by Carolyne Lee, an Australian Francophile

Guest post.

One of Paris’s lesser known (by tourists, anyway) treasures, the 4.5km Promenade Plantée – literally translated as ‘the planted stroll’, and also known as la Coulée verte – is a pleasant walk on the west-east axis of Paris from Opera Bastille to the Périphérique in the east. The section to the Jardin Reuilly is about 2 km. The promenade is elevated above street level on what was formerly a defunct railway viaduct (the railway closed in 1969) of 75 arches. The original red brick arches have been restored, renovated and enclosed with glass. They now house arts and crafts workshops, galleries, furniture showrooms, a restaurant and a café. The walk itself is a tranquil stroll between beautiful garden beds, at an eye-level with third-floor apartments. One can ascend to the viaduct behind the Opera near Bastille(or at Avenue Ledru-Rollin) at the western end. There are other stairs located at intervals.

In the early 1990s, the City of Paris and SEMAEST, Société d’Economie Mixte d’Aménagement de l’Est Parisien, transformed the weed-infested railway line into the Promenade Plantée, although walking along it one would imagine it to be much older.
The design was created by landscape architect Jacques Vergely and architect Philippe Mathieux.

The architects for the Viaduct des Arts were Patrick Berger and Jamine Galiano. The Promenade Plantee was the model for the plan developed by the Friends of the High Line in New York City.

The photo to the right shows a small group of artists completely absorbed in their work. The man in the foreground in the red t-shirt had a tiny palette of water-colour paints which he was using on a very small sheet of paper; all his equipment fitted into a case smaller than an iPad! Just as I took the shot the fellow in the grey jacket ambled with a studied insouciance into the space, making a nice foursome; the artists were so engrossed they looked up at no one.

Below, a gallery of photos from the Promenade and le Jardin Reuilly at the eastern end of my walk. Click to enlarge.

[Show as slideshow]

Spring has finally arrived here in Melbourne, giving us the same maximum temperature today as in Paris, so clearly it’s a mild autumn there. Given my penchant for cold weather, I’d much rather be in a Paris autumn than an Australian spring. But as compensation, I have taken out my beautiful French sandals purchased in Paris in July. With my problem with the metatarsophalangeal joint on my right foot, I had been told by my podiatrist earlier in the year to give up high heels, and to wear orthopaedic, ‘comfortable’ shoes, including support under the arch of the foot.

Back in April I started searching in Melbourne for some shoes in this category, but apart from a semi-decent pair of boots, I didn’t find much that I liked. In France, however, where I spent June and some of July, there was an embarrassment of riches. The Mephisto company, in particular, has the most beautiful shoes that are soft and comfortable, with moulded soles. They are made in Alsace. I bought two pairs of sandals, as it was summer in Paris, and that was all I wore during the heatwave in July. The blue ones in the picture were intended for the Australian spring, and are the Ombelle brand, made by the French Samson footwear factory, in operation since 1929.

Comfortable shoes have reached a new priority in my life recently, after breaking my ankle six weeks ago, thanks to my own clumsiness in running down the stairs at home, without holding on to the handrail. Although I had the cast taken off two weeks ago, my foot and ankle are still quite swollen and tender. So it was a joy to put on my beautiful jewel-encrusted Mephisto sandals on this first warm day.

If ever there was a case to be made for the protection and preservation of national industries, in the face of cheaply-made, inferior quality imports, or even overpriced uncomfortable global mega-brands, hand-made French shoes are the prime evidence.

One day last month I noticed a poster in the Metro with this intriguing title: Le mec de la tombe d’à cote.  On closer inspection, I saw that it was an advertisement for a play,  so when I returned to my apartment  I searched on TickeTac to find the dates and some details. It was playing at a small theatre in the 3rd. I bought tickets for myself and a friend, and then went in search of the book. My French is not yet quite reliable enough to allow me to follow a play with full comprehension, so I always try to read the text first. I’d just done this with Dis-leurs que la verite est belle, which had given me nearly 95% comprehension when I attended the play, although fabulous acting and crystalline enuncation from the actors had played a role in that too.

But I couldn’t find a copy of the play about the graveyard mec, and was told by my local bookshop L’arbre à lettres that it only existed in the form of a novel, originally Swedish by Katerina Mazetti,  translated into French by Lena Grumbach and Catherine Marcus, and only recently adapted into a stage play. The book (pictured above) looked as intriguing as the poster for the play, so I bought that and tried to read as much as I could in the two days left until the evening of the play.

Although it is a comedy of sorts, it also contains some important truths about relationships, especially when two people are from different worlds–in this case two different occupational worlds. A newly-widowed city librarian meets a farmer from the depths of the country in a city cemetery (the farmer’s mother has recently died). That’s as much of the plot as I’m prepared to give away at the moment. The play telescoped all of the action beautifully, and the half-dozen characters in the novel were pared down to the two protagonists, who were seamlessly converted into French characters complete with French names. The acting was perfect (in fact all of the acting I have seen in the French theatre has been perfect–from Fanny Ardent and Patrick Chesnais in various productions, through to all of the relative unknowns). The only downside for me was that for the sake of verisimilitude the character of the farmer had to speak in a rural and slightly uncouth accent which marred my understanding somewhat (when oh when does one get to the stage of fluency in a foreign language that enables one to understand bad enunciation and thick accents? Maybe never, as I’m not very good at that in English either).

After the play, which my friend A-M and I enjoyed enormously, I put the book aside, and have only just had the time to take it up again. What a delight it is to return to it, to discover the twists and turns of the relationship, but now with the pictures of the two characters in my mind–she so thin and pale and refined, and Jean the farmer so honest and straightforward, with thick black curly hair and stubble, his check shirts and overalls.

The insights I am discovering, about connecting the self with the other, are gently humbling.

The book can be bought from Amazon France for a good deal less than I paid for it, and they ship to Australia for a reasonable rate.

(by guest blogger Andrew McRae)

The night before this was taken, the crowd spilled out into the street from La Grille, as the French football team played its first match on the opening day of the World Cup. The French fans didn’t seem too downcast by the drawn result with Uruguay, but of course at that time they didn’t know what was in store for them. Later in the tournament, drinkers at La Grille were much more subdued – quietly angry, perhaps – as they watched the large TV in the bar.

La Place d’Aligre is in what used to be a working class district of Paris, a kilometre or so east of the Bastille, and although it is now quite trendy it still has some rough edges. These can be seen in the market space every day except Monday, when a lot of stalls selling mainly used clothing, books and bric-a-brac open up, the stock having been kept overnight locked in the numerous graffiti-covered vans that seem permanently parked around the perimeter of this circular Place. Numerous homeless men and boisterous alcoholics also emerge from who knows where, but seem to disappear again when the market closes at about 1300 hrs. For some reason undiscoverable to me, they liked to congregate below the overhang of the large apartment block in which I was staying. At the back against the red-roofed building and in Rue d’Aligre itself, a large fruit and vegetable market attracts buyers from a wide area. The large, squat building with the red roof is the site of the covered marché Beauvau-Saint Antoine, which is a bit more expensive but contains some excellent charcuteries and cheese shops.

On the horizon, of course, is the Eiffel Tower, and closer the parish church of Saint-Antoine des Quinze-Vingts, against the sunset and the stormy clouds.

By guest blogger, photographer Macondo (Andrew McRae)

The shadows lengthen in rue des Barres, looking away from the Seine River on the corner of rue de l’Hotel de Ville. A young man makes his way between the outdoor cafe tables, a student heading home perhaps. I’ve always liked the view up this lane which leads to rue Francois Miron, the Paris Mairie and the small Place Baudoyer where the Farmer’s Market is still open on this Wednesday afternoon. Just out of sight to the right of the bicycle is the Chez Julien restaurant, which features in one of my earlier photos. Part of the church of St-Gervais can be seen on the left; the shadow in the foreground has been cast by this impressive church.

Yesterday we invited my landlady and her boyfriend to lunch. They are a very lovely, groovy pair of 80 year olds. Most of the recipes were experiments but they sort of worked out, especially the main course. This was my attempt to copy the lunch I had in Bonn on Monday at the Deutsche Welle Media Forum I attended.

The entrée was mache leaves, piled with celeri remoulade and carrot rappée, (both from Franprix), topped with toasted pine nuts and lightly cooked sliced mushrooms (that’s it, above).

Since my landlady has requested the recipe of the main plat, I have to write it in French. If anyone wants it in English, you’ll have to write and ask for it!

(Picture below)

600g de filets de saumon

La moitié d’un pot de sauce Napolitana (j’ai utilisé la marque Barilla, achetée à Franprix ; je peux la trouver à Melbourne aussi), avec la même quantité d’eau ajoutée et mele.

Douze petites tomates.

Coupez les filets en assez gros morceaux et mettez-les dans une cocotte pour le four. Couvrez avec la sauce, et mettez aussi les petites tomates dessus.

Mettez la cocotte dans le four (chauffé à180 degrés), et faites cuire pendants 15 minutes. Servez avec du riz.

Bon appetit!