I love the serendipitous rewards of unstructured travel. If I had any doubts about spending a week in Paris with no plan other than to immerse myself in the local scene, they were dispelled before even checking into a hotel where Ernest Hemingway stayed in the 1930s, conveniently located in the Latin Quarter and one street in from the Seine. An early morning arrival meant a couple of hours to kill before being able to access a room.
I had flown into Paris on my way to the foothills of the Pyrenees where I would start walking a brief but challenging portion of the pilgrimage along the “Way of Saint James” (the Camino de Santiago) as far as Pamplona in Spain. It seemed churlish to pass through the famed “City of Light” without at least spending a few days exploring. And rather than try to squeeze in as many touristy visits to famous sights as possible I would do just the opposite. In the best of 19th Century Parisian traditions I would become a flâneur.
Flâner
There is no exact translation for flâner in English. It is often rendered as “to saunter” but it’s much more than casual strolling. Rather, it’s more of a mindfulness exercise, walking with no particular destination in mind but observing while participating deeply and fully in each moment. The novelist Honoré de Balzac enthused “Ah, to wander over Paris? What an adorable and delightful existence! Flâner is a science; it is the gastronomy of the eye. To take a walk (se promener) is to vegetate; flâner is to live.”
With time to spend before checking in I left my bag with the friendly concierge (also named David) and walked down the narrow street to the first main road. It being lunchtime I took an outdoor table at the first brasserie I came to, ordering the menu du jour of onion soup, beef bourguignon (washed down with the house red Burgundy), crème brûlée and finally a café noisette (a double espresso with a touch of milk). Passing platoons of tourists marching behind someone carrying a little flag removed any doubt about the attractions of “going local”.
Chemin St. Jacques
Since this was the first day en route to a pilgrimage I was already open to whatever may come. There is a saying among pilgrims that “the Camino provides” and it does. Even in Paris. It was only when paying the bill that I realized that the place was called “Brasserie St. Jacques”, located on Rue Saint-Jacques – Saint-Jacques, of course, being French for Saint James in English and Santiago in Spanish. Then things got even more appropriate.
The brasserie was beside a church called Saint Severin where I noticed a sign outside saying that pilgrims on the Chemin St. Jacques (Camino de Santiago) could get their pilgrim credential stamped in the sacristy.
As if on cue, someone started playing softly on the organ just as I stepped inside. Savouring the lovely atmosphere at leisure I had a brief pang of disappointment on seeing the sacristy door closed, but it opened just as I approached. I asked if it was possible to get my credential stamped. Of course it was.
Pilgrims on the Camino carry a credential which gets stamped along the way. It provides access to pilgrim hostels, pilgrim privileges at special sites, and proof on arrival in Santiago de Compostela that the bearer is entitled to a certificate of completion. It’s also a treasured souvenir. The first stamp marks the start of the pilgrimage. I had expected to get that in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port at the start of the walk across the Pyrenees but this seemed far more appropriate. Although I would not be walking all the way from Paris, the Camino is as much an inner journey as outward. From here on I would travel mindfully and thoughtfully. “Le pèlerinage commence” I wrote in my journal that night.
Later that day while waiting for a stoplight to change I glanced down and saw, embedded in the sidewalk, the traditional scallop shell symbol marking the way to Santiago. Unintentionally I had found myself on the traditional pilgrim route from Paris that began on the other side of the Seine at the Tour Saint-Jacques, past the churches of St. Severin, and Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas which was once on the outskirts of Paris, and then out of the city toward Spain. Over the next week I would explore more of this Parisian leg of the pilgrimage, along with far more intriguing corners of Paris than I had dared hope. But those are other stories.
Saluting the Master
Appropriately enough, I also came across the bronze statue of Michel de Montaigne just off the Rue Saint-Jacques in the Latin Quarter. There is a tradition among university students at the Sorbonne that kissing his now-shiny right foot and saying “Salut Montaigne” before an exam brings luck. Since it was Montaigne who introduced the essay as a literary form in the 16th Century I gave his foot a friendly rub (without the kiss) in hopes of getting his blessing on future essays here.
