An older woman – long waspish hair and thin sat – on the concrete semi circular seating outside, knees hunkered up, earphones in ear.
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.
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.
The road rose gradually up through Ave Jean Jarres and briefly into Jardin Serge Gainsbourg. We crossed over the Periphique and then up Boulevards des Maréchaux to the swimming pool in the 19th. We got there at 10.35, so 25 minutes to sit in the sun. As we approached the front door we saw the Olympic Rings above the door from 2024.
It had a communal area at the front of the building. An older woman – long waspish hair and thin sat – on the concrete semi circular seating outside, knees hunkered up, earphones in ear. We sat close by. She suddenly began talking, not to me – I thought she was talking to herself. I then noticed she was speaking on her phone. 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 them with smile. She mumbled something half-hearted and walked on. Locals began arriving from all directions to gather in the communal area - on foot and on bikes – landing like pigeons searching for crumbs, walking tiny circles around each other sometimes bumping into each other but never making eye contact – only making eye contact with their phones.
By 10.55 a makeshift queue began to form. I didn’t realise the French queued. The doors opened – we eventually made it to the pay desk. The building opened out to expose a mixture of fresh warm wood over 1950s brutalist concrete. Nice building. €3.50 each – 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 into the pool area. The newly installed wooden roof – latticed frame and glass – let light flood in. It was rolled back in the middle, letting the sunlight pour through and bounce off the churning water, creating sun waves on the dense concrete columns. 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 the small area outside. “Pardon, monsieur” I said sincerely, quickly removing my shoes and smiling. The lockers took some figuring out. French instructions. I dived in. No money or keys. Closing the locker door revealed the locker number on a panel nearby. Hit OK then enter a code of your choice. To open, do the opposite - enter the locker number then the code. Easy? It took 10 minutes and 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 swimming aids), 2 lanes were an unclassified free-for-all. The swimmers were already doing laps – anti-Clockwise. In Ireland we go clockwise. A mix of abilities in each lane. Traffic backing 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 differences for the next visit.
Over the hill and onto Rue Gambetta then down to the triangular bar – La Chope Saint Fargeau – at the intersection. 2 coffees and 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 beautiful park.
Paris does parks like nowhere else. Families played table tennis, dad played football with young son on the bandstand. A young couple snogged and rolled on the bench next to us. People entered and exited the scene intermittently. We ate the baguette, tomato and cheese we 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, over 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 a just up the hill. It was quite the grave – a massive sphinx like figure sculpted by Jacob Epstein – sits 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. The graffiti was now written on the glass instead – lipstick kisses and hearts. Sunlight hits the lipstick on the glass and writes temporary graffiti on the stone behind. A woman posed for photos in front of the grave. She scolded her husband for ruining 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 – 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, signs and maps. A kind of headstone race has 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. We meet an Irish couple who asked us where Wilde’s is - they’re on their way from Morrisons. We give them directions, like were swapping directions to bars. We exchange stories about the madness of the Irish traveller graves at home and how they’d fit right in here. Morrison’s grave was cordoned off with metal crowd barriers (fitting) – the grave was pretty unremarkable among the skyscrapers. More notable was the tree beside the grave covered in bamboo 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 perhaps?
Hidden among the megastructures was a small café chair, made from multicoloured metal, balanced on one leg with the name Mireille attached in a scripted font. That was the standout grave among the jacked-up-on-testosterone memorials. An older French woman stops and asks us who we’re looking for. We shrug shoulders and say we’re just walking around. She proudly gives us directions to Molliere’s plot. We thank her, she says “au revoir”. We continued walking in circles eventually stumbling on it by accident. I knew he was a writer but that was about it. I’ll chase it up later. Out of Père Lachaise and into the 11th and Rue de Roquette.
We stopped at Resto Zinc Les Marcheurs de Planète. Pulled in by 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. Off again and up and around Place Bastille. Legs heavy, but we still made it around the canal basin. Homeless tents up at road level overlooked the expensive holiday home-boats down in the basin.
We made it onto Quai Henry IV on the Seine on the 4th and sat in the sun for a half hour, looking over toward Notre Dame in the distance. “Mass tomorrow?” That was enough for one day. Onto the Metro. Both of us nodding off between stations. Eventually we made it back to Pantain. Mass in the morning.