Higher Ground

I miss the mountains. Apart from a brief trip to Lebanon, I haven’t seen them for ten years. Being close enough however to Annecy and the gateway to the Mont Blanc massif was too good to miss. The wild woman herself was more than worth the trip. Standing 4810m, the highest peak in Europe, gave me tantalising glimpses as she shrouded herself in cloud, the summit only partially visible for most of the day. Had I been thinking on my feet, I might have managed a morning’s skiing on La Vallée Blanche but the cable car ride takes an hour and I didn’t have equipment.

 Instead, lunch at a restaurant recommended by a friend at the top of the Col de la Croix-Fry  - no Parisian ‘nouvelle’ here, with chic little diddles of balsamic -  the ham slice on offer would have been sorely missed by its parent animal and sausages the size of cucumbers - then down into Chamonix – inevitably full of grimy unshaven climbers, some of whom, quelle surprise - were English. I spent the afternoon on a glacier, as one does hereabouts. The cable car takes you to its base, and the snowline, blue-black in parts, finishes about 300m higher, torrents of meltwater finding least path distance to the valley below. I must be getting old, the climb – probably no more than half a dozen flights of stairs, at 1450m left me breathless.  Dinner in St Gervais, pleasanter and cheaper than the tourist overkill in Chamonix. Elderly persons go there, you know. For their health.

An Accidental Pilgrim

Heading south from Porte d’ d’Italie. The original intention was to drive to Lyon, where I spent a summer in 1976, the year of what the French still call ‘la grande sècheresse’ when there were no fireworks on July 14 in case of fire. Vagabondage (does this word exist?) has its rewards, however. Three hours down the autoroute  I caught sight of a single sign. “Communauté de Taizé, prochaine sortie”.  I wondered why a tiny hamlet, its significance, perhaps, known only to a relatively small cross-section of population, and miles from anywhere, might warrant its own signage off the highway. On impulse, despite the fact that it was early evening without accommodation booked, I followed a hunch and turned off. It took an hour, getting lost, winding through rolling hills and tiny villages, some with familiar names, like Chardonnay.  As I approached, the number of young pilgrims walking up the hill seemed to increase by the yard. Brother Roger’s original building, acquired seventy years ago, is now dwarfed by a vast, modern structure, slightly reminiscent of the glass-floored church in Capernaum, extended at least twice, flanked by an armada of  large well-organised communal tents and a flotilla of smaller ones. Wooden outbuildings housed barracks, meeting rooms and cookhouses.  I followed the sound of the singing, and overcoming a strong sense of déjà -vu - found myself in a vast covered amphitheatre, dimly lit, listening to the iconic sound of Taizé worship. And this, apparently, was the overflow building. There were at least three onion domes (picture) plus the church itself. Thousands of people sat on the floor, the singing led by a small number of white-robed monks – I had arrived at the beginning of evening prayer. Feeling like a Samaritan at the gate, I stood awkwardly at the door and listened. Services at Taizé are characterised by singing, silence and prayer. During one of the silences, I wandered outside, and found myself outside what appeared to be a crèche – there did seem to be a large number of the congregation inn their 20’s. A calm-looking young woman in a long blue seersucker dress and the obligatory sandals answered my questions, holding the hand of a three year old as she patiently walked him again and again around a tree. “How many people are there here?” I asked. “Oh, this week, about three thousand six hundred”, she replied with a smile. “Is this a special event?” I asked. “Oh, no. Every week the same numbers come”, she said, her German accent making her English sound clipped and rehearsed. “Perhaps six thousand at Easter. If you wish, you can stay.” I didn’t, instead nosed the car down the hill and ate well in Cluny, little changed for five hundred years, beneath the abbey walls. How appropriate.

Oafish Chic

The land I know and almost love - the one east of the 30, that is, is a sham. A cardboard cutout, a mirror image, a Romford Rolex or a Chinese Calvin Klein. Here, in the birthplaces of the iconic names in food, wine and fashion, chic has a totally different connotation and is not exportable. Copied, transplanted, yes. The real deal somehow floats effortlessly above all attempts at plagiarism, even with the right labels. Buying Louis Vuitton in an airconditioned bus station somewhere off the Sixth Ring doesn't quite have the same cachet as buying it at the iconic architectural masterpiece at 101, avenue des Champs-Elysées. As a matter of interest, I ran across a 1920’s Louis Vuitton trunk in a B&B in Burgundy the other week, complete with the name of the original owner on the front and its own unique lock with hand-made brass key. At auction, it would have fetched the price of a modest house.

Shopping (window or otherwise) in and around Place Madeleine  - yes, it's the Magdala again; amazing how she seeps in and out of my consciousness - reminds me how lumpen and oafish I really am. Coffee at the original Fauchon. A tea shop containing possibly five hundred different varieties of tea, a crowd gathering outside the discreet caviar store where 1kg of best grey Caspian sells for 3500 euros, to watch the sturgeon swimming in the aquarium window, a fish I have to admit I have never ever seen in the flesh. A shop selling over a hundred different varieties of mustard.

I had to go into the church and restore balance. It’s a beautiful building – I missed the free concert by an hour – a Romanian choir were doing Byrd, Mozart and Fauré. Never mind, Verdi’s Requiem is being sung there later in the month.

Food at one of Paris’ little secrets. At 7:30, I nodded to the maître d' and secured what looked like the last available table. Simple French food, no frills at a price that didn't make the eyes water. When I walked out, a hundred people were waiting in line. I swallowed my pride, pretended to be a tourist and photographed the napkin.

The Myth in the Closet

Visiting Le Marais gave me food for thought. Universities offer classes in everything except how to be a ‘mench’ - in Yiddish to be a valuable human being. I share the belief of many that whether they profess faith or they do not, "truth reflects itself in many different ways" and everyone has experienced a sense of mystery in their lives that enhances their quest for divine truth and self-discovery.  This is not bland pantheism, God ‘is that he is’ but the quest for glimpses into who and what the ‘is-ness’ of God is, is hardwired. ( I thought this last quite rabbinical) Man’s individuality is flexible allowing endless strategic possibilities for discovery and expression of what C S Lewis called Grace. Much as light is separated and broken up by dispersion, the determinism of God is metamorphosed  through the prism of humanity. Freedom means that I do what I ought to do, not what I like to do and Man’s individuality is flexible allowing endless possibilities for expression. Light. Is it a particle or is it a wave? It makes no sense to be both, but the instruments don’t lie – the truth is that light is in fact both – teaching the inflexibility of the wavelike nature of light denies its particulate nature.

All this arose because I have been in conversation in recent times with a ‘closet believer’, someone whose pragmatism is occasionally ruffled by glimpses of the river of the water of life. Some months ago, a friend wrote this…Italics mine.

“I've had a thought ...maybe mid-life crises of faith, or even changes in direction actually happen because we are confronted with an ever growing menu of reality entrees and it's just too much.”

Being spoiled for choice does indicate a certain sophistication, perhaps. The trick, I suppose is to actually choose.

Falafel with Philosophy

A twilight walk around the shared Jewish and gay district is educational with an art-nouveau synagogue and the house of alchemist Nicolas Flamel. Not forgetting the best street falafel north of the Damascus Gate. Hasidic Jews sell tracts cheek by jowl (metaphorically - the men wear ringlets or peyes in Yiddish) with well-toned cruisers oveflowing the bars – educational on a number of levels – I've never seen so many men's underwear shops; the walkabout subsequently decanting me into the Place des Vosges – one of the most beautiful squares in Paris, formerly home to Victor Hugo. Note the philosophy students in conversation.

A Walk up the Hill

Sacré Coeur has been described as 'the ugliest cathedral in the world'. According to a prominently displayed placard, JP2 was impressed, however, on his visit, and so was I. I haven't wandered, aimless as a cloud, around Montmartre for a while and, usurious prices and tourists notwithstanding, it still has a village feel about it, and one might imagine the smell of linseed from painters, scratching and starving in chic little garrets, as women in need of a shave with husky voices eye up the punters at the pavement cafes and small children whine at the number of stairs they have to climb.

It came as quite a pleasant surprise to find myself in the middle of Mass on arrival. The gawkers, like myself, were steered in ragged platoons around the nave and chancel, while the curé intoned the liturgy to the assembled faithful – quite a turn-out as it happened for a warm Thursday afternoon, hands akimbo at the appropriately religious angle, punctuated by a remarkably melodic precentor singing responsorial prayers. I arrived just in time for the Peace, which will make one or two readers snigger. At least they get it over with rather faster than elsewhere, moving smoothly into the Pater Noster. I stayed for the Agnus Dei, then left, restored and comforted,  before the collection.

We Shall Overcome

Retrospective thinking is OK. Yes, I believe on the whole, painful memories notwithstanding, that it’s OK sometimes to think about the past. The older I get, the more roseate, forgiving and generally benign it all seems. Especially the past from a long time ago. It has a Hemingway quality - soft sunsets and September rain.

We tend, unfortunately, to remember things as they were, not overlain with the emotional cobwebs and inevitable decay of the years. It’s curious too how the journeys themselves don’t spring into sharp, metallic focus, just  individual, inconsequential events, small spikes, like jagged rocks in a featureless sea.

I found myself reminded of folk clubs in the late 60’s where we went with guitars, fiddles pipes and tambours, just to join in. The acrid aromas of pipe smoke and stale ale mingled with the smells of wet wool – why was it always raining outside - and the smoke from the fire. We could actually sing, because the rhythms were simple and the words and their meaning unambiguous and clear. We listened to Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, the incomparable Joan Baez, (Woodstock, yeah) Dylan and the others. 

All of the above came about because I had been trawling  around for some of the stuff I used to listen to.  Pete Seeger’s 90^th birthday celebration  at Madison Square Garden in May 2009 was an iconic event with a surprisingly articulate and powerful introduction from Bruce Springsteen – I watched almost all the YouTube footage on it, plus a few little extras like "Where Have All the Flowers Gone" sung with Seeger's grandson Tao Rodriguez (whose band appeared at Newport Folk this last week) and Arlo Guthrie at Wolf Trap, (Seeger was 83 on this recording) but I thought this song from 1965 really echoed my own undergraduate fervour and formative years with all the power it had then.

Dear me. I'm close to tears.