Page Two
THE MICHIGAN DAILY
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Page Two i I vnrv un i Sunday, -ebruary, 26, I1956
i
The Places ...
Paris, London, New York, Rome-The Capitals of the World
PARIS
By ROBERT F. JONES
AMORPHOUS, chameleon1ike,
the metropolis adapts itself to
the tourist's preconception.
It sprawls, seemingly trapped,
beneath the pin of his formulated
phrase. He may stereotype it to
death, for all it cares.
Your tastes may be high, med-
ium or low. You may be naive and
open-mouthed, jaded and wise,
bored with cliches or ready to be-
lieve anything-Paris has a special
face for you.
LOOKING for art (with a capi-
tal B for Bohemian)?
Paris has it in two general va-
rieties. The tourist is most likely
to see the obvious manifestation.
Robert Jones, '56 found this
side of Paris one summer, tak-
ing time out from a naval
training cruise to investigate
"la vie boheme."
--Photo-Robert .Jones
PARIS SIDE STREET ON A SUNNY MORNING
"...the city adapts itself to the tourist's preconception."
It twitches valiantly, high on t
slopes of Montmartre, clad in co
orfully ragged suits, lumpy beret
It wields brushes, perhaps not
the most artistic manner, but
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least out in the open where you switch on and off only when we
can see it, hit an intersection.
How about glamour, fashion and Across the Seine, flat and
chic? Walk the boulevards and smooth i the lamplight, On the
you'll see what you expect--lung-river, a tour-boat hisses along,
you'l se wha yo expct-lne-bright-lit, faces at the glass,
legged, sleek-lined and aloof as rh- cadives downgass.o
Brahmin monks. The fashion- The cab dives down a narrow
femmes of Paris seem localized, street, between buildings so old
however. Step off the boulevard, that logs are needed to shore
and women become garden-varie- them up.
ty again. The brakes whine, and we get
Want a fling at the highly-tout- out. You peel off a flimsy bill
ed Paris night-life? Perhaps you with more zeroes than you're used
have heard that the real thing to.
isn't to be found in the Pigalle
clubs or on the stage of the Folies A WOMAN leads us down a nar-'
Bergere. row stairway. The walls are
nitred and smell like damp chalk.
SOMEONE tells you of a little We emerge into a low-ceilinged
catacomb on the Left Bank cubicle dominated by a well-carved
near Notre Dame. There's this bar out of which rise, like the
jazz combo plays there, they say. horns of a goat, two chrome beer-
This is more like it, you say. Let's spigots.
go. From the next room, through
We're off through the night a moss-green arch, comes the slow
streets in a cab, running without shuffling of progressive jazz. You
lights, the driver flicking the mutter something eager about life
and the stark realism of Europe,
and enter.
It takes but a moment for the
scales to fall from our eyes. The
people sitting enwrapt before the
smoothed-stone dais on which the
swaying bandsmen play are cam-
era-weighted, clean-cut Americans,
even as you and I.
A prime precept of Paris flashes
through our minds: There are
never more than two or three
camera-type Americans in an
authentic locale. Duped again.
ONE OF PARIS'S most thriving
tourist-traps is the so-called
"Artists' Bohemia" atop t h e
church-capped bulge of Mont-
martre. The ride uphill to the
A.B. is most certainly calculated
to put one in the mood. You
wind up narrow streets past quaint
little shops. Women stalk the
cobble-stones beating all manner
of wierd breads.
The higher you climb on the
slopes of Montmartre, the thicker
flock the shrivelled old ladies sell-
ing their posies.
You pass Montparnasse ceme-
tery, an impression of mausoleums
plastered with Rococo gingerbread.
In a moment you are past. All
that remains is an image of age
-tradition, history, memory.
THE CAB stops before a white
basilica - Sacre Coeur, the
Church of the Sacred Heart. Many
stone steps lead from the doors of
the church down to a railed ram-
part. Tourists stand in mechani-
cal concentration, rapidly working
their camera gimmicks.
Around the corner from Sacre
Coeur, you "stumble" on the "ar-
tists." You couldn't miss them
if you tried.
They have set up their easels
in the cobbled street. Bearded,
shabby, clad in sack-like suits,
they seem to ignore the gaping
See REAL, page 3
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