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All of the best stories just can't be told.

Quoi?

What?

There are times in life where you just have to ask yourself, "Are these people for real?"

(And yes, there is a dog in his, er, man bag.)

The Pink Panther

Tonight there was a man playing the The Pink Panther on the saxophone in one of the arched passageways of the Louvre. The night was black and the light from the courtyard cut furrowed lines through the shadows. The sultry echoes from the saxophone stole from column to column like a furtive glance.

How perfect was this? There we were, a musician, who could have easily been Inspector Clousseau in disguise, a dark evening in Paris ripe for intrigue, and me, a young unknown in a trench coat. All we needed was a woman with a 60’s style bouffant and a string of stolen diamonds. A vintage Aston Martin wouldn’t have hurt the ambiance either.

This is one of the wonderful things about living in Paris. You never know what you will discover around the corner.

A la Bibliothèque

Deuxieme Partie
Part Two

Outside, a blue sign over a wooden door wavered like a mirage between the hasty diagonals of rain streaking down the window. It read, “Children’s Library”. A library! Was it still open? It wouldn’t hurt to check, would it? Most certainly not!

The narrow beveled door swung open in invitation. Inside was a kaleidescope of color, the antithesis of everything in the drizziling outside world. Oh, sweet books! The air was full of the acrid smell of children after playing outside, grubby fingers, and exlamations of “Maman! Maman! C‘est quoi, ca?” (Mom! Mom! What is that?). It was a long sweet gulp of childhood. Oh! Those days of going to the library with Mom and checking out piles of books that leaned like minature towers of Pisa back at home in my bedroom, just bursting to be discovered.

Yet, this is was not anything like the provincial, spacious library I knew as a child. This was a small library, cobbled out of the corner of a preoccupied urban building in a bonafide city. The kids are stylish in their city clothes and after they leave here they will set their book bags over their shoulders and hop on their scooters for the journey home. There are no cars with unlimited loot space for them to take them their books to houses with unlocked doors. These are city kids. They will maneuver traffic, avoid suspicious strangers, and head home, where they will punch in door codes, climb five flights of stairs, and toss their books on a bedside table in a room that was built centuries ago while they go enjoy cassoulet for dinner.

It’s a different world. I won’t go with them for any of that journey though. Instead, I pulled out a book about puppies and sat myself down at a miniature table across from a little Jewish boy in a skullcap reading manga. Chiots (puppies). It was a rather magical book, lots of fun little facts and even cuter pictures. I forgot how much I like puppies!

Having reached the end of this erudite book, I unfolded myself from the kid table. A voice called out, “We have many more books about dogs, you know. Here, let me show you.” A librarian shuffled over in his rumbled wool sweater and began pulling down books. “Dogs of the World, Dogs of Every Kind…” Before I could put two words together there was a sizable collection of dog books on the table. Oh no, I must have looked absolutely enthralled when I was looking at that puppy book! He thinks I want to read every last book here on dogs! How could I discreetly put them back on the shelf without him being offended? I’d really already met my quota of books about puppies.

And then, this might also be a good time to tell him I don’t even have a library card. He’s wasting his time with a yahoo off the street. I don’t know why, but I have been afraid to try to get a library card here in Paris. I practically drool every time I walk by a library but actually going through the paperwork to get one sounds terrifying. It is PTSD from French bureaucracy. Going to do French paperwork is not fun, to say the least. The people make you feel like you are delivering them hate mail and then send you all over the city on a wild goose chase with conflicting advice. It makes you want to resort to violence. French people are accustomed to this bane of their lives and shrug their shoulders, “Yep, it’s stupid. And there is nothing we can do about it except complain.” But this is a happy story about puppies and childhood memories so let’s not waste any more of life in regards to French paperwork.

Yet oh, sweet Monsieur Librarian was accustomed to children and sensed my unease. “Do you have a card?” Oh, thank you so much for asking! I didn’t have the courage! Asking is the hardest part of most things in life! “No, but could you tell me how to m’abandoner?” “Oh no“, he gently corrected, “You don’t say ’abandoner’, you say ’abonner’.” Oh. Stupid. I was so relieved and nervous that I had asked him how I could ‘abandon’ myself, not how to ‘subscribe‘. I laughed aloud as I slapped myself on the forehead on the inside. Come on! You know better than that! Speak French correctly for crying out loud! But that is how it goes when you are speaking in another language. You just have to get used to looking silly.

Oh well. He then showed me how to subscribe without abandoning myself, of which I was quite thankful. He was awfully curious about my interest in puppies. I shrugged sheepishly and said, “I just have a child’s heart. That explains the puppies.” My pride smarted a little so I added, “And reading children’s books is a really good way to learn French, you know.” He diplomatically replied, “ Oh, but you’ve very good verbal skills.” Thanks. But we both know I just asked you if I could abandon myself.

Vocabulary mix-ups besides, within five minutes he handed me my new Parisian library card. That was easy! I wanted to hug him and give him the bise, the two french kisses of greeting but I refrained. If I had a tail it would be wagging.

“Now,” he announced, “I will give you the tour.” I hopped down the steps behind him to the main level and grinned. Every day here seems to turn out to be an adventure. I started out on a nice little bus ride and look, here I am, in the last place anticipated, having a perfectly nice time with a government employee in a magical land of books. He asked me what I was reading in French. “Hemingway” I proudly said, hoping to redeem his undoubted low view of my intelligence. He promptly showed me the classics section and I felt quite pleased.

I selected two books and plopped them down at the check out table like a dog might plop two bedraggled waterfowl at the feet of his master. “Look at what I brought you? Isn’t it great?!” I was so please with it all that I didn’t even listen to what the lady said. “Oh, what?” I had to lean forward, pushed from my happy little world. “They are due in 3 weeks.” Oh, yes, yes of course. And I bounded out the door. It was raining but that was no bother. I rather like rain. Just like puppies.

Ma Tante

My Aunt Dawn came to visit! She had meetings in Paris and stayed an extra day to hang out with me! It was very, very fun. Here we are at the Place de Vosges, a very chic square where Victor Hugo used to live.

A la Bibliothèque

At the Library
Premiere Partie / Part One

Nearer to the second half of today I decided to take the bus home from Argentine which is on the other end of Paris from my place. I was in the mood for a long car ride and incidentally, due to the bus route, was about to embark on a nice west east tour of the city. After scanning my Navigo* and greeting the driver with the customary, "Bonjour, Monsieur" I climbed up into a seat. The bus lurched and swung into the infamous roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe with its whirling circular lanes of traffic and popped out onto the Champs Elysees. This long avenue of lights and stores is as equaly famous, or infamous, depending on how you look at it, with its lineup of legends such as Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Lancel, and even Abercrombie and Fitch. French marketers have no problem using nudity to sell clothing (the irony kills me) amongst other things, so A&F is a shoe in. But anyways, off the soapbox.

From the Champs Elysees, over the river and towards Saint Germain des Pres, lies one of the oldest parts of Paris. Here, grandmothers hunchbacked by age drag their chariots (grocery baskets on wheels) by the fronts of cafes bulging with parisiens complaining about Sarko (President Sarkozy), tourists with sore feet, and college students trying to look Parisian during their year abroad. On towards the east lies the Jardin des Plantes with its menagerie and gazebo high on a hill with a view of the neighborhood. The bus route goes back over the river again towards the hustle and grime of the Gare de Lyon (train, metro, bus station). Time to switch buses. I clambered onto a new one and settled in for the sardine packed ride to my stop, finding my solace by looking up through the window at where the day started up on the Promenade Plantee. The Promenade Plantee is a long narrow park that was built on the rails of a defunct rail line in Paris. It stretches from the East of Paris to the Bastille, where the French Revolution started. I had dreamed that I would someday get to live near this a hidden gem that is elevated above the city. As I savored this answered prayer the bus jerked and I looked down. And saw a wonderous something.

*Navigo is a transportation pass.


The Promenade Plantee

Jam Out

This is one of many reasons why Paris is a wonderful city. RATP, the public transport authority, has a program where they have arranged for musicians to play in the metro to give commuters’ lives some class. Hence, there is a very nice man in the Gare de Lyon who plays his accordion and smiles at me when I pass, a cello player at Palais Royal, a slough of men with instruments and bawdy voices at Concorde, and many other talented musicians across the Paris network. It does relieve stress to hear a lady rolling out La Vie En Rose in the metro as you run full tilt to catch your train.

L’Etrangère

This is a card that my friend Rachel sent for my birthday. She has killer taste in cards and while I have been the lucky recipient of a lot of awesome cards in life, this one just might top them all. The rest of the card is just as good. Click on the card to enlarge it. Thanks Rachel.

The Foreign Woman
Fevrier

I have realized recently that I am that girl. The foreign girl with the accent. It is weird to say, and even weirder to live out. Because, frankly, accents are cool. That is why we used to fake British and Aussie accents growing up. The person who could do a good Scottish brogue always got the most laughs.

However, when you want to learn another language, having an accent is the dumps. It is a much better compliment to have someone ask where you are from than assume you are an English speaker because it is that obvious. In addition, up until now I had been under the impression that the French disliked the American accent.

A while ago at the Saturday market I bemoaned this very accent to the man selling me a pair of earrings. Wide eyed, he exclaimed, “Oh, never lose your accent! It is so charming! You must always keep it, you know, like the Italians do.”

Indeed, the Italian accent is rather nice. Could the American accent really be appreciated? This warranted some research. Well, what do you know! Everyone I asked said the same thing. “Charming. Cute.” They were all fans of the accent.

Alright. Fine. I will keep the stupid accent.

Très Tendance.

Very Trendy.
Fevrier

Guys here have bit of a different sense of style than that of the United States. This guy, for instance is very stylish, in case you didn’t know. Often times, people take styles they have seen in American movies and pop culture and Frenchify it. For example, letter jackets are very in style here. Let’s clarify that. Letter jackets are very in style here for not only high schoolers but also for guys in their 20’s. They have no idea what it signifies but have seen it in the movies. Guys here can wear purple, hot pink, and turquoise as they please. Fur? Why not? He’s a stylin’ guy.

Super Bowl Sunday

Fevrier

As all of you dug into your Doritos and Lil’ Smokies for the Super Bowl of Le Football Americain, I had the chance to partake of a different kind of Super Bowl on this side of the ocean.

Many people may not know this but Paris has the largest Chinatown in Europe. At least this is what Parisiens like to tell me, so if this is wrong, blame the French. Chinatowns are very handy places for many reasons such as their amazing fresh exotic fruit, inexpensive goods, and notably, delicious Asian food. Yum yum. In addition, Chinatown in February means Chinese New Year.

In Paris, the main Chinatown lies in the 13th Arrondissement in the Southeast and is home to many Asian groups. France is stylish so you can be sure they were all about colonialism when it was en vogue. As seems to happen to all post colonialist countries, once the colonized country has been liberated, those people immigrate in droves to the country they were once exploited by. The logic in this escapes me but who am I to talk, I’ve never colonized anybody. Anyways, Paris has a fair amount of immigrants from Southeast Asia. I remember walking in markets in Cambodia where they sold baguettes next to traditional spicy stir frys. It seemed an odd combination but that’s globalization for you. France never colonized China but people have this thing with thinking that everyone that is Asian must be Chinese, hence “Chinatown“, and they have brought hoards of cool stuff with them.

So, when we realized we could have Chinese New Year’s AND a good excuse to have some good food you better believe we took our responsibility to celebrate diversity to heart. We were so excited that we showed up hours in advance to get THE spot we wanted and then waited in the damp morning, craning our necks for the first flicker of a parade banner. Soon, the BAM! BAM! BAM! Of large Chinese metal drums came echoing down the street, ricocheting off every surface. A long parade of red and gold dragons, decorated carts in plumes of incense, and girls dancing with fans came in a flurry. This parade seems to serve as a neighborhood parade as well and welcomed many Caribbean dance troupes as well, which did not seem a likely lien to a Chinese themed parade with its whistles and flourescent feathers and booty shakes but it was fun nonetheless. After, teeth chattering from the cold we huddled into the corner table at a Pho resto near the Tolbiac metro.

One of the cool things the Vietnamese brought with them is Pho, a soup that comes in a bowl big enough to be your hat. A friend and I have been slightly obsessed lately with pho and have been pillaging the city in quest of it. You can get this dish in Kalispell but there is just something special about walking into a restaurant with all of the “regulars” speaking languages you don’t understand around you, regretting your glimpse over the counter to the grim kitchen in the back, and just kind of pointing at something on the menu to order hoping it won’t be too scary (ie. still moving) when it arrives. Sometimes the meat is still raw when it arrives but hey, this is France, people eat raw meat here all the time. No, not joking. I have too. It is a magical bowl of broth, rice noodles, fresh vegetables and meat that comes with sprigs of fresh sesame leaves, bean sprouts and the like to season according to your tastes. Regardless, it is always delicious. It is always, always, a super bowl.

Cher Paris

Guides eating their lunch. And yes, they are wearing berets. 9 Janvier 2011

Dear Paris,

How are you? I am very sorry but I am just your fair-weather friend. Today actually had sun and it put me in such a good mood! I know, I know, it isn’t all about me but we have already established that I am your fair-weather friend so maybe I should up and admit that I am also a self-serving friend.

Take today, for instance. There we were, sitting on a wooden bench in the park behind Notre Dame. The sky was blue, there were a group of Girl Guides* sitting not too far off having a picnic, and even though it was quite cold out, it was nice! Why can’t you be like this more often? I mean, come on, it was fun wasn’t it, walking along the river, over the bridges, and through the backstreets together in sunny, dry weather? I was so excited because it was the first time this winter there was enough sun for me to see my shadow! In fact, it was so earth shattering that I took a picture of it! (I’ll send it to you because I am also self-absorbed. Or better yet, maybe I’ll put it on Facebook so everyone can see it.)

You get so glum and well, honestly, that sludge you’ve been producing this winter on your streets has been down right nasty. That whole snow, then rain, then freeze act you have been doing turns the streets, with their proliference of feces (dog, bird, human…) and whatnot makes for the nastiest slushee ever conceived. The thought of slipping in it makes me want to upchuck. Would it be so much to ask for you to clean yourself up a little and be more cheerful? I sure don’t think so.

Yours truly, (if you change),
k

*Girl Guides are the equivalent to our Girl Scouts.

Gris

Gray. Janvier 2011

There is really no such thing as color during a Parisian winter. Instead, everything falls within shades of gray. Gray emaciated trees, gray monuments of stone, gray closed faces of Parisians as they walk in gray outfits down gray streets. You feel as though you have stepped one foot into an old black and white film and the other in a big, murky puddle. Because it rains a lot here in winter. And you notice it because you walk everywhere.

When you peek out from under your umbrella at the buildings above you come to realize that Paris is a sponge, really. In the summer months the stone Haussmanian* buildings glow like a girl in love under the rays of a benevolent sun. The same buildings in winter turn dour and severe. The stone reflects and soaks up the light, or the lack thereof.

This gray world is all very film noir. You have to be ready to face that certain melancholic, debonair irony in the everyday. The word “chipper” does not exist in parisien winter vocabulary, so if that is what you are looking for you had better wait to visit during the season when you can wear white again. Otherwise, you’ll fit in like a beauty pageant queen, nervously grinning in your hot pink and rhinestones in a room full of beatniks.

So get used to the gray. And, after a time, you’ll come to realize every shade of gray exists here in Paris. Every shade. There is the light shade of gray that nearly passes as white in the windows of linen shops as you faites du leche vitrine (“window licking” - window shopping). There is the slick black gray of the sidewalks after the rain. The mauve gray or the khaki gray that are in this year, gracing the neck of many a parisienne as they battle the damp cold. The blue gray of the pigeons that rally round small children, knowing that where there are children, there are crumbs. The green gray of the crevices of buildings where moss finds refuge to grow. And of course, there’s the sky. It is a flat gray that hovers gloomily over the city like a slab of unpolished slate propped up by the Tour Eiffel, Tour Montparnasse, and the Sacre Coeur.

Everyday there is a new nuance of gray that you hadn’t perceived before. After a while, this shade seeps into your soul and while formless, begins to mire you into the doldrums. You can see it on the faces of people in the metro and on the street. J’en ai marre! (I’m fed up!) they say, so depressed by this weather. We all long for a brighter season, where that gray world of old film becomes Technicolor. Yet there is value in this season. What it is, none of us is altogether sure. But I’ve a sneaking suspicion it is important to learn to appreciate all these many shades of gray.

* The classic architecture we think of when we think of romantic Parisian buildings.