Paris Is My Village

A Small Death

2008-08-24T02:33:00.004+02:00

Moving is like a small death. You know it's coming sooner or later. Then, when you know the actual moving date, you start planning, but not really, because you know it's all still far away.

Suddenly, as you find yourself walking with your family in the Tuileries, the lovely gardens next to the Louvre, it hits you. This is the last time in a possibly long time, or perhaps ever, that you will be walking here at sunset.

And so, you breathe in the warm summer air deeply into your lungs and feel the dusty limestone staining your feet, as you walk up to the ledge that leaves you breathless with the Eiffel Tower, the obelisk in Place de la Concorde and the Arc de Triomphe.

Today I learned...

2008-06-17T01:54:00.001+02:00

that a good way to clean a potato is with the scrubby-green part of a sponge.

Today I learned...

2008-06-14T01:55:00.001+02:00

(thanks to the fact that I ran out of butter and needed to "wet" the dough)
...that a little bit of plain yogurt makes a cake more moist.

Artiste

2008-05-24T01:35:00.006+02:00

It hasn't always been easy living in Paris these last three years. I've had to learn to negotiate my fear of asking for help at the BHV (department store), learn to shrug it off when someone yelled at me when they bumped into me, be insistent in asking a waiter for service, and calm my nerves when I panicked with the quagmire of bureaucracy surrounding working as a free-agent.

I should have known that when something so scared the yoga pants of me that something else was cooking. It took a while, but I finally realized what was going on.

Falling in love with the esthetics of this city, feeling the flow of the Seine in calm and storm, walking the streets until I flowed through them like the blood in my veins, has led me to my true calling.

As of May 16, 2008, the French government has declared me an "Artiste". I am now officially a member of La Maison des Artistes, which gives me tax breaks for being in the arts.

It is much easier being an artist in France than, say, a yoga teacher.

As I write this with the deepest gratitude for this city, for its challenges and its beauty, I thank Paris for showing me my true nature.

Merci Paris. You gave me the courage to walk this path that I have been tiptoeing down for many years.

Now I walk, with a sure foot, and of course, as always, camera in hand, to my first photo exhibit.

Painted Sky

2008-05-15T10:42:00.005+02:00

Walking home from the playground with my toddler, I had to stop on the island in the middle of the street to take this picture. The only clouds in the sky just happened to be so perfectly aligned with the angle of the rooftops.

That's Paris for you, even the clouds look like they've been put there by an artist.

Time Flies...

2008-04-23T09:18:00.002+02:00

FRENCH VERSION:

Monsieur/madame,

You shouldn't be reading these blogs so frequently and then getting on my case about not writing. And you should also know that those geniuses at Blogger did something so that I couldn't get into my blogs for at least a month. What service they provide for an account that is free, pffffffffffffff.

Anyway, I have to go eat some cheese now and maybe a coffee eclair to calm my nerves.

I send you my deepest regrets, and sincere cordial wishes for a lovely day,

Dya

AMERICAN VERSION:

Dear Readers,

I apologize for not posting for many months. I'm getting flack about it, and rightly so! Thank you for keeping on me to write. I've been remiss, and I also haven't been able to get into my Blogger accounts. It seems to be working now, but it did take me a while to log in again today, so please bear with me. Hopefully, we'll work the technical challenges out.

Blessings,

Dya

It's a New Year!

2008-01-01T00:08:00.000+01:00

As I wrote on my Mama Dya's World blog, I'm really glad the year 2007 is almost over. I've had major postpartum depression due to chronic lack of sleep for the past six months and living in Paris hasn't helped matters.

On this blog, I've written mostly about the side of Paris that I love. I've perhaps been remiss in sharing a fuller picture of what it is like for me to live here. This will change.

I love this city, there are no and, buts, or anything else about that. It's not the city I have a hard time with, it's a lot of the people who live in it. Not all of them, and certainly there are many lovely people around me, especially in our building and the shops around us.

But boy, some days are tough. For example, I'm not used to having to apologize when someone else runs into me. My husband is from Normandy, and he doesn't necessarily have an easier time living here than I do.

But Paris is where I live, for now. It's my village and this is what I will write about. Paris: the good, the bad and the Parisians.

Bonne Annee and here's to blogging more frequently in this new year of 2008!

From Our Window

2007-10-29T17:58:00.000+01:00

Oh, how I do love looking out our window. Tonight, as I was closing our shudders, I noticed a man hovering in the street. He kept on covertly leaning to the left peeking into the alley. It was such odd behavior, I was fascinated. Then I noticed a big, yellow golden retriever squatting above the cobblestones.

I laughed out loud. It was so obvious that the man was letting his dog do his big business alone so that he wouldn't have to pick up after him.

When the dog was done, he pranced over to his master, and they both got into a snazzy, silver Audi TT.

If I were in a more wicked mood, I could have jotted down the license plate number...but the thought alone that this man was trying to hide in plain view was enough of a treat for this peeping tom.

Techno Pride

2007-09-16T22:46:00.001+02:00

Living between Place de la Republique and Bastille, we get our (un)fair share of demonstrations. Over the years we've witnessed thousands of marchers stomping their feet and shouting at the top of their lungs for many worthy (at least in their opinion) causes.

This year, though, we've been spoiled. For some reason, it has been very quiet, that is, until yesterday. The parade that marched down our boulevard made up for the long silence.

I was warned by the owner of the organic store that the demonstration that was going to stomp down our boulevard would get very loud and that 40,000 earplugs were handed out. My friend at the crepe stand told me it was the gay pride parade.

So, though I knew what was coming, I was surprised that the walls were quaking and the earth was shaking, and when we stepped out on the street, we were blasted with techno music.

I couldn't understand who decided that gayness had to be deeply enmeshed with techno-ness. Though if that's what it takes to help people be open minded towards the subject, I guess then it is a positive marketing tool, albeit it to future-very-deaf people.

But then I looked at the very young crowd (median age being about 15) that cluttered the street, as well as the recycling containers and bus stops, and I thought to myself that this is the weirdest gay pride parade that I've ever seen.

And then today, I was told by my well-informed hubby that it wasn't the gay pride parade but the techno parade. Aha. My friend misinformed me and it colored my perception of the events.

But never mind, the award for most daring dancer goes to this kid. He rocked his world freely, wildly and managed to keep his feet firmly planted on the recycle bin, without nary a helping hand from his friend who watched his back.

Now if I could be so brave and shake my booty like that 10 feet off the ground.

Break from Blog Redesign

2007-09-16T22:41:00.000+02:00

I'm reverting back to the colors set by the Blogger template to give us all a break before I try another color.

Most of you who commented (either on the blog or in private) liked the medium-gray background, as did I, but I couldn't get the letters to be the red that I wanted them to be, and though I liked the pink with the gray, it clashed with the photos.

So breathe deeply, enjoy the blankness of the white, before I change to something new when the mood strikes.

Where am I?

2007-09-15T10:54:00.000+02:00

Terminal A at Charles-de-Gaulle airport does not usually inspire my shutterbug finger, but upon a recent trip I discovered...(two beats for dramatic pause)...the parking lot.

I was so taken by these gorgeous "A"s it took me a moment to realize they are an overtly subliminal message to help parking lot attendees remember where they have parked their cars.

Blog Redesign

2007-09-01T14:32:00.001+02:00

I'm finding that often museum walls are some shade of gray or red, and so in honor of the French esthetics, I'm going to be giving those colors a try on this blog. And so for the month of September (or unless I'm impatient to change sooner), I'll start with a medium shade of gray.

Please let me know what you think.

Chock-Full of Color

2007-08-31T01:44:00.000+02:00

It's not always easy living in Paris with the gray skies and the grumpy Parisians.

But how can I be depressed for too long when I walk along one of my favorite streets, Rue Vieille du Temple, in the Marais and I stumble across a bakery (Boulangerie Malineau) with the most color cookies I've ever seen?

Where am I?

2007-08-28T01:13:00.000+02:00

Though I speak to my French husband in French, a lot of my life is in English.

I read mostly in English, I speak to my son in English, I have many English-speaking friends, I write in English.

At times I am so submerged in English-dom, as I am now sitting at my computer, that I forget where I am. Then I hear the chatter of voices outside our apartment. I pause from what I am doing and think to myself, "Oh, listen, they are speaking French, how odd!"

Then I remember where I am, and I start to laugh. I'm the one who's actually "odd", and then I revel in the fact that I am living in Paris.

What were They Thinking?

2007-08-27T23:02:00.000+02:00

Just last week, the Hubby, the Baby and I sat in a sweet little park next to Notre Dame. We were deeply involved in watching a woman covered in pigeons as she fed them, only to be interrupted by an English wedding party.

I forgot about the Pigeon Lady when I saw the bride and groom stand under one of the rose arches for pictures.

I turned to my Hubby and said, "Why are they taking the photos from that angle?" You see, Notre Dame was behind the people taking the pictures, not behind the bride and groom.

This bugged me and I inched closer and closer to the well-dressed folks.

The Hubby followed me and very gently said, "You don't have to save everyone."

Pffff. He's right. So I did the only logical thing...I took the picture myself.

Setting Sun

2007-08-25T01:01:00.000+02:00

I walk the same Paris city streets regularly. As I do so, I try to let the unexpected catch my attention, as well as enjoy the familiar that still fills my heart with joy.

But I do wonder. Will I stop seeing the beauty around me, in the way that we stop looking at the paintings or posters that hang in our homes? Will I begin to take this beautiful city for granted?

Thankfully it doesn't take much to snap me out of my musings. Just a turn or lifting of the head at just the right moment, and there it is, that connection with the here and now in all its perfection.

Walking home from a stroll along the Seine recently, skirting the Hotel de Ville from the back, I noticed the setting sun catching the yellow of the Metro "M", making it seem partially lit up.

Above Paris

2007-08-20T16:58:00.001+02:00

Though I hate to admit it, I'm a couch potato. Living in Los Angeles for 12 years, where you drive everywhere, didn't help matters. Paris, on the other hand, has accomplished something that no other city has been able to do; I have actually become a walker.

Even so, when the weather is gray, as it has been most of the summer, my spuds-nature rears its head and I just want to lounge around the house in my sweats. Thus when my friend Merja asked me to join her on an adventure that I had wanted to go on for a while, I came up with a million excuses not to climb Notre Dame and see Paris from its bell towers.

Thankfully, I didn't whine to her and ended up having the time of my life, ranking the experience up there with climbing Uluru in Australia.

These photos were taken on the first level below the two towers.

(Famous Gargolye)

(Sacre Coeur is on the hill)

(Prefecture de Police and the Palais de Justice, Hitler ordered both to be bombed, as well as Notre Dame)

(The Eiffel Tower and La Defense Financial District)

(The steeple is the Sainte Chapelle)

These were taken from the top of the left tower (right tower if you are looking at the Cathedral).

(View of Ile Saint Louis and the gardens behind Notre Dame)

It was wonderful to see Paris from a whole new perspective.

Paris Nudges Me Awake

2007-08-09T13:40:00.000+02:00

After a long night interrupted countless times by my restless mind, as well as my baby's cries, I fell asleep for our morning nap with his soft foot on my nose.

I awoke too soon to clomping in the street and a baby lying in my arms. I tried settling back into sleep but I couldn't help wonder if I had heard a horse trotting down the small street below our window.

I had visions of a lost Cavalerie de la Garde Républicaine soldier, in his elegant black jacket and shiny gold helmet topped by a bright red crest with a horse tail jutting out of it, riding his horse, which left a huge pile of dung for pedestrians and cars to negotiate.

But a woman's laughter pierced the fantasy, I turned my head, looked at my baby's soft, sleeping face, his mouth slightly ajar revealing hints of his very white upper teeth, two of seven, and his breath soft and rhythmic, as his fingers twitched gently.

Magic

2007-08-05T21:45:00.000+02:00

Strolling along in front of Notre Dame with friends who were visiting Paris last night, we enjoyed the warm evening, the classical guitarist and then, when the odor of gasoline assaulted our senses, we walked over to the fire twirlers with great anticipation.

We were hoping they were the same ones we had seen recently. When I saw that they were, I knew something special was about to happen. But even so, when it did, I stood in awe, wonder and bliss.

When I walked away, I was changed by the power of this magical moment and I was truly, deeply content.

Gray to Sunny

2007-08-03T12:02:00.000+02:00

Have you ever been unhappy in a situation or place? Then things look up and you don't know what to do with yourself?

It has been a gray, gray, gray summer and I've been down, down, down. I love Paris, the architecture of the city, the river Seine, the gorgeous esthetics that surround me in the simplest of places and spaces, but when the sky is as gray as the Parisians themselves, especially in the summer when I expect sunshine, it's even a little too much for generally-upbeat me.

I've been seriously contemplating moving to a sunnier place and then last Monday, I woke up, sure it was going to be another gray day. I folded back the shutters and found, to my shock, a crisp, blue sky.

It was so unexpected and so troubling, I immediately took a picture of it. I was elated and hesitant. I woke up sure that I was going to complain about the grayness again, and then didn't know what to do with myself when I saw that the situation had changed and there was no need to complain. I had gotten used to complaining and now had to change my way of being.

But then I thought to myself, Could it be real? Could it last? How long would it last?

It took walking to the park with my son and sitting on a bench for an hour for me to ease out of the discomfort of the beautiful sky into the bliss of the glorious day.

The Sounds of Paris

2007-07-21T12:50:00.000+02:00

While nursing my baby at home with the windows open to let in a breeze and the drawn curtains casting a lavender hue on the white ceiling, I heard the sing-song of a saxophone and a dog barking intermittently.

Publicity

2007-07-16T09:35:00.001+02:00

There are people who are offended by the advertising billboards in the metros. I -- generally -- don't mind them. They keep me occupied while I wait for the trains, and sometimes they even make my heart pitter-patter.

This happens time and time again when I see ads for exhibits at the Louvre and other museums. Since I don't read the Pariscope to find out when exhibits happen, I find out by the advertising in the subway. This is how I found out about the Jules Bastien-Lepage exhibit at the Musee d'Orsay. Bastien-Lepage painted one of my all-time favorite paintings, Joan of Arc, which hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

And better yet, when I take a picture of them, I'm thrilled by the esthetics not only of the ad, but the tiles around the ad, and then the people that happen to walk into the frame (both photographic and billboard).

What Year is It Anyway?

2007-06-06T01:51:00.001+02:00

It is said that if you want to get anything out of life, you have to go after it. But sometimes, life truly comes to you in wonderful and unexpected ways: you just have to turn your head a little bit.

Recently, I heard the tinkling of music coming down our street. I knew what it was and rushed to the window, only to be greeted with a smile even before I tossed down a coin.

That's one of the things I love the most about Paris. It gives you inklings of what it was like to live in another time.

That is one of its greatest charms: though it is a modern city, some things haven't changed. It is a place where there is still room for the small-town bakers and butchers, the cafes that don't rush you even if you order just the tiniest cup of coffee, and the rare organ grinders.

Out the Window

2007-05-07T13:24:00.000+02:00

For several weeks, I've heard occasional meowing in the street. At first I thought it came from the cat who lives across from us, up one story and one building over. But I was wrong. The sound came from below our window, not above it.

So when I heard the plaintiff wail again today, I bolted to the window and saw a man bending over and squishing a cat between his knees.

At first I thought it was the Village Idiot, but when the man released the animal, who was wearing a leash, I realized that I was witness to a cute, young man out walking his cat.

I guess the man took a 'squish-the-cat break' right below our apartment, and then they both took a 'rest-our-butts break' on our car.

With it's leopard spots, it's perfectly placed paws, its perky ears, its green eyes, and it's curiously wide-eyed expression, this must be one of the most beautiful cats I've ever seen.

Who needs television, when you've got life right outside your window?

Election Night 2007

2007-05-07T00:39:00.000+02:00

Today 86% of the French have cast their vote in the second round of their country's presidential elections. True democracy has decreed Nicolas Sarkozy as the winner by 53% (all numbers as yet to be confirmed).

And Segolene Royal the loser.

Once again analysts will spend much of their brain power trying to figure out what went wrong. And once again, I say look to the advertising campaign (the two photos are as is, untouched by computer enhancement).

Mr. Sarkozy's poster was defaced by others. The state of Ms. Royal's was done to her by her own people. Her poster was seen glued into corrugated iron construction barriers all around the Marais.

And that was a week after I yelled out our living room window at some of her people who were gluing posters on the wall of an apartment building that is constantly defaced by graffiti.

Lost

2007-04-24T01:38:00.000+02:00

The other day, there was a little monkey who lost his child.

Seven-year-old Louise came up to me, her big eyes open and round.

"Is it yours?" I asked.

"No. Are you going to take it?" she replied.

"No."

"Why not?"

"If the child comes back and doesn't find his monkey, he'll be really sad."

"Oh," she said thoughtfully and then followed me around the park.

Election Day (Round One)

2007-04-23T01:15:00.000+02:00

For weeks, Paris has been slathered in posters showing the many presidential candidates. It all came to a head yesterday when nearly 85% of the population turned out to vote, making France a true Democracy. The people have spoken and they have chosen Segolene Royal and Nicolas Sarkozy to battle it out in the second round on May 6th.

Different analysts are on overdrive trying to figure out what went wrong for the other candidates. I think I have the answer.

Recently when I walked up the Canal St. Martin, the only two posters that were not "amended" -- shall we say -- were those for Sarkozy (though I've seen some pretty interesting ones in other places) and Royal.

(Le Pen)

(de Villiers)

(Bayrou)

It's all in the nose; though I have to say, Bayrou looks quite dashing in red.

Strange Day

2007-04-19T21:49:00.000+02:00

This morning before leaving the house for my weekly exercise class, I only had a few pages left of Ian McEwan's, The Atonement, so I juggled the babe with one hand and the book with the other, and quickly read to the end. The ending of the story was so unexpected (though if I had paid a little more attention, it wouldn't have come as such a surprise), it really threw me. I was heartbroken and almost cried, but couldn't allow myself to feel the sorrow because I had to go catch the bus.

Did my pent up emotion set off a chain of events that made me wish I hadn't left the house at all today?

It began with the bus driver not wanting to open the door for me when he pulled up to the stop. When he finally did let me on, I instantly regretted it because he drove like a maniac. The ride didn't last long though because two stops later, we were all unceremoniously kicked out (eight stops from my destination).

I had given myself so much time to get to my destination, and now there was a hiccup. Boy oh boy. And then the bus driver tried to explain the two stroller rule to me. When I told him I could have just folded it up, he insisted I didn't wave to him when he arrived.

Argh. I was irritated and it was hard to stop complaining. At least the sun was out and the temperature temperate.

I took another bus many minutes later, finally made it to where I needed to go, only to find that the bakery where I buy my pizza for lunch after the class, was closed for two weeks. The horror!

Now I really wanted to cry.

But then I found a pizzeria just down the block, bought a bruschetta for after class, and then discovered the Paris that I love. On a small, pedestrian only street, there was an outdoor market.

I found fish with their heads sticking out of ice (a perfect metaphor for the morning).

And in front of the fish was a crate of beautiful scallops.

I had never seen one up close, uncooked.

Spring

2007-04-17T01:07:00.000+02:00

For twelve years, I lived in Los Angeles, where flowers bloom year round: purple Jacarandas in April, fuchsia Silk Floss trees in September, Bougainvilleas and Oleanders all the time.

Bright colors were a part of every season.

And then two years ago, I moved to Paris, where in the winter color was drained out of the landscape leaving dark-gray slate roofs, dull-gray skies, pale-beige or drab-gray facades, leafless trees, and pale faces hidden under big scarves.

This year the winter was very mild, but the colors were still homogeneous. The lack of color on the outside gave me time to go within, to be dormant, setting the groundwork for spring.

And now it's here, earlier than expected, and just like last year, I'm somewhat unsettled and slightly in shock by it all.

Everywhere I look, there is a symphony of colors that borders on kitsch...Pink tulips growing next to blue hyacinths, sprouting next to bright yellow daffodils, springing next to pansies of all colors.

Trees growing flowers one day, and, as if by magic, leaves overnight, where a week earlier there were just smooth stems.

Color is everywhere and there is just no hiding from it; forcing me to pay attention; to snap out of the meditative inside to life bursting outside in all its glory.

Be Your Own...

2007-04-14T00:04:00.000+02:00

The fairy tales teach little girls that the Prince will come and save them from their poor lives.

After pining away for different Princes (and toads) for years, I came to the conclusion that a woman needs to be her own Prince Charming. Otherwise, it's simply too much pressure on the poor guy and it's too much anguish in the waiting for the gal.

But if you absolutely have to have one, and your tired of kissing some doozy toads along the way, I know a place where you can get one that's kind of cute!

I found these funny guys in the shop, Les Milles Feuilles, on Rue des Archives in the Marais.

So kiss away, Goddesses, kiss away.

Wall Art...

2007-04-12T21:06:00.000+02:00

Grafitti with a twist... and love the red shoes!

It Takes So Little

2007-04-12T01:50:00.000+02:00

Sometimes we feel stuck in our lives and we can't find the way out. We think that the only possibility is to work very hard to get through the quagmire. But sometimes, it takes as little as lifting ones eyes to see it all in a new way.

Waiting at a stop light a few weeks ago, I saw the statue of the Bastille in a whole new light. And the thrill of the discovery has added a perspective to the column so that now when I walk past it, I look up at the statue directly and then turn my head to look for its reflection in the window.

Village Idiot

2007-04-11T04:52:00.000+02:00

Recently, I wrote about the "new" coffee table we got thanks to our Village Idiot. It fit so beautifully into our apartment and made us very happy.

And then, it started making noise. It was faint at first. So faint in fact, we weren't even sure the sounds emanated from the table. It was a sort of on-and-off-again squeaking sound.

The hubby and I would periodically hover over the table to see where it was coming from. We would shush each other if we spoke, holding our frozen-in-place-ready-to-turn-into-a-salt-pillar-if-we-looked-back stance.

"There it is! Do you hear it?" one of us would say.
"Shhhh..." the other would reply, hand raised to pause the other.

Every day we came a little bit closer until finally we realized it was coming from three places in the table. Was it three separate sets of jaws nibbling away?

One night when I couldn't sleep, I sat in the living room. Creak. Creak periodically interrupted the quiet of the night. Creak. Creak rolled down the street the next evening.

Creak creak is now in the dump...or perhaps in someone else's home?...

A Glimpse...

2007-04-10T21:55:00.000+02:00

The tiniest bit of warm sun is soaked up by sun-parched Parisians on an Easter Sunday by the Canal Saint Martin.

Sunday Stroll

2007-04-05T15:30:00.000+02:00

There are some times in life where it's good to plan ahead, and then there are those times where the unplanned makes the unexpected discovery all the more joyful.

Last Sunday, our feet took us to the Port de l'Arsenal, where the Canal Saint Martin meets the Seine, next to Bastille. Not only did we stumble on Spring in full boom...

...but we also found that Paris was no longer Paris!

Venice had taken over and Carneval was in full swing.

And I learned that it's not the mask that creates the mystery. It's all in the attitude.

Art in Motion

2007-03-31T00:38:00.000+02:00

What is art? Is it something you see only in a museum or a gallery? Is art something apart from life?

I've reflected upon these questions over the years and am finding, more and more, that art is an integral part of my life. It takes many different forms ranging from communing with paintings and sculptures in a museum, seeing photographs in a gallery, enjoying esthetically sculpted storefronts, beautiful furniture, architecture, gorgeously landscaped gardens.

And today, I found art in motion...

My friend Marjorie, who is visiting from the States, asked me to accompany her to a very hip, fashionable clothing store, L'Eclaireur, in the Marais. I'd never been inside, so I accepted with interest.

We skimmed the very expensive, playfully unusual dresses and tried not to drool on them. Because we were together, we had the courage to go all the way to the back of the store, where we found a sight that made us both stop in our tracks. We turned to each other, eyes big and sparkling, trying not to draw attention to ourselves.

A dark-haired woman, her upper-body tilted away from the rack of clothes she was looking through, wore the most stunning coat I have ever seen. It reminded me of a very sleek, chic version of the Little Prince's coat in shiny black.

After seeing this coat, nothing else mattered in the store. And when the woman headed out the store, so did we. We were compelled to tell her how glorious her coat is.

She was deeply touched, posed for a photo, and then told us a little bit about herself. Her name is Salomé, she works for another branch of L'Eclaireur on rue Boissy d'Anglas, and she is from Georgia (the country formerly part of the Soviet Union).

The coat she wore was designed by her childhood friend, Ms. Nino Chubinishvili, an up-and-coming designer.

Not only were we a witness to a truly beautiful piece of art, under the guise of clothing, but we also shared a very human moment with Salomé. She told us that living in Georgia had been very difficult, but she would not ask to trade her experience if she were to do it again, because her life was very rich and her friendships profound.

I've never before met someone who so knew her place in the history of her country.

And that's Paris for you. You go window-shopping and you end up with art and a sense of history.

Thanks Salomé and good luck Nino.

It's not just...

2007-03-28T00:19:00.000+02:00

...the flowers that sprout during Spring.

(Photo taken in Place des Vosges)

Every Village...

2007-03-26T23:08:00.000+02:00

It is said that "every village has its idiot," or fool if you prefer. And so do we.

For weeks I kept on finding boxes of tea still in their plastic wrapping on the ledge just below our apartment. I couldn't figure out who would be throwing them down; I know all the neighbors and didn't know which one would amuse themselves in this way.

Time passed and one day, I heard something clink against the window. I hustled to look outside and saw a man with a long gray beard, in a shabby parka and hood, throwing coins on to our ledge. Aha. There was our answer. The items came from below.

And so, periodically, we find new items on the ledge. Most recently some plastic container attached to magazines, and big hunks of bread.

The pigeons were happy with the bread, but I wasn't.

So, I decided to shove them off the ledge. But before I did, I told my husband about the bread and he discovered something else. Ah, my heart jumped with joy! There, on the street, was something I had always wanted.

When I first moved to Paris, the street gifted me with an old-fashioned desk. And now, if we got dressed and down the street quickly enough, then we would have our long wished-for coffee table.

Success! Thanks Village Idiot for leading us to our Paris gift.

Paris Hubba Hubba

2007-03-23T01:12:00.000+01:00

This morning when I left the house, I thought to myself: It's another cold, gray day. Don't take your camera, you'll have nothing new to photograph.

Thank goodness I ignored that silly thought because as soon as I set foot on the sidewalk, I encountered one of my favorite sights: The Sapeurs Pompiers... Paris' finest firefighters.

Now, I know what you are thinking and you are wrong. Though these gentlemen have a reputation for being the most dashing of men, this is not what gets me all excited when I see them. Oh, no, no.

It's their glorious shiny helmets, a throwback to ancient times of gallant heroes who rescued people from, in this case, a gas leak that when asked what they were doing here, they breezily shrugged off as just another day's work.

Les Giboulée de Mars

2007-03-22T00:25:00.000+01:00

I had just come home from doing my errands in an odd-weather kind of day (cold, hot, cold), when I heard a racket outside of the windows. We've had sporadic construction lately, so I immediately attributed it to that.

When I looked out the window though, I couldn't help but gasp at the sight. I witnessed a torrent of hail covering cars, scooters, the sidewalk and a man carrying an umbrella as he walked nonchalantly down the street, completely unperturbed by the intensity of the ice and sound, as if on a Sunday stroll.

I've always found hail to be so gloriously strange, because it comes on so unexpectedly and unannounced with such a force and then it is gone just as quickly.

A Bright Spot

2007-03-21T00:52:00.000+01:00

It snowed in New York City last week, and I thought to myself, well, at least we are lucky to have such warmth here in Paris, forgetting (on purpose?) that the weather on the East Coast of the United States reaches us on the West Coast of Europe, in varying degrees, within four days.

And so yesterday, while I was in Herbeus looking for Australian Bushflower Essences, I noticed that it had, what I thought, started to rain.

It is only when I stepped out into the street that I realized, goodness me, it's hail.

People stood with long faces under shop and restaurant awnings, waiting it out. But me, how could I be depressed? I was warm in my expensive, French wool stockings and if that wasn't reason enough, I detected all the way down the street, a man with a bright, red umbrella.

The sky was gray, the air was cold, people looked unhappy, and here I stood blocking the entrance to the shop I just stepped out of, with what I'm sure was a loopy grin on my face, unable to tear my eyes away from the spot of color that moved closer and closer.

(If you click and enlarge the image, you can actually see the hail!)

Little things make me happy, and yesterday it was that bright, red umbrella.

April Chill

2007-03-19T00:40:00.000+01:00

This year in Paris, we've had a mild winter and an early spring. This is always dangerous because now is the time people dress too lightly for the fluctuating temperatures.

Last week it was so warm, in fact, that I almost put away my winter coat, but I kept on thinking about the French saying, which is repeated like a mantra, En avril, ne te découvre pas d’un fil ; en mai, fais ce qu’il te plaît, (In April, do not uncover yourself by one thread; in May do as you wish).

I kept the coat out "just in case". And today was just that "just in case". It was reasonably warm, but there was a wind that stung with an arctic chill, making all of us huddle under the too little clothing that we all wore (I left my bonnet at home).

But Paris is Paris and there is always beauty somewhere that springs out of the cold. We found it walking home.

Street Art

2007-03-16T00:41:00.000+01:00

There is a phenomenon that happens in Paris that I've never seen (or perhaps just never noticed) in any other city I've been in: artists "paint" on buildings. This is done without permission and can be done with paint, paper collage or even tile.

This week I found these two in the Marais:

and

These "pieces" generally have a very short shelf-life. They are quickly painted
over by unhappy building owners.

So, why would anyone "waste" their time with art that will vanish as quickly as it was put up? Is it for the satisfaction of having your art seen by many? Or perhaps the joy of defacing property? Are they some secret code for a secret society that -- in these cases -- are really green people with wings?

Perhaps most do it because some artists are actually discovered that way. How the galleries find the artists of these mostly unsigned chef d'oeuvres is a mystery to me. I'll have to put on my detective hat and do some detectiving.

Tea & Feathers

2007-03-14T23:04:00.001+01:00

As I walked to my favorite tea house, Mariage Frères, (see earlier post entitled Elegance) this afternoon to meet a friend, I thought to myself, well, seems kind of silly to sit inside on such a crisp, sunny spring day.

But as soon as I walked into the tea room and inhaled its serenity, I felt joy. And then, I saw feathers fluttering. How could I have any regrets at seeing that sight?

I sat down with my friend and perused the very large menu. This is often a very quick endeavor because once I discover something I like, I order the same thing every time.

With the teas, I vowed to break that pattern and try a new one every time. Last visit, I had the Festin d'Or, a combination of green tea (no wonder I felt so good when I left and then had a hard time falling asleep that night), citrus and mint. Today, I tried the Nil Rouge, a South African bourbon leaf; it was delightful.

I did not, however, completely shed my old habits and ordered the heavenly coup de soleil (sunburn), a delicious tart made with vanilla custard on a bed of wild strawberries.

Next time, I will expand my palate and attempt a new dessert. This rose green tea cake looked and smelled so good I had a hard time keeping my hands off it (once again we were placed at the "torture" table right next to the dry baked goods area that also doubles as the serving areas where the desserts are placed while the tea is being made behind the tea-bar). Or maybe I'll just have to order two...

And once again, we were treated like royalty by the waiters. Here is Antoine.

It is not customary to tip in France -- though greatly appreciated and definitely hoped for -- but please do when you come here. It's a real treat.

Carpe Diem

2007-03-14T11:24:00.000+01:00

Paris is not only encouraging me to contemplate elegance and aesthetics, but it's also teaching me to seize the moment.

Today, as I lay nursing my son, I heard a truck park below our apartment. There was a flash of light and when I looked up, I saw this:

Old buildings, old windows, old iron work: I breathed in the delicacy of it all.

Look at these...part 2

2007-03-13T23:50:00.000+01:00

gloriously quirky shoes seen at André in the 3rd Arrondissement.

I think I will have to go try them on, not that I could ever walk in them. (Wanna come, Merja?)

Who's Walking Whom?

2007-03-13T23:46:00.000+01:00

Seen on Rue du Temple in front of a luggage store.

Look at these...

2007-03-13T23:45:00.000+01:00

green meringues at the local bakery. Can you guess what's on top of them?

Cloud

2007-03-13T21:13:00.001+01:00

I saw this magnificent cloud above Place de la République today.

Gas Station Giggle - Part Deux

2007-03-13T00:05:00.000+01:00

Aha. I found out why Krim was hopping around like a little dwarf the other day.

He was nervous about his blood test. Both his mother and his brother had died from diabetes.

When he saw me, he rushed out with a business size envelope and proudly showed me his test results, which gave him a clean bill of health.

And with a grin showing all of his big teeth again, he said:

Your health is all that matters in this life!

Then he posed for me at the pump,

and made me pose as well (just as a bus pulled up!).

Elegance

2007-03-12T00:05:00.000+01:00

Paris is an elegant city. I’ve lived in London, New York, Los Angeles and Barcelona, and nowhere have I seen or experienced as much of it: in the architecture, in the way people dress, in the storefronts.

One of the places that exudes a welcoming elegance is the tea house Mariage Frères, on 30 rue du Bourg-Tibourg, in the Marais (there are two others in the city).

It is not only non-smoking, but has scrumptious delicate tea, a simple, lovely decor, and waiters dressed in white that serve your every need as though you were a queen.

Last week, I went twice, and each time I walked out feeling satiated in mind, body and soul.

Will you just look at that fancy spoon serving square morsels of sugar!

Our table was right next to these glorious madeleines and (in the back) cake with grated jade on it.

Sunny Day

2007-03-11T18:54:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny day and so as a family, we walked down to Bastille and over to Île Saint Louis. Days like these just fill my heart.

View of the Seine on the way to Île Saint Louis.

View from Île Saint Louis to Pont D'Arcole.

Parisians sunning themselves on the Île Saint Louis, with the Hôtel de Ville (City Hall of Paris) in the background.

Gas Station Giggle

2007-03-09T00:36:00.000+01:00

Next door to where I live, there's a gas station (not that you would know it...it's not like any one I'd ever seen before).

In the nearly four years that I've known Krim, the attendant, he's barely cracked a smile. Then yesterday, as I came home from a stroll, I looked over and saw him hopping up and down like Rumpelstiltskin.

Woah, this I had to check out.

As I approached Krim, he looked at my baby in his stroller and with a grin so big that I saw all of his teeth (very nice ones, nice and white, I didn't realize they were so big...), he started babbling about how it's good that I have a boy because in his country (Morrocco) boys are good and something something about girls, followed by peals of laughter and more hopping up and down on one foot (I was waiting for spun gold to come out of him).

I looked from him to his co-worker Said, who had tears running down his cheeks, and asked him what it was about girls that I missed. Said took a break from laughing and said, "I don't know, but he's funny today".

Now either Krim was drunk or something else was up.

What do you think?

After some prodding, which left me with tears running down my face, I finally found out that it wasn't the sunny day that brought on this rare ebulience.

It was a visit to the medical center, next door to the gas station, where he had a load of blood drawn for tests, followed by a chug of coffee at the cafe across the street.

Ah, if that's what it takes to bring laughter to Paris!