We found the Sorbonne:
We asked a guard if we could have a look around. "Non," he said "no one is EVER allowed to look around." So we didn't.
We also knew that we needed buy post-its so that we could do our usual posting of locations onto our plastic map. Given that the Sorbonne is, well, the Sorbonne, we figured that we could probably find a stationary/paper goods/office supplies/post-its store nearby. We did. We then went to a little patisserie to have coffee and do our mapping. These maps were different from the Google Map we'd made:
View Our Paris in a larger map
We made the Google Map because we thought we could link it to our Very Very Very Smartphones and use it while we were in Paris. However, one of us is not quite as smart as her smartphone. When we got off the plane in Paris, having dutifully turned off our phones, we turned them back on. M turned his on first and realized, "Oh no! We have to enter the SIM PIN! Do you know yours?" "Yes." He'd forgotten his. He made one attempt. Wrong. YOU HAVE TWO ATTEMPTS REMAINING. He made another attempt. Wrong. YOU HAVE ONE ATTEMPT REMAINING. Smugly, I said, "Well, we can just use my phone, plus you have your old phone, so we'll be fine." He methodically wrote down what he'd tried. He wasn't ready for his last attempt because if you fail after that, you then have to enter an even longer code that he was sure he didn't know. I said, "I'll just turn mine on." I plugged in the code, which I'd committed to memory. I even thought about bringing the little card that has the code on it, but left it on my desk. WRONG. YOU HAVE TWO ATTEMPTS REMAINING. Come on! I knew it was right. Maybe I had the four digits transposed. WRONG. ONE ATTEMPT LEFT. Oh no! Now we both had one attempt remaining. This would not be a terrible problem, except that M had a training for several of the days. Without 2 phones, we would have a tough time coordinating things. We would have to do what they did in the Olden Days: plan ahead and not communicate throughout the day and have a meeting time and place. Oh no. I tried mine one more time. WRONG!!! YOU'RE A DUMMY. HAHAHAHAHAH! That's what the phone said. M tried his last attempt. RIGHT-O, MATE! SEE, YOU ARE SMARTER THAN YOUR WIFE! That's what M's phone said.
Anyway, who needs to smartphones when you have one smartphone and one regular phone, plus a map and a smartypants? Not us.
Here are our maps, with post-its:
After we were done with our mapping, we headed toward the Pantheon.
From there, we made our plan to meander toward the Seine, with the idea of crossing over and having lunch at one of the recommended classic bistros on our list.
We walked down some narrow streets:
Saw some interesting things:
We passed a market:
And interesting, very small church:
We got to Shakespeare & Company and were going to pop in. It was extraordinarily crowded, so we decided against it. While we knew it was quite famous, we only learned after we returned to Vienna that:
GEORGE WHITMANIt turns out that this fascinating man and hero to the French literary arts died three days earlier. I think if we'd known that, we would have endured the crowds.
On Wednesday 14th December, 2011, George Whitman died peacefully at home in the apartment above his bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, in Paris. George suffered a stroke two months ago, but showed incredible strength and determination up to the end, continuing to read every day in the company of his daughter, Sylvia, his friends and his cat and dog. He died two days after his 98th birthday.
Born on Dec. 12, 1913, in East Orange, New Jersey, George moved to Paris in 1948 and opened his bookshop Le Mistral, later renamed Shakespeare and Company, in 1951. Packed wall-to-wall with books and beds for roaming writers, the store quickly grew to be a haven for book lovers and authors while George became an unusual Paris literary institution. In 2006 he was awarded the Officier des Arts et Lettres by the French Minister of Culture for his lifelong contribution to the arts.
After a life entirely dedicated to books, authors and readers, George will be sorely missed by all his loved ones and by bibliophiles around the world who have read, written and stayed in his bookshop for over 60 years. Nicknamed the Don Quixote of the Latin Quarter, George will be remembered for his free spirit, his eccentricity and his generosity — all three summarised in the Yeats verses written on the walls of his open, much-visited library : "Be not inhospitable to strangers / Lest they be angels in disguise."
George was buried at the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris, in the good company of other men and women of letters such as Guillaume Apollinaire, Colette, Oscar Wilde and Balzac. His bookstore continues, run by his daughter. (from http://www.shakespeareandcompany.com/)
We passed the Tour Saint-Jacques:
We crossed the Seine at Pont Neuf and found the two places we'd had in mind for lunch (both with funny names):
Au Chien Qui Fume. While it may be a classic, and recommended by many, there was something that turned us off, so we walked on to find Au Pied de Cochon. Although it looked nice inside and is famous, we also felt that there was something we didn't like. On we went. For a while. When I get too hungry, I am completely unable to make a decision. When M gets too hungry, he doesn't have patience for indecision. We were very hungry. Finally, we found ourselves on Rue Rivoli in front of a very simple-looking bistro called La Cooperative. It was fine. We ate lunch; we felt better.
We walked past the Louvre, which was pretty nearby, and discussed when we would go there. We crossed the Seine so that we could follow it all the way up toward Notre Dame, stopping at book stalls along the way.
Retracing the morning's steps, we returned to the Sorbonne and had a coffee with a interesting, gracious, and really remarkable French scholar. Although M had arranged the meeting and was familiar with her writing and thought, I think I enjoyed the meeting as much as he did.
Across from the cafe next to the Sorbonne was a bookstore specializing in philosophical texts of all kinds, called Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin. M was overjoyed and felt like a kid in a candy store. He kept checking on me, making sure I wasn't bored (I wasn't) and asking gently for a few more minutes ("Of course, darling."). It was quite an interesting place. M bought a few things, wrote down some new discoveries, and was generally delighted to have found it.
From there, we wandered toward our neighborhood (oh my, how we loved saying "let's go back to our neighborhood!"), stopping at open shops here and there along the way. Without a plan for dinner, we went back to our hotel, dropped off our things, and rested for a bit. After that, we set out to find dinner - again, reservationless. I am sometimes amazed at how our brains work so similarly, often thinking the same thing at the same time. When we saw the garish neon green sign for Leon de Bruxelles, without saying a word, we both knew this was our dinner spot.
A chain restaurant. In Paris. Serving Belgian food. Huh? Well, we love mussels. We like Brussels. It seemed crazy that there was a chain restaurant serving mussels right in the heart of the Quartier Latin.
We were a bit skeptical about our choice when we first went in. It seemed like mostly tourists. But - we loved the menu:
[Which, incidentally, we have learned - well, M just told me - is drawn in the ligne claire style, pioneered by Hergé - think The Adventures of Tintin.) We saw quite a lot of examples of this style in Paris - for signs, logos on trucks, and in the scores of bandes dessinées we saw in every bookstore, including Gibert Jeune, where we went after dinner.]
The food was very good. (I think we have a photo of our meal somewhere). As we were finishing up, the place started filling up with customers who were clearly Parisians and probably locals. They had their favorite tables; they shook hands with the waiters. Ha! See? Even Parisians need a break from French food. We know...
Here's a surprise - we stopped by that place to get those things. Again.
