Something old, Something new, Something borrowed, Something Blue
I always bring my journal and a pad of paper with me everywhere I go. There are so many moments in cafes or on the metro that I love to record so not to let them be forgotten when France is years behind. And now is one of them. I just fininished paying my tuition, so I am officially a Sorbonne student and I should only be so lucky as to have silver sixpence in my shoe. I think I will take up panning for money in the street, or playing the accordian.
Five months ago today I was eating Arby's, rushing to cram as much as I could in my suitcase, and planning for my grand adventure that would begin the next day.
One month ago, I was sitting in my Paris garret in the dark after a long and tiring train ride with my pile of luggage again, thinking what a wonderful experience it would be if only I had electricity. (story to follow). And now today, January 31st, I sit in the Jardin du Luxemberg listening to the shuffling of feet in the gravel, hushed French conversation, the chirping of birds, the gobbling nuissance of the pigeons and the clanking of the dishes in the small park cafe behind me. And I sit here reflecting on what an adventure it's been. But yet, still excited of the adventures to come. And yes Canadians, I am sitting outside and comfortably. It is about 6 degrees here, a cold day in Paris.
There are no leaves on the trees but there is no snow on the ground. The sky is grey and clouded over. The weather is gloomy and so are the Parisians. I can tell everyone is awaiting the buds of spring. And before you Canadians stop reading there in spite that I should be complaining of my fall-like winter, I must add that it is not so much the cold that bothers me, but the tiring grey skies and the wet soppy days that can make one so blue. To look out the window on a cold grey sky does not give one much motivation to leave the warmth and comfort of one's bed. The days are short, the cafe terraces are closed, and prominading is not on the top of one's list of things to do. Especially this one.
I actually was very suprised and disappointhed at the lack of snow in Paris. As North Americans we are always shown these beautiful pictures of a snowy Paris. A Paris with the rivers frozen over, snow on the streets and a blanket of white atop the statues's shoulders. Even Hemingway talks of the winter snows and the white Paris, nothing of a Paris that I've seen. I suppose it has much to do with the pollution and global warming more than anything, but I'm sure everyone in Toronto right now is considering any global warming argument null. Needless to say perhaps I am speaking to soon, as there is still February and March to come. The only percipitation I see, are the constant puddles that my slipper like shoes soak up like bread in oil.
Back to the moment. So I sit on a bench, my hands slightly chilled but the warmth of my vest (French word for coat) keeping me toasty. I just finished the most suculent of crepes. It was a jambon fromage crepe and it was delicious. It sayed warm right down to the last bite. As I enjoyed the wonderful melange of tastes in my mouth, I couldn't help but to reminise about the last time I had eaten a crepe from this particular vendor. It was late August, the summer of ' 98 and I was there with my 12 year-old brother and my parents. I was sixteen. We frequented this vendor for breakfast (petite dejeuner). He was my favorite "crepe guy" then and still holds the title. He is situated just outside of the Place de l'Odeon.
As I walked through the Jardin du Luxemberg to sit and enjoy my delicious crepe, I remembered how Paris had been when I'd left it last. The tourist were flocking the gardens with their camera around their necks and couples were hiding in the shade to escape the late August sun. Today the tourists are few and far between, and there is no need for seeking the shelter under the leaves, for there aren't any leaves nor is there any sun to hide from. The gardens look much more haunted and lifeless in January, much like the people. But the statues and Italian grotto fountains retain theier charm year-round.
Instead of sitting with my parents, I sit alone and the nuissance of my brother is replaced by the flying rats that some people refer to as pigeons, and truthfully they aren't as good company. Instead of me asking my parents for bread, it's them asking me. And since I don't have any bread because I wasn't about to share any of my crepe, my bag and water-soaked shoes seem to be the next best thing.
The Palace is just as I remember, and the gaurds that I zoomed in on for a good 15 minutes of our home video footage, are still as cute. Never once did I think that seven years down the road I would be sitting in the same park writing home about it. Yet here I am.
I have now seeked out the solace and warmth in the small cafe. I sit with my cafe express and warm my hands with the tiny mug. The windows are fogged and dripping perspiration, like a cold beer on a warm day. I want to ask for a picture with the waiter in his tux.
In the last few days, I have seen a new Paris. It has become such a new place to me. I have finally met some people, and actually have schedualed things to do each day. At registration I started talking to this lovely Australian girl. She invited me out a few times and since has introduced me to her friends. I went out to a few bars and lived less the solitary life of a ninety year old woman, walking, drinking tea, and sleeping by eight, oh and sharing my lunch with the pigeons, and more of the life of a twenty-something year old. We went out Saturday night and Sunday morning went for breakfast in my borrowed pajamas. We spent the day lying around and watching movies in my new friends apartment.
Sunday night I went on my first Parisian date and with a Parisian at that. I say that because a good portion of the people you meet here are either etrangers like myself or tourists. It terrific French practice as we can discute bien, and good company as well.
It's funny but meeting someone and having scheduled things to do can make all the difference in enjoying a city. Not that I didn't enjoy my own company and walking, but walking with someone is great fun too. I actually feel that I now live here, and am not just visiting. When I crawled into my neatly made bed last night, curled up under the covers and looked out my window at the familiar skyline, I couldn't help but to feel vraiment une Parisienne.
Five months ago today I was eating Arby's, rushing to cram as much as I could in my suitcase, and planning for my grand adventure that would begin the next day.
One month ago, I was sitting in my Paris garret in the dark after a long and tiring train ride with my pile of luggage again, thinking what a wonderful experience it would be if only I had electricity. (story to follow). And now today, January 31st, I sit in the Jardin du Luxemberg listening to the shuffling of feet in the gravel, hushed French conversation, the chirping of birds, the gobbling nuissance of the pigeons and the clanking of the dishes in the small park cafe behind me. And I sit here reflecting on what an adventure it's been. But yet, still excited of the adventures to come. And yes Canadians, I am sitting outside and comfortably. It is about 6 degrees here, a cold day in Paris.
There are no leaves on the trees but there is no snow on the ground. The sky is grey and clouded over. The weather is gloomy and so are the Parisians. I can tell everyone is awaiting the buds of spring. And before you Canadians stop reading there in spite that I should be complaining of my fall-like winter, I must add that it is not so much the cold that bothers me, but the tiring grey skies and the wet soppy days that can make one so blue. To look out the window on a cold grey sky does not give one much motivation to leave the warmth and comfort of one's bed. The days are short, the cafe terraces are closed, and prominading is not on the top of one's list of things to do. Especially this one.
I actually was very suprised and disappointhed at the lack of snow in Paris. As North Americans we are always shown these beautiful pictures of a snowy Paris. A Paris with the rivers frozen over, snow on the streets and a blanket of white atop the statues's shoulders. Even Hemingway talks of the winter snows and the white Paris, nothing of a Paris that I've seen. I suppose it has much to do with the pollution and global warming more than anything, but I'm sure everyone in Toronto right now is considering any global warming argument null. Needless to say perhaps I am speaking to soon, as there is still February and March to come. The only percipitation I see, are the constant puddles that my slipper like shoes soak up like bread in oil.
Back to the moment. So I sit on a bench, my hands slightly chilled but the warmth of my vest (French word for coat) keeping me toasty. I just finished the most suculent of crepes. It was a jambon fromage crepe and it was delicious. It sayed warm right down to the last bite. As I enjoyed the wonderful melange of tastes in my mouth, I couldn't help but to reminise about the last time I had eaten a crepe from this particular vendor. It was late August, the summer of ' 98 and I was there with my 12 year-old brother and my parents. I was sixteen. We frequented this vendor for breakfast (petite dejeuner). He was my favorite "crepe guy" then and still holds the title. He is situated just outside of the Place de l'Odeon.
As I walked through the Jardin du Luxemberg to sit and enjoy my delicious crepe, I remembered how Paris had been when I'd left it last. The tourist were flocking the gardens with their camera around their necks and couples were hiding in the shade to escape the late August sun. Today the tourists are few and far between, and there is no need for seeking the shelter under the leaves, for there aren't any leaves nor is there any sun to hide from. The gardens look much more haunted and lifeless in January, much like the people. But the statues and Italian grotto fountains retain theier charm year-round.
Instead of sitting with my parents, I sit alone and the nuissance of my brother is replaced by the flying rats that some people refer to as pigeons, and truthfully they aren't as good company. Instead of me asking my parents for bread, it's them asking me. And since I don't have any bread because I wasn't about to share any of my crepe, my bag and water-soaked shoes seem to be the next best thing.
The Palace is just as I remember, and the gaurds that I zoomed in on for a good 15 minutes of our home video footage, are still as cute. Never once did I think that seven years down the road I would be sitting in the same park writing home about it. Yet here I am.
I have now seeked out the solace and warmth in the small cafe. I sit with my cafe express and warm my hands with the tiny mug. The windows are fogged and dripping perspiration, like a cold beer on a warm day. I want to ask for a picture with the waiter in his tux.
In the last few days, I have seen a new Paris. It has become such a new place to me. I have finally met some people, and actually have schedualed things to do each day. At registration I started talking to this lovely Australian girl. She invited me out a few times and since has introduced me to her friends. I went out to a few bars and lived less the solitary life of a ninety year old woman, walking, drinking tea, and sleeping by eight, oh and sharing my lunch with the pigeons, and more of the life of a twenty-something year old. We went out Saturday night and Sunday morning went for breakfast in my borrowed pajamas. We spent the day lying around and watching movies in my new friends apartment.
Sunday night I went on my first Parisian date and with a Parisian at that. I say that because a good portion of the people you meet here are either etrangers like myself or tourists. It terrific French practice as we can discute bien, and good company as well.
It's funny but meeting someone and having scheduled things to do can make all the difference in enjoying a city. Not that I didn't enjoy my own company and walking, but walking with someone is great fun too. I actually feel that I now live here, and am not just visiting. When I crawled into my neatly made bed last night, curled up under the covers and looked out my window at the familiar skyline, I couldn't help but to feel vraiment une Parisienne.