57 - The Caldwells Come to Paris

HOTEL LAUMIERE, Paris

An unchanged Parc des Buttes Chaumont, Paris 2013

      When I first settled in Paris I officially lived off the Champs-Elysées, but I worked in the 19^th Arrondisement on the edge of the city in the more village-like ambiance around the Buttes Chaumont Park.

     My office was in the apartment of Jean and Nancy, and as I explained in an earlier musing, I connected with far more people around my work address than on the more impersonal Champs-Elysées.

     Though I was barely making minimum wage, and it was never enough to quite see me through until the end of the month, I --like most all the other single people I knew in those days-- ate all my meals out.  Workdays found me generally at the Laumière, a huge, teeming, dirt-cheap restaurant within the neighborhood’s unique hotel.

Lunchtime at Hotel Laumiere 1970

     It was there that I learned the rudiments of what French food was all about.   The menu changed daily, and I remember that most of the main courses cost three francs.  It’s hard to imagine just what that would be worth today, but at the time it was about a half a dollar.  For that amount, I could choose between stuffed cabbage, beef bourguignon, grilled chicken, cow’s liver, etc.  

     Edith Caldwell had been my second grade teacher, and her son, Frank, a friend back in Aberdeen.  Frank brought his mother on a vacation to Paris in 1971, and I served as guide.

     The Caldwells stayed at the Hotel Moscow, which was ironically located on the rue Leningrad (unless it was the other way around, my memory being a little hazy on those details).

     It was still the cold war, and I recall Edith (who had a strong personality and was not above a bit of provocation) commented with a certain humor that she’d hate to see some of the Aberdeen townspeople’s reaction if they learned the name of her hotel.  The insinuation being, it didn’t always take too much to shock in a small southern town in those days.
 

Edith behatted for the Stoneybrook Races, Southern Pines 1972

     Although I had been in Paris for over a year at the time, my French was still far from accomplished.  I was fiercely motivated, however, and carried a little blue English-French dictionary around with me at all times.   It was unfortunately of limited efficiency, as it was ultra abridged, and the translations sometimes misleading.

     Jean and Nancy, who were wonderful employers and very good people, proposed I bring my friends by for a coffee at their home after lunch at the Laumière.  I was thrilled to be able to share with the Caldwells a glimpse into real Parisian life and to show how well I was integrating into the French world.  

Jean and Nancy Gauthier, rue Cavendish 1971

     Before arriving with my guests, I looked up “school teacher”, so as to introduce Edith in correct French.     The normal translation for a small child’s teacher is “maitresse d’école” or school mistress.  Only my little dictionary just left it at “maitresse"!

     A very young child just might call his teacher “Mistress”, but never, never would a grown man present a much older lady as I did: 

     “Nancy, je vous présente ma maitresse.”    

     Nancy was a professor at the Sorbonne and a no-nonsense lady.  She didn’t show any surprise, just smiled warmly, shook Edith’s hand, and without missing a beat said discreetly in French to me, “Oh, most assuredly not!”

     I immediately blushed with the realization of my faux pas, but the Caldwells were undoubtedly  never the wiser to what extent my French was so lamentably lacking.

Me (about a year away from a haircut) with Edith at the Buttes-Chaumont 1971

 

SIDEBAR:  Back to the second grade with Edith and Little Polly

Aberdeen School before the fire (photo by E.S. Eddy)

     I have particularly vivid memories of Edith Caldwell as a school teacher, because it was at the beginning of my second grade in 1949 that the Aberdeen Elementary School burned to the ground.

      It was in the dead of night, so there were no casualties.  My father was a volunteer fireman, and I remember waiting for him to return, standing outside our home with other neighborhood children at three in the morning watching the sky lit up from the blaze on the other side of town.

       Little Polly, who was also in Edith's class that year, had a much better view, as she lived just around the corner from the schoolhouse.
  

Edith at school 1950

 

Little Polly

     After the fire, Edith's second grade settled into an annex to the Baptist Church on Main Street until a new school could be constructed a year later.

     I sat on the front row next to Little Polly, and the clearest memory I have today of Edith's class is of Polly and me singing at the top of our lungs, "Frère Jacques."

     I doubt if I even realized it was French at the time, and it certainly  was not until about the time of Edith and Frank's Paris visit twenty years later that I actually began to understand the words. 

 

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

"Little Polly" and Aberdeen were also mentioned in blog No. 26 "Babe Ruth's 60th Home Run"   (to access, click on title).

56 - The Art of Eavesdropping!

CLARIDGE’S, London, THE PLAZA ATHENEE, Paris, and THE PIERRE, NYC

Claridge's lobby 1998

     I make no bones about it, I have always enjoyed eavesdropping.  When alone, it's an ideal, if not entirely reputable, pastime in hotel lobbies and restaurants.

The following  overheard conversation remains anonymous, because I never laid eyes on any of the protagonists.   I was spending Christmas in London at Claridge’s; the action took place in the room next to mine, and it was so enticing that I readily admit pressing my ear to the wall to monitor it.

A dissatisfied guest had telephoned the front desk several times to voice multiple grievances.  As her voice became louder, my curiosity increased. Her primary source of unhappiness was a missing silk scarf which she had purchased as a Christmas gift at Liberty’s of London.

“If it wasn't stolen,” she was saying to her telephone interlocutor, “then she [the maid] must have thrown it away, and in any event, I am out a scarf!"

The real Joan Rivers (Google)

  Her voice was shrill, and although I never saw her, I always imagined the sound coming from the mouth of Joan Rivers, the much-lifted television personality.

She later requested the head concierge come to her rooms, and I could hear some of their conversation clearly.  He was trying his best to placate the enraged client.   Sensing an ally, “Joan Rivers” let loose with a litany of complaints in addition to the missing scarf.

Her father-in-law had rented three suites for the extended family for the holidays, and his considerable business was, she felt, under-appreciated.  “When we arrived for dinner last night at 10 o’clock, we were told the restaurant was closed.  No apologies, no nothing, just closed,” she complained.

“Do you think anyone would have proposed opening the restaurant for us?  Is this a way to treat clients spending this much money?”

The concierge voiced repeated tut-tuts and assured her the hotel would replace the scarf with any she chose.

“But I want the one I bought, and Liberty’s is now closed for Christmas”   Her voice went from a shrieking harridan to that of a petulant child.  Though "Joan Rivers" sounded somehow calmed by the obsequious concierge, the conversation ended in an impasse.   I never heard any more, and suspected that my neighbors ultimately changed hotels. 

My heart went out to the hotel maid.  I never saw her either, but I said a silent prayer that she be spared any further harassment over the Christmas scarf drama. 

Mary and Patricia, Claridge's Housekeeping 1998
(no connection with Joan Rivers)

* * * * * * * *

As eavesdropping goes, the last lunch at the Plaza Athenée's Relais Plaza grill was a prime example:  neither beginning nor end, no plot at all, just fleeting peeks into other people's lives.  It makes me regret not having a Somerset Maugham knack for turning bits and pieces of overheard conversations into fine short stories. 

Dickie and Brenda at the Relais Plaza 2013

The Baroness d’Alésie (that is not exactly her name, but it is close enough) sits on my left, an elderly woman with a gentleman friend who much resembles the older Frank Lloyd Wright.  I pick up intriguing morsels of their conversation, though it is really a monologue as I never actually hear Frank Lloyd Wright say anything.  He just listens and nods at regular intervals.

“Very handsome, not very intelligent, mind you, not very good at being a gigolo ….” says the Baroness at one point.

“… Now she was quite another story.  You remember how very beautiful she was, that exquisite South American look with all that impeccable jewelry and such a delicious touch of nastiness mixed with her charm …”

Discussing restaurants, the baroness, still doing all the talking, comments at some point on  how she “abhors this new way everyone in restaurants always wants to touch you and kiss you.”

I can't imagine what she means, then as they begin to leave, an enthusiastic couple sitting nearby leaps up to pay its respects, the gentleman giving her the most theatrical hand-kiss I have ever seen.  It resembles a one-sided tango.

I am almost forgetting a third member of the luncheon party.  The distinguished old couple is accompanied by a perfectly behaved King Charles spaniel  who sits on a special little rug brought by the hostess and placed on the banquette beside the baroness.  I am amazed to observe a copious plate of food (looking suspiciously like grilled calves liver) has been ordered for the pampered pet who lunches beside his mistress.

I regret not having sneaked a few snapshots for posterity, but  I am not quite brazen enough to whip out my camera at times like these.  To compensate, here's a portrait of Michaela, the Relais' charming hostess.

Michaela in the Relais Plaza 2012

Playing 007 at The Pierre

Doorman at The Pierre

 If my propensity for listening in on others' lives might well be deemed a bit frivolous, my eavesdropping talents were once enlisted for an official mission more or less for the good of the people.

When I stayed at the Wyndham, where there was no food service, I would alternate breakfasts between a nearby diner and the equally nearby Pierre or Sherry Netherland hotels.

I got to know the Pierre’s breakfast room manager who arrived at my table one day with a demeanor of concern.  He explained that the hotel’s executive director was on the way to what he described as a secret meeting with a group of French businessmen.  That rumor was rife the hotel was on the verge of being taken over by a foreign conglomerate!  Thus the reason for the staff’s concern.

He would be seating the group in a little alcove next to my table.  Would it be too much to ask if I could lend an ear?  As the group was speaking French, he explained that anything I might overhear would be greatly appreciated.

For me such a request --don’t ask me why-- was something akin to an honor, and I enthusiastically lent myself to the mission.

As soon as the party came within earshot, I realized there was no question of selling the hotel, at least not that year.  They were in fact film makers from the major Paris television channel, negotiating conditions for a documentary which would give a bird’s eye view into life at three international luxury hotels, including the Pierre.

When I reported back on my 007 mission, Bruno, the maitre d’hotel-manager, appeared greatly pleased, and several of his colleagues later came by my table to relay their thanks and relief.  

I felt much the celebrity, though I no longer remember whether or not I had to pay for breakfast that day!

The Pierre at its 60th Street entrance (Bing)

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Claridge's was also mentioned in blog No. 16, "A momentous long-distance call" Dec. 2012;  Bruno at the Pierre in blog No. 19,  "Hotel staff's best and worst list" Jan. 2013; the Wyndham was featured in blog No. 35 "Hollywood on the Hudson" May 2013 (to access, click on  title).