Free Travelers' Tales Paris by James O'Reilly

end of my walk with my thumb marking my place in the Vie et Histoire volume. The Place St-Georges, its trees and the buildings around it were open to the sky, the sounds of the city were muted, Mr. Gavarni studied his designs atop his decorated column—and I thought to myself, “Paris is beautiful.”
    Jack E. Bronston’s international travel began during World War II when he was a Russian and Japanese interpreter for the Marines in North China. He graduated from Harvard Law School in 1948 and served twenty years in the New York State Senate. He and his wife, Sandra Baker, a photographer, live in New York where he continues to practice law .

    We made a good decision, not to have a car in Paris. No more fretting over repairs, parking, premiums, is there enough gas? For excursions outside Paris we take the train, or find a reasonable weekend car rental. In Paris the Métro works remarkably well. Maps are clear and easy to follow, with their ribbons of color to mark the different lines, and the trains are frequent and graffiti-free. There is no sense of menace; young musicians play their saxes and guitars, an occasional orator presents his opinion of French politics, beggars implore politely, “ Excusez-moi, madame , but I’m hungry....” I always reward the puppeteers, who sling a velvet curtain across the car and present a lively little show with their ten decorated fingers.
    Buses are even better. Sitting in a warm comfortable seat, gazing out of clean, clear windows at the passing sights, I roam the city armed with the yellow Le Guide Paris-Bus . It is quiet, other than a pleasant voice announcing the stops, although recently we had an international colloquy going. An Italian couple asked the French woman in front of me how to get to Étoile, and before we were finished, we all had our maps out, chattinganimatedly, even the German man across the aisle piped in with his suggestion. You would have thought we were solving a problem of the world; we did, in fact, put together a nice little tour for our new Italian friends.
    I walk in Paris, sometimes hours a day, and I observe, discover, reacquaint. Having mothballed my American walking shoes in capitulation to Parisian fashion, some days the soles are weary, which has led me to yet another Parisian delight: our neighborhood podologue , who will pare nails, shave calluses, and always finish with a foot massage. I still don’t miss my car.
    â€”Ann Davis Colton, “Letter from Paris,” Paris Notes

SHUSHA GUPPY

St-Germain-des-Prés
    This is a place where thought was turned into smoke .
    T HE LEGEND OF S T -G ERMAIN-DES -P RÉES AS THE INTELLECTUAL centre of Paris had reached Persia by the end of the 40s and gradually spread among the young progressives. Through articles, photographs, and films we learnt the topography of the area: a maze of cobblestoned streets clustered around the square, dominated by the abbey and its graceful 11th-century tower—the oldest in the city. We knew of the cafés Flore and Deux Magots, where Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus, and many other authors had written the books we read in translation. We had heard about Le Tabou, where Juliette Gréco had first sung the songs of Jacques Prévert and Raymond Queneaux, and launched the fashion for a pale complexion and disillusion. All you had to do was hop on an aeroplane and disembark in Paris, and there they would all be, waiting for you!
    In reality by the mid-50s the writers, singers, and actors had mostly disappeared, having moved from their dingy hotels to apartments acquired with their earnings, while the developers and financiers had moved in. But many of the old habitués still lived in the district, and sometimes went to the cafés and restaurants they had made famous. It was not unusual to see a short, tubby man,with balding head and strabismic eyes behind thick glasses rush down the boulevard towards his home in the