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.

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.

Art in Motion

What is art? Is it something you see only in a museum or a gallery? Is art something apart from life?

I've reflected upon these questions over the years and am finding, more and more, that art is an integral part of my life. It takes many different forms ranging from communing with paintings and sculptures in a museum, seeing photographs in a gallery, enjoying esthetically sculpted storefronts, beautiful furniture, architecture, gorgeously landscaped gardens.

And today, I found art in motion...

My friend Marjorie, who is visiting from the States, asked me to accompany her to a very hip, fashionable clothing store, L'Eclaireur, in the Marais. I'd never been inside, so I accepted with interest.

We skimmed the very expensive, playfully unusual dresses and tried not to drool on them. Because we were together, we had the courage to go all the way to the back of the store, where we found a sight that made us both stop in our tracks. We turned to each other, eyes big and sparkling, trying not to draw attention to ourselves.

A dark-haired woman, her upper-body tilted away from the rack of clothes she was looking through, wore the most stunning coat I have ever seen. It reminded me of a very sleek, chic version of the Little Prince's coat in shiny black.

After seeing this coat, nothing else mattered in the store. And when the woman headed out the store, so did we. We were compelled to tell her how glorious her coat is.

She was deeply touched, posed for a photo, and then told us a little bit about herself. Her name is Salomé, she works for another branch of L'Eclaireur on rue Boissy d'Anglas, and she is from Georgia (the country formerly part of the Soviet Union).


The coat she wore was designed by her childhood friend, Ms. Nino Chubinishvili, an up-and-coming designer.

Not only were we a witness to a truly beautiful piece of art, under the guise of clothing, but we also shared a very human moment with Salomé. She told us that living in Georgia had been very difficult, but she would not ask to trade her experience if she were to do it again, because her life was very rich and her friendships profound.

I've never before met someone who so knew her place in the history of her country.

And that's Paris for you. You go window-shopping and you end up with art and a sense of history.

Thanks Salomé and good luck Nino.

It's not just...

...the flowers that sprout during Spring.

.

(Photo taken in Place des Vosges)