Me standing in front of the plaque denoting that Clovis Vincent practiced neurosurgery in this batiment (pavilion) at the (then) Pitie Hospital. 11/27/09
Borrowed from another piece:
The Air France flight was smooth. I arrived very early, the morning of November 22.
Let it suffice that I became a “subway rat”, running from Metro to Metro, with my self-made map in hand. Jose had guided me around back in 01; I’d muddled my way through in 00; and I did so, again. Food was not essential (with the exception of the celebratory meal at the Closerie des Lilas on the tenth anniversary of my mother’s passing [which had me running back to the hotel and lying, prone, watching CNN International just as the Tiger Woods story was breaking: a half-bottle of red wine; and steak tartare? A no-no.]) Clothing: well, I did rediscover Le Mouton a Cinq Pattes; found Kookai too expensive; and—yes!—H&M, Trend—which I could no longer get in D.C. I also did a little window shopping at Galeries Lafayette and at Le Printemps. Jewelry: I was able to afford a pair of earrings at The Parthenon (it had been three necklaces for about $150 in 01). Gibert Joseph: a little purchasing.
Most of my time, however, I spent at the Louvre, which I hadn’t seen since I was seventeen (I kept returning to the Carrousel du Louvre on a regular basis; especially after I’d discovered the parfumiers, Fragonard!); the Musee d’Orsay (too much construction); the Musee des Arts Decoratifs (where the Madeleine Vionnet exhibit beckoned, almost as if on cue!); the Jewish Museum (which I found very interesting—I wish it hadn’t been raining so much as I explored the Marais)…and what made the trip for me: the Musee Rodin.
I’d tried getting into the Pompidou Center…twice. On strike: only the French…A brief outing on the Champs Elysees: too cold. No Montmartre: quel dommage! Le Quartier Latin: off and on. Cluny: I’d already done that in 00 and in 01. L’Hotel des Invalides: I’d already done that in 00. No Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame: I’d done those with Jose in 01. No Pantheon (I think I went there in 00.) At least, I’d salivated at the rue du Mouffetard my first groggy day. (And the Closerie constituted Montparnasse.)
However, it was the Musee Rodin—apart from exploring my parents’ hospitals—that made the trip for me. And it was sunny that Thursday: so sunny my digital camera didn’t allow me to snap all the outside pictures! I didn’t wander the gardens beyond Le Penseur and the Burghers of Calais, though: again, too cold.
Inside, however, I discovered a world I did not know existed. I’d seen a version of Camille Claudel’s Le Mur at D’Orsay; and wondered, “Who’s the artist?” Being exposed to her work—in a room to itself—kept me returning, over and over. I couldn’t believe I’d never really been exposed to her (or didn’t think I had)—only to Rodin.
It just so happened that my little hotel with its grandiose name of “Le Grand Hotel des Gobelins” is almost right around the corner (well, a bit of a walk) from the Boulevard de l’Hopital, where one finds the mega-complex that is now known as the Pitie-Salpetriere. It was there that my father learned neurology; neuropathology; and neurosurgery. Jose and I had briefly explored it back in 01; but we were primarily interested with finding the neuropathologist Professeur Hauw so that I could hand over my father’s booklets containing formulae and notes he had learned from his teacher, the renowned neuropathologist, Don Pio del Rio Hortega. It was a comfort to have the Pitie-Salpetriere so close! My mother often spoke about the Gare d’Austerlitz, the train station close by. She never told me about the Pitie-Salpetriere’s chapel, though.
On a very cold Friday—armed with my new H&M coat and a stylish tartan-like beret/cloche hat—I stepped forth to locate, first, L’Hopital Broca, where my mother had served her first rotation in General Surgery. Conveniently enough, it was also situated in the 13th arrondissement (though I had to walk in the opposite direction). I kept looking; and looking; until I found it: a small modern hospital with the shell of a medieval monastery on its side, fronting a garden. As with all the hospitals I encountered, there was obviously an attempt at historical preservation; if not, downright, restoration. I took its picture; and then headed back whence I’d come—past my little hotel—to the Boulevard de l’Hopital, where the Pitie-Salpetriere complex is to be found.
Now this was not quite as neat and tidy as the Broca! For, it is massive; with paved paths; dirt routes; hills; and signs. Signs, everywhere! I decided to veer to the left, first, where I soon encountered—around a rather long curve—the pathway leading to the Salpetriere’s chapel. (It is otherwise known as “L’Hospice de la Salpetriere.”)
Let me backtrack a bit: I’d been fiddling with the camera. For some reason, I could only produce black and white pictures, now! And, actually, I’d begun my explorations down the central path (of what must have originally been the Pitie). And…I’d seen the batiments (pavilions) with plaques on them denoting that Vincent had worked in one; and Babinski, in another. I was so thrilled! And, fortunately, I found a nice man to take my picture in front of the Vincent plaque.
And it was then that I’d decided to round the curb; and had found myself walking down that path toward the chapel. All French hospitals appear to have one: always distinguished by its cross spiraling toward the sky.
I’m not a religious person by nature (though, spiritual); and I felt I was intruding a bit. However, curiosity got the better of me; and I entered what turned out to be a beautiful chapel; with various altars; beautiful murals; and row upon row of votive candles! The place was nearly deserted; so I felt emboldened and took some pictures (still in black and white; which I found gave them a special historical glow). There were a number of flyers scattered about: I collected them all. I finally stumbled into someone praying; and backed away as gracefully as I could.
The image of the chapel stayed with me long after I’d departed. I walked back down that long curve; wandered around here, there (and even went into a building!)—perhaps I was looking for the Bibliothèque
Charcot; where Jose and I had deposited my father’s notes back in 01? After slipping and sliding around a bit—and getting colder by the minute—I decided it was time to leave the Pitie-Salpetriere. It is truly a massive hodge-podge of buildings!
I did manage to take one more look at Vincent’s and Babinski’s batiments, though, before I took the Metro to my standby, the Quartier Latin, where I browsed through the Gibert Josephs and had an Ile Flottante at the Viennese Pastry Shop on the rue de l’Ecole de Medicine, which I had discovered back in December of 00, during my first trip back as an adult. I’d been dreaming about having one of these for years now! However, it didn’t taste as good as I remembered: perhaps I got the last, slightly stale piece of the day?
And, after wandering about a bit more, I ended up at La Creperie de Cluny—which Jose and I had frequented—before I headed back to the Gobelins.
On Saturday—oh, what fickle weather!—I returned to the Broca; for I hadn’t really taken more than one picture the day before. The sun was out enough for me to get some shots of the monastery—still in black and white—before I got on the Metro and headed toward the Laennec and the Necker; both on the rue de Sevres.
This was the special day of the trip—the day why I’d come: November 28, 2009, the tenth anniversary of my mother’s passing. No longer with tears; but with joy; I greeted this day. She was happy I was there, in her Paris. So was my father.
The weather, alas, was turning. I was able to take only outside shots of the Laennec, which must be a huge complex inside! This is where I feel my parents met; where they shared a rotation in Chest Diseases under Dr. Rist. Papers were plastered all over this (since 2000) abandoned building. What would the French do with the land, I wondered. Since the trip, a decision has been reached. Condos: no surprise. Prime real estate in the 7th arrondissement.
By the time I reached the Necker/Hopital des Enfants Malades (where my mother had externed in pediatrics), the rain was coming down. And—at some point—I pulled a toggle this way or that on the camera…and the pictures again came out in color! This happened shortly after I reached the Necker: another combination of the old and the new (with the old prominently in front; on the side fronting Les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower; in the 15th arrondissement). This part of Paris I’d actually gotten to know—around the Boulevard Pasteur—when I’d visited our great family friend, Ramon Morales, in 00 and 01.
I felt comfortable here, although I was being pelted with rain. I just kept snapping away.
At this point, I wasn’t that far from Montparnasse, where I’d be lunching at the Closerie des Lilas. Some very kind folks directed me toward the correct bus.
I’ve already talked about the lunch. The next day—recuperated, fortunately—I visited my cousin, Jacqueline. She picked me up at the hotel. It was another horribly rainy day; but I was indoors the whole time. I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome. Her husband, Michel, directed me and waited with me until the right bus came along to take me back to the Gobelins.
Monday: my last full day in Paris. I’d done the museums as best I could; shopped; perhaps not quite done justice to the sights (but it was so cold; and the weather was so unpredictable!). I had two hospitals left to explore (and this time I really was to find myself in terra incognita: in the 10th arrondissement for L’Hopital Saint-Louis; and in the 12th for the Hopital Saint-Antoine). The weather was not too bad.
I loved the 10th arrondissement! Very eclectic and ethnic; very…real. This was where my father had had his first rotation, at L’Hopital Saint-Louis, in General Surgery. I walked down the street and rounded the bend, following the road until I found the cobblestoned path that led down to the hospital. To the left, I saw old. Finally—on the right—I saw new. A banner strewn across the front of the building proudly proclaimed, “400 Years of French Medicine.”
It was what was on the left that interested me; and which I explored to the fullest. Archway after archway led to courtyard after courtyard; all flanked by the batiments! The Laennec and the Necker must be something like this. Always, the cross spiraling toward the heavens over the chapel; not too far behind the central archway.
I walked around, almost mesmerized. So this is what young Efrain first encountered as an extern; after having finished his competitive examinations! General Surgery would only be the beginning…
The weather was holding up. It was time to go visit my final hospital: L’Hopital Saint-Antoine; in the 12th arrondissement. This is where my mother had externed in Internal Medicine; after having spent two years at the Necker. From all indications, she was getting set to become a pediatrician.
Set back from the street, across from the Metro, this hospital also had its combination of the old and the new. One could notice where old buildings meshed into new ones. At its end, the modern building faced outward. In and out: very busy. A very different feel on the Right Bank than on the Left.
But L’Hopital Saint-Louis had left an indelible impression on me. Truth is, I’d begun the day by leaving a yellow rose in front of the Vincent plaque in front of his batiment at the Pitie-Salpetriere; where French neurosurgery had begun. Where my father had learned his craft.
I had wanted to go to the Musee Guimet; to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery (to pay homage to Oscar Wilde; Edith Piaf; even Jim Morrison!): there was so much I had not gotten around to doing.
By the time nightfall arrived that last evening, the rains had begun again. In earnest. I’d run, bareheaded, from the Metro to the wonderful Pho restaurant I was now experiencing for the second time.
And then I returned to Les Gobelins for—well, not the last time—for the following morning I made a mad dash through the neighborhood. I bought a half-bottle of champagne; and a half-bottle of crème de cassis. What a nice Kir this would make, I thought. Perfect for New Year’s.
And at the airport I bought a bottle of Chanel Number Five for Katharina. I had promised her I’d bring her back one.
The Air France flight back to Washington was, however, not very not eventful: it was downright turbulent! I’d never been on a 777 that, I guess, was encountering such bad winds!
