One evening in the early mid-1980’s Niloufer and I, having arrived that afternoon from Orly and checked into our hotel, wandered the Left Bank.
Ah, Paris! And on a balmy Saturday night.
At the Odeon metro newsstand I picked up the Parisian equivalent of New York’s Time Out and checked the music listings. I imagined us sitting in a small smoky bar with our hock et seltzers, listening to jazz or blues — Niloufer drew the line at folk music — with simpatico Parisians scattered among other small, round tables.
There was a Dutch jazz group at a nearby club on rue Vaugirard. Why not? At least we would avoid the crowd on the touristico side of Boulevard Saint-Germain.
We strolled up through the Luxembourg Gardens and crossed to Vaugirard. We found the club because we had the address, but its sign was unlit. Inside it was dark. The club was empty, the door was locked, there was no enlightening sign on the door.
We were jet-lagged; perhaps it was much later than we thought. I checked my watch, which I had set at Orly. It was not even ten o’clock.
Looking around, we wondered why the streets were so empty on a Saturday night.
I think our awareness of how quiet Paris was had come on gradually. We had remarked on how so many tables were free at Les Deux Magots and decided the iconic cafe had finally become unfashionable. On seeing so few people milling about the Odeon metro stop we concluded that there must be a problem with the trains. The realization that there was almost no one around had only just now reached our consciousness. We had seen a few people — walking their dogs, making their quiet way home — and here and there knots of tourists, noisily returning to their hotels from restaurants, but where were the crowds? Where was the usual throng roaming the Latin Quarter for a good time?
It was a puzzle. We discussed it. “Maybe the clock at Orly was wrong.” “It feels like it’s three in the morning.” “Maybe it was set to another time. It is an airport, after all.” “Even then, you’d think a few places would still be open.” “I guess Paris isn’t a city that never sleeps.” “Would the Village be this quiet at three am?” “Columbus Avenue wouldn’t be.”
We stopped a man out walking his beagle. Niloufer, whose French is down pat, asked what time it was. He showed us his watch; it had the same time as mine.
“I wonder if something happened?” “Maybe the President died.” “Reagan?” “Mitterand.” “But would everything be shut like this?” “He was quite popular.” “I think the police would be out. This is Paris.” “Someone else?” “A philosopher?” “Sartre’s already dead.” “Simone De Beauvoir?” “The Left Bank might shut down like this for that.” “On the right bank things are probably perfectly normal.” “Probably a little more subdued than usual.”
Having applied Occam’s razor (although one with an admittedly dull blade) to the problem, the most likely reason why the Left Bank was almost deserted on a Saturday night and everything but the big cafes was shut was that Simone de Beauvoir had died.
We somberly made our way back to the hotel.
The next day, from a glance at a newspaper on our way out onto Saint-Germain, which was bustling, we learned that it was not a Sunday morning in Paris, as we believed. It was a Monday morning. We had been wandering around le Quartier on a Sunday.
Despite all the clues, it had never occurred to us that we had gotten the day wrong. How did that happen? We had changed our departure date at one point; perhaps having discussed the various exigencies, pleasant and unpleasant, of arriving in Paris on a Saturday, we had not re-calibrated our expectations. Perhaps a confusion over time zones had led us to believe we would land at Paris on the same day we had flown out of New York. Whatever the reason, we had been convinced it was Saturday — the conviction of each supporting that of the other.
We had been the victims of a mini-folie à deux.
Ah, Paris! And on a balmy Saturday night.
At the Odeon metro newsstand I picked up the Parisian equivalent of New York’s Time Out and checked the music listings. I imagined us sitting in a small smoky bar with our hock et seltzers, listening to jazz or blues — Niloufer drew the line at folk music — with simpatico Parisians scattered among other small, round tables.
There was a Dutch jazz group at a nearby club on rue Vaugirard. Why not? At least we would avoid the crowd on the touristico side of Boulevard Saint-Germain.
We strolled up through the Luxembourg Gardens and crossed to Vaugirard. We found the club because we had the address, but its sign was unlit. Inside it was dark. The club was empty, the door was locked, there was no enlightening sign on the door.
We were jet-lagged; perhaps it was much later than we thought. I checked my watch, which I had set at Orly. It was not even ten o’clock.
Looking around, we wondered why the streets were so empty on a Saturday night.
I think our awareness of how quiet Paris was had come on gradually. We had remarked on how so many tables were free at Les Deux Magots and decided the iconic cafe had finally become unfashionable. On seeing so few people milling about the Odeon metro stop we concluded that there must be a problem with the trains. The realization that there was almost no one around had only just now reached our consciousness. We had seen a few people — walking their dogs, making their quiet way home — and here and there knots of tourists, noisily returning to their hotels from restaurants, but where were the crowds? Where was the usual throng roaming the Latin Quarter for a good time?
It was a puzzle. We discussed it. “Maybe the clock at Orly was wrong.” “It feels like it’s three in the morning.” “Maybe it was set to another time. It is an airport, after all.” “Even then, you’d think a few places would still be open.” “I guess Paris isn’t a city that never sleeps.” “Would the Village be this quiet at three am?” “Columbus Avenue wouldn’t be.”
We stopped a man out walking his beagle. Niloufer, whose French is down pat, asked what time it was. He showed us his watch; it had the same time as mine.
“I wonder if something happened?” “Maybe the President died.” “Reagan?” “Mitterand.” “But would everything be shut like this?” “He was quite popular.” “I think the police would be out. This is Paris.” “Someone else?” “A philosopher?” “Sartre’s already dead.” “Simone De Beauvoir?” “The Left Bank might shut down like this for that.” “On the right bank things are probably perfectly normal.” “Probably a little more subdued than usual.”
Having applied Occam’s razor (although one with an admittedly dull blade) to the problem, the most likely reason why the Left Bank was almost deserted on a Saturday night and everything but the big cafes was shut was that Simone de Beauvoir had died.
We somberly made our way back to the hotel.
The next day, from a glance at a newspaper on our way out onto Saint-Germain, which was bustling, we learned that it was not a Sunday morning in Paris, as we believed. It was a Monday morning. We had been wandering around le Quartier on a Sunday.
Despite all the clues, it had never occurred to us that we had gotten the day wrong. How did that happen? We had changed our departure date at one point; perhaps having discussed the various exigencies, pleasant and unpleasant, of arriving in Paris on a Saturday, we had not re-calibrated our expectations. Perhaps a confusion over time zones had led us to believe we would land at Paris on the same day we had flown out of New York. Whatever the reason, we had been convinced it was Saturday — the conviction of each supporting that of the other.
We had been the victims of a mini-folie à deux.
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