The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone ... or Brief Encounter with Mrs. Davis

(This musing first appeared  28 August 2012)

HOTEL MEURICE, Paris

Mrs. Davis 1970

    I probably wouldn’t remember her at all today, were it not for the photo still hanging on the wall.   Mrs. Davis is a quirky little memory from my earliest and poorest days in Paris, and she gave me my first peek at the Hotel Meurice.

     I have always been interested in taking photos, though never motivated to learn anything on the technical side.  As a result, my pictures are more often than not quite unsatisfying, but when I manage to eliminate 99 percent of them, I end up with a few that are more or less what I was hoping to attain.

Vintage me (photo by Ann Gazères)

     In 1970, I had rented a small room in a large apartment off the Champs-Elysées.  It was just around the corner from the Hotel Plaza Athenée, though I didn’t know that at the time. It was a ridiculous neighborhood for a poor person to live in, but I didn’t really know that either. 

     I had just found a job which consisted of typing English and French translations of what I think were missile specifications.  They were destined for some middle eastern government, were certainly incomprehensible in any language, and my fairly liberal politics of the period didn’t go so far as interfering with my minimum wage paycheck.

                                                                                             

     One Saturday morning I was walking about the neighborhood when I saw a glamorous older woman, elegantly dressed in what I now imagine was a designer suit and a snazzy wide-brimmed hat, with a tiny chihuahua cuddled next to her bosom.  She was strolling up the Avenue François Premier, looking to my mind very much like the latter day Vivien Leigh whom I had recently seen at the Cinémathèque in “The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone.”  

  

A young Tennessee (Google)

       My Mrs. Stone turned into a local café, and as she entered, two young Mediterranean men reached over simultaneously from either side to pet the little dog.  It was  a provocative gesture, and it reinforced my association with  the Tennessee Williams novella.

     I was both timid and brazen in those days, depending on the moment, and perhaps on how much wine I had consumed (ultimately a bit of a problem that I came to terms with while still young).  I approached Mrs. Stone, who turned out to be Mrs. Davis, an American resident in Paris.  I explained I’d like to take her photo.

     “Are you with a magazine?”  Unfazed, appearing to me the epitome of sophistication.

     I then had to explain what must have seemed odd, that I didn’t actually have my camera with me.  As it turned out, Mrs. Davis was very pleasant, as well as patient, and said if I would hurry, she’d wait with her coffee until I returned with camera.

     I did take the picture which is the one above. She said she lived at the Meurice Hotel across from the Tuileries Gardens (as did Salvador Dali that year), and suggested I could perhaps drop a copy off there.

Salvador Dali (Google archives photo)

     I’m sure I had never heard of the Meurice in those faraway days, but probably didn’t admit it.   The following week I went there with my folder of photos, hoping she would be there and thinking she might become some sort of glamorous friend.  When I entered, the hotel was so unexpectedly grand that I was seized with a kind of stage fright, and I hurriedly left them for her at the desk.  

     I never saw Mrs. Davis again, but I’ve always kept her picture, framed with others all these years in my bathroom.  It was the first time I had ever set foot in a Parisian Palace hotel.    It took me a few years, but I soon made up for lost time.

Entering The Meurice today

click above to enter My 1970 Paris Album

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

[Photos are mine unless otherwise credited]

Next: "Sunday Lunch at The Carthage Hotel ..."

3 - Peggy’s Trip to Paris 1972

HOTEL MEURICE, Paris

Restaurant Dali, Hotel Meurice 2012

   
        I had another encounter with the Hotel Meurice in those early days.  There remain only a few memory fragments, it was so long ago.  I think the reason I haven’t completely forgotten is that making my life and learning about life in Paris was of inordinate importance to me at that time.  My dream from the earliest moments here was to somehow become a Parisian.

Martha circa 1970

 Aunt Martha (true to my father’s grim predictions about squandering money) had somewhat fallen on hard times by the 1970’s.  Having reached retirement age, she found herself sufficiently in need of money to go back to work in the accounting department of a local gift soap emporium where she befriended Peggy, a college student working there during summer vacation.

Soon afterwards, Peggy decided on a trip to Paris, and Martha insisted she look me up.

She was traveling with an older woman as sort of a traveling companion.  I didn’t quite understand their relationship, other than Peggy had a strong, loudish, not very appealing personality, and it was clear that the other lady was footing the bills. I wasn't very taken with either of them.   I was invited for drinks at the Meurice where they were staying, a world I was still singularly unused to, but no longer intimidated by either.

We had a drink at the Meurice’s rooftop bar.  I’m glad I went, because that open-air terrace no longer exists --except, I believe, in one of the presidential penthouse suites-- and I fondly remember the impressive view of the Tuileries Gardens and the Place de la Concorde.

Painting of the Tuileries Gardens by Jules Herve

I was still quite poor.  I had moved from my Champs Elysées room to a minuscule studio apartment with toilet on the landing; I was young, and I had  friends who were equally poor, and life in my adopted city seemed close to perfect. 

 (It’s odd how many times over the years bits and pieces of Peggy and of that evening have passed through my mind, even though I hardly remember her face anymore.) 

She suddenly announced she was so smitten with Paris that she, too, was going to find a way to move here.

Yours Truly, 1971 (photo Ann Gazères)

In the decades I’ve lived in France, I have seen so many Americans arrive to make their lives here, only to throw up their arms in exasperation or anger a few months or a few years later.  It is not easy to learn a new language and understand another culture, and accept such a different way of life all at the same time.  

I was just about to warn her that life might not be quite so glamorous in a more humble neighborhood far from the Meurice.  She pre-empted my comments, by adding:  “And I wouldn’t dream of living in any other neighborhood than right here on the rue de Rivoli, and I would need at least 1000 square feet to house my furniture, and …."

You can fill in the blanks.   I have forgotten the details, but she continued to list just about everything that would make  living comfortable in, say, Palm Beach, and assuming Paris would naturally have to accommodate all of those American necessities.

I realized I would never have to worry about seeing Peggy settle in Paris, and of course she never did. 

The Meurice Reception Staff 2012

* * * * * * *

 

SIDEBAR:  PARIS’ BEST HAMBURGER 

The New York Times last year decreed the hamburger at the Meurice Hotel’s Dali Restaurant the best in Paris.

I did try it, and I did enjoy it.

If not absolutely the best in the world (Brenda and I find unbeatable  the more modestly priced cheeseburger at P.J. Clarke’s on 3rd Avenue in NYC), it is nevertheless very tasty, albeit among the most expensive. 

  

 Next week I’ll be talking about another memorable hamburger, one from the Weylin Hotel in New York in 1954.  That one cost at least ten times the price back in Aberdeen.  Today’s prize winning burger at the Meurice goes for just about ten times the price at a French MacDonald’s.    Not that the two are comparable.

In addition to Salvador Dali, who elected winter residence in the old royal suite for the last thirty years of his life, the hotel has boasted guests ranging from Mata Hari to the Shah of Iran to Franklin D. Roosevelt, though not at the same time.  More comtemporary patrons include pop icons Madonna and Beyonce.

After many years of discreet decline, The Meurice is today back in tip-top form and a model of European elegance.  Already in 1935, the French poet Léon-Paul Fargue, known for his bon mots, divided Parisian hotels into three categories:  “poor, good and the Meurice!”

(photo:  The Sunday Herald Sun)

 

... When Salvador Dali reigned supreme

My friend Joel Fletcher, art dealer in Fredricksburg, Virginia, author and grand raconteur, tells an amusing story situated in the Meurice at just about the same time that I discovered it. 

He recounted it beautifully in his blog “Beating Austerity in the Kitchen” (beatingausterity.blogspot.com).   It’s about Salvador Dali and the Countess von Oldekop-Auberjonois.  If you are curious, here is a link to his blog (but don’t forget to come back to mine next week): 

http://beatingausterity.blogspot.fr/search?q=Meurice

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

Next Friday:  "A Two-Dollar Hamburger Under A Silvery Dome"

[photos are mine unless otherwise credited] 


 

1 - The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone (or Brief Encounter With Mrs. Davis)

HOTEL MEURICE, Paris

Mrs. Davis 1970

         I probably wouldn’t remember her at all today, were it not for the photo still hanging on the wall.   Mrs. Davis is a quirky little memory from my earliest and poorest days in Paris, and she gave me my first peek at the Hotel Meurice.

I have always been interested in taking photos, though never motivated to learn anything on the technical side.  As a result, my pictures are more often than not quite unsatisfying, but when I manage to eliminate 99 percent of them, I end up with a few that are more or less what I was hoping to attain.

Vintage me (photo by Ann Gazères)

In 1970, I had rented a small room in a large apartment off the Champs-Elysées.  It was just around the corner from the Hotel Plaza Athenée, though I didn’t know that at the time. It was a ridiculous neighborhood for a poor person to live in, but I didn’t really know that either. 

I had just found a job which consisted of typing English and French translations of what I think were missile specifications.  They were destined for some middle eastern government, were certainly incomprehensible in any language, and my fairly liberal politics of the period didn’t go so far as interfering with my minimum wage paycheck.

                                                                                             

One Saturday morning I was walking about the neighborhood when I saw a glamorous older woman, elegantly dressed in what I now imagine was a designer suit and a snazzy wide-brimmed hat, with a tiny chihuahua cuddled next to her bosom.  She was strolling up the Avenue François Premier, looking to my mind very much like the latter day Vivien Leigh whom I had recently seen at the Cinémathèque in “The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone.”  

A young Tennessee (Google photo)

 My Mrs. Stone turned into a local café, and as she     entered, two young Mediterranean men reached over simultaneously from either side to pet the little dog.  It was  a provocative gesture, and it reinforced my association with  the Tennessee Williams novella.

 I was both timid and brazen in those days, depending on the moment, and perhaps on how much wine I had consumed (ultimately a bit of a problem that I came to terms with while still young).  I approached Mrs. Stone, who turned out to be Mrs. Davis, an American resident in Paris.  I explained I’d like to take her photo.

“Are you with a magazine?”  Unfazed, appearing to me the epitome of sophistication.

I then had to explain what must have seemed odd, that I didn’t actually have my camera with me.  As it turned out, Mrs. Davis was very pleasant, as well as patient, and said if I would hurry, she’d wait with her coffee until I returned with camera.

I did take the picture which is the one above. She said she lived at the Meurice Hotel across from the Tuileries Gardens (as did Salvador Dali that year), and suggested I could perhaps drop a copy off there.

Salvador Dali (Google archives photo)

I’m sure I had never heard of the Meurice in those faraway days, but probably didn’t admit it.   The following week I went there with my folder of photos, hoping she would be there and thinking she might become some sort of glamorous friend.  When I entered, the hotel was so unexpectedly grand that I was seized with a kind of stage fright, and I hurriedly left them for her at the desk.  

I never saw Mrs. Davis again, but I’ve always kept her picture, framed with others all these years in my bathroom.  It was the first time I had ever set foot in a Parisian Palace hotel.    It took me a few years, but I soon made up for lost time.

Entering The Meurice today

click to enter My 1970 Paris Album

[Photos are mine unless otherwise credited]

Next week: "Sunday Lunch With Grandmother Pleasants ..."