Thursday, June 01, 2000 08:41

Well, this did not start out as an essay on running. There are, in fact running days and non-running days – essays shall not differ. The fact is, today I didn't rise in time – there would only be 4½ hours of sleep, not a good way to run 11 miles here, through the city of Paris.

True, I must make that grandest of all French running treks, of course, before leaving the country. But no, today would be a more listless, wandering day, through the Northern France countryside West, to Rouen.

Before I would leave there would be lots of time spent "housekeeping," a parked day but even more than the usual fuss packing and getting ready to arrive and leave. I needed to seek out deals on film, find a U.S. connected bank machine, find stuff on the web, send off e-mail.

So, now, a brief if sordid tale of doing laundry might be worthwhile. In France it's a bewildering job. Literally, it takes me a day just to find the "laverie automatique" and to figure out how to use it (a long, tedious story involving use of a "jeton," getting change and laundry detergent, etc.).

Then, clearing an overstuffed calendar last night, I ventured back and finally got it done – by the time it's scrubbed and fluffed and folded and dragged across old, bumpy, narrow, fast-moving Parisian streets, working my way back to the hotel room, everything put away; more planning, more packing, and late-night work on this e-mail – it was well past midnight.

Deep in the corner of my tall but small room, just off the Champs d'Elysées, I had dreamed of a French June blessed with marvelous skies. Yet I feel frustratingly fatigued. The pretty twilight that arrived late last night faded back into clouds today. The weather is so frequently lousy here, which I didn't expect. And, well, Paris is in the same latitude as Canada's Prince Edward Island – who knew?

It is midnight. The world outside may be a City of Light, but in here there are deepening shadows, nothing but a murmuring television with silly late-night French programs and canned presentations from CNN and the BBC (I now know all the intro jingles and replayed commercials by heart).

Sleep comes hard. I decided it's high time I try my truly artisanal, and truly intriguing, French wine for the very first time, recommended by a shop clerk in Strasbourg.

We're talking an estate bottle of Burgundy from the Cote-d' Or, a 10-year-old /13% Pinot Noir – though you wouldn't know it from the label, which happens to be stained and dabbed with wine from its handling in the caves during aging ... where its presumed future elegance brings us to precisely now ...

Now the wrapping is off, and there was just a touch of wine seeping out the top, and traces of mold around the cork which was, nonetheless, very tight in the bottle ... the entire label lifted off with the slightest pull, the old bottle looking just relic-like ... now the scent from the bottle is incredible, all NUTS! Walnuts and pecans, I would say. Is this a good thing? Dunno, smells terrific. Pours just like a Pinot, red like cranberry juice in the glass ... the nuts are still there, but I get more aromas of Port or even a cross between brandy and scotch, new smells to my wine-novice nose.

Now for the taste... here goes . . .

Ahhhh, soft, leathery, a bit of a last drop kick going into the throat, all in all really nice. Can't beat it – for about $10! Great way to end the day, I would say. Let the clouds roll in. My City of Light this night is right here in my glass ...

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Now it is tomorrow, late-morning in fact – just a short train hop away, and we are in Rouen. I am staying less than a half-block from the square where they burned Joan of Arc alive. Creepy, isn't it?

The story of Jeanne d'Arc is omnipresent and can be best remembered and revered here, the seat of Haute-Normandie.

Despite the fact that in 1920 she was named Patron Saint of France, wouldn't you think this was one of those seamy chapters of French history these people might want to forget? I mean, her being burned alive in the center town square was initiated by French Bishop Cachon who was, in turned, paid a great deal of money by the invading England's Bergundians to arrange for Saint Joan's death. Pretty sad, and sick, piece of history, I thought.

But this is a French tale, in a France still in love with itself – which besides God himself, is what presumably motivated Joan firstly. That is what being French means, and what it always will be. English spoken here? Pardon? Non ...

What's good for a rousing town execution is also good for tourists. This is the place where all the downtown hustle bustle is, the very center of the Vieux Rouen. I'm staying here, though a great spot, in fact because the other hotel completely botched my reservation. Serendipity strikes again.

The sun ushers in a fresh new breath of a warmer Spring, and that is my cue! Buying a really good map, I planned and executed an 11-mile run – the latter half of it beyond several beautiful churches, a big statue of Napoleon, and a really sprawling, ornate fountain ... then leading up a very steep hill with a big, leafy cemetery and a charming view at the very top – what inspiration!

I started this run the normal way, weaving through narrow streets, swerving around meandering tourists and locals, swirling past as is the runner's peculiar sideshow view. People I run past seem to glare at me as if I'm a veritable kook – I'd swear many seemed to be laughing at me, with my little hat and big, brassy sunglasses. I'm sure they think a women running through city streets is the most out of the ordinary thing they could imagine (in broken English, a guy at the Amiens train station said as much – "Why do you do such a thing?").

Well, just look at the French ... consider, as example, their unbelievably lovely beautiful shop windows, piled lovingly and flirtatiously loaded with edible delicacies. "Please come and eat me!" these spires of calories seem to say. Yet no one seems to be so lured, strangely. I begin to suspect that the French are delighted just to meander by and gaze lovingly at food – heaven forbid they ever EAT the stuff.

For despite all the lovely delicacies at arms' length, no one seems to be eating anything on the streets, and everyone's so skinny. It's bothersome to the traveling American. Please, madame, leave your frantic pace (read: frenetic eating) at the border. Besides, you have to sit down, eat only at certain hours of the day, anyway, a purely social event musing over food actually is here. I saw two people eating pizza today in the Jeanne d'Arc square, leaning up against a wall, and they turned out to be Brits.

No wonder the French are so healthy – honestly, it's like they merely enjoy the THOUGHT of really enticing food, these spectacular mountains of chocolate and fancy desserts and breads, gourmet cheeses and tarts and crepes and glaces and wafels ... super spruced up little slabs and skewers of beef, all gloriously adored and piled high artistically in shop windows. I'd swear they wouldn't touch a bite of it.

Ah, then again, it's also plausible that many of the French locals I've noticed seem too busy smoking to find time to eat. Yes, the French may drawl and poke listlessly over puddles of murky cups and bits of bread and cheese and sweets. But it's also completely true that they seem to drive like they're racing to a fire. Emotional arousal is a scheduled sort of thing.

Crossing over the Seine, Rouen's main river way (as well as Paris, of course), the water's lambent glisten underscoring delicate bridge crossings and surrounding hilly landscape gave up the Impressionist painter Pisarro's inspirational beauty ...cars shooting frenetically across the river and through defensive carrefour schemes, zipping up and out of the valley and fast out of site ...

Then, along the first wide boulevard I had chosen for my run out of the center of town, I came upon a speed trap set up with several politely dressed policemen, who would casually dart into the road pointing at drivers to stop and await unexpected penitence. I never dreamed I'd see that in France. In fact, not far from there, I almost got hit by a car flying down around a bridge ramp.

Though I felt good, this turned out to be a long, tough run. The ascent past the large, ornate fountain and up the great northeast flank of the city was especially challenging, as the sunny afternoon turned warmer ...

Closer to the top, the city's bustle slowed. Schools were letting out; small children and yellow buses ambled by. Then a quiet set in, my breath, feet, heart tapped gently along a suburb boulevard, now high above the city ...

...and now, circling back around, back down around Vieux Rouen. Here again, another busy, narrow road back down toward the river, the magnificence of the city came in grand display – the gigantic cathedral in all its glory, other spires and celestial building tops beckoning. I caught that one breathtaking view of Rouen's great Lantern Tower-capped cathedral looming across Rouen's misty city scape. It was enough to make a wandering, running American cry out – "Je l'Adore France!" Tres Bien! Ah, what a spectacular view – I vowed to return ...

About this grand cathedral – most know it well from Claude Monet's carefully painted series of the front facade – experiments in different daytime lighting and atmosphere – beautiful and still striking to see today, even clad in the scaffolding of renovation as it was now (though did in fact pale in comparison to Amiens's more glorious structure, I feel). It's said that when light and atmosphere and time of day were to coalesce onto Monet's canvases, he would work on several at once, catching scene and theme elements by pulling out the appropriate canvas where he braced them between his legs.

Disappointingly, the well-known cathedral facade was currently the subject of a great deal of renovation; you couldn't even recognize the front of it as the subject of Monet's loving colorations and soft dreamlike painting. Where it seemed lacking in great interior sculpture, stained glass, and sheer height, was trumped by the Cathedrals dramatic three towers, the center "lantern tower" being the highest in.

Back into the lower town, the half-timbered houses came out in force. You could see where whole blocks were destroyed in WWII but, thank goodness, most of the old town was still intact. Here I would take a great deal of pictures of the narrow streets, with these age-old houses leaning back and forth, some looking as if they were so unstable they were melting down onto the street.

So here was a great run – a great pace – hardly ever stopped except to fix my stereo and change CDs. But on my final swing back down the hill, I somehow dropped both a 100-franc note (about $14) and my pepper spray, out of my unzipped front pouch. Well, every great trek has its costs and its losses.

Making my way into the little motel courtyard, hied my sweaty, stinky body in through the back door and into my room, a long shower never felt better.

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Later, now, about 7 p.m., doing all of my showering and primping, the sun is really getting on with setting – but I vowed to get photos atop that glorious vista I discovered on my great trek ...

I ducked out into the deepening evening, alongside the great cathedral, again, the Royal Palace, little side streets with streaming evening lights filling their narrow channels; Big Ol' Napoleon on his big weathered copper-green horse, perched so noble and delicate ... around the traffic circle and back up the great mountain I go, shooting the grand cascading fountain sculptures along the way ...

... and here now I am on Route de Neufchatel, searching for the perfect view ... wow, did not remember how darn long it is up this hill ... me dressed in my short dress and pretty new blue jewelry that matches my eyes ... only these guys keep speeding past at 100 miles per hour and, seeing a pretty girl alone climbing this hill, well they honk and yell (do they think I'm some kind of prostitute?).

Finally, after 9 p.m., the light begins to fade, and frustrated me is hunting up tiny side streets looking for a shortcut to the top of the mountain (running, especially downhill, you forget how far things are for walking distance). The houses perched on the hill are situated in these little Côte du Bastognes, with walls high enough to keep out the curious like me(hogging their pretty view in the process)...

Finally, at 9:20, voilá! My beautiful Je l'Adore France vista! Tres Bien, once again ...

And I get my pictures, at that spot and all the way back down (another street). Lovely, spectacular. But ... all the way back, in the fading light (and a few more pictures of neon-lit street scenes), I forget where the little restaurant I picked out was. Well, more steamed mussels will have to do, with a lovely bottle of Alsace Rose and a little salad – and, of course, lots of bread.

And the 11th hour comes and, as typical of my trips around northern France, I'm now enveloped in cold. My trip to Caen planned, with the Le Memorial (WWII), I head off past Joan's forlorn little Place de Vieux Marché memorial, down the little to a tiny hotel room and off to sleep in my tiny European-sized bed ...

Again I find a dark room now, finished typing for tonight, 19:00 is upon me and I've already drunk too much wine. I bought in Rouen, on an empty stomach. I think it's time for another little stroll ... guess I'll finish writing this on the train back to Paris!

Then another day, Ascension Day in France – and on to Amiens, to spent yet another lovely evening in the north of France ... meet you there!

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