Up and out of Rue Victor Huge for about 10am and walked south toward Piscine Georges Vallerey. The pool was due to open at 11am. We had lots of time.
Hidden among the megastructures was a small café chair, made from multicoloured metal, balanced on one leg with the name Mireille. That was the standout grave among the jacked-up, testosterone memorials.
The road rose gradually up through Ave Jean Jarres and through Jardin Serge Gainsbourg. The road then crossed over the Periphique and up Boulevards des Maréchaux to the swimming pool in the 19th. As we approached the front door we saw the Olympic Rings above the door from 2024.
We got there at 10.35, so 25 minutes to sit in the sun. It had a communal area at the front of the building. A thin, older woman – long thin, hair sat on the concrete semicircular seating outside, knees hunkered up speaking on her phone with ear phone attached. I thought she was talking to herself at first. We sat close by. Another small older woman approached us pulling an old-fashioned shopping trolley behind her. She stopped, sliding the trolley in front – reached in to pull out several “Dieu t–aime” (God loves you) leaflets. We accepted one with a smile. She mumbled something half-hearted and walked away.
Locals began arriving from all directions to gather in the communal area - on foot and on bikes – descending like pigeons on a public square searching for crumbs. They walked tiny circles around each other, sometimes bumping into each other but never making eye contact – only making eye with their phones. By 10.55am, a makeshift queue began to form. I didn’t realise the French queued. The doors opened and we made it to the pay desk.
The building opened out to expose a mixture of fresh wood over 1950s brutalist concrete. Nice building. €3.50 each – we got the locals’ rate. The top of the staircase split left and right. One side for the women the other for the men. The top floor was pool level. You could see through the glass windows at the top of the stairs, across the void and into the pool area. The newly installed wooden roof – latticed frame and glass – let light flood in. It was rolled back in the centre letting the sunlight pour through and bounce off the rippling water bouncing sun waves onto the heavy concrete columns holding the building up. The whole place shimmered.
We split left and right into the Vestiaires (changing rooms). A man pointed at my feet and wagged a disapproving finger. Confused, I quickly scanned the other feet in the Vestiaire. Everyone was barefoot – having removed their shoes in a small seated area outside the changing room. “Pardon, monsieur” I said sincerely, quickly removing my shoes and smiling. The lockers took some figuring out. French instructions. I dived in. They accepted no money or keys. I closed the locker door, where a locker number was revealed on a panel nearby. I Hit OK then entered a code of my choice. To open, do the opposite - enter the locker number then the code. Easy? It took me 10 minutes with a shrugging pool attendant to figure it out.
Lanes were 50 metres. Olympic standard. No messing in Paris. Lanes were classified as follows - Cours (Courses) 4 Nages (4 strokes) Crawl (no translation needed) Material (floats, flippers and various cheat methods), 2 lanes were unclassified. The swimmers were already doing laps – anti-Clockwise. In Ireland we go clockwise. There was a mix of abilities in each lane. Traffic backed up. The accordion effect. We progressed from the unclassified, through the “material” lane eventually finding our level in the “4 Nages”. 50 metres at a time meant no additional kick at 25 metres – that took some adjustment. 20 lengths made it 1km. That was good for starters. We left the pool with a buzz, banking all those small cultural difference for the next visit.
Over the hill and onto Rue Gambetta and down the steep hill to the triangular bar – La Chope Saint Fargeau – at the next intersection. We ordered 2 coffees and had a good gawk at the people jogging, cycling, dog walking. Paris has become quieter but just as busy. The air seemed cleaner too. Off again, down Gambetta and into square Édouard-Vaillant – a small but hiving park. Families played table tennis on a few concrete tables, a dad played football with his son on the bandstand. A young couple snogged and rolled about the bench next to us. People entered and exited the scene intermittently. We ate the baguette, tomato and cheese that Fancea made at the apartment – with the bottle of water we filled. I laid the swimming towels on the back of the park bench to dry in the sun. It was hot-hot – getting toward 30°C but shaded in the park. The crematorium of Père Lachaise was a few streets away – so we slipped in the entrance on Rue des Rondeaux on 20th.
Oscar Wilde was just up the hill. It was quite the grave – a massive sphinx like figure, sculpted by Jacob Epstein – sat on top of a large rectangular plinth. It stood 3 meters tall and wide, and a few metres deep. No one’s digging Wilde up, that for sure. A glass barrier now surrounds the stone to protect it from graffiti. Graffiti was written on the glass instead – lipstick kisses and hearts. Sunlight hit the lipstick on the glass and cast temporary, moving monotone graffiti on the stone behind. A woman posed for photos in front of the grave. She scolded her husband for fumbling the shot and told him to try again. She closed her eyes, lowered her head – then suddenly raised it again Norma Desmond style – opening her eyes and smiling broadly, ready for her close-up – CLICK – she seemed happier. It’s what Wilde would have wanted.
Père Lachaise is a city for the dead. Avenues and arrondissements complete with street names, street signs and maps. A headstone race had resulted in towering monuments, obelisks, statues, abstract art – “they’re trying to take the money with them” Fancea said. We poked and pointed and scratched our heads at the absurdness of it all. Jim Morrison’s grave was a half hour walk away. On the way, we meet an Irish couple who ask us where Wilde’s is – they were on their way from Morrisons. We give them directions like we were recommending a good bar, “down that street about 10 minutes and take the second on the right.” We swapped stories about the madness of the Irish traveller graves at home – they’d fit right in here.
We found Jim Morrison’s grave, cordoned off with metal crowd barriers (very fitting) – the grave was pretty unremarkable among the surrounding skyscrapers. More notable was the tree beside the grave covered in bamboo matting, with the matting covered in chewing gum. Admiring fans seemed to want to leave something of themselves close to their hero… chewing gum. Fans – eh? Better on the bamboo covered tree than on the ground? Hidden among the megastructures was a small café chair, made from multicoloured metal, balanced on one leg with the name Mireille. That was the standout grave among the jacked-up-on-testosterone memorials.
An older French woman stopped and asked us who we’re looking for. We shrugged our shoulders and say we’re just walking around. She proudly gave us directions to Molliere’s plot. We thanked her and she said “goodbye”. We continued to walk in circles but eventually stumbled on it by accident. I knew he was a writer but that was about it. I made a mental note to chase it up later. We left Père Lachaise at the bottom entrance and into the 11th and Rue de Roquette.
We stopped at Resto Zinc Les Marcheurs de Planète – pulled in by the music. Fanch popped her head in to ask if there was music during the week. The girl working told us to come back on Thursday for “Cabaret”. I ordered 2 beers and we sat outside. Bikes and people everywhere. Incredibly busy but still quiet and intimate. We sat and chatted, drank and let the stress fall further away.
Off again and up and around Place Bastille. Legs were heavy, but we still made it around the canal basin. Homeless tents up at road level overlooked the expensive big canal boats and houseboats down in the basin. We made it onto Quai Henry IV on the Seine on the 4th and sat in the low sun for a half hour, looking over toward Notre Dame in the distance. We mulled over going to Mass there the following morning. We’d walked across half of Paris today and figured that was enough. We jumped onto the Metro close and nodded off between stations. Eventually we made it back to Pantain and picked up some things for diner.
We're off to mass in the morning.