From Clouds To Sunshine

( Originally Published 1923 )

IT is interesting to note that one may leave Detroit Friday afternoon, board the steamer at New York, Saturday noon, and arrive at Paris the following Friday; just one week from date of departure. It would be possible to continue on the night express to Marseilles arriving the following morning, sail at noon, and Sunday P.M. land at Algiers, just nine days from home. Distances are constantly being narrowed in time, but even this boasted speed will soon, by the use of airships, look like travel by local freight.

I traveled more leisurely, however, spending three days in Paris, sufficient to permit arranging for return passage, traversing the main boulevards, dining at Prunier's, the sea-food restaurant par excellence of Paris, and also enjoying a repast of onion soup au gratin, snails (the piece non-de-resistance) etc., at L'Escargot d'Or—a place long famous, but far better known to Americans since the appearance of an article in the Saturday Evening Post (October 7) giving an interesting account of some unique and unusual eating places in Paris.

Paris appears much more prosperous than when I was there two years ago. Cafés are more brilliantly lighted and much better patronized. Gloom and depression are giving way to a return of the gayer atmosphere of pre-war days. You would know, however, that something had happened, even though you had been asleep during the entire period of the Great War, if on suddenly awakening you were presented with a bill in some favorite haunt or shop in Paris. True, the franc is about one third par value, but prices are not less than ten times (in francs) those demanded ten years ago in the halcyon days for American tourists. American prices no longer appear unfavorable when compared with those of Europe; and of course the purchasing power as compared to the earning power, in America, occupies a place at the peak of the scale and nowhere is there demanded and given the service that is commonly obtainable nearly everywhere in our country. The more I visit great cities of the world, the more convinced am I that New York is the greatest of them all—the metropolis preeminent. Naturally, however, to the Parisian, Paris has no equal.

The journey from Paris to Marseilles is through a beautiful country, gentle slopes and rolling hills, green fields outlined by hedges, shrubs, and tall spindly trees from which the branches have been trimmed for fuel. The woods were still decked in autumn colors. One could look for miles and not a house was visible, the tillers of the soil wending their way homeward in the evening to their abodes in the villages of clustering houses. I wonder if that perhaps is not the better way, for it assures the farmer a community life free from the lonesome atmosphere which often pervades our rural districts in America.

At Marseilles I renewed my acquaintance with the Count of Monte Cristo by a visit to Château d'If. Far be it from me to undertake to describe this famous bastile, bleak, austere and crowning the top of a barren rock which rises precipitously from the sea. It would be presumptuous, for one needs but turn to this fascinating story and he will find Dumas' absorbing, but likewise terrifying description of this fortress and prison. I saw the dungeons in which were imprisoned Edmund Dantes and Abbe Faria, also the narrow secret passageway connecting these cells. Some of the same odors that (as I recall it) Dumas referred to, seem still to permeate the air. It makes this thrilling story of our youth seem real indeed, and as I stood on the sheer rock overlooking the sea, I too was able to declare as did Edmund Dantes "The world is mine," or at least as much as I cared for.

When we are nearing fifty, some of us are blessed with the realization that material gains beyond a modest reasonable amount bring obligations that offset any additional compensation. (Of him that has much, much will be required.) Curtis' philosophy as expounded in "Prue and I" becomes sound logic—true enjoyment may be had by looking over the garden wall at our neighbor's flowers,—ours to enjoy, his to care for. And surely those who have not, can hardly be denied the pleasure of building castles in the air. The middle aged man has arrived at that time in life when his view-point becomes clear and well defined, the storms which buffeted him have also blown away the fogs of indecision, his course is clear, and inextinguishable hope ever continues.