Leaving Paris today was bittersweet. We are very excited for the second half of our vacation, which we will spend in Barcelona, but we were sad to leave behind the people and places that had captured our hearts, whether for the first time or all over again.
Eileen is just discovering travel’s most magical truth, which is that the world is full of good people, and through the grace of chance or fate we will meet the ones we are supposed to meet.
We arrived last night at La Mère Agitée and were immediately greeted by friendly faces. Christophe and Julien rose from their dinner to kiss our cheeks and welcome us. Christophe introduced us to the proprietress, explaining that we were American musicians who had come to hear them play.
Our evening exceeded our expectations – not so much in terms of the music and the food, for we already knew that we were in for a treat in both respects, but because of the fascinating people that surrounded us. Christophe and Julien were performing in a converted wine cellar that comfortably seated sixteen diners. We eyed our companions with fascination – particularly the elderly Parisians who, despite their advanced age, were more stylish and cosmopolitan than … well … us.
While the duo played, we all enjoyed a meal selected by la mère agitée herself – pâté on toast over lightly dressed greens and a savory stew of veal and carrots in a delicate cream sauce over rice. Eileen and I noted that these were not dishes that either one of us would have chosen off of a menu, but it was one of the most unforgettable meals we had ever eaten. It just goes to show that once in a while we diners should set aside our prejudices and trust the chef.
Dinner ended shortly before midnight, and the room emptied out for a cigarette break. A woman approached me by the staircase and asked if I was the American musician she had heard about. She asked why I was not up on stage, and I stammered a response that was clearly unsatisfactory to her. (The truth is that Christophe and Julien had invited me up on stage several times already and, as badly as I wanted to join them, my mind went blank every time I contemplated what I might perform.) The woman, whose name was Domenica, peered at me through darkly-lined eyes and told me an artist can not be shy. She was, of course, completely right.
Domenica, who had moved to Turkey with her husband, was paying a visit to her parents who, in their late seventies, looked perfectly at home at a late-night jazz show. Accompanying them was a family friend – a flight attendant who Domenica had befriended years ago en route to Paris – and Domenica’s Turkish husband Cengiz, who seemed at once bemused by and completely in love with his vibrant wife.
One by one, performers and spectators returned to the little basement and, in lieu of a third set, we pulled our chairs into a circle and talked and laughed over bottomless bottles of the unlabeled house red. The language barrier was significant, and yet not. Words and accents mattered less than laughter and friendly eyes. We talked of Barcelona, and of our respective misadventures on the railway. I told her that I am no strangers to the SNCF, having embarked on a solo journey a few years ago. She rolled her eyes in mild disgust, and Cengiz explained that in her impatience, his wife favors the speed of flight over the slowly evolving landscape of train travel.
Well after 1 am, the proprietress shooed us out of her basement. Domenica pressed her phone number into my hand and urged us to visit her soon in Istanbul. Eileen approached La Mère to pay for our meal, and it was evident that the collection of money had been an afterthought.
Christophe hailed us a cab, and Julien accompanied us back to our neighborhood because the Metro had long since stopped running. Dazzled by our incredible evening, we got out several blocks from our hostel and enjoyed a giddy walk through the garish lights of Pigalle before returning to our beds.
Even in my sixth visit, Paris does not fail to enchant. Today I am sad to leave behind Domenica’s larger-than-life personality and her youthful, jovial family, I’ll never forget the way Julien sang through his violin or, if I am to be perfectly honest, the way my stomach flipped under his piercing gaze. Nor will I forget his father’s warmth and easy laugh. They will be filed away in my memory along with a variety of treasured chance encounters over the years.
Fascinating people are everywhere. Lots of them tend to congregate in Paris. Hopefully Barcelona, too.
