The Church of Saint Germain des Prés is the first thing I see on my morning jog. I could hit it with a baseball from my apartment, though there aren’t any baseballs in France. Construction of the church’s bell tower began in 990, making it the oldest one in Paris, other parts of the church being refitted into the 19th century. As I walked by on Sunday morning (having postponed my jog until the afternoon), a six-man jazz band was playing in front of the church, just across from the café Les Deux Magots. I stopped and listened, eventually emptying my pocket into their tip jar and buying a CD. These guys were good. After touring the inside of the magnificent church, I took an outdoor table at the café, ordered a coffee, and opened my book, a cheery clarinet solo reaching me from across the street. I later visited the band’s website, learning that La Planche A Dixie was formed in 1995 by the washboard player, Christian Giovanardi, and they’ll happily play your wedding if the price is right.
After an hour of reading and listening to jazz, I reluctantly left the café and walked to the Louvre to see about getting a season pass. As I feared, Sunday was not the day to do this, the courtyard and lobby of the museum were mobbed. I decided to skip it, instead walking toward home across the Pont des Arts, one of Paris’ thirty-seven bridges over the Seine. Near the middle of the bridge, two high school-aged guys stopped me and asked if I spoke French. I said yes, adding that I was no expert. They said they were doing a school project on the significance of the bridge and asked if I would answer a few questions. “Sure”, I said, as one of them manned a video camera, and the other began questioning me on the history of the Pont des Arts. I gave the only answers I could, which were simple ones, explaining that I thought it was nice bridge, situated as it is between the Louvre and the Institut de France, which houses, among other things, the Académie Fançaise. They asked me about the locks, and I said I thought they were nice, too. The Pont des Arts is one of a couple of bridges in Paris to which happy lovers afix padlocks as symbols of their love, afterwards throwing the keys into the river. Periodically, the police cut off the locks, though apparently they leave the older ones. Everyone, it seems, has a sense of history around here. Before parting, the guys took my photo, asking me to hold up a picture frame around my face. I hope I am spared the worst of their classmates’ ridicule, thought it seems unlikely.
Jogging in Paris is unlike jogging in other cities. The buildings, parks, and monuments seem built to a larger scale and to a higher quality than in other places, and the one at the end of the next block, whatever it might be, is the carrot that keeps you going, just a little bit farther. Not to mention the café signs and the awnings of brasseries, dwarfed in size by the impressive buildings, but no less enjoyable to see.
Heading out for a morning jog at 9:30am, I ran into the little old lady who lives in the apartment above me. She was coming up the stairs, laden with parcels and bundled up against the winter cold. “Ah, bonjour!” she said, looking me and down, clearly disapproving of my cold weather running gear. “I did the same thing this morning,” she added in French, “but at 7am!” “Ca c’est bien fait.” I offered, stepping aside as she tromped past me up the stairs. Normally, I run a bit earlier than 9:30, but Paris is a late starting town, and I’m trying to fit in. Hitting the streets at 8:00am on a weekday the city is eerily deserted, as if an evacuation has been ordered and I’m the last to know.
Rounding a corner by the Luxembourg Garden one morning, I passed a kettle of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, an old woman stirring them with a metal spoon, les marrons rattling around with a pleasing clatter. Later on the same run I saw three guys swimming in the Seine. I was crossing the Pont Louis Phillippe, from the right bank to the left via the Ile Saint-Louis, feeling full of myself for being out so early in the cold morning air. As I glanced to my right, I caught sight of three black shapes as they emerged from under the bridge, moving swiftly in the frigid brown water. I stopped in my tracks and watched three guys in wetsuits and flippers swimming with the river’s strong current, attended at a safe distance by a small motorboat. I imagined the boat was stocked with blankets and hot wine, the least these guys deserved for their morning’s exercise. The motorboat had the markings of the Paris police, and I confirmed its identity the next day. Walking in the garden at the back side of Notre-Dame Cathedral I stopped to chat with three French soldiers dressed in fatigues and carrying machine guns. I described the swimmers I had seen the previous morning and asked if they were indeed police, or if perhaps they were French military. The soldiers confirmed that the guys were with the police department, explaining that salvage and rescue divers conduct training year round, regardless of the conditions. The four of us agreed that this was a little nuts, and then I asked if I could take their picture. Their apparent leader answered: “Non. C’est interdit.” The second of the three, and only woman, added: “Peut-être le 14 juillet.” Switching to English, I wrapped things up, “Roger that,” I said. “See you then!”
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