The Paris Riots of 1968

HOTEL DE LILLE, Paris

(This musing originally appeared in June 2013)

Paris seriously heating up, May 1968 (AFP photo)

   
    I would be hard put to choose the absolute grandest hotel I have ever known, but I would have no problem whatsoever in discerning the least grand of them all:  the Hotel de Lille. 

      It was the first hotel I discovered in France when I came in May of 1968 on what was in essence my first adult vacation trip.  My Greensboro friend and erstwhile landlord Philip had spent most of the previous year in residence there writing a book on George Sand, and his recommendation had seemed to be one of great sophistication.  

      He had explained that it was a real Parisian’s hotel, with none of that private bathtub-toilet foolishness.

Greensboro, May 1968.  The week of my departure.

     My 1968 vacation coincided with the dramatic May riots which had pretty much brought the French government of Charles de Gaulle  to its knees and the country to a standstill. 

   It was towards the end of the disturbances, and my flight from New York was one of the first to resume service.  The Parisian airport was still shut down (as well as all public transport), so we landed a couple of hours from the city at a military base, then were bused to the capital.

  

I may have been country-bumpkin green, but I was very determined, and I had no problem in finishing the last mile or so of the journey to the Hotel de Lille on foot.  Never mind the large suitcase, and I'm pretty sure mine didn't have wheels in those days.

The Latin Quarter just around the corner from my hotel (Google)

     I've always had such a bad sense of direction, I can’t imagine how I found my way.  I know I had no map, but the bus driver must have told me which street to take, and when I try to mentally retrace my steps today, I can see how the walk would have been pretty straightforward.

Frances and Martha with my father
sometime in the 1960's

     Seen from the covers of just about all the international news magazines, it looked like Paris was burning down, and both my Aunts Frances and Martha had telephoned me in Greensboro to listen to reason and cancel the trip to France.  It never occurred to me to heed their counsel, and once there, I was thrilled to be one of Paris' rare tourists.

     Arriving at my hotel, I was met by its very stout patronne, literally with open arms.  She gave all appearances of being really delighted to finally see a client after weeks of empty rooms.

     Before checking in, I persisted in trying out my Berlitz phrase whereby I requested to view the room first.  Madame David spoke no English, but she understood my request, and was only too happy to oblige.  I still remember her expression of benign bemusement, as if she were wondering --seeing me arrive with my heavy luggage and covered in sweat--  where in the world else I thought I might be going.

On the steps of a deserted Sacre Coeur (photo by ?)

     In retrospect, it was a pretty dismal hotel, run down and not even special value for the price.  It was one of the rare small Parisian hotels at that time which didn't lock up after midnight; this contributed to its sulphurous reputation, as there were plenty of comings and goings throughout the night to which the owners turned a blind eye.

An unrecocnizably chic 40 rue de Lille today

    At the time, I saw none of the downsides.  I was convinced that it embodied the "real" Paris, and I never found it anything other than folkloric and charming.   I once saw it mentioned fleetingly in a James Ivory film situated in the Paris of the 1920's, which seemed surely to be a wink of the eye to a hotel Ivory, himself, must have graced with his presence in poorer days.

 

   I always stayed at the Lille when coming over from London in 1969, then resided there for almost a month when I moved to Paris the following year.  My residency ended when someone in the hotel employ relieved me of my money which I had thought cleverly hidden in a sewn up pocket of my one-suit jacket.   This made it essential to find an immediate, salaried job. 

  The Lille was sold in the late 1970's, and like so many other little holes in the wall of questionable hygiene of the day, it was gutted and tarted up into a boutique hotel, turned into something both comfortable and relatively expensive.   Today, only the name and the address remain the same.

Fast-foward to 2013.  A mini-lobby where there was none, including complimentary laptop.  It was my first trip back in 40 years when  I stopped by recently to take a few photos.  It was a little like stumbling into a time machine.  Who could have imagined such luxury back in 1968?

Stairway leading to breakfast room, unimaginable once upon a time (but then so was the rest of my life)!

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

INTERLUDE, Hotel restaurants in the 1980’s

      

INTERLUDE, Hotel restaurants in the 1980’s  

Busy Sunday lunchtime at the Hotel Negresco's Chantecler Restaurant, Nice

      I gravitated to hotel restaurants when I was alone, because they were obviously the places most accommodating and accustomed to single diners.  As I had a clear taste for both fine food and travel, and as I have lived much of my life with no immediate family, I decided early on that there was no reason to deprive myself of some of the things that gave me the most pleasure, just because I didn’t always have someone to share them with.

   Even so, it was not always so easy to enter some of those palatial, formal dining rooms all by myself.  In the beginning there were times when I felt all eyes upon me, and sometimes they really were.

Windsor

  In the same way that some actors are said to pretend the audience is naked in an effort to overcome stage fright, I invented a game with myself, whereby in the privacy of my mind, I became a kind of latter day Duke of Windsor (I would pretend the Duchess had been delayed).    For most people it wouldn’t have been necessary, but I lacked the self confidence for the single lifestyle I sometimes chose for myself, and my make-believe games seemed to work.

(I now wonder what games the real Windsor played to "be" the Duke of Windsor!)

Poster from the novel's film version

Some years ago I came across a particularly pertinent observation in the very entertaining French novel by Maurice Drouon, “Les Grandes Familles.”  It was something to the effect that no one --no matter how old or how successful-- ever feels totally within himself that he has become an adult.

Until I read that (and I was probably reaching the mid-century mark at the time), I had somehow thought that most people DID feel the confidence of their age, and that I was one of the odd ones who continued to feel the same insecurity of their childhood. 

I suddenly understood and accepted that I was not alone, that no one was really immune to multiple insecurities.  It was when I understood this that I no longer needed the games.

End of evening with Brenda at the Hotel Shangri-la's l'Abeille restaurant, Paris

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]