...just, how it is.

 I was standing on one of my favorite bridges last week, one that connects Ile St. Louis to the right bank, when an old woman passed by me.  She was shuffling along slowly holding tight to a leash. The leash was connected to an ancient looking cat who was walking on the wall of the bridge.  It was so bizarre.  Right there in midst of the chaotic city a little old lady and a little old cat just having a walk.  I couldn’t look away and followed behind them for a bit.  

Then I carried about my ritual bridge time.  

I have thought of the cat a few times while on that bridge and wondered what the story was of her thinning hair and slow walk in one of the most beautiful places in the world.  Then yesterday I got my answer.

I was crossing that very bridge on my way back from a job interview (story to follow) when I stopped to let the wind cool me in the muggy humidity of late May.  I was leaning on the bridge wall looking out at the sun dancing on the Seine when I looked to my right.  There was the cat, laying just a few meters from where my arms rested.  She was on her leash but this time a man was holding onto it.  He was talking with a couple of American tourists in English.  I listened.

The cat was 20 years old.  They weren’t from Paris, just visiting.  His accent was neither French nor American, German maybe.  I watched as the American tourist pet the frail looking fur on the top of the little head.  After they had said thank you and left I took my opportunity to tell the men she was with that she was beautiful.  They then explained this was her first time in Paris…on her list so to speak.  “Bucket list, yes” I replied.  They smiled and nodded before walking away saying “…and now she can go.”  So this was the last journey for a 20-year-old animal that got to live a dream that so many humans always hope to.  I felt as lucky as this cat: both of us knowing what it really means to "live" life.

Today is cold coming off of an insanely humid day yesterday – Paris weather changes its mind from day to day, finicky, unpredictable.  I stay in watching the passing of intermittent dark clouds wishing for the rain I know won’t come.  It hasn’t rained in months, an oddity for Paris this time of year apparently.  But I am a one-woman draught inducer.  I love the rain so much that no matter where I go rain doesn’t.  Still the day is beautiful.  

The gray, wrinkled man staying across the street at the Hotel D’Olreans must think it chilly too because he has left his window closed today.  He has been staying at the hotel for over a week now in a room one floor higher than my apartment is.  I experience what my neighbors must, the most mundane daily movements of my life being exposed.  He doesn’t look in my apartment much, thank goodness, instead looking down at the street or up to the sky.  And I am thankful for that.  Even so, I hope for his vacation to end soon!

Tomorrow I will be tutoring a French man.  In my ongoing effort to find work I finally received one response to the ads I posted around Paris to tutor English.  The job market is tough, especially when you don’t have papiers de travail (working papers).  I will admit I could have used a few more months back in the states to save for this adventure.

I suppose I didn’t truly grasp how insanely expensive this city is, or rather chose to just dive in to my new life.  But through this turn of events I now have a kinship with Hemingway, particularly during the time he wrote ‘A Movable Feast’.  The city and I are in this together.  I have become the cliché – the starving writer living in Paris for the sake of her art.  I am not the first and won’t be the last. There is a sort of comfort in that.

While I wait for my first tutoring job, and to hear back from the internship I applied for, I spend my days continuing to work on the pages of my novel. All the while marking myself on my city and letting her lay her feet upon me now.  I am at home having seen both the refinement and the despair she possesses: loving her contradictions. 

Time marches on.  I have dinner with my fabulous neighbors (the Mum and Dad of Chat).  The long meal followed by a plate of cheese is every bit what I expect of the French: our conversation a mixture of both English and Francais.  (I find I have trouble finding words in either language now.)

I attend a Toastmasters meeting, sit along the Seine and listen to random musicians, have a movie night with friends.  I take pictures often and videos of the fascinating life I am in.  I find private gardens and lay down to enjoy the sun and the smell of fresh roses.  I stand on a bridge, close my eyes and feel Paris moving all around me.  

Weeks of Days

The past few weeks of days have been nothing out of the ordinary. 

I wake up upon my own free will and stretch in the bed I have learned to love.  I climb out of bed and open all four doors to my terrace pulling back the shutters listening to them cling, clang against each other.  I step outside to check the weather even though most likely it will change by the time I leave the house.  I soak in the soft Paris air. 

Inside I pop a mug full of water in the microwave while I choose my poison for the morning: early grey, mango passion fruit, fruits rouges.  While I let my tea steep I make up my bed and take a seat on the couch, tea cooling on the little “Paris circa 1575” map table.  I pull my white Mac up onto my lap and get ready for my morning email from my love whose is over 5,000 miles away.  Perfect way to start my day.

After a relaxing morning I prepare to explore/enjoy/peruse all that this Paris life has to offer.

Quiche Lorraine by St. Estauche

Perhaps lunch with a friend at a café for a quiche or croque.  Maybe just a walk on my own to Les Halles where I will window shop easily for hours.  I must stop at a bridge of course and take in the slow current of the Seine and the always packed tourist boats of Paris - rain or shine.  I let the wind brush through my hair and I smile.

From inside one of the many courtyards

Walking on the familiar streets I take every opportunity I can to duck into the private courtyards when someone either slips out or has haphazardly left the door open.  These courtyards are everywhere, hidden gems in the city that too me represent a private world for those privee to them.  My friend Jeff first introduced me to them as we passed by one he had the code to (“through an old friend who used to live there”, he explained).  Exiting the busy streets you can pass into a quiet world to find off the beaten track cobblestone and dense foliage in the form of vines that wrap the buildings like a Christmas gift.  There isn’t much to see usually.  It is simply a courtyard/entryway for the lucky tenants of the apartments that surround it.  But to me they are often like a secret garden transplanting me in another time in another world.  So when I have the opportunity I always sneak in acting as though I know where I am going. (A trick my Dad always taught me.  “Act like you know where you are going and you belong there and 9 times out of 10 no one will question you.”)  Thus I have witnessed at least 15 secret worlds so far in Paris.

I venture on walking lackadaisical when the streets are nearly empty.  When they are busy I walk with the purpose and determination of any good city gal.

My day continues.  I may stop for a street sandwich; the viande hache is my favorite!  Or perhaps just a Nutella Crepe.  I snack on my treat, whatever it may be, and take side streets that have eluded me on one of my many trips down this street that leads towards home.  Yesterday I discovered where the hookers with the big boobs hang out.  There must be some under the table guide to find the hooker you would like here in Paris: like big boobs? – head to Rue de Tracy (sorry sister but it is true), like Asian women? – head to Blvd. Saint Denis.  I find it odd that the police just pass them by seemingly without a thought.

I stop then, almost everyday, to pick up what I need from the market: bottled “Source de Pins” water for .21E, fresh veggies to cook that night, fruit for the morning (that I am desperately trying to teach myself to eat), and other miscellaneous “stuff” I need for home.  I go through the long checkout “caisse” as usual which is less stressful than it used to be. I have gotten quite skilled at the “pack up my stuff while I pay routine”. 

In a short 4-minute walk I have left the Monoprix market and arrived home, punched in my code and headed upstairs. 

I have begun a game with myself, which I do keep in practice.  IF the lift is resting on Floor 0 when I arrive I am meant to take it up to Floor 5.  IF not however I am doomed to power through the 6 flights of winding stairs not matter how many groceries I may be holding.  Lucky for my legs the lift is rarely on Level 0.

Today it was which brought a smile to my face and relief to my lungs.  I pack myself, 2 pink grocery bags, and my purse into the wood paneled walls of the confined box that will take me the rest of the way home.  Arriving at my floor, “France telecom” the elevator speaks to me as the doors open.  I then open the gate to the cage that lets me out.  3 turns of my old school iron key and I am in.

The next part of my day begins.  I turn my writing desk towards the open doors, bring Mac to sit on her warped wood that I hope I didn’t cause, pull the wicker chair up and get ready to write.

Often times nothing comes to me right away.  I stare out at the buildings opposite mine and think, let my eyes drift to the cloudy or sunny skies.  Then I put fingers to the keyboard and start to write.  I don’t really know what it is I am writing at first.  I just let my hands start to go.  After a few hours and a few breaks in between I hit the save button and close Mac up.  I won’t read it again just yet.  It may be junk or it may be brilliant.  I won’t know yet so I put my “work” down for the day.

The nights vary greatly.  Some nights I meet with friends for quiz night at The Thistle, or a get-together on Pont des Arts.  Tonight I will be attending a Toastmasters event, Tuesday a friendly apero with Internationals, Wednesday a picnic on a bridge, Thursday perhaps stay in and cook a great meal and read a book.  The days carry on.

It occurs to me that perhaps my days aren’t ordinary at all.  That in fact they are just as I had always hoped, EXTRAordinary in every way.  And I am grateful!

Perfection!

Stade de France

It was a Friday night.  When I first arrived I felt a bit out of my element in this crowd of well to doers in expensive fabric.  But being the woman I am I quickly acclimated meeting a few nice people to share the little facts of our lives: name, occupation, residence.  Basic surface stuff.

I was officially attending my first Rugby game as a guest of a friend who had VIP passes. I had never much given any thought to the sport.  Other than having seen an episode of Friends where Ross gets seriously beat up during his first/and last game of Rugby.  So when I received the invitation from my new friend, whose company sponsors the event, I couldn’t turn it down.

 Arriving an hour before the first play we joined the bourgeoisie in the VIP suite complete with amuse bouches, sandwiches, meats, cheeses and free flowing champagne.  After an hour of superficial conversation we, the VIP’s, retrieved our coats from the coat check and headed to the stadium finding the seats that were reserved for us.

Then the game play began.

What an odd game I must say: scrum, drop goal, crash tackle.  Even the terminology of the game is brutal and nasty.  American football terms seem so much nicer: huddle, touchdown, kick-off.  One would think it is the Rugby guys who would need the padding!

The fans cheered a familiar cheer that I have heard in ever sport game I have every attended as they waved either pink or yellow flags representing their chosen team. Following the 80 minutes of the kind of excitement that defines most sporting events we returned to the VIP soiree to congratulate the winning team: Stade de France of Paris!  In the end we weren’t able to properly meet the big, burly rugby guys as they were busy filling their tired bodies with the array of food that had been set up for them.  So instead I perused the dessert table and snacked on the fancy (however bizarre) creations that lay among the pink vased flowers on the elegant white linen.  As midnight approached I thanked my host and headed back to the city and my cozy little studio with a hell of a view.

Will and Kate get married!

It was the wedding of the century and I wasn't going to miss it! 

I had the pleasure of watching the ceremony right here in Paris, at a Scottish pub, with a room full of British friends.  The Scottish proprietor of The Thistle had kindly offered to open the pub 3 hours early for the crowd and attempted to make a famous Brit drink called Pim’s.  It is supposed to be the best thing to drink on a warm Bristish summer day.  Turns out it is also perfect for a cool, clear spring Paris day for a momentous international occasion.  It quite reminded me of a tall glass of Sangria. 

The pub was packed with interested spectators both male and female – okay, okay more female than male.  When all the seats were taken others positioned themselves strategically trying to avoid blocking any of the 3 televisions in the small bar.  It was noisy with excited chat in various accents of the English language.  My voice joined them, sitting, talking to my newest friend Jaime - our backs to the typical wooden bar.  
Then, suddenly, a hush came over the crowd and all eyes focused on the flat screens on the wall.  It was starting.

Every eye was on the bride (some on her sister Pipa) as she took the long walk down the aisle with a grace that confirms she will be the perfect Princess.  In this pub, and all over the world, people listened to the soft voices of two people saying the most precious vows.  Then our voices rose again along with our glasses for a happy cheer to the happy couple.  Naturally the event was not complete until we could witness the traditional first kiss on the balcony of Buckingham Palace.  They seemed to wave for hours to the thousands and thousands of admiring patriots outside of the palace gates before Bride and Groom took the moment to steal a quick kiss on the lips.  The pub roared with applause at this most simple yet intimate of acts.

I wonder, why is there something so poetic about watching a wedding?  Is it because regardless of stature, even with all of the pomp and circumstance surrounding this couple – a wedding is still only about two people promising their lives to one another?

Or perhaps the reason is that at the end of the day everyone wants a fairy tale of their own.  

Kickball and Catholics

Yes, I will admit it – there have not been enough blogs this month. But please do allow me an excuse. I have been spending even more time on writing my book – the purpose of this move, as you know. And of course I have been very busy simply living a fabulous Paris existence.

Yesterday I played kickball with a group of Americans and Brits. After having taken the Metro to the outskirts of Paris we walked 20 minutes to a large field of overgrown grass in the center of a massive park. Before divvying up the teams we sat down to enjoy a picnic. The 50 members of the group broke into smaller sub-groups like one may see in a high school cafeteria to enjoy lunch. Each picnicker contributed something different: brique cheese, crackers, pasta with crabmeat, homemade tartines, chocolate crisps and wine of course.

Finally managing to get motivated we formed teams and began the game.
The Brits required the Americans help, this game being literally foreign to them. They caught on quickly to this version of America’s pass time. After an hour of rowdy play we ended our game. 11-6, my team won! This thrills me and satisfies my intensely competitive nature.

Then, out of nowhere we heard thunder and the clouds closed in. Thanking the unpredictable weather of Paris for allowing us sunshine for the game we packed up the empty Tupperware, half eaten blocks of cheese, wine bottles and beer cans. I made it to the Metro just before the clouds gave way to the rain.

Leaving the metro back in the city the ground was dry and the sky clear, the rain having missed my part of Paris. I marched upstairs, forfeiting the luxury of the elevator, then settled in for a relaxing night. I am reminded I have to water my seeds.

Anyone who knows me is aware that I do not, by any stretch of the imagination, have a green thumb. But a perfect Parisian terrace like mine deserves some foliage. I had enlisted help from my Thad during his visit last week and together we planted seeds of Thyme, Rosemary, and Sage. I figure they aren’t alive yet so I can’t kill them. But I must remember to water the seeds if I want them to grow. A seemingly simply task one would think. Not for me. I needed a way to remember. So I made a deal with myself that I would think to check on the seeds when I miss him. This seems to be working so far as I already see a few green buds popping through the soil.

Now I just hope I don’t OVER water them.

Last Sunday was my first Easter Sunday in Paris. Upon my father’s request and my desire I attended, sort of, the Easter Sunday mass at Cathedral Notre Dame. The line to attend the mass resembled a ticket line for a Broadway show instead of a religious ceremony. The hopeful worshipers wore their Sunday best in the line that wrapped around the watchful eyes of the gargoyles on the spires above. I found it so strange that during the 45 minutes I stood in line I heard not one person speaking French while waiting to attend the French service. The parishioners must tire of the tourists invading their space of worship. It is a house of God turned into a tourist attraction. I justify my presence however by the fact I am a Paris resident.

After the long wait the long line starts to move, slowly at first then at a rapid almost sprinting pace. Suddenly the Broadway like queue has become a pushy rushed entrance to a rock concert. Wow, people really wanted in. Bodies pushed against bodies, shoving each other even. God must either be thrilled at this turnout of eager Christians and their determination to attend the mass or terribly disappointed that they have come to observe it as an attraction rather than a way to hear his word. I am guilty of both on this day.

Once inside I see what all the fuss is about. It is majestic, the choir rejoices and their sound fills every corner of the chiseled stones. In the center of the Cathedral the pews are filled with those who were in the front of the line while others stand in the aisles. But the periphery, where it is difficult to see the Priest even on the many televisions set up intermittently, is bustling like a farmers market. There are hushed voices and cameras flashing. I will admit I was a bit ashamed to be standing amongst the chatty edges of the service. It, to me, seems disrespectful and downright rude to chat whilst a service is in progress. Maybe that is just the Presbyterian upbringing in me.

I had to squint my eyes to the bright sun upon exiting the most frenetic service of my life. I then went to treat myself to an Easter croque monsieur which, incidentally, turned out to be the best one I have had since moving here. It was a perfect Easter meal if I must miss out on Lox, Stock and Bagel, which my family would no doubt be enjoying 9 hours from then after their church service.

Leaving you now with the promise that the busy few days ahead of me will be shared with you in a blog early next week.

Les Visiteurs

It wasn’t a week of solitude. It wasn’t a week of Erin strolling alone through this city of hers. It was a week of pride in showing some of my favorite people the place I have learned to call home.

The post winter sunny days finally arrived and along with it my friend Alysha and her husband Josh. Straight off of the chunnel from London, where they had spent their first week overseas, they walked towards me, big backpacks in tow looking like any of the other pseudo backpackers in the crowded halls of Gare de Nord, the train station. The first sight of one of my oldest friends brought a smile to my face and quickened the pace of my steps. I threw my arms around her and squeezed overjoyed with the knowledge that a little bit of “back home” had found me here.

They would be staying with me for 3 nights and 4 days filling my home with extra bags that made it feel like Thanksgiving time with my family: people everywhere, activity, laughter, joy. It was absolutely calming to have their presence fill these walls. I had planned for a few days of sightseeing – or rather showing them the “sites” I thought worthy of seeing, the sites that only an insider can provide. We walked the chaotic streets of Les Halles, I with pride, they with wide-eyed wonder. I pointed out places I have come to know and tidbits I have learned: the old brown beams you see on the ceiling is a dead give away of the age of the place, that cathedral has the most beautiful organ music at their Sunday service, this is the smallest of the two islands in Paris and one of the most expensive places to live.

One mid morning wake up we showered methodically as we had the previous two days making room for each other as we passed by the narrow hall between the bathroom and the kitchen. We prepared to go for a picnic at the base of the Eiffel Tower, a must in my humble opinion especially in the perfect 25 degree c weather we were experiencing. Strolling the streets of Paris we picked up quiche, fruits and pain au chocolat from the farmers market we stumbled upon – Alysha being splashed with fish guts from the haphazard fisherman cleaning up his booth. She swore involuntarily in French. We laughed.

Finding the ideal shade vs. sun locale we positioned ourselves among the versatile mix of Parisians and tourists at the foot of the looming magnificence of the metal tower, which causes gasps upon first sight. Cool grass, fresh bananas, a tall can of 1664 (my favorite beer), and a deck of cards. We had it all, including the view that is almost easy to forget about if it weren’t for the hundreds of bodies stopping to snap shots at every step. It was lovely.

Walking back home I got the sense that perhaps my guests were not as in love with my city as I – rightfully so, how on earth could anyone love it as much as I do? I started to get a sort of protective feeling like one may have if someone insulted your sister. Sure she (I mean she as Paris not my amazing sister) is a bit littered. Sure the 3 dozen steps into the metro smell of rotting urine. Sure you may witness a pickpocket or random hookers on the street. But she is, to me, heaven even in all of her faults. All these things I disregard or even perhaps factor in to my love for her. I let these things go and feel a sense of gratitude for the sound of busy street traffic and urgent emergency vehicles (reer-er, ree-er). I feel the soft air off of the Seine as a tourist filled tour boat glides by ever so gracefully. I see the footsteps of thousands of strangers caressing the streets – cobblestone or cement. This is my Paris.

A new experience and many, many, new memories made and it was time for my friends to return to the clean, chaos free streets of London before returning to the States. Giving them a hug I shut the heavy wooden door of my apartment twisting the lock once, twice, three times until I hear it tell me I am securely in my home. Unexpected tears fill my eyes. What is it about friends (those who might as well be family really) can, even in our differences, bring out the “you” in “you”? I knew instantly my time in Paris was enriched by their visit.

The forgotten silence in my apartment returned leaving me with only the sounds of cars going by. But not for long. Another visitor would be arriving not 12 hours later to once again fill this home and my heart with love.

He arrived on the 8:15 to Charles de Gualle airport – the largest airport in the world, or so I’ve heard. I waited with hair coiffed, lips glossed and heart pounding until he breezed through the international doors. I would like to tell you that I ran to his arms and spun around in circles as they do in the movies but truth be told I don’t even remember how my feet moved to his side. A long, oh so Parisian embrace followed once we made it to each other. My arms no longer empty we boarded the RER train towards the home I was so desperate to once again share. The kissing couples that scatter the city didn’t make me long as they often do. This time I joined them retreating to a private world of two with the rocking, speeding momentum of the train the only reminder of where I was. They call Paris “The City of Love”. It really is. Even when you aren’t in love. But to be in love in the city magnifies the lights on the boulevards, the color of the flowers in bloom. Perhaps this is true no matter where you are when love has found you.

The days now are filled with cards games and cafes, cooking and laughing, exploring and staying put.

Today our feet took us to the ancient Catacombs of Paris; a place that my good friend Shannon assured me I must see, just not alone. Descending the 130 steps to the basement of Paris we entered the cool, eerie underground where over 6 million human remains had been placed methodically in the 1800’s. We ducked our heads to the low ceilings while I ran my fingers along the dirty stones perfectly placed to hold the walls from collapsing. You could almost feel the ghosts among you, curious at your presence. Turning a new corner we entered the darkest hall yet to find human bones perfectly stacked to form the dark, dank, muddied halls of this dungeon – or this grave perhaps is a better word. The skulls at some points were placed in the shape of a cross. Shinbones made up most of the surface – or were those arm bones? The unwelcome yet oddly appropriate drips from the ceiling caused puddles of cool “catacomb juice” to fill my black ballerina style slippers I probably ought not have worn on this excursion. I was done with it, ready to move my feet quickly towards the exit, up the 84 steps and onto the welcoming streets of my Paris. One last thing. My bag must be checked for “bones”. The attendant had a stack of bones by her side: “souvenirs” some silly tourists thought perhaps would look good on their end table. I promise you…you will NEVER find a human remain if you join me for tea.

We poured ourselves into the sunlight a bit more disturbed than when we had entered, or at least I was. We walked along, hands clasped as if they had always meant to be that way, and hunted for our next tasty Croque Monsieur.

The days tasks done I write you now before waking up a napping man to enjoy a simple sandwich on the no longer lonely confines of this beautiful studio apartment overlooking Rue de la Lune (street of the moon).