A Walker in the Suburbs

We’ve been in Amsterdam less than 24 hours but I’ve already realized that to be a walker here means you must be always on your guard. From cars, yes, sure, as with any city. From trucks, of course, there are the usual complement.

But mostly from bicycles. It’s hard to tell from the sweet photo above how quickly these two-wheelers glide along the street, how they appear from out of nowhere on bike lanes and sidewalks, and how quickly we must scurry to get out of their way.

Bicycles appear in every form here, outfitted with cunning child-carriers and big baskets. I saw a woman yesterday about to pedal away with a potted plant as tall as she was. Bicycles are the ride of choice in Amsterdam, and good for the Dutch that they have such a fun and healthy way to get around.

But for the visitors, they pose a small (okay, not a small) problem. All I want to do is wander the lanes and ogle the canals and houses, the parks and churches. But along with all that I must always look for a bicycle to come barreling around the corner. In Amsterdam, you must walk defensively.

We are leaving Paris today, and I’m feeling sad. I’m up for a new adventure, of course, but this part of the trip has special meaning because I’ve been visiting a dear friend. So on top of seeing the sights, we’re catching up on years’ worth of conversations.

To illustrate today’s post, I’ve chosen a clock that’s in an old train station, Gare D’Orsay, which is now the Museé D’Orsay, chock full of Impressionist paintings. It’s a beautiful clock, but like all clocks it’s a reminder of time passing … and passing … and passing.

Travel seems to slow the passage of time. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

Still, we’ll be back through this beautiful city briefly on our way home, so for now it’s “Au revoir, Paris!”

To be in Paris is to be immersed in beauty, not only because of the many fine museums (like the Marmottan, which we visited yesterday), but also because every view is a head-turning one. Whether it’s the Eiffel Tower, Claude Monet’s “Impression, Sunrise,” or an ordinary street corner, it’s worth a second glance.

What would it be like to live in a place optimized for style, from Metro signs to newspaper kiosks to national icons? Would it become humdrum? Knowing human nature, I’m afraid it might. But to the traveler, the city never loses its luster.

It’s been more than a year since the Olympics electrified France and the rest of the world. The French are keeping the Olympic spirit alive by sending the cauldron, known here as the Vasque, up into the night sky throughout the summer. They will do so for the next two summers, until the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics.

The cauldron rises as the sun sets, an alternative light, an unearthly sight floating above the Tuileries. When I first glimpsed it I thought of the UFOs I used to read about as a child — strange hovering craft.

The Vasque hovers too, because it’s tethered. But it is most decidedly of Earth. And of Paris. Stylish, elegant, no more nor less than it needs to be.

Built to promote sustainable energy, the Vasque creates a flame without combustion by projecting mist and light. It’s advertised as a “flame without fire.”

We found a front-row seat by slipping into a café on the Rue de Rivoli, where I sipped tea and snapped this shot. A perfect night for the Vasque. A perfect night, period.

Yesterday, the bells of Eglise St. Martin called worshippers to Mass. Dong, dong, dong, they sounded. From inside the church, where we were sitting, it felt like they were banging on my ribcage, pulsing with my blood. They rang briefly at the consecration and again at the end of the service, after a thrilling organ postlude (another auditory treat).

But I kept coming back to the bells, their clanging a poignant reminder of faith and time. I was remembering a book I read for class last year, Village Bells: Sound and Meaning by Alain Corbin, translated from French, so doubly appropriate to mention here.

“The bell was regarded as a support for collective memory, and with good reason,” Corbin writes. “The people long preserved the memory of its sonority.” Bells represented cohesion, community, the triumph of civilization over disorder.

For me, they are one more reason to love the European way of life, a life where (at least in the city of Colmar), bells mark the morning and the evening … and the magic of this place.

Our guidebook calls it the Bridge of Fannies because there are so many people crowded on it that at first all you glimpse is a sea of posteriors .

Make your way to the front of the span, though, and you’ll be rewarded with a view of Petite Venise, a neighborhood of colorful houses and cascading geraniums.

Canals were threaded through Colmar long ago, siphoning water from the river so farmers could barge their wares into town.

Now ducks ply these waters, and tourists photograph them — and everything else. How could they (I) not?

The café faced Église St. Martin, which we’d just explored. We had noted the glories of this Gothic church: its two organs, stunning altar, and vaulted ceilings. We dropped some change in its donation box, and then we sought nourishment at a café across the street.

I had my eye on a pastry I’d seen displayed in a case. St. Honoré, it was called. I rehearsed the words silently: “Bonjour, madame! Je voudrais une pâtisserie St. Honore, s’il vous plait.”

Miraculously, the server understood me. Miraculously, there was a slice of cake left. It was delicious, so beautiful to look at that a Dutch customer at the next table ordered one herself. Based on our shared love of pastries, we struck up a conversation and exchanged contact information.

Later on, I looked up the pastry, and learned that it’s named for the French patron saint of bakers, St. Honore. Only in France would there be a patron saint of bakers and a pastry named for him.

St. Martin. St. Honore. Two saints … and a pastry.