write about France

I was browsing through email folders and skimming messages. I have all the emails I sent from our hotel in Paris, this being the first one:

Bonsoir mes amis!

We made it onto the direct flight to Paris on Air France – thanks to Detroit’s awful weather and the mistake of an NWA employee. Right now, I’m using the hotel’s computer which has a French [read: crazy] keyboard, so this should be shorter than usual. I think they like to use the exclamation point though because the period requires the shift key but !!!!!! is very easy to reach.

My legs were too long for the long flight, so I didn’t get as many winks as I wanted…we sat with a young guy named Lan (pronounced ee-lawn) who was originally from Woodland Hills and goes to UCSD. He was nice to chat with.

The hotel lobby is nice, and is on the left bank across from the Louvre museum, but the room is small of course – I’m going to take photos of the shower because I think Paul barely fits inside. Alors, I love this city and the people have been very nice and helpful. I told Paul I want to live here for a while, so perhaps one of you will visit us in France one day! (When my French is better.)

Everything truly is accessible by walking (like the Louvre; Musee d’Orsay; plus many cafes, galleries, and shops) or by metro. Paul and I took the RER from CDG and walked to our hotel from the stop – with our luggage!

When we got to the hotel, we had a quick nap and headed out for café au lait and chocolate chaud at a bar/cafe down the street; then we had dinner at a restaurant called, La Frigate, which is across the bank from the Louvre. What an amazing sight at night! I had my first taste of veal and créme brulée, in Paris no less, so I don’t think I have any regrets about that.

The weather isn’t too cold, except when the breeze comes through. My boots are a hit as I’ve seen many locals thinking the same thing and I’ve already seen too many items I wish could furnish our house or hang in my closet.

I think tomorrow we’re going to spend the day at the Louvre so I’m off to sleep. It’s already midnight here! Bon nuit.

Love,
Murielle et Paul

PS.
Highlight of our evening: a man on a unicycle rolling past our restaurant window. Not a performer, but just a guy getting somewhere on his unicycle. Trés amusant!

Oh, to be able to go to this would be lovely.

I wasn’t in Paris when I saw this, but we had returned recently, and so my heart was very close to the topic. It came from Netflix and P had difficulty sitting through it. Frankly, some of the short films were not my thing either – like Elijah Wood turning into a vampire.

What?

Yeah.

But, the last short in Paris, Je t’aime struck a cord in me and I literally cried at the end of it. I think I even hid my tears from P so that he wouldn’t poke me in the side and say I’m silly. This story though, it was so honest and funny and…me.

14e Arrondisement with Margo Martinson was directed by Alexander Payne and tells the story of an American postal worker speaking of her first European holiday. She narrates in her very Americanized French on what she loves about Paris.

The video doesn’t have the English subtitles, so I would still recommend you rent Paris, Je t’aime if you don’t understand what it says. It took me a while to even find the clip…

There’s really no place for this entry. But, I have to write something somewhere so that I can, well, I don’t know.

My godmother died tonight. We knew it was coming, and I told her last night, as I said goodbye, that I would see her later. All of her close friends and my family visited to say what you say – or pray, or thank, or think – when someone you love is about to leave.

I didn’t say much. I didn’t cry much. I wanted to feel that it was okay for her to go, if she felt ready.

I’m writing under this goal because Margaret had given me a book on her favorite museum, the Orsay in Paris. We stayed a block or so from it and didn’t go inside. She spoke of the impressionist’s room that brought her to tears as she just sat amongst them in silence.

She also gave me a book that listed her favorite restaurant in Paris, albeit she hadn’t been there in many years. We never did look it up as it was way out of our budget. Apparently the waiters wore purple dining jackets and wouldn’t allow her to drink a certain wine with her meal because it was blasphemy or some such.

Maggie is this lovely person in my life. A wonderful being who helped me, my family, and so many people. She encouraged all my endeavors, gave me my first art set, my first (and only) pottery wheel, paints, brushes, pads and pads of paper. I was in heaven as her young goddaughter. But, she also brought people out of a coma, had others walk when they didn’t think they ever would, placed the gift of words in those who couldn’t speak, and freed so many from life-altering disabilities.

After having cancer, I wrote a letter to her. I planned on writing to many people, but she was the only one (so far). I thanked her for all she has done for me, apologized for any annoyances my family may have caused, and told her I loved her. She called me and I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment of complete…release.

She was golden.

And I miss her from the depths of my heart…

“Too many people are penny-wise and pound-foolish when it comes to information. I see them every year, stranded on street corners in Paris, hemorrhaging money. It’s cascading off of them in €100 notes. These vacations are disasters. Tourists with no information run out of money, fly home early, and hate the French.”

Stumbled across this article today. It made me smile, and frown, and wish I was there again.

A jotting in my notebook: I am always stepping in dog shit, the one Paris cliché that’s actually true. That, and that no one moves out of your way. Shoulder-checked a lady this morning who wouldn’t move to let me out of the Metro. Enjoyed it.

Although I love France (and French) and visiting just made me want to live there – I definitely understand certain frustrations about the logistics of Paris.

It can be mind-boggling at times.

I never did step in dog shit while I was there, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I did and just didn’t know it. I think not picking up after your dog has something to do with c’est la vie – I like to think Parisians do it to help keep the tourists out.

I remember seeing a film at Champs-Elysees and they ran a commercial for Nespresso, a “coffee shop.” P and I had sat on a bench in front of one of those, watching all the people walk in and out, picking up this espresso machine, comparing it to that, and the line just stayed long because the Christmas season was upon us. Care for a Nespresso, anyone? Well, I didn’t even know this until I read the article:

I got a machine that brews Nespresso coffee, and only Nespresso coffee, coffee packed in small foil pods that you can only buy at Nespresso stores, which are called clubs. You cannot just walk into a Nespresso club and buy coffee. Instead, you need to have your membership card, which you must show, and then you must select your “Grand Cru” of coffee from 16 varieties, and only then, after enticing you with the latest seasonal offerings (cardamom espresso; chocolate orange), will a Nespresso club representative sell you coffee.

And that’s how Paris can be sometimes. Much like the inner workings of Los Angeles, where I was denied access into a club because I didn’t have the cash to palm to the bouncer. So, I waited in line (instead of the cash-palm speedy way) and before you knew it, I was leaving anyway because it cost $30 to get in.

Except, if Los Angeles had the Paris metro and the French language and the charcuteries and boulangeries and fromageries in every block, I may love it like I loved Paris.