Day four: July 5, 2004
Destination: rue de Casablanca
Weather: overcast
Time of departure: 7.30pm
Canine breakdown (scarce pickings; I took the bus): 1
golden lab, 1 poodle, 1 mutt with a pointy nose
Public transport options: PC1 or 62 bus
An immediate dirth of canine activity on the PC1 bus.
Begin to rue decision to take it but as we pass
outpost after outpost on the Parisian circumference,
it becomes worth the decrease in dog activity. The PC1
is both the least and the most Parisian of the city’s
buses. It never leaves the periphery, not once
venturing into the inner circles of urbanity, but it
connects with the last stop on many metro lines. It’s
an heure de pointe and there are people everywhere,
armpits in the face of other’s human heads. The
peripheral settlements vary hugely in their social
status, but by the time we reach Porte de Vincennes,
my chosen stop in the 15th, we’re well within
bourgeois ground.
Walking up the rue du Hameau, I’m first struck by the
restaurants. Middle class, of varied world cuisine,
and empty. Then I reach rue de la Croix Nivert and
realize that it’s this quartier’s architecture that
renders it most strange. It’s a good time of night to
be out, the shadows cast by a setting sun insisting
upon the incongruity in architectural style.
The pigeons – and there are many – seem to prefer one
particular kind.
rue de la Croix Nivert is full of trash. Everywhere
the big green bins are overflowing. Was there a block
party this weekend? Or do the bin men come tonight? I
don’t know, but the sight – and the smell – are
striking. There’s even trash where a rusty sign
specifically states that trash is unacceptable.
Moving swiftly on, I pass a little T-junctioned lane,
with a plomberie on one side and a theater on the
other. Both have wonderful signs, and just in case you
get them confused, someone has thoughtfully spelled
things out on the space between the two.
And then a little further down, I see a poster tacked
to the noticeboard of a Laundromat. Reading it through
the window, I see it concerns a lost cat. She looks
like one of ours, lemonstre. The note is so sad: they
think she may have got lost on one of the neighbouring
terraces, "the scaffolding having served as her
trampoline," and are asking if anyone has seen her, or
if they should broaden their search. On first glance,
the picture suggests that it is the girl, not the cat,
who is lost. A dubious tactic?
On the corner of rue de la Croix Nivert and rue
Lecourbe, the advertising in a bistro window cries out
to be noticed.
The winsome ghost on the guingette poster is just odd
and lovely; the fooding poster I have noticed all over
town. It’s an advertisement for a new magazine called,
unsurprisingly, Fooding. If there’s any way to sell
things to the French, a combination of gastronomy,
reading matter and suggestive photography would seem
to be just it.
The rue Casablanca is just opposite. It’s tiny – I
could walk it in maybe thirty paces. There’s a
brasserie on one corner and a hotel on the other.
This, too, is a dead end… what used to be a lycée
téchnique, and is now just a derelict building
site.
On the left hand side of the street as I look to its
dead end is an art gallery of sorts; the art inside
seems as close to bad as I’ve seen. I wonder how they
pay the rent.
Disgusted at my own snottiness, I walk away, but not
before trying to inconspicuously snap the young man
wolfing down what looks like poached eggs on toast (in
Paris?) in the brasserie.
didn't work.
Feeling like I may have cheated the quartier by
talking the bus, I decide to walk up the rue de la
Convention until I reach Alésia… from thereon in I’ll
be on familiar ground. The walk is worth it for three
precious moments: a comic-book store with everything
in its three windows displayed upside-down, apart from
the handwritten sign that reads “DERNIER BD AVANT
L’AUTOROUTE!!!”; the baths, still operated by the
city
And the nail shop.
I take a leaf from my good friend Jennifer’s book and
decide to photograph the shop window. I suspect I may
not have done justice to these disembodied hands.
Weather: overcast
Time of departure: 7.30pm
Canine breakdown (scarce pickings; I took the bus): 1
golden lab, 1 poodle, 1 mutt with a pointy nose
Public transport options: PC1 or 62 bus
An immediate dirth of canine activity on the PC1 bus.
Begin to rue decision to take it but as we pass
outpost after outpost on the Parisian circumference,
it becomes worth the decrease in dog activity. The PC1
is both the least and the most Parisian of the city’s
buses. It never leaves the periphery, not once
venturing into the inner circles of urbanity, but it
connects with the last stop on many metro lines. It’s
an heure de pointe and there are people everywhere,
armpits in the face of other’s human heads. The
peripheral settlements vary hugely in their social
status, but by the time we reach Porte de Vincennes,
my chosen stop in the 15th, we’re well within
bourgeois ground.
Walking up the rue du Hameau, I’m first struck by the
restaurants. Middle class, of varied world cuisine,
and empty. Then I reach rue de la Croix Nivert and
realize that it’s this quartier’s architecture that
renders it most strange. It’s a good time of night to
be out, the shadows cast by a setting sun insisting
upon the incongruity in architectural style.
The pigeons – and there are many – seem to prefer one
particular kind.
rue de la Croix Nivert is full of trash. Everywhere
the big green bins are overflowing. Was there a block
party this weekend? Or do the bin men come tonight? I
don’t know, but the sight – and the smell – are
striking. There’s even trash where a rusty sign
specifically states that trash is unacceptable.
Moving swiftly on, I pass a little T-junctioned lane,
with a plomberie on one side and a theater on the
other. Both have wonderful signs, and just in case you
get them confused, someone has thoughtfully spelled
things out on the space between the two.
And then a little further down, I see a poster tacked
to the noticeboard of a Laundromat. Reading it through
the window, I see it concerns a lost cat. She looks
like one of ours, lemonstre. The note is so sad: they
think she may have got lost on one of the neighbouring
terraces, "the scaffolding having served as her
trampoline," and are asking if anyone has seen her, or
if they should broaden their search. On first glance,
the picture suggests that it is the girl, not the cat,
who is lost. A dubious tactic?
On the corner of rue de la Croix Nivert and rue
Lecourbe, the advertising in a bistro window cries out
to be noticed.
The winsome ghost on the guingette poster is just odd
and lovely; the fooding poster I have noticed all over
town. It’s an advertisement for a new magazine called,
unsurprisingly, Fooding. If there’s any way to sell
things to the French, a combination of gastronomy,
reading matter and suggestive photography would seem
to be just it.
The rue Casablanca is just opposite. It’s tiny – I
could walk it in maybe thirty paces. There’s a
brasserie on one corner and a hotel on the other.
This, too, is a dead end… what used to be a lycée
téchnique, and is now just a derelict building
site.
On the left hand side of the street as I look to its
dead end is an art gallery of sorts; the art inside
seems as close to bad as I’ve seen. I wonder how they
pay the rent.
Disgusted at my own snottiness, I walk away, but not
before trying to inconspicuously snap the young man
wolfing down what looks like poached eggs on toast (in
Paris?) in the brasserie.
didn't work.
Feeling like I may have cheated the quartier by
talking the bus, I decide to walk up the rue de la
Convention until I reach Alésia… from thereon in I’ll
be on familiar ground. The walk is worth it for three
precious moments: a comic-book store with everything
in its three windows displayed upside-down, apart from
the handwritten sign that reads “DERNIER BD AVANT
L’AUTOROUTE!!!”; the baths, still operated by the
city
And the nail shop.
I take a leaf from my good friend Jennifer’s book and
decide to photograph the shop window. I suspect I may
not have done justice to these disembodied hands.
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