Finger Food for Thought
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...
