Going off the beaten track

One of the great things about this Paris holiday is how Allison and I have tried to stay away from the more touristy areas. Not all the time admittedly – we’ve queued with half of Paris to see Monet’s Water Lilies at the Musée de l’Orangerie, got overcharged for water in a café in the Tuileries and got trampled by camera-wielding tourists in Montmartre.

To counter this, we have been renting an apartment in the non-touristy 12^th arrondissement where we are self-catering with food purchased in the local markets. We have gone out of our way to speak en francais wherever possible, although in one bar I was told by the (American) barmaid that I could use English if I wanted to.

A people-watching game that we’ve enjoyed playing on this trip has been ‘Parisian or tourist’, where we try to guess whether a random passer-by is a local or here on holiday. In some cafés, the couple at the next table have made it too easy for us by ordering their drinks in very loud English. Sometimes they even have a bratty child in tow. We have learned that in cafés like this you have to specify l’eau du robinet (tap water) in order to avoid being overcharged – lesson learned!

This afternoon, we decided to leave those sorts of places behind and spend our last full day in Paris walking along the Canal St-Martin. It’s one of the more trendy parts of Paris these days, but it’s largely escaped the attention of the tourist industry. In fact, it’s not a part of town either of us had really heard of – we were tipped off by an article in the Toronto Star which highlighted it as a part of Paris that is very much off the beaten track.

To get there, we took the Metro to the Place de la Bataille de Stalingrad, located just north of the Gares du Nord and de l’Est. Our first impression, after we’d managed to find our way out of the maze that is Stalingrad station, was that we’d stumbled on a rough part of town. The walls were covered in graffiti, and there were groups of suspicious-looking young men hanging around along the towpath. The shirtless men doing chin-ups on a climbing-frame were unnerving, to say nothing of the homeless guys with their pit-bulls. Not an area in which you’d want to flaunt your digital SLR.

At one time in the not-so distant past, the whole area was infamous for drug-dealing and the violence that came with it. Just six years ago, loads of illegal immigrants from Afghanistan camped out here. But this part of Paris is undergoing a period of change and is currently experiencing a renaissance. Cheap rents brought in the students, the artists and the hipsters, and as a result the area has become fashionable while retaining a lot of its old character.

The canal itself, built in the 1820s to link the Seine with a canal network to the north of Paris, is very picturesque with its tree-lined locks and a series of wrought-iron footbridges. For part of the way, the water level is actually higher than the streets next to it. We’d definitely picked the right day to do this, as it wasn’t too hot and the rain which we thought was coming in the afternoon failed to materialise.

Gradually, we left the gangs and the homeless guys behind and strolled past men reading the papers on benches and small play-areas where mothers took their young children. Students sat chatting by the water’s edge, and customers from a couple of bars spilled out onto the towpath. Parisians sped by on grey Velib’ bikes, which are everywhere in this city and have revolutionised how people get around (these have been copied by London with the ‘Boris bikes’).

Our walk along the canal ended near the Place de la République where the canal goes underground to continue its journey to the Seine. Close to the end, we chanced upon a cool-looking bar called Chez Prune, where the waiter wasn’t wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat, didn’t address us in English and sang along to the old song that was playing on the stereo as he got our order from the bar. What a welcome change!

It’s a world away from the tourist-trap cafés in St-Germain where people go because the likes of Pablo Picasso and Jean-Paul Sartre used to hang out there. To be honest, if Sartre were around today, I reckon Chez Prune is the sort of place where he’d be doing his thinking.

Around us, there were no loud English-speakers – everyone was speaking French. This, it seems, is where the locals go for un café or un verre de vin rouge. Any game of ‘Parisian or tourist’, would not have lasted for very long – in fact, there were only two tourists in the place, who were working hard not to blow their cover! 

I see dead people...

Our exploration of Paris took a turn for the macabre today as we ventured into the 14^th arrondissement, south of the Latin Quarter. Twenty metres below street level is a series of underground corridors, well over a mile in length, in which vast amounts of bones and skulls are neatly packed along each and every wall. This subterranean world is Les Catacombes, the result of a plan to empty Paris’s medieval cemeteries and store the dead, or what was left of them, in a series of disused quarries south of the city centre.

The brains behind this idea, interestingly enough, was Louis XVI – the king whose actions led to the Revolution and thus to his being guillotined in 1793. In 1780, he’d decreed that the Cimitière des Invalides (Cemetery of the Innocents, the last resting-place of Parisians since the middle ages and located in what is now the Les Halles district) be closed down on the not unreasonable grounds that it was overflowing with the dead and had as such become a public health risk. Five years later, Louis decided that all of the bones in said cemetery be moved underground – specifically, to the ancient quarries below Paris that by the 1780s had also become a serious problem as they were starting to cave in. In effect, Louis was solving two problems at the same time – an exception as far as this most indecisive of monarchs was concerned.

The plan quickly expanded to take in over 150 cemeteries in the Paris area, and the transferring of the remains of generations of Parisians continued until the mid-nineteenth century. At first, the bones were just dumped in the old quarries, but over time the people in charge of this project – which continued throughout the upheavals of the Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars and beyond – started to get creative. Héricart de Thury, who was appointed Inspector-General of Ossuaries in 1810, eventually turned the Catacombes into a proper monument to those for whom it had become a final resting-place. As a result they became a popular place to visit.

Today, it’s still very popular, if the two-hour queue that we encountered was anything to go by. As is usual in such situations, we hoped that some of the people in front of us would get bored and decide to go elsewhere, and we eventually got chatting to the Americans directly in front of us.

When we got to the front, we paid our €8 and descended via a spiral staircase that looked like it had been taken from a Metro station fire exit into the subterranean world – and, after walking through several passages we came to the entrance of what was proclaimed as “l’Empire de la Mort”. Another sign advised us not to touch the bones or smoke. One can readily understand why – back in the day, this place would’ve been lit by gas rather than electricity.

Inside, we encountered rows upon rows of bones, piled up and neatly arranged. Some areas had signs indicating which cemeteries the bones had come from, and when they’d been transferred to the Catacombes. Others were fronted by quotes from various ancient poets, a couple of whose names I recognised.

It’s an eerie place down there, as you walk past hundreds of skulls neatly packed into the walls that seem to be staring right at you. Who were all these people, I wondered? What stories could they have told, and what would they have thought about becoming a tourist attraction centuries after they’d died? Is this the sort of place where we’re all going to end up at some unknown point in the future?

As one sign proclaimed: “Ou est elle la Mort? Toujours future ou passée Apeine est-elle presente, que déjà elle n’est plus”

An ossuary, it seems, is a good place for contemplating one’s own mortality. Right in the middle, there’s an altar. Here, masses are occasionally held for the dead, many of whom are no doubt the ancestors of today’s Parisians. Down there, the history of the city is quite literally staring you in the face.

Not that showing marks of respect were the order of the day for all of the tourists. OK, so they’d queued for a couple of hours to get down there, but blatantly disobeying the rules about not using flash photography and doing silly poses in front of the piles of bones struck me as a little disrespectful.

That’s nothing compared to the locals who like to go down there at night for illegal raves and all sorts of other cheap thrills; if caught, these catophiles risk fines of €60. On the plus side, though, the Catacombes have served France well in the past as the tunnels were used as a headquarters by the Resistance during the Second World War. Just around the corner from where we’re staying is a memorial on a wall to one of the Maquis, Jean Tailleu, who was executed by the SS in 1944. I wonder if he spent some time hiding from the Germans below the streets?

Back in the present, I tried to rationalise things and wondered out loud why there were only skulls and bones from limbs. Where were the ribcages and the finger-bones? Maybe they don’t last as long. I tried to take some decent non-flash photographs down there, but it’s trickier than you’d think. Even using the night-time settings can only do so much in a place where it’s always darker than the night.

In the end, we decided that this is one of those places that you only need to visit the once. Like the Eiffel Tower.

After I’d climbed the stairs to get back to the world of the living, an attendant asked in English if he could check my rucksack. There are obviously some people for whom taking photos just isn’t enough.

Where the swifts take us

The sound that I am mostly associating with Paris at the moment is that of the swifts that seem to be constantly flying overhead. They are there when I wake up in the morning, and they’re there now in the evening as I’m typing this.

Allison and I are in Paris for a week, not just self-catering but hiring out an apartment in the 12^th arondissement from a Parisian student. If you’ve ever seen a movie set in Paris you can imagine what it’s like – up on the top floor of a pre-war block, accessible only by a set of very squeaky wooden stairs with a tiny kitchen, no air-conditioning and a long corridor connecting the bedroom from the lounge. With the windows open all the time, we get to hear all the sounds of the city. If the best way to experience Paris is to live like a Parisian, then we’re on the right track!

Located at the eastern end of the city, the 12^th is one of those places that is described as undergoing gentrification. Among other things, it’s home to the Marché d’Aligre, a market widely regarded in the blogosphere as being the sort of place which is frequented by locals and to which tourists hardly ever venture. Naturally, we had to pay a visit.

The market itself is in three parts – a flea-market, an open-air fruit and veg market and the covered market which is home to the butchers and fishmongers. We took many pictures and used Allison’s French skills to purchase some lovely-looking items for dinner. This done, we did what any self-respecting Parisian would do after buying food from the market. We went for a drink.

But not just any drink! Just behind the Marché d’Aligre is Le Baron Rouge, a wine-bar that the Lonely Planet’s Paris City Guide describes as “just about the ultimate Parisian wine bar experience”. Well, with a recommendation like that it would be rude not to visit.

It’s unpretentious to say the least, and what surprised me the most when we walked in was that they had barrels – real, big wine barrels – against the wall. We soon learned that those in the know just bring along their empty bottles and five-litre plastic jugs, and get them filled up with a variety of French wines. Now, if only someone would offer to carry said wine up six flights of stairs for us…

We made our way to the bar at the back and perused a most extensive wine list which, like in all good Parisian establishments, was written on a blackboard rather than typed up on laminated paper. I had three wines that I had never tried before: a red Sancerre, a Pinot Noir d’Alsace and a Côte du Jura from near the Swiss border – the last one looks so thin it could almost be a rosé. Of those, I most liked the Pinot Noir d’Alsace, which was served cold – unusual for a red, but I figured that our host knew what he was doing when it came to serving each of his wines. Allison opted for white, trying a Muscadet-sur-Lie, a Petit Chablis and a Sancerre. None were more than €3.50 a glass. For what it’s worth, I don’t know why a wine bar in Paris would be named after a German war hero.

In the afternoon, our wanderings in the sun took us down to the Seine, where we followed the swifts across the islands to the Left Bank. We waved at the people on the tour boats and went through the park at the back of Notre Dame in order to avoid the crowds. On the Left Bank, we wandered past the picture-sellers before reaching an English-language bookshop.

Shakespeare and Company is not just a bookshop; it’s the most famous English-language bookshop in Paris and has been selling new and second-hand books to the many Anglophones who’ve found themselves in this fair city for as long as anyone can remember. Bookshops are my favourite kind of shop, so I felt that I just had to visit this one while in Paris.

As well as a selection of new books on French themes and an interesting range of used paperbacks, there is a reference library upstairs where anyone can enjoy reading a book while sinking into a sofa and listening to pretentious exchange students discussing the finer points of literature.

Down in the main shop, I browsed and I must have recalled enjoying some wine in an establishment named after the Red Baron, for I came across a book called War & Wine. Written by American couple Don and Petie Kladstrup, a TV news correspondent and a freelance writer specialising in France respectively, the book is about how French wine producers endeavoured to prevent the Germans from stealing their best wine during the Second World War.  I look forward to indulging in a few chapters tonight over a glass or two of Côtes du Rhône.

I wonder where the swifts will take us tomorrow? 

Rain stops play ... again

Up at Edgbaston, the first two days of the third Test were lost to rain (the first time this has happened in England since 1964, apparently), and my latest article on Holding Willey was about what gets talked about when rain stops play (as far as England are concerned, these were Kevin Pietersen’s retirement from international limited-overs cricket and the decision to rest Jimmy Anderson).

This afternoon, I was meant to be playing cricket but it wasn’t to be as our game has been rained off. This is the fifth game we’ve lost to rain this year, and I’m reflecting on my somewhat truncated season so far while following events at the Test via the BBC.

I’ve played just two games, one of which was a heavy victory and the other a heavy defeat.

First, the victory. It was a game that wasn’t meant to happen, and it only got arranged at the last minute after our first four games were lost to the weather. After winning the toss and electing to bat, the opposition played poorly and were all out for just 13 – although subsequent examination of the scorebook showed that Extras had scored 1, making the total 14. That their batsmen hadn’t really been trying can be seen from my own bowling figures – three overs, one maiden, five runs for one wicket. Clearly my off-spin was being treated with undeserved respect, but it won’t do my average any harm. The bowling highlight was our eighty-year-old player, who took a wicket with his first ball, and his second … and finished off the oppo’s innings with the next ball, ending with figures of 0.3-0-0-3.

As we walked off, the talk was about what we should do next – offer a twenty-over knockabout match to get us some match practice, perhaps? The priority, though, was to make sure that this game was sewn up, which happened within five overs as our openers knocked off the target without loss, although a couple of half-chances were offered.

In the ensuing ‘filler’ game (twenty overs a side, everyone apart from the wicket-keeper to bowl two overs, batsmen to retire when they get to 25), I only lasted three balls but when it came to bowling I did get two wickets.

Two weeks later, we could only manage nine men for an away game at a very picturesque venue near Chigwell. We bowled first, and at 38-4 things looked promising but a middle-order partnership put on 150 and effectively put the game beyond our reach. Yours truly somehow managed to get carted for 25 runs off 2 overs, and my frustration was added to when I dropped a rather simple catch – although in my defence it was hardly a game-changing chance by the time it came my way; a long afternoon in the field had evidently taken its toll. Some catching practice is required.

It was evident that we’d been lacking a third seamer (none of our spinners had taken any wickets) and we were somewhat lacking in top-order batsmen as well. Promoted to number four, I had the chance for some time in the middle with orders to try and bat out for the draw.

What happened next was described by the skipper as ‘true Boycott style’ in the match report; I scored just six runs off 55 balls, leaving everything that went into the corridor of uncertainty (that would be most deliveries) and taking a couple of deliveries on the body. Not exactly pretty stuff, but it was what was needed. But then, after seeing off the seamers I got out trying to go after the leg-spinner … who then proceeded to run through the rest of our batting.

Win some, lose some.

If only I could bat like Tino Best.

Clutching at Strauss

The following article of mine was posted on Holding Willey last Friday. As far as the penultimate paragraph goes, I note from an article on the Beeb that Jimmy Anderson is being rested and that Jonny Bairstow will be in the side for the Edgbaston Test. Both of which sound very sensible in a ‘dead rubber’ situation – don’t over-bowl the main strike bowler, and give the new guy another chance in an uncompetitive situation.

Despite having wrapped up the Test series against the Windies with a game to go (as most observers had predicted they would), there is a feeling of unease concerning England. It’s do to with the impending series against South Africa, that top-of-the-world-rankings decider which is going to offer a much sterner test of the England team’s skills in general and of Andrew Strauss’s leadership in particular. Perhaps surprisingly, questions still remain about whether they will be up to the challenge.

The problem, apparently, is that Strauss is not ruthless enough. Jonathan Agnew, the BBC’s cricket correspondent, summed it up in his report on the second Test: “Both at Lord’s and here at Trent Bridge they had the opposition on their knees and then let them struggle back to their feet ... when you have a team 61-6 and an attack like England’s you should administer the coup de grace, just like they should have killed West Indies off at Lord’s before the fifth day.” The point is that allowing a team to come back into the game is might work against the current Windies side (they were still beaten by comfortable margins in both Tests), but it could be suicidal in a contest to determine who is the number one Test side in the world.

It seems absurd to be debating the effectiveness of a captain who led England to an Ashes win in Australia and who has never lost a Test series at home – with the victory over the Windies his record now stands at eight home series wins, seven in a row (a new England record) plus the time when he stepped in against Pakistan in 2006. But the England captain’s position is never fully secure, although in Strauss’s case he’s usually been accused of being unimaginative rather than lacking in ruthlessness.

Taking their cue from those in the media, of whom ‘Aggers’ is one of the more coherent and balanced examples, England cricket fans can be a pessimistic lot. If there is a cloud attached to the silver lining it will be sought out. Which is why Jonny Bairstow’s place in the team is being questioned after just two Tests; along with the questions over whether one or two of the bowlers will be rested for the third Test next week, it’ll be interesting to see if Bairstow retains his place.

At least there are no further questions about Strauss’s form with the bat. In fact, he’s now one century away from equalling the England Test record of 22, held jointly by Wally Hammond, Colin Cowdrey and Geoff Boycott. And while we’re talking about records, Strauss and Cook have now become the third-most prolific Test opening partnership. Ever. Whatever happens later this summer, it is certain that to cricketing historians of the future, Andrew Strauss will be in very exalted company.