thematic exhausted, limping along years" featuring a very disgruntled human being, me.  If you have ever said to yourself, "My life wasn't supposed to be this way!" then you know how I feel, divorce, then protracted illness dominating my life.  Though I have gotten some work done, like the blog you're reading and the biography of Milton Wan, all progress feels accidental, one blind part of myself leading the other to nothing save confusion and misery.

And who wants to be a cab driver, subjected to idiocy and stupidity every minute, every hour, every day?  Not me, friends, not me which is why I included one poem last week and now two poems and an essay this week.  I have a book to finish and publish.  I have things to do and hiking trails to wander down.

As Orwell kept saying in the essays I've been reading, that the majority of what was being written in the late 1930s, early 40s was not worth reading, then similarly, the life I have been writing for myself is something not worth living despite the resuscitating travel keeping me alive and hopefully awake.  So out with the negative, and in with the new, who cares about the rain because eventually the sky above you will be blue!

Two Paris Eateries to Recommend

There  are two can't miss restaurants I have found here, Chez Paul, 13 rue de Charonne, traditional French; and Ton Hon, 17rue Royer Collard, and as its motto states in French, the "Premier Restaurant Chinios a Paris." My meal at Chez Paul might have been the best of a lifetime, and the dessert, "Floating Island in Vanilla Custard," was certainly worth the 7 plus euro I paid to have the pleasure of eating something that I can only describe as beyond delicious.  As for Ton Hon, the Peking/hot & sour soup was perhaps the best I have eaten, and I have sampled that Chinese staple across the globe.  The only negative was having the unusual request of paying in advance.  What can I say other than the Chinese remain suspicious of hippies, and given I am in my traveling clothes, I look a trifle scruffy.

At least in terms of names, my favorite place was the bistro/cafe located in the Montparnasse, "Au Chein Qui Fume," or "The Smoking Dog" featuring the outline of a dachshund smoking a pipe.  Their special that day was a big pot of lamb cooked with rosemary flavored while beans.  It was very good but few places will match Chez Paul.  I had been on my way to Chez Dumonet but upon realizing that lunch would cost me nearly 100 euros I decided to leave and instead pet a smoking dachshund.  It was friendly.  It didn't bite.


Museums, Tourists, & the General Paris Attitude

Even upon a rainy January, with last Sunday's rainfall registering a new daily record which both flooded the Seine  and partially shut down sections of the RER C Line, Paris remains inundated with tourists, travelers and many permanent foreign residents, causing it seems an interesting mix of complacency and irritation resulting in resistance, boredom and anger amongst the average citizenry.  Where I have seen this most are in the museums where the tourists go despite knowing little to nothing about brushstroke and artistic construction but there they are regardless, taking endless photos and generally clogging the hallways and corridors.  The results at times to all this is a startling "I truly don't give a damn!" with museum operations and conduct.  And it isn't that it is completely intentional as instead a reactive response to an overwhelming reality.

I found this to be true at both the Musee D' Art Et D' Histoire Du Judaisme, and during my second visit to the Musee De Cluny---Musee National Du Moyen Age, quickly realizing that museum administrations don't understand that they are very dependent upon extremely transient and foreign visitors, who often like me, neither read nor speak French thus requiring instruction and direction in various languages.

Though very small, for some reason, the Jewish history museum decided to divide itself that day into two sections, one requiring an additional fee but minus any obvious indication that was the case.  When I began entering that part of the museum, the security guard, who only spoke French, acted like I was a serious criminal.

And upon returning to the ticket counter, the attendant who did speak English, lamely pointed to the sign behind him stating museum rules including one saying there is an additional  charge for special exhibits.  But as I told him, there was nothing stating that a special show existed, so how was I or anybody else supposed to know?  He then thanked me!  Crazy!

Even worse perhaps was the Cluny's failure to tell everyone that, very suddenly, their famous six tapestry series, "The Lady and the Unicorn," ("La Dame a la Licorne") would not be available to be seen, and for how long I couldn't tell you.  Luckily I had gone a few days earlier or, like so many others, I would have missed something I had traveled ten thousand miles to see.

Again, no indication to why or any warning concerning the tapestries unavailability and to when you would once again be able to view them.  Some might just call it arrogance.  Instead it see it as indifference and tourist fatigue.  Another factor could be a lack of English fluency throughout the French capital.  Yesterday, when I was accidentally overcharged at a Montparnasse bistro, "Au Chien Qui Fume," (the Smoking Dog), I found that my server spoke far less English than I supposed.  Everything was worked out but it is something I am experiencing everywhere in Paris, unlike in Reykjavik where everyone speaks English, and Danish too, given that all Icelanders receive extensive instruction in both languages.

Poems

Of course each culture and their societal habits are different, no matter what one may personally think of them.  In Paris, glancing and bold flirtation appear to be commonplace, which some may like and others may not.  A few days ago a woman holding hands with her husband/boyfriend turned completely around, flashing me this big lilac lipstick colored smile then continued on, hand in hand down the street.  Now what could that truly mean?

Thinking about it, it seems like a kind of salute, an acknowledgement of sexual rank.  What the hell else could it be but I personally find it disquieting, an attention I am not seeking, so the following poem follows that line of thinking.  If I had responded back, would the woman on the metro featured in the poem suddenly switched partners, sitting next to me and leaving her once boyfriend now abandoned?

I write this because I find human behavior interesting, and since cab driving is all about observing human behavior, I truly take note when it becomes, however brief, very personal.  As stated before, I have been sexually harassed or mildly assaulted more times than I really remember, and 95% of this kind of behavior done by the opposite sex.  So are we all, collectively across the planet, nuts! displaying less than appropriate behaviors?  Yes, that appears to be the case, no matter where you are or who you are talking to.  Ah yes, welcome to the world as I unfortunately know it.

                                                         On The Metro

                                          Sitting upon the moving train

                                          and looking up to the left, noticing

                                          a couple standing, seeing she was
       
                                                          beautiful

                                         but not signaling anything, barely thinking

                                                       when abruptly she

                                         turned completely around facing me

                                                    silently conveying back

                                                       something I had never

                                              nor would I in those circumstances

                                                                 request.


____________     _________________   ________________  __________________  __________


                                                       in the Pantheon 

                   
                               Having experienced too many museum attendants

                                            I visit the Pantheon

                                                   descending to the crypts

                              and there is Voltaire's tomb and a prominent statue too

                                  Francois-Marie Arouet with pen in upraised hand

                                                "Qui plume a guerre"

                                                            or

                                          "To hold a pen is to be at war"

                                                     and to the left

                                         the perfectly shadowed outline

                                                     of Voltaire's

                                                   very large nose

                                          silhouetted against a back wall.


Essay

                                                 Was Orwell Correct? 


George Orwell opines, in various essays dating from the 1930s and 40s, that 90% of all the books published (in the era he was living), are all crap and not worth reviewing, selling or reading.  Indeed a strong statement by someone who clearly demonstrated not only could he write well but produce writing transcending normal time and space.  But was he right in saying that most of the writing he encountered was bad?  Or was he just complaining, like so many do, using poor writing as a convenient foil?

There is no doubt that Orwell could be accurate, as shown in "Animal Farm" and "1984" where he makes it clear that totalitarianism, be it fascist, communist or just plain everyday governmental over reach, is a scourge never to be encouraged, that bureaucratic control over another human being is sacrilegious, an affront to life's basic principals. Yes, it is hard to argue with his premise, saying he was wrong, given the too many bad examples since his death in 1950---China, South Africa, North Korea, the Soviet Union, the state of Alabama, Cambodia---where autocratic governance proved to be both hardhearted and deadly, pushing all compassion and commonsense into a shallow grave.

But was he correct about writing and the writers writing all these disparaged books?  Because, after all, we are talking about men and women who were, just like Orwell, just like me, inspired to write, to put their thoughts on paper, so why are their efforts, according to Orwell, less than stellar?

One quick answer might be that like cooking, some recipes are more complex than others, and simply taste better.  Another quick answer is that subjective variable---innate talent and where real ability takes you or not as the objective case may be.

Another take upon quality is, and this could be a gross generalization, that most readers aren't interested in the kind of great writing Orwell finds necessary, it appearing not be accidental the ever soaring popularity of murder mysteries and crime novels and pulp romances so many curl up in bed with.  Having recently read some of the more celebrated writers plying the genre tells me Orwell was largely correct---the writing, while more-or-less entertaining, isn't very good, essentially comic books transferred to the fictional page.

And taking this essay itself to a quick conclusion, I personally have found that "writing for the ages" is difficult to do, requiring decades of reading and writing, and perhaps most importantly, after all the hours and and hard work is put in, that the writer's own objectivity concerning his or hers literary product being tantamount to success.   If you don't know if your writing is truly worthy for other eyes to scan and redden over, then no one will know despite outside commentary or critique one way or the other.

Pride of ownership then, is what it seems Orwell was accurately saying when he wrote that most of what had been recently published was wasted paper and little else.  And why he felt this way is because Orwell was a serious man, well comprehending our shared human dilemma, wishing others to join him in a quest for universal sanity. something I think we should all attempt with each and every breath.

So again, was Orwell ultimately correct about all the bad writing he clearly found annoying and bothersome and inane and dumb?  Yes, and no, and certainly, yes!

What I have been reading

If you have gotten this far, you are a "glutton for punishment" so you might as well find out what I have been reading during this particular European journey:

Off Shore by Penelope Fitzgerald----a novel published in 1979

Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym----a novel published in 1977

Pictures That Storm Inside My Head----Poems for the Inner You----poetry collection edited by Richard Peck, 1st published in 1976

Books vs Cigarettes by George Orwell----A Penguin "Great Ideas" essay collection published in 1984


Postscript

An amusing side note is that the poetry collection contains a writer, Lyn Lifshin, that I published way back in 1980 when I was a poetry editor on a truly bad magazine in San Francisco, California.  I remember that it was about japonia flowers.  Even then, though I had no idea who she was, I wondered why a good writer would have submitted to us.  Will wonders ever cease?  Let's hope not!