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Dorothy and Robert Mitchum: Our Favorite Memories of Paris

They grabbed a tramp steamer to Genoa, drove through Spain, and took a train to France.

The first thing they did when they hit Paris was get lost, so they headed for the nearest policeman. Between his pidgin English and Dorothy’s pidgin French, they were on their way again.

Shooting on Foreign Intrigue started in a couple of days, so Bob was rarin’ to go tourist-ing: dawn found him ready for the streets of Paris. Dorothy swore her other eye would be open in a matter of minutes and sent him out, to wait in solitary grandeur until there was a waiter awake to start him on his way with une café. Une café—that’s French for coffee that’s strong enough to stand up, sneer at you, and pour itself down your throat if you’re too sleepy to lift the cup.

His wife sleep-walked toward him, and they headed towards the Champs Elysees: Dorothy looked at the shop windows while Bob signed a few autographs; Dorothy assured a Parisienne Bob couldn’t have scared her donkey—he hadn’t had that mean look on his face that’s reserved for the cameras; Dorothy bought the things she-had ‘window-shopped’ while Bob waited for a cab at the taxi stand. 

There was’a night of shooting on the picture that ended just as dawn began to light the sky.

For a while Bob watched the sanitation trucks go by—instead of the taxi he was looking

for. No people, no cars—just sanitation trucks cleaning the streets of Paris for a new day. Bob started walking in the general direction of his hotel—and again got that special feeling and that special whiff and that special aura of quietness that spells Paris to him.

When he passed the Seine, he stopped and caught a fish. Well, he didn’t really catch it, but he worked as hard as the solitary fisherman at being motionless until the quiver at the end of the line told him it was time to bring in—a wiggle no longer than his finger.

And he’ll remember Paris for its fantastic markets, Les Halles, and for the restaurant where he had the specialty of the house—onion soup, and for the centuries of romance that Dorothy and Bob felt as they wandered through the gardens of Paris’ Tuileries.



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