The Boulodrome In the Luxembourg Gardens
A Little Pétanque?
Looking For the Boulomanes
By Richard Erickson
Paris Kiosque - November 1999 - Volume 6, Number 11
Copyright (c) 1999 Richard Erickson - used with permission
Being existential
is being here and now. This not my 'philosophy' but
a way of saying I can't remember when it was
raining. Was it last week?
Whenever it was, it is
not raining today. An Azores high has pushed into France
and is holding the northwest lows at bay; over Britain
and Ireland if they're unlucky. Paris has topless blue sky
and in the afternoon it is nearly warm.
My 'nearly
warm' may be your cozy and I make sure I
am cozy too by overdressing. The sun is much lower
at midday so there are many more long and deep
shadows. If there is a breeze in one of these
I don't want to get it in the neck.
On
this bonus of a brightness day I am on my
way to inspect the 'color-of-the-leaves' situation in the
Luxembourg gardens. It is astonishing how long they are dragging
out staying green and staying attached to trees in Paris
this year.
Unlike regular bowling, 'boulistes' wear street shoes, play
on dirt.
Sometimes in late August they turn brown -
not colors - and gravity pulls them off. This year
it is like the birds have been going around at
night taping them on - but this is silly; you
never see birds in shops buying jumbo rolls of sticky
tape.
Of course, I am not going directly to the
Luxembourg even though I am not in the same mystery-writer
mood as last week when I was idling around Bagnolet.
No. This week I have a new address of what
is probably an old gallery in the Rue Montparnasse.
The
most direct way I know to the Rue Montparnasse is
not the start at the exit of the métro at
Edgar Quinet, but start at the beginning of the Rue
de la Gaité, where all the theatres are, and restaurants,
and peep-show parlors.
The sun is pouring through Gaité
like liquid; but it's sleaze stands up to this inquisition.
The Rue de la Gaité is probably more sleazy when
dark, when the imagination is free to add all sorts
of sordid details.
There is a lot of decor
on Gaité which must be invisible
at night. Take 'La
Comédie Italien' for example. It was being repainted during the
summer and now it is a golden jewel.
Across Edgar Quinet, in the Rue Montparnasse
I find the retirement home of the 'Artists' at this
new gallery's street address. I know this building but I
don't know what it is, so I get through its
barriers and ask at the guardien's apartment.
It's a city
deal; public housing for retired artists. I am too young
to get in, but the waiting list is two years
long. If I sign up now, I may get a
subsidized flat when I need it. As an address, the
Rue Montparnasse sounds snazzy, but it is too close to
the boulevard for weekend peace. I don't sign up.
The
art gallery is right there too. It looks like an
abandoned shop; the guardien tells me it is only open
Tuesday afternoons and evenings. I make a note of it
- nothing wrong with part-time galleries.
Instead of crossing the
boulevard and heading straight down to Raspail, I switch to
the right to go and see if Philippe is behind
the bar of Le Select. I am scouting for a
fall-back café in case La Corona doesn't work. There's no
Philippe to be seen anywhere, but Le Select will do.
It has
it's afternoon sun too, but won't later in the
year since the height of La Coupole across the boulevard
was raised.
Turning left around Le Select puts me on
Raspail and allows me to walk past the discount-clothing place
which has a line of eager buyers outside waiting for
it to reopen. In the big grownup city of Paris,
places do close for lunch. 'La Bouffe' comes before business.
Serious boules players are called 'boulomanes.'
Then - I'm really
still going to the Luxembourg - I just about pass
the Alliance Française when I see it has something like
the 'Théâtre du Monde,' which I think has been mentioned
in Metropole's 'Scene.' It needs a checkout.
This allows me
to shortcut through the building, a courtyard and through another
building, to the Rue de Fleurus and go past Gertrude
Stein's old place and more or less - I look
at cafés, at hotels, at the light - straight along
to the Fleurus entrance of the Luxembourg.
Which is where
I expect to find the pétangue courts, but don't. I'll
look around; I can't believe they aren't here someplace.
There
are a lot of people sitting in the sunny parts
of the gardens, in these well-tended theme areas which are
decorated with all the statues, where the grass looks like
it has been painted green and the flowers hand-painted too.
There is lots of light and lots of shade.
It is Wednesday, so there are lots of little kids
too. Some are playing basketball, and a big crowd of
them are in the closed-off play area, while their moms
or minders have got their park chairs placed in patches
of sunlight.
Just beyond is the pétanque pitch. There is
less direct sun here so there are few spectators, but
it is about two-thirds full of players.
Unlike checkers, which
is a game, pétanque or boules is a sport. Not
all the players are of retirement age, but all of
them are very focused on what they are doing. They
are tossing metal cannon balls at a little wooden ball,
inside a dirt-surfaced area surrounded by a 30-centimetre high board
fence, which is inside of a low, wire loop-loop park-fence.
For some reason, pétanque is associated with hot summer and
the Canebière in Marseille, although there are a good 40
boules pitches in Paris. This one in the Luxembourg is
particularly shady as long as the leaves are still on
the trees.
It is considered to be more of a
players' than a spectators' boulodrome, with
its three
distinct pitches. To play regularly one should get a park
sports' membership. Its association name is ASJL and a year's
membership costs about 200 francs. This permits having insurance, which
is important when there are a lot of little kids
not far away.
To me, all boules look like identical
cannon balls; but not to the 'boulistes.'
This does not
mean there are loose cannon balls flying all over the
place. Metal balls are tossed at other metal balls and
sometimes the balls are just pushed away from the marker
- but they can ricochet too - as I hear
them thud into the board barrier - whack!
While the
sport in the Luxembourg is reputed to be relaxed, over
at Nation there is cash money on the games; which
means sometimes heated disputes, and since it is not in
a park play can continue until two in the morning
- plus there are handy cafés near the pitch -
like in Marseille.
There are other places with handy cafés
too, such as in Les Halles, near the Bourse de
Commerce. There, the café Le Comptoir organizes tournaments and provides
refreshments. The Arènes de Lutèce are less formal, and the
cafés are further away. The members of the Joyeux Boulomanes
des Buttes-Chaumont have their own club café.
It is true
that there are cafés within the Luxembourg gardens but none
are close to the boulodrome, and on the Rue Guynemer
just outside the gate in the park fence, there are
no cafés I remember. Also, the park is closed for
the night, so there are no late sessions.
I walk
around and look at the small kiosk that passes for
a clubhouse. It has lists of names and scores and
not much else. The dirt of the court closest to
the street has not even been played on; its rake-tracks
are clearly undisturbed.
When the leaves fall, they have to
be swept from the pitches and if the season is
an usual fall and the leaves are in a falling
mood, they must be annoying to players. But this fall
they are hanging on, up high above.
The pitches are
about square and in two of them the players are
generally playing crosswise, while in another one the players are
up and down. Boules can be played across country on
a dirt road; the players only watch the balls.
In
fact the balls appear so identical, that you have to
watch them like a hawk to know whose is whose.
After they have been bopped around a bit, only the
players can keep track of them.
The players always watch
the balls. They might look up after a game after
they've picked up their own balls, but the little wooden
ball gets tossed out pretty quickly and the next game
is on.
Things may slow down a bit near a
game's end, when the closeness of two players' balls is
nearly
equidistant from the little marker ball. There might be a
brief discussion. If there is really serious doubt, a tape
measure may appear - but this always ends discussions quickly.
A 'boulomane's' paradise, even if there is no nearby café.
Not far away several hundred kids are batting around the
play park making a muted racket. Further up towards Saint-Michel,
other kids are bumping over rougher terrain in pedal go-karts.
Beyond them, by a big patch of very green grass
full of sunshine, moms are chatting while their little kids
play everywhere except on the grass that is reserved for
them.
Near the exit, under trees flanking no-go grass, a
crow decides against investigating a pigeon that looks like it
was hit by both barrels of a shotgun at close
range, when it spots me looking at it.
The gold
tips on the park's high iron fence are glittering in
the sun against a sky so blue it seems thick.
There is so much light, the gold tips will be
white in the photograph. I am not going to complain
about this; I can see the gold. I can remember
it.
Richard Erickson, living in Paris for the last twenty years, has been putting
Paris online as long as anyone. More of his writings can be found in
Metropole Paris
where this article first appeared.
He can be contacted via
erickso@world-net.sct.fr.
