I left for Paris one year ago. I was greeted with snow, cold feet, and a cup of tea. I slept for fourteen hours, spent hours bumbling about Monoprix, and in a bout of mal du pays, plowed my way through every television show Sally Field appeared in. I slipped on ice, fell once or twice, lost many pairs of socks, and managed to get a large blob of red wine out of cream carpet. I idealized Paris plenty and found my idealizations were, more or less, quite true. My days there were not terribly carefree; Lord knows they were hardly perfect. They were often rotten, miserable, and worn out like my tired shoes. And yet, I reflect fondly, miss that city like a bat torn out of hell.
I don't care much for New Years or other things which call attention to time. I'm troubled enough as it is by such thoughts. However, not all the almond champagne in the world can loosen my dear memories. I suppose this is my poor attempt at well-wishing! Here's to hoping!
I've listened to a heady, tireless amount of Aznavour lately. I always wonder what throws me into a musical mood. As the season shifts, winter staples are slowly trickling their way into my autumn repertoire. Naturally, too much Leonard Cohen always. Otherwise, bucketfuls of Michael Hurley, Odetta, & the Ink Spots (normally too much Django, but he really seems more appropriate in the spring, no?). The pleasure of succumbing to whims seems most prominent in what I listen to.
Unsettling to dwell on the comparison of this year and last. A cold Monaco* will save such thoughts.
These stills were lovingly zilched from Tirez sur le pianiste (1960) by François Roland Truffaut.
*A Monaco is best with a pale ale, grenadine, & limonade (sprite will do). Some replace the limonade with champagne, but I've yet to do this (shocking, considering I go a bit weak in the knees for anything brut).
La salle à manger, le repas, le salon, moi, avant la porte.
Monsieur de Ribier's family tree, a clock with hands, the absent pears, the daily preparation of sauces and dressings, standing before the window, music often entering from l'École Normale de Musique de Paris, a complicated set of keys, the unfamiliar taste of Coca Cola, and all of those evenings I mistakenly mistook airplanes for shooting stars.
Rue Champollion.
Without a Shadow of a Doubt, I fell in love with a stranger every time I went to the movies in France. White-haired couples wearing matching trench-coats. Little kids guffawing at the Marx Brothers. A gaggle of teenage boys standing in the queue at Action Christine for Swing Time. And most importantly, the endless stream of dreamboats drifting in and out of the dark theaters swamping the Quartier Latin. One such experience began by butchering the French translation of Chaplin's City Lights in front of a dashing chestnut-haired, grey-eyed fellow that chuckled good-naturedly when I stammered "la ville des lumières" instead of "les lumières de la ville." A rookie mistake, I suppose, but I managed a sheepish smile while my insides turned inside out as he said "le même" and chatted with the owner (once again, good-naturedly). As my luck would have it, the same fellow was smoking the end of a cigarette outside of the same theater the next day. Naturally, we exchanged grins as I ducked in to buy my ticket, and naturally, we ended up a seat away from each other before the film began. And without meaning to, we silently reenacted a scene from Masculin Féminin in the bathroom as we washed our hands next to each other and threaded our fingers through our hair with curious glances. Despite the (unfortunate) dead ends of these moments, I think they capture exactly what I like about going to the pictures. A familiarity to something I can't quite reach.
If you have the good fortune to find yourself in France and if you happen to enjoy napping in long leaves of grass, identifying plants and flowers (with book in hand, mind you), and rowing canoes down quiet waters, you cannot miss the Jardin des Plantes. Tucked away on the far right of the left bank, I spent many an hour wandering through this maze of green. Unfortunately, like most public French gardens, you aren't allowed to sit on the grass, but there are a few idyllic spots to rest if you need a breather. The gardens are situated between the main outlets of the Museum of Natural History: upon wandering, you may stumble into the botanical school, the Art Deco winter garden, the rose garden, a small zoo, or the other galleries of the museum. There are parents chasing children, silent-types playing bocce, and the occasional jogger mindfully running beside your path. I came here on days when I was very sad and very lonely and always left breathing in trees with a skip in my step. And on the days when I did walk for hours through these endless gardens, I enjoyed extending my journey along the Seine, catching the late sun through the windows of the Notre Dame, walking leisurely before the next showing at the Filmothèque du Quartier Latin (or l'Action Christine or Le Champo or les Actions Écoles). In short, I miss Paris wildly/painfully/profoundly and I will be woefully/happily/nostalgically harping on about it for the next few days/weeks/months.
As always, I'm a bit speechless reading all of your kind words.
Thank you for giving me some of your time.
The ingredients for a quiet afternoon are sometimes as follows: almond milk tea with a scoopful of boba, long walks down the quiet streets of the Marais, listening to João Gilberto with the windows open, hanging clean laundry from the kitchen ceiling, drinking iced tea and reading at a cafe while waiting for film to develop, remembering to wear my glasses for once, having the difficult choice between two John Ford films at the Filmothèque, napping in front of the Sacré Coeur, and slowly watching my skin brown in the sun.
