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.

Sunday Stroll

There are some times in life where it's good to plan ahead, and then there are those times where the unplanned makes the unexpected discovery all the more joyful.

Last Sunday, our feet took us to the Port de l'Arsenal, where the Canal Saint Martin meets the Seine, next to Bastille. Not only did we stumble on Spring in full boom...

...but we also found that Paris was no longer Paris!

Venice had taken over and Carneval was in full swing.

And I learned that it's not the mask that creates the mystery. It's all in the attitude.