Awakening in Paris

It's a warm October day so, why does this scene of Notre Dame evoke a memory of frozen fingers, pre-dawn mist, and hot coffee? One January dawn, 10 years ago, jet lagged and awake at 5am we sat just here – inside of course. It was one of those January days in Paris that numbed our noses and our fingers through our gloves on the short walk from our apartment to the first open café. We sat here looking out at Notre Dame in the pre-dawn dimness, our ghostly faces looking back at us, reflections in the café window. A sleepy waiter brought us coffee – no croissants yet – too early. Every time I walk past this spot I relive that moment, feel the cold, smell the coffee, remember the beauty of Notre Dame awakening in the growing morning light. I stand here for a long time not believing that so many years in Paris came before that morning and that as many have come after. I get the odd sensation that time has changed its nature, reversed its flow, trapped me in an eddy. That all that I am now is what actually created my past and yet it is the past – all those experiences and images in Paris that make me what I am today, a man in love with a city standing here in front of this café.

A moment lived

I'm drawn to this place, this center of Paris, this center of my universe. Here on these islands in the Seine is where Paris was born. This morning is cool and gray. I'm not ready to go anywhere just yet but neither am I content to sit in the apartment. I have a good book and a hot cup of coffee but a voice is prodding me … go out, go out now or you'll miss something. I get up and walk the few steps from my apartment to Pont St Louis and become an observer, waiting for something to happen. This morning what happens is beautiful beyond words. I am deep in thought and not paying much attention. And like a beautiful woman being ignored Paris begins to flirt with me. She creates a symmetry that can't be ignored, an alignment of her attractions that catches my eye and reminds me of the reasons I love her. She doesn't make it easy, there is only one spot along this quay where the lines come together in just this way, evoking images that spill into my mind from all that has happened here, to me, to the characters in the books I read, to the figures in history that may have stood here wondering if tomorrow would bring victory or defeat, or if tomorrow would even come. I am so lost in the experience that I almost miss making this image. I try to mark the spot so that I can come back. Halfway between the 5^th and 6^th lamp posts from the bridge. As I walk away I already know that Paris and I will not be the same and I can stand on this spot as often as I wish but the moment has been lived and is gone.

Maubert-Mutualité

 Maubert-Mutualité is my home station Paris. I learned the Métro system well in my first years there. In those days I was in love with the Métro; it was a magic carpet to every part of the city. I once read that there is no place in Paris more than 600 meters from a Métro station. In those days you bought a Carte Orange by the week or month and could use it to ride the Métro or the bus as often as you wanted. I learned Paris in her Métro stations and from her Métro maps. In rare waits for a train to arrive I would study the map on the wall, planning a visit for tomorrow or sometimes changing today's plans out of curiosity. One day my magic carpet took me to, instead of home, Jules Joffrin. Who knows why except that I had never been there. Brasserie Nord Sud, at the top of the stairs of the Jules Joffrin Métro station, found by accident, became my favorite Friday night dinning spot. Much of the Paris I know and love was found this way. I got to know the stations and I learned much about French culture and language in these stations from the large advertisements. How the words were used, what the French cared about, how department store sales were arranged, where the interesting exhibits were, what was new in cell phone technology, all of it was there on the wall in front of me. Later, I learned the marvels of the bus system and now we use a Navigo instead of the old Carte Orange but from time to time I find myself back in the Métro. The map on the wall holds fewer mysteries but the memories are good, very good.

Mouffetard Memories

Paris fills a need to make the most of the moment I am in. She does this not only when I am present in her streets but later when the moment is a memory. She will do it again on some tomorrow, which is the future now but will someday be experienced as the present. I think of the past, the present, and the future as three receptacles. The past holds what I create, good or bad, and is like a bank account I can draw on to enrich the present. In the present I hold my worries and my desires and I create the future which is hope and will.

I make images of Paris to make the present memorable, to be aware of what kinds of things are rewarding to me, the kinds of things I want to put in the bank account of my past. Making images focuses my attention on the things that enrich time. These images and the memories of all those instants, once present, now past, drive the creation of a future in which I am here again in the streets of Paris, richer than last time, poorer, I hope, than next time if only I can make more images. These visits are not easy. Many years I should not have come. Issues at work, family problems, risk of loss have all blocked the path and yet, each time I came. Maybe this danger of loss has heightened my love for Paris, the chronic challenges to each trip, never refused, repeated cherishing and love remembered. Here is rue Mouffetard in the early morning sun. Sidewalk tables set for long lunches, a group of friends planning the day, an expression of what the day can be, and me, of but not in the scene, banking yet one more moment in a place I love.