Left Bank: a cultural feast for lovers of literati
by Nancy Snipper
Returning to Paris from Brittany to get my Air Transat flight home, I had three more glorious days to enjoy the capital. Having already visited several star attractions, including the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral and the Louvre, I was in the mood for Paris without pomp. I headed for the authentic vibrancy of the Left Bank, particularly Saint-Germain-des-Près, an area resonating with a bookish but hip brilliance of bygone days.
Bumping into ‘les bouqinistes’ selling thousands of rare books and prints along the Seine, I snagged an 1856 reprint of Baudelaire’s ‘Fleurs du Mal’ — not as old as the Latin verses recited here by students from the Sorbonne some 700 years ago.
Literary liveliness abounds in Saint-Germain’s Latin Quarter, which brims with bookshops and students milling around the Sorbonne. Wandering south into Montparnasse, I discovered the Paris of Ezra Pound, Hemingway and Sartre; of Modigliani, Picasso and Matisse; of Josephine Baker, Edith Piaff and Gertrude Stein.
In the1920s, Montparnasse was earmarked as the playground of the western world, hosting hedonistic parties attended by the likes of Cole Porter who aptly wrote, “Let’s Misbehave.” Promiscuous entertainer Kiki and her lover Man Ray seduced the free-spirited; most ended up in bed behind his camera lens. Is it any wonder Picasso warned his poet pal Max Jacob that Montparnasse was “full of naughty men.” Hearing that, Jacob hastened there “to sin disgracefully.” Montreal writer John Glassco brought his male paramour to Montparnasse and authored a memoir. Richler and Weintraub also visited years later.
It was an era when brilliance blended with beauty. Fittingly, Oscar Wilde muttered these words as he lay dying in Saint-Germain’s Hotel Luxembourg (one street over from Hotel Paul where I was staying): “Either those curtains go or I do.”
A jaunt down Jacob Street revealed dwellings once occupied by Wagner, Racine, Ingres and a young writer named Ernest Hemingway. Poor and hungry, Hemingway ate his own “moveable feast” (his term for Left Bank life), killing pigeons for lunch in nearby Luxembourg Gardens.
Montparnasse’s sumptuous Closerie des Lilas restaurant was where the unknown author wrote The Sun Also Rises. He could only afford the coffee. Artistic ambiance was alive at the Hemingway café haunt. I slinked into Montparnasse’s subdued Le Select, read a magazine under one of La Rotonde’s Moroccan fringe lamps, and had a coffee at la Coupole while admiring its colourful combo of art deco columns and mirrors. Waiters were all part of the décor. Bar Falstaff, (#10 Delambre) was a favourite of James Joyce, Jean Cocteau and Morley Callaghan. Man Ray photographed these drinking buddies, minus the Canadian.
Next to Deux Magots, where Sartre and Trotsky hung out, is Saint-Germain’s Café Flore. I chose a quiet seat. “You’re sitting where Hemingway used to,” said Fiore’s manager M. Denniflou, smiling. He shared some anecdotes: “To your right sat Laura Bush who ordered a coke; instead, I suggested a glass of white wine. Robert de Niro ate his favourite ham sandwiches to your left, the same seat for Francis Ford Coppola, who used to drink one coffee and type until dark.”
Though the geniuses are gone, their legacies live on, as do those of their predecessors in the Pantheon. France’s wordy gods, old and modern alike, are entombed within: Voltaire, Rousseau, Hugo, Zola, and Diderot — a French favourite, judging by the near naked women topping his tomb.
The Pantheon reminded me of the Parthenon — though the Parthenon’s golden Athena Nike is replaced there by a huge interior pendulum. Believe it or not, gout got this basilica going; King Louis XV had it. Crediting Saint Geneviève for his recovery, he commissioned the Pantheon in her honour.
With my bell about to toll, I ate a pistachio cream macaroon from Pâtisserie Bon and headed for my equally pleasing hotel. The charm and convenience of Hôtel Saint Paul provide a restful respite from the din within the sixth arrondissement (section). Seventeenth-century stone walls, which once housed Franciscan monks, comprise over 30 lovely rooms enlivened by antiques and original wall and ceiling beams. Lovely colours accent space; closets are equally lofty. Located at the cultural core of Saint-Germain, Hôtel Saint Paul benefits from the serene calm of its street: 400-year-old Monsieur le Prince.
You’re in prestigious company here, for amid the street’s century-old book binding shops, the philosopher Auguste Comte lived.
Indeed, Hôtel Saint Paul is an undervalued 3-star find. Special features: breakfast is served in the former and impressive wine cellar; the guest room sporting the trempe l’oeil of Spoutnik; the resident cat; and most of all, wonderful hospitality and help from Valerie and Stephanie at the front desk.
