Foreign Parts

À DÉTESTER: the hell walk

Welcome to the Hell Walk, also known as le trottoir roulant rapide (the rapid moving sidewalk) at la Gare Montparnasse. It was installed in 2002 and has mostly been en panne (out of order) since —which is actually a good thing.  Why?  Because the super minds who designed it thought that it would be practical if the 180-meter-long trottoir rolled very quickly, at the pace of three meters (9.84 feet) per second, in order to save busy commuters time.  

I rode it once, on the one occasion in seven years that I've witnessed it working, and nearly fell backward onto mes fesses (look that one up).  According to the French press, I wasn't the only person to lose my footing on the thing, which was designed so that passengers first stepped onto a slow-moving belt and then were jetted onto the fast-moving trottoir. Grannies, children, even able-bodied young men fell victim to the infernal contraption, which ran (and looks) like something out of a Stephen King novel.  

Soon, though, the Hell Walk will be replaced by a slower-moving trattoir roulant — if, that is, you consider 2011 soon. In the meantime, you can enjoy the non-moving rapid moving sidewalk at your own pace.

À AIMER: nocturnal wanderings

Brassaï had it right — there is no better time of day to photograph Paris than night.  After dark, the city comes alive and all you have to do to experience it is get out there and walk.  Wear a comfortable pair of (chic) shoes, tuck your camera in a bag, and bring just enough money for coffee or a glass of wine at one of the outdoor terrasses.  As summer deepens, the nights seem to last forever.

À AIMER: long shadows and street stencils

It's good to be back in Paris in early summer, when the days are so long that l'heure bleue doesn't happen until after ten p.m. and when the sun shines, it creates wonderfully exaggerated shadows.  

It's playtime in Montmartre.  Wish you were here.

On the Road: A New York State of Mind

What do you do after a too-long absence from New York?  Get reacquainted with the city at double speed, starting with Papaya King, which serves some of the best, if not the best, hot dogs in Manhattan.

On a sweltering afternoon at the end of May, the outlet on East 86th Street and 3rd Avenue was as steamy as its buns.  An X-ray thin East Sider in Chanel and khakis; a gaggle of young women dressed in brightly colored tube tops, babies in tow; a trout-mouthed granny who likes her dogs in triplets; and two out-of-towners squeezed together at the counter for a taste of New York.  The frankfurters were smoky, the sauerkraut tangy, the mustard piquant, and the Papaya shake a sublimely refreshing accompaniment to it all.  A symphony in Yum for the recession-friendly price of $4.50.  

Hail to the King!