Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [6]
Here it was that Voltaire had lived and died, I thought, looking at the silent buildings, each one with a story to tell. As I allowed myself to be drawn into the net of beauty and history that hangs like a bridal veil over Paris, my excitement grew.
We drove along the Seine, turning finally into the heart of the Left Bank, into the narrow, picturesque streets lined with bookshops and galleries and cafés. Ernest Hemingway once lived in this neighborhood, and so did Edna St. Vincent Millay. The thought buoyed my mood even more.
By this time the sun had burned through the early mist, leaving the air fresh and damp, as fragrant as the ocean. I felt elated; it was the same feeling I’d had as a child when, headed for the beach with my parents, the first whiff of sea and salt air would blow through the open windows of our trusty green Plymouth.
The taxi made another turn and then stopped in front of a small old building that from the outside bore little resemblance to a hotel. I was more or less dumped out into the middle of the narrow street, and with the traffic piling up behind us, horns blaring, I counted out seventy dollars’ worth of francs. The driver pocketed the money, unloaded my belongings, and immediately drove off, leaving me and my suitcase—a large black number about the size of a baby hippopotamus—at the curb in front of the hotel.
I peered through the glass door, looking for someone to assist me. The place appeared deserted. Draping my raincoat around my neck, I slung my tote-sized handbag over one shoulder, a small duffel bag over the other, propped open the door with my left foot, and proceeded into the lobby, dragging my suitcase behind me.
It was my first look at the small hotel, once a private residence dating back to the seventeenth century. I’d decided to stay there on the advice of friends who knew and liked it. Immediately upon entering, something about the small reception area put me at ease. The furniture, under the original vaulted ceilings, was old and beautiful; the winding wooden staircase was polished and gleaming; and in one corner a young woman was arranging long-stemmed, fresh-cut flowers in large Chinese porcelain vases. There was a sense of history here. And, just as important to me, a sense of order.
It was also, I might add, the hotel’s first look at me; at the rumpled, tired, luggage-intensive figure slouching toward the small reception desk. But those who work in hotels are not unused to seeing people at their worst. After all, the word “travel” comes from the Latin “trepalium.” Which, loosely translated, means “instrument of torture.” So whatever judgmental thoughts may have passed through the mind of the receptionist, she tactfully kept them from appearing on her face.
It was still early, a little before nine, and my room, she informed me, would not be ready until 12:30. She suggested I take a walk.
Outside, the shopkeepers were washing down the narrow sidewalks. In the air I could smell bread baking. I headed for a café I’d seen on the rue Bonaparte. I stopped on the way to buy a Herald-Tribune at a newsstand where a large gray cat sat grooming himself on a stack of Le Monde newspapers. Timidly, I touched the cat’s head. “His name is Jacques,” said the elderly proprietor proudly, “and he is very friendly.” I scratched Jacques under the chin; he immediately began drooling. After that, my first stop every morning was to see Jacques and, as I came to call his owner, “Monsieur Jacques.”
By 10:30 I was seated in a neighborhood café near the rue Saint-Benoît, reading the paper, sipping café-au-lait and wondering, Is this really happening? Am I really in Paris? Do I really not have to go to the office or write a column or go to the supermarket?
As if to answer my questions, a tall man wearing a tuxedo and a beret walked by, pushing before him a perambulator. In it I could see an accordion, and behind that a puppy and a cat. I turned to my waiter who answered