La Pie Qui Chante

I celebrate this hard weeks end with a glass (more like 3/4's of a bottle) of Bordeaux and bar of Lindt Coco chocolate. The time for me is flying by; my days are full of lessons learned, cultural observations and finally, food so fresh and delectable that I am not sure I can readjusting to supermarket offers back home. The art of reflection is one that I have almost perfected and though I am not in the mood to get deep (refer to the amount of vin I mentioned above) below are some snippets of my week.

Saturday- Printemps Dept store had a sale and I scored with a black, polka-dot lined, trench coat and a black down jacket with a funky collar. I had my sister in law over for dinner and at around midnight we headed over to the movie theater to watch Becoming Jane VO in the version original- don’t have much to say about the movie itself but the passage way that lead to the theater was really pretty and when I can I will come back to explore.

Sunday- I left the house at 9 am to discover the neighborhood marché (farmer's market). I bought a couple of baguettes, a bunch of grapes, three avocados, and a roasted chicken. I continued my journey over to the 10th and found Passage Brady, a little covered walkway that sells Indian products, and I loaded up on dried fruits, samosas and ingredients for chai tea. I floated home- happy to have completed these interactions in French but in a rush because I had a ballet workshop. 3 hours of Barre au sol et classique ballet. Try not to laugh too hard as you imagine me in all of my curvaciousness stuffed into a leotard and standing next to a 6-foot tall beanpole. The instructor is fabulous, she jokes, she laughs, she praises and when annoyed, she punishes us. I can, for the most part, follow what is going on though from time to time I will ask- qu'est-ce que c'est... when I don't understand her instruction. I say my bonjours and bonsoirs to all when I enter and leave (pleasantries are habitually exchanged with neighbors, store clerks, etc) but Sunday was the first time I had a full on conversation with one of the girls. Pierre gets an honorable mention here because he, like me, started taking classes last month with no previous ballet experience. Pierre looks clean but does not smell it, he also needs to buy tighter shorts that extend to at least mid thigh, because although it doesn't stop him, when he lifts that leg up onto the Barre all of his business is exposed. Class went well, my feet are getting more accustomed to being pointed so I only got one foot cramp, I am consistently surprised by my flexibility and only slightly embarrassed at my lopsided pirouettes. I ended the day by going to see Picasso et la Danse at Theatre de Champs Elysees- a wonderfully comical dance piece with sets by Picasso which was followed by a flamenco troupe.

Monday: My daily commute home is an odiferous one and within a seven-minute time span I experience a range of smells that are sure to be branded in my memory forever. On Rue de Rivoli I pass a fromagerie pungent enough to make your eyes water and with a selection of cheese so vast that I am intimidated to walk in. A little down the way there is a chocolate shop with strong, sweet aromas, which waft out the door and beckon me to come on in and drop a load on some beautifully crafted goodies. Next is the boulangerie and I swear the scent of fresh baked bread follows you for half a block, dancing in your nose and awakening your taste buds. But once I hit Rue de Sully I catch a whiff of something not so pleasant, something that diminishes any hunger that the first leg of my journey procured: horses, or more accurately, horse manure.

Tuesday: It was freezing out and I was happy to have bought my down jacket. I spent a good part of the day researching a birthday trip (since the package to Turkey was now unavailable) and finally ended up booking a luxurious spa weekend in Porto, Portugal!

Thursday: Bombed on my midterm essay on Proust and Balzac (there is just no way that I am capable of writing two well structured essays on Swann’s Way and Old Goriot in one hour) then received a message that there weren’t any returning flights from Porto to Paris on my requested date. The sky was grey, the air was thick and I felt like I couldn’t bare the weight on my shoulders any longer. Disappointment got the better of me and the second I walked though my door I had myself a good, two hour long cry. I let myself wallow without seeking a solution because it is sometimes a necessary relief and I felt that it was one that I had earned.

Friday: I woke up feeling rejuvenated and ready to keep it moving and walked to work with smiling eyes and a fresh outlook. I cared much less about that stupid test and decided to book a day at the spa right here in Paris. Somebody moved my cheese but I still managed to find another way to the fromagerie… the unassuming path just around the corner with its brimming gardens and quite charm proved to be a more beautiful journey than expected.

Over the past four weeks my senses have become hypersenstive identifying smells, cataloguing words and observing the life and culture which surround me. I must admit at days end I am more often than not with a headache - acquired by spending hours deciphering/ responding to Gibberish and I am haunted by the feeling that my frustrations will not disseminate anytime in the near future. Last week a co-worker casually mentioned a restaurant where you are served by the blind and you eat in absolute darkness and since I have not yet found my bearings, I thought this would be the perfect way to mark my one month anniversary in Paris: Dans Le Noir.

Joel and I walked into the well lit lobby of the restaurant where the maître‘d confirmed our reservation and gave us a key to a locker. Electronic devices that could be lit were forbidden from the dining area and we were instructed to lock up any contra banned items along with our coats and our bags. I went down to the bathroom to thoroughly wash my hands before heading back up to join the cue. At the heavily draped entrance to the dining room we chose our menu, were introduced to our server (Benoit) who arranged us into a single line format (our right hand on the shoulder of the person in front of us) and off we went. Eyes wide open; heart a thumping and marching along in what I can only describe as baby steps we were led to our table.

The room: Pitch Black with no chance of your eyes adjusting to see; Noisy- people speaking French, English, German, and I think Chinese all at once and yet Still. I think the stillness that I felt within came from the anticipation of entering a state of the unknown, and as soon as I was seated I began to familiarize myself with the distance between my plate, cutlery, wine glass, and the center and edges of the table.

We ordered a bottle of wine and I was glad that I made Joel wash his hands as he was instructed to stick his finger in the glass to ensure that he wouldn’t over pour. After several failed attempts and plenty of stifled giggles our glasses finally found each other and we were able to toast to Paris and new experiences. We chose the surprise menu (what fun is it to eat in the dark if you know that it’s chicken fricassee?!?) and I plunged further into the abyss with each forkful (and later when I gave up on utensils and went Helen Keller) with each handful of food. Though there are some parallels between finding your way in a foreign city and eating dans le noir, this shroud of darkness forced me to dig deep down inside and either acclimate or shrivel.

It was during desert that I realized that up until that very moment, I had been walking the line between total immersion and convenient participation. IF my nosiness got the best of me I would hone in on a conversation between the petit bourgeois on my morning commute and if I concentrated enough I could actually exit the metro with an overall understanding of the woes of the whiny upper-crust teens. But if I wasn’t up to the task I could easily tune things out and go about my business in oblivion- enjoying it from the outside looking in.

Each choice is an easy one to make and each comes with consequences. While licking the last bit of strawberry syrup from my index finger and grinning from ear to ear, I made the conscious decision to go the crooked road; the one that is never ending, the one that will ensure that my neighbourhood pharmacist will know my name (qu’est-ce que c’est l’équivalent Française d’Aleve svp?), the one that I came to Paris to experience...

Week one in Paris and where do I start!?!

 

At the airport where a customs agent stopped me on account of my fancy luggage (inquiriing whether I had $10,000 worth of merchandise to claim to the French Government)... sausage and french fries at the student hostel (where I slept on a cot in a room with two students)... the little old man who got his finger caught in the metro door... giving precise directions to a taxi driver... the scary ride up the one-person elevator to the maids chambers of what would have been my living quarters... the animated conversation with my sister-in-law, where I explained how I gave up my dream of becoming a ballerina when a friend said my butt was too big and my legs were too short and thick... my first trip to the grocery store (where I received dozens of dirty looks for entering through the exit)... my first French meal (steak frites- of course)... NAH- I will begin with a short story about how I stumbled on a street party and danced until my feet were raw.

So, after an exhausting week of orientation for class and a day of much needed R&R, I decided to head out for a stroll on Sunday afternoon. No map, no plan- just the desire to see all that I could see.  There I was- taking in the sights, sounds and smells of this fantastic city and before I knew it I had walked through 5 arrondisements (Paris is small in the sense that you can virtually walk anywhere- if th weather is right and you are eqquiped with the right pair of shoes.)  I explored this street and that one with a smile on my face and a pep in my step.  I made my way down a street that had been cordoned off by police when I hit the jackpot. 

A Brazilian parade with live music, floats, drummers, where everyone was dressed in white and having a good time!!!   I semi-sambaed my way along the route snapping photos here and there and feeling pretty lucky.  The parade led up to L'Eglise Madeline where a ceremony was held in honor of Saint Madeline.  I hung out for a while not understanding one bit of what was said but not yet ready to go home.

After I had my fill I started heading back with the same silly grin and my head in the clouds. I peeked down each street I crossed hoping to come upon another little something. And there, down a narrow street called Rue Saint Denis something peaked my interest. So off I went, strutin my stuff and again feeling lucky. Then I began to notice the women around me.  They were all dressed up- panty hose, heels and mini skirts, standing in groups of two or three at each store front.  Now these women were not like the crack-head women from the HBO specials but I knew that something was amiss... turns out I was walking down hooker lane. I could not contain myself and I actually laughed out loud as I looked around. My initial reaction was to keep going however I was the only normal looking chic on the street and while I was out for an adventure this was a bit too much. Lola had her fill for the day so I high-tailed it out of there and didn't look back.

I love to pack, it is something I am good at. I have the rolling method down, I usually fit everything I need in a weekend carryall and am always happy to buy any overlooked necessities at my destination if need be. I have of course never packed for a four month trip, and so began to stress a little about what I should bring. Having consulted a few packing lists I have narrowed down the items I am willing to schlep with me (again I do not need an excuse to shop abroad) and am getting things in order day by day.

Despite being from NYC I am prone to cold hands and feet during the winter so there is a place for a hot water bottle in my valise and I am currently on the hunt for cashmere socks and gloves. I have an assortment of layering pieces which when combined correctly will keep me warm during fluxating temperatures. My ipod, power book pro, digital camera, Larousse, books and a few treasured photos will also accompany me, as will my comforter.

*Though I ignored it my sweet and charming french husband didn't even try to contain his smirk as I told him that I was going to take our bedding so that no matter what my accomodations ended up being, my head would rest on my own sheets.*

This said as soon as I actually started to pack I became overwhelmed. I sat down with a panic stricken face as Frenchie brought me his Samsonite and I listened to him go on about how he trekked through South America with a backpack, tent and no reservations. He then went on to explain how at age 27 he had to fit only his most cherished things in this very suitcase during his move to the States...Blah...Blah...Blah...

I open the suitcase and just as I am thinking about how wonderful it is to be so carefree I see IT and freeze. You see this laid back man of mine who has just waxed poetic about leaving it all behind for an adventure, then again to start a new life is not as detached as he thinks for a dirty, bacteria-infested, decrepit, old sponge made its way from Chicago to NY during his last move. The irony of it all led me to close the suitcase and leave my packing for another day...

WHO WOULD WILLINGLY TAKE ADVISE FROM A MAN WHO PACKS A USED SPONGE?!?

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