OCTOBER IN PARIS

IN PARIS THEY SLEEP

Aah to sleep in Paris.  Including in the middle of the day--

Especially in the middle of the day.

Yes, I sleep in the middle of the day, in Paris, when I should be outside sightseeing.  Or running errands.  Like getting my brioche for the next morning.  Or grabbing the newspaper for the New York Times crossword puzzle.

A report from the Paris based OECD has announced that the French sleep more than do the residents of eighteen other economically developed countries.

There is much to be made of this.  None of it especially flattering. But as I have never personally seen a French person asleep in their bed (except in movies) I will desist (with effort) from adding to the fray.

What I will say is that the taking of naps, while in Paris, is one of my guilty pleasures.  As opposed to taking naps at home which I consider sanity preservation necessities.

Two reasons.  One is that night in an apartment in Paris brings about a sudden flurry of people, home from work, moving about on the floor above me, which I hate. 

It also brings about much activity out in the stairwell, especially about 11 pm, which seems to be the time the er...younger crowd get home from work or cafe, singing or arguing.  11 pm is my not-to-be-messed-with bedtime.  Je suis toujours tres pissed at 11pm, chez moi, in Paris.

Midday however, all is quiet.  All is serene.  And retreating to the boudoir (alone) this time of day has the added appeal of being something someone with true grit just wouldn't do.  I am proud to be a person who doesn't bother with true grit while in Paris.

So I honor that the French sleep more than is seemly.

Makes my naps seem, well, quite...Colette...Toulouse Lautrec...the Eiffel Tower.

GREY IN CA, GREY IN PARIS

It's cloudy and foggy today in sunny California.  I love it.  It reminds me of Paris.  Even though October in Paris turns out to be sunny and balmy.  Or at least for the last three years.

I was positively irritated by the perfect weather when I was in Paris.  I hadn't come all the way to Paris in search of wet cobblestones, preparing to wear scarves and gloves, and breathe in crisp air, to find...you know, friggin' blue skies.

I never spoke this aloud while I was there.  I knew mine would be an unpopular opinion.  Indeed, an unthinkable opinion.  Especially as I was going to be spending my upcoming winter, suffering back in Southern California, where the sun shines...almost...every day, leaving the Parisians to endure winter as best as they could.

Winter is not a good thing.  I know.  I have lived where winter is winter, and no.  Aside for the few pretty days of fresh snowfall, winter is long, dreary and bitter cold.  To hell with winter.  Absolutely.

Even so, as summer approacheth, for everyone in the Northern hemisphere, it feels nice today, here in Newport Beach, CA, to have a bit of grey going on out there, which allows me a chance to post a wet cobblestone picture...just to remind me of one of my favorite things in Paris.

PARIS WHEN I'M NOT IN PARIS

I'm not in Paris these days.

Therefore I miss Paris--

Even though I'm on the final draft of my book about Paris,  "One Stiletto in the Notre Dame, The Other in the Grocery Store", and am re-living my weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks in Paris, every day--

I am still missing Paris.

I know I can make this fun, this re-living my Paris adventures.  Looking at Paris from the vantage of the Pacific Ocean in the OC is not exactly labor intensive.

But here I sit, pining for wet cobblestones instead sunny ocean views, and overcooked chicken at a bistro in St Germain de Pre rather than fresh fish tacos at Wahoo's under palm trees.

I should be ashamed...and I am....

But the fact is--

Having led a peripatetic life from childhood on, for me--

The GRASS IS GREENER ANYWHERE ELSE--

(Yes, I should definitely be ashamed...and am, deep deep deep within--)

But so, I'm going to re-up my Paris blog, to keep the juices flowing, the love alive, the cobblestones waiting. 

Pearls and Amber , my other blog, is still alive and well.  Please continue to visit.

And the re-upped October in Paris will be about--

Paris, from The OC...you know, like Southern California, with Hollywood thrown in--

Wow, I feel so much better!

BACK HOME

Southern California is wild about palm trees.
These are at the end of the alley.  I'm sure there are those who have named them. 

One time two palm trees were added.  Someone complained.  They intruded in on their view.  So, the two trees were removed forthwith.  I do hope other neighbors hadn't named them yet.

I got here without any problem.  Air France pilots did pilot my plane.  But the flight across the hall at Gate 58, going to Moscow had a bit of a problem locating a pilot who felt like flying to Moscow in the middle of a strike, and November too.
Eventually the waiting crowd was notified that a pilot had been found, but it was uncertain as to when he'd get to the airport.  The waiting crowd were thanked for their patience--

I don't know why that phrase doesn't incite riot each and every time it's used.

Meanwhile, my plane, having the good sense to be a flight to sunny (albeit fire-ridden) Los Angeles boarded without incident--

And then I was here. 

Home.

I am rushing to my hairdresser.  Six and a half weeks has wreaked havoc. 
I'm home.  A week ago I was freezing at the Notre Dame.
I'm home, and the cats are happy...but only after I had to wheedle my way back into their favor.

And so, twas a wonderful wonderful interlude.  Paris is a dream. 

Life goes on.  And now I'm home--

I can be read at my regular blog, which will include more of my life in Southern California than it has in the past.

Pearls and Amber The Wit is on the Wall

 

LAST DAY and THE EIFFEL TOWER

I didn't actually ever go to the Eiffel Tower this trip.  But I love it. 

It is ever present.  It is HUGE, when you stand under it...which I did, over and over the last two trips.

Everyone loves the Eiffel Tower.  One day I thought I'd mosey on over and ride the elevator up to the top.  But my trusty guide book warned that in order to avoid long lines one should consider going after 10:30 at night...maybe next trip...or another life when 10:30 isn't my bed time.

It's lacy.  It's a giant stand of filigree.

And it pokes into view every where.

It's beautiful..and has overcome a beginning when the people then felt it was just an ugly monstrosity and not worth keeping around.

I must remind myself of this whenever my lip curls over the latest and greatest odes to bombastic architecture appear  blighting the horizon.

So, today I am meeting a friend at Angelina's for sublime, and I mean outrageously sublime, hot chocolate.  I'll walk back through the Tuileries, and across the Seine.

I've had a wonderful trip.  I've loved everything except the domestic dust-ups that...dusted up--

I think the concierge has forgiven me picking on the elderly woman next door...but really she shouldn't have been moving furniture at 4:30 am, then again at 11:30 pm, now should she?  The note I slipped under her door, protesting such activities, was very polite, and absolutely the appropriate way to behave.  I had that information from the best of authorities.  The noise stopped, too.

And I think the newspaper shop man started to warm up after I came in beaming the day Obama was elected.  I babbled something at him, and he even smiled at me today when I got my paper.  I'm telling you, this is progress!

Also, at Fragonard's yesterday, the young sales girl, upon my asking her if she knew where I could get salted caramels (I've heard they are incredible), said no.  But she directed me instead to a tiny hole in the wall called Pierre Herme, and told me to buy the macaroons with caramel.  She said they were the best in the world.  She was totally Gigi about it. 

Well, oh my god.  I ate two walking back to Bon Marche.  Two more in the park right at the Sevres-Babylon metro station.  And the last one the minute I got in the door of the apartment.

I don't think they travel well, so I'm bringing none home.  One must come to Paris themselves and taste these incredible concoctions.

But so, tis the last day of my stay--

All is well, here in Paris, France.

But yes, I will be very happy to come home.

AIR FRANCE STRIKES

I clawed my way through that crowd to get into the Bastille for yet another bout of music.  These mini-concerts are called 'casse-croute', which is snack.  They are free concerts offered in the small theater, at one p.m., where one can come in during their lunch hour supposedly and get an hour and a half of music.  Members of Paris' Symphony Orchestra take turns playing.
Today the oboe was featured.  I happen to love the oboe. There were four musicians, who made very beautiful music.  Except for one contemporary composition that sounded just like cats in heat.   I was truly impressed that these two violins, one cello and one oboe could so perfectly mimic the sound of over-sexed cats--a truly grating, discordant ode to music gone wrong.

But, so, back to my arrival to the mayhem, I'd shoved my way though the boisterous crowd to get in.  "What's up," I yelled into my friend Emily's face as soon as she arrived.

"A strike," she said.  "Did you know that the pilots of Air France are going on strike until Monday?"

"What?" I yelled louder, because I am leaving Sunday, on Air France...I hope.  "But those guys out there don't look like pilots," I said.  Maybe they are?  And this is how they really look out of uniform?  I went green around the gills.

"Oh no," said Emily.  "That out there is a different strike."

They were cooking fabulous looking  and fabulous smelling food out there for these very happy strikers--

The pilots are striking because their retirement age is being booted up from sixty years old to sixty-five.  They have taken umbrage.  I will desist with any and all comments until I am back in good ole CA, trying to get my cat to graciously, for once in her sweet life,  take the medicine she needs, and then to pat me on my back for my effort.

I've checked my reservations, and all seems nicely confirmed and all, at this point, anyway.

Here's hoping Air France will move heaven and hell not to disrupt their very lucrative Paris/Los Angeles route.

And I suddenly remember that last year Air France went on strike just before I came home too.  Last year it was the stewardesses causing the problem... they were a grim lot on that flight home.

So now I know why deja vu seemed to hover when Emily told me about the strike.

When the concert ended, the strike was over, and what do you know, there was our smiling First Couple Elect.  And, by the by, that is my friend Emily, an American living in Paris, standing there, in approval of the elections outcome as well.

THE COUNTDOWN HAS BEGUN

So I'm standing here thinking it's harder to take my picture in the mirror than it has a right to be.  It's freezing outside.  I've just come in and my fingers won't move-- 
I'm saying hi!  

I'll be home Sunday.  I intend to eat ice cream and Mexican for the next month.

Except for Thanksgiving, which reminds me, should I have my son order the turkey now, rather than wait?  One year they were ALL OUT of the turkey I wanted--

But, what am I thinking?  God.

I am still in Paris, with four more big fat days to fill...however, since I am so done with the rat race of sightseeing,  I plan to just wander around.

Today I hung out behind the Notre Dame, my favorite place over there.  The rear view of the church is so gorgeous. And the park, so very Parisian.  And my first park in Paris.  Found in a state of jet lagged shock, three years ago, and I love it.

Around front I stared up at the roof where one can climb.  I did climb up my first year here.  However, It was an ill-advised climb.  It was spur of the moment.  I had just come from a lunch of duck and butter.  I was wearing high heeled boots.  One moment before the climb started I'd patted myself on the back for being so spontaneous--

That climb was a nightmare of claustrophobia and burning thighs, of twisting and climbing that never ended, until it did, and then I was thrust out so high off the ground I practically took a swan dive off the edge just because it seemed like the corrective experience for the narrow, gagging climb I'd just survived.

BUT, what joy once up there!   It was wondrous.  The gargoyle and chimeras were amazing, having their own party, laughing at the world, forever. The huge wooden interiors of the towers where the bells were called me to hide and stay. The roof went on and on, out of sight from the ground, with statues of old saints in addition to the chimera, standing, guarding, protecting their world up there.  It's big up there.

I'll never see it again.  Unless they install an elevator in the church, and god knows they do have the room--

The musicians were out in force, as were the pigeons, which are an ISSUE here in Paris, turns out.  There are efforts being made to curb the unsightly mess these urban creatures (I am, of course, referring to the pigeons) leave around, plans concocted by scientific animal lovers who are some of my favorite people.  The plans are too complicated to go into here....

It was freezing cold today.  Somewhere along the line I'd left my old gloves with the holes in the fingers behind.  Maybe when I got the nutella crepe from the vendor?  Maybe when I completed my conversation with the Scottish ladies?  Maybe when I tackled the metro at Chatelet, which is the Grand Central station of metros, and not for either the squeamish or the faint of heart.

So, fingers now frostbitten, I set aside old resentments, and paused at the first Monoprix I saw.   I took a deep breath and walked in.  There, thank god, waving from the corner, was the perfect pair of cheap gloves, without holes in the fingers, to tide me over.  

And miracle above all heaven, when it came time to pay, there were no French persons in line in front of me, each waiting to have their very personal and detailed conversation with the check-out lady.  I even stood there after I paid, so lack of line was there, and put my money back in my wallet carefully, actually latching all the little latches so that there wouldn't be a pile of change at the bottom of my purse when I got home...taking my time to the extent that the saleswoman stopped her between-customers-bustling to inquire ever so politely "Madame?"  

Which meant "move on, missy."

Back out in the cold, even though I was now back in St Germain, which should have been, just because, warmer, it wasn't.

So I descended once again, and caught the very convenient metro at Mabillion, which dropped me very conveniently at Vaneau, where back up above ground, I had to rudely shove my way through a gaggle of laughing, smoking teenagers wearing huge scarves.

OPERA AT BASTILLE

Yes, I went to an opera this afternoon.  At the Bastille--the modern opera house across town from Le Garnier.

Opera is not a favorite of mine.  I saw "The Student Prince" when I was five, in a little theater in the round, in New England.  My mother and father, opera aficionados, loved it.  I was brought along as a treat.  I understood the honor.  So I was well-behaved...I think.  But aside from "The Drinking Song",  which roused in me a bit of excitement,  I was struck numb with boredom.

I've been to opera since, of course.  And this I have gleaned.  The Chicago Opera House's ladies rooms, yellow and silk odes to roses and cream crown molding, are to die for.  And that time we had box seats in Brussels for "La Traviata" when I was thirteen, I learned that box seats curtained with olive green and gold brocade and velvet, are the way to go.

Today I saw "La Petite Renard Rusee", which in English is called "The Cunning Little Vixen."  It's about a beautiful red fox who dies in the end.  Yes, even though the heroine is a fox, she still dies in the end.  They all die in the end--

But you knew that.

The sets were utterly charming, and since animals were the focal point, with one of the humans finally seeing the soul in the animals at the end, I enjoyed it.  I didn't love it.

I thought the music somewhat dull, but watching the orchestra was as usual, wonderful. 

I found the French illuminated subtitles (or whatever they call them in opera) disconcerting.  My eyes kept sliding up to them, and I was shocked every time to be confronted with French. 

There were a lot of children in the audience.  The topic wasn't of interest to them I am sure, but the animal characters were totally charming, fun and funny...and were played by children, in all cases besides the main animal characters, which I guess is why parents were sure this was an opera for them.

The little boy in this picture, at intermission, was eating a cupcake and wafting enthusiastically to his grandmother, who obviously thought every word he uttered was perfection personified.

I absolutely agreed.  Meanwhile noting to self that the parents had it right.  The "Cunning Little Vixen" was a charming fairytale.

In spite of that dead little vixen at the end.

YOGA & RODIN

I suppress a snicker every time I look at Zee Thinker.  Isn't this statue, by now, the epitome of a cliche?  And aren't cliches cause for mirth?

However, he provided me with a wonderful photo op, because my favorite Parisian dome, Les Invalides, was there in the background.  Even though it was a dreary day, that dome gleamed in the gloom.

The first time I visited the Rodin Museum I was struck by the notion I was standing in the room at the tail  end of an extreme yoga class.  I spent a few moments imagining an avant garde Rodin savvy about yoga way before even Mr. Iyengar.  The rooms were awash with sprawled bodies, legs wide open, backsides hugely arched, genitals flying, necks flung back like they had just been hung. The profusion of movement in the rooms.  Earthy.  Bold.  Open.

Verging on mayhem.

This time where was all that yoga?  It seemed quieter to me.   None of my favorites were there.  None of the contortionists.  Maybe because it's November?  The leaves are falling off the trees.  Time to calm things down before the madness of Christmas?

The first time I was there, there was a wind storm that day.  Maybe the wind crated that sense of energy and sweat.

I love this museum either way, any way.  This is where Rodin lived his last years.  The shape and moldings of the rooms are intact.  The gardens, now at the end of the year are starkly beautiful.

And outdoors, in addition to The Thinker, there are several pieces.  One is my all time favorite.

The Burghers of Calais.

Their story is incredible--their love and bravery, the leaders of their people, willing to give up their lives because it was the morally right thing to do.

I liked their faces close up.  Here's one of them.

And one minute later?  After facing their own death to save the people of Calais?  They are allowed to live.

Let's face it.  Solemnity, suffering, and unhappy endings are not the honey of life.

Happy endings are.

BARACK IS IN! SO I GO TO LE BON MARCHE

The air is lighter here.  The world is beaming its approval. I'm skipping.

For HE IS ELECTED.  It even made me cry seeing good old Jesse Jackson crying...even after what he tried to do to Obama way back whenever.

I gave money to the man playing the sax on the metro going to the American cathedral.
I gave money to the two men playing the accordion and trombone on the metro going to St Germaine de Pres.

I went shopping.

Le Bon Marche is a grande dame in department stores.  It has this panache, you see, that the glossiest stores in LA cannot even begin to emulate, even if they put in the crown molding and imported an Art Nouveau glass ceiling for effect.

Aside from the furniture sections which I find absolutely luscious, the store doesn't actually sell anything different than Bloomingdales--

But, it has it's Parisian air of elegant savoir faire, and I just like going in there.

Today I went in specifically to look at their Christmas decorations.  Last year I was blown away by them, particularly the confections that were made in Lyons.

Alas, there were no Lyons ornaments.  And the Christmas area itself, was, how do you say?  Not up to zee snuff?

But the rest of the glitter was in place.  Our country has a new president, one we can be proud of, so I just wandered through the store looking like I'd swallowed whatever it is one swallows when they are hugely, smugly, totally thrilled with the way the election went.

YES!!!!!!!

CANAL ST-MARTIN BOAT RIDE

Canal St-Martin is becoming a trendy area.

Like downtown LA.

This was a two and a half hour boat ride that took this long because we went through ten (or was it three?)locks...we waited for water levels to change and all.  Surely you know what has to happen to go through a lock, don't you? You don't?  You don't care?  Or is that my brain talking.

All kind of details were given to me because when our fearless tour leader found out I was American, he followed every snippet of information in French with one in English, which he delivered standing right in front of me.

The ride was soothing.  I'll spare you the snippets.  We did go through a long tunnel that caused a bout of claustrophobia.  I hate claustrophobia.

Anyway, I took two pictures of faces.  This little girl was beyond pinkness of cute.  I asked her mother if I could take her picture.  In French I asked.  Maman replied in perfect English.  I must take up a serious study of French when I get home.  No more relying on that long ago Belgian French to see me through.

And the man on the bank?  Well, I didn't ask his permission.  But, then, neither did he ask mine.

J'AIME DES MUSEES EN PARIS

 There are lots and lots of museums in Paris.

I am not a museum lover.  I like to go on about how I got dragged to every museum in the world while growing up, and that is why I am tres yawning and dulled and un petit how you say BORED OUT OF MY MIND by zee museums filled with all the leetle tiny objets de boringness--
Where one is supposed to be tres quiet and whispering and no laughing, please.  Absolutely no making fun or laughing.

Going to a museum brings out the worst in me.  Like all those times when right in the middle of Mass, for god sake, I'd want, need, could barely control, the need to laugh.  Loud.  Without control.  Once that kind of moment hits in any place that takes itself terribly seriously, well, one is done for, n'est pas?

Museums.  Very serious indeed.  Related to history, ART, culture, architectural detail non pareil, quiet, whispering, guards at every door, which brings out the paranoia big time, can I use my camera or not, am I being crass by even taking photographs, instead of standing in worshipful silence, staring at whatever priceless item I am staring at--

Thinking, how long do I have to stare?  Is one minute long enough for this painting?  I can see--it's a painting painted a long time ago of a very serious woman, holding a baby who probably died young, and I hate it when that happens, so, maybe I can just move along to the next one...or even fast forward to the front door and outta here--

"Wait a minute," says my companion.  "We've only been in here for five minutes.  You said you'd give me twenty."

It's much better if I go to a museum alone...and the only place that happens is here in Paris, where, you guessed it--

I LOVE the musees!

I die for love for zee musees here.  I pick carefully.  I do not, I repeat, do not bother with the gargantuan odes to boringness supreme, as in the Louvre or the Orsay or the Grand Palais, or that nightmarish, the Pompidou.

I go to the Musee des Poupees.  I go to the Galerie-Musee Baccaract, Musee Marmottan, the Musee Nissim de Camondo, the Musee Carnavalet, Cognacq-Jay, Picasso, le Petit Palais, le Musee Gustave Moreau and the Musee de la Vie Romantique.  The Musee Jacquemart-Andre.   Also the ones that call themselves Fondations...like Le Corbusier and Dubuffet.
There is a never ending supply of these small museums.

My criteria?  That they are small, housed in what were beautiful private mansions..or if not mansions, quirky odd, hidden ( I love the hidden ones...the first year I was here I was afraid of them.  But last year I broke the noose and found Le Corbusier.  I even rang the buzzer at Dubuffett!).

I like them to have a specific product they're about--like the doll museum.  Like the crystal.  A single artist, and the museum is in his/her former studio (like Gustave Moreau.  His dining table was tiny.  Could it really have been his?  But upstairs were two studios which were soaring).

I like to have to hunt them down.  I get all over Paris finding these places. 

And, hopefully, they have a gift store.  My favorite fall back position when I am trapped at a museum with a die-hard museum aficionado is  "I'll meet you in the gift store."

Currently, my favorite store is at the Petit Palais. Though huge and an actual museum, the museum is light and airy.  The art is basically Art Nouveau, which I love, and right now there is an exhibit of the fashion photographer Patrick Demarchelier.  His photoes are up amongst the Fauves and the Impressionists.  There was much clucking, but it really works.  But the gift store...the gift store is fabulous.  They have these black candlesticks and these pop up books--

There is a never ending supply of these musees.  Last year I missed out on the fan museum, but that one is in the works for this year.  It's one that requires one to ring the buzzer.  Last year I chickened out.  This year I'm bringing my friend Emily who has no fear.

I won't make the museum farther out that has an exhibit of Les Deux Chevaux...although maybe I will.  It comes highly recommended. 

I will definitely miss the museum that has old carnival rides and such, housed in a huge art nouveau shed somewhere.  This one requires reservations and the parties can't be smaller than fifteen.  I do not have fifteen friends in Paris....

And finally, I am a musee madness person here because it is EASY.  I don't have to drive to get to them.  Oh oops, better stop for gas on the way.  I don't have to park.  I don't have to sit on the freeway in stop and go--

Paris is a dream that way.

BOYS IN PARIS

I went to the Opera Garnier the other night.  I saw a wonderful ballet called 'Les Enfants du Paradis'.  It is a very involved story about one to-die-for courtesan (is there any other kind?) and the four men who love her...and the one pesky girlfriend of the one the courtesan loves best, which is the mime.  The mime madly adores  the courtesan of course, except he spends the whole ballet trying to stave off temptation by running away from her every time she throws herself at him...until the end when--

Well, I won't spoil it.

Anyway, my seat was wonderful.  Last year (when the picture of the chandelier was taken), my friend had gotten us seats at the very top.  I don't, can't, won't shouldn't mustn't do heights.  
So this year she got me my seat way down in row five center (thank you very much), and she persisted in her madness to hang out up there defying death by falling.
Down in my perfectly lovely area, I first sat down in the wrong seat.  Much consternation from the woman of the husband (on his way) whose seat I was in.  A young gentleman, pink cheeked and fifteen, tapped me on my shoulder and gestured that the correct seat was behind me, there next to him.  I crawled back.  I sat down.  I was prepared to attempt small talk.  But he never said another word, never moved, never looked anywhere but at the stage.
At the end, after all the frenzy of clapping, the crowd then took up a kind of rhythmic clapping, and the men (at least I didn't hear any women), began to call out, clipped and loud "Bravo". 
Suddenly next to me a man's voice boomed, with utter certainty and authority.  "Bravo!"
It was my future gentleman?  I cast a quick look at him.  Yes, it was he.  Those round cheeks.  Full lips.  Beatle's hair.   Booming "Bravo" like his esteemed grandfather must have done.  I couldn't help it.  I grinned at him.  "Excellent, n'est pas?"    He beamed at me.  Nodded.  The back to business.   "BRAVO," he boomed out.

Today, taking a shortcut through Parc Monceau, on my way to Musee Nissim de Camondo, I stopped to try and get some shots of children on ponies.  They were all blurred, but the one of the small pony came out.  I walked away, and was stopping to take another picture of those old writers and their adoring muses, when this glowing six year old bounced up behind me, and shook my purse to get my attention.  He was wearing a Super Man's costume.
"Do you like my cape?" he asked, spluttering with joie de vivre.  "This costume is a present to me, and one day I am going to fly straight up into the sky up there."  He twirled his red cape, and flung his arms to the sky.  In broken French, I murmured appropriate things back.  "My mother... my mother,  she loves Batman," he babbled, and I clucked approving and smiled at his Papa who was standing a little off to the side.  "Yes, but Super man is better," he said, and then ran off.
The photo of the old writer and his adoring muse now seemed a total waste of time, and I'm still kicking myself I didn't throw caution to the wind and take Super Man's picture.

Yesterday I went back to the Garnier in daylight to get some pictures (not the same at all, in the daylight), and out on the balcony stood a brother and a sister.  She was about twelve, and was trying to get something out of the knapsack he, the older brother, about fourteen, was holding.  She searched and searched.  Finally, impatiently he dropped the knapsack.  I caught the little sister's eyes, and shrugged.  Brothers, what can you do?  She smiled.  He saw.  As I walked towards the door to go back in, he pulled it open for me.  "She was taking too long," he said, shrugging, smiling, bowing me through the door.

A friend of mine frets he doesn't have a job here yet, having moved to Paris on impulse, upon losing his job in Silicon Valley last March.  His friend Martin, an Englishman who's been here forever and is still sweet in spite of that, and is an antiques dealer, says to him "But, really.  You must stop worrying.  The way it goes here, you've only just arrived."

And another friend is absolutely determined to move to Bali.  He hates the cold.  He's having a little trouble convincing his wife, although his two daughters are all for it.  The cold.  Oh how he goes on about the cold--

It got cold today...35 degrees.

I hate the cold. 

MAGIC AT LE PARC DE BAGATELLE

I came.  I saw.  I fell in love.

With a house in a huge park.  This statue and one like it guard the back door.  Two others are in the front.

It's faded pink.  I adore pink, and am finally old enough to admit it in spite of what those who prefer saffron, pale black and razors think that says about me.

It does not have landscaping surrounding it's perimeter.  One English gardener I admire once pointed out that Americans have this mania for planting boring shrubbery around their houses like a choker that's too small for the neck.  You know what I'm talking about.  Bushes.  Lots and lots of nameless bushes purchased from Home Depot.

This house is surrounded by pea stones...I think they're called that.  
 When we lived in Brussels, when I was a teenager, I admired the chateau-like home next door.  Their driveway consisted of pea stone,  and I asked my mother if we could have such a bucolic and elegant driveway.  Nevermind that our house was a kind of moderne ode to Art Deco with a very definite style of its own, and pea stone wouldn't have done, not at all.
My mother squashed the deal entirely.  "Pea stone are messy," she said.  "Do you want to rake the edges back into the driveway everyday?  Do you want to weed out the weeds that will grow in?  Do you want to pick pea stone out of your shoes every time you come into the house?  And what happens when the baby (because there was always a baby when I was growing up) chokes on them?"

I lust after pea stone anyway, and here stood this pink house, sans bushes, surrounded by pea stone--

And Parc de Bagatelle itself.  Which is to say a world famous garden built on a dare, and on this day, the site of installation art using crystal, devised by four lustrous...crystal people--
Baccarat, Daum, Lalique and St-Louis...the last of whom I don't know a thing about.

I also chose to go because getting there would a challenge.  One of those leaping off the cliff, and involved two metros (easy) and a bus (unknown, therefore to be treated warily).

The whole way there I said to myself if I hated it I could just leave.  I could stay on the bus.  If needs be, I could walk home-- 

And if it started to rain, it didn't matter because I'd brought my umbrella. 
I have long ago started carrying the light weight cheap sac I bought at the Monoprix the first day, and am leaving the beautiful black leather sac at home because the thing weighs a ton, and is probably why every other year when I get home I have had to run to the acupuncturist first thing for my shoulder.  And so, the cheap sac has a special place to put one's umbrella...you see.  Which makes it all the better.  And it doesn't have any pointless magnets which turned out to cause such problems with my metro tickets last year.

The only thing the bag doesn't have is...panache.  Which I have decided I can live with.

Anyway, the outing was a total success. 

The park is beautiful. 
The crystal installations were...well, er...the ones outside were not up to snuff, actually.  But I had already fallen in love with the pink house.  Not Trianon--that is the other house (I use 'house' in lieu of sounding painfully confused as to what one should call these kinds of  extravagant follies).

But, inside Trianon (not my house.  My house was closed to zee public) were several incredibly beautiful panoramas using crystal in it's most creative and festive form.  Those made up for the outside installations.  Outside the crystal needed to be larger, to counter the sprawling landscape, the grottoes, the waterfalls, the swans--

So,there were swans.  Unless French swans are somehow kinder than American ones, then I was surprised by how cute the people thought they were.  How the adults let their children toddle right up to them, arms outstretched innocently.  Swans are mean.  I still remember a swan chasing some little kid in the Boston Commons...maybe the little kid was my little brother...I don't remember.  It was a blur....

There were also peacocks.  These birds were unflappable.  I snuck up to the first one I took a photo of.  I'm sure it was amused, and stood there patiently waiting for me to get my 'clandestine' shot, because I soon figured out one could march right up to them, yakking on their cell phone...as in this one oblivious woman who trod right into my photo and never noticed, trilling away on her phone, as she was also turning around jerking her head at her children and husband to notice the peacocks.  Her husband and children did notice my picture taking efforts, and slunk by hastily.  God...people.  Why are they always around???

I turned the wrong direction going out.  Had to ask the crepe making man the way.  He said "Go that way.  Turn at the second left."  In French.  I thanked him, hoping I'd understood him to say left and not right and all.  As I walked away, the woman who had been standing there when I approached, and who had seemed reluctant to stop talking to let me ask my question (a common er...issue here) called out after me in English "Left.  Make sure you turn left.  Zee second left."

Then I metroed and bussed it home. 
Every teenager in Paris seemed to be enroute at the same time, laughing loudly as teenagers must do to become adults.

  

WET COBBLESTONES AND UMBRELLAS

It was a dreary and drizzly day, the other day.  I hung out my window, and yes, the pitter patter of raindrops could be heard on the courtyard below.

I turned to my 10 day weather forecast/ Paris, and it said yes, it was indeed suppose to rain all day. 

Hooray.  At last something besides balmy, breezy sunny weather.  I grabbed the umbrella that was in the apartment when I got here, so I assumed it knew its way around, and headed off to Le Marais to force myself to go into some museums.  What better weather to be stashed away inside a museum.

It was cold, wet, slippery and altogether painful being out in the drizzle, even if there were those oh so evocative wet cobblestones, and I had the fun of hoisting an umbrella aloft.  The Impressionists made an art of these kinds of days.  The most beautiful artwork is "Paris on a rainy day."  But maybe it's the clothes I'm thinking of, and those elegant umbrellas--

Because wet cobblestones are obstreperous hijackers of balance, ruthless destroyers of expensive high heels, and it is an excellent thing they are no longer used.

However,  I persist in finding them beautiful, particularly in the rain.  I find the starkness of European cobblestone courtyards gorgeous.  I must be having some kind of healing experience as an adult, because I hated everything about cobblestone courtyards when I lived in Brussels when I was a teenager. 

So, it's cold here when it drizzles.  I forget about how cold wet cold is, and how klutzy wearing all those clothes to deal with the cold are-

I had to take off my gloves to take a picture.  I had to do something about the umbrella while taking the picture, like angling it underneath my armpit, which I couldn't feel through the t-shirt, sweater and jacket, my scarf kept getting in the way.  Gloves removed, my fingers were now cold and wet, so I was terrified I'd drop my camera, dropping it for good measure on a cobblestone from which it would slide right into the caverns between cobblestones, where it would get soaked and die.

It was a quiet day out there on the rainy streets of le Marais.  Until I'd had enough of appreciating wet cobblestones and bleak Northern European courtyards, and headed out to rue Rivoli, the kind of street that never sleeps, see, so it was alive with pedestrians and umbrellas.

And suddenly I was running for my life.  It is war out there on the mean streets of Paris when it's raining and umbrellas are fighting to stay alive, I mean aloft.  Suddenly I was feinting and slicing and changing lanes and back tracking and stopping dead and all but throwing my umbrella away to avoid other umbrellas.  There had to be an easier way.  Nobody else looked flustered.

So, I took a brief pause.  And saw.  Intimidation, under the guise of acting like you were indeed the only one who was on the sidewalk.  Don't be the first to give way.  Okay.  I could do that--

I commenced to walk as if I knew what I was doing, as if I didn't even see anyone coming, as if my umbrella was a pet monkey on my shoulder.  It took nerves of steel.  Particularly if a twenty-something girl was coming my way. She always added to the aloofness by being in the process of text messaging, or maybe even speaking into her phone.   But okay.  I could take her on.  I used to be a twenty-something girl.  My beautiful daughter is dangerous twenty-something--  

But then, I also noticed there was a breed of Parisian that day who was paying attention to others.  It was the delicate elderly woman.  Meticulously done hair, leather gloves, tiny heels on steady black pumps, silk scarf.  This woman was tilting her umbrella out of the way first, and even smiling while passing, her dignity lighting the way.

When I got close to home there was a protest going on.

Nobody had their umbrellas up.

  

 

NOTRE DAME and SHAKESPEARE & CO

 I had time to spare before a reading at Shakespeare and Co.  I had time to spare because I've been practicing getting to places early.  Which normally would be cause for a nervous breakdown.  Getting to a place early, that is. 

But the rushing, the swearing as I am rushing because I am late so as to avoid the hitherto more dreaded getting there early--

Well, I finally noticed that I was hating the frantic trip to my destination even more than the idea of waiting. 

So I was early for the reading and went over to the Notre Dame to see what there was to see.

There were these skating fiends.  They skated, at high speed, using fancy foot work, up and down, swirling in and out of the white cones like slalom on rollerblades.  They seemed to know each other, but it could have been just a case  of instant camaraderie brought on by having this crowd in the palms of their  hands  And they had a crowd that was oohing and ahhing and crowing their delight.

The skaters were cool and rarely knocked a cone out of place.  And when they did, they were cool and calm as they put the cone back in place.  I wonder whose cones they were.  And I wonder if I go back, they'll still be there.

The reading was an ode to incompetence, made palatable only because the setting was beyond colorful.

The very self-assured author had written a couple of books about Paris before and after.  His books were photos of before and after, and so, what should have been a lovely little talk and slide show, turned to him holding aloft his laptop to show the pictures.   It was upstairs at Shakespeare, in two teeny rooms, so he had to sally in between both rooms to show the pictures.  He had no actual talk, either, it turned out.  No commentary.  Just, "So here, you see?  In this picture?'  Laptop held up.  Laptop carried into next room.  "Now you see how it is now, in this picture."  I think we were supposed to groan with dismay.  Indeed we did.  But not because of the pictures.  

He was a bumbling uncle figure, totally delighted with himself, boring every one to sleep with the sad selection of laptop displays.  One  valiant fellow, the Duke of Windsor's younger unknown brother, kept up a series of jolly questions that somehow drew from our author a point of view, a point in general, and a raison d'etre for the rest of us even being there in the first place.

I wanted to take the Duke home with me, but his wife, at least I think she was his wife, fell asleep early in disgust, and stayed firmly nodded out on his shoulder the entire "talk". 

It was a delicate evening when I came out, even though this is a raucous, tourist and student ridden part of town.

October is a very good month for Paris.

MONTMARTRE

I moseyed off the metro, rounded the corner, following the 'sortie' signs like usual, along with fifty thousand other people, and rounding the corner the herd came to a stop--
At an elevator. 
(Have I mentioned I'm afraid of teeny French elevators?)
How bad can it be, I thought.  And started up the steps, the only one choosing to do so...which should have given me pause for thought.
Forever later, legs screaming for mercy, me cursing metro engineers, I emerged into the bustle and charm of Montmartre, and forgot all about the merciless set of stairs.

Everybody knows Montmartre.  It's got that famous, colorful (think Impressionist painters on up to Utrillo...and his mother...) history.  I took a walking tour here the first time I came to Paris, so this time I wended my way, in a roundabout way up the cobblestones and steps, more steps, Monmartre IS a hill, to the Sacre Coeur, sort of pulling that route out of my hat.  It had been raining that first trip.  It wasn't this day. 

Right by the metro is the "I Love You" wall.  Written versions of 'I love You" from all over the world, printed on tile, in blue script.  I spent too long looking for the American one, and no time whatsoever contemplating what a lovely gesture to global solidarity this wall is.  However, I did listen to the Japenese being spoken by the couple standing there, and it seems they were looking for 'theirs' too.

Montmartre consists of steps and history.  Steps and history.  History and steps.  If you're not careful, you can descend a flight of steps, and find, a minute later, yourself going right back up another flight of stairs because the first steps did not go where they  seemed to be going.  And all along the way are photographing maniacs (moi aussi) crouching, peering, posing on dangerous looking ledges which in itself had a few good locals staring in horror, taking pictures hunkering down on their knees, straddling the guardrails, slipping and tripping on the uneven, but incredibly picturesque cobblestones.  I personally tripped right in front of a bunch of people eating at a cafe.  I didn't fall, so I consider it a success.

I passed through Place du Tertre.  I fell in love with Place du Tertre when I came to Paris when I was twelve.  I have a pen and ink sketch of me from that day.  While, at the time, I was unimpressed with Paris, being blase and twelve, you understand, I adored Tertre.  It was the epitome of berets and Sartre and Leslie Caron and sulky, arty Parisians.

Today it is a horrible shadow of itself.  Commercial, tacky.  I pushed my way through the eight zillion tourists there, and burst out onto whatever you want to call the scene outside, up and down the steps of Sacre Coeur.  And  beheld that spectacular view of Paris.

It was noisy.  One thing photos wipe clean is the sound of what is going on around at the time.  In the photo of the cityscape, with the tree to the right--the tree was filled with birds, all of whom were chirping madly.  Behind me on the stairs in front of the cathedral, a singer was channeling John Lennon and singing something from the Beatle's album 'Revolver', and people were applauding madly.

So, after the prerequisite time hanging around, soaking in all the really good vibes--because, when I think about it, all of Montmartre has a really good vibe to it.  The tourists are entranced.  The locals seem cheerier.  I wonder if it is because it is up in the sky of Paris.  After awhile, I meandered down the hill.  The stores are tourist traps and cute and quaint.  No high end stuff, but the only hippie store I've seen so far, with hemp clothing and Buddhas.

Then, finally, there's the metro.  Like magic. But, oh right.  THE STEPS.  But I'm going down.  How bad can it be?

It was a cinch.  It was three times as fast.  They must have taken away a few of the stairs when I wasn't looking. 

 

PARC MONCEAU

Parc Monceau is a lovely American like park that I wandered over to, one day, thinking I'd have the place to myself, given it was Monday afternoon--

Where do I think I am?  Podunk, Idaho?

There are statues there of famous French Men of Letters with their muses draped around their feet.  I came to take pictures of these statues, because I've naturally taken umbrage (no George Sands with an adoring Chopin entwined around her feet?).  I am planning a diatribe on the subject of muses.  Why are they always women?  Maybe I'll find out something that surprises me.  I'd be happy to be surprised.

So I took the pictures, but I was really enamored of the zillion school kids there.  I sat on a bench and watched them, yelling and screaming and pushing and speaking in French. Eventually they all were lined up and taken away.  When I looked down on the bench, there lying next to me was a tiny lunch box.  Some child left it behind.

Lord, I wanted to take that lunch box home with me.  I even picked it up to have a close look.  It was sticky, grimy.  A little beaten up.  I opened it and looked inside.  It had a finished tic toc container in it.  C'est tout.
I left it there because what if Maman brought back sobbing petite Clotilde to retrieve it where she was absolutely sure she'd left it...and instead it had disappeared into the big black purse of a selfish American woman .

It is here that I am going to insert that Typepad, in their infinite wisdom has seen fit to redesign the whole program we use to install these blog entries.  So, if this whole entry comes out underlined, this is why.  I don't know how to change it at this point.

But so,  it was a gorgeous day at a gorgeous park.  Many people were there, obviously taking time in the middle of their work day.  And then they had to put the helmet on and presumably go back to work.

BREAKFAST IN PARIS

So, yes, I'm sitting there spoiling my breakfast by watching television.

And as I'm eating my eggs and toast, I am riveted on the screen.

This man is the British Financial Minister.  He is talking about very important current events.  You know what they are.

I am consumed by only one question--

Which is the dye job--

The WHITER than white hair? 

Or those BLUE BLACK eyebrows?

There is a second issue, but here I must tread carefully.  One's names are not one's fault, after all.

His name is Darling.  Alistair Darling.

Darling is an unfortunate last name.  Remembering the hay my fellow students were able to make of my last name, I shudder to think what must have been done to Mr. Darling's. The only saving grace would have been if he were related to Mr. Darling, Wendy's father.  There could have been a certain panache being somehow related to Peter Pan--

But it would seem he is not.

According to Wikipedia, Alistair Darling does live on the same street in Edinburgh as does the creator of Harry Potter..the reason I can never remember her name is those initials.  I am unable to remember anyone's name if they go by initials.

I did listen to the whole speech.  Sometimes soft boiled eggs can take forever to consume.  Gordon Brown was there too, of course.  Looking very handsome, I must say.
I suspect that English accent went a long way in convincing me both men had their country's best interests at heart...as opposed to that...never mind, we have in office.

And then, thank god, I'd finished my breakfast.

GETTING THE MONEY RIGHT

I tripped up three times with money yesterday.  This in spite of the daily tutoring sessions I have with myself in counting out change.

They, meaning the salespersons, ALWAYS want different change.  More precise change.   Stand on your head, get it right change.

I'm up for it.  Ever since that first trip when the guy at the local Monoprix in my first neighborhood (don't get me started), the height of rush hour in line behind me, refused my fifty euro bill.  At first I thought it was because I looked like a heathen American, and in a confused rush to do the right thing, I produced my driver's license--

But no.  He needed something smaller.  He didn't have enough change...I can laugh now.

Flash forward to yesterday.  And this whole trip.  I am not hearing the numbers right.  Probably brought on by some deeply obscured reaction to Wall Street infiltrating my sub-consciousness.

The first occurred when I gave the very sweet sales lady large bills with which to purchase a necklace I had fallen in love with (please see 'Pearls and Amber').  She turned in a worried fashion to her change drawer, calling over to a younger salesperson.  I was alerted.  Something was not right.  With the bills?  I had a quick look at the receipt...I hadn't given her enough money...by a lot.  I had mis-heard the amount, even though I was looking right at it.

I made up for the lack by producing another convenient bill, forthwith.

Buying my bread, now on the final approach to my apartment, involved considerably less euros.  This time I heard right.  Three euros.  I handed her two carefully chosen coins.

"Madame, what is this?" demanded the young girl.  She held out the two coins in sharp rebuke.  I looked.  Oops.  I had handed her TWO two euro coins.

"Oh, pardon."  Bitch, I thought.  I retrieved the wrong coin and gave her the right one.  Sweating now, you understand.  I still have to go across the street to the grocery store and get mayonnaise for the chicken I just bought over on the other side of the street, where I had, luckily, given him the right money.  In fact that change had given me the right change for this damn bread.

I could go on.  So I will--

Before getting the mayonnaise was the vegetable stand hurtle, for some...vegetables.  This place is presided over by a tiny Asian woman.  Her French is with a strong accent, but I usually get it.  Not this day.  She wanted to do something fancy with the change from my twenty euro bill for my fifteen euro tab (I've just noticed that she is more expensive than Bon Marche, so to heck with her).  It  threw me for a moment, then I got it...but it was not necessary, this change fluster, except for, maybe, her amusement.  To keep boredom at bay in her daily grind of handing people change over and over and over and over and over--

Or maybe she hates one cent pieces as much as I do.

But so, I spent a long time in the grocery store picking out the mayonnaise.  I started by picking the most expensive one, and then narrowed it down from there.

This, and also some milk, I paid for without incident.  And I didn't even try to bag them.  Just tossed them in my shopping bag on top of the chicken, the cherry tomatoes and avocados and the brioche...the new shopping bag I purchased two seconds after arriving, at the nearest, yes, Monoprix, because I left mine at home, and one never knows when one will be refused un sac.  Except that it won't be a...convenient...time.

Never did home look so sweet.

AN EVENING STROLL

I'd eaten.  I'd ignored the Herald.

The television--il ne marche pas, even though I did what it was telling me to do, which was to push 'OKAY' so the black box would know to continue on with the cable service.

Fine.  The television annoys me.  I'll let the apartment people know when I leave that the tv ne march pas.

So, I thought, hey, go for a stroll to the Seine, and see what there is to see.

I stood on the Passerelle Solferino (pedestrian only walkway across the river), by the d'Orsay.  It was a pale sunset, too pastel to really work for fabulous photos, but I took a few anyway.

Still haven't got the courage to ask actual humans if I can take a picture of them....

There was a particularly Parisian looking fellow, huddled on one of the benches.  Gazing off into the distance.  Getting closer I saw he was now text messaging--

LOTS of text messaging, and talking loudly on cell phones while walking, and stopping abruptly right in front of you to light up a cigarette, lots of hard core boots clacking in back of you--it can be hell out on the mean streets of Paris.

But last night, it was calm here on the bridge.  I was calm on the bridge.  Calm was in the air.  Quel nice!

The water is a heavy pewter color.   It has a certain quality of energy that compels me to stare at it.  The St. John's River in Jacksonville, FL is like this too. 

Between the Seine and the parks hidden all over the place in Paris, there's a constant supply of places to sit and re-group--

Because, Paris is LOUD.  Every time I emerge from the cocoon of my apartment, I am struck by the cacophony.

It didn't feel loud last night.  It felt soft.   So, I took a few pictures....ruminated on things like  I haven't gotten to the Eiffel Tower yet nor Monmartre, and I need paper towels, and thank god I saw that dry cleaners right down the street, and I need to get some euros from the ATM machine, and DON'T FORGET to pick up the Wall Street Journal because on Fridays they have a fantastic crossword puzzle--

Oh, and oh yes..isn't this a lovely, outstanding evening in Paris.

I headed on home...the suddenly pressing need to get the crossword puzzle, you see, before the kiosks closed.  The young man was still text messaging, only now he was sitting on alert, hunched intently over his blackberry.  He looked just like a man being harangued by his girlfriend.  You see this a lot here.  Girlfriends sulkily berating the boyfriend who seems at once totally unperturbed and at the same time, picturing her in bed with him very soon, when he'll see to it she won't be mad at him anymore. 
But, here is the new angle...via text message.  So somehow, this didn't look like it was going to turn out as well.

Then home, up rue de Bellchasse, which turns into rue Vaneau, my road.

The patisserie was in full swing.  The two young women probably discussing the conversation one of them had just had with her soon-to-be-ex boyfriend even now sitting forlornly on the Passerelle Solferino

SHE'S A HUSSY, THIS DECAL

I was appalled I tell you, APPALLED, the first time I raced by her, on my way to the Duroc metro.

Sexist, I think I thought.  Animal cruelty. 

Too weird, this animal ode to the Playboy bunny.

Down low to the ground, on eye level with children, I wondered if the Parisian mamans were as put off as I was. 

But, she has grown on me.  She's one happy...hussy.  A charming deer of a hussy with that pearl necklace just waiting to get caught up by the man of her dreams.

Now I look forward to seeing her.  Now I say hi.  Next I might meditate with her in mind.  She's so grounded, so self-assured, so positive.

I wonder if she has a name?

Maybe I should actually try that yellow soda she's just loving--

A DAY IN PARIS GONE AWRY

Every day in Paris starts with these stairs--ahh, my friends, the stairs.

Every day starts with me rushing, in fact, halfway down them, then remembering something I forgot, turning around, and trudging back up.  I unlock the door.  Go back into the apartment.  And why gosh, would you look at that?  There sits whatever, waiting calmly for me to remember I'd left it behind.

So, then I start all over again, with these stairs.  These stairs are narrow and steep, and are constantly vacuumed, so they are also slippery.  I don't use the minuscule elevator because I am afraid of it.  I am afraid of all Parisian elevators, and proud of it.

I had a nice little plan.  Easy.  Could do it in my sleep.  The day was cloudy but balmy.  My plan was to go to the Musee de la Mode et du Textile to see an exhibit of toys that boggled my mind, two years ago.  Last year it had been "put away for cleaning."   I'd never until then considered the issue of housekeeping and museums.  Anyway, the toys would be back in 2008, they whispered solicitously.

You can't trust the French.  Their favorite way to be is arbitrary.  For no damn good reason they'll change their minds, or close early, or not put back up a collection of toys when they said they would.

I looked it up on the Internet.  Yes indeed, the toys were back.  Also featured was this "fabulously playful" Finnish balloon designer, or something.

I rushed in.  I rushed up to floor two.  I rushed into toy section.  And merde to high heaven-- what they had was...did I mention something about a Finnish designer's high concept beach ball...'toys'?

When I tried to find out when the REAL toys were going to come back, if ever, I was directed to the office to register a complaint.
Was it my tone of voice?

From there I went in the wrong direction for the English bookstore, which was to be followed by hot chocolate at Angelina's.

So, I salvaged that plan by swinging into the gardens of the Palais Royale, but the black and white balls part of the gardens was closed.   I sat sullenly in one of the chairs and stared at the fountain for awhile.  And enjoyed the flowers.

Back in the hood, I decided that now was the perfect time to assuage my angst with a shopping trip to this scarf shop I went to last year.  It was nowhere to be found. 

So, then, Bon Marche.  What could go wrong--

Since last week, it seems, one must pay one euro to use a shopping cart--

I am so sorry to see that this noble institution is in such bad straits they must start charging for the use of a cart, know what I mean?

But I rallied.  Okay.  I'd pay up.  I get a kick out of pulling together the exact change.  I pulled out various coins which added up to a euro, since I didn't have the one euro piece itself.  But the cart needed exact change, the little sucker.  I looked around helplessly, and was directed by a helpful store employee to this incredibly long line where I would be given a single euro from my collection of change.

"This is trop difficile," I barked.  Stupid American, the now not so helpful woman thought.

And then the final blow--they were OUT of MY almond croissants.  The ones that need to be eaten by candlelight.

I stood there.  Brought to a standstill.  How oh how could I save the day?  Besides the fact I am in Paris, I mean--

I took the metro one stop to home instead of walking.

TRUSTING THE NEW PATISSERIE

I'm a Leo.  Stuck in my ways.

I'm a Leo in a new neighborhood.  This means change, right? 

I'm good with change, if it's the benevolent sort like a new home territory metro station. 

And I like the new neighborhood.  This makes my fourth neighborhood in Paris.  I feel I'm honing in on something.  I don't know what it is...but I'm definitely honing--

However, I have had a difficult time trying out the closest patisserie.  I got spoiled last year.  Paul's was one second away from my front door.  Paul's is one of the best.  Nobody but nobody can beat Paul's sugar bread.  I went to Paul's everyday without stopping to count my blessings.

The first day I got here I didn't trek over to Paul's, though.

Instead, I trekked over to Bon Marche, which is a bit closer.  In fact it's disconcertingly close, because shopping at the food section at Bon Marche is to shop at Bristol Farms.  I love to shop at Bristol Farms, but feel affected and and snooty when I do so.  Have I ever mentioned the three hundred dollar tenderloin I got one Christmas?  That special order leg of lamb?  Those andouille sausages?  I shouldn't go in there--

Anyway, so too Bon Marche.  Tres precious.  The display of pastas is a work of art.  Well, they also have THE perfect almond croissant.  This almond croissant is so perfect it has to be eaten in two sittings, with candles lit and cloth napkins, and a fork and knife, it one is willing to go that far in suspending reality.  It's Christmas.   I never want the almond croissant to be finished.

And then the final perfection that is Bon Marche is that they pack your groceries for you--

The single scariest thing I have to do in Paris is pack my own groceries at the local grocery store.  It's terrifying.  The line of silent Parisians grows and grows behind me as I fumble over the exact change--the little check-out girls just love to ask for better change.  I hate them.  And the bags are totally impossible to pull open...but never mind that nightmare--

I'm talking bread here.  The staple of life.  The staple of my life in Paris.

I knew I couldn't keep going to Paul's or Bon Marche for my bread.  This week-end I solved the issue by getting some from this outdoor market I went to, over Saxe-Breteuil way.

So today, I said to self "Go to corner patisserie.  This is Paris, for god sake.  It'll be fine."

But walking home, the long way, to check out the Seine and Eiffel Tower, and to check out the only American grocery store in town (just curious...it appears to be long gone), I passed by rue Dominique, the main street of my second apartment.  And along this street was my original favorite patisserie, that had that rhubarb tarte to die for, and actually my favorite butter croissants.  Hot dog, I thought.  Relief flooded my prissy soul.  I'll just swing by there, say hi to the old hood, and I'll be good for two days.

MY patisserie was BOARDED UP.  Merde alors.

Okay though, no time for weeping.  I was starving.  I had perfect avocados at home just waiting for a nice pain de mie (white bread I'm ashamed to say, but such white bread!).  I also wanted, no, needed, an apricot tarte--

So, I entered cautiously.  It was early afternoon.  A quiet place.  Smelled heavenly.  Assured of its Parisian patisserie self.  Milo's, it's called.

I ordered my bread.  Understood the salesgirl when she asked me if I wanted big or small loaf (small).  Understood her when she wanted to know if I needed it sliced (no).  So all was going as planned.  Until I looked confidently for my apricot tarte--

The tray was empty--

Well that DID IT.  The hell with life on earth if this was going to happen at the local patisserie--

And then my eyes fell on this fulsome, eggy, luscious looking custard tarte. 

The tarte?  Just close your eyes and picture perfection in every way.

EDGAR QUINET ART FAIR and ELSEWHERE

I'm a sucker for this kind of window.  This after having wandered through the art fair at Edgar Quinet. 

I wandered through in a desultory fashion.  My ease was brought on by the fact I was still hysterically relieved it hadn't turned out to be as cold outside as it had appeared to be from within.

I have a bone to pick with CNN--unfortunately, once again, like last year, my only English speaking tv...no, I also have BBC.  I don't know which one is worse.  I like fluff, see, if I'm watching television.  With these two, oh no.  No fluff here.  These are SERIOUS stations.  So I'm getting, can you guess?  The American election (which I'd sworn off following, for my sanity), and Wall Street (where?).  With a little Africa thrown in, AND, which is what I'm trying to come to, the weather in Asia.  Both stations seem absolutely fascinated with how the clouds are doing down Borneo way.  How gosh darn rainy it is in Kyoto, again.  How Hong Kong is getting it too--

Weather in Europe?  Since they ARE in Europe, they seem to figure their viewer already knows what the weather is here.  Once in awhile they mention Rome.   Occasionally Moscow.  Once they hit Oslo.  But they never tell me what the weather is here in Paris.  I'm not kidding.  Not even when all the leaders of Europe appeared here yesterday to try to save Europe's financial ass.

The things I have to deal with--

So, that today, when I emerged to wet and wild looking weather, the temperature was almost balmy. 

I can't walk through this market anymore.  I want almost everything, particularly the red and yellow sun blast paintings, these iron and fiber horse figures in pastel colors, and the painting of a laughing baby Buddha with green pigtails.  All impressively priced.  These new and unknown artists aren't shy about asking for what they apparently deserve.

The wind was high, and the tents rattled and blew and appeared to be about to blow down.  All the artists were eating their lunches.  I still haven't gotten my nerve up to start asking actual people if I can take their picture...but these repasts featured red and white checkered cloths on flimsy tables, and hot food and the artists speaking to each other across the way.

I made no eye contact with any of the artists...god knows they were too busy with their food to care.

A large twig with a couple of leaves attached to it blew into my face and caught onto my hair and ear.  "Camouflage," called out a chipper looking Englishman.

I then took eight thousand metros to get from there across town to the Madeleine.  But now it was really totally dreary weather.  The pix I took are totally dreary.  The church, undergoing work, was drearier than dreary.

Then I went to my favorite meditation meeting, which is why I trekked to the Madeleine in the first place...it puts me on the same side of the Seine as the meeting.  This meeting takes place in a meeting room for the Communist party...I have no idea if the Communists party is actually active.  The room is little better than a cellar, although there is a very hip art gallery across the street, and oftentimes there is something edgy and cool going on when we get out...which makes everything okay, n'est pas?

I went home via one of the ten thousand ways I can get home, I am so darned pulled together with the metro system...what?  I don't need to keep harping on this?.  Which put me on my favorite route home--

Where I took one last picture.  A little blurry, but the weather was soft and furry, a Parisian version of the perfect weather Southern California gives us every evening.

WINDY, RAINY, SUNNY WALK

My delicate Floridian umbrella got a chance today to show me what it was made of--

It is made of Floridian fluff, that's what it's made of, and could not, for even one minute, stand up to the Northern European wind and rain that blew in from Greenland or somewhere.  It blew inside out immediately, so, muttering blistering insults to the state of Florida and their weakling umbrellas, I shoved the little coward back into my purse.

I don't care.  I know where a fabulous looking umbrella shop is on rue St. Germain.

I walked through the Tuileries, via the Louvre.  Nothing more pressing on my mind than to get some air.

The wind blew.  The drizzle, emboldened by the wind, made itself felt, but I left my sunglasses on anyway, for protection.  Besides, the sun came out every five minutes like it knew what it was doing.

Deserted chairs were everywhere.  I like to take pictures of deserted chairs.

If I hadn't been so full from lunch, I would have stopped for some of that pistachio creme brulee, although the shivering Californian in me wondered if I'd catch my death from eating something as chilly and flimsy as creme brulee in the gale/sunlight/drizzle display going on.

Later on, after much tramping through the Tuileries to the Place de la Concorde (which is a medley of hideous construction, therefore will be losing out on any photo op that might have occurred on this trip), past the Hotel Crillon, I wended my way up to the Grand Palais, where the kiosk there did NOT have any newspapers written in English...ie the International Herald, and the Wall Street Journal.  The Journal has a crossword every Friday, hence my anguish when it wasn't there.

In a snit, I snarled my way back to the hood via metro.  Where I emerged, from the bowels of the metro, right into the arms of my all time favorite kiosk, which, of course it did, it had all my newspapers, thank you very much, and I picked up the Paris Match too, because I wanted to read all about Carla Bruni and Sarkozy's trip to NYC...er, I mean, improve my French. 

Then I strolled home.  Les Invalides was on the left, intermittently being touched by sunlight.  I never quite got my camera out in time for the sunlight, but that gold dome followed me most of the way home.

The traffic was impressive five-in-the-afternoon, Friday traffic.  Therefore I  was impressed by that fellow's fortitude, his confidence in the face of, racing with a bus...and winning.

And on my very own street is this charming window display.  It's a shoemaker's shop--the old world elegance reminding me of one of the things I love so much about Paris, this reverence for the elegance of earlier times.   Even though the Parisians themselves, the darlings, can be so haughty about it all.

 

ERRANDS FIRST DAY IN PARIS

I stared at this in the window of an art gallery today, instead of actually doing any exercise.

Jet lag kept me in bed until 11:00am.

The driver, William, who met me at the airport, and who spoke excellent English...and who seemed to need to practice it...told me that it was rumored that Americans, now that the bigger item of Wall Street is brow beating our psyches, are no longer interested in GREEN.  That we no longer worry that the world is being destroyed.

"Au contraire," I said.  "GREEN is IMMENSELY popular in America.  We continue to be aware of the threat to this great and beautiful world of ours, and are diligent in our efforts to do what we can to stem the end of the world which is, after all, occurring because of our very selfish and thoughtless desires to live an inexcusably comfortable lifestyle."

Then he set me straight as to why Carla Bruni is popular with the stuffy judgemental French.  Apparently she has put away her rock groupie, euro trash ways, and reacquainted herself with the wealthy, intelligent, and well-bred woman she really is.  And as a result has helped tamed Sarkozy's...er...rougher...er...less polished ways.

I was properly chastened, as I had been feeling most stuffy about Carla Bruni, myself.

Then I ran errands, because that is what one does in Paris.  I braved Monoprix, and bought the things I forgot and cannot live without--

I promised myself I would NOT buy butter on this trip.  There is no way I can exert any control over my consumption of French butter.  So, as to not make complete hay of the month of yoga and training at the gym I just finished, I figured butter could go.  I would however not need to restrain myself on the matter of brioches, sugar bread from Paul's, and those almond croissants from Bon Marche.  And the croissants from everywhere else.

I bought butter.  Not the small size either.

I bought salt, the kind you sprinkle on with a teeny spoon, or in my case, my forefinger and thumb.  The packaging is as adorable as those endless scented candles we are always giving each other in Southern California.  I couldn't resist the packaging.

Then, after needing to go to two kiosks for my evening International Herald, I took the metro home, without needing to look at my metro map.   

FROM THERE TO HERE TWO

Just like last year--

Somehow, without seeming too much of a big, enormous, endlessly long...like twelve hours in the air long...and let's not even talk about taking off just about everything while checking in, and all the people who sneeze with their mouths wide open, and the hard cold bread on Air France, instead of it being warm like it was last year--

I am, just like last year, poof--

HERE.

I've unpacked...view halfway through procedure.

I've been out for the barest essentials--almond croissant to die for from the Bon Marche.  Brioches, figs, strawberries, brie, and milk and eggs.  The Herald, and the French Vogue.

I went for a long walk, and took a short cut home. 

I remember how the sound of Parisians' boots, miles high, and of pointy toe, clacking along the sidewalk behind me, irritate the hell out of me.

I remember how the sound of Parisians' boots, clacking along behind me causes me to wonder why these women who are able to do that to their feet and still tailgate on the sidewalk, haven't taken over the world.  Maybe because behind closed doors they prostrate over outraged feet?

I passed a youngish man who looked like he was Proust's great great great grandson.  No really.  Just like him.  Pointy little chin, mournful face, tightly held lips, white face, thinning hair which isn't doing the haunted expression on his face any good.  You know.  Exactly. The Marcel Proust.  They had to have called him Prissy Proust.   Right?

Now I go to tackle the last of the unpacking on the bed.

So that I can deal with jet lag in the appropriate fashion.

I may have to saunter over to Bon Marche for another one of those almond croissantstomorrow morning...did I mention they are to die for?

I did?

Bon soir.

MA CHERE PARIS

I can't believe it. 

But, It's true.

It's time to go back to Paris. 

This makes the third year in a row I've gone to Paris in October, and well, it's like this--

HURRAY!!!!!

This year I'll be there for six and a half weeks.  I've rented an apartment in the 7th.    I've bought everything remotely black and made of pseudo winter material I can find here in Southern California...Orange County, to be precise...so it has been a...difficult...search. 

I have a roller carry-on this year, FINALLY.  My laptop is concerned.  I can tell by the way it almost didn't let itself fit into the roller carry-on.  I know it prefers hanging from the comfort of my shoulder, and the nearness to my body heat, as opposed to rolling along behind me, way down there on the cold unfriendly ground, but we all have to start school at some point.   I actually bought a silver roll-on,  as opposed to black,  hoping to assuage the chagrin of said laptop.  This was hard for me, because I prefer the all-black look jetting off to Paris, to show, you know, just how fabulously cosmopolitan I am.

I have most errands done.  But give me long enough I'll create the to-do list from hell.  As the van leaves the house with me and my silver roll on, and my other, very black luggage bulging at the seams, just screaming to be noticed when they are weighed at the check-in counter, I'll still be babbling instructions.

Aah me.  Ommmm--

But so, yes.  I'll blog from Paris.  Right here. 

It's the least I can do--

COME TO CHRISTMAS A LA 2007

Back home.

The sun doesn't always shine in Southern California.

It looks like this so we can get in the mood for

THE HOLIDAYS!

Come visit at CHRISTMAS A LA 2007.