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.