Ida Nasatir writings   List of honorees         Louis Rose Society         Jewishsightseeing home

Travel Piece  by Ida Nasatir

"A Letter from Paris" by Ida Nasatir, September 8, 1950

September 8, 1950—Ida Nasatir, "A Letter from Paris," Southwestern Jewish Press, pages 2, 22:   August 5, 1950, Dear Julia and Mac: I'm sure Victor Hugo was correct when he once said: "Whoever regards Paris profoundly is seized with vertigo—there is nothing more fantastic, nothing more tragic, nothing more superb." One  has only to look at Paris from a high roof at night, to know this is true.  In the short time we have been here, I have come to know that Paris is a city of amazing extremes, of strange contrasts, of diverse interests, and the quaintest occupations imaginable. There seems to be the life of a dozen cities here. It was into one of these strange worlds of Paris that I strolled today, and it was a revelation. This world of old booksellers and dealers in antiques is worth writing about. I think all foreign prowlers are fascinated by the stalls along the quays, where idlers have thumbed old books for a hundred years. Picturesque old fellows doze under the trees and women sit on camp stools knitting and gossiping, with one eye out for a sale. And among the rubbish they sell, there are occasional finds, so people say.  Here is a good place to enjoy being sentimental about the past. You thumb through the works of some 18th Century divine and wonder what the world could have been like when people found the Bible interesting, and wrote books about it. In charge of one of these book stalls I spied a dealer who must have been eighty or more years old. What with his great white beard, and odd attire, he could have been cast as a Flying Dutchman. I'm sure he was the only genuine antique in the stall.  I could not buy him, though he was worth collecting. That is, I thought he was, until another very odd looking fellow came up and said, "I've lived here a long time, and the person you are staring at—he is intelligent enough, the poor old fellow, but he has lost his compass, he has a mosquito in his upper story!" And the explainer made buzzing circles with his thumb in front of his ear, no doubt to emphasize just how "bad the mosquito was." I moved on to another stall. All along the quay the curious prowler will find more prints than any other place in the world. Prints for the enthusiastic lover of old ships, for those who like nature scenes or caricatures of Napoleon, or outrageously jolly ones suitable for a bachelor's bathroom. It is highly unlikely, however, that along this mile of open-air book market and curiosity collections, you will ever come across a Rembrandt etching. Still it's fun to try. I had not realized how many hours I had spent along the quay. It was getting late and chilly, so I followed the Seine, past more musty old book stalls, past the Rue Voltaire, past the Quai Dorsay, and so on to the famous Place de la Concorde. The great square in all its majestic beauty lay before me. Instinctively I stopped—then went on slowly, as though unconsciously paying homage to this place of many memories. I remember what my history books had told me about this place.  Here had once loomed the great, stark guillotine, here the unhappy Charlotte Corday was beheaded and Marie Antoinette paid her life's tribute. Here Robespierre ruled and gave orders—what tremendous historical scenes took place on this very spot I now stood! Those were havoc making days. If you stand on this place through the coming twilight, if you recall its role in the French revolution, you too relive those dreadful scenes in all their horrible reality. It's as if you sweep aside the present for a few moments and are set down among that howling, bloodthirsty mob of long ago.  When I returned home, I said to Abe: "pardon me, but I walked to this hotel clear from the 18th Century!" —Love, Ida.