Salon Wanderlust | Passionate and penniless in Paris: A magical memory

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T A B L E_T A L K
Romance on the road: Ever had an affair while traveling? Swap stories in Wanderlust

R E C E N T L Y
Retro burger
By Gary Kamiya
Our Olympics correspondent muses on women's hockey, Japanese English, the quest for tosto and other cross-cultural oddities
(02/12/98)
Stoned on ice
By Gary Kamiya
Curling heats up Nagano
(02/11/98)
Après moi, de luge
By Gary Kamiya
Getting a half-second high from the sport that gives a whole new meaning to the expression "balls out"
(02/10/98)
Higher! Faster! Wetter!
By Gary Kamiya
Our half-Japanese man in Japan reports on the thrill of victory -- and the agony of Nagano
(02/09/98)
Mondo Weirdo
By Sarah Schmelling
Why I loved being lonely and sick and far from home
(02/06/98)

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__PASSIONATE AND PENNILESS IN PARIS _|_ page 2 of 2
The maintenance crew at the Collège de France looked up from their lunches, astonished when we drove into the courtyard.
"Why are you driving your vehicle in here?" demanded a gray-haired man in overalls.
"Where else would we outfit it for the expedition?" Stephen retorted.
"What expedition?" the man asked as the rest of the crew stared.
"What expedition?" I asked silently.
Then in the same ringing tone used to call out metro station names, Stephen announced, "L'expedition à l'Afrique du Nord!"
The man looked skeptical and the other men laughed.
But Stephen began relating the details of our "expedition scientifique," how we needed to collect flowers in Morocco and how outfitting the van for this botanical study was part of the project. Stephen blended gobbledygook with what the New Yorkers had told us about Morocco.
The man threw his cigarette butt on the ground. "I'm sorry but my men cannot help. Union rules absolutely prevent involvement."
"Monsieur!" Stephen cried, "we wouldn't dream of troubling you. We only need to use the electricity here -- and some power tools."
The man paused, looking hard at Stephen and me. And in that pause I dared hope he'd play accomplice to honeymooners.
Finally, in a voice low and sly, like beer trickling out of a jug, the man said, "Well then, it's not impossible ... is it?"

For the next three weeks we spent our mornings in construction. Basil drew a blueprint copying the classic VW camper interior. The crew chatted with us every day and cheered us on. They not only supplied power tools, but gave us steel rods and rollers from the lab to make the couch scoot into a bed. They also told us where to find scraps and army surplus items. While Stephen and Basil built the cabinetry, I bought the supplies and sewed curtains.
Then, each afternoon, when Basil went off to his French class at the Alliance Française, Stephen and I fell in love all over again. With each other and with Paris.
We strolled the Left Bank bookstores, plunging headfirst into musty books, anticipating delight in finding just the right one -- for each other. We read Baudelaire at twilight in the spooky ruins of l'Arène de Lutèce, a Roman amphitheater off Rue Monge. We sipped tea in tulip-shaped glasses in the garden of the Paris mosque, and every other day crossed the bridge to the Ile St. Louis to bathe at the municipal baths. In our private washroom, as we splashed each other with warm water from the copper pail, we were serenaded by the soulful tunes of the Muslim men who sang in their showers. "Mustafaaaa, Mustafaaaaaaaa!" they wailed.
Their mellifluous voices washed us in music. Then, damp-haired, we'd stroll at dusk along the riverbank, our sandals clapping on the cobblestones while above us, softly and silently, chestnut leaves fluttered, like the wings of giant butterflies.
The day our van was finished was also the day Basil ran off to Toulouse with his French teacher, Jacqueline. It was also the day before Pompidou was to return and the day the gendarmes told us to go. "We have to leave all this beauty!" I cried. To cheer me, Stephen said we'd have a farewell feast in a restaurant. That evening we climbed up the steep market street, Rue Mouffetard, but found all the restaurants full. Ambling down an alley we came upon a Chinese restaurant jammed with boisterous diners at tables no bigger than record albums.
"Entrez! Entrez!" the diners shouted at us. We were lured inside and before we understood what was happening, tables got squeezed together and we were seated with two men plowing through some inscrutable Chinese dish.
The two were as different as gruyère is from gruel. One was tall and elegant with dark, wavy hair. An architect, dressed in a chic suit. The other was short, fat and had a ruddy face. He appeared to be some sort of factory worker, for he wore the blue working class jacket. In minutes we were drinking wine, enjoying mushy chow mein and listening to the men bemoan how Paris was no fun anymore as nowadays people were obsessed with making a living.
"What a pity we have forgotten the zany little ways of life!" the architect wailed, and we all drank a toast to this loss, feeling giddy with joy.
As the evening wore on, I no longer cared that our intimate tête-à-tête had turned into a tête-à-tête-à-tête-à-tête. We drank a lot of wine and laughed like crazy. In fact, the whole restaurant was a boat of merrymakers on the brink of capsizing.
When the lugubrious waiter asked if we'd like dessert, and I declined, the architect appeared offended.
"Do you mean to say, Madame, that you won't even try La Banane du Chef? It is the specialty of the house!"
"I don't have room for it," I answered.
"No room! Nonsense! You will have the room when you taste it!"
"Very true," the ruddy faced man said. "It tastes like nothing else in the world! Am I not right?" he asked the waiter. The waiter nodded as one might on identifying a body in a morgue.
"Why don't you try it, if it's that good?" Stephen urged, knowing my fondness for sweets.
"I'll have La Banane du Chef!" I said to the waiter.
As conversation and wine flowed, it occurred to me (through a little haze) that this dessert was taking quite a long time. I was about to question the waiter when the lights in the restaurant went out, plunging us into darkness and causing a collective scream from the patrons. Then the kitchen door was flung open and our waiter walked through the black restaurant holding high a tray with a flaming dessert. Somberly, he made his way to our table, guided by the blue-yellow light of the flames. He set the plate in front of me and announced gravely, "Madame, La Banane du Chef!"
To my amazement, these words brought a hand-clapping and foot-stomping from the other diners. I looked down.
Banana fritters formed in the shape of a male's private parts.
Every eye in the place was on me, waiting for me to take a bite, but I was giggling so much, I couldn't. At last, when I did take that first bite, loud cries of " Ooh-la-la!" went up and the lights came on. All four of us shared the dessert, which was delicious.
After dinner, Stephen took my hand and led me up Rue Mouffetard. Up and up we wound our way along the medieval street. The night was bright with moonlight, which gave the ancient gray houses the look of tarnished silver. We stopped and kissed, our bodies like clasped hands.
"Where are we going?" I whispered.
"You'll see."
For some time, we threaded up and around some side streets until suddenly Paris was spread before us. How beautiful it looked! Exactly like my idea of Paris. Like everyone's idea of Paris. Vibrant and askew. The gold-lit Eiffel Tower tilted jauntily, and for a beret, wore the moon. The bateaux-mouches were now spaceships floating on a black iridescent ribbon, while at the Place de la Concorde, the obelisk was a rocket taking off. And far at the city's cusp sailed Sacré Coeur -- a white ship guided by stars. Yes, that night, it seemed Paris, in sympathy with us, twinkled and trembled, and leaned too in fervent anticipation. An excited city listing toward love ...
So if in the day, I recount some delightful French meal, shopping discovery, historical site or museum exhibit, you'll understand if I say that at night, a more passionate nostalgia beckons. At night, when I lie in my husband's arms, I need only whisper "Gucci Hootchie-Kootchie" or "L'expedition scientifique" or, if feeling particularly naughty, "La Banane du Chef," to lure us into the realm of memory. Lure us back to that long-ago couple, fearless and fanciful. Back to the quivering nights of a time-distant Paris when the air was dusty with miracles and the stars were hung lower. Closer to our hearts.
Salon | Feb. 13, 1998
Maxine Rose Schur last wrote for Wanderlust about Petra, Jordan.
What's your most romantic travel tale? Share the love in Table Talk.


A full list of articles T A B L E_T A L K Romance on the road: Ever had an affair while traveling? Swap stories in Wanderlust R E C E N T L Y Retro burger By Gary Kamiya Our Olympics correspondent muses on women's hockey, Japanese English, the quest for tosto and other cross-cultural oddities (02/12/98) Stoned on ice By Gary Kamiya Curling heats up Nagano (02/11/98) Après moi, de luge By Gary Kamiya Getting a half-second high from the sport that gives a whole new meaning to the expression "balls out" (02/10/98) Higher! Faster! Wetter! By Gary Kamiya Our half-Japanese man in Japan reports on the thrill of victory -- and the agony of Nagano (02/09/98) Mondo Weirdo By Sarah Schmelling Why I loved being lonely and sick and far from home (02/06/98) Browse the Feature archives		__PASSIONATE AND PENNILESS IN PARIS _\|_ page 2 of 2 The maintenance crew at the Collège de France looked up from their lunches, astonished when we drove into the courtyard. "Why are you driving your vehicle in here?" demanded a gray-haired man in overalls. "Where else would we outfit it for the expedition?" Stephen retorted. "What expedition?" the man asked as the rest of the crew stared. "What expedition?" I asked silently. Then in the same ringing tone used to call out metro station names, Stephen announced, "L'expedition à l'Afrique du Nord!" The man looked skeptical and the other men laughed. But Stephen began relating the details of our "expedition scientifique," how we needed to collect flowers in Morocco and how outfitting the van for this botanical study was part of the project. Stephen blended gobbledygook with what the New Yorkers had told us about Morocco. The man threw his cigarette butt on the ground. "I'm sorry but my men cannot help. Union rules absolutely prevent involvement." "Monsieur!" Stephen cried, "we wouldn't dream of troubling you. We only need to use the electricity here -- and some power tools." The man paused, looking hard at Stephen and me. And in that pause I dared hope he'd play accomplice to honeymooners. Finally, in a voice low and sly, like beer trickling out of a jug, the man said, "Well then, it's not impossible ... is it?" For the next three weeks we spent our mornings in construction. Basil drew a blueprint copying the classic VW camper interior. The crew chatted with us every day and cheered us on. They not only supplied power tools, but gave us steel rods and rollers from the lab to make the couch scoot into a bed. They also told us where to find scraps and army surplus items. While Stephen and Basil built the cabinetry, I bought the supplies and sewed curtains. Then, each afternoon, when Basil went off to his French class at the Alliance Française, Stephen and I fell in love all over again. With each other and with Paris. We strolled the Left Bank bookstores, plunging headfirst into musty books, anticipating delight in finding just the right one -- for each other. We read Baudelaire at twilight in the spooky ruins of l'Arène de Lutèce, a Roman amphitheater off Rue Monge. We sipped tea in tulip-shaped glasses in the garden of the Paris mosque, and every other day crossed the bridge to the Ile St. Louis to bathe at the municipal baths. In our private washroom, as we splashed each other with warm water from the copper pail, we were serenaded by the soulful tunes of the Muslim men who sang in their showers. "Mustafaaaa, Mustafaaaaaaaa!" they wailed. Their mellifluous voices washed us in music. Then, damp-haired, we'd stroll at dusk along the riverbank, our sandals clapping on the cobblestones while above us, softly and silently, chestnut leaves fluttered, like the wings of giant butterflies. The day our van was finished was also the day Basil ran off to Toulouse with his French teacher, Jacqueline. It was also the day before Pompidou was to return and the day the gendarmes told us to go. "We have to leave all this beauty!" I cried. To cheer me, Stephen said we'd have a farewell feast in a restaurant. That evening we climbed up the steep market street, Rue Mouffetard, but found all the restaurants full. Ambling down an alley we came upon a Chinese restaurant jammed with boisterous diners at tables no bigger than record albums. "Entrez! Entrez!" the diners shouted at us. We were lured inside and before we understood what was happening, tables got squeezed together and we were seated with two men plowing through some inscrutable Chinese dish. The two were as different as gruyère is from gruel. One was tall and elegant with dark, wavy hair. An architect, dressed in a chic suit. The other was short, fat and had a ruddy face. He appeared to be some sort of factory worker, for he wore the blue working class jacket. In minutes we were drinking wine, enjoying mushy chow mein and listening to the men bemoan how Paris was no fun anymore as nowadays people were obsessed with making a living. "What a pity we have forgotten the zany little ways of life!" the architect wailed, and we all drank a toast to this loss, feeling giddy with joy. As the evening wore on, I no longer cared that our intimate tête-à-tête had turned into a tête-à-tête-à-tête-à-tête. We drank a lot of wine and laughed like crazy. In fact, the whole restaurant was a boat of merrymakers on the brink of capsizing. When the lugubrious waiter asked if we'd like dessert, and I declined, the architect appeared offended. "Do you mean to say, Madame, that you won't even try La Banane du Chef? It is the specialty of the house!" "I don't have room for it," I answered. "No room! Nonsense! You will have the room when you taste it!" "Very true," the ruddy faced man said. "It tastes like nothing else in the world! Am I not right?" he asked the waiter. The waiter nodded as one might on identifying a body in a morgue. "Why don't you try it, if it's that good?" Stephen urged, knowing my fondness for sweets. "I'll have La Banane du Chef!" I said to the waiter. As conversation and wine flowed, it occurred to me (through a little haze) that this dessert was taking quite a long time. I was about to question the waiter when the lights in the restaurant went out, plunging us into darkness and causing a collective scream from the patrons. Then the kitchen door was flung open and our waiter walked through the black restaurant holding high a tray with a flaming dessert. Somberly, he made his way to our table, guided by the blue-yellow light of the flames. He set the plate in front of me and announced gravely, "Madame, La Banane du Chef!" To my amazement, these words brought a hand-clapping and foot-stomping from the other diners. I looked down. Banana fritters formed in the shape of a male's private parts. Every eye in the place was on me, waiting for me to take a bite, but I was giggling so much, I couldn't. At last, when I did take that first bite, loud cries of " Ooh-la-la!" went up and the lights came on. All four of us shared the dessert, which was delicious. After dinner, Stephen took my hand and led me up Rue Mouffetard. Up and up we wound our way along the medieval street. The night was bright with moonlight, which gave the ancient gray houses the look of tarnished silver. We stopped and kissed, our bodies like clasped hands. "Where are we going?" I whispered. "You'll see." For some time, we threaded up and around some side streets until suddenly Paris was spread before us. How beautiful it looked! Exactly like my idea of Paris. Like everyone's idea of Paris. Vibrant and askew. The gold-lit Eiffel Tower tilted jauntily, and for a beret, wore the moon. The bateaux-mouches were now spaceships floating on a black iridescent ribbon, while at the Place de la Concorde, the obelisk was a rocket taking off. And far at the city's cusp sailed Sacré Coeur -- a white ship guided by stars. Yes, that night, it seemed Paris, in sympathy with us, twinkled and trembled, and leaned too in fervent anticipation. An excited city listing toward love ... So if in the day, I recount some delightful French meal, shopping discovery, historical site or museum exhibit, you'll understand if I say that at night, a more passionate nostalgia beckons. At night, when I lie in my husband's arms, I need only whisper "Gucci Hootchie-Kootchie" or "L'expedition scientifique" or, if feeling particularly naughty, "La Banane du Chef," to lure us into the realm of memory. Lure us back to that long-ago couple, fearless and fanciful. Back to the quivering nights of a time-distant Paris when the air was dusty with miracles and the stars were hung lower. Closer to our hearts. Salon \| Feb. 13, 1998 Maxine Rose Schur last wrote for Wanderlust about Petra, Jordan. What's your most romantic travel tale? Share the love in Table Talk.