Off to Gaspesie

Upstate Outpost has been on a two week hiatus as we prepare for a ten-day road trip in Canada. We leave today (June 11, 2010) to drive all the way down the south shore of the St. Lawrence River from Lake Ontario to it's outlet in the Bay of St. Lawrence.


Our destination is the little town of Percé at the very eastern tip of the Gaspé peninsula.


The Gaspésie (official name) or the Gaspé is the eastern most part of the south shore of the Saint Lawrence River. The river is many miles wide in this section. Beyond Quebec City the river increasingly becomes a mixture of fresh and salt water that supports a wide variety of sea life including several varieties of whales. The peninsula extends into the Gulf of Saint Lawrence and is separated from New Brunswick on the south by the Baie des Chaleurs and the Restigouche River.


Gaspésie is at the very northern end of the ancient Appalachian Mountains at the point they finally plunge into the ocean. The interior is filled with fairly high mountains that I imagine as something like a more northern brother to the Adirondacks. In Gaspésie the range is called the Chic-Choc Mountains. The highest mountain in the rugged interior is Mont Jacques-Cartier at 4160 ft (1268-m) but there are several others near this height. The mountains support a unique mix of mega-fauna including moose, white-tail deer and caribou, all sharing the same ecosystem. The interior is heavily forested and crisscrossed by deep river valleys so as a result almost everyone lives in small villages on the coast.


Our destination is the easternmost point of the peninsula called Cap Gaspé. The name "Gaspé" may come from a Mi'kmaq word gespeg meaning "land's end". According to the Commission de toponymie de Quebec, Gaspé may also be a mutation of the Basque word "Gerizpe" which means "shelter". Our general plan is to quickly travel on four-lanes highways to just past Quebec City, then meander along the south shore of the big river on Route 132. At Sainte-Flavie, the entry point for Gaspésie, this route splits to circle the peninsula, with one branch following the coast and the other cutting south across the peninsula. The two branches meet at the town of Percé where we plan to stay for three days.


There are a few things I hope to see and do on this trip. I want to visit Isle Bonaventure in the Gulf of St. Lawrence and see the colonies of pelagic sea birds that come there to nest. Of course, I also want to see the Rocher Percé in person and check out the seal and whale watching. We hope to rent a sea kayak and paddle along a stretch of the wild coast. I hope we can swing inland into the Chic-Chocs to get a taste of the mountains. On the way back we plan to stop at the Reford Gardens to see their famous blue poppies www.jardinsdemetis.com/english.


Along the way we will explore the culture, the natural world and the food, especially the seafood.


The incredible fishing off the Grand Banks is what originally drew Europeans to this part of the world. When Jacques Cartier first came ashore in Gaspésie in 1534 to make an official claim on the new world for France he was very surprised to find the natives were able to converse with him in a pidgin form of the Basque language. This is believed to have been the result of many earlier visits by Basque fishermen who started to visit the Grand Banks beginning sometime in the late 1400s. The native population was never very large due to the rugged coast, mountainous and heavily forested interior combined with severe winter weather. Over the next four hundred years different waves of European immigrants settled here. The original permanent French settlers first arrived about 1650. They were joined a hundred years later by a different cultural group of ‘Acadian’ French settlers evicted from Nova Scotia and New Brunswick by the British in 1755. Two waves of English speaking immigrants also arrived in the eighteenth century. The first wave was made up of British Channel Island fishermen who began to move in after the British defeated the French for control of Canada in 1759. The second wave was British ‘Loyalists’ fleeing north from New England after England lost her American colonies in 1783. A wave of celtic people arrived from Ireland and Scotland during the potato famine of the 1840s. Native people, francophones and english speakers have lived together in Gaspésie literally for centuries.


So, we're off to see for ourselves. I'll keep you posted.

Where's Buddha?

One of the joys of many of my early Saturday mornings is a trip to the Syracuse Regional Market. The Market sits on the north edge of Syracuse proper near Onondaga Lake. It's surrounded by the baseball stadium on the east, the regional transportation center on the north, Interstate 81 and the Carrousel Mall on the west and some old warehouses and factories on the south. This area was originally a salt marsh with numerous salt springs. In the earliest days of Syracuse it was part of the thriving salt production business. The salt springs are long gone now. Over the course of the last 100 years they have been gradually filled in then paved over in the name of progress.

In the early twentieth century this area was developed into a wholesale and retail farmer's market. A one story row of brick warehouses with loading docks front and back were built by local businesses to receive lots of fruit and vegetables via farm truck and rail, break them down and transport them to local stores. Some of these original wholesalers, such as Russo's Produce, are still operating in the same location today. One of the wholesalers, Buda's Meats and Produce, eventually decided it made sense to open its own retail market. The Buda family built a stand-alone store nearby. It's still in operation today providing a wide range of groceries at just slightly more than wholesale prices.

In 1933 the first permanent shed for the a cooperative regional farmer's market was built adjacent to the wholesale warehouses. Today there are five permanent sheds each about a city block long. The original brick shed, now called the “A” shed, operates year round. Both sides are lined with overhead doors so the vendors can back their trucks right inside. Many of the vendors in the “A” shed have rented the same coveted spot for years. Until this year, a home-made donut machine dominated a central location and added its delicious, greasy aroma to the place. I buy local honey from a guy who is always there. A local orchard sells us fresh raspberries. Mr. Leonard provides us with his marvelous maple syrup. http://merryatsyracuse.blogspot.com/search/label/maple%20syrup

The rest of the sheds are more modern consisting of almost nothing more than a long metal roof and walls made of overhead doors. At this time of year all the doors are up. Early Saturday morning the “B,” “C” and “D” sheds are lined with trucks of all kinds. Farmers from the entire region can be found here selling eggs, chickens, beef, buffalo, wine, apples, cereal, and home made baked goods. We get milk and yogurt from our friends at Wake Robin Farm who have a ten cow herd of jerseys. See for yourself at http://www.wakerobinfarm.org/ In between A and B sheds farmers who cater to the home gardener fill the lot with an enticing array of live flowers and plants. As you move down the line of sheds from A to E the spaces are cheaper and start to be filled with re-sellers of every kind: sunglasses, perfume, gloves, toys, CDs, you name it. Today was a prime Market day so two big tents were added to accommodate the overflow of vendors who couldn't fit in the sheds.

I love the Market because it is filled with people from every community that makes up greater Syracuse. Recent immigrants always flock here, perhaps because it reminds them a bit of markets at home. While shopping at the Market it's common to see Russians, Somalis, Hmong, Chinese, Bosnians, Indians, Arabs, and many more along with a number of Italians who came here in the 1950s but still like to speak the mother tongue. On a nice spring Saturday like today all the parking lots were full. Several thousand people at a time were happily wandering the Market the whole morning.

Today's nice weather reminded me of a beautiful mid-summer Saturday morning about three or four years ago. We had finished shopping and were winding our way back to our car loaded down with our purchases. There was a considerable traffic jam just inside one of the back entrances. We both noticed the cause of the back up was an older model station wagon very slowly making its way down the access road. It would creep forward, then stop for a second, then creep forward again. As it approached where we were standing it suddenly stopped right in the middle of the intersection. As the line of bewildered and aggravated drivers looked on, an older, slightly disheveled gentleman got out and walked over to us looking confused.

“Where’s Buddha?” he enquired in a loud voice.

I looked at him in wonder. What could he be asking?

“Where's Buddha?” he repeated even more loudly.

Then it hit me. He was slightly lost and wanted to find Buda’s Produce Market at the other side of the market.

“There it is,” I said to him and pointed at the red sign on the far side of the parking area.

He looked. A flash of recognition crossed his face and he turned back to his car.

Or maybe he was asking something else….

Tulips and French food

Last weekend Merry and I drove up to the Ottawa Tulip Fest with our friends Jim and Allison. We love the tulip tradition and the long friendship between Canada and the Netherlands that it commemorates. Walking in the park with thousands of other people of all cultures for the sole purpose of viewing flowers and celebrating the coming of spring has a very soothing effect.

Saturday was cold and rainy but we were warm inside the National Gallery of Canada www.gallery.ca/english/index.html. The National Gallery has a great contemporary art collection and includes an impressive photography collection. The current highlight is a video installation that depicts (I think) an imaginary voyage to the Antarctic. Earlier in the day we also stopped across the river in Gatineau, Quebec to visit the Museum of Civilization, Canada's version of the Smithsonian. There we saw a very interesting exhibit on the early fur trading routes established in western Canada by the North West Company. www.civilization.ca/cmc/home

The real reason I love to go to Ottawa, however, is to sample the top-notch French restaurants. I thought it might be interesting to share my personal favorites.

On this trip we selected Le Saint O and Le Tartuffe. To my taste they are among the best in Ottawa.

Le Saint O Restaurant (613) 749-9703 www.lesainto.com

327 St. Laurent Blvd., Ottawa, ON

Rating: 5 stars Price: $$$ Last visit: May 8, 2010

EIP Comment: A bit off the beaten track. No tourists. Don't let the slightly shabby exterior fool you. This small gem offers a menu of French classics with strong Quebecois accents: Halibut with almonds, guinea fowl Wellington, Ris de veau with local honey, duck confit with maple syrup, three pepper fillet minion with Quebec blue cheese butter. The soup special on this visit was two flavors in one bowl, savory country mushroom on one half, sweet parsnip on the other. Deserts are inventive.

Le Tartuffe Restaurant (819) 776-6424 www.letartuffe.com

133 Rue Notre-Dame-de-L’ile, Hull, QC

Rating: 5 stars Price: $$$$ Last visit: May 7, 2010

EIP comment: In a lovely old house, the principles of modern French cuisine applied to fresh regional produce: cranberry-stuffed roasted quail, pheasant with wild mushrooms, ostrich steak, lively house terrines, flavour-rich soups and magnificent deserts. Excellent food, we’ve been there multiple times. Caution: service can be very leisurely – dinner is easily 3 hours or more.

We also usually have a lunch in the Byward Market at Domus, but didn't find the time this year.

Domus Cafe (613) 241-6077 www.domuscafe.ca

87 Murray Street, Ottawa, ON
Rating: 4 stars Price: $$$ Last visit: May 2008

EIP Comment: We stop here on nearly every trip to Ottawa. Lunch is a treat, dinner divine. Domus focuses on Canadian/Continental food, made with Canadian ingredients, exquisite wine selections showcasing Canadian vintages, and unique preparation and styling.

In addition, I highly recommend taking a drive in the Gatineau Hills then stopping at L'Oree du Bois for dinner.

L’Oree du Bois (819) 827-0332 www.oreeduboisrestaurant.com

15 Kingsmere Road, Old Chelsea, QC

Rating: 4 stars Price: $$ Last visits: May 06, 2005, summer 2006, summer 2007

EIP Comment: Take HWY 5 North (direction Maniwaki), exit Old Chelsea, left after the village before the park. Long-established, rustic-looking restaurant in pretty Gatineau forest setting. Special menu of regional cuisine starring locally produced ingredients. Expect to linger.

Finally, there are two restaurants both named Le Panache, one in Quebec one in Ottawa, both are worth a visit.

Le Panache (819) 777-7771 www.lepanache.ca
201 Rue Eddy, Hull, QC

Rating: 4 stars Price: $$$ Last visit: May 07, 2005

EIP Comment: Offers fantastic French-fusion cuisine, located rue Eddy (corner St. Laurent) in a residential neighborhood. Kir royale a treat. Service was great on our last visit.

Le Panaché Café-Restaurant (613) 230-0111

634 Somerset St. W., Ottawa, ON

Rating: 3 stars Price: $$ Last visit: May 3, 2008

EIP Comment: This unpretentious French restaurant is a surprise to find in Chinatown. Food was generally very good (one or two minor misses on our last visit) with appetizers and desserts above average. Reasonably priced and very friendly.

If you are headed to the Capital of Canada, I suggest you check out at least one of the above. I'd be happy to hear any comments on any of the above suggestions or to learn about any others you like.

Happy dining.

Suki's Thanksgiving

One of my favorite Dickens characters is Noddy Boffin, the Golden Dustman, from Our Mutual Friend. Mr. Boffin makes his fortune as a rubbish carter and scavenger. He very much wants to be accepted in society. He pretends to be a miser, although he's not. He hires an illiterate scoundrel to teach him to read. He is based on a real person, Henry Dodd, who set up a thriving garbage business in London in 1836, worked his way into society and died worth 5 million.

What is wonderful to me about Mr. Boffin is his desire to demonstrate his worth, not by flaunting his wealth but by somehow convincing people to see him as a good man. His business is a necessary one in a growing city with no organized way to rid itself of refuse. He provides a service that others generally do not want to even think about and turns a nice profit. He knows that people throw away, lose and are otherwise parted from many objects of great value. What he does with what he finds drives this great novel and provides us with an intimate view of London in the early nineteenth century.

What any society does with rubbish tells worlds. We Americans mostly entomb our trash. Giant garbage mountains dot the landscape. Approaching St. Louis from the east on the Interstate a garbage mountain blocks the view of the iconic Arch. Only lately has our society begun to try to find the gold in the trash. We recycle a bit more of our trash every year, but it's still not a lot. We burn some of our trash and convert it to energy. Some dedicated gardeners turn yard and food waste into compost. Even with all these efforts, we still bury a lot of garbage.

Throughout the cities and towns of the developed world the descendants of Noddy Boffin still circulate. Out on the fringes, often at night, they drive their rusting trucks through the streets and alleys looking for discarded gold. They want metal. They want working appliances or furniture that can be resold. We usually do not see them at work. They call themselves “junkers” or “metal men.” We need them, not only to reduce the bulk of landfills, but to teach us about capitalism.

Advanced capitalist societies need to produce garbage. The more garbage there is, the more new stuff that can be manufactured and sold. If we didn't throw away perfectly usable stuff the economy would slow down. People would be put out of work.

Imagine a society without rubbish.

Back in the early 1980's I knew a graduate student at SUNY Stony Brook named Suki. She had the good fortune one year to be selected to go to Africa to study the social lives of the Bonobo, Pan paniscus, sometimes called pigmy chimps. They are an endangered species of great ape that live only in the jungles of the Congo. To reach her research station Suki had to travel for days by boat up the mighty Congo River, then travel a few days into the jungle by Land Rover and by foot. For much of the time she lived alone in a camp. One local man worked for her, doing all her cooking, cleaning and general work. She set out each day into the bush with her equipment then returned in the evening to write up her observations.

Being alone and largely out of contact with the outside world made her somewhat homesick after a while. She wrote her boyfriend and beseeched him to come join her. She told stories of home to the man who worked for her. When Thanksgiving day came she set out as usual. She was particularly homesick that day since back home she knew families would be gathering for the traditional fall feast.

When she arrived back at camp that evening she stopped dead in her tracks. All across the open space of her camp her employee had strung home-made twisted fiber cords. Fluttering from these cords were many little white paper flags. On closer inspection every paper flag was made from notes she had crumpled up and discarded over the past months. He had saved every scrap, carefully ironed them flat, cut them and made his festive banners. He also found a skinny chicken somewhere that he baked for her Thanksgiving supper.

She cried when she told this story, nearly a year later. His gesture was touching, but perhaps the greatest wonder was his assumption that nothing should be discarded while it still has a possible use.

We couldn't live like that, could we?

Refugee

We closed on the sale of our St. Louis home on Thursday. Aside from a few remaining odds and ends we have now severed our material ties to the place that was our midwestern home for a happy year and a half. As the sale approached and ever since I've experienced a flood of images of St. Louis and McKinley Heights, the neighborhood where we lived. Merry is feeling much the same sense of loss. We miss our house and the garden we built from scratch. We miss the neighbors who live in the house next door and have lived there almost all their long lives. We miss the places we grew to love: the Arch, the River, the Botanical Garden, City Garden, the incredible parks, our favorite restaurants and their friendly owners. We miss the wonderful people, including those I worked with at ODAR and especially our niece, Megan.

The fact that we're very happy to be back in Syracuse does not diminish the sense of loss a bit. I suspect only time will do that.

Earlier this week I had a brief conversation with a Bosnian translator who had just helped with a hearing in Utica. I asked her when she immigrated to the U.S. She told me she came with her son after the war in 1999.

“I kept thinking that if we waited and survived the war that things would get better in Bosnia, but I was wrong, things didn't improve, so we had to leave.”

They first moved to Columbia, MD where she found work. She became a US citizen but Maryland didn't suit her.

“It's so busy, so many people. Life moves fast there. It's flat and humid. I would drive around in the country but no place reminded me of home. Then a friend invited me to visit Utica. I'm from central Bosnia. It's very hilly and rural there. When I got here, the land reminded me of home. I decided I needed to move here.”

I asked her how she liked it in Central New York now that she's lived here for a while.

“Well, many Bosnians here say that the Americans are prejudiced against us. I tell them, “How can you expect the Americans to understand us? The Americans have not been in a war or had to flee their homeland. How do you expect them to know what life is for us?”

She told me she urges the other Bosnians she meets at the Refugee Center to talk to their American neighbors and try to tell them what it's like to be an immigrant forced from a way of life and a home where their family has lived for generations.

“I'm an American now, but I'll never stop being a refugee.”

I pondered this conversation as I drove the 50 miles back to Syracuse. I have never been forced from my home. I have never lived in a war-torn country. How can I hope to understand the life of someone who will live the rest of her life as a refugee?

My only thought is to rely in part on our experience of moving to St. Louis. We moved there because the government decided that was where they would place me. We had to move in a hurry, with only a little more than two months to try to settle our lives in Central New York. It was chaotic. Decisions needed to be made without the luxury of time. When we left we didn't know whether we would ever be able to move back. We didn't know a soul in St. Louis and very little about the midwest. We had to rely on our own wits and the kindness of strangers.

We were not refugees. We got to take all our household goods and our beloved dog with us. We had decent financial resources. We speak the language [although not the midwest dialect].

Even with all our advantages we experienced a profound sense of dislocation. I felt a pervasive numbness for the first three or four months. It was the anesthetic I needed to deal with the stresses of the new. Gradually this numbness wore off to be replaced by the excitement of discovering a wonderful new place and getting to know a whole cast of new people. Who knows how long this numb feeling would last if I didn't have all my advantages? I can easily imagine it could last years or even never completely go away.

To even begin to understand Bosnian-Americans you then have to add the grief resulting from a horrible civil war with the express purpose of committing genocide, time spent in refugee camps and often the inability to resume any known occupation once resettled. Using all my experience I can catch only the most fleeting sense of the refugee experience, the reality defies my imagination.

Round Lake Ski Trail

It's always rewarding to take time to explore the Adirondack Park. Over the past twenty years Merry and I have traveled, hiked and paddled extensively in the Adirondacks but we have largely overlooked the Tupper Lake area. A few years ago we visited the then new Natural History Museum there affectionately called “The Wild Center.” http://www.wildcenter.org/ It's definitely worth a visit with its interactive displays, a tank of graceful river otters and a beautiful setting along the Raquette River. When we realized we would be in nearby Canton, NY last Friday afternoon, 4/9/10, we decided to make a return trip. Oops. We forgot that nobody goes to the Adirondacks in the early spring. The Wild Center is closed until May 1.

But as I was saying, it's always worth exploring. By the time we realized the Wild Center would be closed we had booked a cabin for the weekend on the south shore of the lake. Moody Cabin is a gem. http://www.tupperlakeinfo.com/moody_cabin.htm It's set back from the main road with a nice view. It has it's own little beach across the road with a lean-to that holds chairs and paddling accessories. The owner's house is next door, but the cabin feels very private. It's small, so it fit us well. It's nicely furnished, is tastefully decorated and has a fully functional kitchen. Perfect.

One of the reasons few visitors come to the Adirondacks in April is the unpredictable weather. Friday afternoon was fairly warm. When we arrived in Tupper Lake it was partly cloudy and in the 50s. When Joli and I stepped outdoors before sunrise on Saturday there was a quarter of an inch of snow on the ground with more coming down hard. It was still just below freezing at ten o'clock but the sky was completely clear with a stiff breeze. By noon the snow was completely gone.

We often rely on Barbara McMartin's wonderful guidebooks called the “Discover the Adirondacks” series. Outdoor opportunities throughout the whole giant park are described in detail in eleven volumes. One nice thing about these guides is that they cover both hiking and canoeing. They also include nice introductory sections on each geographic area. The maps in the book are not great, but that's made up for by the fact that the books are clearly written and updated pretty frequently. Even though McMartin died back in 2003 the work she started continues thanks to a corp of dedicated outdoor enthusiasts.

We were looking for a fairly short hike. We settled on #105, the Bog-Round Confluence. McMartin describes this as an unmarked path on old logging roads. We knew it headed into an area that the state had only recently acquired, so it was inviting and untraveled. There is no marked trailhead. There is a place to pull off the highway by a culvert that you can easily spot if you know exactly where to look. We have driven right by the spot dozens of times without notice. Once you're off Rt. 30, it's fairly easy to see where the old dirt road enters the woods.

A short way up this old logging road we came to an intersecting trail and a surprise. High on a tree someone has nailed metal circles, made from the lids of a #10 can, nicely painted and marking the trail ahead as the “Round Lake Ski Trail” and the side trail as a connector to another trailhead. From here on we found these homemade signs about every quarter mile.

The trail narrows after first climbing to the shoulder of a ridge. The open hardwoods are full of big glacial erratics covered with moss, ferns and lichen. Frequent small streams cut across the path as it passes through a glade of old yellow birch. A little further along the rushing Bog River comes into view downhill on the right. Merry and Joli scrambled down to the river to take a look at the rapids. A bit further along we came to the confluence of the Bog River and the stream that flows from Round Lake. We continued up the Round Lake Outlet until we emerged at a disused gravel road that used to lead to some hunting camps. Here more homemade signs mark the trails to Round Lake Dam to the left and Winding Falls to the right. On the immediate right is “Halfass Bridge”, a substantial old bridge directly over the lip of a beautiful waterfall.

We rested in the warm sun here for a bit. The sound of falling water and a few birds were all we could hear. Then we turned back the way we came. Along the trail we saw abundant witch hopple (Viburnum lantanoides) just opening and starting to push up its flower heads. Trout lilies and trillium were up everywhere but not yet flowering. Since there were no leaves on the trees the woods were nicely sunlit. There were no other hikers. The temperature was perfect and there were no bugs.

The next morning I described this hike to Mary, our host at Moody Cabin, and told her of my surprise at finding the trail markings. “Oh, that's Scott, my husband. He likes to poke around in the woods.” We then spent about half an hour talking with Scott about the other “unmarked” trails he has worked on throughout the nearby woods. In his view you can grow old waiting for the DEC to do trail work. His deep love for the woods is evident. We plan to come back to check out more of his handiwork soon.

Paris Cafe

NPR runs an occasional fiction writing contest. The last one just ended. The idea was to write a very short story of 600 words or less that can be read aloud in three minutes. For the March contest the story had to be based on a photograph of an empty cafe table topped with an open newspaper. The judge was Alan Cheuse, author and NPR book reviewer. I decided to enter a story based on a real event from our visit to Paris two years ago.

There were over 3000 entries. I didn't win. Nonetheless I found the exercise interesting and fun.

Here's my losing entry.

Paris Cafe

Ed stumbles off the RER dragging his suitcase. The directions emailed by a landlord he has never met direct him to use the Place de Notre Dame exit. Arrows lead further and further down a deserted platform. Water drips from the tunnel ceiling. He comes at last to stairs, then an escalator, the exit turnstile, finally more stairs into the blinding sunlight. At eight o’clock on a Saturday morning the famous square in front of the Cathedral de Notre Dame is deserted.

He walks shivering alongside Notre Dame. Ancient buildings on the opposite side of the cobblestone street glow soft gold in the morning light. Shopkeepers are just opening tourist stalls hawking tee shirts, model gargoyles and postcards. Behind the cathedral a wide pedestrian bridge crosses to Ile St. Louis.

Rising from the middle of the glittering Seine is a solid block of 17^th century limestone houses, each five or six stories high. Iron balconies on the second and fifth floors overlook the river. The ground floors facing Ile de la Cite are devoted to shops and cafes.

Hungry, tired and disoriented after the overnight flight from Dulles he has two hours before he can pick up the keys to the apartment. The St. Regis is the first open café after the bridge. Half a dozen men standing at the bar glance up as he enters, then quickly turn back to their papers and coffee.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour.”

The waiter indicates a tiny window table and raises an eyebrow. Ed smiles and sits. The waiter returns and drops a used copy of today's Le Monde on the red enamel table.

“Merci. Café et un croissant, s’il vous plait.”

“Café ou café aux lait?”

“Café aux lait, merci.”

Across the narrow side street a waiter is setting up tables and chairs on the sidewalk even though the temperature is just above freezing.

His coffee and flaky warm croissant arrive. The large blue cup of strong coffee with frothy milk is very hot. Perfect.

Every minute or so a new customer comes in, says hello, has an espresso delivered at the bar, speaks a few words to his neighbor, glances at the paper and leaves. Only one other person sits at a table. Ed leafs slowly through the paper trying to get the gist of the news from the pictures and the few French phrases he knows.

A man comes in with a Jack Russell terrier. He reaches down and unfastens the dog’s leash. The man takes his place at the bar but the dog trots over to the service entrance at the end of the bar, cocks his head and waits expectantly. On his next trip the proprietor spots the dog in his path.

“Bonjour, ma petit chien.”

The dog wags its stubby tail.

“Nous voudrions un petits gateau?”

The dog immediately sits and looks up expectantly.

The proprietor turns back to the kitchen and emerges a second later with a little cookie.

The dog daintily takes his cookie, returns to lay at his owner’s feet and eat it. A minute later the man finishes his coffee, re-leashes his dog and they leave.

During the next half-hour essentially the same thing happens twice more, once with a bulldog, once with a miniature poodle. Brilliant, the proprietor has trained neighborhood dogs to bring their owners to his café every day.

It's time to seek out the owner of the apartment.

“L’addition, s’il vous plait.”

Ed leaves the paper open on the table and walks out into his first Paris morning, smiling.