Cherry blossoms in Paris 2019: when to go, where to live, where to look for places where "sakura" clusters in the capital of France. Annual start and end dates of flowering.
Parisians and guests of the capital do not get tired of thanking the Japanese for giving the world a cherry blossom holiday. Or cherries, in our opinion. The French quickly picked up the idea to make a cult out of an ordinary event, in general, and received another reason for admiration. Now for local residents swollen pink buds in the alleys become a harbinger of warmth, which means that spring has finally come into its own.
For tourists, cherry blossoms (by the way, not only cherries, but also magnolias) are one of the main reasons to go to Paris in the middle of spring. True, there are also travelers who find themselves in the capital in March by accident, and the blooming pink riot just knocks you off your feet.
To avoid surprises, and possibly adjust your plans for visiting Paris, read the article from cover to cover. The spectacle is worth it to move the trip from February to mid-April and even from May to the end of March - it’s not for nothing that Parisian photographers have all the free places for these dates packed a year ahead.
When to ride the hanami in Paris 2019
Of course, it is impossible to predict the exact dates of flowering of the cherry trees of Paris - weather forecasts vary too much. Hanami starts from the beginning of March and pleases the eye until mid-April. No one can say for sure. Unless an experienced gardener, who knows the nature of each tree and the signs of future spring weather, can more or less specifically orient. And even then within one to two weeks. But this is still of little help to the average tourist. Because it’s better to look for tickets and book a hotel in advance.
The earlier the better. Even despite the prevailing opinion that the cherry blossom in Paris is a poorly promoted event, and places, they say, in affordable hotels are empty, and flights are cheap. Don't believe. Firstly, hotels in Paris (especially good and inexpensive ones) are by definition never idle. Secondly, Europeans have long known how beautiful the capital of love is during this period, and they, wherever they fly, are within easy reach of Charles de Gaulle Airport - an hour or two and on the spot.
What should a Russian do when flying to catch most of the cherry trees in bloom? Late March or early April is the best. Focus on the dates from 25.03 to 7.04, you can't go wrong. If you dream of a photo session (or a photo tour, as it is fashionable now), order in advance. You can search in social networks, Instagram or on Tripster, where you will get not only a photographer, but also a guide - two in one.
#2. Hotel Antin Trinite
Double room at Hotel Antin Trinite
Hotel at an adequate price; The rooms are modern, after a fresh renovation. Located opposite and a hundred meters from the Grand Opera. Next stop sightseeing buses, Rossybus to the airport and RER metro station. Breakfast is decent, staff is friendly.
#3. Hôtel De Lutece-Notre-Dame
Hôtel De Lutece near Notre Dame de Paris
The main trump card of the three-star hotel is its location on the island of Saint-Louis (through the bridge of the same name you can go straight to Notre-Dame-de-Paris). The interior of the rooms is designed in a light "palace" style, there are air conditioners and soundproofing, free wi-fi. Very good breakfasts!
#4. Elysees Union
Elysées Union near the cherry blossom spot in Paris!
3 star hotel 10 minutes from eiffel tower. Quiet Parisian street, calm area, with shops, cafes and bakeries. The rooms are small, but everything you need is available; the tower is visible from some windows. Breakfast buffet, and for Paris, surprisingly generous, tasty and varied!
Other Cherry Blossoms in Paris
A few more secret cherry blossom spots in spring Paris:
- Montsouris park. Located on the left bank of the Seine, the nearest metro station is Cité Universitaire. Cherries bloom quite generously there, and the place is beautiful: in the center there is a small lake, a lot of cozy benches, golf courses.
- So Park. This is for few famous place in Paris, it is not even included in the ratings of the top 10 gardens and parks of the French capital. But sakura blooms there surprisingly violently - there are both pink and terry-white. Remember the name in French "Sceaux". Metro station - Parc de Sceaux, RER B line.
- Marten Luther King Park. The official name of the square may confuse someone, because it is also known as Clichy-Batignolles. Nearest metro station is Brochant, not RER.
That's all. For the first time, passwords and appearances are more than enough. A fragrant trip to Paris and mutual love in the most romantic city in the world!
Photo album containing best places cherry blossoms in Paris (near Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, in the parks of So, Montsouris and the Garden of Trees):
Not yet filled with tourists. By the way, if you want to see cherry blossoms, then April is the best month.
Main events in Paris in April
Easter
Catholic Easter in 2019 is celebrated on April 21st. Be prepared that on this day and the next after the holiday they do not work and. The main gifts for Easter in France are chocolate eggs and rabbits.
Fountains
In April, city fountains, and most importantly, musical fountains, begin their work. And also here on Saturdays and Sundays there are carnivals and various performances. Don't miss the extravaganza of water and fire!
Foire du Trone
One of the most famous fairs in France. Passes in already 194 years. On it you will find a Ferris wheel, roller coaster, and 350 different attractions!
A park
A true French amusement park, not inferior in scale. There are a large number of water attractions and performances, so it is closed in winter. April 15 starts summer season, which means you can have fun with the whole family or a large company!
Have a nice holiday!
Parisian chestnuts
I'm tired of night thoughts
And I'll take a guitar chord,
And chestnut trees are blooming in Paris
Near Place la Concorde.
Weightless these candles
That passers-by are deprived of sleep,
Good but short lived
Like our spring with you.
In my own youth under old age
Don't come back even if you die
And chestnut trees are blooming in Paris
Over the paths of the Tuileries.
Over the Moscow snow grains,
For which the rains will come
I scream hopelessly into the phone:
"Wait for me, wait!"
Why should I wait in vain
At the turn of the century?
Me on this happy holiday
Can't keep up with you.
And in Paris, a river pier,
colorful carousel,
And boats carry tourists
At the foot of the Tour Eiffel.
And I look out the window stupidly
On the yard through the bottom,
Where is my age group
Compete in dominoes.
And in Paris it flies in a circle
An endless round dance
And the student kisses his girlfriend,
And no one is waiting for anyone.
It somehow happened historically that it was Paris, one of the largest and most beautiful cities in the world, that became the place where both the Russian nobility and the Russian intelligentsia always aspired to. Perhaps that is why it was with France that Russia established strong centuries-old cultural ties. The word "Paris" immediately brings to mind the Impressionist artists, Ivan Turgenev, Chaim Soutine, Amedeo Modigliani and Anna Akhmatova, Edith Piaf and Yves Montand. Paris is associated for us with the childhood discovery of Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Prosper Mérimée and all the wonderful French literature, which has long been related to Russian.
I first came to Paris back in 1968. A year before, my song "Atlanta" unexpectedly for me, at that time I was sailing on another expedition, won first place in the All-Union competition for the best song for Soviet youth. And the Central Committee of the Komsomol, at the suggestion of the Leningrad Regional Committee of the Komsomol, decided to send me, along with other artists and poets, as part of the “creative group” of the USSR Olympic team to the Winter Olympics in Grenoble.
We spent three weeks in France: four days in Paris, and the rest of the time in Grenoble. "By official capacity" we had to perform from time to time in front of our athletes in the Olympic village and in front of the French "public". Since I myself did not know how to play the guitar then, however, I still do not know how, the actor of the Comedy Theater, now a people's artist, Valery Nikitenko, was appointed as a special accompanist. Already on the Leningrad-Moscow train, it turned out that he also did not know how to play the guitar at all. After the confession, Valery tearfully asked him not to extradite him, because he really wanted to go to Paris. As a result, at concerts in France, guitarists from the Georgian ensemble Orero played along with me, and I must say that I don’t remember such a luxurious accompaniment to my modest songs in all subsequent years.
Paris struck me with its exact resemblance to our school and book ideas about it - the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Pantheon, the Arc de Triomphe, Rodin's Balzac on the Boulevard Raspail, the Invalides Palace, the Sacré Coeur on the top of Montmartre hill, Notre Dame. Acquaintance with this city was reminiscent of a journey into the book through the looking glass of our childhood - from Hugo and Merimee to the "forbidden" Zola and Maupassant. More than others, I remember Notre Dame and the Orangerie Impressionist Museum in the Tuileries Park.
In Paris, the head of our group, a high-ranking Komsomol apparatchik Gennady Yanaev, later the last vice-president of the USSR under the last president Gorbachev, who became infamous as the chairman of the State Emergency Committee, was indignant during an excursion to the Louvre: “What kind of museum? They put some kind of stone woman without a head and with wings at the very entrance, - the famous antique statue of Nike of Samothrace was meant, - but there is nowhere to drink beer! The next day, in the evening, having had time in the morning to speak contemptuously about “talentless bourgeois portraitists painting oblique snouts” (meaning Modigliani), Yanaev suddenly burst into our room in a state of joyful excitement, intensified by the Stolichnaya brought with him, and declared: “Paris is a city of a hostile ideology and constant vigilance is needed. Therefore, those who have not yet seen a striptease have broken up into combat “troikas” - at Place Pigalle!
As for Modigliani, I still managed to intercede for him before our formidable leaders. And it was like this: on the occasion of the Olympic Games, an exhibition of works by Modigliani was specially organized, which our delegation visited. Hearing the above-mentioned contemptuous remark of the hungover Yanaev, I became terribly angry and unexpectedly for myself, forgetting about the difference between our positions and elementary caution, I began to shout at him and his deputy first secretary of the Central Committee of the Komsomol of Belarus Mikhail Rzhanov: “Komsomol fools, this is a great artist ! How dare you talk about him like that?" I expected an angry reaction, but our leaders suddenly became quiet, and Yanaev, smiling peacefully, said: “Sanya, why are you barking? You better explain to us - maybe we will understand. For the next twenty minutes, in a voice trembling with excitement, I gave an inspirational speech about the work of Amedeo Modigliani and his tragic life, which ended at thirty-five, using the film Montparnasse 19 as the basis of my narrative. Yanaev listened with half an ear, but when he found out that the artist was an alcoholic and drank himself, he joyfully declared: “Sanya! This is our man. Bourgeois bastards made a brilliant artist drunk!” After that, the exhibition was recommended for obligatory visits to all members of the Soviet delegation.
The era of sad gaps,
Where death is plentiful catch.
Akhmatova and Modigliani,
Akhmatova and Gumilyov.
heavenly from the Lord of manna
An outcast can't wait.
Novels were short
Both are unhappy.
Only lived for long years
There is a secret available -
artist or poet
A poet is incapable of love.
Don't complain about it in vain
That everyone burned out before the deadline:
One choked on absinthe
The other was shot.
Because both for a long time
She managed to survive.
But with them, even if not enough,
Sharing a bed and shelter,
She bound them forever
Aliens from different worlds.
Like a ringing bell in the fog
It sounds like a combination of words:
Akhmatova and Modigliani,
Akhmatova and Gumilyov.
I still remember the cramped second-class compartment of the Paris-Lyon train that we took to Grenoble. In this compartment, the size of ours, not four, but six people were placed, and it was incredibly stuffy. We stood in the corridor at the window and decided that we would wait until Paris was over and go to bed. However, we stood for more than an hour, and roads and houses were still flashing outside the window - so we never waited for a forest or a field. In the middle of the night we were woken up by a sudden and unexpected stop, all the more strange since the Paris-Lyon Express was speeding over a hundred kilometers an hour. It turned out that one of our compatriots, stupefied with stuffiness, went out into the corridor from a neighboring compartment, decided to open the window to breathe, and pulled the bracket closest to the window, under which something was written in French that he did not understand. It turned out that he pulled the stopcock handle. The next morning, our activists walked around the cars with a hat and collected five francs from everyone for a fine.
In Grenoble, we were settled one by one in the families of members of the Franco-Soviet Friendship Society, whose children studied Russian in colleges, and were given tickets for all matches and competitions. Once a day we gathered at the central club. There were scary moments, of which the most frightening was the one when at the final concert, after the end of the Olympic Games in Grenoble, I had to sing two numbers after Charles Aznavour. There were other tests as well. My hosts settled me in a room with a separate entrance. For this reason, I was given the key to a high carved door that swings open directly into the garden. Almost the entire room was occupied by an old huge bed, not two, but at least four-sleeping, with high bog-oak backs topped with numerous cupids. On the boundless featherbeds of this luxurious bed, where at least lie down, at least across, I felt like a lonely wanderer in the desert, especially since the wooden walls of the house turned out to be not a very reliable barrier to the cold of February nights. I put my suitcase with the two “permitted” bottles of vodka I had brought under the bed, following the Soviet habit. One day I went to some drinking and dancing party with our French friends. Sometime after midnight, when the booze began to run out a little, I suddenly remembered the suitcase with vodka, and decided to go for it. I was driven in her little Peugeot by one of the French translators, Danielle, a 20-year-old brown-haired woman in a stunning mini. It was raining outside. Sitting next to her in the car, which she drove heroically through the darkness and the rain, I tried not to look at her legs, which were tightly wrapped in a black mesh pantyhose. We passed through the garden. I opened the door with difficulty in the darkness and switched on the light. She threw off her wet cloak, took out a comb from her long hair and, having loosened it, began to wring it out. Then she jumped on the bed with a run and laughed, spreading her arms. I, of course, crawled under the bed for a suitcase. When I pulled out my suitcase, she grabbed my neck and said: “Listen, this vodka is still not enough for everyone, and such a bed is very rare among us. Maybe we'll stay?" My head swam, but my vigilant heart sank with fear. I imagined that the ancient wooden walls would now move apart, revealing the lenses of the photo and movie cameras filming us. Then French intelligence agents will break in to recruit me into the Surte, or some other espionage service. “What are you, what are you,” I muttered in a trembling voice, “it’s inconvenient, they are waiting for us.” And reached for her wet cloak. Perhaps that is why, on the day of departure, when she said goodbye to us, she came up to me and, gently slapping my cheek and smiling contemptuously, said: “Goodbye, fool.”
After the concert on the occasion of the end of the White Olympiad, a big banquet took place. It was announced that the hot dishes would be typically French. Therefore, we were somewhat surprised when we were served tobacco chicken. Only when we thoroughly tasted them, it turned out that these were not tobacco at all, but fried frogs. Soviet ladies began to faint, but the men were on top - they asked for more "Smirnoff" vodka and unanimously fell on the frogs. At dessert, the Italian Fausto, who was studying at Moscow State University and who understood Russian, who was sitting next to me, turned to me with a loud question: “Sanya, how did you like the French woman?” The KGB man, who was officially called the director of the school, who was sitting on the other side of me, put down his glass and looked back at me. "I don't know," I stammered. "Why dont know"?" Fausto did not hesitate. “Why, why,” I tried to get rid of the importunate interlocutor, “I don’t know the language.” He thought for a long time over my answer, obviously not understanding it and wrinkling his forehead, then he smiled joyfully and shouted: “What language? Hands!
On the way back through Paris, Valera Nikitenko and I, having asked for time off from the authorities, went to watch Paris at night. When, after wandering half the night along the Boulevard Clichy and Place Pigalle and drinking coffee with the drivers of night taxis in the famous "Womb of Paris", we returned to our own hotel, it turned out that the doors to it were tightly locked. No one answered calls or knocks. It was then that Valera discovered some half-open gates near the hotel, decorated with a cast old lattice with lions. When we entered them, hoping to find some additional entrance to the hotel, it turned out that it was someone a private house separated from the hotel by a blank wall. In the courtyard of the house stood open luxury cars, on the table of the open veranda, weak street lighting made it possible to distinguish some bottles and the remains of an uncleaned dinner. Frightened, we turned back towards the gate, but it seemed to have slammed shut behind us as we entered. And how they slammed shut! Some kind of automatic lock worked, which even from the inside without a key was impossible to open. Only now the meaning of what happened penetrated into our drunken heads. In the middle of the night, we climbed into someone else's house, and if they grab us, we won't even be able to really explain anything, because we can't connect two words in French. For the next half hour, we climbed over high gates topped with sharp spearheads, one of which I hopelessly ripped my only weekend trousers.
In Paris, however, we were lucky. It started to snow in Moscow, and the Air France company, apologizing for the flight delay, took care of the air passengers. We were immediately put up in one of the most expensive hotels in Paris, the Lutetia, on the Boulevard Raspail, and given five hundred francs for personal expenses.
Frightened to death, Soviet citizens, carefully instructed in the "case of provocation" and slightly stunned by unexpected favors, accustomed to the fact that their own Aeroflot treats passengers like prisoners of war, we flatly refused luxurious single rooms, and we were placed in even more comfortable double. After dinner at the company's expense, with Burgundy wine, and walking half the night along the Grands Boulevards, we returned to our unusually rich room with rococo furniture. And here my neighbor, who had already exchanged winks with a pretty journalist from our group, came up with a crazy idea. This journalist and her translator friend lived in the same room, one floor up. My neighbor tried to call them on the phone, but the telephone operator did not understand Russian, and neither German, nor English, nor, moreover, my neighbor could explain himself in French. Then he approached me and demanded that I speak English with the telephone operator and find out the phone number of our ladies. His plan was simple to the point of genius; his girlfriend was supposed to come to us, and I - in her place, in their room. All my attempts to dissuade him did not affect his mind, excited by the vapors of Burgundy and the sight of a luxurious - at least four-sleeping - bed with an alcove canopy. “Valera,” I persuaded him, rightly fearing “immediate provocations,” “well, be patient until tomorrow, to Moscow, what difference does it make to you?” "What are you talking about? he shouted. “On French soil, even our women are sweeter!” I had to pour him another glass of wine, after which he finally fell into a sleepy state.
The next day, to our some annoyance, the weather improved and the plane flew safely from Le Bourget to Moscow ...
In the following years, I happened to visit Paris many times, and I always compared this great city with my previous ideas about it, drawn from the books of Hugo, Dumas, Mérimée, Stendhal and Maupassant. I remember that in Omsk, during the famine years of the evacuation, I was fond of the biography of Napoleon Bonaparte. All the boys then, apparently, were fond of the figure of this great commander! I have re-read Academician Tarle's wonderful book "Napoleon" many times. And this childhood passion for Napoleon was preserved for many years. Therefore, when already at a mature age I ended up in Paris in the Palais des Invalides, where Napoleon and his famous marshals are buried, the era of the Napoleonic Wars passed before my eyes again, which caused acute nostalgia for itself. By the way, in the same place in the Palace of Invalides, where everything speaks of victorious battles, including Borodino, and the military glory of France, I unexpectedly found tombstones in Hebrew on a gray wall. It turned out that Jewish soldiers who fought for France on the fields of the First World War were buried here.
In the Parisian Palais des Invalides,
Where Napoleon is buried
And mournful statues
Bowed down at the magnificent columns,
Where glory is at its zenith
And everything talks about the war
I found an inscription in Hebrew
On a gray tomb wall.
They said under the inscription of the date,
That the eternal found peace here
Soldiers who died in battle
Distant World War.
And looking at the dull list
Saving French honor,
I remembered - such graves
There are many in Berlin.
At the Weissensee cemetery
Where is your youth and talent
Jewish soldiers buried
Those who died for the Fatherland.
Fighting on the Marne and Ypres
Fighting on both sides
Jews died for their country
Causing damage to the enemy.
In the regions where the iron blizzard
Fire burned the fields
They killed each other
foreign fatherland for,
His in inert thought
I naively consider it my own.
And the fat fire of the Holocaust
Europe answered them.
In each of my visits, Paris turned to me with some new side, but it always remained not an imperial capital, a symbol of high-profile military victories and bloody revolutions, as architects sought to present it, but, above all, a city of poets and artists, the eternal city lovers.
Paris shines with the edges of the roofs
In the noise of a foreign people.
An old romance has sunk into obscurity,
Only love remains.
Where is my home? Do they shine in it
Stars at the bottom of the well?
The fire goes out, the palm freezes,
Only love remains.
In a distant country, in peace, in war,
We all lived as we should.
Sorrow and evil carried away,
Only love remains.
Whether mountain peak, ryu li Lepic,
Nothing will come back.
Everything is carried away by water,
Only love remains.
Keeping memory, remember me
Over time, giving up the fight.
The bitterness of insults will fly away into the night,
Only love remains.
The circle is over, time is out of hand
It pours in a thin stream.
Which one of you will tell me now
What then remains?
Seagulls wing beats on the glass,
The new sun is laughing.
The oar will light up in the river,
So love remains.
One of the main symbols of Paris is the famous Luxembourg Gardens with the ancient Luxembourg Palace, an oasis in the middle of a noisy city that does not stop day or night. Here you can meet Parisians of all ages, spending their leisure time in numerous cafes or enjoying the silence on the garden benches. This garden is especially good in two seasons - the crimson Parisian autumn and spring, when it is filled with students resting from their unbearable studies on the eve of the session.
Calling blue canvases from Manet's memory.
I'm unlikely to find a similar scene in Russia,
Which would also be cloudless and carefree.
Under the inscription that forbids lying on the grass,
There is a policeman, missing the spring sun.
Around on the lawns, lazy fun lasts,
Lovers doze, head to head.
All France is sleeping at this hour in the Luxembourg Gardens -
Babies in strollers, in an old woman's patterned sun loungers.
Was it not here that the obsolete cannons now thundered,
Carrying the Communards the last misfortune in life?
They were shot here, at this low wall,
Where a young couple kisses passionately
Being a sculptural group of Rodin,
That sleeps, lulled by the world of daytime silence.
And I walk through the garden along the sandy path,
Looking at them enviously and stealthily.
Students lie on the grass in the Luxembourg Gardens
Runaways from lectures, as we used to run away.
Noisy Paris flows around this world of couch potatoes,
Where the Amazons sleep, pulling their tunic short,
And God slumbers over the garden on a sunny cloud,
Like an idle student who can't wait for the holidays.
Paris is an amazingly green city. There are a huge number of parks, squares, gardens. Almost all parks are associated with historical events, because Paris is so steeped in history that wherever you step, you are sure to stumble over some kind of relic. If Communards were shot in the Luxembourg Gardens, then Vladimir Ilyich Lenin was walking in the Montsouris park. His apartment was nearby, on the little street Marie-Rose, where Inessa Armand lived in the next house. And in this wonderful park, where ducks swim, seagulls soar, chestnut trees bloom, he thought no more and no less than about the plans of the World Revolution. It even seems strange that everything in Paris is so closely connected - both the absolute silence of the Parisian parks, and the thundering flames of revolutionary terror, both French and Russian.
Another completely unique world of Paris, without which Paris would not be Paris, is children. France has a very large number of large families. In contrast, for example, to neighboring Germany, where at best there is one child per family, here it is considered the norm to have three or four children. While the parents are working, the children are looked after by nannies. Little Parisians - relaxed, cheerful, well-dressed and well-groomed, filling the Parisian parks and squares with their chirping, form an absolutely amazing atmosphere of a cheerful sunny Paris, aspiring to tomorrow.
In Paris, life is in full swing day and night, but as soon as you turn a corner from a noisy highway and take a few steps, you find yourself on a quiet, cobblestone street with dim light of lanterns, which seems to have come from the Middle Ages. And it seems that right now, three musketeers will come out from around the corner together with d'Artagnan, and those adventures that attracted so much in childhood will begin. And very close by, noisy highways cross the boulevards, and Paris continues its day, evening and night life.
When on the verge of gray roofs
I watch before bed
I see Paris again
Outside the St. Petersburg window.
There in the middle of a foreign land
Ships sail on the Seine
And my friend Natalie and I
We go to the Place Italia.
Not knowing grief and worries,
From dawn to dawn
Holiday people walking
Through the Tuileries Park.
Where kings used to live
Now the tulips are blooming
And my friend Natalie and I
We go to the Place Italia.
There, drunk on wine and happiness,
holding a glass in hand,
Sitting with friends d'Artagnan
In a fancy wig.
There over the boulevards in the distance
Cranes fly north
And my friend Natalie and I
We go to the Place Italia.
They drink cheerful wine
At this evening hour.
Oh why is it so dark
Outside our windows?
And there they sing: se tre joli, -
Rather quench my thirst
And my friend Natalie and I
We go to the Place Italia.
When you get to Paris, then, looking back at your own life, you remember that great literature, especially Russian, which you discovered for yourself in childhood. Here one cannot fail to recall the remarkable writer Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, who in his last years lived in Europe and did a lot to bring Russian and Western European literature closer together. Close friendship connected him in Paris with Flaubert, Zola, Hugo, Maupassant, Merimee, George Sand and other French writers. He died in 1883 near Paris, in the town of Bougival, from lung cancer.
What strange shadows, however,
Reflected in this glass!
Turgenev dies of cancer
In cozy Parisian land.
This evening, sunset and long,
What does he suddenly remember?
Benefits of the beautiful Polina
Or Bezhin abandoned meadow?
Or gloomy early morning Nevsky
At the Vladimir Church, a mute,
Where Dostoevsky wanders wearily
From the gambling house home?
Who was a talent and who was a genius?
Everything has now faded into darkness.
Dying of cancer Turgenev
In cozy Parisian land.
Noble profile appearance,
Heads of unmelted snow
Will float away like a silver cloud
In the recent Silver Age.
I look at volumes of his prose,
I heal the wounds of my soul with them.
There are roses blooming between the arbors,
They are fresh and good.
Coolness blows over the estate.
The lake is motionless.
And do not cut down the cherry orchard,
And they don't teach you how to kill.
The tragic fate of another Russian poet, Vladimir Mayakovsky, who was and remains my favorite poet, is connected with Paris. It was here that he apparently met his last love - Tatyana Yakovleva. It was not just love, but an attempt to break out of the environment in which Mayakovsky found himself in the Soviet Union, and gain the desired freedom. He wrote to her: "I will take you anyway someday, alone or together with Paris." He was seriously in love with Yakovlev. Who knows, perhaps Mayakovsky's fate could have turned out differently if he came to Paris again.
Bloody banners of October
We have lived our century not in vain, -
They still hurt us today.
The poet who portrayed the rebel
With descendants through the years talking
In his personal life he was weak and weak-willed.
He, from all stretching lived,
Served the Great Revolution
I shared its misfortunes with my native country,
But, having loved since youth,
Raising your poems like a membership card,
Depended on the woman and the power.
Waving a formidable fist,
He sang, overcoming a lump in his throat,
All calling to them giving strength.
Both are deceived and attracted,
He was under the heel of both,
And both led him to the grave.
Keeping a straight face
He stands in bronze on the square,
Chewed by laudatory articles.
His poems are an artillery row
Then they will revive again for life
Letter and resolution to Yezhov.
Last exit. France. Paris.
You can’t run away, Volodichka, you’re naughty:
Don't think better about Yakovleva.
Coming back, on the way,
He gave to Lorigan Coty
The entire fee that was received.
The sound of a broken string is sad.
For a long time already there is no country in sight,
Whose passport was closer to him.
The poet died, and it is not his fault,
That no one needs today
All one hundred volumes of his party books.
The past century is inconceivably distant.
He burns like a charcoal.
The end of the poet is sad and pathetic.
But for many years, until the time expired,
His girlfriend was put on the threshold
Bouquets of violets paid for by him.
Another love of Mayakovsky, Lilia Yuryevna Brik, played a rather difficult role in his fate. The famous love triangle became fatal for the poet. It was Briks, especially Osip Brik, who collaborated with the “authorities”, who were advised not to give a visa to Mayakovsky so that he could not go to Paris again, because they feared that he would marry Tatyana Yakovleva and remain forever in France. Here we recall an epigram dedicated to Brik, usually attributed to Sergei Yesenin: “Do you think who Osya Brik is? Russian language researcher? But in fact, he is a spy and an investigator of the Cheka! Unfortunately, that's how it was. However, after the death of Mayakovsky, Lilia Brik provided him with immortality. It was on her letter to Stalin that the famous resolution of the leader was inscribed in red pencil: “Comrade Yezhov! I beg you to pay attention to Brik's letter. N.I. Yezhov did not yet head the punitive organs, but was the secretary of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks. Then came the lines that people of my generation learned by heart at school: "Mayakovsky was and remains the best and most talented poet of our Soviet era."
This Mauser is a lady's in a huge hand!
This shot that's tied to a secret
From which the echo buzzes in the distance,
For the benefit of other poets!
Why, agitator, tribune and hero,
Suddenly you shot yourself
So squeamishly avoiding raw water
And not eating unwashed fruit?
Maybe the women were to blame
That burned your soul and body
Paid the highest price
Failures of their adulteries?
The point is not that, but that friends are enemies
With each new one becomes an hour
That all the sonorous power of the poet cannot be
Give to attacking classes.
Because the poems sing of terror
In the frenzied and howling press,
Because a feather was equated with a bayonet
And included in the system of repression.
You fulfilled your last civilian duty,
Do not commit other atrocities.
You carried out the sentence - before,
And not in hindsight, like Fadeev.
The century goes on, the day ends
On a high note,
And a shadow falls on Mayakovsky's house
From the huge house opposite.
In the vicinity of Paris there is an amazing corner of Russia - the cemetery of Saint-Genevieve-des-Bois. Here lie Russians who lost their homeland during their lifetime and found it only after death. But we got it, hopefully forever. Many of those whom we called the White Guard and who were sung by Marina Tsvetaeva and other remarkable poets and writers remained in this cemetery. Anyone who comes here is shocked by the order of military burials. The glorious officers of the White Army lie in their military units - separately Don artillery, separately Cossack troops, separately cavalry units. Until their death, they retained their commitment and love not only for Russia, but also for their military traditions, including those educational institutions where they were brought up. In addition to the ranks, generals, colonels and others, almost everyone on the gravestone can see the shoulder strap of that cadet corps or cadet school, which they once graduated from when they were young.
Not just in the era that was before,
Now figure it out.
cadet brotherhood.
They lie silently in damp darkness,
But no complaints.
Cadet epaulette on a tombstone
And Pavlovian monogram.
School years beckon us back,
And nowhere to go -
Road from life everywhere and always
Goes through childhood.
The commanders of past campaigns lie,
Dressed in earth
What is the rank of cadet.
The generals of dashing divisions lie,
hero grandfathers,
And there is no higher title for them,
What is the rank of cadet.
Shouting, flying south, cranes,
The dead are disturbing.
Money is running out - from this land
They will be written out too.
Change color in neighboring forests
Earth turnovers.
Close habitually ranks in heaven
cadet companies.
Forget, cadets, about cannon smoke,
Get some sleep.
Let you dream, gray-haired boys,
Abandoned Peter.
Mysterious world of an ancient manor
With a yellowing garden.
And mom's dress, and dad's uniform,
And the Motherland is near.
The tombstone of the canonical form with the inscription "Don Artillerymen" located opposite the memorial to the cadets also attracts attention.
Lying away from the Empire
Under the half-fallen chestnut tree
Lieutenant of the Don Artillery
He won't be a captain anymore.
Under a warm glowing ray,
Parted with the world of the sublunar,
He will forever be a lieutenant,
Cheerful, enthusiastic, young.
Flickering autumn puddle,
And no regrets again
That he will never make it
Until the next rank.
He will remember the bridges with crossings,
And the windows of the native house,
Where it smelled of heated herbs
Over the waters of the Pacific Don.
Steppe, dense, tart,
Against a dark blue background.
And here Orthodox Church only
Reminds me of the former Russia.
And the years of emigrants - as if there were none, -
There are only snoring horses
And this distant sky is only
Where are the stars, as on the chase.
Not far from the graves of the White Guard lie the most prominent representatives of Russian literature and art of the 20th century who died in exile: Rudolf Nureyev, Alexander Galich, my peer Andrei Tarkovsky, who amazed the whole world with his art of cinema and, having flashed, passed away. Wonderful writers and poets lie here: Ivan Bunin, Dmitry Merezhkovsky, Zinaida Gippius and many, many others. Here it is, a huge Russian field on French soil ...
In the cemetery of Saint-Genevieve-des-Bois
Oblivion does not grow grass -
Her, dressed up like a lover,
The gardener cuts regularly.
Where the statues freeze in fox boas,
Emigrants found peace, -
Russian freedom guarantors.
In the cemetery of Saint-Genevieve-des-Bois
The earth is white from the February snow,
And look at the black crowns,
Forgetting about horses, squadrons.
Ringing at the monastery of Saint-Genevieve
Starlings who have flown in a two-syllable chant,
Binding her with birdsong
With Donskoy or Novo-Devichy.
Again in anticipation of a new spring
The dead dream of Moscow dreams,
Where the blizzard is spinning twisted,
Cast crosses flying around.
native places familiar from childhood,
And the dome shines over the Cathedral of Christ,
Inclining the dead to hope
That everything will return as before.
In the cemetery of Saint-Genevieve-des-Bois,
Disappearing from the planet like a moa bird
A flock of swans lies
Growing into Parisian soil.
Between marble angels and terpsichore
An invisible choir sings canons to them,
And no, it is clear from the song,
Freedom in addition to dormancy.
The Saint-Genevieve-des-Bois cemetery is inextricably linked not only with Russian literature, cinema, ballet, but also with Russian author's song. Every time I come here, I put flowers on the grave of Alexander Arkadyevich Galich - a man of difficult fate, who marked an entire era. A successful writer, prosperous playwright, whose plays were staged throughout the Soviet Union, he, at the height of his prosperity, suddenly took and went into dissidents, starting to write tough, accusatory songs. After that, he lost everything he had, was expelled abroad, and died a few years later under strange circumstances. This death is still mysterious. The songs of Alexander Galich, as well as his famous poem "Kaddish", dedicated to the outstanding teacher Janusz Korchak who died in a Nazi concentration camp, remained forever in the golden fund of Russian literature and became a kind of monument to that unfortunate era, which we now call the "Era of Stagnation".
Again the old word "today"
It comes to my mind unbidden.
They say: "The return of Galich",
As if you can return from the past.
These songs, once forbidden,
No anathema today, no sale to them,
At that time, politically harmful,
And now irretrievably forgotten!
Oprichniki calculated well,
Convinced Leninists-Stalinists:
Who is cut off from the usual home,
Forever without him and will remain.
The sound of an empty stirrup is heard
Above today's complete edition.
Who is cut off from place and time,
He will come back late.
Above the crosses swirling swoosh.
I look in the store "Melody"
On the portraits of sad Galich,
On dashing portraits of Volodina.
It gathers dust, not knowing the rotation,
Their records are a silent pile ...
No return is given
Nobody, nowhere, nowhere.
It is absolutely impossible to imagine Paris without open cafes, without guitar-sounding songs, without the famous French chanson. Without Jacques Brel, Yves Montand, Charles Aznavour and many others. Bulat Okudzhava once told me that it was Montana's arrival in Moscow in 1956 that prompted him to take up the guitar for the first time. The spirit of French chanson, which once swept the whole of Europe and was a serious impetus for the birth of an author's song in our country, still exists. That's just the attitude towards the authors is different. At the Montparnasse cemetery, at the grave of the famous French chansonnier Serge Gainsbourg (Ginsburg), always littered with fresh flowers, I somehow involuntarily remembered our chansonnier Ginzburg, who performed under the literary pseudonym Galich.
We can't predict ahead.
Earthly existence.
Lie in French graves
Two Ginzburgs, two chansonniers.
Autumn landscapes sketches,
Breath of the near seas.
One of them is Dnepropetrovsk,
The other is a Kishinev Jew.
October red fox
Sneaking through the wet grass.
One was famous in Paris
The other is popular in Moscow.
Little is known to us in total
About their dissimilar fate, -
One died from drugs
The other was killed by the KGB.
They were bound by a common bond,
From birth, every outcast
But the first remained French,
And the Russian remained different.
How these graves are not close
Cold rainy times:
On the first - flowers and notes,
Thick grass on the second.
And the thought is sad again
Suddenly comes to me:
The Russian word does not follow
In someone else's bury side.
An amazing thing is that those emigrants who lie in the cemetery of Saint-Genevieve-des-Bois dreamed of returning to their homeland for the rest of their lives, and those boys who they once were, who died on the fronts and the First World War, and civil war, dreamed of getting to a quiet and calm Paris, which historically was a place of relaxation and entertainment for a Russian person.
Chapter III. Parisian ordeals A four-week sea voyage. – Meeting with Meyerbeer in Boulogne. Wagner comes to Paris with his letters of recommendation. - Smiling for a moment of hope and soon disappointment. – Wagner has to write music on commission
From the book of Verlaine and Rimbaud author Murashkintseva Elena DavidovnaParisian escapades "Oh, if I could find predecessors at least at some crossroads in French history! But there are none of them. Of course, I'm a man without a family, without a tribe. I don't understand what a rebellion is. People like me , rise only to plunder - so jackals
From the book In the footsteps of an angel [fragment] author McNeil DavidItalian chestnuts At that time, there were still many Italians in Vans who arrived at the beginning of the century from the south of the peninsula, mainly from the poorest province - Calabria. They seemed to have forgotten how a good hundred of their tribesmen were laid under the walls of Aigues-Mortes in 1911; that was
From the book of memories author Grand Duchess Maria PavlovnaParisian memories The Queen left Romania without us. In her absence, the palace of Cotroceni fell silent and empty, all activity in it ceased. A few days after her departure, my husband's parents arrived in Bucharest with our boy. Road ordeal at the end
From the book Literary Portraits: From Memory, From Records author Bakhrakh Alexander VasilievichParisian shards It was so long ago, so obliterated from memory that it may already seem that this did not exist at all. In 1912, a small collection of poems "Scythian shards" was published in St. Petersburg, mainly dedicated to the ancient Black Sea region, some fictional Scythian
From the book "At the Pillars of Hercules ...". My world life author Gorodnitsky Alexander MoiseevichParisian chestnuts I'll get tired of night thoughts And I'll take a guitar chord, And chestnuts bloom in Paris Near La Concorde Square. These weightless candles That deprive passers-by of sleep, Good, but short-lived, Like our spring. You will not return to your own youth in old age, even though
From the book Mozart author Kremnev Boris GrigorievichTHE SORRIES OF PARIS Fifteen years in a person's life is a long time. If a person a decade and a half ago was only seven years old, fifteen years is a huge period. Wolfgang felt this very quickly when he arrived in Paris. Then the Parisians were alarmed by a miracle child,
From the book Happiness smiled at me author Shmyga Tatyana IvanovnaParisian motifs In the spring of 1976, I was to travel to France as part of a tourist group, which included artists from various Moscow theaters. I have been there twice before. For the first time I saw France, more precisely, only Paris, back in the early 60s, when
From the book Everything in the world, except for an awl and a nail. Memories of Viktor Platonovich Nekrasov. Kyiv - Paris. 1972–87 author Kondyrev VictorParisian cafes But isn't it time to unwind, talk about things that soothe the eye and envelop the tormented emigrant soul with balm? About Parisian cafes. And tell everyone
From the book Keys of Happiness. Alexei Tolstoy and literary Petersburg author Tolstaya Elena DmitrievnaParisian snowdrifts Back in Paris, there was a conversation that, according to family legend, prompted the Tolstoys to return. This is evidenced by the following episode, reported by Tolstoy's youngest son D. A. Tolstoy: “Mom told me what was the last straw in their decision
From the book Legendary Favorites. "Night queens" of Europe author Nechaev Sergey Yurievich"Pieces of Paris" We have a description of one of the episodes of this crisis summer from the lips of his eyewitness - Sophia Mstislavna Tolstaya. It's the beginning of August. The Tsarskoye Selo house is empty after the scandal that has just shaken the family. Tolstoy invites Sophia to this empty house,
From the book In the Caucasus Mountains. Notes of a modern desert dwellerParisian manners While Virginia, remaining in the shadows, busied herself for the good of her country, Paris rejoiced at the opening of the congress, which was attended by representatives of all the leading European countries. The festive atmosphere was felt in all its quarters. Krymskaya
From the Book of the Dead author Limonov Eduard VeniaminovichCHAPTER 2 Construction of the cell - Chestnuts and midges - The brother settled - New inhabitants of the desert - Warning of the nuns Only by the middle of summer did the hermits finally find, behind six not too high, but very steep passes, a flat meadow with a small source of water,
From the author's bookParisian secrets I met Yulian Semyonov in Paris at the end of 1988. First, a small digression. I lived in Paris for 14 years, and still it feels like I didn't live up to it. What is this city? There are several of my comparisons about him ... Well, of course, he is like a scenery
For me, spring in Paris is associated primarily with roses. They represent the very French spring. Like cherry blossoms in Japan. If you come to Paris in March or April, you will understand what I am talking about. Everywhere - in gardens, parks and flower beds, roses begin to bloom. Some are even ancient shrubs that have been here for a long time.
From roses spreads just an amazing aroma through the streets of Paris. But not only Paris is good to go in the spring. There are other areas where you can safely go during this period. or Aquitaine are also ideal to visit during this period. I liked this time in France also because the weather was ideal for me - not very hot, but also moderately cold.
Another reason why you need to go to France in the spring is the small number of tourists, wherever you go in this wonderful country. In the summer at Versailles or Disneyland, get ready for many kilometers of queues (and I'm not exaggerating!), But in March or April, you can hope for not so long queues.
France in March
In March, I was already calmly walking in a T-shirt and simple jeans through the streets of Paris. Sometimes there may be light rains in the spring, but they are rare and bring some pleasant coolness.
General characteristics of the weather
The cold winter time is slowly losing ground and giving way to warm weather. As elsewhere in big cities the temperature will be much higher than in the outback. The daytime temperature in some parts of the country varies from +7 to +15 degrees. In the northern regions and ski resorts it can drop even to -3 in the evening.
A warm jacket and an umbrella should be in your suitcase if you are heading to France in March.
Where to go
This month is ideal for visiting the region and Paris in particular.
Paris
A beautiful city, which did not immediately open to me. The first time, when I began to live there, I was indifferent to him, paradoxical as it may seem. Only a few months later I fell in love with this city.
In addition to purely tourist routes, I advise you to visit at least a couple of Parisian parks. I really loved Parc Monceau, next to the metro station of the same name, or Parc Butte Chaumont.
Château de Vincennes and its park
If you take the first metro line to the very end, then you will arrive at the Château de Vincennes. It is well preserved along with its chapel. It was built because it was the hunting grounds of the kings of France.
If you walk from the castle just a couple of minutes, then you will come to a very beautiful park, which presents a variety of flowers and plants from around the world. Some of them are kept in separate greenhouses.
I especially liked the Japanese gardens, which are specially kept in greenhouse houses. Among all this beauty, peacocks walk.
France in April
It's getting hot and crowded in Paris this month. I advise you to go to the South, where the temperature also pleases +15, +20 during the day.
General characteristics of the weather
The temperature rises already to +20, +25 in the south, but in the North - in Alsace and Lorraine it can still be cold - +10, +15. You should not forget about the umbrella, as it may well still rain. Especially in Paris, which reminded me of Peter very much - you never know when it will rain, so you should always have an umbrella in your bag or backpack.
Where to go
April - good time to visit Provence and the island of Corsica.
Provence
In April, it is already quite comfortable to travel here with a small suitcase with summer things. And yet, it is better to take some kind of jacket or a warm sweater with you, since, like any seaside area, it is subject to winds.
Aquitaine
The birthplace of the famous Gascon D'Artagnan, Aquitaine is a bright sun, many kilometers of beaches near Atlantic Ocean, wines of Bordeaux, spurs of the Pyrenees. I would advise you to start visiting this region from its capital - the city of Bordeaux, where there is a museum dedicated to local wines!
Be sure to visit Perigord - not far from it is the famous cave of Lascaux with rock paintings of ancient people. This is a small complex where you can see the traces left by our distant ancestors.
If you are a fan of active tourism, then go hiking in the Pyrenees or try rafting in the mountain streams of the area. Impressions will remain with you for a long time.
***
What is France in spring? These are impressionist landscapes and the freshness of blooming roses spilled in the air. It was in the spring that I realized why impressionism, as a trend in painting, originated in France. At this time, everything here contributes to awakening your creative potential. Want to check it out yourself? Travel to France in the spring!
Have you heard of the Japanese tradition of hanami? Every spring, people in Japan gather in parks to admire the cherry blossoms. Incredible white and pink caps of flowers announce the arrival of spring and transform the landscape for several weeks. With my love of nature, seeing cherry blossoms has become almost an obsession.
Unfortunately, the Land of the Rising Sun is far away, but I managed to find a breathtaking - I'm not afraid of this word - garden of cherry trees right next to Paris. It only remained to wait for spring and good weather. I was lucky - everything matched just perfect. Usually greens and blues predominate in nature photos, but this time your monitors will go crazy with the abundance of pink. If you notice at least a particle of Japanese contemplation in yourself, then welcome!
Park Ensemble So ( Sceaux) is located about 6 km south of Paris, so in fact it can be considered part of the French capital. This is a spacious park in a classical style with a castle, spacious lawns, figured trees and bushes, fountains, ponds and a large canal, like in Versailles:
Orchards with cherry trees (or groves, as they are called in French horticultural slang) are located along the Grand Canal. These are square plots of approximately 100 × 100 meters, fenced with bushes and trees. The first one has white flowers and is much less impressive. I accidentally learned of its existence by overhearing a conversation between an elderly couple.
As you can see, even at the peak of flowering, tree branches seem bare, although there are quite a few white flowers:
But the most interesting begins in the neighboring grove. Behind the trees, a pink fire is raging:
We go into the territory and first of all we select the fallen jaw:
Millions, billions of pink foam flowers hang on small-serrated cherry trees. Here it is, hanami in French!
Pink color in nature is rarely found in such quantities, so the brain initially refuses to process information coming from eye receptors.
Sakura is an integral part of Japanese culture. The fragility of cherry blossom is a metaphor for the fragility of human life.
Japanese, Chinese and other Asians come to So Park from all over Paris and the surrounding area to sit with the whole family under the cherry blossoms and remember their homeland:
If on weekends in the morning it is still quite free and secluded in the grove, then closer to dinner it becomes difficult to find a free place.
Everyone rests in their own way. Someone is reading:
Someone is meditating
Someone is sleeping
Someone doing sports
Someone learns to ride:
Someone is practicing with a sword:
And, of course, a lot of people take pictures:
Or taking pictures:
And pensioners do Asian exercises in the morning with some exotic name - for example, tai chi:
The centuries-old tradition of picnicking under flowering trees began with ume plum blossoms, but over time, sakura drew all the attention.
Cherry blossoms bloom for only a few weeks and fall off before they wither. In the same way, any beauty in the world is ephemeral, and you need to have time to enjoy it while there is an opportunity for this.
Some children are still too young to realize the unusual nature of trees:
And others already with might and main are drawn to the beautiful. Mostly girls, of course. Say what you like, but in women contemplation is more developed than in men.
