pianomd

I’ve really gotten behind this time. So much happens in the course of a day there is little time to write. (Again, Susan Tiberghien’s advice — keep a pad handy and jot down notes). Since the concert on the 1st the next big event was a trip to Versailles to take a cooking class!

No – not at the palace, but in someone’s home. Most people who are not French think the only thing in Versailles is the famous palace. But, in fact, Versailles is a town just like any other where people live and work, where there are other attractions and things to do.

I’ve no words to tell you just how much fun last Friday was from the time I took left our apartment at about 9:45 a.m.until I arrived back home.

The goal? To attend a cooking class in Versailles given by a woman who loves to cook and has begun to give cooking classes in her home. We were going to have lunch first at my friend’s sister’s home in Versailles before the class, and then drive back to Paris. Since my friend Veronique was not in Paris, the plan was that I would take the train to Versailles from Gare Saint Lazare meeting up with two other women (whom I’d didn’t know) along the way who were going as well. Names, cell phones numbers were exchanged and the time was set — we would get the 11:15 train arriving in Versailles at about 11:45.

I had reviewed the best ways to get to Gare Saint Lazare and decided that since I had plenty of time I’d take the bus — Bus #28. Gare Saint Lazare is the last stop. Well — I then decided to walk a good part of the way catching the bus just before it crossed the river so I could stop to buy a small pot of flowers for our hostess. The walk was wonderful with the morning air cool and misty, the streets freshly washed and Rue Cler, which I took to find a good flower shop, usually packed with shoppers and diners, was nearly empty. Good — I got to the bus stop and waited – and waited — and waited. No bus! This was highly unusual and equally unusual was the fact that there was no GPS information giving the minutes to the next bus. What should I do?

I knew that the minute I moved from my spot the bus would come. I called Amanda — one of the women I was to meet, “I’ve been waiting for nearly 20 minutes — there is no bus — I don’t think I’ll make the 11: 15. “ She was cool and said not to worry. We’ll get the 11:30 if I miss it, but to let her know so she can call Helene who was going to get on the train one stop after Saint Lazare. OK. I started to walk toward the metro and just as I was almost too far from the bus stop the bus appeared rounding the corner 3 blocks away. I turned back and started running as fast as I could (which isn’t that fast), and as the bus passed me and stopped to let a passenger off at MY stop, still running, I was yelling, “Entendez!! Entendez!” — which means “Listen! Listen!” — but others around the bus realized what was happening and started signaling to the driver to wait. At the same time I realized my error and started yelling “Attendez! Attendez! S’il vous plait!” (Wait! Wait! Please!)He waited, I thanked him and I made it to the train station in time to buy my ticket from a clerk, and get to the train in plenty of time to meet Amanda.

Helene joined us and exactly as planned, Veronique pulled up to the station, Versailles Rive Droite, as we came out and we drove the short distance to her sister’s home. She had already dropped her mother off – a wonderful, lively, energetic self-sufficient computer savy women in her late eighties. We were quite a group!

It was noon. The aperitifs came out and were poured before lunch. The jokes flew fast and furious and when I looked totally lost, someone would explain. Everyone at the table spoke English from excellent to pretty good, but they and I wanted the day to be in French. When I started to speak — ask a question or tell a story – in English, the group would turn to me and say, “En francais!” for my benefit. I so appreciated their willingness to listen to me plod along, correcting my mistakes and supplying the right word when needed.

It was like listening to a 33 rpm record at 78 rpms at first. (Remember what that sounded like?). At high speed — French – fast – everyone speaking at once (or so it seemed), jokes, laughter, fun. I felt as a little baby must upon hearing spoken language for the first time – “these sounds –what are they? I’ve never heard them before. Mommy! Help!” They all did. Little by little my ear began to become accustomed to the tempo and chatter more and more the sounds became understandable words. Of course, the women helped me with the specifics. I loved it!

Everyone was relaxed, even our hostess who was serving lunch. She did it with such ease, as her sister has so many times when we’ve been to her home for dinner (mind you –for never less then 8), and her mother, too, at her home. How gracious they are — how easy they make it look. No stress — no rush – take your time – enjoy – relax. The moment was to be enjoyed and shared around food and drink, friendship and family the key and the link. At least that is how it looks to me. It is what makes being here so special.

When the time came, the 6 of us piled into Anne’s car, and headed to our class. Tomorrow’s blog…..

For those of you who have never been to Paris, I thought it would be good to say two words about the overall geography of Paris. Paris was built around the banks of the River Seine. Each succeeding group of settlers built next to the previous group, fanning out from and around the river. Thus, the Seine became a dividing line between two parts of the city – the Right Bank (Rive Droite) to the north, and the Left Bank ( Rive Gauche) to the south. Each of the new settlements became a new district circling the city and each was given a number. Thus, the arrondissements follow one number after another circling the city around the river. (Look at a map which shows the arrondissements and this pattern will become clear.)

There are two islands in the central part of the river Seine in the heart of Paris:  L’ ‘île de la Cité, on which is located the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris (considered the ‘Heart of France’), the Palais de Justice, the famous Saint Chapelle and Le Conciergerie — the prison where Marie Antoinette awaited execution. The second island, right next to it, is L’île de Saint Louis which has shops, restaurants, hotels and apartments, and is home to the famous Paris ice cream, Berthillon.

Here we were – in the heart of France, the heart of Paris on a cold wintery night. (Pinch me! Am I really here?) A light freezing rain was beginning as we walked along the Seine, on L’île de la Cité, toward the cathedral Notre Dame de Paris. As we turned a corner along the north side of the island leading onto the square in front of the cathedral we were shocked to see scores of people there before us, ticket holders like us, already standing in a long line waiting to get into the church. We were almost tempted to turn back. Fortunately, the line moved quickly and soon we passed under that great edifice, so well-known to students of architecture, students of Paris, and tourists – and to George and me.  Even as we waited,though, we weren’t bored.  Tonight, as on every other night in this City of Lights, spotlights shone on the edifice which towered above us as we waited, cold, in line.

( Am I really here? It seems just yesterday that I was a young girl in The Bronx making my way on the subway to a concert in New York City, or to my piano teacher’s studio in Manhattan.)

We moved forward quickly and once inside found 5 seats (for friends we were meeting), not in the central nave which was already completely filled with concert goers but in the side aisle parallel to the central nave, under the beautifully vaulted high arched stone ceilings. One of the large thick columns which supports the church was a few aisles in front of us and partially blocked our view. It didn’t matter. We could see the conductor and most of the performers. Our friends arrived, found us, and we settled into our seats waiting with anticipation the start of the concert.

A stage had been erected in the central nave, at the back of the church, under the great organ. (The structure and history of this church, with its magnificent rose windows can be rediscovered at the web site below. Check it out!)
http://elore.com/Gothic/History/Overview/paris.htm

Back to the concert — 10 minutes late, the concert began — the orchestra , three choirs — a children’s choir, the conservatory choir, and members of a military choir having filed in, followed by the conductor.  Faure’s Requiem was performed — elegant, melodic harmonies – wonderful impressionism – blends of sounds, familiar yet heard a new in this magnificent performance in this wonderful space. Stravinsky followed after an intermission and organ interlude — the Symphony of Psalms, in some ways more appealing to me than the Faure as Stravinsky’s dissonances and rhythms evoke strong responses in me. These young performers from the Conservatory of Paris met the challenge –rendering a superb performance of this difficult music.

One word about the conductor who was a joy to watch. Without being overly demonstrative, his movements elicited clear responses from the performers. He brought them in on cue and helped shape their phrases , without drawing attention to himself. His hand would arch up and outward and then back close to his body — the instrumentalists and choir followed his delicate movements.  The refrain,  “Ah –le – lu-ia”  —crescendo — decrescendo to pianissimo — sung so beautifully,  each time.  Watching him enhanced my understanding of the music —the nuances and the structure — much like a ballet dancer might.

The concert ended with to a standing ovation for the performers, the conductor and choral masters. We exited through the same doors we had entered, made our way across the bridge (now covered with ‘black ice’ )linking L’île de la Cité to the Left Bank. We found a small restaurant next to Shakespeare & Co., where I ‘d had my writer’s workshop a couple of weeks ago. Still open at 10:30 and willing to seat 5 of us, the waiter was full of jokes and quite lively even at this hour. Charming and seemingly very old, the restaurant had yellow walls,  a low beamed ceiling, slanted wide plank floor, and little tables covered with white cloths where other diners were finishing their meals. It didn’t matter that the other diners were unusually noisy — we were happy to be in a warm cozy place. (Did I mention that none of the great cathedrals are heated?).

George and I enjoyed a favorite — warmed potatoes with herring! Not always on the menu, we are finding this dish frequently listed among appetizers this time of year. We ate, drank, and laughed with our friends and then headed for the metro. We are always sure to get home before the bewitching hour of 1:00 a.m. when the metro closes down and one would have to exit regardless of where you are. We made it! It was a lovely evening.

It wasn’t the best morning today. We were both tired from a very long walk yesterday from our apartment to Eglise Saint Eustache where we met Melody and Steve for an organ recital. The distance, as best I could calculate, was about 3 miles — but it was cold and we walked at a good clip. So, this morning was a slow start. After coffee, George went up to his studio to paint. I planned to continue reading the book I’d picked up here at the Village Voice bookshop,  Ararat: in Search of the Mythical Mountian by Frank Westerman, a Dutchman.

As I was about to stretch out on the living couch, I heard the mail being delivered — a lone envelop (another joy of being in Paris — there is rarely more than one envelop when there is mail) was slipped under our door. My relaxed mood quickly turned into annoyance when I saw that it was from the bureau of taxation. I opened the letter, and without carefully reading it, but saw that the check I had paid the tax with last week was being returned. I assumed that is was because there was an interest charge (received last week) on the tax which was not included in this check.

You see – the situation was even more complicated in my mind because I had paid the tax in good time with what is called a ‘TIP” which allows the recipient of the TIP to withdraw from the donors bank account the amount designated on this little form. The TIP which I sent in a December had been returned for a reason I never quite understood. After we arrived in Paris, I went to the bureau of taxation and paid it with a check (I think I described that experience a couple of posts ago– and described how happy I was that it was easy to accomplish. But, last week we received another letter from the tax people stating there was a 10% interest charge and, I assumed, for that reason my second payment was being returned.

OH MY! Frustration! George and I discussed the situation and we decided that it wasn’t worth my time and energy to argue about the interest payment, though it was a tidy sum of 168 Euros.  However, reading my book about the tribulations of the author trying to get permission from the Turkish government to climb Mt. Ararat I changed my mind. (One has nothing to do with the other, but in my mind it was a fight against bureaucracy. I decided that, although I might have to pay the interest in the end, it was worth arguing over it.

So, at about 2:00 pm or so, I bundled up (though not nearly enough), put my papers together for the confrontation and headed out. I should add that I looked up a few key words in French so that I could express my self adequately. “I am very upset” translated: Je suis très affectée.

On the way over to the square at Saint Sulpice where the finance offices for our arrondissment are, I stopped in to see Steve and Melody for a few minutes. Steve’s brother had just arrived from Texas, they’d finished lunch and we chatted about this and that. They asked me where I was headed and after I explained, they admonished me, “Stick to your guns, don’t pay the interest….” , etc.

Now I was really psyched and fortified for the fight! Although it was very cold I decided to walk so that I would have time to go over and over my speech in my head — in French.

“I have a big problem…. It is very complicated…. I don’t speak French well… please excuse me.” And then the sequence of events, “First, this came… and I sent this… and then this happened…” and on and on. I thought I had it all down. Ready, get set — GO!

I entered the building and went directly to the office where I had paid the tax (for the second time), took a number and sat down. (My speech was running through my head like a ticker-tape). My number came up. “This is it,” I thought, “My big chance! I’m on my own!”

I approached the clerk, a middle aged man, who smiled as we greeted each other, “Bonjour Madame — Bonjour Monsier”.

“J’ai un gros problèm. C’est très compliqué” at which point he said something which made me understand that he couldn’t fix a complicated problem and that I needed to go to another office. He punched a machine and out came another ticket with‘R24’ in blue. I thanked him, we smiled and bid each other good day — “Bonne journée” (not to be confused with Bonjour).

I stopped at the information desk at the entrance of this grand building to ask where the room was where this ticket indicated I should go. The receptionist was very polite and pointed to the door opposite the one I’d just been in. ‘Merci madame — bonne journée” we echoed each other.

Through the door, I saw my number in blue above the second cubicle, R 24… and stepped in. A young woman greeted me and I began my speech again. She interrupted and said in French, Je ne parle pas anglais  (I don’t speak English) and asked if I would like her to call someone who did speak English. Feeling a little insulted, though she was only trying to be helpful without any hint of annoyance, I told her I’d prefer trying again in French. But with my second attempt she again interrupted and this time I agreed.

She made two calls, and then handed the phone to me, “Madame,” the woman on the phone said in a most gracious and accommodating tone, “would you prefer to speak in English?”

“Yes, I think it might be better. “ and now started my litany about the payments, checks, etc. this time in English, but before I could say more than a few words, she asked for my name and address. Then she asked me to give the phone to the young woman behind the desk – they spoke a little and the phone was back to me. Now, I thought the fight over the interest payment was going to start.

Speaking beautiful and perfect English, the woman explained that the original payment made by TIP had been returned because the needed computer numbers found at the bottom of the TIP were missing. She continued, “The check had been returned, not because of the interest payment, which doesn’t matter and which you certainly don’t have to pay, but because the written amount on the check does not correspond with the amount written in numbers. It is required in France.” She went on to say, “Numbers in French are very difficult and everyone has trouble learning them.” And if she hadn’t made me feel good enough by then, she added, “… just as I have trouble with numbers in English.”

Well by now, I was thinking, “I don’t believe this… how easy was this –not only easy, but civilized, polite and gracious.”

I gave the phone back to the young woman at the desk, and the English-speaker told her what to write and how to write the check out and to hand it back to me to review. When all was completed, I turned back for a moment before leaving and asked (in French), “And what error did I make just so I can learn.” The young woman smiled and pointing to the written numbers, she said, “You wrote ‘soixante’ instead of ‘six’ (sixty instead of six –the same as in English). Which meant I was paying a tax which was “one thousand sixty- hundred” — instead of ‘one thousand six-hundred…”

Parting I remarked to her, “Un comédie des erreurs!” and we both laughed!

Still very cold and feeling as though ice packs were sitting on my shoulders, I walked all the way home nonetheless thinking about how delicious the lemon yogurt I had just purchased at Le Grand Epicerie de Le Bon Marché would be.

Several days have passed since my last entry. Part of the reason is there has been a lot of activity with email and simply ‘stuff’ which has required attention. Haven’t yet figured out how to manage that ‘stuff’ so it is not distracting.

I was up late the other night (about 1:30 a.m.) and had just gotten up from the computer to check something in the kitchen when I heard the computer ring – a skype call! It was my nephew and niece who had seen I was ‘on-line’ and thus called. That’s the kind of thing for which these computers are really worth having. What a pleasure to be surprised, here in Paris by a visit from them. There we were – the three of us chatting, seeing each other, all these thousands of miles apart. How amazing is that?

So much else has happened since I last made an entry. Susan Tiberghien’s admonition to keep a notebook on hand at all time for making quick entries to use as reminders is a habit I must now adopt. Over the past few days I said to myself several times, “Must remember to write about that…. “ and then again… “Must remember…” Well – I don’t remember most, but here is what I do remember.

It is VERY cold! The sun comes out for a few minutes in the morning (maybe!), and then it is gone. The wind makes it more bitter, with a significant wind chill factor making it feel much colder. I had my hair cut – and I like it! It is quite a bit shorter — I’ll take a photo and post it. The appointment was with Muriel who was recommended by our friend Marie-Louise. Muriel works at the chain Sergio Bossi and we’ve been going to her for years. She speaks very little English we manage to communicate. I know now what I have to say in terms of getting the right hair cut….’pas trop court’ (not too short); ‘degradé’ (not a blunt cut, but layered); ‘brush’ (blow dry and brush) or ‘natural’ (just let my curls do their own thing!).

It works! The hard part is getting the appointment time straight over the phone. As you can imagine, anything over the phone is difficult. All of the hand motions that are helpful in person are obviously of no use over the phone. This time, I was relieved when Muriel herself answered the salon phone.

“Ah, Bonjour Caroline” she said as soon as she heard my voice and my faltering French. “Muriel? Oui, c’est Caroline” (most folks for whom English is not their native language cannot say, “ann” after Carol. It’s OK.) She asked…”Demain?” “No – today, if possible” I responded in French. “O.K.” she said, and gave me the time.

Now, hours of the day and numbers are difficult for us “estrangers” (foreigners) and getting right over the phone is VERY difficult. The morning hours aren’t too bad, but since French appointment, schedules, and reservations are all on the 24 hours clock, any time after the noon hour is a challenge to get straight.

She said, “Seize heure et demi.” I asked her to repeat it – she did. And then I said, “Seize heure — at 4? “ Yes, at 4.” OK. I knew there was another something after the 4 p.m., but I figured I’d get there at 4 and just wait to be on the safe side.

Let me explain: “seize” is 16 in French and 16 heures is 4 p.m. (I subtact 2 from the second digit to get the hour I can relate to IF I understand the number given to begin with!) Thus, a reservation for 9 p.m. will be at 21 heures or “vingt et un” (pronounced ‘vin-te- un’ — said very quickly so you must pay attention. And a 9:30 pm appointment …. Well, you get the idea!) My hair appointment was for 4:30, so I read a book I’d brought along for that purpose.

I like going to this particular salon because it is, as we say, ‘low key.’ Muriel herself travelled to NYC last year and loved it (I haven’t met a person here who hasn’t). She is tall and very thin with long straight black hair. She has a ready smile and gives both George and I welcoming kisses on both checks when we arrived. Coffee is always offered while we wait. She washes our hair and sweeps the floor herself after every cut.

The shop is on a busy street in the 5th arrondissemont, with lots of small stores and markets. Vartan’s is one of two Armenian restaurants in Paris (Yorgantz is the other in the 9th) I discovered Vartan’s one day when I had arrived much too early for my appointment and decided to walk around exploring the area. Tucked back off the main street but with a Blvd Saint Germain address, we tried it for lunch but haven’t been back. The day we were there we chatted a long time with the owner who apparently asks, in Armenian, each customer as they enter, “Are you Armenian?” If you are, you respond, “Ayo”; if you don’t understand the language, there is no response on the part of the entering patron. At least that’s what happened the day we were there. We thought it was pretty funny!

The other shops in the area include a Greek grocery with lots of delicious takeout foods; a natural food store with many ‘green’ supplies for home and self in addition to food; and a very nice clothing store with good quality, moderately priced clothes for women. One street over are an open air market and specialty stores all equally wonderful: a “poisonnerie” with all kinds of fresh fish still wiggling and assorted shellfish still in their shells –displayed on ice; a specialty cheese shop with various yogurts and jellies for takeout; a wine shop, a vegetable-fruit store; and of course, a “boulangerie- pâtisserie” (bakery-pastry shop) from which the most wonderful aromas float succeeding in luring us in.

Most days of the week the square in front of these shops has an open market as well– tented – with all kinds of things for sale from DVDs to sundry items for the house, and clothing for men, women, and children. It isn’t a big market, but supplements the food stores. It makes for ‘one-stop’ shopping.

Going for a haircut becomes a half-day outing as we always need to make the rounds of these shops afterward – they are simply too enticing!

More to follow but it is lunch time now.

The sun is shining today – well, maybe the word shining is an exaggeration. The sun seems to be out and the sky is more blue than grey. From the window I see that folks in the street below are hurrying around, bundled up. I’m sure in every woman’s handbag there is an umbrella – just in case.

George is upstairs working on his art. Today, I’m going to meet with one of the women from the writers’ workshop I attended. Susan Tiberghien, the author who ran the workshop, emphasized the need for having either a group of writers to meet with periodically or a buddy, without one can regularly work with — reading your work, listening to the other’s work, discussing, helping, critical thought exchanged. Though she lives in Geneva, she has a friend who comes from Italy once a month for that purpose.

Yesterday was the one week mark since we left Boston and since then, it has been icy cold there, with more snow expected today. I feel as though we are in the Caribbean in comparison!

Yesterday we ventured back to Le Bon Marché to buy the bedspread on sale we had seen a couple of days ago. The store was full of shoppers but there was a marked difference in the atmosphere. Nearing the end of the sale period, there were fewer of the great bargains to be had, though there were still a few. On the 3rd floor, we bought the bedspread, and then rummaged through sale items concentrated in one area – housewares, furniture, stationary, and an assortment of various odds and ends none of which we needed.

Le Bon Marche, the store itself, deserves a few descriptive lines, but my prose failed to convey its elegance and so I deleted those lines before posting this. The shoppers? They, too, have a certain air and elegance which is hard to describe. — an elegance, which even on a cold blistering winter, rainy grey day is impressive. You’ll have to come see for yourselves!

Later in the afternoon I headed for Café Malonga in the 6th.
For a meeting with one of the women from the workshop. She lives in Paris for this year with her daughter who is studying here. You can find her at her website and blog:

http://www.simmerandsips.com Enjoy!

If these upload, there are a few more photos:  St. Sulpice without scaffolding, the new post office, and another photo or tow of the inside of Shakespeare & Co.

I’m having a bit of difficulty uploading photos into my blog so here they are — I hope. There are no descriptions though I’ve been trying and maybe with time I’ll figure out how to get them included.

Also — a word about the blog itself. It is taking more time than I thought and editing isn’t easy. My mistakes (or which there are many) — words, misspelled, misplaced, or left out — though I try to catch them, they slip in nontheless. I have a form of dyslexia which causes me to reverse letters and numbers. Thus, spelling has always been, let’s say, not my strong point. AND, editing is even worse, as I don’t SEE the error. So bare with me — and fill in the blanks!

Now for the photos!!!!

January 22

The day started out slowly as we have lots to do later on. After the usual morning activity in the apartment and George’s usual trip to our Saturday ‘marché’ (outdoor market) we headed for the metro. Guess where George was going? Yes! BHV. For what? For clear plastic to seal our long French style window. I’m headed to a writer’s workshop.

Metro #10 to the Cluny-Sorbonne stop. Again, the train was packed and again, we were surprised. It had to be that people are going shopping given the huge sales which I’ve mentioned a few time already. Usually, even when a train or a restaurant is crowded, people keep their voices low. On more than one occasion  with an American friend we’ve had to caution them to ‘lower your voice.’ It isn’t that the French don’t talk as much as Americans do; they just talk more softly usually! Today, the metro was like a beehive! OH MY! Buzzing away at quite a high decibel. One young couple didn’t notice, too busy in each other’s arms enjoying their moment despite the onlookers. There were groups of women headed for the bargains I assume, and others alone or with a friend. Everyone, except the young couple was talking with animation and even laughing. It was wonderful!

I left George to go on to the next stop making my way down Rue de Danté (yes, found the symbols to allow for accents!) to just behind the Eglise Saint Julien-de-Pauvre. (one of the oldest churches, if not the oldest, and with what is purported to be the oldest tree in Paris in its courtyard.) We’ve been to concerts in this wonderful little church with lots of history. Google it, if you don’t know it. Situated opposite the Cathedral de Notre Dame, it is a lovely spot to sit and enjoy just being there. But no time — now I was hunting for Shakespeare & Company, the bookstore where my workshop is being held. I’ve passed it at other times,  but can’t quite remember exactly where it is.  The address is clearn, but the ‘rue’ stops and starts up again — I’m looking1 One turn around the block and I’ve found it.

I’m not going to write about the history of Shakespeare and Co. except to say the original bookshop with that name was started right after WWI by an American woman with $3000 U.S. — quite a lot of money I would supposed at that time. She managed to keep it going, a place for new writers to be discovered and old writers to find continued support. The shop carried only  books in English  for sale and to borrow. Her name was Sylvia Beach.   In the beginning, her source of books was mainly from a friend who owned a bookshop in Britain, but later she developed other sources as well as publishing books herself.  The shop was closed in 1941 as she was interred briefly and nearly bankrupt during the Nazi occupation. In the early 1960s, George Whitman opened a new bookshop, in a different location, still on the Left Bank, and in Sylvia’s honor named it Shakespeare & Co.

Making my way through and around piles and piles of books stacked on top of each other on the floor, and again higher on the towering book shelves, I found stairs at the rear of the shop leading to the 2nd floor where the workshop was going to be held. I should mention that not only were the books an obstacle course, but so too the shop’s customers and those sitting around reading — all seemingly placed as haphazard  as the books oblivious to anyone trying to pass through. The wooden stairs leading to the second floor were old – very old. But, they held me along with others, in both direction.  The second floor had yet more small rooms of piled high with even more books. The room where the workshops are held was easy to find, the area was so small.  Charming, lined as well with books and with chairs and benches in a circle, it  looks out to Notre Dame and the river Seine.  The bookstalls (or more correctly ‘les bouquinstes’ in French) which famously line the road along the river added to the setting — not lost on our workshop leader who later commented on them.

Susan Tiberghien, the author and leader of the workshop, was already there and soon the room filled with about 16-18 aspiring writers eager to learn. The workshop was on memory and memoires. One man, the rest women, I quickly learned were not all beginners.  Many were published authors, not just aspiring ones. However, everyone had come for help, inspiration, and direction.   I don’t think anyone was disappointed.  Unfortunately, we didn’t get to share our stories, as I would have liked to heard them and to have heard what others wrote during the course of the workshop. I think there were too many of us for that, though we had three hours.
It seemed I was the newest to Paris, as some of the women here had been living and working in Paris for many years.

In the middle of the workshop I had a Eureka moment to my great delight. In fact, I almost had to get up and leave as the urge to write was so great. What was it? Something Susan explained, the ‘how to organize’ your personal memoire. I realized that I’d already written most of the stories and could easily write more now to flesh it all out because I had the theme, or as Susan put it, ‘the window’ through which to write them, how to ‘frame’ the writing. I won’t spill the beans now (sorry for the trite metaphor)

After three hours, we parted but not before making a list of names with email addresses. We’ve already been in touch as I write this and hope to continue, though Susan returns to Geneva where she lives. We’ll form the group and a leader will emerge.

I needed time to relax and think so walking home seemed better than fighting the crowds on the metro. It is a long walk through crowded areas, though despite the cold and the drizzle, people were everywhere – including many tourists camera in hand.

Home — George was back and had spent time painting. We rested a bit and then headed to our good friends, Mike, Janice, and Sarah’s apartment in the 15th. We knew dinner would be great as Mike is an excellent chef — three onion risotto and eggplant parmesan. We weren’t disappointed (again!)  We had a another evening of great conversation, laughs and catching up with what’s happening. And — we enjoyed some music as both Sarah and Janice play . Both are taking piano lessons here, in addition to working and going to school.

Getting home was easy — Metro #6 from Trocadero to Sèvres le Courbe. (I think I’ve spelled it correctly).

To bed!
(I added photos but they didn’t post)

We had a difficult night with jetlag still being a part of our system. I didn’t go to bed until 1 am, and then had difficulty sleeping. George and I were both up at 3 – 3:30 hungry. We cut slices for the loaf we bought upon arrival in Paris – a cereal bread we love. Although it had gotten soggy, when sliced and toasted with a bit of butter and cheese it was delicious – especially at 3:30 am.

We ate, talked a bit, and then tried to sleep again. I heard the footfalls of our neighbors upstairs as they followed their routine — up at 8 am and off to school and work. I heard George, too, sometime around then, wondering through the apartment,. I heard him through that place where one can be — not quite sleep, but almost sleep — semi conscious, not fully conscious. It is a nice place – a place I love because I can go either way — wake up or go back to sleep. I love having that option. I love knowing that I’m bed and can enjoy my sleep state. It is too bad, I often think, that while I’m sleeping I don’t know I’m sleeping and thus can’t enjoy it. I can’t enjoy the feel of the comforter, its warmth and softness, and comfort of the bed – its feel which both together give me retreat from the day.

My bed – it is a place I like more and more. My routine is the same – ready for bed,
get under the covers and read or do a suduko puzzle. I often think I should be studying French, learning vocabulary, or doing a more mind stimulating activity, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do that. I want to relax completely and read or do a puzzle until I no longer can keep my eyes open.

Back to this morning — we’ve had our coffee, read email, touched base with ‘home.’ Have good vibes about Steve’s recent chemo — he feels well. He and Melody are planning to come to Paris this coming Sunday. We are hopeful.

George and I have lectures and concerts we are planning to attend.
Today we will stay home for the most part to rest. We have set up the electronic piano and I am going to prepare for tomorrow’s writer’s workshop.

Around 3:00 pm we bundled up and left the apartment. However, it was quickly evident that we hadn’t bundled up enough. The wind was brisk lowering the temperature considerably; we almost turned back. My fingers were icy cold despite the heavy mittens covering them. We headed toward Rue de Sevres, after passing the new fantastic structure which is a post office (we’ll take photos later) we turned up a side street to Rue de Cherche-Midi. A few more blocks and we reached our favorite hardware store. It’s the kind of place we used to have in the U.S., and can be found in some small towns, but the kind of “ma and pa” store HomeDepot has put out of business. One can find pretty much everything and anything one could possibly need for the home from paints, to wonderful little carpets for the floor, to dishes and light electronics, utensils, carryalls, shopping carts, baskets ; you name it — they have it! George found the special batteries we needed for our Bose speakers and I found small glass bowls made in France, each for only 1.40 euros.
The women who ‘man’ the store (no pun intended) are always helpful and pleasant (unlike at the smaller, less interesting hardware store in our immediate neighborhood). Despite being packed with shoppers, we entered and left to the usual “Bonjour madame — merci – — au revoir madame – bon journee” pleasantries. (Excuse the omission of accents as my computer doesn’t make them easy to add).

We meandered back up this wonderful street passing shop after shop of specialty stores of one kind or another – a children’s shop with handmade clothes and toys, several book stores, an antique shop with an exquisite tri-fold screen in the window ebony with sailing scenes in an Asian style, clothing shops — high end/low end – and of course, a tea house and several restaurants and cafes. Textiles and handbags in the window in another shop, JG – Johanna Gullichen, a Finnish textile designer. The owner of the shop and designer are one and the same running her shop for at this same spot for 12 years. Manufactured in Finland, her designs are geometric, unlike the more familiar Marimikko designs we know in the U.S. I purchased a shoulder bag in a black and white cotton weave, machine washable and light weight. Johanna spoke with us in perfect English and spoke in French with other customers. I kidded her, “So it is possible to learn French,” noting my own struggles. A tall handsome woman, she smiled, “Yes, I learned” And then she added, “…but it took me a very long time.” I thought, “I don’t have so long…..”

We turned down a different side street other than the one we came up and discovered a used book store which specializes in paperbacks in English. We’ll head back here on another day for sure.

Back to our warm apartment, we rested before heading out for dinner — the invitation was for 8:30 p.m. a reasonable time here in France. Although we’ve been to our friend’s home many times, I researched again on line exactly how to get there in the shortest time with the least amount of walking. Using the RATP web site it was possible – take Metro 10 to Sevres Babylon, change to Metro #12 , get off at Trinite and walk about 3 minutes! Total travel time: 28 minutes the web site correctly estimated. What it didn’t tell us that we’d be packed in like sardines on line #12 – — caused it seems by a confluence of factors — Friday evening with stores open for the ‘sales’ and a little slow down in train service.

Dinner was another delightful evening with friends, Veronique and Pierre and several other friends we know well from getting together other times at each other’s homes. Veronique teaches French language and culture to exchange students and despite a heavy work schedule she had prepared a wonderful dinner of fish with mushrooms, zucchini casserole, a cheese course, and a fantastic chocolate-pear cake which she made. Pierre and I tried our four hands at the piano playing a little of a Hayden theme and variations, but we were definitely out-shown by Marian the young daughter of Cosette and Jean Pierre, who after only two years of study could play quite beautifully. So delightful – so willing to play and provide enjoyment.

The evening moved along with barely enough time to catch up with all everyone is doing. This group of friends travels (as I think Europeans are much more prone to do than Americans) always with trips to Syria, Jordan, Italy, and Romania since we were last together. Next? Burundi for Marie Odile. Before leaving, Veronique invited me to join her and her maman in Versaille for a cooking class in a couple of weeks! What fun! YES! I’ll be there.

The evening ended and we got back to our apartment in good time before the metro closed down — 1:00 am is the bewitching hour.

January 20, 2011

Paris

Time is all off — we didn’t wake until after ten a.m. George said he was up most of the night, while I slept soundly. We finally made it out by 1:00 p.m. and headed for George’s favorite department store – BHV (Bazaar Hotel de Ville – translation: department store at the City Hall).

There is so much to write about if one is to think about experiences and observations in detail. It would be nice to be able to say it all in a prose poem, or in haiku both forms use few words for profound thoughts. I remember the contests that used to be on radio when I was a kid. The announcer would say something like, “Send us a letter in 25 words or less as to why you love Ivory soap …..” Twenty-five words or less…. My mother never sent a letter in. She just laughed and said it was all phony anyway.

Getting back to our day’s experiences. We took the metro and then changed to a bus. In Paris, bus driver’s will stop and wait for a passenger. The driver of our bus had pulled away from the stop, but was still quite close to it. A woman was running for the bus, coming from the rear, she knocked on the back of the bus and the driver stopped seeing her in the rear view mirror. Nice – on such a cold day.

We love the busses of Paris. People who ride the busses are older and have more time, than those who ride the metro – who tend to be more in a rush and younger. We often start to chat with an elderly person while we wait at a bus stop or even on the bus which is nice. And, obviously from a bus, one can see the city and observe life all around. We have our favorite busses — #28, #70, #39, and # 96 – which we took to get to BHV, bordering on arroundissmont #4, the Marais which is the old Jewish quarter of Paris and a great place to spend hours walking around.

But, no time for the Marais today – we’re headed for BHV along with thousands of other shoppers, not unexpectedly given the sales underway. The store was jammed with shoppers — shoppers everywhere — shopping! Special cashiers were set-up everywhere, and in the clothing areas, cabana-like booths were set up in some places for trying on clothes.

George and I separated – I went to look at bed linens and George went to the basement for various art supplies. We met ½ hour later in housewares. He had been successful, but I was overwhelmed and dizzy: too many people in frenzy mode and too much stuff to look at and sort through. Clearly we needed to eat something. What a relief! Food!

Called ‘Le Self’ , overlooking beautiful roof tops, the cafeteria was a welcome oasis. We had leek and potato soup and a little dish of salad from the salad bar. The foods were fantastic and beautifully displayed, but in keeping with French portions, the dish one was to use was the size of a saucer. Explains a lot!

After another ½ hour of meandering, we left having bought nothing else. Every time we thought to buy something we would rationalize away our need for the item and that was that!

What a relief to be outside again though cold and brisk. In the grand square in from of the Paris City Hall (adjacent to BHV) and not far from the carousel, George spied a young woman eating cotton candy and before I knew it, I was taking his picture with her and her companion. They turned out to be students from Australia. One had just finished a 6 month exchange program in Glasgow and was visiting her friend who was almost finished her exchange program in Paris, studying economic and political science. We talked for a while about conditions in Australia. She said that they knew many people who had lost their homes in the great floods Australia was experiencing and that it would take years for the country to recover.

From there we walked across a bridge to Notre Dame. A concert on Feb. 1 — Faure’s Requiem and Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms –was advertised on a small billboard in front so we went in and bought two tickets for it.

Continuing our walk across to the Left Bank, we decided to try to find ‘barley’ to make tanabour (Armenian hot barley-yogurt soup). We’d already looked for it in several grocery stores unsuccessfully. There is a Greek store in this area which we’d been to before — surely he’d have it, but no luck! But, he did have ‘simit’ a dry, flaky not too sweet cookie which we love. (Now that I think of it, where did George put them? I could go for one right about now –12:30 am!)

We continued walking down Blvd St. Germain, past the Cluny Museum to Odeon and decided to take the bus – bus #70 — which would take us to an organic grocery store close to home. Once there, we got more organic Fromage Blanc (translated: white cheese). But it isn’t really cheese, but something close to Greek or strained yogurt made with acidophilus bacteria. Again, we looked for barley unsuccessfully We remembered the Russian store next door run by an Armenian. When we entered he greeted us in Armenian with a big smile surprised, I think, to see us again. We asked if he had barley (as I couldn’t remember the Armenian name). He didn’t understand what we wanted, but then I said to him in Armenian, “You know — the grain Armenians use to make sebas!”’’ “Oh — sebas “ and he brought out two types of barley from Russia. (Sebas is the name given to hot yogurt soup in Armenia.)

The French word for barley is ‘orge’. The Armenian word is ‘kari’. I think it explains the Armenian word for beer: ‘kari chour’ ( barley water)’

Home, I visited our elderly neighbor on the 2nd floor and then, after dinner we set up my electric piano. That’s another story for another time.

I hope I’m able to post photos as this is definitely a learning process.