Monday 22nd, October:  Chris was up earlier than me yesterday, as you can see from the genre of images that have appeared on the blog. To my female friends I can confirm that the shop windows series is in the interest of design, or ‘ethnography’ as Chris would put it, although I am beginning to wonder.

It is true that we have been struck by the schizophrenic nature of Catholicism which is so evident here in Portugal. Windows in the main street full of statuary and tourist reliquary – St. Anthony is huge here – and then next door is another of the many lingerie boutiques.

There are more undies per square inch in Lisboa than pasteis (the ubiquitous delicious local custard cake). LIke everything here, there are remnants of the past. Some window displays seem to use a female dummy that dates from the 1950; breasts are bigger, hips are wider; the female body is more robust and full. This is lingerie as necessary armour and support, rather than embellishment (I am channeling Simon Schama now).
There are fabulous shops; in some the original fittings must date from the 1930s and 40s; you see beautiful wooden cabinetry with brass corners. Items are ‘on display’ – even in the local pharmacy the walls are glass cabinets from where you may gaze upon the many varieties of toothpaste. It’s not about theft. Sweeping curves lead the shopper into the efficient care of an attentive older salesperson.

Is it just coincidence that we were staying in the Rua de Sapatieros, the Street of the Shoemakers? The cobbled streets in this old shopping area are named after the Guilds … My favorite shoe store has a spiral staircase to the upstairs office; you will find an image of this if you look hard. Note also the ceramics on the outside of another shoe store.

The service is solicitous, old-fashioned. It is not hard to imagine 40 years of Salazarians marching in to be fitted for their navy double-breasted gold-buttoned jacket (still big here amongst the older bourgeoisie) while their wives head off for a hand-made pair of court shoes or gloves. Yesterday I ummed and aahed over a lovely leather handbag circa 1950 in a second-hand shop. I had no cash and walked away, knowing I would regret it. It was leather lined and made in Porto, in the north. I can only imagine the vintage treasures I could find with a bit of time. I feel a sense of loss at the thought of it.

Chris picked up a couple of suits on sale in a shop in Baixo, where we were staying. They were incredibly cheap. The store was established in 1907 and I think the original owner and his wife were still running the show. The suit was too big but no matter sir… they whipped it upstairs for a quick (and free) alteration.

We are in Barcelona now. We have a fantastic apartment, but there is street noise rising up from the street and a different scale and energy. No doubt it will be fantastic but I left my heart in Lisbon.

Three days in Paris…

What can be said about Paris that has not been said before? After this brief Barthesian moment of doubt, I return to plonking narrative.

The first day in Paris we set out late afternoon to see the Eiffel Tower. We approached from the other side of the Seine, as we were told to do, and as we turned the corner the famous structure rose up as it ought to do. Magnificent. Two women wearing Pussy Riot T-shirts and micro-shorts were dancing (badly) for cameras in the open area in front of the tower. Two sets of Japanese couples in white silk and fur outfits arrived for wedding photos. Xavier and Meiduo had green icecreams (pistachio and mint).

Watch it:

The second day we all slept in. In fact, the children are sleeping in every day. Our home here is like a ship, and it is silent in the mornings, cut off from the street and very cosy. We decided to focus on food and visit the market. Mei stayed home with her new friend Antoine, who lives next door. He is six. Chris, Xavier and I walked down Rue Charonne to the Marche d’Aligre, the famous market located in the 12th arrondissement. On the way Xavier bought an éclair, and thus vowed to eat one a day for the rest of the trip.

On the way to the market there was the normal orientation problems, followed by the normal intramarriage finger-pointing that would be familiar to our friends from home.

The market is fantastic. Outside is fruit and vegetables, and then there is the covered market replete (what can I say?) with cheeses, meatses, oilses, breadses, fishes and all manner of things once alive now recently dead and henceforth cured, dried, smoked, marinated, macerated, augmented, plucked and primped.

We spent a small fortune on fresh produce so we could save money and cook at home.

Day 3…it rained. Unlike the rest of Europe, we don’t complain about rain. We love it. We are from Perth. It doesn’t really rain anyway; it is more like drizzle, which we relish. We set off to find our friend Zhu Zhu, who is studying in Paris. We met at the Hotel de Ville, the centre of Parisian municipal leadership. At this point the pleasant drizzle was rather heavy and we ran across the Seine onto the Ile-de-Cite to experience the Gothic splendour of Notre Dame Cathedral, which both architects and engineers will be interested to know is one of the first buildings in the world to use flying buttresses.

Zhu Zhu had been many times with friends visiting Paris, but professed herself completely bamboozled and stumped by the meaning of the whole thing. It is a very Catholic place, I told her, right down to the little machines which dispense memorial coins for 1 Euro and the shop in the corner stuffed with expensive holy paraphernalia and plastic statuary, no doubt all made in China, a point which I made to Zhu Zhu and which she understood, fully.

Notre Dame is beautiful. It is to be seen, and it is worth paying 4 Euros to step into the Treasury to see the chalices and reliquaries.

Zhu Zhu found them very creepy. I have always loved the fragments of saints bones encased in gold and silver. Evidence has never been Catholicism’s strong point, which is perhaps why I was obsessed with relics when I was a child.

I was amazed to learn that the Crown of Thorns….sorry, THE Crown of Thorns is resident at Notre Dame!! It is brought into the public for only one day a year, so we were left to infer its presence.

AJA (trans: According to Julian Assange) the thorns were hidden during the French Revolution, when Notre Dame was desecrated and re-dedicated to the The Cult of Reason, and re-assembled. Notre Dame also holds a purported fragment of THE cross and a Holy Nail. Incroyable.

We are hoping to return to Notre Dame for mass on Sunday morning to hear the famous choir and organist.

Where was I? I am running out of time. Chris and I are heading off to Belleville and it is 4 stops away.

More later …

 

Finally the children are asleep.  We ought to be too but this is the only time we get to potter about. For dinner Meera made us a great chicken curry and okra and naan and home-made mango chutney.

Breakfast was pawpaw, mango, home-made yoghurt and potato paratha.  Delicious.

After another slow start (Xavier slept till 10) Ravi drove us to the Doll Museum, against the recommendation of our lovely host Meera. Ravi informed us we were the first guests in five years to have requested a visit.  I love a run-down Museum where the exhibitions were opened 30 years ago and have not been changed since.  I was quite taken by a Russian cosmonaut doll, and by the Australian collection, with the cork hat and the black fellas kitch reinforced a few cultural stereotypes.

However, the collection is a vast and dusty display organised along national and ethnic lines, and includes some wonderful folk art and fabulous dioramas of the moon landing, and scenes from the Ramayana. Xavier’s favorites were the Bulgarian and Japanese collection; Mei was taken with the groovy French girls in swirling Pucci-esque body suits with fur bell-bottoms. We were invited to wait for the book shop to open in the air-conditioned comfort of the Children’s Book Library on the second floor of a wonderful cement 1960s building with wooden interiors.  The library had a wall of old blond wood card index boxes and was peopled by a few old men.  Entrance is free and it is a reading room for all. There was a lovely marble bust of Lenin and a little diorama.

The Museum was set up by a famous political cartoonist who collected dolls: K. Shankar Pillai (1902-1989)

(from WIki) The Museum was ready in 1965 and it was inaugurated by the then President of India, Dr. S. Radhakrishnan, who appropriately named the building, ‘Nehru House’ after the late Prime Minister. The Museum started with a thousand dolls. Between 1965 and 1987 another five thousand were added-a vast majority coming as gifts. Today the volume has increased to 6,500 exhibits from almost eighty-five countries, giving it a truly international character.

The Museum is listed in the itinerary of all visitors to Delhi. Some of the important dignitaries who have visited the Museum and recorded their appreciation are: U. Thant, the then Secretary General of United Nations, Madame Tito of Yugoslavia, Queen Frederika of Greece, the Queen of Thailand, the sister of Shah of Iran (!!), the wives of the President of Mexico and Indonesia, of the Prime Ministers of Poland and South Korea and the UN Secretary General and cultural delegations from many countries.

http://www.childrensbooktrust.com/sicc.htm

As we drove down the busy road from the Museum we passed the building of The Times of India banner. I was annoyed that I could not get a picture, and could not go back as the road was too busy.

Later in the day we went to a couple of bookstores in Khan Markets (more on that later) where I picked up the collected works of Kashmiri-American poet Agha Shadid Ali (quoted earlier) for the princely sum of 350 Rps, which is about $5.  There is no tax on books in India and it is rich in titles and all kinds of bargains if you are not going to Srinigar and Ladakh for the next 2.5 months dragging your bags behind you.

I Dream It is an Afternoon when I Return to Delhi

At Purana Qila I am alone, waiting

for the bus to Daryanganj. I see it coming,

but my hands are empty.

“Jump on, jump on,” someone shouts,

“I’ve saved this change for you

for years. Look!”

A hand opens, full of silver rupees.

“Jump on, jump on.” The voice doesn’t stop.

There’s no one I know. A policeman,

handcuffs silver in his hands,

asks for my ticket.

I jump off the running bus,

sweat pouring from my hair.

I run past the Doll Museum, past

headlines on the Times of India

building, PRISONERS BLINDED IN A BIHAR
JAIL, HARIJAN VILLAGES BURNED BY LANDLORDS.

Panting, I stop in Daryaganj,

outside Golcha Cinema.

Sunil is there, lighting

a cigarette, smiling. I say,

“It must be ten years, you haven’t changed,

it was your voice on the bus!”

He says, “The film is about to begin,

I’ve bought an extra ticket for you,”

and we rush inside:

Anarkali is being led away,

her earrings lying on the marble floor.

Any moment she’ll be buried alive.

“But this is the end,” I turn

toward Sunil. He is nowhere.

The usher taps my shoulder, says

my ticket is ten years old.

Once again my hands are empty.

I am waiting, alone, at Purana Qila.

Bus after empty bus is not stopping.

Suddenly, beggar women with children

are everywhere, offering

me money, weeping for me.

The poem appears in his collection The Half-Inch Himalayas.

Agha Shahid Ali: Stationery The moon did not become the sun. It just fell on the desert in great sheets, reams of silver handmade by you. The night is your cottage industry now, the day is your brisk emporium. The world is full of paper. Write to me. “Stationery” is from The Half-Inch Himalayas (Wesleyan University Press, 1987).