Sam and the City
Paris Journal, Part 1

Temporary expat

Back in NYC after two weeks in Paris, and in between checking the net for apartments in the 14th arrondissement I'm working on writing up some of the better stories from the trip.

The rotund-looking man with dark hair and glasses and sporting a beige shirt waddled on over to me. He could not have looked less threatening, but to me, he held the power to torpedo my whole day, maybe even the next two weeks. As he got closer, he feigned a smile and interest as he unholstered his weapons, pointed, and fired:

“Bonsoir, monsieur…?”

“Bonsoir, monsieur. Un espresso, s'il vous plait?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Merci, monsieur.”

Parry, dodge, turn, spin, thrust. I could sit now.

Last Tuesday I was sitting in the L’Escale Café, 41 Boulevard Saint Jacques, Paris. An obscure café on what was at that hour a pretty quiet main drag. One other person sat in the café, nursing a beer and a cigarette and poring over some papers. That’s about it.

The only notable thing was it was across the street from Samuel Beckett’s house.

Many writers go to Paris and do the “Hemingway thing.” They read A Moveable Feast, go to Lipp’s and Closerie de Lilas on the Boulevard Montparnasse, spend hours in Shakespeare and Company, and go to Harry’s New York to get drunk and start a fight. I certainly was not above having a drink at Harry’s and exploring Montparnasse (especially since that’s where my host’s apartment was) but I decided, after a couple of my own trips to Shakespeare and Company, to go on a Beckett search.

38 Rue Boulard. Home for two weeks.
(Our room is the one with the open window on the terrace.)

The Théâtre de Babylone, the theater where Waiting for Godot premiered, is gone, his summer house is outside the city, so there was really only one place to check out… 38 Boulevard Saint Jacques, his address since 1963, where he had an apartment with a terrace that overlooked the work yard of Le Sante Prison. As it turned out, it was a ten-minute walk from where I was staying, 38 Rue Boulard, and as I crossed Denfert-Rochereau I could imagine Sam loping the streets on his long spindly legs, stopping for an espresso and a smoke at one of the cafés, chatting up friends…

Beckett: It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?
Friend: Yes. Makes one glad to be alive.
Beckett: Oh, I wouldn’t go that far…

My kind of guy. (Kidding.)

I threw my leather-bound notebook, a couple of pens, a cigar, and my lighter into a bag and set off for the Boulevard Saint Jacques. I didn’t have to go far. But if I wasn’t following the numbers I would have missed it. Beckett’s old building is perhaps the most nondescript-looking building on the arrondissement. A plain, white apartment building that would look at home in Ardsley or Massapequa. I wondered if I even had the right building. Check the address… yup, 38 Blvd. St. Jacques. I looked through an adjoining hedge and did see in the distance the foreboding-looking wall of Le Sante Prison. Yup, this was the place. The place where he ate breakfast and kept his notebooks and looked out on the morning sun (though one doubts that he did that sort of thing).

Sam's house, 38 Blvd. St. Jacques

I was standing in a spot that I had read about from an ocean away. I put together the pieces… the names in my memory with the places and object, bits and pieces, in my vision. I was slowly feeling the city going through me. And so, to the café.

There is nothing that can stop this process dead than the feeling of the whole city of two million thinking you are a singular idiot. So I eyed the café warily. I could get a drink, but trying to explain that a Jack and soda does have Jack Daniels but not Coca-Cola (and I didn’t know the word for “club soda” beyond “Perrier”) had proved a challenge in other places. Besides, I was going out later, so a drink right now might not be the best move. But coffee? I could drink coffee anytime. And I’ve never had a bad espresso within the city limits. And I can say “espresso”… I think…

The cheery, pudgy guy in the beige shirt brought me my cup and I sat outside, smoking a nice cigar (you can do that here, too), scratching some notes down in my notebook, and sipping an espresso that I had ordered in the native tongue. I thought about what Sam’s French must have sounded like run through that Dublin brogue. And I knew that this guy had me nabbed as an American, no matter how my vocabulary grows, my hard vowels are a dead giveaway (though before I’ve opened my mouth I’ve been mistaken in Paris for everything from Italian to Arabic to Sephardic Jew). But his cheerfulness welcomed me, more in a “You’re not bad” way, rather than the usual “Thanks for trying, let’s stick to English, a-hole” way. I’d found a niche. I could stay. I could live here.

I finished my smoke and scribblings and took the last pull at my espresso. Okay, next trap… gotta pay for it. I’m not sure this guy is going to write me un addition for a cup of espresso, but I’m not quite up for, “What do I owe you, pal?” But I’ve got no choice. Go with what I know or mumble and stumble. I’m feeling too good to mumble. So I get his attention…

“Monsieuer…” He comes over, gives me a “what’s up?” sort of look. “L’addition, s'il vous plaît ?”

Okay, now he’s laughing, gesturing to my small cup. And for a second I think I sense the “you’re not from around here” look. But he smiles and says something that sounds like “due euros.” So as not to embarrass myself still further, I hold up two fingers and he nods. I smile back and drop the coins on the table. He probably charged me one for the espresso and one because he could, but que diable. As I’m packing up my bag I look back up at the seventh floor of 38 Blvd. St. Jacques one more time. I look up and down the street. It now seems familiar… my hour or so spent here mixing in my memory of the backgrounds of the photos of Beckett I’d seen. It feels like his ghost is still here, muttering “no no no no no… yes…” as he lopes home. I lope home.

My desk away from desk.

Paris's reputation is a misnomer. It is much more welcoming to newcomers than one might think.