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)

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.

Paris Hubba Hubba

This morning when I left the house, I thought to myself: It's another cold, gray day. Don't take your camera, you'll have nothing new to photograph.

Thank goodness I ignored that silly thought because as soon as I set foot on the sidewalk, I encountered one of my favorite sights: The Sapeurs Pompiers... Paris' finest firefighters.



Now, I know what you are thinking and you are wrong. Though these gentlemen have a reputation for being the most dashing of men, this is not what gets me all excited when I see them. Oh, no, no.

It's their glorious shiny helmets, a throwback to ancient times of gallant heroes who rescued people from, in this case, a gas leak that when asked what they were doing here, they breezily shrugged off as just another day's work.

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.

A Bright Spot

It snowed in New York City last week, and I thought to myself, well, at least we are lucky to have such warmth here in Paris, forgetting (on purpose?) that the weather on the East Coast of the United States reaches us on the West Coast of Europe, in varying degrees, within four days.

And so yesterday, while I was in Herbeus looking for Australian Bushflower Essences, I noticed that it had, what I thought, started to rain.

It is only when I stepped out into the street that I realized, goodness me, it's hail.

People stood with long faces under shop and restaurant awnings, waiting it out. But me, how could I be depressed? I was warm in my expensive, French wool stockings and if that wasn't reason enough, I detected all the way down the street, a man with a bright, red umbrella.

The sky was gray, the air was cold, people looked unhappy, and here I stood blocking the entrance to the shop I just stepped out of, with what I'm sure was a loopy grin on my face, unable to tear my eyes away from the spot of color that moved closer and closer.


(If you click and enlarge the image, you can actually see the hail!)

Little things make me happy, and yesterday it was that bright, red umbrella.

April Chill

This year in Paris, we've had a mild winter and an early spring. This is always dangerous because now is the time people dress too lightly for the fluctuating temperatures.

Last week it was so warm, in fact, that I almost put away my winter coat, but I kept on thinking about the French saying, which is repeated like a mantra, En avril, ne te découvre pas d’un fil ; en mai, fais ce qu’il te plaît, (In April, do not uncover yourself by one thread; in May do as you wish).

I kept the coat out "just in case". And today was just that "just in case". It was reasonably warm, but there was a wind that stung with an arctic chill, making all of us huddle under the too little clothing that we all wore (I left my bonnet at home).

But Paris is Paris and there is always beauty somewhere that springs out of the cold. We found it walking home.

Street Art

There is a phenomenon that happens in Paris that I've never seen (or perhaps just never noticed) in any other city I've been in: artists "paint" on buildings. This is done without permission and can be done with paint, paper collage or even tile.

This week I found these two in the Marais:

and


These "pieces" generally have a very short shelf-life. They are quickly painted
over by unhappy building owners.

So, why would anyone "waste" their time with art that will vanish as quickly as it was put up? Is it for the satisfaction of having your art seen by many? Or perhaps the joy of defacing property? Are they some secret code for a secret society that -- in these cases -- are really green people with wings?

Perhaps most do it because some artists are actually discovered that way. How the galleries find the artists of these mostly unsigned chef d'oeuvres is a mystery to me. I'll have to put on my detective hat and do some detectiving.

Tea & Feathers

As I walked to my favorite tea house, Mariage Frères, (see earlier post entitled Elegance) this afternoon to meet a friend, I thought to myself, well, seems kind of silly to sit inside on such a crisp, sunny spring day.

But as soon as I walked into the tea room and inhaled its serenity, I felt joy. And then, I saw feathers fluttering. How could I have any regrets at seeing that sight?


I sat down with my friend and perused the very large menu. This is often a very quick endeavor because once I discover something I like, I order the same thing every time.

With the teas, I vowed to break that pattern and try a new one every time. Last visit, I had the Festin d'Or, a combination of green tea (no wonder I felt so good when I left and then had a hard time falling asleep that night), citrus and mint. Today, I tried the Nil Rouge, a South African bourbon leaf; it was delightful.

I did not, however, completely shed my old habits and ordered the heavenly coup de soleil (sunburn), a delicious tart made with vanilla custard on a bed of wild strawberries.

Next time, I will expand my palate and attempt a new dessert. This rose green tea cake looked and smelled so good I had a hard time keeping my hands off it (once again we were placed at the "torture" table right next to the dry baked goods area that also doubles as the serving areas where the desserts are placed while the tea is being made behind the tea-bar). Or maybe I'll just have to order two...

And once again, we were treated like royalty by the waiters. Here is Antoine.

It is not customary to tip in France -- though greatly appreciated and definitely hoped for -- but please do when you come here. It's a real treat.

Carpe Diem

Paris is not only encouraging me to contemplate elegance and aesthetics, but it's also teaching me to seize the moment.

Today, as I lay nursing my son, I heard a truck park below our apartment. There was a flash of light and when I looked up, I saw this:



Old buildings, old windows, old iron work: I breathed in the delicacy of it all.

Look at these...part 2

gloriously quirky shoes seen at André in the 3rd Arrondissement.

I think I will have to go try them on, not that I could ever walk in them. (Wanna come, Merja?)