Sunday Morning in the Rue Cler

“So when the ◊ is indicated, on/off temperature setting and time operating, etc. are sometimes impossible to control”

[Small print instructions on the climate control device in our hotel room.]

This trip has been like no other.  We’ve not gone to a single museum, we’ve only seen the top third of the Tour d’ Eiffel, we had a quick glance at Notre Dame from the cab, and we have not once eaten Berthillon ice cream.  I’ve loved the spontaneity and the loose structure of our days.  But there are perfect days and then there are not so perfect days. 

Unbeknownst to the Drostes, everything in Paris is closed on Sunday, how the Parisians eat on Sunday, I really don’t know, but everything is closed up tight as a drum.

We started fresh, for a brisk Sunday morning walk, down Rue Bonaparte toward the Seine, left on Rue Jacob, which turns into Rue de l’Université.  Very lovely area, very posh, very quiet as we made our way toward our destination, the Les Deux Abeilles, a  tea room, recommended by the good Amy Thomas. 

Henry James writes about Rue de l’Université in The American. The address where the generations old, French family lived is almost a character.  I spotted a particularly lovely residence and imagined that it was their home.  They wouldn’t let the American marry the daughter. Old French family, no money, but a mansion on Rue de l’Université and plenty of attitude.  I can’t wait to get home and check the address.

Rue de l’Université is also where the National Assembly is located.  Very cool to see that.  I bet a lot of important decisions have been made in there.  Just try to get by those guards, out there even on a quiet Sunday morning.  I think they may have even been armed.

We walked three miles plus though the 6^th and into the 7^th, where it opens up into the grand, wide boulevards, (thank you, Haussmann.) The gold dome of the Invalide appeared to our left, the magnificent Pont Alexandre III bridge leading to the Palais-Royal was to our right, and a bit of the Tour d’ Eiffel soared in the sky ahead of us.  The Paris we’ve seen many times before, but it still takes your breath away. 

As I mentioned, we were walking briskly, (too briskly for pictures, desolée), and we worked up quite an appetite and were very excited for our lovely tea time.  But alas!

What is wrong with these people?  Americans go out to brunch on Sunday morning.  Wouldn’t you think a tea room would be open?  Non!  I guess when you eat dinner at 11:30 pm on Saturday night, you spend Sunday mornings in bed.

I was off of my game for a moment.  Now, what to do?  I consulted my notes.  I consulted with God, remembering that I was in Paris, how important is it, I mean really?  Rob had an idea.  How about the Rue Cler?  Yes!  Parfait!

The Rue Cler holds dear memories for us.  We stayed here during our first trip to Paris on Rick Steve’s recommendation.  It is a very sweet, well heeled, almost residential neighborhood in the 7^th, near the Eiffel Tower, off of the Champ-de –Mars.  There are no cars allowed in the Rue Cler, so all you can hear is the light pitter patter of the French buying cheese, pastries sausages and vegetables, or talking in cafés off of the cobblestone streets.  Ah . . the Parisians eat on Sunday after all!  We went to a Steve’s recommendation for lunch, the Café du Marche, the very first place we ate in Paris on our first trip in 2005.

I had a cheeseburger, yes I did!  And I’m not sorry.  I ate it with a knife and fork European style, holding the fork in my left hand and scooping up bits of frites, bun, tomato, meat and cheese with the knife held in my right hand, creating the perfect bite every time.  I think I may start eating like this.  It’s very efficient.

On our way back to the 6^th, (taking the metro this time), we inadvertently passed the Village Voice bookstore.  It is closing after 30 years.  What a spiritual loss.  The British owner lamented that it was not the economy, politics, Bush, or anything of the sort; it was the INTERNET; specifically, “Amazon dot communist”.   Although he was British and trained not to show an emotion, he really was just miserable about it, you could tell.  We commiserated with him. 

The Drostes spent the evening cozy in our room, listening to the rain pound on the window and eating the requisite bread, cheese and apple for our dinner, using Rob’s Sutter Select insurance card to carve up the cheese. 

I curled up with David McCullough’s The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris, purchased at the Village Voice and read until falling blissfully to sleep . . .