Paris from my window

It’s Sunday morning, my last morning in Paris.  I’m up with the sun. I want to be awake for every last minute of Paris.  I’m gazing out of my apartment window, sipping a coffee, and I can see a young couple, perhaps just returning from a night out, having some kind of confrontation in the street.  Their movements seem very deliberate, like they're rehearsing for a ballet.  She drops her shoulders and takes four steps to the right (2,3,4.) He moves towards her. She turns her head (2,3,4) and he walks off stage.  It might be a lovers tiff, but it’s very poetic. 

No one else is up.  Sunday is definitely the day of rest in Paris.  I’ve had seven Sundays here and I’m always the first person awake.  But it’s hard to imagine that when I wake tomorrow morning, I won’t be in Paris.  As I sit here, feeling somewhat sad, I know I’ll be back.  

There have been so many adventures during this 1080 hours around Paris, and so many surprises. 

I’ll miss champagne at lunch time and days that linger till 10pm.  And it will seem odd, not catching a daily glimpse of the Eiffel Tower (she seems to stick her neck out when you least expect it).  I’ll miss the delicious set menu at L’Aigre-Doux, a weeny Middle Eastern restaurant, so cheap, just down the road from me, with the personal, gentle service provided by chef, Jaffar. I’ll miss my new friends, particularly Viv - we met at Republique metro station at 11.45am the other day and without realising it, didn’t part company until 10.45 that night. 

Paris has surprised me with its warmth and friendliness and its ability to tolerate my excrutiatingly poor French (all 3 words!) But it has also surprised me with it's aggressiveness.  I won't miss being shoved off the metro and in the street. 

I’ll never forget the fireworks on Bastille night; The bustle of the market on Rue Mouffetard; The snoozy, lazy Canal Saint Martin; That half bottle of Le Serre de Bernon, 2008 Cote du Rhone; The wine appreciation class with Philippe (who conducted the class in French, English and Spanish - impressive, I thought); La Cave wine shop; The view of Paris from the Galleries Lafayette rooftop; And reuniting with my lifelong friend, Catherine, squeezing everything out of Paris in just one weekend, and eating our way around it (Catherine has a gourmet photo-log to prove it).

I’ll stay in touch with the ladies who lunch.  I'll skim through my photos often, and I’ll cherish that note from Jean-Paul because it will remind me of how we can impact on each other in just a few fleeting moments (oh, and because it can feed my ego every once in a while).  

I'll remember the things that moved me; Jane Evelyn Atwood’s photography exhibition at La Maison European Photographie - confronting, depressing, grounding, beautiful, hard to look at yet hard not to; The male version of Tracey Chapman, busking me into a trance, near Centre Pompidou; Monet's Waterlillies at L'Orangerie; The poppies and other wild flowers, abundant on the side of the road in Giverny; And tracing the footsteps of great writers such as Oscar Wilde, Victor Hugo, Henry Miller.

And I wonder what comes after 1080 hours in Paris...

And about that waiter...

It appears that Jean-Paul's ability to deliver smooth pick up lines is matched only by his inability to follow through.


*

Ladies Who Lunch

Yesterday I was a Lady who Lunches, and I did it with twelve other Ladies who Lunch, twelve (mostly Australian) expats living in Paris.  It was magnifique!  The Ladies who Lunch meet once a month to socialise, network and support each other.  We lunched by the Canal St Martin and we talked of adventures and challenges past, present and future.  The Ladies who Lunch ranged from mid thirties to...well...what does it matter?  Each woman at that lunch table was a lively spirit, a woman of the world, with a sense of adventure, with a colourful and inspiring story.  Some of the women had moved to Paris by themselves, one had arrived with a child under each arm, some had married French men, some had moved to take a job opportunity, and one particular lady was wishing she didn't have to leave Paris in two days...

It struck me how nurtured and supported one can feel in the company of other women; how the willingness of women to share their ideas, dreams, challenges and feelings, creates so many opportunities for connection and growth; how the helper, carer and mother within, naturally wants her sisters and daughters to succeed and be fulfilled.  

Among the Ladies who Lunch, I met a coach, an international aid worker, a translator, a natural therapist , a kindergarten teacher, a jeweller, and some were retired or semi-retired and generously voluteering their time to this wonderful lunch group.  There were free-spirits and artists, business women, super women and some were all of the above!  With families, without, in Paris for a long time, in Paris for a short time.  Whatever their story, all of these women had something in common - a willingness to contribute and a desire to connect to other women.  Tell me about you.  I'm interested in you.  Let me listen.  Let's laugh at ourselves and at the world.  We appreciate our mothers and our sisters.  Oh, I know how you feel!  Don't be too hard on yourself.  I see your potential.  I can help with that.  Are you okay?  Stay in touch.  Let me know how you go...

PARIS - CITY OF glutton's deLIGHT

To slip plump strawberries,
between my lips, one by one,
to store them in my hungry cheeks
and juice them on my tongue

To rip, like doughy pillows,
warm wads of fresh baguette,
and match it with its soul mate
Chevre cheese, on top, beset

To take the folded crepe in hand,
crafted by the master
To let the chocolate run and ooze
and feel your heart beat faster

A sip of steaming cafè noir

A fresh croissant in hand
Watch the crumbs fall in your lap
and wherever else they land 

To tap the crème brulee on top,
to feel the crack beneath
And glide the spoon through creamy waves
To feel that sweet relief

To lift a toasty champagne glass,
Honeyed bubbles to my lips
To celebrate its perfect taste,
and intoxicating spritz

Richly glazed pistachio tarte
with Raspberries freshly plucked
I’ve put on so much weight, you know,
When I get home I’m Fasting!

Surrounded by Statues

Vanessa was feeling particularly abstract

 

Although disappointing, the upside to having such a small willy was that the pigeons couldn't perch on it

 

Bob had gallantly led the horse to water but, for some reason, couldn't seem to get it to drink

 

Chad loved babies...but he could never finish a whole one

 

Poor Sandra couldn't even pick a stubborn bogey without being photographed

To Be Polite Or Not To Be Polite

I’m British. I have a British passport and, although I’ve lived in Australia for thirty one years, as a permanent resident, and consider myself quite Aussie, it seems that you can take the girl out of Surrey, but you can’t take Surrey out of the girl. 

Politeness was valued highly when I was growing up. If you forgot to say please or thank you, you were bludgeoned and locked in the attic without food or water or air for forty days and forty nights. If you dared ask for something to eat, at someone else’s house, or asked a question that could be considered ‘nosey’ you were sliced in two, threaded on a skewer and fed to the neighbours for dinner. Politeness was a serious business and that was drummed into me from an early age. 

I bet you think I’m about to write about how rude the French are. Well, no, that is not so. In fact that has not been my experience at all. I have found Parisians to be most polite and very friendly and warm (except when driving, when walking down the street, and on the metro.  In these circumstances it's every man for himself.  People slam into you, push you out of the way, run you over and no one EVER politely gives way to anyone!) 

Yesterday, I found a cafe for lunch and politely asked for a table.  Once settled, as I do, I made eye contact with the waiter, smiled in a friendly manner and very politely ordered my meal, using as much French as I could, but sprinkling it lightly with a little English, which I like to think sends the message that I’m trying to be helpful, polite and respectful, even though I’m crap at languages. The waiter was very friendly in return and came back shortly with my drink. I thanked him, again with my British politeness, and he smiled warmly and winked at me.  That was rather cute and nice and made me blush in an ever-so-English way. 

When he arrived with my meal, he smiled, moved in a little closer, said the obligatory Bon appetite and winked again. Being hopeless at this sort of thing, I avoided eye contact for a while and stuck my face in my food and notebook. 

The same lovely waiter came to clear my plate and offer coffee just as I'd finished my food and started feeling like coffee.  His timely service and attentiveness elicited a grateful smile from me and another thank you.  I wasn’t sure if I'd read too much into it, but his eyes definitely seemed to linger on mine, and the coffee came with a special smile and a third wink (read ‘warm’ wink, not ‘sleazy’ wink – there’s a difference, I think).  Of course, I smiled and merci beaucoup'd all over the place.

When I could take no more, I asked for the bill, and my waiter delivered it, this time without making eye contact.  He hurried away, and I think even he was blushing this time.  As I checked the bill, I noticed there was another piece of paper folded into it, a hand written note: 

Votre charme n a d’egale que votre beaute.

Jean-Paul
T: 06...andsomeothernumbers 

I paid the bill and left a small tip (enough to say ‘I enjoyed your service Jean-Paul’ but not enough to say ‘I'm a sure thing, Jean-Paul’) and he touched my arm as I left, saying a bientot (see you soon) rather than au revoir.  

Later that day, a friend helped me translate: 
Your charm is matched only by your beauty.

Oh, come on!  Honestly Jean-Paul!  I was just being polite! I don’t know how to flirt! I’m hopeless! It was genuine Surrey-I-don’t-want-my-ear-cut-off-politeness!   Just because I'm not behaving like a Parisian woman, all aloof and pouty, eyes averted and impatient, my innocent and polite friendliness has somehow been cruelly twisted into slutty flirtatiousness!  Suddenly I'm a harlot, a strumpet, an easy foreigner.  I'm good for it. I'm a bit-a-skirt. I like to dance the horizontal samba. I'm a cheap seducer, a floozy, a tart!!!!

Your charm is matched only by your beauty!  Did Jean-Paul really think I would fall for such a gooey and unoriginal line?  Honestly!  Come on!

 
... We are meeting for a drink tonight...

Statues - Tour de France Edition

Isobel waited patiently for Cadel...She hoped to take him up the Champs Elysees

Max, Eric and James had done superbly in the Tour de France, even though they'd forgotten to take along their snacks

Amidst the excitement of the Tour de France, Edna got her left one out



Pat would give her right arm to get a snog from Cadel at the finish line

Milly had thought about competing in the Tour de France, but she couldn't be arsed

Donald promised his fellow cyclists he'd wear a little deoderant in next year's Tour de France

The boys couldn't believe their luck; Cadel in lycra AND Tina Arena on the podium

Metro Jazz

Paris is alive with the sound of music! It’s the jazz festival and music seems to infiltrate every available space. My favourite is definitely the metro jazz. On random trains at random times, there are musician duos playing their saxophones along to the recorded sounds of jolly ragtime jazz. They are usually chirpy types and they bop along in time to the music. I keep getting the giggles because everyone else on the train refuses to acknowledge these poor buskers. Eye contact is avoided, faces are deadpan and noone even dares shift in their seat, for fear that it might be mistaken for a dance move or some sign of encouragement.  But, the musicians seem oblivious and they just continue on, making merry, filling the carriage with jazz.  This is particularly funny on a packed train carriage, when there's not any spare space for two buskers, two saxaphones and an amplifier, but they jump on anyway.  People are already pressed together like sardines, armpit to face, hand uncomfortably close to crotch, backed up against pole, baguette in eye, sweat running down leg, but off they go, Jazzy Jeff and his accomplice, chirpy as all get out, squeezing out some sunny day jazz riff! 
I must say though, on a less packed train, if you do make eye contact, they start to shuffle and shimmy towards you, amplifier in tow, and before you know it, they're shoving a plastic cup (which is gaffa taped to their amplifier) into your face. But, come on commuters! It’s fun! It’s Paris! It’s jazz season. They are entertaining. They deserve some coins and a little acknowledgement once in a while.  (And on a packed train, it's much easier to take change out of someone elses pocket, to pop in the plastic cup.)

Perhaps the guy on metro line five, between Bastille and Republique, ruins it for everyone. He staggers onto the train, a little intoxicated, but with an impressive looking ukulele, and proceeds to dig it into the ribs of some poor girl (unintentional on his part). Once he finds his balance, or rather a leaning post, he flips the instrument onto its back and begins to play it like a drum. Unfortunately he has no rhythm. He then starts to sing an excruciating tune, completely out of tune while persisting with his not-so-melodic ukulele pummelings.  The girl, whose ribs have been violated, jumps off at the next stop, which I’m not sure is her planned disembarkation point, but probably a wise choice. I stay on for another couple of stops, deadpan, avoiding eye contact.

More pleasant a busking experience was had last week in Montmartre. I was enjoying my Croque Monsieur, (why does cheese on toast taste so much better when it’s called Croque Monsieur and eaten in Paris?) when out of nowhere, appears a huge man with a huge Double Bass. He sets himself up just outside the entrance to the cafe courtyard and, with his little cup gaffa'd to his amp, he plays for an hour, non-stop. It was blissful, a perfect accompaniment to my slow lunch...perfect until he'd exhausted his jazz repertoire and moved onto Lionel Ritchie’s Hello (which I found cheesier than my Croque Monsieur).

Buskers seem to be randomly placed. I’ve found them on bridges, under bridges, at the entrance to public toilets, taking over the steps beside the river, in the parks and even in the middle of the road.  (There's even a Glee Club by the river with a real piano and sheet music!)  They play the sax, the guitar, violin, accordion, drums (aka up-turned ukelele) and there’s the occasional vocalist. 

I’ve noticed that many homeless men are also having a go at busking. Unfortunately, most don’t have access to an instrument, so you’ll find them, suited-up, (Homeless people in Paris are much better attired than in Melbourne) chanting a little ditty and shaking their coin cup in rhythm. It’s not quite Miles Davis, but good on them for jumping on the band wagon.

Statues, Romans, Countrymen!

Strike a pose, there's nothing to it...well, nothing Daphne’s chiropractor couldn’t fix

Friends! Romans! Countrymen...um...Here's a pigeon!

Gelda regretted giving her hand in marriage

In a fit of road rage, Christopher gave a passing horse & carriage, the bird

Fireworks & Friends (Bastille Day)

Oh, this experience will be filed under ‘T’ for ‘Things to remember for the rest of my life and to tell my grand children, unless I don’t have any grand children, in which case I’ll tell other people’s grand children, although it might be one of those anecdotes that is meaningless unless you were actually there, in which case I’ll become known as the granny with boring stories.....’     Yes, definitely under 'T'

Truly one of the most wonderful nights of my life, made all the more magical by sharing it with new friends. We sat below the Eiffel Tower and beside the Seine, on a mish-mash of picnic rugs, with a mish-mash of food, a little fine wine and a large celebratory spirit.

 

                                 *         *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *

Ms Eiffel, dressed in nothing but diamonds, has been cheekily winking at her adoring fans all evening but now she graciously takes the substitute-bench while Sir Night Sky performs. He’s already done an amazing Monet-style sky for us, a little earlier; a duet with Ms Eiffel, but now he’s back, looking very serious in his purple, black. The audience is silent with anticipation.

And then the sound of champagne corks popping, as hundreds of hot rubies and emeralds are catapulted into the night. They leave pink and green smoke smudges in their wake and, as these subside, handfuls of golden needles are thrown to the heavens, trailing silver threads behind, sewing palm trees in the sky.  

The audience whistles and applauds. The exciting smell of gunpowder lingers in the air. Sir Sky aims and fires dozens of shooting stars, each one exploding like bullets of rain on canvas. They reach so far that a new galaxy forms and then just as quickly disappears, each star switching off like the lights of a city preparing for sleep.   

Blazing chandeliers appear in the darkness, floating momentarily and then parachuting into the river below. And other colours smash across the sky, as if all the stained-glass from all the cathedrals has been crushed, for this momentous occasion, and blasted from canons.

There are shots of star dust and glitter, and whizzy whirly things cart wheeling and crackling across the sky for almost an hour, each explosion more colourful or wonderful than the last, drawing oohs and aahs from the audience, until the grand finale, where the bursts of fire come constantly, one after the other and the audience are squealing and clapping and camera clicking!

Then silence, as the gun smoke clouds settle. Sir Night Sky dusts himself off and slowly slips away, leaving the stage for Ms Eiffel, who enters from the right, to light up once more, with her diamond couture, oh so gracefully.

Baguette Buyer, Fashionista, Parisian

There’s nothing more boring than an amateur's account of their excursion to an art gallery or museum, so I’m going to talk about baguettes.  

Paris is the canvas on which a thousand baguettes are painted. On every corner, down every street, coming at you is a French person with a baguette. Voila! It’s like a baguette is a fashion item. In fact, you can forget the high heels (thank god) and if you want to be mistaken for a local, simply wack a baguette under your arm (and refrain from using the term ‘wack’). 

Seriously, it’s how you distinguish the locals from the tourists. Tourists have a camera in their hand. Locals have a baguette under their arm (or somewhere on their personage). 

You’ll find baguettes on the young, old and middle-aged. This foodie fashion item doesn’t discriminate. You’ll see these crunchy batons squashed in clenched fists, protruding from briefcases, stuffed in pockets, hiding in prams, lurking in shopping bags and trolleys, and extending from bicycle baskets. And if you want to erase all possible doubt that you’re a local, then master the art of navigating the metro, while talking on your mobile phone, with a baguette under your arm. If you can achieve this, without taking anyone’s eye out and without meeting with a bready disaster at the exit point, then you, my friend, are a Parisian. 

Like fashion or art in Paris, the baguette phenomenon is a naturally occurring thing and, I do believe, if you’re in Paris long enough, it will rub off on you. I say this because an interesting thing happened to me yesterday. I returned to my apartment, late afternoon to freshen up for dinner and, as I closed the door behind me, it suddenly occurred to me that I had a baguette under my arm. What’s more, I had no recollection of purchasing that baguette! Then I glanced towards the kitchen bench and noticed the remains of another baguette, most likely purchased the day before. And suddenly, just like that, here I am, a true Parisian because I have baguettes and I have no memory of how I begot! Imagine my excitement at discovering just how Parisian I’ve become!  

Just to be sure, though, I decided to retrace my steps and investigate. I took the lift to ground level, exited my building and turned left down the cobbled street that is rue Gravilliers. As suspected, it was only minutes before I stumbled across a boulangerie, stocked to the windows with pastries and pies, croissants and quiches, éclairs and tarts and (you guessed it) baguettes! Oh my! Could this be my place of purchase? Could this be the point where unconsciously, because I am Parisian, I attached myself to a baguette?  

I stood in the doorway, inhaling the yeasty fumes, and for a moment, doubted myself, as I considered the impressive but confusing array of baguettes. How would I have known which one to choose? How would I have known which would complement my outfit? How would I have known whether to go for an under-armer or a briefcase-protruder?  

But then, to my delight, Monsieur, behind the counter, recognised me! Yes, it was true! I had obviously been here before...many times! It was conclusive! I was a baguette buyer, a fashionista, a true Parisian!  

And, to seal it, Monsieur smiled a knowing smile and winked across the counter at me and I knew it was true because he knew me like I was a regular Parisian customer and he was absolutely and genuinely pleased to see me. (Or was that a baguette in his pocket?)

Denis and Other Statues

Not now Tweety, I’m assisting the weary and wounded

 

Bertha couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she just didn’t find Godfrey attractive any more

The girls thought he looked like a git, but Travis felt splendid in his new bloomers

Denis wasn’t so perky after the beheading

Sealed Section

Paris, I’m making love to you.
Timid at first; the fresh maiden
with watchful eyes
But now I’m entering your private places,
Exploring every corner,
Embracing every curve


I’m breathing in your muskiness,
Pressing against the cracks in your walls,
tracing wrinkles
And combing through
the terracotta highlights in your hair

I go down on your left bank
and return slowly on your right
Lingering at your curves of bridges,
Overflowing with your river

I drift through your alleys,
Unwrap your lanes
I drown in you
and I love that it takes hours
to find my way to the surface again

I’m licking your ice cream

and trying to get my tongue around your tongue,

but I stumble.

You whisper ‘It’s O.K.’

Your river edges lapping

and you give me pleasure anyway


So deliciously delirious
Blind to
your other lovers
Your tobacco-stained teeth
Your piss-soaked pockets

I am but a dot

And yet you stand proud before me

For this moment you are mine

And I take you, fully


Sometimes I move beneath you

Secret tunnels pulsing

Day and night

And you take me to places I’ve never been


Radiant pink at first light,

I wake, pressed against you

and have you before my croissants and coffee

And have you after my croissants and coffee


My day is squandered on you.
And I linger a while at nightfall.
Then, slumberous and drowsy,
Your river washes over me
And I soak up the pleasure of you

The Hazards of Eating Croissants

Why is it so hard to eat a croissant without causing extreme devastation? I walk away from my little round table, set under the awning of a Brasserie, and I see between the wicker weave of my chair and scattered around the chair, on the table and under the table, a thousand flakes of buttery croissant! It looks like I’ve carved a life-size eiffel tower and these are my wood shavings! I’m completely embarrassed but I simply do not know how not to flake everywhere! And yet I love these croissants. The bits that you actually manage to get in your mouth are soft and buttery. They plump your cheeks, gloss your lips and dissolve on your tongue. They are the taste of France and of butter and of lingering over breakfast.

But these crescents of beauty are laced with evil and their layers get stuck to your fingers and flake onto your trousers and, in trying to brush those flakes off your trousers, all that happens is the flaky bits that were on your fingers are now also added to your trousers and so they are double the flaky, buttery mess! And one napkin just isn’t enough. You end up in a cycle of wiping your hands on the napkin and then from the napkin back onto your hands and then down your trousers and your fingers are now so greasy that you can’t get a purchase on the bathroom door to go and wash them! And when you leave a tip for the waitress, on the little plastic tray, it includes twelve generous croissant flakes. I imagine those flakes ending up in the cash register amongst the five cent pieces and eventually back onto the fingers of the waitress and then onto her trousers. But no, she obviously has some kind of croissant flake repelling secret because her trousers look perfect. They are black and smooth, like they’ve never seen a croissant in their life.  

I need to rise above this. There must be a method for mastering these moon-shaped monsters. To cut or not to cut? That is the first question. To rip or not rip? Jam or no jam? Well, the waitress this morning doesn’t give me a knife, so I deduce that ‘to rip’ is the way, and I think the general rule for jam is: Jam for a stale croissant - No jam for a fresh one.  And definitely no butter at any stage.  I try the dunking-in-coffee method but that transforms the contents of my coffee cup to resemble the stagnant-with-floaties edges of the river Seine. 

The waitress, politely ignoring my flaky mess, (like one does for a friend with dandruff) asks me where I come from. I would love to answer her coherently, but at that moment I have a flake of croissant stuck to the roof of my mouth, just behind my front teeth, so I respond “Authstralia” in my best Ita Buttrose voice. Clearly sympathetic to the many hazards of foreigners eating croissants, she leaves it at that.  

All those damn crumbs attract the sparrows and pigeons and albatrosses or whatever bloody birds are hovering around for a free brunch. So by the time you try to flick the flock out of there, you end up with croissant and bird poo and feathers all over you and on the table, in your coffee and in a general five metre radius (I think I see a flake in the ear of the person at the next table). Exasperated I shove the last piece of croissant in my mouth and lean my elbows on the table. I’m defeated...and now I have croissant on my elbows!

But no, I’m determined to master the art of croissant quaffing. I will persevere despite the perils of pastry and I will return tomorrow to practice. 

And then a gift from the heavens is sent to me (no, not more albatross poo). Two tables down, there is a woman eating a croissant with style and grace and no flakes. No flakes! Her trousers are as black and smooth as the waitress’s and she has one unused napkin. This woman knows something. She must be a local (or she may just be a foreign expert or someone with absolute croissant confidence). She isn’t using the cutting or the ripping or the dipping method. She is holding her buttery beast firmly, like it is a tip-top, robust, no-chance-of-a-flake vegemite sandwich, and she is opening her mouth as wide as the entrance to Abbesses Metro Station and she is taking large, no nonsense bites. The whole croissant is gone in four chomps. 

I will return tomorrow. I know exactly what to do. (But I won’t wear trousers...just in case)

More Statues...

Hey, Mavis!  Be a luv will you!  Pop over here and scratch my nose!

Not right now Elsie, I seem to have my own problems!

It didn’t matter what angle Bernard looked at it, it was still only 6 inches

Raelene hoped her friends wouldn't notice that Malcolm was off his face again

Peace Be With You

Last night I attended mass at Notre Dame. I approached her at quarter past six, the sun still strong, warming her stone walls, and as the bells rang out, I thought of poor Quasimodo. For a moment I wanted to be Esmeralda, to take him a pitcher of water...and the name of a good chiropractor.  

I walked into the cathedral and it was like I’d stepped into heaven or where ever it is that God lives. The massive organ, set high at the back of the cathedral, bellowed as if the grand dame herself was blowing a thousand mournful trumpets. It was so majestic and intense that I thought she might blow her buttresses out! Each chord vibrated through my head and chest and seemed to collect in my throat until a lump was formed and then dissolved into a few tears. The music continued as the priest and his entourage moved through the masses and towards the altar. And then the organ softened, and an angel, in the form of a middle aged man in a bright blue dress, stood at the pulpit and sang out in mesmerising tones.  Surely he’d swallowed a harp.

The grand dame, a parisienne indeed, demands attention. She is bejewelled with dozens of shimmering chandeliers, set in rows beneath her perfect arches, and she is perfumed with incense and spice and the holy dust of a thousand years. Her stained glass windows are immense kaleidoscopic eyes...and I could feel her watching me.

Of course the whole mass was given in French, so I didn’t take much in. I think there was something about Gerard Depardieu and a baguette, but I’m not entirely sure. I enjoyed the hymns and the part where you get to shake hands with those around you and say Peace be with you. I’m a sucker for that. I reckon there should be a compulsory Peace be with you break, twice a day. Where ever you are, whatever you’re doing, you down tools and you shake hands/hug/kiss those around you, whether you know them or not. It’s such a great connector. (Ok, clearly this whole Notre Dame experience is causing me to lose my grip) 

The priest was impressive when he sang the Eucharist. He was remarkably Serge Gainsbourg-esque! I started craving for a strong espresso and a cigarette, and when it was time for the congregation to respond, I expected Jane Birkin to appear and writhe with the microphone.

Did you hear the one about the two French nuns? No, seriously, there were two nuns directly in front of me, so I relied heavily on them to know when to sit and when to stand. They, too, had the voices of angels and I felt blessed to witness their sweet melodies.

When I departed at about eight o'clock, I sat outside, the sun still warm (it doesn’t get dark here until ten o'clock) and I watched the cathedral as if she might perform some more. But she’s a grand old dame and she needs her sleep. I imagined her removing her chandeliers, rubbing her kaleidoscopic eyes and folding her buttresses. Good night Notre Dame. Peace be with you.

Show me the Souvenir!

It’s a Saturday, it’s twenty six degrees and it’s a very popular day to be in the park. I choose an empty bench. I want to be still and enjoy this special park for the last time before moving to the Marais. I watch as the sun unfurls pairs of old people, dressed in their sunny-day best. They slow-walk around the lake, arm in arm, weaving to follow the shade, and then they turn back before the path’s incline. Their knobbly hands drop bread crumbs on the lake’s edge as they stop to rest and watch the ducks.  

The park is alive with the squeals of children, playing football, climbing trees, hanging off statues and running races. With fairy floss-stained cheeks and grass-green knees, they frequently bounce back to their families, who are sprawled on picnic rugs, snoozing and reading. Breathlessly, they give urgent reports of who’s winning, or running the fastest and who’s fallen over, and then they dart off to join their friends again. 

Oblivious to the ducks and children and old people, are the young lovers, entwined, hidden in their own delicious world, under trees and behind benches. Under the park’s rotunda, sixties rock and roll music plays and people, of all ages, dance like no one’s watching.  

I’ve only been on my bench for about ten minutes when Jacques (who is so handsome that I can’t quite believe it) says Bonjour and sits next to me. And then after a brief silence he’s smiling at me and prattling on in French. All I get is 'something, something, travailler, something, interior designer, something, something...'  and all this time he’s moving in closer to me and I can’t get a word in to tell him I don’t understand what he’s gabbing on about.  

When he finally takes a breath, I say five French words, Je-nais-parle-pas-Français...and that seems to stop him in his tracks. But then he’s saying, 'OK, I speak a little English' and he leans in and with his minty breath says (in an impressive mix of English and French) 'J’adore - I love the femmes' and he puts his hand on my knee.  

I remove his hand from my knee.  

He then tells me he’s married but because he’s Parisian he needs to be with other women and he likes me and would I like a 'souvenir' of Paris?  

WOULD I LIKE A SOUVENIR OF PARIS?!!!!!

Now, I do realise that saying ‘yes’ to his ‘souvenir’ would make for a more compelling blog entry and I’m sorry to disappoint, but I respond (as any good prude would) by telling him to leave me alone; that my very tall, bad tempered, on parole, long-finger nailed(?), rugby playing, sumo wrestling, no, Giant Haystacks look-a-like (see British wrestling), Olympic gold medal sprinting, boxing instructing, sometimes axe- depending on his mood- wielding, former-policeman and part-time lawyer boyfriend will be here any moment! And he won’t be happy to see the hand of a married Parisian on my knee!  

Well, I seem to make myself understood because this is enough to make my handsome and inappropriate stranger turn from black to white and up and run...but not without an Au revoir, Mon Chérie and a kiss on the hand!!! Incorrigible!!!! (Poor Jacques – He probably thought he had me at Bonjour)

Stat U?

Apparently there are 5,000,123,702 statues in Paris, so there you go.

Betty’s new hat and shoulder brooch were the height of Paris Fashion. It was such a pity about the bird shit down her back.

Friends!  Romans!  Countrymen!  Do I look like a complete knob?

Friends! Romans! Countrymen!  Lend me your... high heels and corset

 

Right!  When Dave gets home, he can deal with these bloody kids!



Boiling my Butte off!

The cool snap is over and it’s hovering around 34 degrees in Paris, which feels stinking to me (a Melburnian deprived of last summer.)  Of course, I don’t have a thing to wear and so, to remedy this, I venture to the annual flee market, held on the cobbled streets of the Butte aux Cailles village, just around the corner from my place in the 13th arrondissment. This once-a-year event goes off! All the locals bring their bricante, bric-a-brac, treasures and general crap out onto the street. What a fab idea! It’s like a car boot sale, only you don’t have to pay for a spot and you don’t need a car boot.

The streets are bulging at the seams with old clothing, broken televisions, rusted cutlery, Chanel hand(me down)bags, scuffed Italian shoes, clogged salt and pepper shakers, broken ornaments, gaudy jewellery, dog-eared books, book-eared dogs and music that no one wants to hear any more. And the people! They’ve appeared from nowhere in their sun hats and sandals and, with sun-rouged cheeks, they rummage, fossick and elbow for a bargain. 

I manoeuvre my way through this stagnant pond of people, breathing in the smell of sweat, dust and musty clothing, feeling the moisture build where my sunglasses sit on the bridge of my nose. I get to practise asking Combien ca coute? (How much does it cost) and I learn to listen carefully for numbers and to the correct pronunciation of euro.  

Neighbours meet on the street and there is an air of celebration, perhaps of summer (apparently it poured with rain last year and just wasn’t the same.) They kiss on the cheek and I listen to their conversations, understanding only every fifth or sixth word, rarely able to piece together what’s being said but loving the music of this foreign language. From an old record player, Dean Martin appropriately crackles and croons, 'Memories are made of this.’

And then I bump into Viviane, a breath of fresh air in this sticky heat. Viv is my new friend, a talented artist, a creative soul who lives in a beautiful light-filled apartment overlooking the roof tops of the Butte aux Cailles. We wander a while, sifting through vintage clothes, bags and shoes. We are drawn to the same stalls (mainly those in the shade!) and, as we meander, Viv seems to naturally connect with people. Every once in a while we bump into her friends and neighbours and she introduces me. They are all as sweet as her and are kind enough to speak English for me.  They include me in their conversations, keeping eye contact, offering smiles and, despite this steamy 34 degree day, I welcome the warmth.

(I brought some spoons and a handbag so, needless to say, I still don’t have a thing to wear...unless I plan to make an odd fashion statement!)

Note: The photo is taken from Viv's apartment, over the rooftops of Butte aux Cailles.

Jardin des Tuileries

Call me immature, but I do always get such pleasure from a “pigeon perches inappropriately on statue head” photo.  These were taken in the Jardin des Tuileries.

"Oh god, perhaps if I make like a statue, it'll fly away"

 

"I'm never drinking again! (and what's that coming out of my bottom?!)" 

 

"I'm sorry Arthur, when I suggested candlelight and feathers, this wasn't quite what I had in mind"

Fat Sparrows

Today, I lunch in the sunshine at Cafe Marly, overlooking the Louvre pyramid, the Palais Royale, and the Eiffel Tower. I order a glass of Champagne (Moet & Chandon), a Caesar Salad and some water (sans bubbles) and of course the waiter delivers a glass bottle of Evian.
I’m such a cliché, I know, but as I sip champagne and wade through my lettuce, I can’t decide whether to look left to the pyramid, twinkling in its prism-like splendour, or right to the Eiffel Tower, demanding attention from afar. Ever so strangely, though, I find my eyes drawn to the fat sparrows at my feet and around my table, pecking at anything resembling a crumb and rudely eyeing off my croutons.
And then I’m distracted by the most beautiful looking couple I’ve ever seen and they sit down at the table next to mine. They are groomed to within an inch of their lives; smooth, tanned, flawless skin; glossed, pouty lips (yes, him as well) and I can’t see their eyes because they have three billion dollar sunglasses on. Their nails are clipped; their hairstyles are vogue and their clothes are impeccable. They are Yves St Laurent meets Chanel meets Louis Vuitton. They are Dolce & Gabbana, Prada, Versace, Lagerfeld darling! And I notice that she wears a ring with a stone the size of my head. It’s a sapphire and I start feeling blue because I know I’ll never be someone who attends to their nails daily or spends three billion dollars on great sunglasses or more than sixty dollars on a haircut. 

And then, the couple begin fighting. They are fighting in English, AND they are doing it with American accents! And pretty soon I don’t feel so bad that I have pale skin and bags under my eyes, that my pantalons are too tight, that I’m Target meets Kmart meets Two Dollar Discounts...and I sip on my Moet & Chandon and gaze at the Eiffel Tower.