Day 9 - 9/23/2012
I get up early. The day is cold and windy and looks like rain. All the beautiful days have gone. It is discouraging but I remember the words, "He that considers the wind shall never sow." I leave with my pole and tackle, grab a quick espresso and croissant, take the metro to the Gare L'Est and walk to the canal. There are many joggers and dog-walkers. I head to the little park and start fishing. I switch between a Texas-rigged worm and a minnow-style crankbait.
I fish for an hour. There is a steady stream of dog-walkers into the little park. Their dogs sniff my backpack, which is on the ground and filled with fishing lures. Another fisherman joins me on the opposite side of the canal. I wave to him but he doesn't acknowledge me. Another hour goes by. No activity at all for either of us. We walk everywhere along the bank trying to entice the fish.
The lock gates above me open. Water pours into the basin where I am fishing. I bet something is going to happen. Each time those gates open, the water churns, and little fish are thrown by the current, becoming easy targets. I watch as a school of minnows break in the water in front of me. They are hunted by a large perch. I throw my minnow into the school several times. Suddenly, I see a perch chase my lure. As I bring it to the bank, the perch sees me, and diving deep, abandons the chase.
After the third hour, I quit. That little flurry is the only activity of the day. I walk south along the canal. Near the bridge, a boat is being raised in the lock on its way upstream. I toss the lure a couple more times before the lock. I am tired. I cast it one last time and snag the minnow in the tree above me. As I pull it free, the rod crumples in my hand - the second to last segment breaks! I am truly done fishing.
I am not at all bothered by the broken rod. I accomplished what I set out to do - go fishing in Paris. But I will try to return the defective piece and get a replacement. It is 11:00 am. I have an espresso and a croissant in a warm cafe next to the canal, then return home for a spell.
I decide the rest of the day will be spent wandering the 14th arrondissement where I am staying. I eat lunch at Cafe Daguerre on Rue Daguerre. I order La Marseillaise (sardines on toast). The waiter jokes that I have to stand to eat it. I watch the fish market across the alley close shop. They have to dispose of a tremendous amount of ice at the end of each day. They use big shovels, haul the ice to a drain in the sheet, and melt it down using a hose. The smell of fish hangs in the air.
The sun appears sporadically. At the vegetable market next door, a cat wanders around. I watch as he jumps into a stack of shopping baskets. He sits and watches the people in the market. A honeybee visits my beer. She looks Italian with her gold-banded abdomen.
I write my postcards, eat my sandwich, and study the map. Where to now? I spy La rue Vercingétorix. I was just reading of him in Caesar's Commentaries on the Gallic Wars. A street named for a 2000 year-old Celtic chieftain. Of course this is where I am going. The name is the coolest part of this street. Very boring. Except for the Art Deco Boulangerie building, I see nothing of interest. As I am near the Rue des Thermopyles, I go and sit in the little park, reading and soaking in the sun.
When I leave I take Cite Bauer street and see an amazing door. It was built/carved by Sandor Mezei, an Austrian woodcarver. From there, I watch a group of men play Pétanque, then go home to rest.
About 7:00 pm, I go to a wine bar in the Marais, La Belle Hortense. It has a library and reading room but is small and cramped. I order coffee, work on my journal, then leave for Shakespeare and Company. I still want to find some fishing books.
Shakespeare and Company is in old, wooden-frame building. The downstairs is all new books, fiction and art. The upstairs has two rooms. The first has a bed, where a young girl reads on her stomach, a couch, and a piano. The other room has a bench, a desk and two chairs, and several armchairs. The walls are filled with old books that are part of the library. Nothing for sale. You are invited to linger and read. I find a book by Wilkie Collins, a close friend of Dickens and one of the first detective story writers. As I read, someone plays the piano: old jazz, ragtime, blues. I stay and read in this ancient building and enjoy a free concert. A lady interrupts and asks if she can take my picture. The bookstore is one of her favorite places in Paris. This is the 8th time she has been here and she thinks it is great to see somebody reading in the library.
It is getting late. I head home to sleep. It has been a very busy day.
I fish for an hour. There is a steady stream of dog-walkers into the little park. Their dogs sniff my backpack, which is on the ground and filled with fishing lures. Another fisherman joins me on the opposite side of the canal. I wave to him but he doesn't acknowledge me. Another hour goes by. No activity at all for either of us. We walk everywhere along the bank trying to entice the fish.
The lock gates above me open. Water pours into the basin where I am fishing. I bet something is going to happen. Each time those gates open, the water churns, and little fish are thrown by the current, becoming easy targets. I watch as a school of minnows break in the water in front of me. They are hunted by a large perch. I throw my minnow into the school several times. Suddenly, I see a perch chase my lure. As I bring it to the bank, the perch sees me, and diving deep, abandons the chase.
After the third hour, I quit. That little flurry is the only activity of the day. I walk south along the canal. Near the bridge, a boat is being raised in the lock on its way upstream. I toss the lure a couple more times before the lock. I am tired. I cast it one last time and snag the minnow in the tree above me. As I pull it free, the rod crumples in my hand - the second to last segment breaks! I am truly done fishing.
I am not at all bothered by the broken rod. I accomplished what I set out to do - go fishing in Paris. But I will try to return the defective piece and get a replacement. It is 11:00 am. I have an espresso and a croissant in a warm cafe next to the canal, then return home for a spell.
I decide the rest of the day will be spent wandering the 14th arrondissement where I am staying. I eat lunch at Cafe Daguerre on Rue Daguerre. I order La Marseillaise (sardines on toast). The waiter jokes that I have to stand to eat it. I watch the fish market across the alley close shop. They have to dispose of a tremendous amount of ice at the end of each day. They use big shovels, haul the ice to a drain in the sheet, and melt it down using a hose. The smell of fish hangs in the air.
The sun appears sporadically. At the vegetable market next door, a cat wanders around. I watch as he jumps into a stack of shopping baskets. He sits and watches the people in the market. A honeybee visits my beer. She looks Italian with her gold-banded abdomen.
I write my postcards, eat my sandwich, and study the map. Where to now? I spy La rue Vercingétorix. I was just reading of him in Caesar's Commentaries on the Gallic Wars. A street named for a 2000 year-old Celtic chieftain. Of course this is where I am going. The name is the coolest part of this street. Very boring. Except for the Art Deco Boulangerie building, I see nothing of interest. As I am near the Rue des Thermopyles, I go and sit in the little park, reading and soaking in the sun.
When I leave I take Cite Bauer street and see an amazing door. It was built/carved by Sandor Mezei, an Austrian woodcarver. From there, I watch a group of men play Pétanque, then go home to rest.
About 7:00 pm, I go to a wine bar in the Marais, La Belle Hortense. It has a library and reading room but is small and cramped. I order coffee, work on my journal, then leave for Shakespeare and Company. I still want to find some fishing books.
Shakespeare and Company is in old, wooden-frame building. The downstairs is all new books, fiction and art. The upstairs has two rooms. The first has a bed, where a young girl reads on her stomach, a couch, and a piano. The other room has a bench, a desk and two chairs, and several armchairs. The walls are filled with old books that are part of the library. Nothing for sale. You are invited to linger and read. I find a book by Wilkie Collins, a close friend of Dickens and one of the first detective story writers. As I read, someone plays the piano: old jazz, ragtime, blues. I stay and read in this ancient building and enjoy a free concert. A lady interrupts and asks if she can take my picture. The bookstore is one of her favorite places in Paris. This is the 8th time she has been here and she thinks it is great to see somebody reading in the library.
It is getting late. I head home to sleep. It has been a very busy day.
Fishing at the Canal Saint-Martin near Rue Eugène Varlin
The Tree that Ate My Rod
The Market Kitty
Door on Cité Bauer
Door on Cité Bauer
