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Wanderings and Wonderings of J. Jennings Moss |
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Laying in bed with a head cold and I realize I haven't really spoken much this week, my only human interactions have been short ones in French with waiters and cashiers. Not much more to write now either.
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Save for the amateurs who bang tonelessly on empty pickle barrels, I'm a fan of street musicians. Fond, lasting memories have been acquired listening to them.
My dad and I once saw two cello players dueling across the subway tracks in New York city. I heard a woman sing a slow, mournful, haunting version of a Sex Pistols song in London. Here in Paris, in the tourist heart of Montmartre, there was a woman singing traditional French folk songs while grinding a small player piano (only a stuffed monkey, I'm afraid).
A week ago, I was sitting in my one-room flat just before sunset. Music wafted through my open window -- a trumpet and an accordion carried much of the tune before a piano joined in. And just as fast as it started, it ended ... one song to usher in the night.
Today, I treated myself to a sit-down lunch in the Place du Marche Sainte Catherine, a quaint little square of maybe 50-feet square to the east of my flat in the Marais. The square is boxed in by seven-story beautiful apartment buildings, 100-to-150 years old I would guess. It has seven or so cafes around it, all with a smattering of tables outside.
As I dug into my entrée (to the French, the appetizer), a man with a saxophone started to play. He stood on the edge of the square itself, across from the next restaurant over, the Bistro de la Place. Before he can complete a single song (and mind you, he wasn't that great, but it wasn't dreadful), the restaurant owner quickly leaves his establishment. I didn't hear the conversation but the hand gestures said it all -- "Get out of here, you're not welcome at my restaurant ... or that one, or that one, or any of them." The musician makes a feeble attempt to stay, but the owner is adamant, so the man takes his saxophone and slowly slurks out of the square.
A few minutes pass, and a man with a violin appears in front of the restaurant at the south-east edge of the square, Le Marche. He nearly gets done with one song, but the pattern is repeated ... the manager of Le Marche steps out and gives the musician the same message -- "Get out."
This one has more persistence, however. He moves in front of my restaurant, the Rouge St. Catherine. He plays a collection of French songs, tunes I've heard countless times as they are the cliché of what French music is, yet I don't know the names of them. He strolls from my restaurant to the café to the right, only stopping once to snatch up a small luggage cart that some garbage men are about to take away.
Then I see a woman enter the square. A handsome woman in her mid-50s, her steely eyes lock onto the violinist. She marches into the Rouge St. Catherine, has a few words with the waiter, storms out and goes into the building next door. I didn't need a translator to understand the woman thought the café should be patrolling the square.
The violinist was not dumb. He stopped and quickly made his way among the tables of the restaurant with his change purse out. He wins tips from 1/4 of the tables. Me, I give him two .50 euro pieces -- one for the music, one for his persistence.
Minutes later, an old beggar woman makes the rounds. No one gives. Nor do I. No music.
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For those faithful readers, no posts yesterday and a short one today due to the Internet going out in the apartment. So now I'm in an Internet cafe where the prices are high and I'm typing, answering e-mails as fast as I can.
But let it be known, I had a great birthday here -- what a place to ring in 43!
I hope to post more later today or tomorrow with a new selection of photos.
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My father gave me many things: the love of a good story, the life-long lesson of perseverance, lessons in how to grill or carve a turkey, hopefully his wisdom, and a love of Bossa Nova.
Created in the late 1950s by a trio of Brazilian friends, the new art form took the samba and softened it. The melodies were sweet, the lyrics in Portuguese (and translated into English) bequiling. The Brazilians mostly used classical guitars when they played it. Soon thereafter, Americans like saxophonist Stan Getz joined in. Around the time I was born in 1964, their collaboration on -- "Girl From Ipanema" -- became the Bossa Nova standard.
Jack Moss loved this music. He had all the records and played them constantly. Without realizing it, I became hooked as well and Jack even pulled one of my best friends from high school, Matt, into his club.
Last night, I went to a small jazz club on the Iles St. Louis to hear the Ricardo Vilas Trio, a group of Brazlian musicians. The club, au Franc Pinot, wasn't packed. There was a group of rowdy Brazilian expats, some French and a few scattered Americans.
Vilas mostly played his own music, a vibrant, up-tempo Bossa Nova all sung in Portuguese. During his second set, he played a melody of the classics -- Desafinado, One Note Samba, and a couple of others whose sound I recognized but which I couldn't place. He toyed with me by playing a line from "Girl From Ipanema" before launching into his own Ipanema-based song.
I couldn't stop thinking of Jack, who died a bit more than a year ago. I could see him sitting next to me, tapping his foot, a broad smile on his face, his eyes partly closed as he let the music into his soul. I don't think I ever saw my dad happier than when he was listening to Bossa Nova. Across from me, a man occasionally clapped his hands as a percussive accompaniment, something I'd seen my dad do often when we would see live jazz.
I left the club thankful for a night of Bossa Nova and grateful for the guidance of the man who showed me the way.
Watch and listen to the following You Tube clips:
Astrud Gilberto and Stan Getz performing "Girl From Ipanema" in 1964
Joao Gilberto reunites with Tom Jobim to perform "Girl From Ipanema"
Tom Jobim sings "Desafinado"
Sergio Mendes & Brasil 88 perform "Aguas de Marco -- Waters of March"
A more traditional take on "Aquas de Marco" by Ellis Regina and Tom Jobim. Beautiful!
A young Jobim and Andy Williams on Williams' U.S. TV show
Jobim+Vinicius de Moraes+Toquinho+Miúcha perform two songs
"Corcovado" as performed by Paul Sonnenberg with a shaky video montage of Brazlian scenes
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Last week, I met an American woman and her husband. They were escorting their 17-year-old granddaughter on her first trip out of the country, first to London and then to Paris.
Sallie, who lives near Chicago, talked of how marvelous New Yorkers were. While walking down the street, she saw some money on the ground -- a couple of dollars, maybe a $5 bill. At the same time, a New Yorker saw the same money. They looked at each other, looked around to see if anyone had dropped the money, both wondered who would get the cash first. Sallie motioned to the woman, indicating it was hers ... she bent down, took it, and she and Sallie struck up a conversation.
"You know its good luck to find money like this," Sallie said. The woman agreed. They shared a few words, before going their separate paths. As Sallie approached her hotel, she saw a coin on the ground and picked it up. Here was her good luck, she thought.
The other night, as I was walking back to the flat in le Marais, I saw something on the ground ahead of me. A crumpled, single American dollar bill.
Without missing a step, I scooped up the lonely dollar.
My good fortune in Paris continues.
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On another self-guided walking tour, today through the Les Halles area near the center of Paris, I found myself walking down Rue St. Denis. once considered one of the finest looking streets in the city. No longer. The street is lined with what's called rag shops, selling lower-end fashions and as you get closer to Les Halles, you find the sex shops.
The first hint of tawdriness was a sign on a building. The vertical lettering was clear: "Pussy." For fun, there was a little cat head at the bottom.
And standing almost underneat the sign was a woman, who looked like she was at least 55. Her red hair was shoulder length, parted in the middle, and most certainly a wig. She wore a tight-fitting black top, a polka-dot miniskirt, and fishnets.
I passed her and looked to my right where across the street was another working girl, sorry, woman. Just as old as her colleague, this woman was at least 6' tall, wore a black vinyl pantsuit with a red wrap around her. She had several accessories attached, most notably a pair of handcuffs. She stood smoking a cigarette and reading a paper.
I knew I was courting trouble but I wanted a picture of the sign. When I pulled out the camera, the redhead shrieked out: "Non photo!" I said I was just trying to get the sign and she ducked into a door well to avoid getting captured. Her tall friend, now alarmed, seemed like she was going to come after me.
I quickly took the photo, bowed my head to the dominatrix and bid my goodbye.
Sorry mistress.
Other photos from the walk:
Hanging latterns in a very cool passage way with high-end shops.
It's election season ... this is for the leading candidate to replace Chirac.
I think this is a remnant of the old market that used to house Les Halles. Behind it is the Eglise St-Eustache, second largest church in Paris. I'd heard horror stories of the underground mall that replaced the old market and today I experienced it first-hand -- mobs of people crawling over four levels. Not fun.
Outside the church.
Inside the church.
Crushing the head.
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I think of myself as a good ambassador ... I'm polite, I give up my seat on the Metro when appropriate, I bring wine and other treats to dinner parties, I don't wear jingoistic clothes on the streets of Paris (not that I do in the U.S. either, but I've left most of my T-shirts with American sayings on them back in the States).
So it caught me off guard last night when my ugly American side reared up ... brought on by an ugly Frenchman.
I was standing outside the Open Cafe with some new friends, drinking a couple of beers. The place was mobbed. It's a fancy place for the pretty gays. Inside the decor is all blond wood, red hanging lamps, an undulating ceiling. Outside -- the bar is on a corner -- a few tables line each of the perpendicular sides.
On Friday night, the crowd spilled onto the sidewalk. One of the barmen had to keep corralling people closer to the bar's doors. After say, three beers, we decided to move elsewhere. I followed the lead of my friends, one of whom had placed his empty glass on a small round table near the entrance to the bar. I followed suit.
"Non!!!!" bellowed a 50--something French guy sitting at that table. He looked as though I had just insulted his mother as the whore of the French revolution. And I'm pretty sure he waved his finger at me.
"Yes!" I said back, turning my back and leaving him fuming with my glass on his table. My friend Eugene, an American living here with his Scottish boyfriend Colin, stayed behind to soothe things with the irate Frenchman.
According to Eugene, the French guy said something like: "You should all go back and be with George Bush."
Better comebacks French guy, better comebacks.
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