From Our Window

Oh, how I do love looking out our window. Tonight, as I was closing our shudders, I noticed a man hovering in the street. He kept on covertly leaning to the left peeking into the alley. It was such odd behavior, I was fascinated. Then I noticed a big, yellow golden retriever squatting above the cobblestones.

I laughed out loud. It was so obvious that the man was letting his dog do his big business alone so that he wouldn't have to pick up after him.

When the dog was done, he pranced over to his master, and they both got into a snazzy, silver Audi TT.

If I were in a more wicked mood, I could have jotted down the license plate number...but the thought alone that this man was trying to hide in plain view was enough of a treat for this peeping tom.

Techno Pride

Living between Place de la Republique and Bastille, we get our (un)fair share of demonstrations. Over the years we've witnessed thousands of marchers stomping their feet and shouting at the top of their lungs for many worthy (at least in their opinion) causes.

This year, though, we've been spoiled. For some reason, it has been very quiet, that is, until yesterday. The parade that marched down our boulevard made up for the long silence.

I was warned by the owner of the organic store that the demonstration that was going to stomp down our boulevard would get very loud and that 40,000 earplugs were handed out. My friend at the crepe stand told me it was the gay pride parade.

So, though I knew what was coming, I was surprised that the walls were quaking and the earth was shaking, and when we stepped out on the street, we were blasted with techno music.


I couldn't understand who decided that gayness had to be deeply enmeshed with techno-ness. Though if that's what it takes to help people be open minded towards the subject, I guess then it is a positive marketing tool, albeit it to future-very-deaf people.


But then I looked at the very young crowd (median age being about 15) that cluttered the street, as well as the recycling containers and bus stops, and I thought to myself that this is the weirdest gay pride parade that I've ever seen.

And then today, I was told by my well-informed hubby that it wasn't the gay pride parade but the techno parade. Aha. My friend misinformed me and it colored my perception of the events.

But never mind, the award for most daring dancer goes to this kid. He rocked his world freely, wildly and managed to keep his feet firmly planted on the recycle bin, without nary a helping hand from his friend who watched his back.





Now if I could be so brave and shake my booty like that 10 feet off the ground.

Break from Blog Redesign

I'm reverting back to the colors set by the Blogger template to give us all a break before I try another color.

Most of you who commented (either on the blog or in private) liked the medium-gray background, as did I, but I couldn't get the letters to be the red that I wanted them to be, and though I liked the pink with the gray, it clashed with the photos.

So breathe deeply, enjoy the blankness of the white, before I change to something new when the mood strikes.

Where am I?

Terminal A at Charles-de-Gaulle airport does not usually inspire my shutterbug finger, but upon a recent trip I discovered...(two beats for dramatic pause)...the parking lot.



I was so taken by these gorgeous "A"s it took me a moment to realize they are an overtly subliminal message to help parking lot attendees remember where they have parked their cars.

Blog Redesign

I'm finding that often museum walls are some shade of gray or red, and so in honor of the French esthetics, I'm going to be giving those colors a try on this blog. And so for the month of September (or unless I'm impatient to change sooner), I'll start with a medium shade of gray.

Please let me know what you think.

Chock-Full of Color

It's not always easy living in Paris with the gray skies and the grumpy Parisians.

But how can I be depressed for too long when I walk along one of my favorite streets, Rue Vieille du Temple, in the Marais and I stumble across a bakery (Boulangerie Malineau) with the most color cookies I've ever seen?

Where am I?

Though I speak to my French husband in French, a lot of my life is in English.

I read mostly in English, I speak to my son in English, I have many English-speaking friends, I write in English.

At times I am so submerged in English-dom, as I am now sitting at my computer, that I forget where I am. Then I hear the chatter of voices outside our apartment. I pause from what I am doing and think to myself, "Oh, listen, they are speaking French, how odd!"

Then I remember where I am, and I start to laugh. I'm the one who's actually "odd", and then I revel in the fact that I am living in Paris.

What were They Thinking?

Just last week, the Hubby, the Baby and I sat in a sweet little park next to Notre Dame. We were deeply involved in watching a woman covered in pigeons as she fed them, only to be interrupted by an English wedding party.

I forgot about the Pigeon Lady when I saw the bride and groom stand under one of the rose arches for pictures.

I turned to my Hubby and said, "Why are they taking the photos from that angle?" You see, Notre Dame was behind the people taking the pictures, not behind the bride and groom.

This bugged me and I inched closer and closer to the well-dressed folks.

The Hubby followed me and very gently said, "You don't have to save everyone."

Pffff. He's right. So I did the only logical thing...I took the picture myself.

Setting Sun

I walk the same Paris city streets regularly. As I do so, I try to let the unexpected catch my attention, as well as enjoy the familiar that still fills my heart with joy.

But I do wonder. Will I stop seeing the beauty around me, in the way that we stop looking at the paintings or posters that hang in our homes? Will I begin to take this beautiful city for granted?

Thankfully it doesn't take much to snap me out of my musings. Just a turn or lifting of the head at just the right moment, and there it is, that connection with the here and now in all its perfection.

Walking home from a stroll along the Seine recently, skirting the Hotel de Ville from the back, I noticed the setting sun catching the yellow of the Metro "M", making it seem partially lit up.

Above Paris

Though I hate to admit it, I'm a couch potato. Living in Los Angeles for 12 years, where you drive everywhere, didn't help matters. Paris, on the other hand, has accomplished something that no other city has been able to do; I have actually become a walker.

Even so, when the weather is gray, as it has been most of the summer, my spuds-nature rears its head and I just want to lounge around the house in my sweats. Thus when my friend Merja asked me to join her on an adventure that I had wanted to go on for a while, I came up with a million excuses not to climb Notre Dame and see Paris from its bell towers.

Thankfully, I didn't whine to her and ended up having the time of my life, ranking the experience up there with climbing Uluru in Australia.

These photos were taken on the first level below the two towers.

(Famous Gargolye)


(Sacre Coeur is on the hill)


(Prefecture de Police and the Palais de Justice, Hitler ordered both to be bombed, as well as Notre Dame)


(The Eiffel Tower and La Defense Financial District)

(The steeple is the Sainte Chapelle)













These were taken from the top of the left tower (right tower if you are looking at the Cathedral).





(View of Ile Saint Louis and the gardens behind Notre Dame)


It was wonderful to see Paris from a whole new perspective.

Paris Nudges Me Awake

After a long night interrupted countless times by my restless mind, as well as my baby's cries, I fell asleep for our morning nap with his soft foot on my nose.

I awoke too soon to clomping in the street and a baby lying in my arms. I tried settling back into sleep but I couldn't help wonder if I had heard a horse trotting down the small street below our window.

I had visions of a lost Cavalerie de la Garde Républicaine soldier, in his elegant black jacket and shiny gold helmet topped by a bright red crest with a horse tail jutting out of it, riding his horse, which left a huge pile of dung for pedestrians and cars to negotiate.

But a woman's laughter pierced the fantasy, I turned my head, looked at my baby's soft, sleeping face, his mouth slightly ajar revealing hints of his very white upper teeth, two of seven, and his breath soft and rhythmic, as his fingers twitched gently.

Magic

Strolling along in front of Notre Dame with friends who were visiting Paris last night, we enjoyed the warm evening, the classical guitarist and then, when the odor of gasoline assaulted our senses, we walked over to the fire twirlers with great anticipation.

We were hoping they were the same ones we had seen recently. When I saw that they were, I knew something special was about to happen. But even so, when it did, I stood in awe, wonder and bliss.



When I walked away, I was changed by the power of this magical moment and I was truly, deeply content.

Gray to Sunny

Have you ever been unhappy in a situation or place? Then things look up and you don't know what to do with yourself?

It has been a gray, gray, gray summer and I've been down, down, down. I love Paris, the architecture of the city, the river Seine, the gorgeous esthetics that surround me in the simplest of places and spaces, but when the sky is as gray as the Parisians themselves, especially in the summer when I expect sunshine, it's even a little too much for generally-upbeat me.

I've been seriously contemplating moving to a sunnier place and then last Monday, I woke up, sure it was going to be another gray day. I folded back the shutters and found, to my shock, a crisp, blue sky.

It was so unexpected and so troubling, I immediately took a picture of it. I was elated and hesitant. I woke up sure that I was going to complain about the grayness again, and then didn't know what to do with myself when I saw that the situation had changed and there was no need to complain. I had gotten used to complaining and now had to change my way of being.

But then I thought to myself, Could it be real? Could it last? How long would it last?

It took walking to the park with my son and sitting on a bench for an hour for me to ease out of the discomfort of the beautiful sky into the bliss of the glorious day.

The Sounds of Paris

While nursing my baby at home with the windows open to let in a breeze and the drawn curtains casting a lavender hue on the white ceiling, I heard the sing-song of a saxophone and a dog barking intermittently.

Publicity

There are people who are offended by the advertising billboards in the metros. I -- generally -- don't mind them. They keep me occupied while I wait for the trains, and sometimes they even make my heart pitter-patter.

This happens time and time again when I see ads for exhibits at the Louvre and other museums. Since I don't read the Pariscope to find out when exhibits happen, I find out by the advertising in the subway. This is how I found out about the Jules Bastien-Lepage exhibit at the Musee d'Orsay. Bastien-Lepage painted one of my all-time favorite paintings, Joan of Arc, which hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

And better yet, when I take a picture of them, I'm thrilled by the esthetics not only of the ad, but the tiles around the ad, and then the people that happen to walk into the frame (both photographic and billboard).

What Year is It Anyway?

It is said that if you want to get anything out of life, you have to go after it. But sometimes, life truly comes to you in wonderful and unexpected ways: you just have to turn your head a little bit.

Recently, I heard the tinkling of music coming down our street. I knew what it was and rushed to the window, only to be greeted with a smile even before I tossed down a coin.

That's one of the things I love the most about Paris. It gives you inklings of what it was like to live in another time.

That is one of its greatest charms: though it is a modern city, some things haven't changed. It is a place where there is still room for the small-town bakers and butchers, the cafes that don't rush you even if you order just the tiniest cup of coffee, and the rare organ grinders.

Out the Window

For several weeks, I've heard occasional meowing in the street. At first I thought it came from the cat who lives across from us, up one story and one building over. But I was wrong. The sound came from below our window, not above it.

So when I heard the plaintiff wail again today, I bolted to the window and saw a man bending over and squishing a cat between his knees.

At first I thought it was the Village Idiot, but when the man released the animal, who was wearing a leash, I realized that I was witness to a cute, young man out walking his cat.

I guess the man took a 'squish-the-cat break' right below our apartment, and then they both took a 'rest-our-butts break' on our car.


With it's leopard spots, it's perfectly placed paws, its perky ears, its green eyes, and it's curiously wide-eyed expression, this must be one of the most beautiful cats I've ever seen.



Who needs television, when you've got life right outside your window?

Election Night 2007

Today 86% of the French have cast their vote in the second round of their country's presidential elections. True democracy has decreed Nicolas Sarkozy as the winner by 53% (all numbers as yet to be confirmed).


And Segolene Royal the loser.



Once again analysts will spend much of their brain power trying to figure out what went wrong. And once again, I say look to the advertising campaign (the two photos are as is, untouched by computer enhancement).

Mr. Sarkozy's poster was defaced by others. The state of Ms. Royal's was done to her by her own people. Her poster was seen glued into corrugated iron construction barriers all around the Marais.

And that was a week after I yelled out our living room window at some of her people who were gluing posters on the wall of an apartment building that is constantly defaced by graffiti.

Lost

The other day, there was a little monkey who lost his child.

Seven-year-old Louise came up to me, her big eyes open and round.

"Is it yours?" I asked.

"No. Are you going to take it?" she replied.

"No."

"Why not?"

"If the child comes back and doesn't find his monkey, he'll be really sad."

"Oh," she said thoughtfully and then followed me around the park.

Election Day (Round One)

For weeks, Paris has been slathered in posters showing the many presidential candidates. It all came to a head yesterday when nearly 85% of the population turned out to vote, making France a true Democracy. The people have spoken and they have chosen Segolene Royal and Nicolas Sarkozy to battle it out in the second round on May 6th.

Different analysts are on overdrive trying to figure out what went wrong for the other candidates. I think I have the answer.

Recently when I walked up the Canal St. Martin, the only two posters that were not "amended" -- shall we say -- were those for Sarkozy (though I've seen some pretty interesting ones in other places) and Royal.

(Le Pen)

(de Villiers)

(Bayrou)

It's all in the nose; though I have to say, Bayrou looks quite dashing in red.

Strange Day

This morning before leaving the house for my weekly exercise class, I only had a few pages left of Ian McEwan's, The Atonement, so I juggled the babe with one hand and the book with the other, and quickly read to the end. The ending of the story was so unexpected (though if I had paid a little more attention, it wouldn't have come as such a surprise), it really threw me. I was heartbroken and almost cried, but couldn't allow myself to feel the sorrow because I had to go catch the bus.

Did my pent up emotion set off a chain of events that made me wish I hadn't left the house at all today?

It began with the bus driver not wanting to open the door for me when he pulled up to the stop. When he finally did let me on, I instantly regretted it because he drove like a maniac. The ride didn't last long though because two stops later, we were all unceremoniously kicked out (eight stops from my destination).

I had given myself so much time to get to my destination, and now there was a hiccup. Boy oh boy. And then the bus driver tried to explain the two stroller rule to me. When I told him I could have just folded it up, he insisted I didn't wave to him when he arrived.

Argh. I was irritated and it was hard to stop complaining. At least the sun was out and the temperature temperate.

I took another bus many minutes later, finally made it to where I needed to go, only to find that the bakery where I buy my pizza for lunch after the class, was closed for two weeks. The horror!

Now I really wanted to cry.

But then I found a pizzeria just down the block, bought a bruschetta for after class, and then discovered the Paris that I love. On a small, pedestrian only street, there was an outdoor market.

I found fish with their heads sticking out of ice (a perfect metaphor for the morning).


And in front of the fish was a crate of beautiful scallops.



I had never seen one up close, uncooked.

Spring

For twelve years, I lived in Los Angeles, where flowers bloom year round: purple Jacarandas in April, fuchsia Silk Floss trees in September, Bougainvilleas and Oleanders all the time.

Bright colors were a part of every season.

And then two years ago, I moved to Paris, where in the winter color was drained out of the landscape leaving dark-gray slate roofs, dull-gray skies, pale-beige or drab-gray facades, leafless trees, and pale faces hidden under big scarves.

This year the winter was very mild, but the colors were still homogeneous. The lack of color on the outside gave me time to go within, to be dormant, setting the groundwork for spring.

And now it's here, earlier than expected, and just like last year, I'm somewhat unsettled and slightly in shock by it all.




Everywhere I look, there is a symphony of colors that borders on kitsch...Pink tulips growing next to blue hyacinths, sprouting next to bright yellow daffodils, springing next to pansies of all colors.

Trees growing flowers one day, and, as if by magic, leaves overnight, where a week earlier there were just smooth stems.

Color is everywhere and there is just no hiding from it; forcing me to pay attention; to snap out of the meditative inside to life bursting outside in all its glory.

Be Your Own...

The fairy tales teach little girls that the Prince will come and save them from their poor lives.

After pining away for different Princes (and toads) for years, I came to the conclusion that a woman needs to be her own Prince Charming. Otherwise, it's simply too much pressure on the poor guy and it's too much anguish in the waiting for the gal.

But if you absolutely have to have one, and your tired of kissing some doozy toads along the way, I know a place where you can get one that's kind of cute!

I found these funny guys in the shop, Les Milles Feuilles, on Rue des Archives in the Marais.

So kiss away, Goddesses, kiss away.

Wall Art...

Grafitti with a twist... and love the red shoes!

It Takes So Little

Sometimes we feel stuck in our lives and we can't find the way out. We think that the only possibility is to work very hard to get through the quagmire. But sometimes, it takes as little as lifting ones eyes to see it all in a new way.



Waiting at a stop light a few weeks ago, I saw the statue of the Bastille in a whole new light. And the thrill of the discovery has added a perspective to the column so that now when I walk past it, I look up at the statue directly and then turn my head to look for its reflection in the window.

Village Idiot

Recently, I wrote about the "new" coffee table we got thanks to our Village Idiot. It fit so beautifully into our apartment and made us very happy.


And then, it started making noise. It was faint at first. So faint in fact, we weren't even sure the sounds emanated from the table. It was a sort of on-and-off-again squeaking sound.

The hubby and I would periodically hover over the table to see where it was coming from. We would shush each other if we spoke, holding our frozen-in-place-ready-to-turn-into-a-salt-pillar-if-we-looked-back stance.

"There it is! Do you hear it?" one of us would say.
"Shhhh..." the other would reply, hand raised to pause the other.

Every day we came a little bit closer until finally we realized it was coming from three places in the table. Was it three separate sets of jaws nibbling away?

One night when I couldn't sleep, I sat in the living room. Creak. Creak periodically interrupted the quiet of the night. Creak. Creak rolled down the street the next evening.

Creak creak is now in the dump...or perhaps in someone else's home?...

A Glimpse...

The tiniest bit of warm sun is soaked up by sun-parched Parisians on an Easter Sunday by the Canal Saint Martin.