Saturday in Paris...

For me, part of the charm of travel abroad is figuring out how the locals live. It also brings home some of my own preconceptions.

For example, as I was returning from the local supermarché (supermarket—which it ain't), I spied a place called Brady's Irish Pub, which inhabits a corner not far from the apartment.

It's Saturday, with evening already somewhat under way (it was around 7:30 pm), and the place is closed, and I'm thinking: "Who in his right mind would keep a bar closed on Saturday night?"

Now, it could be that the owner knows something I don't. Past experience may suggest that the bar's clientele—which appears to be significantly Anglophone, based on having passed by twice in the afternoon—is already ensconced somewhere out in the country, quaffing Guinness and getting a head start on a holiday weekend. (Sunday is Pentecost, and though I get the impression that most Parisians, at least, care little if anything about the religious significance of Pentecost, the following Monday is a public holiday, which is something people do care about.)

Or it could be that the owner just doesn't feel like working on Saturday night. Or this Saturday night. Or whatever.

From my perspective, as an American who has been steeped in the brine of sacrificing one's personal life for the sake of a business, that's nuts. But if I am to question the utility of that "150% effort to chase after customers" ethic, perhaps I should question just how nuts it is "not feeling like working on Saturday night."

* * *Galina and I decided not to go to the flea market up near the Porte de Clignancourt, officially called Les Puces de Saint-Ouen but more generally referred to just as "Les Puces" (The Fleas). Between the dire warnings about pickpockets and cutpurses in the area—and when they appear twice on a web page, I classify them as "dire" despite the sugary words in which they are wrapped—and the idea that the place appears to appeal to buyers of bulky antique items (whereas we are but poor airline travelers, who really don't need more luggage), we figured we'd go to the open-air market at Rue Clef instead, not far from the École Militaire. I finished my principal slug of work at around 10 am, sent it off, and then Galina and I set off for the Métro.


Getting there was half the fun. The automatic ticket vending machine at the Miromesnil Metro station wouldn't accept my plastic, so we walked down the street a bit to the St. Augustin station (serviced by multiple lines, which I—correctly—guessed would imply a staffed ticket booth) and entered the system there, although it added a second transfer to our trip.

The market at Rue Clef was a bust, although there were some pretty flowering plants on sale.


There were not a lot of places to look at, so we walked to the end and then turned toward the Eiffel Tower—an edifice, reviled by many at the time it was built in the 19th century, that has nonetheless become synonymous with Paris—which kept peeking from above various buildings.


We finally reached the base of the Tower, but the lines waiting to buy tickets were huge, so we backtracked a bit and ended up eating lunch at a Chinese restaurant.

We came back home by bus and napped in the afternoon. We ate dinner in, after which I put a dent in a job due Wednesday, after which Galina and I took a late evening walk up Blvd Malesherbes to Rue de Courcelles. Looking around, Galina spied a white cupola and suggested we walk "to that church over there." I was all set to go, as the church did look to be near, but then we both realized we were looking at the Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre, well beyond comfortable walking distance.


Beyond walking distance or not, we strolled for a bit along Courcelles, and then turned to the right and down a bunch of streets named after European capitals, eventually ending up at the St. Augustin church and then home.

Is it really a quarter to midnight? Wow.

Cheers...