The Grand Duke

Having traveled zillions of miles by road and rail, I have often found uncommon wisdom from the commonest of sources. Nowhere is that more true than here in Paris.

The basic truth is this: the further a man strays from the street, the less he understands it; the more he distances himself in the seclusion of subdivisions and condominiums, the less he knows the people; and the longer he stays that way, the less hope he has of ever rejoining and rejoicing with the still-living.

On the rare occasion when I’ve been in a position to splurge on a meal in a restaurant, but nonetheless needed to eat on the cheap, I’ve found the best advice from the people who live and/or work right on the street, not hiding from it behind desks, marble archways and stone pillars. I once spent a short time in a small city well known for its cuisine, all of which appeared at first glance to be out of my price range. Then I discovered the spot frequented by the police officers, construction workers and street sweepers—men who spend their days walking and working the streets throughout town—and had my most fabulous meal ever. I sat on a plastic chair at a plastic table and used plastic silverware to devour the most unplastic three-course meal you can imagine complete with a carafe of wine, for less than I would have spent for a Big Mac and a Coke down the street.

Here in Paris, such uncommon wisdom covers every question you’ve wanted to ask a stranger as you walked down the boulevards but didn’t dare. From the mundane (weather) to the utilitarian (directions) to the curious (what’s with the plastic green trash bags?), you’d be surprised what questions can be authoritatively addressed by n’importe qui on the street.

I wouldn’t know from personal experience, but am told that Paris taxi drivers can, on your way to a given destination, recount for you which famous aristocrats once lived at that address, where the nearest bar is, and more recently, what your chances are of finding a velib station in the neighborhood that actually has bikes late at night. But if you don’t ask, they won’t tell you.

My single favorite source of street advice is a man who goes by the name of Henri. His friends apparently also call him the Grand Duke—the Grand Duke of the Jardin du Luxembourg, that is.

On most days, Henri inhabits a bench and holds court with anyone who will listen. His audience is usually comprised primarily of the feathery riffraff so common there, but occasionally he gets the ear of a real human being. Like me.

In Henri’s world, fact and fiction melt together in a beautiful mélange of histoire as in history and histoires as in stories. He recounts the intricate details of the construction of the Sénat, retelling it as if it were yesterday, and then digresses into the sordid minutiae of the relationships, flings and escapades taking place in his environs, mostly among the characters represented in the statuary throughout the park. I heard a tale involving Saint Bathilde, former Queen of France, and Baudelaire that was almost tempting to believe, despite the millennium that transpired between the death of the former and the birth of the latter.

And if you need a cheap restaurant, Henri will point you in the right direction.