From our class room there is a view of le Sacre Ceur. I walked up there Tuesday afternoon. Today is Friday and my calves are still diamond-shaped, rock hard and sore like a hooker on Navy Week.
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I go to class in the morning and on my way I meet the dads. Impeccably clad in dark suits and very nice shoes, they push their kids in strollers. The kids are adorable and speak bleu-bleu in tiny French voices, which makes it so cute there are no words to do it justice.
In the evening I meet the same kids again when their moms or nu-nus have picked them up from la crèche. The nu-nus are big black women with braided hair and gigantic butts in tight jeans.
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Young, female, urban professionals in Paris wear booties. Short little boots with hard heels that make a very determined sound, as their owner stride forward in her world; clac- clac, clac-clac.
Actually, the sound is more French: claque-claque, claque-claque.
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Me, in hoarse voice: “I want you inside of me”. To almond croissant.
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Monsieur le Professor, in heavy French accent: “It isn’t rocket science”. (Explaining brain surgery.)
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Monsieur le Professor, in heavy French accent: “So, theoretically, you can have quality of life worse than death”.
Guy next to me, whispering: “Yeah. Like this lecture.”
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Les boulangeries bake fresh baguettes several times a day. They wrap them in paper, leaving the ends sticking out.
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I was crossing a busy intersection in a business district, when towards me came a clown. He wore big shoes, rainbow hair, white face, red nose – the works. No one paid any attention to him. The incongruity was huge – a clown amidst all these busy city-people?? I sent him a huge smile and as a reward, he kissed his hand, and as he blew the kiss towards me, I was showered in glitter.
I was showered in glitter!
But.. How.. What?..
Was he carrying glitter in his hand all along?
How did the glitter get there?
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I went into a tiny little shop, where they sold LPs and graphic novels. I wormed my way around the narrow isles; opening a book here, touching a book cover there. The owner took up conversation and I smiled and nodded and tried to say “oui-oui” but soon he saw through my scam and switched to English.
“We have a department with books in English too”, he said, and pointed at a plastic bag with books in it. I bought two beautiful little books.
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Sometimes I get away with it and have very small conversations in French. I am so proud when I have a transaction without them noticing (or pretending not to notice?) that I actually don’t really speak French. “Bonne journée”, I yell convincingly, as I walk out the door.
Like saying it louder will make it better.
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I ask for the menu in French and then lean over to look at my neighbours’, which is in English. If I insist on staying in French language-mode, sometimes the waiter patiently explains a dish by making animal sounds. Sometimes they point at stuff while making animal sounds. Life is good.
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Why do they call Paris “the City of Lights”? In my experience, it should be called: ”the City of Complex Carbohydrates”.
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I have to have confit de canard. One day, I had it twice – for lunch AND dinner. And I wasn’t even ashamed. Not one bit. I greedily ate every morsel of sweet, tender meat off the bone. Twice in one day. No shame. Not one bit.
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I miss my guys. It is great and all. But I miss my guys.
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