Exhausting the Place de la Contrescarpe

The Place de la Contrescarpe is a pleasant location in the 5th arrondissement, crowning the rue Mouffetard to the south, and roughly situated between the 2nd century Arènes de Lutèce to the east and Emily Cooper’s pretend apartment on Place Lacépède to the west. The rue Lacépède, rue du Cardinal Lemoine, rue Blainville and the rue Mouffetard, are spokes that spin of its hub. Encircling the gathering point in its middle are numerous cafes and restaurants.

The personality of Place de la Contrescarpe splits from day to night. The many eateries here and on the historic rue Mouffetard have been celebrated or denigrated before. My intention is to describe the rest instead, that which is not generally written about. It’s what happens when nothing else happens. Georges Perec attempted this in his book An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris with Place Saint Sulpice. Here is genuine impression of the Place de la Contrescarpe in the offseason

The sidewalk braziers are on. Their red-hot glow illuminates the daily specials.  

Couples Michelin-ing in puffer coats. Scarves 

We need scarves 

Book bags. Ruck sacks. Sacs 

Dads on bikes. Children riding pillion 

The 4 trees. Bare 

Maison la Pomme de Pin MCC. Mysterious words. Pine Cone 

Wrapped in black blankets, a homeless man is as stately as the caped Don from a bottle of Sandeman.  

Three shopping bags being taken home buy a potbellied man with a roof –  

and rundown shoes 

The fountain off, the fountain on. 

Two students pull crusty jambon beurre through their teeth 

3 teenagers talk to their teacher. 1 tall boy reads his fate from a fortune cookie –  

(no, he’s rolling a cigarette) 

Steam comes from a hidden vent in the street 

Pigeons 

Banners 

Vide Grenier – an attic sale is coming 

Colors:  grey cobblestones 

Hot pink at midday. The neon at the Bistro Italien 

A blue door. There is always a blue door. This is Hemingway’s door 

Blue paintball splat of graffiti 

The orange of the absinthe bar – Eurydice 

The sea-turquoise of Boulangerie Yvan 

Green wicker 

Red blankets, red knuckles wrapped around a café crème 

Gelato from a cup  

Yellow truck guided like a man with a massive Percheron, once, twice, around the circle –  

 and up the too-narrow rue de Blainville 

The golden retrievers. 3 

A yellow Labrador 

Black cigars, the first smokes of the day for a couple on a terrace. Russian? 

The clock is always accurate. 

Happy Hour, Happy Hour, Happy Hour…always English 

The 4 trees, dripping with Christmas stars 

The roar as you reach the top of the rue Mouffetard 

Every chair in every restaurant is full.  

Le Requin Chagrin, Le Contrescarpe, La Petit, Café des Arts, Gaston, Bistro Italien,  

Delmas 

The noise you imagine through a café window from a table wild with gesticulation. 

The incongruous silence when you realize the patrons are hearing-impaired. 

The band warming up under the dripping electric icicles, surprises you. Not playing Deck the Halls, but Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. 

Oblivious old man straddles a bollard, reading 

A bottle of Orangina 

The thumping Saturday beats from Eurydice. Impenetrable. It’s Greek to me,  

Yet the bouncers lure me. 

Impenetrable, the alley where James Joyce made his final edits on Ulysses. 

Kids with their takeaway Shwarmas 

Gustave Caillebotte lookalike disappears to the rear of l’Ile de Crete to watch football on the big screen 

Black hoodies are de rigeur 

Phones, white running shoes 

Bikes, both kinds 

Cobblestones, now damp, reflect an oil slick rainbow 

Now treacherous 

Tourists in a tricolor 2CV inching down the rue Mouffetard are not welcomed by the Saturday night throng.  

The Sunday street is reserved for pedestrians and cyclists only. Sauf 

Another Citroen, green now, dares the sign that parked cars with be towed. 

The buildings as yellow as a Van Gogh 

A kiosk appeared overnight; Uniqlo invites you to hug their thermal underwear. 

Ubiquitous gilet jaunes 

Traffic cones dayglo orange. 

A messy auburn chignon and powder-white face hearkens back to Toulouse-Lautrec 

Precariously parked camions deliver kegs of beer create a lot of racket 

And block my breakfast view  

A business shuttered behind two graffiti-ed doors, once sold spice, fruit and vegetables.  

Until the owner passed away. 

The vide grenier has arrived 

Racks of old clothes 

A man sells folding bicycles. 

Handsome men wear funky glasses and good shoes. 

Shoulder bags. 

Beethoven on a jean jacket 

The avuncular server from the Descartes is gone. 

The clock is always accurate. 

Pigeons.