The 17th-century Fountain of the Medicis is a peaceful oasis in the often bustling Luxembourg Gardens.
It's named after Marie de Medicis (Louis XIV's grandmother), and inspired by the city
of Florence.
Photo:
Ed Alcock
for The New York Times
For quiet magic, Paris insiders pass the time on the lawn and benches of the Square du Vert-Galant, a pointy-shaped spit of land that reminds me of the deck of a cruise ship. The westernmost tip of the Île de la Cité, it offers the Louvre on the right, the dome of the Institut de France on the left, the river on both sides and straight ahead.
The best way to access it is down two flights of stairs at the equestrian statue of Henri IV on the Pont Neuf. It was there, in the 1991 film “Les Amants du Pont Neuf” (released in the United States as “The Lovers on the Bridge”) that Juliette Binoche, as a homeless artist who is going blind, struggles to paint her companion’s portrait.
Even the city’s large, formal gardens proclaim hidden spaces. The vast Luxembourg Garden can overwhelm with too many joggers, sunbathers, musicians, newspaper readers, pony riders and tulip admirers. But find the 17th-century Fountain of the Medicis, named after Marie de Medicis (Louis XIV’s grandmother), an oasis of calm and shade inspired by the city of Florence and built on her instructions.
I am not much of a gardener, and the Jardin des Plantes in the Fifth Arrondissement, with its greenhouses and odd species and identifying labels, seemed too much like work. Until I met Mr. Bureau. He told me how his mother was a concierge in the neighborhood, and that he took his first baby steps in the vast garden. It was there, in fact, that he met his wife. She was a 17-year-old high school student, he a 21-year-old gardener fresh from military service. It was raining, and he offered her shelter in the gardener’s hut.
“Women always love gardeners,” he said. “We speak of roses and perfume. We can easily get their attention.”
He was readily persuaded to show off its secret corners, the gardens within the garden. After pointing out a Lebanese cedar planted in 1734, he took me up a spiraling stone walkway to a pergola of iron, copper, bronze, lead and even gold that is France’s oldest metal decorative construction.
Then we entered a concrete tunnel beneath the main garden that led to the Jardin Alpin, a craggy, flowering space that houses species from mountainous areas around the world. Deep inside is a valley with a stream and a leafy canopy that only the strongest beams of light can penetrate. "Here,” Mr. Bureau said, “is where lovers come to hide.”
