Minuit à Paris

Paris is a magical city--yesterday, today, and toujours (too-joor: always), but especially yesterday.  I honestly figured  before moving here that I'd be spending my evenings rubbing elbows with Edith Piaf and F. Scott Fitzgerald--pre-fame--while we sipped absinthe and dined on escargot (s-kar-go: snails) before making a minuit (min-wee: midnight) stroll along the Seine.  

 So, you can imagine my utter shock at finding out that these famous chanteuses (shan-toos: female singers) and écrivains (ek-ree-von: writers) of the days of yore have long since died, leaving in their wake over priced croissants and watered down cocktails at the uber-touristy Latin Quarter joints.  Like the protagonist in Woody Allen's adorable newest film, I too wish for a older, more down-home and grungy Paris filled with the intellectual elite.  However, unlike Woody Allen's character, I would never be invited into the inner-circle of these geniuses.  I lack a certain je ne sais quoi (juh nuh say qwa: I don't know what)--or, you know, talent.

Unfortunately I still haven't stumbled across the magical time portal that brings me to the Paris of my choosing, but luckily there's still something magical about roaming the streets of Paris in the throes of nightfall even in the year 2011, imagining where it was that the people who made this city famous once puked their drunken guts out, passed-out, or simply engaged in other debauchery.  When the city is dark and the streets are more or less empty, it's easier to imagine this cultural capital in its heyday--whether that be la belle époque (lah bell ep-ok) or when Hemingway was practicing his alcoholism here.

 Sure, I may not be making history here like the many celebrities who have claimed Paris as their stomping ground, but it's enough for me to know that I've had the privilege of soaking up the leftovers.  Plus, David Sedaris (one of my personal favorite authors) lives here, and that means Paris must be in the process of a whole new age: that of the sassy, humorist writer with a penchant for being a lovable asshole. 

Printemps à Paris

Andrew so kindly reminded me that today was the official start of printemps à Paris (prawn-temp ah pear-ee: springtime in Paris), a fact that had completely escaped me due to the emotional winter fog that had been haunting me since all the leaves fell off the trees and the bitter cold and gray skies of Paris forced the entire city into hibernation.

The thing is, Paris is wonderful at anytime of year, but I just assume that Parisians, comme moi (kohm mwa: like myself) are really just faking it until the better weather returns.

Sun is rare, our winter wardrobes are looking run-down, and no matter how many fabulous things there are to see and do, no one ever really wants to leave the house when the thermometer only reads 3 degrees outside (that's roughly 43 degrees Fahrenheit for you Americans).


Printemps, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

Today, while walking around Notre Dame and just generally enjoying the spring sunshine, I decided to do something I haven't done since November: I went to a bench and simply sat.

I can't explain the beauty of hearing the bells of Notre Dame chime it's parishioners to mass while French children kick balls back and forth to each other while mispronouncing Harry Potter's name in a way only French children could. Old couples who have probably been living in Paris since WWII scooted by hand-in-hand in front of me (the woman in high heels, bien sûr) discussing the latest films, while tourists snapped photos of the blossoms fragrantly blooming on every tree with the immense presence of la cathedrale (lah ka-tee-drahl: cathedral) as the backdrop.

Having the time to soak up what is really an incredibly common and cliched scene in Paris reminded why I love this city so much: because nine months out of the year, she is full of the poetry of day-to-day life in this capital of Europe. But for those three months out of the year known as hiver (ee-ver: winter)? Well, even the Parisian skyline herself gets sick of the gloom after awhile.

Au revoir, Bonjour

Another summer come and gone, and I found myself at the airport on the morning of September 26^th giving a heartfelt au revoir (oh ray-vwa: goodbye) to those I love at the San Francisco airport. As far as goodbyes go, I'm not a huge fan, and each time I have to say goodbye seems harder than the last. So, true to fashion, this past particular time also particularly sucked. Watching my family wave crude sexual gestures to me from the waiting area at the security line, I found myself thinking fondly about the amazing family and friends I have in the States, and all the inconnues (in con ew: unknowns) waiting for me in Paris.

Luckily, as I stepped onto solid ground and said bonjour (bone jewr: hello) to France once again, it wasn't long before the City of Lights decided to offer me some charity by providing me with a pretty sweet housing situation. After a day of frantically emailing every housing offer I came across online while sitting in the dimly-lit and smelly common rooms of a hostel in Montmartre, I managed to set-up a meeting with a family in the 16^th arrondissement (arrow dees mont: neighborhood) of Paris searching for an English speaking babysitter for their three enfants (on fant: young children) in exchange for housing. Three days later, I was lugging my 60-pound valise (val eez: suitcase) up seven flights of stairs to my chambre de bonne (sham-bruh duh bone: converted maid's quarters) overlooking the top of le tour eiffel (luh toor ay-fel: the Eiffel Tower) and hundreds of other quaint stone Parisian apartment buildings similar to mine, rent free for the “simple” task of spending ten hours a week looking after a 2 year-old boy and his 3 year-old and 5 year-old sisters. I'll probably have a mental break-down and reconsider motherhood completely by the end of this year, but for the moment I'm content at least at having a place in Paris to call my very own.

In the meantime, I'm spending most of my days running back and forth between Paris fashion week tents to see if I can stalk any celebrities of Paris Vogue fame, opening French comptes bancaires (kompt ban-kair: bank accounts), and going to primary school orientations. Then, at night, I sit in my room alone listening to the traffic go bye rocking back and forth hoping for some copains (ko-pan: friends) to share the city with. Yes, un peu pathetique (un pu pa-tet-iq: a bit pathetic). I'm just hoping Paris hasn't given up on me as a complete charity case at the moment and still has some amazing, funny, witty French friends in store for me not too far down the road before I end up turning out like some really pathetic hermit Parisian stereotype, like Quasimodo or something.  The sad part is, I already have the scoliosis so a life of freakishness probably isn't far behind...sigh.

Sister Cities

August in Paris is what the natives like to call "la morte-saison" - the one month a year when the heat grinds all life in the city to a sudden and sweaty halt. Apparently, the humidity of August turns the City of Lights into a temporary City of a Living Hell, the heat being so intense that the locals leave Paris to sun themselves on the Mediterranean coast - or simply melt to the stool of their favorite bar and drink themselves into a cooler mental state.

Well, wouldn't you know it, but San Francisco and Paris have been Sister Cities since 1996, and this past Friday San Francisco decided to emulate Paris' sultry summer romantic appeal by becoming unbearably, undeniably, unmistakably hot, humid, and eerily still for one night and one night only. And I was in town to witness it.

Andrew took me into San Francisco for the weekend so that he and I could enjoy some time together in my newly discovered, newly favorite "French District" of San Francisco (really a city block with some French restaurants and an embassy). Cuddling with Andrew in the window seat of Le Central tabac and café, I was having trouble remembering if I was on Bush Street or le boulevard Montmartre. I actually had a river of sweat running down my spine at midnight on the Embarcadero. I couldn't believe my good luck!

Andrew and I spent an entire weekend eating French food (sitting in the same seat as Arnold Schwarzenegger had the day before), catching up with Aubrey in North Beach, discovering bean curd pastries and hangover remedies in Chinatown, and admiring the high rises of the Financial District from the 24th floor room we shared at the Westin, leaving me just enough energy to climb into my own modest Boulder Creek twin sized bed and type this up before what I hope will be a long, deep, uninterrupted twelve hours of sleep (why not?!).

Alright, so I'm all too aware that the au revoirs to friends, family, and my beautiful home city are going to be bittersweet in the weeks ahead, but I couldn't help but pause on that perfectly balmy weekend and remind myself that, as a matter of fact, la vie est très belle, especially in this heat.