Baladeuse

Hunting and pecking letters off this keyboard and words of English. Caught somewhere between languages as I stroll the streets. Closest to release from speech as I come. But if not a terrific conversationalist stuck somewhere in the abyss between français et anglais, like my favorite Bennet I have become, a great flaneuse. I'm still figuring out how to live in this city, really live not as a touriste, and I'm doing it on my feet. The place where I live might help. Le 19ième is un quartier populaire. That does not mean what you think it means, unless you were thinking of populaire as in populace. On the metro, chez moi is only fifteen minutes from l'ile de la cité, but là on voit comment l'autre moitié vie à Paris. How the other half lives. A mix of algerien and jewish. While algerien kids race around the Place des Fetes on les motos, stores like David et Daniel's Bucherie Cacher sit on the sidelines of the square. Cacher Delights is a confused kosher Chinese restaurant. Syncritism in une cité. And tension. The Jewish family from Morocco I live with are pretty pro-Israel and not particularly fond of Arabs. Interesting dinner conversations. The son's french goes too fast. I respond with pretty unpersuasive arguments against Bush only as detailed as my french allows.

Living in Paris doesn't seem all that different from visiting. Early as Abigail Adams, people got that the business of life in Paris is pleasure. Puritan Abigail was not a fan, but I think I am. For a friend's birthday the other night sat on the grass by le champ de mars. Drank champagne and strawberries and laughed and looked up at le tour eiffel. A man came around selling wine from a chilled bucket but we had enough from dear Monoprix. Felt festive. Then, running up the steps towards Trocadero to catch the metro home, suddenly the black windows sparkled with reflected light. I caught my breath, laughed, and turned. There it was. All lit up. Glittering and gasping for joy to be in Paris. Smiled and ran on. Hopped the turnstyle and headed home.

My new thing is pretending I don't speak English. This trick does not last long with Parisians, but when American tourists ask me for directions or to take their picture, I not to understand. But I'm not cruel. Wandering le Marais yesterday, thrilled to give a man on a bicycle directions to the place de Bastille. He was from near Nice and kept repeating, "Paris a tellement des rues." On le Pont Neuf today an Italian woman asked how to get to Saint Germain. In neither of our native languages, gave directions and talked. Off to class, talk more in broken English/French soon.

Pareeeeeee

Paradis. Despite strikes, strange keyboard, stranger men and all, first journée in Paris fits illusions. Strolling around the city unafraid to smile at a moment, the wind flirting, chasing rain water spurting off an awning onto well dressed women. Or at cliche full blown roses in front of Notre Dame. Or from my sheer Donne described ecstasy exploding at and like the fountains I pass partout. I think I am just about the happiest girl. Five weeks and I might burst.

Staying with a divorcee and her sixteen year old son, sefardic jews, keep cacher and invited me to shabbat dinner at her parents. Arrived there late last night after pilot politely called in sick and my flight got switched, politely, to a later one on a jumbojet. They apologized and gave us free drinks, politely. It was London after all. That's right. I was in London. For about 21 hours. Flew from Newark where my parents drove me heroically early in the morning. Stayed with a friend of Deanna's, Tim, in the neighborhood of my favorite hunchback of notre London, Alex Pope. Evening went in the famous jaguar into Richmond and was washed away by the Thames, one spot looked like a moment of the Wasteland, another bend like a Turner painting. Drank British beer with sound guys who wondered why I wanted to go to Paris. They asked with patriotic pride if London was not good enough. In the morning drove around old royal hunting grounds watching herds of spotted deer, tame and hopelessly used to people. On the move, at the airport found flight cancelled but the later flight took all of 35 minutes. Almost as soon as the plane stopped ascending, the angle switched and my glass slid forward. Sipping scotch, stared out as we cut through clouds swathing the wing - ding - seatbelt sign off saying everything is going to be alright, this is the beginning of a new story. Write more praise of Paris soon, have to go laugh at the six oclock sunlight on the leaves of Luxembourg. Did I mention how much I love this place?