“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who
make our souls blossom”
Of course I didn’t make that up. It’s one of Marcel’s quotes which, I think, sums up the glorious weekend we all had in the City of Light (and not a little rain too – just enough to make us appreciate the gorgeous blue sky on Sunday).
We all saw so much, eyes wide open and heads spinning with pages of handwriting, scrawly, spidery, crossings out, reworkings, work in progress. We looked at photographs, information, paintings – so many paintings, books, artefacts and yes, even exquisite embroidery. Painstakingly stitched and secured pearls and sparkles on fabrics woven by fairies, spun by silkworms and coloured by artists much greater than Elstir. The purple opera coat which our man from the hotel said was too heavy for his wife to wear. What a lark! As VW’s imagination might have said.
We threw ourselves into Marcel’s world of suffering and lethargy, neurotic creativity, excess, music, madness and memory.
We definitely achieved our 10,000 steps each day. And let’s not forget the food which was so central to our study (ha ha!) and sustenance. We tasted foams, pearls, shavings and aromas of fermented Iranian lemons, liquorice. We ordered perfect scallops languishing in sea salty green puddles of unctuous who knows what? Fricassee and blanquette de veau, frites and farm cheeses. And the soufflé – the melting chocolate middle of the perfect sugared cake, the framboise birthday panna cotta with only one candle to symbolise the hundreds of candles representing Toby’s circle of curious readers. The metro carriage where everyone, almost on the dot of midnight sang Bonne Anniversaire to the amazing teacher who dreams up these treats for us all. Did I say there was wine? There was. Bien sûr!!
Le Swann Hôtel Littéraire was a treasure. “I created the Sociéte des Hôtels Litttéraires to share my love of books with the thousands of visitors whom I do not know, but who, I am sure, would be happy to find an author or a book by chance on a trip to Paris.” (not to mention many other French cities) explains Jacques Letertre, President.
Monsieur L came to talk to us over tea and madeleines. He reminded me of a plump, pink, favourite uncle from Dickens. This former banker and très sérieux collector of Proust books and much more, lives in an apartment in the factory where Marcel’s favourite coffee beans were roasted. The hotel, he told us, still serves coffee from the same company. It is situated in the heart of the area where Marcel lived.
The hotel madeleines however (this is a hotel with sweet cakes and excellent breakfasts) are, he admitted, slightly more ordinary. The original moulds and recipe from Remembrance etc proved too expensive They are, trust me, perfectly delicious for the weary, sugar-deprived Proustian visitor whose head is swirling with Albertine, Charlus, Swann and Odette. They are what Francoise would have given everyone before they set off for a morning at the Bibliothèque Nationale or the Jacquemart André where, we were assured, 1000 guests could attend a soirée with no danger of one barouche crashing into another on the grand drive to the entrance.
By the way, we all had rooms with names of characters from the volumes. As probably the oldest participant, perhaps it was fitting that I was aunt Leonie….aaaargh! I must rise from my couch and exercise… and, to quote MP “try to keep a patch of sky above your life”.
Others must relate the Musée Carnavalet. I only have the delicious photos and reports from the WhatsApp group. I ran out of steam and time, filled my rucksack with mustards, fig jam and memories, hailed a taxi. No porter or Françoise to report that “Madame has gone.”
Going away with Toby on one of her magical study holidays – because, no apologies, these are holidays from everything you do and think about in real day-to-day life, is possibly a form of internet dating. You don’t know who you will meet. But you know it could work because there is a common theme. We are all Toby’s students. For me, meeting up with Proustians 1,2,3,4,5,6 – who knows how many! – was such a joy. Crossing paths with new friends who have no ‘baggage’ apart from the carry-on kind, with wheels.
Perhaps the best treat of all was getting to know some of Toby’s closest friends from when she lived in Paris. Friends who have been on life’s journeys with her and continue to light up their lives. They certainly lit up ours.
I think it was the ‘light’ in the darkest month of the year which I have taken away from our Paris adventure. The light of everyone who was so game, so generous of spirit, who, in their own unique way, added something special to our beautiful time together.
To end on a low note… I lost my Freedom Pass somewhere along the way. Quelle horreur! to arrive in the underground and no travel pass (young things won’t understand, a Freedom Pass allows geriatrics to go free on London tubes and buses.) The complications of applying for a replacement online brought me back to real life with a bump, that and having to find the fridge and something to eat. But the magic stays a little longer and I feel that Le Swann Hôtel Littéraire could be a Paris homecoming in the not too distant future. If only Scott, who is a human Google walking map of Paris, would come along too! Thank you, Scott, for always leading us in the right direction.
“My destination is no longer a place, rather a new way of seeing.”
Marcel Proust
