Travel changes one and most of the time in ways that make us better as we return to our everyday lives. It always changes me. This last trip to France and England were more of a series of events than one long holiday. It was not packed with sight-seeing and travel, but it did have elements of it. At first, I didn't know why I even left the comfort and security of my familiar life to fly half way around the world and sit, feeling lost and lonely in my friends apartment. I was in a dreadful state of mind. But, as the jet-lag waned and I adjusted to being disengaged with family and friends back home, I realized that this trip, this divertissement of the moment, was what I made of it, not what others or Paris, or London made for me. I was the one who needed to explore the depth of the question "Why am I here?" And little by little, it began to unfold.
Not that I had any great epiphanies. But I did come to some conclusions: that we are to be fulling in the moment of where we are, giving all of our senses to it and that each of these moments are in and of themselves important. There were times that I was bored and in those moments I was fully in my own head, and not engaging in the life around me. But, when I stepped out of myself and into the life of my friends who took the time to be with me, I realized that each moment was an event and each event was strung together with times of contemplation. In those times, when I stopped and evaluated the moments with friends over a good meal, or a cup of tea, or a board game or a glass of wine or a drive to see Mont St. Michele, I had to catch my breath and be thankful. I also had time to write, to put down these moments into the written word and in turn, recording them.
Now, as I sit in my apartment, after three weeks of being home, I am glad I took that trip. It was not my holiday, it was a trip to help me recover from a bad six months. And it did. In being somewhere else with others, in a place that was not my home, but where I was made to feel at home, I came to appreciate my home and I have renewed love for those I had the chance to visit. I have re-entered my own life, restored and refreshed. I have new trials to contend with, but I know what my true calling is: just to be in the moment, there for those who are around me, giving and sharing, comforting and loving. And then, to record the deeper meanings, the profound revelations, the quiet epiphanies in a way that brings some beauty and well-being to this fragmented world. The calling of this life is to be in the moment and in each moment, eternity dwells.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
When here and now cease to matter
I noticed, when I was in Paris yesterday, a young woman with a coat with the words: this is your life, this is your moment, so I tried very hard to be in that moment of time. I sat in a chair near the fountain in the Tuileries, with the sun on my face, I looked at the voluminous clouds that hovered over the tops of the buildings. But I only lighted there for a short time, and felt compelled to move on. Move on, move on...there must be more to see. So I walked, and walked. And as I walked, my feet began to hurt, the bag I was carrying was getting heavy and the weight of my finite self caused me to resent all this walking. What was I doing? Where was I going? Why was I even bothering? It is in times like these that the longing for comfort supersedes the desire for adventure. I felt old. I resented my bad knees and sore feet. I wanted to feel a burst of youthful energy, to be able to walk and explore.
I saw tourists with sensible shoes enjoying Paris, being amazed by its charms. It was then that I knew I had become ungrateful. I sneered at their awkward gawking, I reveled in the fact that I knew parts of the city they didn't. And then I caught myself...I had become a bit jaded, even spoilt by the fact that I have been here so many times. So, as I rode the metro back to Montreuil, I breathed a prayer of thanks for the time, the day, the sun, the people who where around me going about their lives. That evening, over some very good wine, my friend and I contemplated life and death. She had just received the news that a dear friend of hers was in the hospital. That was all she knew. She did not know if he was alive not, or his condition. She would not know until the following morning. She was grateful I was there.
Today is my birthday and I am sitting in the apartment being lazy, doing some writing, not going anywhere, not walking around Paris. That is it. But this is not a milestone birthday. I am just here, in France, writing. Yet, when I stop and contemplate that I have the opportunity to be here in France writing, I have to almost give myself a sound slap for not being thankful. I take it for granted that I have a friend who always welcomes me, who feeds me and spends what time she can engaging in deep conversations with me. I take for granted that I am so fortunate. This may not always be. She could move to a smaller place, or heaven forbid, die. Or I could become disabled or too poor to travel. So many things could change the situation. So, for now, on my 58th birthday, I sit quietly thinking about what opportunities I have had. I do this on the cusp of hearing that my friend has just lost someone dear to her. She phone from her job to tell me what she had found out. She had just seen him, talked with him, enjoyed his company. Now he is gone. I did not know him, but his death makes everything so much more poignant. Death always hovers over Life, and when you view the waning years, you cling a little more tenaciously to each moment. It is so easy to lose perspective or to get caught in the trivialities of each day. It is also equally easy to never be quite in the moment, to always be thinking ahead or behind yourself, "What shall I do about this or that, or what should I have said back then." I admit that I am not very good at slowing down the time and finding the eternal moment in each moment of the day. There is an eternal moment, although that sounds like an oxymoron as eternity is timeless, it is in our finite moments that eternity is laid out. What we do, how we respond, how much we show we care, these small moments create in us the peace that goes beyond time (and understanding).
When my friend returns home, she will be in a confusing place of grief and unbelief. I will be here to listen and care. It is my birthday, but it doesn't matter. There are reasons we are in certain places and times, opportunities to give to others, and gratitude when others give. It could be a chance encounter with someone you needed to see, or a quiet moment just being present in someones life. And one never knows when these eternal moments may happen. It is grace that brings us to these places.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Mirror Mirror..
For some reason, I look better in the mirror in the loo in Maryse's flat than I did in any of the mirrors in England. Why is this? The light in Paris is better? The mirror quality is superior? No, I think it is the reflected image of how each culture sees itself, and I am recipient of said imaging. Bare with me...or indulge me, either one.
In England, I look British. I am not trying assimilate, it just seems to happen every time I go there. My hair tends to take on a fluffy, fly-away Anglo style, my clothing hangs a little bit dowdier, and my fashions sense leans towards suitable dark colors. When I walk about the lanes of town and village, I blend. I don't look American, or USian, or Northwest/Seattle any more. The blue jeans give way to a nice black skirt and top, with dark tights and flats. Not to say the Brits do not wear jeans, they do. In fact blue jeans are the international garb of the masses, worn in almost every country of the world, mostly by men, but often by women. No, it is that I am at that age where you give it go, try to look somewhat pulled together, with a modicum of style. Only, the style is defiantly British. When I look in the mirror in the morning, the image that looks back is a history of my ancestry, warts and all. And my age shows, just as it does on most of women I pass in Briton who are the same age as me. Sensible, but still a bit of longing to be free of that sensibility, to indulge ourselves. That is seen by the wearing of more up-to-date fashions, but defiantly in the proper age range. The older you are, the more sensible your cloths became and I notice that there is a style among those in their elderly years. The skirts are longer and cut on the bias, so as to flare at about mid calf, the shoes are very practical and the handbags become utilitarian pocketbooks.
But how does this reflect the refection that I seen in the mirror when in the UK? It is the way the British see themselves: enduring, endeavoring, soldering on and making do. The glamor is left for the young, or the wealthy or those with no taste (Saturday evenings in York display an array of over the top fashions donned by women of a certain age who should know better...in a word, tacky). And it is true that the farther north you go, the more this idea of glamor seems to take on strange and unflattering aspects. In London, of course, the fashion can be very upmarket and stylish. But still, the overwhelming costume of women, both young and old on the streets of London is dark tights with shoes to match, a dark skirt and a suitable mackintosh or Burbury coat, topped of with a nice scarf. But I digress.
What it all boils down to is a country that has endured the ravages of war, social change, immigration and history coming to the 21st century questioning what it means to be British, but finding it in the very steadfast way they imagine themselves, a motto of "Keep calm and carry on." And when I am in that atmosphere, I seem to take on those attributes as I look in the mirror.
Paris, (and France) is a different kettle of bouillabaisse or poisson if you are a purist. When I look in the mirror here, I seem to take on a slightly more Gallic tint. There is no way on God's green earth that I will every pass for french, or at least Parisian. Too many Anglo features which include a wide behind and thighs that match. But what I do see is a younger me, a less ravaged me, a me with more composure. My make-up goes on smoothly, my hair lies in more stylish coiffure and the scarf I toss about my neck, at least in my reflection, lands in a pleasant french twist. When I go out onto those grand boulevards of Paris, I play "spot the American" and am almost always correct. American women try so hard to be stylish in Paris. They wear the scarfs about their necks, with the bright colored cardigans. But as you journey from neck to feet, you see the dead give away: the shoes are almost always either walking shoes, track shoes or some kind of hefty boot. Americans are practical, and as stylish as they may try to appear, they will never look french because of this. The clothes are always crisp, clean, and smart. I don't look American because I always bring the wrong shoes. My feet may look french, but they also hurt after a while. Yet, I have found, in Paris, the best way to blend is to not try to. So I put on my clothes, toss my scarf, slip on my flats and head out. And most of the time, I am taken for french, not because I look french as much as I don't look like anything else. And the reflection of myself in this culture is what the french are good at. Looking like they don't care what they look like, only looking extremely good at the same time. It is the way they carry themselves. The French are proud race; with much to be proud of. The way of life as it was in the past (globalization is changing this, unfortunately) and much envied by us work-aholic americans: thirty hour work weeks, two hour lunches, an entire month off in August, the best wine, food and cheese in the world, the most beautiful capital in the world, the core of the fashion world and so on. To this end, there is no reason to take extra time, effort or mindfulness to look good. You just do because you are french. You put on your jeans over your skinny behind, toss on a baggy, but fashionable sweater, wrap a scarf about your neck and grab your over sized handbag and presto, you are incroyable! But, I don't manage this level of incredible. I mange passable and that is fine with me.
I don't think there are any other countries in which I could manage to reflect the culture with some modicum of success as I do in the U.K. and France. This may be because I have spent so much time in both places, or because I have friends in both places. I don't know for sure. What I do know is that I relate very strongly with the British, but admire the savior faire of the french and so am able to capture a bit of the culture, the essence of what I see reflected in the mirror. But, the mirror could be reflecting what I want to see, as I do find by the end of the day, I am hopelessly American.
In England, I look British. I am not trying assimilate, it just seems to happen every time I go there. My hair tends to take on a fluffy, fly-away Anglo style, my clothing hangs a little bit dowdier, and my fashions sense leans towards suitable dark colors. When I walk about the lanes of town and village, I blend. I don't look American, or USian, or Northwest/Seattle any more. The blue jeans give way to a nice black skirt and top, with dark tights and flats. Not to say the Brits do not wear jeans, they do. In fact blue jeans are the international garb of the masses, worn in almost every country of the world, mostly by men, but often by women. No, it is that I am at that age where you give it go, try to look somewhat pulled together, with a modicum of style. Only, the style is defiantly British. When I look in the mirror in the morning, the image that looks back is a history of my ancestry, warts and all. And my age shows, just as it does on most of women I pass in Briton who are the same age as me. Sensible, but still a bit of longing to be free of that sensibility, to indulge ourselves. That is seen by the wearing of more up-to-date fashions, but defiantly in the proper age range. The older you are, the more sensible your cloths became and I notice that there is a style among those in their elderly years. The skirts are longer and cut on the bias, so as to flare at about mid calf, the shoes are very practical and the handbags become utilitarian pocketbooks.
But how does this reflect the refection that I seen in the mirror when in the UK? It is the way the British see themselves: enduring, endeavoring, soldering on and making do. The glamor is left for the young, or the wealthy or those with no taste (Saturday evenings in York display an array of over the top fashions donned by women of a certain age who should know better...in a word, tacky). And it is true that the farther north you go, the more this idea of glamor seems to take on strange and unflattering aspects. In London, of course, the fashion can be very upmarket and stylish. But still, the overwhelming costume of women, both young and old on the streets of London is dark tights with shoes to match, a dark skirt and a suitable mackintosh or Burbury coat, topped of with a nice scarf. But I digress.
What it all boils down to is a country that has endured the ravages of war, social change, immigration and history coming to the 21st century questioning what it means to be British, but finding it in the very steadfast way they imagine themselves, a motto of "Keep calm and carry on." And when I am in that atmosphere, I seem to take on those attributes as I look in the mirror.
Paris, (and France) is a different kettle of bouillabaisse or poisson if you are a purist. When I look in the mirror here, I seem to take on a slightly more Gallic tint. There is no way on God's green earth that I will every pass for french, or at least Parisian. Too many Anglo features which include a wide behind and thighs that match. But what I do see is a younger me, a less ravaged me, a me with more composure. My make-up goes on smoothly, my hair lies in more stylish coiffure and the scarf I toss about my neck, at least in my reflection, lands in a pleasant french twist. When I go out onto those grand boulevards of Paris, I play "spot the American" and am almost always correct. American women try so hard to be stylish in Paris. They wear the scarfs about their necks, with the bright colored cardigans. But as you journey from neck to feet, you see the dead give away: the shoes are almost always either walking shoes, track shoes or some kind of hefty boot. Americans are practical, and as stylish as they may try to appear, they will never look french because of this. The clothes are always crisp, clean, and smart. I don't look American because I always bring the wrong shoes. My feet may look french, but they also hurt after a while. Yet, I have found, in Paris, the best way to blend is to not try to. So I put on my clothes, toss my scarf, slip on my flats and head out. And most of the time, I am taken for french, not because I look french as much as I don't look like anything else. And the reflection of myself in this culture is what the french are good at. Looking like they don't care what they look like, only looking extremely good at the same time. It is the way they carry themselves. The French are proud race; with much to be proud of. The way of life as it was in the past (globalization is changing this, unfortunately) and much envied by us work-aholic americans: thirty hour work weeks, two hour lunches, an entire month off in August, the best wine, food and cheese in the world, the most beautiful capital in the world, the core of the fashion world and so on. To this end, there is no reason to take extra time, effort or mindfulness to look good. You just do because you are french. You put on your jeans over your skinny behind, toss on a baggy, but fashionable sweater, wrap a scarf about your neck and grab your over sized handbag and presto, you are incroyable! But, I don't manage this level of incredible. I mange passable and that is fine with me.
I don't think there are any other countries in which I could manage to reflect the culture with some modicum of success as I do in the U.K. and France. This may be because I have spent so much time in both places, or because I have friends in both places. I don't know for sure. What I do know is that I relate very strongly with the British, but admire the savior faire of the french and so am able to capture a bit of the culture, the essence of what I see reflected in the mirror. But, the mirror could be reflecting what I want to see, as I do find by the end of the day, I am hopelessly American.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
A Retrospect of how I got here...Paris 1975-2012
I had befriended the exchange student at my high school, or she had latched on to me. She was from Paris, she was plopped down in the smallest of towns, full of bored teens who spent most of their time under the big tree smoking pot, Or they were running around planning homecomings while keeping their GPA's high and never being asked to any of the dances they worked so hard on. Or, they were wistfully caressing their expanding bellies and going on romantically about the love child they were carrying. Into all of this came a girl from Paris, who had had an Italian lover, who knew what red wine was meant for (not for getting waisted on Saturday nights under the bleachers). She had already graduated in France, at the young age of 16, and her diploma was worth at least two years of a four year college to ours. We were too busy trying to get out of doing any school work (let it be said that one of the hit songs the year I graduated was Alice Cooper's Schools Out).
It was a tradition that the exchange student was to hang out with all the other acceptable students in the school, this being the girls that planned all the events, ran for student offices, had perfect grades and were members of the ASB clubs. Maryse did not fit. She was a leftist, free thinking, french intellectual. She smoked, knew at least two other languages, and was...well...French! She had had sex. I was one of those fringe people. The artist/poet daydreamer who stared off out the window and longed for someone to talk to. Try as I did to have a decent intelligent conversation with any of my classmates always ended in futility; they were either too stoned or too narrow minded. I hated school. I was not a pot smoker, nor did I sleep around, but somehow developed a reputation for doing both, and selling drugs as well. This came about because I used to skip classes and hang out in the bathroom just to get away from the mediocrity of life in a school full of people I had known since kindergarden. I could not imagine marrying one of them, it would be akin to incest. The principal caught me, and because I was reported so often hanging out in the girls lavatory, I must be doing something bad. Some girl (I have forgotten her name or face for that matter) who did do all those things I was accused of told the principal she saw me dealing. I was most likely writing poetry on the bathroom stall. From that point on all I wanted was to get out, to find some other world that existed outside of this small town.
Maryse was the savior I so needed. She decided to be my friend, out of nowhere, one day in class. She wanted to hang out with me. She said it was because she liked the way I dressed, but I found out it was because I was not connected to any of the people that she was supposed to be friends with. And I had a car.
It was the summer of finding the world, for through her I met other students from Spain, England, India, Switzerland, Columbia, and Costa Rica. And they were interesting and knowledgable and worldly. They were light years ahead of anyone I knew back home.
But, then, they all left...they went back home to their prospective countries. I felt my heart explode and the fear that this was all there was, that life had begin and ended too fast. I cried and sulked and was so depressed that my father could not stand it another second and sent me off to Paris to see Maryse.
That is how, in the fall of 1973 I ended up in Paris. I had never traveled anywhere, this was my maiden voyage. It was the end of the DeGaul years, when the French were still extremely jingoistic, demanding you speak french and refusing to try a syllable of english. It was the years of the Algerian influx, and there were lonely, aggressive Algerian men who preyed on naive little Americans like me. I was constantly being accosted, nuzzled, grabbed at and pinched. All of these factors created my first experience with culture shock, and left me exhausted from all the ruddiness and unwanted attention. But, as a virgin traveler in the world, Paris was my first. Just like your first lover, you never forget. The voyage that deflowered me, and left me longing for more. I loved, I hated Paris.
After over 8 trips to the city of light, I find myself missing Paris when I am not there. The last visit was in July, and it rained. I was overwhelmed by the cold, by the fact that I was supposed to be at a conference but didn't feel like attending and that I had brought the wrong shoes for the downpour would burst forth over the city every time I ventured out. But, the highlight of every trip has been visiting my friend. We are old friends with histories, husbands, lovers and children behind us. I am so very glad that she is in my life.
And once again, nearly 40 years to the day, I will be in Paris in the fall, during my 58th birthday. Paris, not the city of romance, monuments, and expensive meals, but the city that took my virginity, and sent me home a worldly girl. It is not a place, but a concept, an idea of writers, poets, bohemia, expats and nostalgia. It can be wet, cold, grey, busy, impersonal, chaotic, smelly, tiring and old. And it can be warm, with a glass of champagne, some really lovely goat cheese and a friend to laugh with. Smelly Fish
It has been a week, and I worry that the fish may stink a little. The old saying, "guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days" probably is the rule of thumb I should adhere to when visiting my friend here in Paris. But again, it may not be the length of my visit as it is that we are two middle aged hens bumping about the same roost. She lives alone, so, she is used to being alone. Then I come along and even though I am trying my best to stay out of the way, be sensitive to her space and privacy, understand her long work hours and try to memorize where everything goes after I have moved it, so that I put it back in the correct spot, I still manage to flub up. She, in turn, is trying to give me space, understand my desire to visit with her, make light of the fact that things are in the wrong place, and make room for me. I know she is trying her best and she knows I am trying my best, but...as we are two middle-aged ladies with definite ideas about things, it is a rather carefully orchestrated dance.
What I want, but would never say, is for her to say "You are all the way here to see me, so let's spend the day together. We can go around and have lunch somewhere....I am so happy to see you." I know she thinks this, and then her body, which is working 12 hour days 5 days a week, is over whelmed with fatigue. I understand this. I do, really! But the selfish part of me wants to feel welcomed and loved. But I am not being fair.
She is trying very hard to make me feel welcome, but she also treats me as an old, old friend. One that is welcome anytime, but that she does not have to impress. She knows I will accept her "warts and all." In turn, she does give me time, when she can. She worries that I will feel bad that she is too tired to talk (my goodness...she is the one speaking in English to accommodate me, that has to be tiring after a while), but we have come to an understanding, and I am not offended when she says she needs silence and solitude.
My problem is that there is not one else to talk to. So thoughts roll around in my head, and I am ready to talk, talk, talk...
So, I must re-channel all this into writing. There is plenty to work with, now that the fog of jet lag has cleared a bit. This will be beneficial for me, and a relief for her. And in doing this, she will feel more relaxed and ready to spend what time she does have with me. I know we are old friends. And the fish is very well preserved (briny even) so that it may smell like fish, but it will not stink.
What I want, but would never say, is for her to say "You are all the way here to see me, so let's spend the day together. We can go around and have lunch somewhere....I am so happy to see you." I know she thinks this, and then her body, which is working 12 hour days 5 days a week, is over whelmed with fatigue. I understand this. I do, really! But the selfish part of me wants to feel welcomed and loved. But I am not being fair.
She is trying very hard to make me feel welcome, but she also treats me as an old, old friend. One that is welcome anytime, but that she does not have to impress. She knows I will accept her "warts and all." In turn, she does give me time, when she can. She worries that I will feel bad that she is too tired to talk (my goodness...she is the one speaking in English to accommodate me, that has to be tiring after a while), but we have come to an understanding, and I am not offended when she says she needs silence and solitude.
My problem is that there is not one else to talk to. So thoughts roll around in my head, and I am ready to talk, talk, talk...
So, I must re-channel all this into writing. There is plenty to work with, now that the fog of jet lag has cleared a bit. This will be beneficial for me, and a relief for her. And in doing this, she will feel more relaxed and ready to spend what time she does have with me. I know we are old friends. And the fish is very well preserved (briny even) so that it may smell like fish, but it will not stink.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Paris, when it fizzles...
Day, what...five? It is a blur. One day sort of flows into the other in a fog of time-change and jet-lag. By now, you would think it would have worn off. But, no, it hangs on in a grey haze.
And today, it is raining. Drizzly, grayish, overcast rain, and wind to punctuate the matter. It does not accommodate the little grey cells and thus, there is no great and profound writing taking place. What has taken place is a couple of jaunts into Paris, where I ended up overheated and hobbling. No matter what the time of year, I cannot get the hang of dressing for this city. And why do I have so much trouble when the climate is really very similar to Seattle; sun breaks, wind, rain, mild temps...but, alas, I start out bedecked in my jacket, a stylish scarf tossed around my neck, dark jeans and a rather sound pair of shoes. I head out the door, decent into the metro and by the time I emerge and am treading the streets of Paris, I am breaking a sweat. Not just a light sweat, but a sticky-I am in Florida-kind of sweat. My forehead is glistening, my shirt is sticking to my back and my feet a sqwinching in my shoes. How un-french of me!
So, as the wind blows my hair all over my head and into my face, and my feet go on sqwinching, I try and take on that way of walking that Parisian women do. They walk boobs first, and by this I mean they hold their shoulders back and keep their bosom level with the horizon, while walking rather soundly on their heels. I try this, I thrust back my shoulders, but after about half a block, I am back slouched forward, shoulders rounded, bosom level with my navel, shuffling rather than clicking on my heels. I am like a marionette with slack rigging. And, of course, I know they are all staring at me and sniggering "Elle est tres americane!!"
What I need, I have decided, is a third leg. I have noticed that the elderly of the french female race, (and I mean very elderly) walk about smartly dressed in support hose, sensible shoes, a rain coat or well tailored fall coat and a cane. Yes, a cane! That is what I need. If I had a cane, I could prop myself up, as they do. The little dears do not hunch over with a cane, oh no, they have canes that are over half their hight, so that the canes actually make them stand erect as apposed to stooped. I need this. Maybe two canes. Maybe a cane stuck in my jeans to keep me upright.
So, here I am, in Paris, a woman of a certain age, neither young, nor old, but sort of plopped into this city with no reason d'être. I wish I could just let loose a little. I would if my feet would stop sqwinching!
And today, it is raining. Drizzly, grayish, overcast rain, and wind to punctuate the matter. It does not accommodate the little grey cells and thus, there is no great and profound writing taking place. What has taken place is a couple of jaunts into Paris, where I ended up overheated and hobbling. No matter what the time of year, I cannot get the hang of dressing for this city. And why do I have so much trouble when the climate is really very similar to Seattle; sun breaks, wind, rain, mild temps...but, alas, I start out bedecked in my jacket, a stylish scarf tossed around my neck, dark jeans and a rather sound pair of shoes. I head out the door, decent into the metro and by the time I emerge and am treading the streets of Paris, I am breaking a sweat. Not just a light sweat, but a sticky-I am in Florida-kind of sweat. My forehead is glistening, my shirt is sticking to my back and my feet a sqwinching in my shoes. How un-french of me!
So, as the wind blows my hair all over my head and into my face, and my feet go on sqwinching, I try and take on that way of walking that Parisian women do. They walk boobs first, and by this I mean they hold their shoulders back and keep their bosom level with the horizon, while walking rather soundly on their heels. I try this, I thrust back my shoulders, but after about half a block, I am back slouched forward, shoulders rounded, bosom level with my navel, shuffling rather than clicking on my heels. I am like a marionette with slack rigging. And, of course, I know they are all staring at me and sniggering "Elle est tres americane!!"
What I need, I have decided, is a third leg. I have noticed that the elderly of the french female race, (and I mean very elderly) walk about smartly dressed in support hose, sensible shoes, a rain coat or well tailored fall coat and a cane. Yes, a cane! That is what I need. If I had a cane, I could prop myself up, as they do. The little dears do not hunch over with a cane, oh no, they have canes that are over half their hight, so that the canes actually make them stand erect as apposed to stooped. I need this. Maybe two canes. Maybe a cane stuck in my jeans to keep me upright.
So, here I am, in Paris, a woman of a certain age, neither young, nor old, but sort of plopped into this city with no reason d'être. I wish I could just let loose a little. I would if my feet would stop sqwinching!
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Poof, I am here...in Paris
Poof. I am in Paris...I have been in France for three days now. Here. In France. But for the past two days ( I won't count the arrival day as it was a blur of airports, cramped seats, bad food, and the unreal feeling of suspended time) I have been in a fog. Usually I don't suffer so badly from jet lag, but this trip I have had a devil of a time trying to get my brain to function. Because of this, I have only ventured out once, to go to MonoPrix to buy food. I tried my best to "blend" and be as aloof as possible. This way, no one would speak to me and I, in turn, would not have to try and muster up my sleeping knowledge of the french language. But, regardless, I did enjoy walking about Montreuil, pretending to be french, shopping for toilet paper, pate' and goat cheese. I don't look french, clad in a bright chartreuse cardigan, with my very blond hair and my wide behind. No one would guess I was an American (such an inappropriate word to explain my citizenship, from Canada to the tip of Argentina, we are all americans...but what am I? USian?). Why would a tourist come to Montreuil to shop in MonoPrix? This town, on the outer east edge of Paris proper, is not a particularly pretty place. It is a jumble of modern buildings, dating from the seventies, the populance a mixture of white french"bobos" and Africans from the French colonies, and others and there is nothing of particular historical interest here. But, it is a slice of "real" Paris. This is where people live, work, shop, go to school and go back to their houses and apartments that are very french, but not all that unusual. I am at the end of Metro line 9, where, if I were to take it from here to its other end at Pont Sevres, I would cut from east to west across Paris, passing Republique near Bastille and the canals, brushing the Opera and winding north over the Seine to glaze Trocadero near the Tour Effiel before coming to Porte de St. Cloud. This is very ironic, or coincidental as when I came to Paris in 1973, the first place I stayed was in Boulongne, Billancourt, at the west end of metro 9, with my friend, Maryse and her family. And here I am, nearly 40 years later, staying with Maryse, in her flat at the east end of metro 9. In 1975, when Maryse had a flat in the center of Paris, she lived in the Place de Republic, also on the 9 route. Number 9, number 9, number 9....
But I digress. Today is a beautiful autumn day. Paris awaits. My head is much clearer than it was yesterday, my sleepy french is yawning and stretching, my writing muscles are moving and I may just produce something. Paris awaits...poof...I am here.
But I digress. Today is a beautiful autumn day. Paris awaits. My head is much clearer than it was yesterday, my sleepy french is yawning and stretching, my writing muscles are moving and I may just produce something. Paris awaits...poof...I am here.
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