I decided to play hooky and go to school. That’s right. Years ago I couldn’t wait to leave school and most certainly would never have returned on my own free will. But I had some free time and decided, in the interest of health, to take a long walk to school from the Champs-Elysées to the Avenue Foch – the widest street in Paris and where, for some reason every possible motorbike dealership is located. I strolled all the way to the Port Dauphine and hung a left on a long broad stretch of road bordering the Bois de Boulogne, known informally as the Boulevards des Maréchaux, so-named because sections of the grand boulevard are named after famous Napoleonic Maréchals like Lannes and Suchet. We are in the 16e arrondissement of Paris, an area made up of rather chic residential districts like Auteuil and Passy, large Haussmanian apartments bordering the Bois de Boulogne, a large number of diplomatic embassies as well as museums (including the Musée Marmottan which holds some of Monet’s best works), sporting arenas and of course the well known Bois de Boulogne itself.
I was returning to the school I attended when I was a young boy. The Ecole Pascal is an excellent private school founded in 1899 and now some 110 years later still thriving and doing well with an enrollment of 100 students. The school was originally located 27-29 Boulevard Lannes but now the new school sits close to the old at 33 Boulevard Lannes. It was then and still is now both a boarding (interne)and a day (externe) school. I must confess that I had some trepidations going in for a host of reasons. Not being the sharpest tool in the shed, I was intellectually challenged in my French studies which left me with a bulls-eye on my back. I was one of three Americans, the other two being my older brothers. My father had had the pleasure of being a student at the school back in the early 30’s when they were living on the Boulevard Suchet. We would normally start our school day behind the eight ball, as we were habitually late only to find the school’s front doors locked for the duration of the morning assembly. No sneaking-in which meant banging on the glass doors and yelling until the Assistant Headmaster with his severe grey crew cut and pencil thin mustache, showed up visibly perturbed and reluctantly let us in. That particular morning drill got real old real fast and we could never seem to get my father into the car any faster than he wanted to and we always had to make a quick stop at the cafe-bar-tabac on the Avenue du Roule to pick up a pack of Royals cigarettes. After assembly we made our way to our various classrooms with the help of obliging hall monitors, junior goons, whose job it was to herd everyone to class and so they employed various means to accomplish the job. From the administration’s point of view, the goons helped “facilitate” a smooth and orderly scholastic day. My class day was usually spent trying to avoid the teacher by unsuccessfully hiding behind a larger head. It never worked. The teacher, l’institutrice, bless her heart, had ice in her veins. You could feel the love and despite repeated efforts with her hand to remind me of my personal faults, it never produced the desired effect. I won’t go into more details but by the end of the day, running away and living in the Bois de Boulogne seemed like a pretty good idea.
A little side bar: Speaking of the Bois de Boulogne, I remember one time we had a field trip to the Bois as part of our “let’s draw nature” class when there was a sudden commotion and a sense of excitement rippled through the students who then started running in the direction of a little lady in a raincoat. Students were circling around her like a pack of hounds with pen in hand. I asked one of my classmates what was all the fuss about and he answered “why that’s Édith Piaf!” I replied “so, who’s that?”
The person who most epitomized the school, at least in mind, was the Headmaster. Put away those thoughts of Goodbye Mr. Chips a kindly ‘ol gentlemen with a wisp of white hair and a twinkle in his eye, chalk dust on his suit pants. No, this gentlemen was the definition of authoritarianism. At the end of the school day, he would stand at the top of the steps just outside his office and within easy reach of any student who foolishly decided to misbehave. The older portion of the school building still had a potato cave and a small window with bars at pavement level. It was no longer used for storing potatoes obviously but every so often it became the temporary home for certain students. Although I personally never saw it, my older brother once told me that he arrived at school one morning and saw this hapless boy peering out through the barred window. An interesting historical tidbit in all of these musings is that apparently when the Super was a young teacher he would stand out on his class balcony and, in 1940, watched a seemingly endless parade of German soldiers, tanks, guns and more soldiers until he finally realized he was watching the same parade over and over again. The German army, in an effort to demonstrate a show of overwhelming force, were running the parade over and over again. Much like a bad movie on television.
anciens élèves” or one of the old schoolboys. The new headmaster (I thanked God) personally welcomed me back to the school. To legitimize my status, I dropped a few teachers names as well as his predecessor’s name. That did it. I had broken the code whereupon the headmaster latched on to one student (Dominique) telling me he was one of our brightest boys and would personally give me a guided tour of the school. Everything, kitchen, dorms and all. The school was my oyster, the conquering hero had returned, long live me! After you’ve seen one classroom that was about it. One thing in particular, I do recall was a class of boys and girls who were around my same age when I was there. My trusty guide briefed the teacher who then announced to her class that I was a former student and visiting from the United States! One boy started whispering to his classmate whereupon the teacher turned to Jean-Marc and said since he obviously had something to say we should all here it and please stand in front of the visitor and share. It was all I could do to stop myself from saying “run Jean-Marc, run as fast as you can, I’ll cover.”