As you may know if you have read my Life Series books, I was deeply influenced by my early move to Paris—one of the best decisions I ever made! It set the trajectory for the rest of my life and continues to steer me toward art, music, beauty, history, mystery.

Pickles in Paris emanated from a recent writing group prompt: pickles. Enjoy!

Pickles in Paris

Walking the backstreets of Paris was my education into the swath of history that marched across Europe in the 3rd century BC when the Gauls settled in the swampy mosquito-buzzing marchland Paris was originally built upon.

The Marais district—the oldest section of Paris centered in the swamp on the edges of the Seine—was also my favorite. Marais means “swamp” in English. It reeked of mystery and dark alleyways. Stories and cobwebs. Hand-hewn cobblestones and royal courtyards for kingly times.

Paris sucked me up from the suburbs of California on the day I turned 18. I landed with a soft thud in a cheap gypsy boarding house on the Left Bank. Every day I’d leave the confines of my tiny room and cross the Pont Neuf, strolling across the Seine into the warren ways of the Marais. At that time it was the Jewish quarter. Wooden barrels of kosher dill pickles soaking in brine lined the streets, poppy seed-filled triangular shaped hamentaschen scented  the air from shadowy bakeries, and men with tall black hats and long ringlets lined the sidewalk discussing the Torah. Synagogues were tucked between the tailor shops and shoe repair stores. The delicatessen foods were cheap and good. And this is also where I came to bath in the hammams where abundantly endowed Hasidic women poured steaming water over each over while laying on marble slabs. I joined them as there was not a bathroom in my lodging. I was the skinny blond girl who they loved to prod and joke with—scrubbing and feeding me. I loved the crowded life of the Marais and almost secretive, slum-like conditions.

Now, five decades later, it has morphed into the fashionista/gay/art gallery area. Pickle barrels aren’t crowding the sidewalk. Hordes of jovial, youthful, well-heeled Parisians walk the closed streets on the weekends spilling out of cafes, noshing on falafels—the only indication left that the Marais was once the Jewish quarter from the start of the Dark Ages.

copyright Lisa Alpine 2020