So Begins a Trés Bell Year

Our neighborhood cathedral turns eight hundred and fifty this year.

Here on the fifth floor, with our windows open, we often listen to the bells of Notre Dame (Our Lady) from four blocks away, and had thought them lovely each time.

But what do we know? 

Not being experts, we didn't know they were out of tune. After all, the last time the ten big bells were "replaced" was during the French Revolution of 1789, when they were destroyed as part of the wave of secular sentiment. Their eventual nineteenth century replacements were four chimes, which everyone except us knew were discordant.

So, to celebrate Our Lady's birthday, the church hierarchy commissioned nine new bronze bells, celebrated this last weekend amid much pomp, incense, music, and ceremony, including an appearance by Paris Archbishop Andre Armand Vingt-Trois.

Many masses were held, at which the gargantuan bells were displayed in the nave of the immense gothic cathedral. Between masses, the devout and the merely curious mingled together, inspecting, touching, and admiring the huge bronze bells, including the six-and-a-half ton bourdon (great bell) bell named for Marie, the mother of Jesus of Nazareth.

Marie will be hoisted to the gothic south tower by herself, and the other eight, Jean-Marie, Maurice, Benoit-Joseph, Steven, Marcel, Denis, Anne-Genevieve and Gabriel, will be mounted in the north tower, joining another bourdon, Emmanuel, which has been there since the seventeenth century. 

The installation is expected to be finished by March 23, when they will ring together for the first time just before Palm Sunday, the beginning of what Christians call Holy Week. Palm Sunday commemorates the arrival of Jesus into Jerusalem, where, in the following week, he was tried, sentenced, put to death on a cross on Good Friday, and then, the story continues, resurrected on Easter, in the manner of previous fertility gods like the Greek Dionysus, the Mesopotamian Tammuz, or the Egyptian Amun.

 

Notre Dame itself stands on ground sacred long before the Christian Era began. The Cathedral sits at what Pulitzer Prize-winning architect Allan Temko called "the organic heart of Paris." And, "the eastern end of the island [Ile de la Cite] has been a repository of idealisms since men first built a tabernacle there of branches and reeds. From the floor of the Seine upward, there must be scores of buried pre-Christian shrines: first the fragile Gallic sanctuaries of wood, and then a whole series of Roman temples in stone. Finally, high on the accumulated mound, so close to the surface that they seem incredibly recent, is a collection of Christian edifices, resting directly behind and all around Notre-Dame." (Temko, Allan, Notre-Dame of Paris.  A Time Incorporated book, New York, 1962, page 11.) 

It's a powerful spot. Witness last Saturday, the day the celebratory masses began, which was blustery, with intermittent hail showers. Not quite cold enough to snow, but definitely some bitter winds. Then, as if to signify that somebody up there liked what was going on in the cathedral, the sun came out just long enough to help send this message to the assembled worshipers at the exact moment the afternoon service began.

The Face of Tomorrow's Army?

Though we love parades, we didn't attend last Saturday's Bastille Day number, which is much more regimented than most in Paris. A crowd of up to a half-million on the Champs Elysses, lots of barricades, heavy crowd control, screaming fighter jets overhead, and no access for interesting photos. Ares triumphant. In sharp contrast to, say, the Dionysian revelry of the Paris Gay Pride parade.




But we did wander, post-parade, over to the Esplanade des Invalides, the huge greensward in front of the gold-domed Les Invalides, which houses the military museum of France, and Napoleon's Tomb. This entire swath of the seventh arrondissement is devoted to France's past and present military glory, and the post-parade exhibits are like a trade show for the public; each branch of the service displays and recruits, from the French Foreign Legion, to the regular army, navy, and marines, to the gendarmerie.

As long-time peace activists who wear our hearts on our sleeves, we won't get into a long anti-war riff.  We just want to note that this was a marketing event, and War has lots of toys and tools on its side that make it look a lot more fun than Peace. There was nothing at Saturday's trade show that would make one think about the consequences of war. The world's literature is replete with heart-choking, compelling anti-war novels, films, articles, etc.--like our friend Chris Abani's horrifying novella of child soldiers, Song for Night. But somehow the message still isn't getting across.

We are Parisians, but we remain Americans.  Our country of origin is the largest arms supplier in the world, our adopted country is fourth.

The U.S.A. spends around twenty percent of its yearly budget on defense, up to half if you figure spending the way the War Resisters League does.

Given the vast sums of money at stake, it's no wonder that War spends a lot of energy looking attractive. Would that Peace had as effective a marketing machine.


 

Rites of Spring

To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak. --Hopi saying

Spring has arrived, fickle and schizoid here in Paris. One day summer, next day winter. Sometimes one minute summer, one minute winter.

And with spring comes hordes of tourists, and the ubiquitous buskers. And photographers to chronicle them; in this case Paris Play's staff photographer trying out a newly refurbished 35mm 1.8 prime lens on the Nikon. 

Good Friday, time to honor the death of the god, who, in the case of the Christian faith, will arise just a few days later to taste the chocolate bunnies. The cycle of death and rebirth, a staple feature of myth and religion, also calls Dionysus, precursor of Christ, to mind.

This Carnaby Street-influenced Dionysus unsheathed his guitar (a later variant of Hermes' lyre) at the plaza in front of Notre Dame and quickly drew a small crowd. They began, as Maenads have since time immemorial, spontaneously dancing, much to his delight.

And they grew wilder.

And wilder.

All this within thirty seconds.

Of course, it is illegal to busk, and to break out in dance, in front of Quasimodo's cathedral. Years ago, when we were young and looked like this, and similarly gathered in Vina del Mar Park, the small downtown square in Sausalito, California, the city fathers had an easy remedy: they closed the park to ANYONE for the next thirty years. A generation. That'll teach those hippies. And their children.

Here in Paris, they don't close the Notre Dame Parvis, but they can stop the dance.

Lest we seem to demonize the officer in question, seconds after giving the busker the bum's rush (he left politely, as did the Maenads), she was back to graciously performing one of her other duties, advising a pair of tourists how to get from point A to point B in this radial and confusing city. Good cop/bad cop all in one package. Another daily Paris Play.

Dinner: One Cricket, One Kir

I followed the thread of the labyrinth for years, until I knew its winding loops and pattern as if they were my own soul.

I still trace its pattern and colors daily, a record, a map of my days.

Out of the labyrinth now, I’m fascinated by the threads that link me to others, to kindred spirits, other worlds.

Kindred spirit: Susan. Met in Berkeley at a screening of my cousin Mark’s film about the ecology movement, “A Fierce Green Fire.” Instant love.

Kindred spirit: Edith. Met in Paris at Connie’s house when she told us stories of artists she’s known that kept us all spell-bound. Instant love.

Kindred spirit: Judithe, a friend of Susan’s and Edith’s and Connie’s, who also lives in Paris. Judithe invited me to a gathering of writers and bande dessinée (comic strip) artists who write for and illustrate a French magazine called Soldes. It was inspired by a countercultural magazine Actuel, that Judithe and her ex-husband created in the late ‘60s.

I am to meet her at her home. She comes to the door in goat leather jacket, serpent pants, with a Jeanne Moreau mouth.

Rez de chaussée (the ground floor), a large living-dining room that opens onto a deep garden, rare in Paris and enchanting. Persian rugs. Fine paintings on the walls. A photograph of an African king.

A chunky Welsh corgi on the floor.

A tricycle in the foyer.

Judithe is learning how to make an e-book. She’s a diver who photographs underwater worlds. She’s modest about her photography skills, but a friend in NYC insists that she must make an e-book with her photos of underwater creatures, and he will help with text and publication.

She shows me how she plugs in text and photos in the e-book program on her MacBook. It looks so easy!

Her black Smart car is parked on the curve of the boulevard. It’s impossibly small, like a toy car. But it carries us comfortably and smoothly through Paris to the Canal St. Martin. We cover deep-sea diving, American politics, whether Obama will be re-elected (yes, I think he will), French politics (the choice between Sarkozy and Hollande, and who should win), UNESCO, the counterculture, children, people we know and love in common, Berkeley, the Berkeley Barb, R. Crumb, who was friends with Judithe and her husband and did cartoons for Actuel.

We park just off the Quai de Valmy in a tiny space that no other car could maneuver into.

It’s not at all clear where this warehouse is. Judithe pops into the post office, and asks a group of Arab men. The entrance is around the corner, says one. She is gay and charming, and he is happy to help.

Canal St. Martin is lined with young picnickers and drinkers, a hip and happening part of town. The warehouse is marked by familiar graffiti—I’ve seen it before in a photo of Richard’s.

The high-ceilinged room is filled with artsy-looking youngsters in their 20s through 60s. (Artists and revolutionaries are closer to their childhood selves, and while not always the most mature of citizens, carry youthful spirits well into old age.) The first thing that strikes the eye is a giant cartoon on the wall.

“Richard would love this!” I exclaim.

“Call him and tell him to join us,” says Judithe. But he is at a photography event.

Judithe introduces me to a man about our age, an elegant French artist, who is one of the founders of Soldes. I can’t make out his words above the rock music, and ask him to speak more slowly, thinking I might read his lips. But he and Judithe think I mean I don’t understand French, and switch to English. But I do! Chat, chat.

We make our way through the crowd in front of the bar. Judithe orders a serious drink. I settle for Kir.

Back into the main room. An array of insects is artfully arranged in mandala form on plates. The hors d'oeuvres.

I am mesmerized. Scorpions, bees, grasshoppers, crickets and worms. We’re supposed to eat them. They’re certainly beautiful, but no one is rushing up for a sample. I take a few photos to show Richard.

Two young men with microphones are seated on the lip of a stage. On a big screen behind them are photos and diagrams of places in Africa and Asia where insects are a primary source of protein in the diets of humans.

One of the men discourses in that serious French fashion, as if this is a lecture at the Sorbonne. Now he is deconstructing cultural attitudes towards eating insects.

Insects were once eaten in Europe, the lecturer tells us. The only thing that prevents us from eating them today is disgust. (Disgust! That little piffle.) I was raised in a state where scorpions abound, and avoiding them always seemed like a good idea.

Judithe and I take seats on folding chairs near the projector. We glance over at the hors d’oeuvres table. No one has touched the snacks. In spite of the cogent analysis, cultural disgust is intact.

“Why are there no spiders?” asks a young woman.

“Spiders aren’t insects,” the speaker says.

Oh good. No black widows. No rattlesnakes.

“But aren’t some insects poisonous?” someone asks.

“Insects are just like mushrooms. You have to know which ones are edible, which are toxic,” the lecturer says.

Judithe asks another question. But this is one too many interruptions for the lecturer. They will take questions at the end.

“This is so French,” Judithe mumbles,“the serious sermon.”

We meander around. I strike up a conversation with a man who is drawing bright beautiful cartoon figures in the front of the latest edition of Soldes. He introduces me to his wife, Ariane.

She is Swiss. He is French. They lived in NYC for a while and now are back in Paris. I ask her if she knows the myth about her namesake, Ariadne.

No, she doesn’t. What is it?

I tell the story of the Cretan princess and the labyrinth and the Minotaur.

“Oh!” she says, “The goddess with the thread? That’s funny. My husband’s name is Phil and you know the French word for thread is fil. And he’s a Taurus, a bull.”

“So is mine!” I say. “And our myth is Ariadne and the Minotaur. In the later part of the story, Ariadne marries Dionysus. One of the shapes he takes is a bull.”

We talk about the Native American custom of going on a vision quest, which is a variation on the descent into the labyrinth.

I join Judithe outside on the bank of the Canal St. Martin. All around us people stand talking, drinking, smoking, cell phoning.

Back inside Judithe introduces me to a cartoonist who reminds me just a bit of Robert Crumb. A young Asian man extends a tray of insects to me.

“Why thank you. I believe I’ll try this cricket on his little wheat-colored bed,” I say. “Oh crispy! Delicious!”

Judithe and I are ready to go at the same moment. I buy a Soldes and ask Phil (Fil) to sign it to Richard and me. It’s as beautiful as an art book, and costs 17 euros.

We return in Judithe’s Smart car, and talk of Amin Maalouf’s book, The Crusades through Arab Eyes, the Lebanese, my cousin Mark’s “Fierce Green Fire,” Vassar, Sarah Lawrence, Cannes, diving in the Mediterranean sea, sky diving, a friend who killed herself in spite of great brilliance and beauty, French lessons.

A pleasurable evening of many threads. Dinner: one cricket, one kir. And a new friend, with many links between us.