When we took our time getting to the table this morning, I assumed breakfast after 11 AM would also be our lunch. Wrong. Once the two friends finished breakfast, helped clean up, and left the house, plates reappeared on the table. Soon, the French equivalent of something like"come to the table, it's time to eat" smacked the air, followed quickly by scraping sounds and five thuds. Once lunch was finished and we had given our food time to settle, I accompanied the parents on a bike ride through the countryside, la campagne. Although the plants in the parks of Paris display the proper colors and even Parisian street cleaners are not quick enough where falling, autumn leaves are concerned, Paris is nothing compared to the countryside in its autumn radiance. Many of the fields cling to their green garments but the trees dotting the hillsides and lining the roads have turned to brilliant shades of yellows and reds. Near the end of the ride, we saw some of their friends working in their garden so we stopped on the back porch to share des gâteaux and fresh jus des pommes while chatting about food, their two new chickens and various other things until the sun kissed the top of the wooden fence. During that ride, I decided that when people ask the question commonly and variously posed to young people, "what do you want to do?" I will answer, "Je vivrai une bonne vie." 

I sit now in the living room writing and drinking tea while little Coquette purrs herself to sleep in my lap. You do not need the soft murmurs of monetary wealth to guide your life to happiness.

Taken of the house the following day.

Fall Break. Although most of the students in my program are traveling to other countries this week, I decided to spend the first half of my break visiting a French family in La Flèche, a small town in the countryside two hours train from Paris. My happiness increased with the widening land as we drove 45 minutes from the train station to their red trimmed house. Various colors of blossoming rosebushes spread around the house and the vegetable garden. The only color missing upon introduction was blue, its vibrancy hidden by dark clouds that drooled over the house through dinner. Dinner brought the boys' two friends and a pot of bubbling cheese fondue to the large wooden table, now supporting six baguette wielding persons and a clueless Texan. However, after my first taste of the fondue, I quickly mastered the art of skewering the baguette, plunging it into the warm, golden thickness with deft figure eight movements, and removing the steaming bread—without dripping on the table—to rest ever so briefly on my cool white plate. Words, French or English, were scarce in those first minutes. Once we realized our stomachs would fill before the pot was emptied, we slowed our pace and our tongues recalled the ability of speech. After fruit, the boys helped clean up before we headed into the fog and small streets of La Flèche. The only signs of life were a few street lights and a couple of friends who joined our party before reaching the favored pub.

Les enfants ont été sages hier. It is always better when we go to the park. 

When I returned home, Thais and I began what turned into a 2-3 hour ordeal of preparing and baking Zewelkueche, Onion Tart, from a recipe I obtained at a wine tasting in Strasbourg last weekend. There were a few modifications involved. First, we employed a pre-made crust. Then, during our pleasant French/English communications, we left it in twelve minutes too long. Several French, English, and Portugese exclamations pelted the air as I made a grab for the oven door. Only dark brown on the edges, but our mistake called for a minor adjustment in baking. After sautéing the onions and bacon in a white Bordeaux wine—brilliant idea, Emilie—we cooked the filling separately, adding it to the well-baked crust as it left the liquid phase. To fill the time between our attempts to fill the tart, we watched Paris, Je T’aime. In the end, I understood little of the dialogue, but I retired to my warm bed brimming with Zewelkueche and Paris.  

When the telephone screamed for Elisabet, calling her from the bowl of porridge and its fortress of vitamins (all organic and natural, of course), I leaned closer to my yaourt and müesli, praying for the sake of the person on the other line that it was not a sales call. “Ah hallo Margarite!” I relaxed, finishing breakfast just as the dry sweat from the morning run sent my body into shivers. Shower.

It’s difficult to conclude a hot shower when I know it’s the most thoroughly warm I’ll be until tomorrow’s hot shower. After summoning up the courage to turn those two knobs tightly to the right (mostly the one with the red dot), the next two battles included stepping out of the steamy chamber and stepping into freshly washed, thus freshly wet, underwear. 

Now, I have 30 minutes before venturing again into the cold sun for a rendezvous with a Texan. At least there is sun…and Texans…Regardless, it’s only 51ºF in Paris today. For the sake of survival both indoors and on the street, I must surrender to a magasin of manteaux.

This photo of Clovis is from his website:
http://www.clovislemusicopathe.com

Elisabet made plans for dinner with a colleague tonight so she prepared dinner, set the table for three, and departed. Now there is a fourth place-setting…Approaching 9h, I discovered the reason for the late (I mean, later than the usual late) dinner hour and the additional plate. A spontaneous melody from the piano accompanied by Clovis on a large, green, musical cravate, drew Thais and I from our rooms. After the jocular tune, Gerhard (remember, his artist name is Clovis) introduced his copin with a title that translates to something like “Pat the fool” in English. When Clovis commenced tooting the musical buret sitting on Pat’s head and Pat’s piano bred fingers accompanied in perfect harmonization, I decided my hunger could wait. 

In August of Elisabet Maunoury's 18th year, she left Sweden for Paris with some friends, including pensive Eva. While Eva shared her expansive knowledge of art with Elisabet in the museums, Elisabet ensured they experienced the French life portrayed in films, books, and pictures. This meant sitting in cafés, meeting french men, and eating cheese and drinking wine along the Seine.
Almost 40 years later, Elisabet payed a visit to her old friend. The 25 kilo and cancer-ridden Eva no longer left her bed, a pile of tubes. During the visit, however, Eva sat up chatting animatedly for hours. She died five days later.
"And what do you think we talked of, Emily?" Elisabet asked me, her eyes straining composure.
"Everything?"
"Paris. We didn't talk about our children, our work…we talked of our August in Paris."

Waiting for the children.

The clouds and cold linger. As the trees are stripped of their garments, we retreat into the folds of our dark coats and woolen socks. With one coat, two pairs of pants and my favorite boots—worn every day since I gritted my teeth and bought them—choosing what to wear in the morning has never been simpler and I leave the apartment just as happy (maybe more) as if I’d chosen my outfit from the overstocked closet awaiting my return to Dallas. Consumerism has not invaded the Parisian lifestyle. In the States, we are no longer conscious of the tyrant shoving stuff, often in bulk, down our throats, into our homes, through our minds, even into storage. I rarely see people reading the gossip magazines that appeared in France only 5 or 6 years ago. While consumerism strives to take hold of the people, another dictator has occupied the hearts and minds of some who can afford it.

Angelina's in the 1e
Said to be the best chocolate in Paris (I haven't tried it yet)

Yesterday, my History of Fashion in Paris class visited the area just north of the Louvre. Professor Constant said it is almost impossible to walk through the streets on a Saturday because of the number of people and the height of their heels. With much pomp and scorn, an acquaintance living in the same area told him indignantly that she has never crossed over the Seine to the left bank. Unfortunately, such people typically ignore opportunities to break the stereotype. Maybe it is what they strive for.

Qatar Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe

This man on the left takes social
codes very seriously.

Today at Hippodrome de Longchamp we attended free of charge (due to our hats) the Qatar Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, one of the biggest horse racing events of the year with a purse of 4 000 000 Euros. There were nine races. The most momentous was supposed to be race 6 but for Thais and I, it was race 5.

 Sara left with Karen for the train station when Thais and I made an unsuccessful endeavor to visit the stables. Nevertheless, I remained optimistic because the four of us had already been escorted into the VIP area by a friendly security guard. My straw hat and Forever XXI dress tottered awkwardly among the designer gowns and costly plumed hats of the strutting women. Eventually we managed to access the stables but after our first failed attempt, Thais and I settled outside crowded stands on the white fence at the beginning of the straightaway to watch race 5. As the eight horses stretched out for the final sprint, Number 6, Dever Dream, stumbled in front of our postion in the gravel parking lot and his yellow clad jockey leaped from his back. The bay horse alternated between sinking to his knees and rearing in pain. As an ambulance, the trainer, and the owner ran across the green to the horse, I saw the horse’s front left hoof swinging, nearly severed, from his foreleg. I watched in immoveable horror until they forced the horse down to inject him. Turning my back to face Thais’s quivering lip and equally wet and reddened eyes, I hardly noticed her fingers pinching my arm in a self-conscious effort to relieve the animal of some of his pain.

Convincing Thais to pet the horse.

David

Later in the afternoon, again in the VIP section and sat despondently near the entrance of the paddock. Physically and emotionally drained, we ignored the man in the suit who plumped down nearby. After our conversations with the security guards and my previous night at Nuit Blanche Paris, Thais and I were convinced that all men here, though appearing helpful, will inevitably ask for your number or more. Ironically, “David” left us happy when guided us into the stables—he wasn’t supposed to be there either—took our pictures, and bid A bientôt without asking for our contact information. It cheered him (he lost a lot of money) to cheer us.

Nuit Blanche

Karen, Sara, me infront of the Louvre

1er octobre was the annual Nuit Blanche Paris from 19:00h to 7:00h. We (two americans, one studying in Spain and the other in Aix en Provence) incorrectly assumed Paris' major museums would be open all night for the art celebration. Once we trudged by the deserted Musée d'Orsay and faltered in front of Musée du Louvre, we realized our mistake.

La chute des anges rebelles

Purple Rain

After the Louvre disappointment, the other two girls returned to their hotel. I was not ready to give up. Somewhere in the streets of Paris, there was purple rain. While an oily young French man followed me around wanting to drink and sleep together, I discovered the location of the Purple Rain spectacle by artist Pierre Ardouvin from a kind, anglophone french girl. "Do you want him to go with you?" she asked as she ripped the Purple Rain page out of her guide book, "No. Dont worry about it, I'll get rid of him later." Ignorant of the English words uttered, "Hakan" continued his unrequited pursuit until I exited the metro and he realized his cravings would not be satisfied by me.
At last, I found the epicenter of the street sculptures and installations of Nuit Blanche. By the time I found the Purple rain, it was three in the morning, the latest I've stayed out in months, and the line to walk in the rain with umbrellas was two hours long. Unfortunately, I also misunderstood the transportation options of the evening so instead of taking the metro, I walked home through the crowds of art lovers, drunks and jeers. During this walk I reflected, I am not a night life person… and that is ok.