Artiste

It hasn't always been easy living in Paris these last three years. I've had to learn to negotiate my fear of asking for help at the BHV (department store), learn to shrug it off when someone yelled at me when they bumped into me, be insistent in asking a waiter for service, and calm my nerves when I panicked with the quagmire of bureaucracy surrounding working as a free-agent.

I should have known that when something so scared the yoga pants of me that something else was cooking. It took a while, but I finally realized what was going on.

Falling in love with the esthetics of this city, feeling the flow of the Seine in calm and storm, walking the streets until I flowed through them like the blood in my veins, has led me to my true calling.

As of May 16, 2008, the French government has declared me an "Artiste". I am now officially a member of La Maison des Artistes, which gives me tax breaks for being in the arts.

It is much easier being an artist in France than, say, a yoga teacher.

As I write this with the deepest gratitude for this city, for its challenges and its beauty, I thank Paris for showing me my true nature.

Merci Paris. You gave me the courage to walk this path that I have been tiptoeing down for many years.

Now I walk, with a sure foot, and of course, as always, camera in hand, to my first photo exhibit.

Painted Sky

Walking home from the playground with my toddler, I had to stop on the island in the middle of the street to take this picture. The only clouds in the sky just happened to be so perfectly aligned with the angle of the rooftops.

That's Paris for you, even the clouds look like they've been put there by an artist.

It's a New Year!

As I wrote on my Mama Dya's World blog, I'm really glad the year 2007 is almost over. I've had major postpartum depression due to chronic lack of sleep for the past six months and living in Paris hasn't helped matters.

On this blog, I've written mostly about the side of Paris that I love. I've perhaps been remiss in sharing a fuller picture of what it is like for me to live here. This will change.

I love this city, there are no and, buts, or anything else about that. It's not the city I have a hard time with, it's a lot of the people who live in it. Not all of them, and certainly there are many lovely people around me, especially in our building and the shops around us.

But boy, some days are tough. For example, I'm not used to having to apologize when someone else runs into me. My husband is from Normandy, and he doesn't necessarily have an easier time living here than I do.

But Paris is where I live, for now. It's my village and this is what I will write about. Paris: the good, the bad and the Parisians.

Bonne Annee and here's to blogging more frequently in this new year of 2008!

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Every Village...

It is said that "every village has its idiot," or fool if you prefer. And so do we.

For weeks I kept on finding boxes of tea still in their plastic wrapping on the ledge just below our apartment. I couldn't figure out who would be throwing them down; I know all the neighbors and didn't know which one would amuse themselves in this way.

Time passed and one day, I heard something clink against the window. I hustled to look outside and saw a man with a long gray beard, in a shabby parka and hood, throwing coins on to our ledge. Aha. There was our answer. The items came from below.

And so, periodically, we find new items on the ledge. Most recently some plastic container attached to magazines, and big hunks of bread.

The pigeons were happy with the bread, but I wasn't.

So, I decided to shove them off the ledge. But before I did, I told my husband about the bread and he discovered something else. Ah, my heart jumped with joy! There, on the street, was something I had always wanted.

When I first moved to Paris, the street gifted me with an old-fashioned desk. And now, if we got dressed and down the street quickly enough, then we would have our long wished-for coffee table.

Success! Thanks Village Idiot for leading us to our Paris gift.

Les Giboulée de Mars

I had just come home from doing my errands in an odd-weather kind of day (cold, hot, cold), when I heard a racket outside of the windows. We've had sporadic construction lately, so I immediately attributed it to that.

When I looked out the window though, I couldn't help but gasp at the sight. I witnessed a torrent of hail covering cars, scooters, the sidewalk and a man carrying an umbrella as he walked nonchalantly down the street, completely unperturbed by the intensity of the ice and sound, as if on a Sunday stroll.





I've always found hail to be so gloriously strange, because it comes on so unexpectedly and unannounced with such a force and then it is gone just as quickly.