| Le Port du Salut 163 bis, rue Saint-Jacques 75005 Paris Telephone: 01 46 33 63 21 |
If, after enjoying the looming pillars and ceiling of the Pantheon, you’re in the mood for scrumptious sustenance, you’re in luck. Barely a hop and a skip away from the Pantheon is Le Port du Salut, a restaurant serving gourmet French cuisine at an affordable price.
I have to give major props to Abby for telling me about Le Port du salut. For around €17, you get a three-course menu, including choices in appetizer, main dish, and dessert — not to mention a refuge from the hubbub of the world outside. I savored the quiet as I sank into my seat, grateful for the waitress’s stealth as she went about the place. There was nary a clink of plates or a raised voice within the restaurant; in fact, it was as if everybody else had the same goal of seeking respite as well, and had found it here. The old-fashioned decor leaves the tables so close to each other that one can eavesdrop on one’s neighbors, but even the two men next to me merely murmured as they discussed business over their very long and leisurely lunch break.
And the food? Satisfying and certainly more than I was able to finish. By the time I left, I was refreshed and all ready for a new round with this fair city, though a bit sorry to have to leave my sanctuary. Le Port du Salut definitely gets a thumb’s up!
Directions, from the Pantheon: Walk away from the Place du Pantheon, up rue Soufflot. Turn left at rue Saint-Jacques. The restaurant will be on your left.
One powerful site in Paris is also one of its most unassuming, at least from the outside. A passer-by might easily overlook the small patch of land partially hidden by hedges as he or she hurries off to Notre Dame, which is a mere stone’s throw away. But the Mémorial de la Déportation, located at the edge of Ile de la Cité, is far more compelling than one could expect.
The memorial, dedicated to French victims and survivors of the Holocaust, actually lies at a lower level, down some steps from the little park above. I had arrived during the lunch-break hour, so I waited at the park for the memorial to reopen. I initially wasn’t even sure I was at the right place, despite having read the small sign by the even smaller gate. I had expected to find a skinny black brick building, inside of which would be lined with pictures of the Holocaust and some placards of history. With its lovely, serene view of blue skies and the surrounding Seine, this park above—and whatever waited below—was at odds with that image.
Just before the steps is a signboard for visitors, describing the history and purpose of the memorial. I read it as I waited. A row of triangles, consisting of various styles and color, lined the bottom of the sign. One has to be truly stoic of heart not to feel a lump in the throat on reading the meaning of each triangle, and to whom each symbol is sewn on to: German Jews, French Jews, homosexuals, stateles persons, gypsies, Jehovah’s Witnesses, anti-socials, “deviants”. . . .
Those who don’t, according to some definition, “belong.”
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If I could keep but one memory of the Abbey of Pontlevoy, it would be this:
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6 rue de la Cave
41110 POUILLE
Telephone: 02.54.71.44.44
Fax 02.54.71.74.00
http://www.le-bousquet.com
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When I sat down for breakfast on my first morning in Paris, Brigitte fanned a heaped collection of brochures and coupons on the dining table. “Do you know where you want to go?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,“ I said, and immediately launched into a whole stream of locations. Well, more of a gushing torrent than a stream, I should amend. I knew exactly where I wanted to visit and what activities I wanted to indulge in, complete with preferred order and ideal time, not to mention grouped by arrondissement.
(I would love to tell you that I’m far more casual now, but a few days ago Tonje took a look at my list of Belgian must-see’s and responded, “Good lord, woman. You do know we’re only going to be there for a week, right?”)
One place I knew I did not want to go was the Eiffel Tower. I know it’s the very symbol of the city—and it was rather charming to watch it buzz with flickering blue light from my bedroom window at night—but it was more than a little too touristy for me. Visiting a sight just for the sake of saying you have is fulfilling an obligation to others, I think, instead of to yourself.
Still, I wanted to get a panoramic view of Paris. One option was a hot-air balloon ride I had learned about.
“The hot-air balloon is tied to the ground the whole time,” Brigitte broke the news to me. “But if you want a 180-degree view of the city,” — she pulled out one of the brochures on the table, a twinkle in her eye, and laid the brochure beside my plate of pain au chocolat — “you should go to the Samaritaine department store.”
Located at the very heart of the city, I learned, right next door to the Louvre and facing the River Seine, La Samaritaine lets you do some old-fashioned shopping, but more importantly, lets you view Paris all you want from its rooftop. All for free.
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It was one of those gloomy days in Paris where the wet clings your clothes to your skin and the opaque sky presses upon you so closely, you feel that if you lifted your hand, you would brush the clouds with your fingertips. Jennifer and I had come to la ville des lumières on business, but we had come to the Rue de Buci solely for pleasure.
Rough stone storefronts spired above on either side of the thin, twisting street, and held aloft the canopy of dull pewter sky. Beneath the buttresses of vibrantly colored shop awnings, the bustle of the gastronomical trade swirled. Baguettes flowed from the doorway of the boulangerie. A vendor held aloft a rope of onions, white and lumpy as freshwater pearls.
The heart of Paris may technically be the Ile de la Cité, or symbolically the Eiffel Tower, but the Rue de Buci – nestled between the metro stops of Mabillon and Saint Germain des Près – is the city’s embodiment the French love affair with food.
Amorino Photo from www.amorino.fr |
I’d first stumbled upon this street when visiting a friend earlier that year. “I’ll take you to the best ice cream boutique in all of France!” she had boasted. After a winding dance through the subway and a handful of curlicued streets, I found myself under the angel-strewn awning of Amorino, where I learned that, yes, heaven is a place on earth, and it contains over twenty different flavors of Italian gelato. And, by the time I’d finished my cup (runneth over with chocolate, sweet cream, and strawberry gelato), I’d been seduced by the Rue de Buci – the sounds, the smells, but above all, the wares.
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One Sunday, as we were rumbling down the road in the red Peugeot on our way back home from the Amboise open-air market, Jennifer turned around and asked: “Hey … do you guys want to stop and see the Chanteloup Pagoda?”
I knew most of the hundreds of châteaux of the Loire Valley, but I had never heard of a French pagoda. Visions suddenly filled my head of dragon-emblazoned silk banners streaming from Gothic turrets, and manicured topiaries flanked by delicate, blooming cherry trees, and I knew I had to go see it.
As it turns out, the “Pagode de Chanteloup,” or the Chanteloup Pagoda, was built upon the remains of the château de Chanteloup, which belonged to the Duc de Choiseul, minster to Louis XV. Said Duke eventually offended the king in some way, shape, or form, as was wont to happen in those days, and Dukey found himself exiled to Chanteloup from 1770 to 1774. But his friends remained loyal to him, and in 1775, he directed his architect, Le Camus, to build the pagoda in honor of them.
(I’m assuming that the king had died, which made it possible for the Duke to build the pagoda and not get his head chopped off, but my guidebook falls short at this point.)
We pulled up to the deserted parking lot, parked the Peugeot, and tumbled out of the car, ready to take a quick trip to the Far East. But, horror of horrors, we discovered that the gate surrounding the park was chained shut … and the pagoda was closed for the season.
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just a question of getting in the B&B that was the issue.
It was my first trip to Paris. I’d learned the language, planned my itinerary, gotten first-hand recommendations on where to go and what to definitely avoid. I even had the directions to my bed & breakfast down pat. By the time I’d gotten off the bus at Place de la Nation and confidently making my way toward my hosts’ apartment, I was proud of myself for knowing what I was doing.
Then I found myself outside the apartment, and realized that of all things people kept telling me about Paris, nobody said a word about how to open a door.
It’s always the little things.
Oh, there was a handle, all right, but the door was locked and so wouldn’t budge. There wasn’t a keyhole in sight, besides which my hosts had assured me a key wouldn’t be required there. There was a series of white buttons outside, and I initially took it to mean the same thing as in American apartment buildings—that each button was a buzzer corresponding to each apartment. However, not one of them was labeled with a resident’s name, and I wasn’t going to start buzzing everybody in the place and earn my hosts some very annoyed neighbors.
Well, okay, I did press a couple.
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After three months of living in the Abbey of Pontlevoy, my fellow interns and I discovered that we had grown in many ways. Specifically, around the middle. Spending your days and nights walled up in a decaying monastery-cum-hostel or the bar across the street (only a stone’s throw away from the town cathedral) is not conducive to the waistline. Especially when said town is smack dab in the middle of the land of wine, cheese, and chocolate.
So, in honor of spring and love and swimsuit season, the interns and I banded together to face our most difficult challenge yet. More daunting than our American boss, who had us working sixty-plus-hour weeks for pocket change. More aggravating than the yellow industrial walls that surrounded us like a Charlotte Perkins Gilman tale come to life. More inescapable than the broom-closet-sized WCs in our rooms. Together, we girded our loins and commenced … the South Beach Diet.
It started off with a bang: this, our own personal Battle of the Bulge. I even accepted the horrific fate of eating salami for breakfast. Nothing says “morning” like a big slice of fatty pork. Mmm. Cold, fatty pork. Step aside, Kellogg’s!
But we were determined in our quest for physical perfection (or, at least, clothes that fit correctly). As we grew accustomed to the gastronomical sacrifices of our diet, we entered the next phase in our plan: a steady exercise plan.
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Shall I sing you a tale of great derring-do
When pickpockets three I did bravely subdue?
(Well, maybe “subdue” is a word too extreme,
But hear out the story; you’ll see what I mean!)
I was living abroad when, wholly by chance,
My brother’s glee club was on tour in France.
I packed up my things, met Father and Mum,
And drove to the north to have us some fun.
At Omaha Beach, where so many fell,
The glee club boys sang of faith and farewell.
Then onward through Caen and Sainte-Mère-Église
In weather so scorching, we prayed for a breeze.
And, then, off to Paris! La ville des lumières!
The Louvre, Eiffel Tower, and ladies so fair!
Since I knew the town, I worked with pride
Playing the role of translator and guide.
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