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    http://www.randomhouse.com/crownhttp://itunes.apple.com/us/book/paris-paris/id422539841?mt=11http://books.google.com/ebooks?as_brr=5&q=9780307886088http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780307886088http://www.borders.com/online/store/TitleDetail?defaultSearchView=List&LogData=%5Bsearch%3A+5%2Cparse%3A+11%5D&cm_mmc=CJ-_-2193956-_-2665379-_-88x31+logo&type=1&searchData={productId%3Anull%2Csku%3Anull%2Ctype%3A1%2Csort%3Anull%2CcurrPage%3A1%2CresultsPerPage%3A25%2CsimpleSearch%3Afalse%2Cnavigation%3A5185%2CmoreValue%3Anull%2CcoverView%3Afalse%2Curl%3Arpp%3D25%26view%3D2%26type%3D1%26page%3D1%26kids%3Dfalse%26nav%3D5185%26simple%3Dfalse%26sku%3D9780307886088%2Cterms%3A{sku%3D9780307886088}}&storeId=13551&catalogId=10001&sku=0307886085&ddkey=http:SearchResults&cmpid=pub-rh-1117http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Paris-Paris/David-Downie/e/9780307886088?afsrc=1&isbsrc=Y&r=1http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307886085?ie=UTF8&tag=randohouseinc2-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0307886085
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    Copyright 2005, 2011 by David DowniePhotographs copyright 2005, 2011 by Alison Harris

    All rights reserved.

    Published in the United States by Broadway Paperbacks, an imprint of theCrown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

    www.crownpublishing.com

    Broadway Paperbacks and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal,are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

    Originally published in slightly different form in the United States byTransatlantic Press, Fort Bragg, California, in 2005.

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataDownie, David.

    Paris, Paris: Journey into the City of Light / David Downie;photographs by Alison Harris.

    1. Paris (France)Description and travel. 2. Paris (France)Social lifeand customs. 3. Paris (France)Guidebooks. I. Title.

    DC707.D69 2011914.4'3610484dc22 2010040397

    ISBN 978-0-307-88608-8eISBN 978-0-307-88609-5

    Printed in the United States of America

    Text design by Lauren Dong

    Cover design by Whitney Cookman

    Cover photograph by Trevillion

    10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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    Foreword

    Of all the books about Paris published each year, not one that Ican remember tells you where to find the famous Art Nouveaupublic toilets in Place de la Madeleine, let alone telling you whatto look for in the cemetery of Pre-Lachaise. David Downie has adelightful sensibility and the most delighted eye, the most perse-verance, and the perfect French, bien sr,and these allow him touncover secrets. Uncover them he has, the secrets of this fascinat-ing city, and not the ones youll read about anywhere else. Did youknow those ugly brown posts that keep Parisians from parking onthe sidewalks are bittes,which is slang for what I guess we wouldcall pricks? To take this book as a guidebook, walk out with it ashe did and follow his path, is to have adventures, and to see a sideof Paris anyone could see, but hardly anyone does.

    Suppose you arent in Paris? Or youre in Paris on a rainy day?Just to sit inside and read this book will transport you, for Downieis above all a wonderful, and wonderfully well-read, writer. The

    essays are delightful as essays, but come fine weather I also recom-mend following his programs to the lettera day of looking atthe Paris of 1900, for instance. Its still here. Youll eat at Julien,have a coffee at Angelina, go to the movies at LaPagode, look atthe Palais des Mirages at the Muse Grvin, the wax museum,where he counsels skipping the wax statues to admire this wonderrescued from the 1900 Exposition Universelle.

    Or if 1900 is too recent, try the Paris of Beaumarchais, theplaywright who invented Figaro, in the days of Louis XV and

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    xiv Foreword

    de Bisseuil, little changed since Beaumarchaiss day, to get aglimpse of the remarkable sculpture of the courtyard before the

    concierge throws you out. Youll learn about the topography of theButtes-Chaumont, the gorgeous park in the 19th arrondissement,far from the tourist track; it has a bridge by Eiffel and cliffs built toemulate the famous cliffs of tretat.

    What of the man who has served up this delicious array oftreats? Something of a gourmet, for one thing, and a fabled cook. Iwas familiar with his cookbook, Cooking the Roman Way,but nowI see that the same qualities that make someone love cookery makehim love the odd bit of information, the smorgasbord of observa-tions, the taste of the something curious in the scenes before him.Beside a scholar and a giftedflneur,you always want a food-loverto be your guide when possible, and Downie is all three.

    And the photographs. Paris must be the most photographedplace in the world, from Doisneau to Cartier-Bresson. Thesebeautiful studies by Alison Harris extend that literature with apowerful formal talent. Her cameras loving dissection of detailsthat the busy traveler might not notice makes of this book a splen-did object in itself, a sort of bibliophilic gem.

    Diane Johnson, Paris

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    By Way o f Introduc t ion

    Paris is the kind of city butterfly catchers have trouble netting,tacking down, and studying. Like all great cities and yet un-like any other, Paris is alive and fluttering. It changes with thelight, buffeted by Seine-basin breezes. This place called Paris isat once the city of literature and film, an imagined land, a dis-tant view through shifting, misty lenses, and the leftover tang ofJean-Paul Sartres cigarettes clinging to the mirrored walls of aSaint-Germain-des-Prs caf. Its also the city where I and morethan two million others pay taxes, re-heel shoes, and shop for cab-bages or cleaning fluids.

    The tourist brochures and winking websites, the breathlessconspiracy thrillers, cinematic fables, and confessional chroniclesset in Paris, each offer a view of the citys districts that someonewill recognize. Nearly all such views neglect the burgeoning, un-expurgated Paris of last centurys housing projects built within andbeyond the beltway. For twenty years, my office was in the unfash-

    ionable 20th arrondissement. Its windows offered a kaleidoscopicvision of that Parisa city of Asians, Africans, and Eastern Euro-peans. I gazed upon their city, walked through it, worked in theirmidst, but could not know them or it with anything approachingintimacy. The same applies to the gilded 7th arrondissementaworld of old money, old families, old furniture, old objets dart,and very old, very heavy leather-bound cultural baggage.

    The Paris of this book is not a product of the 7th or 20th ar-rondissements. In its irreverent, erratic way it flutters from one

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    2 By Way of Introduction

    of history, alighting on the contemporary, choosing flowers bothperfumed and evil-smelling.

    The books emphatic title refers to the Paris of the Englishspeaker, and, in italics, theParisof Parisians. They are cities apart.For a Frenchman, Paris,Paris sets words at play:parisis the plu-ral ofpari,meaning bet, challenge, risk, wager. Elevate the p toupper case and you get a city thats a roll of the dice, a life-wager,a challenge as formidable to meet as Manhattan is to a Mongolianor Miamian.

    Beyond its linguistic ambiguity the name Paris has a pecu-liar, pleasing resonance. I often hear it in my head even when Idont actually hear it with my ears, for instance when I ride in thePlexiglas nose cone of the Mtor high-speed subway, line num-ber fourteen. I enjoy the subways swooshing headlong rush downdark tunnels, and the verbal massage the PA system provides.

    If you take the Mtor from, say, Place de la Madeleine to theGare de Lyon train station, at each stop youll hear an unmistak-able female voice sing out the stops not once, but twice, with avariation in tone and emphasis. Pyramides, says the voice ofParis, smooth with self-assurance, before the train pulls into thestation. Pyramides, the voice repeats as the doors slide open, im-patient now, a disembodied Catherine Deneuve riding crop inhand.

    The change is subtle, not so much marking an accent as a shift

    to those ambiguous italics. Up and down the futuristic subwaysline, the names sing out modulated andslightlyreformulated. Formonths, perhaps years, this peculiar duotone subway refrain playedin my head without my knowing it, an earworm whispering notstation stops but the words Paris,Pariswords that to me cameto signify the great wager,thesubway stop of my life, where I got offthe train Id been riding aimlessly, and made my stand.

    Perhaps because I came to Paris expecting no favors, with fewillusions, and with a generous dose of curiosity, I have yet to feel

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    By Way of Introduction 3

    resentment. Paris has no monopoly on grumpy waiters, horizontalpollution, or enraged drivers, nor, in my experience, do the elu-

    sive, mythical Parisians focus their supposed disdain on any onenationality. Ive been privileged to hunt for Paris in many places,with many people, including the occasional Parisian, for morethan a quarter of a century. These essays are part of my catch. Myvision of the city still blurs from Paris toParisin my daily pursuitof fluttering wings. Happily, I dont want to pin them down, andanyway, Paris always manages to fly away.

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    PARISPLACES

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    The time-worn stones were cold and the ever-flowing stream

    beneath the bridges seemed to have carried away something

    of their selves . . .

    MILE ZOLA,LOeuvre(1886)

    No single element of Paris evokes the citys ambiguous alluremore poignantly than the Seine. A slow arcing gray-greencurve, the river reflects the raked tin rooftops arrayed along

    its embankments, and the temperamental skies of the le-de-France. Sea breezes sweep fresh Atlantic air up it into the city.Each day when I step out for my constitutional around the le

    Saint-Louisa ten-minute walk from where my wife, Alison,and I liveI ask myself what Paris would be without the Seine.

    Its t he Water: The Seine

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    8 P A R I S , P A R I S

    At once water source and sewer, lifeline, moat, and swellingmenace, the Seine suckled nascent French civilization. It made

    the founding of Paris possible, transforming a settlement of mudhuts into a capital city whose symbol since the year 1210 is a ship,with the catchy deviceFluctuat nec mergitur: It is tossed upon thewaves without being submerged (and it sounds better in Latin).For centuries this murky waterway has filled Parisians hearts,minds, and noses with equal measures of inspiration or despair.

    Back in the mid-1970s, the low point of Paris urbanism, I vis-ited the city for the first time and was taken aback by the riverschemical stench and the flying suds from its filthy waves quiveringover the cars on the just-built riverside expressways. A decade laterI willfully forgot such details when I engineered my move here. Iwas tantalized by the scenesof dancers on the Seines cobbledquays, bridges compressed by a telephoto lensin what mightpossibly be the worst movie ever made, Tango.Never able to tangodespite lessons, and aware from the start that Id duped myselfinto imagining such a dreamy place could exist, Ive been stalkingthe photogenic quays of Paris ever since. Although Ive sometimesfelt my passion for Paris ebb, the Seine has flowed along, in its in-difference seducing me, a knowing victim, time and again.

    Not long ago, after a failed research mission to the NationalLibrary on Pariss extreme eastern edge, I glanced down at theriver from the Pont de Tolbiac and realized that, despite my wan-

    derings, Id never actually followed the Seine downstream acrossthe city to the quays of the 15th arrondissement. How long a walkcould it be? Without real conviction or particularly comfortableshoes I set off to see how far I could get.

    Judging by the smokestacks upstream, the glassy National Li-brary towers, and the floating nightclubs moored in front of them,not to mention the cars dueling on the Pompidou Expressway, it

    struck me as hard to believe the Seine ever had been a wild riveredged by marshlands, where the areas Celtic inhabitants lived.

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    Its the Water: The Seine 9

    icized forebearsNos Anctres les Gauloiswith food, potables,and the protection they needed to build their island-city, which

    the Romans eventually called Lutetia. Until the 1980s no traceof the Seine Basins early fisherfolk had been found, but whilereconfiguring the formerly industrial Bercy areas warehouses,workmen turned up several Neolithic canoes. The hallowed siteis recalled by Rue des Pirogues de Bercy, a street sandwichedbetween a multiplex cinema and a convention center. City of-ficials quickly latched onto the canoes, seeing in them a symbolof pre-Roman civilization and the solution to an etymologicalmystery. The canoes jibe with the Celtic-language hypothesis ofthe origin of Lutetia: luh (river) + touez (in the middle) + y(house), meaning houses midstream, an apparent reference towhat is now the le de la Cit and le Saint-Louis.

    Of course everyone knows the unappetizing alternative, whichVictor Hugo pointed out in the mid-1800s: in Latin lutummeansmud, therefore Lutetia was the City of Mud. As to the etymol-ogy of Paris, the canoes came in very handy. The ancient Celticword appears to be composed of par (a kind of canoe) + gw-ys(boatmen or expert navigators). Therefore the Parisii tribespeo-ple were expert navigators with canoes. The Romans dubbed themuddy settlement Lutetia Parisiorum, a mouthful that later in-habitants shortened to Lutetia then Frenchified to the euphonicLutce. Pariss neolithic canoes are evoked by the dozens of

    paddle-shaped information panels, designed by Philippe Starck,found in many places around town.

    If you believe what the conqueror Julius Caesar wrote in GallicWars,Frances expert canoe navigators (and other warlike inhab-itants) savored not only Seine trout, but also human flesh. Thefearsome Gauls called their river Sequana, meaning snakelike,presumably because the Seine meanders on its 482-mile course

    from its source on the 1,500-foot Langres Plateau in Burgundy tothe Atlantic, a torpid yards tilt per mile. The Romans lost no time

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    10 P A R I S , P A R I S

    same name. In case your minds eye fails to envision her, a mid-nineteenth-century rendition of Sequana stands in a faux grotto

    at the Source de la Seine. This watery enclave is near the villageof Chanceaux. But the property belongs to Paris: Sequanas foun-tainhead was claimed for the city not by Caesar but by anotheremperor, Napolon III.

    By continuing downstream from the National Library on thelandscaped left bank, under rows of poplars, past barges, house-boats, and homeless peoples encampments, youll eventuallycatch sight of Notre-Dames spire. It marks the center-point fromwhich distances in France are measured. Fittingly, not far fromwhere Notre-Dame stands the Romans built their walled citadelorcivitas(later bastardized as la Cit), ringed by the Seines natu-ral moat. Then as now the river ran at its narrowest around thele de la Cit and could be forded when low, which is why Romanengineers first bridged it here.

    There was nothing new under the sun in Caesars day. TheSeines ford lay at the crossroads of older, Bronze Age trade routes,routes that led south to the Mediterranean and west to the EnglishChannel. In time, Lutetia became the crucible where the southscopper and the wests tin met and melded into bronze weaponry.In the fourth century AD, when Julian the Apostate was pro-claimedAugustusin Paris, the rebellious young emperor elevatedLutetia to the rank of summer capital of the Roman Empire,

    and the Seine became the new Romes Tiber. In due course, oncethe Romans had vacated, upriver paddled medieval missionar-ies and Norsemen of an equally bloody-minded nature, bent ontrading, raiding, and proselytizing. And the rest, as they say, ishistory, a murky tale splayed over centuries and far too slipperyto grasp here, with Lutetia becoming Paris, Sequana morphinginto Seine, and my feet already sore after a mere miles march

    downstream.Since the early twenty-first century even the short seedy stretch

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    Its the Water: The Seine 11

    anized. You can now walk unmolested by cars along the riversleft bank for several miles, almost as far as the Muse dOrsay. I

    paused on the Pont dAusterlitz to reconnoiter and rest my bun-ions. With several specific episodes of city lore in mind, it struckme that, probably ever since the first Gallic fisherman-cannibalfell afoul of his neighbor hereabouts, the Seine has been the fa-vorite accomplice of murderers, and a convenient channel for thelifeblood of adulterers, warriors, revolutionaries, royalists, andmassacre victims.

    Take, for instance, Isabeau of Bavaria, luckless bride of madKing Charles VI. Around 1400, in a fit of jealousy, he had one ofher admirers sewn into a cloth sack and tossed into the river (fromwhere the Pont Louis-Philippe now stands, on the Right Bank).And what about the Saint Bartholomews Massacre of 1572, whenthe Seine famously ran red? It did so again during the Revolution,as illustrated by eighteenth- century chronicler Jean-Louis Mer-ciers account of Louis XVIs execution at Place de la Concorde.Mercier tells of an onlooker who dipped his finger into the sover-eigns blood as it ran toward the river, pronouncing it particularlysalty. Victor Hugo, no stranger to prose in full flood, preferred thesewers to the Seine for many uplifting scenes in Les Misrables,though he did finish off his misguided police inspector, Javert, inthe rivers maelstrom.

    As I ambled downstream, I tried to remember how many times

    in Georges Simenons novels Inspector Maigret fished bodies ortheir parts from the Seine, into whose depths Maigret stared dailyfrom his office on the Quai des Orfvres. The silver screen hascertainly upheld the ghoulish-river tradition. People are pushedor fling themselves into Sequanas arms with alarming frequency,as in the otherwise forgettable Paris by Night. Relatively recenthistory has also seen the river run rouge: in October 1961, dur-

    ing the Algerian War, the infamous Nazi collaborator MauricePapon, then prefect of the Paris police, ordered hundreds of Al-

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    12 P A R I S , P A R I S

    Seine. The crime was denied for decades, and Papon, protected byeveryone from De Gaulle to Mitterrand, remained free until 1999.

    A plaque on the Pont Saint-Michel records the event. It was placedthere in 2001 by mayor Bertrand Delano.But I suspect most contemporary visitors to Paris couldnt

    give a flying buttress about the morbidity of moviemakers, lite-rati, historians, and statisticians, who note that in an average yearabout fifty people fling themselves into the river hoping to endtheir lives. Like me, when Im in a good mood, they imagine theSeine as a romantic setting, with pairs of lovers twining. That wasprecisely what I saw ahead, midstream, in the shade of a spread-ing sycamore, on the upstream tip of the le Saint-Louis. Thesight reassured me that, on the rivers edge, theres something foreveryone. Theres the Tino Rossi sculpture garden, for instance,with built-in sand pits and convenient statuary for insouciantdog-walkers. There are concrete-lined heat sinks for sun-seekingoptimists, amphitheaters for tango enthusiasts, footpaths for red-faced joggers, and many an isolated stretch where anglers wet aline or clochards a wall.

    Day and night, the river buzzes with bateaux-mouches,speak-ers blaring and floodlights glaring, gaily conveying millions ofmerrymakers each year on a magical Paris mystery tour.

    But how much of the Seines glamour is carefully staged il-lusion? When in a sardonic frame of mind, induced, as was now

    the case, by the press of bodies around Notre-Dame, I often thinkof the rivers curving sweep as seen from a satellite: an eyebrowraised at all romantic notions of Paris, starting with my own. Ro-mance? Two hundred years ago Napolon I, ever the poet, dubbedthe river The highway linking Paris and Rouen. Thanks to in-spired twentieth-century planners, the Seine is still a highway,paved with asphalt on both sides, and girded by commuter train

    rails underneath the left embankment. Industrial barges and tourboats churn up the dark waters between.

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    Its the Water: The Seine 13

    Twenty-five million tons of freight, much of it toxic, tran-sits on the river yearly. The effluent and garbage of the capital

    and upstream Seine Basin have flowed across Sequanas bosomsince the days of Lutetia. That paragon of romantic bridges, thePont des Arts, linking the Louvre to the Institut de France, waslong where street sweepers dumped their loads. So foul was theSeine by 1970, the statistical baseline for reclamation efforts, thatit was pronounced nearly dead. Of the dozens of fish speciespre-industrial fishermen once snared in their nets, scientists couldfind only three remaining. The situation has slowly improved,with bottom-feeders such as torpedo fish making a comeback,though in the early 1990s then-mayor Jacques Chirac was a triflepremature when he tossed trout and salmon into what was still asump. The fish promptly went belly up. Granted, a few escapeesfrom the Canal Saint-Martin do cross Paris now and again, swim-ming as fast as their fins will take them to Le Havre and the sea.In 2010 one lucky angler famously fished out a plump, healthyhatchery salmonand practically made front-page news.

    Today, with the rivers quays and bridges a UNESCO WorldHeritage Site, few Parisians suspect that Sequana is on a respi-rator: six oxygen-pumping plants hidden along the banks keepfloundering fish species alive. Still fewer people notice the sub-merged garbage-catching barriers discreetly emptied by trucks orbarges. And hardly anyone thinks of the hundreds of employees

    working around the clock to keep the river tidy, police it, controlits flow, and purify its water. This is not done merely to pleaseenvironmentalists or the tourism board. The fact is eighty percentof Pariss drinking water comes from the Seine. The turgid flow istreated in four plants at the rate of three million cubic meters dailythen piped into the homes of unsuspecting residents. I recall theday I heard rumors that, on average, by the time the Seine reaches

    my kitchen sink it has been through five human bodies. Try tell-ing that to an enraptured visitor at a riverside caf.

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    14 P A R I S , P A R I S

    Parisians shrug off such reports. They seem to acquire a tastefor chlorine and kidney-filtered water. With that pleasant thought

    in mind I gulped an espresso and a glass of Seine then descended astairway to the riverbank, just downstream of Place Saint-Michel.I was in time to see the Brigade Fluvial, stationed near the Pontdes Arts, struggle into wetsuits and brave the waters. I prayed toSequana that these fluvial firemen were inoculated against everyknown water-borne disease and heavily insured. Ditto the Seinepolice, who fly by on speedboats, their sunglasses flashing, appar-ently having the time of their life. If only their dream duties didnot include dealing with the successful suicide victims, and themany, many others who try but fail.

    Despite the widely reported death of Jacques Chiracs troutand salmon, many Parisians continue to dream of fishing andswimming in the Seine, so much so that Pariss port authorityand long-serving mayor Delano are studying the feasibility ofcreating inner-city bathing beaches. Delano got his toes in thewater in summer 2002 with an initiative called Paris Plage,as inbeach. He ordered that the Right Bank expressway be closedtemporarily, and had outdoor cafs, sun umbrellas, and portableswimming pools planted on the tarmac. The initiative is now aregular summertime event, and the expressway is also closed frommid-morning to early afternoon on Sundays, transforming thepitted asphalt into an enchanted Yellow Brick Road. But no one

    so far has been foolhardy enough to scatter sand on the riverbanksand dive in.

    As I shuffled now over the handsome, modern Solferino foot-bridge to the Right Bank quays flanking the Tuileries, I paused totake in the seductive views, and had to admit that a sandy strandsomewhere hereabouts wouldnt be bad. Once the water was cleanenough for a swim, however, there would remain the minor detail

    of the Seines yearly floods, which tend to wreak havoc and wouldpossibly sweep away the mayors beaches.

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    Its the Water: The Seine 15

    Paris dreads a repeat of the 1910 flood, whose height and extentare remembered around town by small plaques. Were it not for the

    reservoirs, dams, locks, and embankments perfected following the1910 deluge, in the dry season the Seine would be a muddy trickle,while in rainy months it would slosh as far as the Bastille, Odon,and Opra neighborhoods. A replay of 1910, termed a ParisianChernobyl by police and municipal authorities, would cost bil-lions of euros and shut down the city for months.

    Floods would be nightmarish indeed, but occasional highwater can be a boon, providing walkers with a blissful respite be-tween marks on the meter stick. Moderately high water meanscars can no longer use the expressways, while pedestrians can stillpick a path between the puddles. Traditionally, Parisians gaugedthe rivers height by Le Zouave (it rhymes with suave), a giantstatue of a soldier. Le Zouave juts from the Pont de lAlma andwhen Sequana caresses his neck, the city is in trouble. Happily,the river was barely licking the statues boots as I crept by on thePont de lAlma. I switched back to the Left Bank and saunteredalong the stretch of quay in the Eiffel Towers shadow.

    Feet throbbing, I limped onto the Alle des Cygnes, a nar-row, half-mile-long island anchored midstream. It joins the tieredbridge of Bir-Hakeim to that of Grenelle, thereby uniting thebridges respective monuments to hope, pride, or self-deception,depending on your interpretation of history and your worldview.

    At Bir-Hakeim a 1949 plaque reminds readers that France neverstopped fighting in World War II. Downstream at Grenelle athirty-foot Statue of Liberty faces west, turning its buttocks toNotre-Dame. On the Alle des Cygnes itself I saw no swans, butspotted many peacocks in designer sportswear. They lazed onbenches, and appeared to be enjoying the unusual views of 1950sto 1970s highrise architecture.

    Another quarter-mile downstream at Javel (as ineau de Javel,or bleach, produced here starting in the 1770s) the Seine flowed

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    16 P A R I S , P A R I S

    mainstream I could hear Guillaume Apollinaires wistful refrainof time and love slipping by, the one every French high schooler

    memorizes: Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine et nos amoursfaut-il quil men souvienne la joie venait toujours aprs la peine . . .But I hadnt walked three hours to weep tears of nostalgia.

    The goal I had been advancing toward was near: a giant bronzenymph, symbol of the river, affixed to the Pont Mirabeau. On therailing above her head is a crown in the shape of a turreted cita-del, and the device Fluctuat nec mergitur.The sculptures dcol-let suggests that the sculptor was more interested in his modelsbounteousseinsthan in the Seine. I gazed down into her corrodedbut smiling eyes and recognized Sequana.

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