Protests in Paris, over half a million people on the streets, the taxi driver cursed blocked roads and sirens, la gendarmerie waved us from trouble into bottle necks of horns blaring, Parisians throwing up their hands. Avoid the Bastille he said as I got out at Citizen M, à côté de la Gare de Lyon.
I love how the French strike at the drop of a hat, they are socialist to their core, it is written into their constitution and it pleases my anarchist heart. Power to the people.
So I avoided the Bastille and instead walked along the Seine to Notre Dame where tourists teemed irrespective of the uprising. I wanted to look inside since the clean up and after the fire. As ever, I didn’t stay long; a full church makes me rile at doctrine, an empty is full of god. It was the opposite of empty.
On the way back to my hotel, hurrying with thoughts of preparing for the London Writers' Salon class I was teaching that evening, I was drawn into a gallery that said simply Biblioteka Polska Czytelnia. Knowing nothing, I found an exhibition of dark faery oddities, echoes of Pan, and William Blake, demons and angels and devils and myth, claws and winged lions, the gargoyle grin and cursed motifs of magic, the dark arts and spells.
I’ve since learnt that The Polish Library in Paris is a major centre of Polish history and culture, and was founded in 1838 by exiled Polish intellectuals after the November Uprising. According to Perplexity, it’s a “beacon for Polish heritage abroad and is one of the oldest and most important institutions of the Polish diaspora.” Who knew. I went into the next room. An area was curtained off. I slipped inside the green drapes to find a sculpture of a man with his head in his hands, a black rose on his plinth, and a voice loud and clear in my head repeating, Get out, get out, get out. So I did.
At my hotel, the woman who checked me in mentioned in passing that she was a writer but was terrible at turning up. She was looking for a community to help her be accountable to her work. Funny that, I said, and told her about The London Writers’ Salon, whose m.o. is exactly that. She replied, Isn’t the universe amazing.
Class on serialisation - hosted by London Writers' Salon and the room held by Lindsey Trout Hughes (thank you, Lindsey!) - done, with thanks to everyone who came. I hope it was useful. Any follow up questions, dm me. Always happy to help. I went to bed and woke early and headed out to the Gare de Lyon. I took notes again as I waited for my train.
A large buddhist monk in red and orange robes plus beige anorak and red trainers, and carrying a plastic bag, accompanied by a small blonde woman who looks happy. She smiles at me as they walk past. I love seeing monks on the move.
An aged and beautiful woman in ancient flapper shoes. She circles me close and disappears.
Railway worker on the far platform at Marseille, the silhouette of him; tall, elegant, in high vis orange trousers and white vest. Balletic, arms swinging as if at the bar, ready for a plié and pas de deux, his feet at ten to two, even his walk has rhythm.
And now I’ve arrived at the place I love most in the world, my home in the south of France ( Kit de Waal , we never had time to compare Provencal notes, but if you ever need a writing retreat in this part of the world, just say the word…). I’m here for a month to do exactly that, retreat and write. As such, I’ll be mostly be posting chapters from my memoir while I hide away, with the odd Substack LIVE thrown into the mix. Wish me luck. I’m meeting a new book….
Eleanor
