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.