Airport Dog

Airport Dog (Iceland)

As I lugged my one piece of carry-on luggage around—a rather dated but still functional suitcase that had a strap and was made out of soft cloth material, I spied the airport dog happily going around checking pieces of luggage for whatever it was he was trained to sniff out. He wasn't terribly busy, owing to the deserted airport on that cold November morning. I called him over to have a look at my bag, to give him something to do, and also in the hope that I'd be able to spend some time with the dog. He dragged his trainer—a uniformed security person with a gun—over to my suitcase and gave it a perfunctory once-over. He wasn’t interested in lingering, being on the clock, so I let him go his way. He was a smallish golden retriever, and had an amiable face that showed a joy in doing this work, and doing it well. His trainer, who was probably allowed to bring the dog home, was justifiably proud of the animal.

Paris

In Paris I was seated at a computer terminal in the huge national library. This place was built as a colossal monument to French history and culture. Following its timeline, I saw that it encompassed collections starting with kings who ruled in the sixth century, A.D., gathered steam through the more recent times, and now was a juggernaut of cultural wealth, a colossus that trumpeted the history of France from giant towers that loomed skyward, connected by endless and wide corridors. Serious academics flocked here, talked about serious things and their research. Everywhere the tones were hushed, the conversations whispered, as if in a sacred cathedral. I was checking my email.

I’d come to this place, had traveled from a not very well-regarded city on the east coast of the United States, had hopped the Metro with the silent and cold Parisians, and had taken a seat here with my day-pass that allowed me access to the “salles de lecture,” or “reading rooms.” This particular one was for those studying economics and law, and I saw the young students with their notebooks open, graphs depicting some complicated trend or other, or consulting the computer screens for yet more information in their quest for knowledge. I looked at the many responses I’d gotten for my online advertisement to produce a video to the song by my departed idol, Edith Piaf. “This is research, too,” I told myself, “Even if it’s not what they really had in mind when they set this whole thing in motion.”

Many cameramen and video producers had answered my call, in very proper French, and had all included resumes and links to their work. I had my pick of some very talented people, finally whittled the selection down to a man named David, who had worked extensively in Los Angeles and was fairly fluent in English. This was a bonus, as it was going to be hard enough to shoot the video, without having to give instructions in my limited French. I took down his information, put it into the cheap notebook I’d bought at one of the papeteries downtown, and scrolled through the responses for Marie Trottoir, the streetwalker who would be the focus of the production. So far, no one had expressed any interest in playing the leading role. Without her, there would be no video.

With my work on the internet completed, I walked around the library a little, thinking that maybe there was more to this place than just computer terminals. “They probably have other stuff here,” is what I said to myself. I came across an exhibition room downstairs that had the works of Gaston Leroux, a journalist and novelist previously unknown to me. I looked at his life, his works, saw what he was all about. Then I watched a few short films based on some of his works. These little films are a big part of French culture, and they seem to include them wherever an important exhibit takes place.
I wrote down the author’s name in my tattered little notebook, then wandered down the immense corridor to see what else the place had to offer. Soon I came across the audio-visual room, to which my day pass also gave me access. I looked at the rows of videos and compact discs, and knew immediately that they would have the entire works of Edith Piaf in that place. I soon found them—each compact disc true to the original album as it had appeared. These were not merely collections pieced together, like I had back home; it was the true chronology of her work. I took most of them to the front desk, explained that I was new to the process, and could I please listen to the selections. There were no CDs inside; rather, you were assigned a terminal in the immense room, and it was set up for you to use. Then you merely typed in the code on the CD case, and the whole contents of the music CD appeared on the screen and began playing. You could skip around if you wanted to, listen to some selections and ignore others.

While I was there, I also explored the many other names in French music I’d heard of but did not know: Juliette Greco, Serges Gainsbourgh, and some other person whose name did not ring a bell. I found them all equally awful, did not know how they’d come to be loved by so many listeners, nor how they’d become classics. I found one piece written for Juliette Greco, “Je Suis Comme Je Suis,” (I am how I am), especially odious. I found later during my visit, in another part of Paris, that the song had been written by a creative genius by the name of Jacques Prevert. There was yet another exhibit, with films, devoted to the man and his life. But that’s for another time. Now I was listening to Piaf and her songs, and many of them I’d never heard before. I put the comfortable headphones back on their special shelf, placed the CD covers on a table to be re-shelved later, and headed outside into the chilly November air. I would have a croque monsieur for dinner, maybe, and perhaps stop at one of the cafes I’d taken a liking to. One thing was certain: There would be a fresh crepe a la confiture d’abricot for dessert. I was crazy about my apricot crepes. With the sun setting on the cold city of Paris, I exited the hallowed halls of the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand. The crowded and steamy metro awaited me. Line number Fourteen, the newest one in the system, would take me almost directly back to my neighborhood near the Place de l’Opera.