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Travel Piece  by Ida Nasatir

Letter from Paris  by Ida Nasatir,  September 28, 1951

September 28, 1951—Ida Nasatir, "A Letter from Paris,"  Southwestern Jewish Press, page 20,  Dear Julia and Mac:. Farewell to Paris—To write a "last" letter to anyone, or from any given place, to join the chorus for Auld Lang Syne, is always a difficult thing to do. But our year in Europe is at an end, and for the time being, this will be a "last" letter from Paris.  It made for a warm feeling to write to you from time to time, telling of the interesting places we saw and the even more interesting people we met, people who shared their dreams, illusions and hopes with us. And now I must say "good-bye" to all of them. How extremely difficult.  This morning I climbed the long and dark stairway to say au revoir to the gentle, elderly woman who lives all alone and who is so painfully crippled. She had pulled the creaky chair over to the one window which faces the opposite yellow tenement walls, and when I entered I found her looking at "her world,"—two cats curled up asleep on the roof-top. Each week at a certain hour, on a specific morning, I have come to visit with her; now, this was to be the last one. Our attempt at cheerfulness was rather dismal, and though I promised I would never forget her, I would rite, I would send her aid, yet, when I left she sobbed as human beings never should. As I walked down the endless stairs I felt that even the peeling plaster walls echoed with lonely mumblings. I know she will continue to be visited by her JOINT case worker who will come each month with her small allowance, but who else will knock on her door, what face will she see, what voice to greet her? Paris is such a busy world, and people have so little time.  How shall I say goodbye to the four Polish youngsters who run to meet me with their newly learned words "American chocolate, ice cream?" I taught them that, though they taught me much more. And the others—the bent and fragile widow who picks up pieces of fruit and vegetables dropped from pushcarts, for such a long time she has gone out daily into the mournful early light to wander in obscurity through another day; the proud man who fixes your shoes in the tiniest street imaginable, though he survived the Warsaw ghetto, where he was a chemist of repute; the two orphan girls from Czechoslovakia who create magnificent things with their talented hands and the needle—to all of them, I say "good-bye." Despite all their hardships and razor-edge poverty, these are blessed people, for they have demonstrated over and over that they can give without remembering and take without forgetting. And to the city itself, to Paris, who has taken, befriended, and sheltered so many of our people, she has also been a kind and gracious hostess to both of us. We'll not forget her towering majestic Eiffel Tower and her Place de la Concorde. "Look at the Champs-Elysees and its wide wonderful boulevards," I've often said. "Why didn't we think of that in San Diego?" And the nights when the streets are full of mystery and strange shadows, Ghosts of old fiddler, of Moliere's serving men and of Callot's beggars seem to slip in and out of dark doorways and back courtyards disappearing into nowhere. And the sidewalk cafes where I frequently sat and watched a whole world go by, and the unrivalled Nortre Dame and the bookstalls along the Seine, where I hopefully searched for an "undiscovered Reubens," while below the stalls, the Seine itself, the glassy river, slipped by endlessly and silently.  And the three o'clock morning visits to "Les Halles," Paris' breadbasket, where you rub shoulders with workmen bringing in the produce to feed the city's millions, while you taste the famous onion soup and red wine, while you look at long lines of creaking carts, filled with leeks and lettuces dark green in the sputtering glare of early morning light, where the smell is of fresh garden earth, where men build mountains of carrots and military barricades of cabbages and artichokes all over the sidewalks, while boys unload baskets full of perfumed raspberries and hampers of pungent, gaping fish, or range pyramids of grinning pigs' heads in neat rows. And the young people who drop in and out of the midnight bars, and whose air of sophistication comes from the keen competition in a world where people must struggle with either shoulders or wits to keep from dropping to the bottom rung of the ladder, people who talk and talk as they slash chunks of golden bread and make monstrous meals which the French call sandwiches, people who try to lead the life that Hogarth once laughed at, and whose language at times make you recall that Rabelais is not yet obsolete...To all of this, to the famous Louvre Art Gallery, to the exquisite palaces and gardens, to the old world atmosphere, to the savoir faire of French life and to the many people I came to know and to love, I now say "goodbye."  Regretfully, and with a feeling of elusive nostalgia I say goodbye to your column. One day when moved by a mood, I may write a series of vignettes and impressions of this year on the continent. I could even being like this.  "The last time I saw Paris, her heart was young and gay. On Fulbright grant and Fellowship we spent a year away."  Fondly, Ida Nasatir.  Editor's Note—We print Ida Nasatir's farewell letter from Paris as we welcome her home to San Diego.