STOMACH PROBLEMS IN PARIS NOIR.

It feels as grey as it looks today. The last week of January 2020. I am at the end of a journey that has taken me on an exhaustive tour through most of France and Andorra with its spectacular Pyrenees mountains. A journey that began three weeks ago in a Vancouver snowstorm, with pit stops along the way in Reykjavik and Copenhagen prior to arriving in Paris much later than expected.

My energy is as low as my electrolytes. Four days ago after arriving back in the city of lights, I made the now regrettable decision to make a bee line to my once favourite brasserie on Rue Commerce. This local haunt “had” become a second home to me during regular stays in the neighbourhood over the years.

It’s your choice really. You can have the escargot or the steak tartar to begin with but then your choices get more abundant and decadent.

I must admit that this was not the first Parisian restaurant I had been too since arriving. The night before and after our late check-in at Les Jardins d’Eiffel, we had stored our luggage quickly and hustled a block over to Rue Cler. There we found the waiting arms of an oyster shucker with epic skills.

My travel buddy likes the more rudimentary of menu options. Given the choice he would opt for the kids menu at Ronnie M’s all day every day. This left me in the predicament of dining alone on the finest oysters to arrive from Normandy earlier that day. He shucked and I gladly obliged by eating many of his little friends.

A little horse radish, a little Tabasco, a little lemon juice were just some of the numerous accoutrements that helped to make these tasty little fellas disappear at an alarming pace. Sitting at street side with a couple of Kronenbourg further helped to immerse us in the Parisian way of life.

This is a popular street due to its plethora of culinary choice and the fact that disciples of Rick Steves guide books flood the place due to his recommendations. I imagine American tourists being quite frustrated that none of the local meal choices would be found on a Tuscaloosa Waffle House counter.

Fast forward to my little table at the Brasserie Commerce. I could wax lyrical about this and that but I will cut to the chase. I ordered, I ate, I drank a glass of vin rouge, I paid, I left, I wandered the neighborhood, and then I ordered an Uber to take me back to the Hotel Jardins d’Eiffel.

I made it into the lobby, I climbed the stairs, got into my room and then it all went Pete Tong. In most situations in life there is usually a way in and way out. A beginning and an end. Within 15 minutes of returning to my room I was  barely a shell of my former self. If I could be described in the form of a building I would have no entrances but many exits.

Three days later of lying & shivering on the cold shower floor in Room 318 (never stay there), I regained some senses and the ability to get to my feet so very very slowly.

This is not a poor me story. This is a story that comes with the territory. I have had the good fortune to travel far and wide throughout my lifetime. Given that many of these destinations had an opportunity to take me right down to Chinatown by virus or food poisoning on numerous occasions, this last four days in Dante’s Inferno (Rodin’s Museum is just a bit to the East) seemed to be payback and catch-up of biblical proportion.

I couldn’t begin to explain which of my body parts hurt more. Eventually I was able to get some clothes on and hatched a plan in motion to find my way to a pharmacy and later a Super Marche'.

You usually couldn’t pay me to drink Gatorade (other sport beverages are available) but this was the day that something akin to that might just help my healing process. I found a French drink equivalent and with some pills provided over the counter by the extremely gracious young lady at the pharmacy, I started to recoup some energy and time in one of my favourite cities.

I know that Paris has an awesome metro that can speed you from Arrondissement to Arrondissement, but there is only one way to get about this city. With my Leica QP over my shoulder I put left foot after right. Many streets turned to kilometres and as I walked I soaked up Napoleon’s handiwork.

A camera in the hand of Parisian visitor is both cliche’ and necessary. It would be so predictable now to mention the work of Bresson or Capa, but colour me predictable. Yes, I shoot Leica, I subscribe to LFI and I made a pilgrimage to Wetzlar recently all due to my love affair with this legendary German camera brand.

It’s hard to explain. The QP feels like an old friend. A long time ago I promised myself to quit settling for stopgap measures. If I want a Leica, save for one. If I want a Rolex to help me to time keep then just wait and save. Don’t buy what I need, buy what I want.

Sorry for the little off road left rant there. Seeing out my time in Paris on foot and with energy enough to keep me out and about was the biggest gift I could have ever asked for. It was overcast and grey as I wandered from place to place. I was living as a Parisian would for one more day. i have to return home tomorrow to what is likely to be the biggest change to my life in 30 years.

Comeback to this blog when you have time to hear what has changed and what happens going forward.

Live well!!

Mark

p.s. this is a sad takeaway from Paris in January.  If I knew then what Covid was and how the world would change.  Stay isolated and stay well!  And before you ask, I took the last photo of the series below as I wandered towards the Eiffel.

Hey, there is a sale on over here.