(Arrival — Artist’s pretty fair recollection)
THE TRAIN’S STEAM ENGINE HISSED and belched in the dusk, passengers waved from the windows, and I was sure the others in our compartment were international cat burglars, arms merchants and a beautiful woman heading for a back-lit rendezvous with her lover in the City of Light.
I kept a diary when, between my sophomore and junior years in college, I spent a summer bumming around Europe, looking at paintings, touring cathedrals, chatting up girls and thumbing rides. Here’s a glimpse of that evening:
JUNE 26 -- Had a time getting through to the conductor on the train from Calais that I had to buy a ticket on the train. Tonight am staying in this room with sink but no window save one that looks out into a basement.
The engineer blew its whistle that sounded like a boiling teakettle, and as we eased out of the station, the conductor demanded to see my ticket. I told him, "Non billet, monsieur,” and handed him a wad of French francs I’d gotten somewhere. I said in English that as I ran for the train, someone had yelled, “Buy it on board!"
The conductor chewed me out in French until the beautiful French woman interceded and he, to his great annoyance, scribbled out a ticket.
The train rolled through evening farmland, darkened rural railway stations and houses with shuttered windows, whistle shrieking and smoke drifting into the compartment, and crawled into Gare du Nord, Sacre Coeur lit against the night sky.
(Hitting the Continent: Artist’s sketchy version, e.g., “ZÜMFLOG” … )
I lugged my suitcase along a street, but the light was neon, amid the pungent smoke of Gauloises cigarettes and to Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose” (I added Edith Piaf for atmosphere.) I was searching for a hotel whose sign didn’t say “Complet,” and before that basement room, thinking, Now what the hell do I do?
JUNE 27 -- Moved to the Hotel d'Athens, at $2 a night. My room's on the sixth floor, with a balcony and view of the Eiffel Tower. Met Canadian named Edd. We traveled around the city, then went to Montmartre and got taken at a strip joint. There was a bunch of engineering students from Marseilles, and we yelled and wisecracked, then missed the last Metro.
You don’t get that on the Gray Line tour.
The hotel was almost in the Jardin de Luxembourg. No elevator, but a sagging bed and wrought-iron bedstead, and the john not down the hall but down on Five. But the view! Cheerio, dark River Thames in brooding London; bonjour, River Seine, blue in the morning sun.
Even the trash looked romantic.
Walking back to the Left Bank from the Montmartre strip-tease club a prostitute approached us from the shadows. I’d never seen a prostitute. She said something, and Edd, who claimed to know French, said, "Non, merci."
(Woman on Paris street. Artist’s conception, or perhaps misconception)
She looked 60 but was maybe 40. When you’re 20, figuring any age beyond 30 is a crapshoot. She wasn’t strutting in hot pants and high heels, but tentative and plainly dressed with a smear of lipstick. Nor was she a fresh-faced Irma la Douce with sparkling eyes, big hair and cute green bow, or a cartoon sweetie in striped jersey and fishnet stockings, leaning against a lamppost and smoking a cigarette.
She could have just been looking for a handout.
JUNE 29 -- Slept in until 11 a.m., then ate brunch at la Source on Rue de St. Michel. It's self-service with reasonable prices. Met a girl, Lucia, from New Jersey, who said to stop by later. She or her roommate (a guy named Dennis) would be home. Went to Eiffel Tower. A truck had overturned at its base. I went over this evening. Lucia's roomie was there. Lucia showed up with an old beau from New Jersey.
So much for “Stop by later.”
(Artist’s depiction: Lucia’s Jersey Boy was probably not in a beret.)
I only have a spark of a memory because I didn’t hang around. Even as a callow kid from Seattle, I knew even then: Never mess with girls with old beaus from Jersey.
The Hotel d'Athens has changed its name but I recently found it. I couldn’t visit the top-floor room because it and the others were occupied, so I emailed the hotel a photo I'd taken from my room that summer.
(Photo: Artist’s old photo of garden and reasonably well-known tower.)
Stéphane from the hotel replied:
Monsieur. Je vous remercie pour cette photo. En effet c’est une prise du 6e étage de l’hôtel de la chambre (actuellement) 605. On reconnaît une Citroën DS19 (dont je suis fan et collectionneur), une Panhard PL17 et une Traction. Merci beaucoup. Stéphane.
Stéphane thanked me for the photo and said that indeed it was on the sixth floor, actually 605. He recognized a Citroën DS19 because he is un collectionneur, a Panhard PL17 and a Traction.
Panhard PL17s and Tractions are classic French automobiles.
Below is a painting, done from the photo and memory::
(“Room 605”, acrylic on canvas, 36” x 36,” with cheap herringbone suitcase, Sears camera, passport, map, sneakers, wrought-iron bedstead, and desk with diary.)
I hadn’t used that camera for years. Over time, (a) its lens got dent on the side, then (b) I lost it. Recently an inner voice said, “Quit screwing around — it’s your past so check eBay.” I did, found the same model, and bought it ten bucks.
A week later it arrived with — the same dented lens.
A short story lurks.
Many thanks for riding along.
Those French! Steam & Smoke
Great story of your Grand Tour, Menees style. I “saw” it all.