II: Big Sea
Montmarte
My ticket and the French visa had taken nearly all my money. I got to the Gare du Nord in Paris early one February morning with only seven dollars in my pockets. I didn’t know anybody in Paris. I didn’t know anybody in the whole of Europe, except the old Dutch watchman’s family in Rotterdam. But I had made up my mind to pass the rest of the winter in Paris.
I checked my bags at the parcel stand, and had some coffee and rolls in the station. I found that my high school French didn’t work very well, and that I understood nothing anyone said to me. They talked too fast. But I could read French.
I went outside the station and saw a bus marked Opéra. I knew the opera was at the center of Paris, so I got in the bus and rode down there, determined to do a little sight-seeing before I looked for work, or maybe starved to death. When I got to the Opéra, a fine wet snow was falling. People were pouring out of the Métro on their way to work. To the right and left of me stretched the Grands Boulevards. I looked across the street and saw the Café de la Paix. Ahead the Vendôme. I walked down the rue de la Paix, turned, and on until I came out at the Concorde. I recognized the Champs Elysées, and the great Arc de Triomphe in the distance through the snow.
Boy, was I thrilled! I was torn between walking up the Champs Elysées or down along the Seine, past the Tuileries. Finally, I took the river, hoping to see the bookstalls and Notre Dame. But I ended up in the Louvre instead, looking at Venus.
It was warmer in the Louvre than in the street, and the Greek statues were calm and friendly. I said to the statues: “If you can stay in Paris as long as you’ve been here and still look O.K., I guess I can stay a while with seven dollars and make a go of it.” But when I came out of the Louvre, I was tired and hungry. I had no idea where I would sleep that night, or where to go about finding a cheap hotel. So I began to look around for someone I could talk to. To tell the truth, I began to look for a colored person on the streets of Paris.
As luck would have it, I came across an American Negro in a doorman’s uniform. He told me most of the American colored people he knew lived in Montmartre, and that they were musicians working in the theaters and night clubs. He directed me to Montmartre. I walked. I passed Notre Dame de Lorette, then on up the hill. I got to Montmartre about four o’clock. Many of the people there were just getting up and having their breakfast at that hour, since they worked all night. I don’t think they were in a very good humor, because I went into a little café where I saw some colored musicians sitting, having their coffee. I spoke to them, and said: “I’ve just come to Paris, and I’m looking for a cheap place to stay and a job.”
They scowled at me. Finally one of them said: “Well, what instrument do you play?”
They thought I was musical competition.
I said: “None. I’m just looking for an ordinary job.”
Puzzled, another one asked