Marché de Noël

Sunday night after I returned from the Marché de Noël à Esbly, I mentally prepped for class the next day (homework was already finished) and went to bed. I dont recall the number of times exactly but every 1.5-2hrs that night, my poisoned stomach forced me from my cozy bed to kneel on cold tiles before the all consuming toilette bowl. Though fatigued and aching, I remember being curiously surprised that my body temperature could change so quickly, almost instantaneously, from teeth-chattering cold to sweat-broiling hot.
The human body is quite fascinating, even to the sick mind.

After a couple of days in bed and with Elisabet Maunoury's kind, experienced hand, I have recovered my health and nearly my strength.

Definitely Clovis.

After an onion soup dinner at Le Luco with 3 American students, Thais and I returned home, planning to study and go to bed. When we arrived at the appartement, however, Gerhard was just going out to the 23rd annual Jazz Band Ball at Place du Pantheon, not more than a ten minute walk away (and gratuit). Gerhard pointed out that he was the blue jacketed character on the poster. We left our coats on and headed out the door.
It was difficult to keep still in that grand old room with Jazz flowing over and through us but until the second to last act when Thais and I went to the back room and I relieved the energy with a little dancing, we settled for discreet toe tapping and clapping after especially fantastic phrases or solos. They were all fantastic.

Irakli & les Louis Ambassadors

My favorite group was Irakli & les Louis Ambassadors. Gerhard told us that Irakli on his trompette is France's version of Louis Armstrong. During one of their numbers, their drummer went into an incredible solo that lasted more than 6 minutes.
Regardez.

Me and Olivier Giraud doing the night club lips

On Wednesday night, twenty or so CEA ticket winners attended Olivier Giraud's one man show How to Become a Parisian in One Hour. Throughout the spectacle, Olivier Giraud compared Parisians and the American stereotype. After twenty minutes, I was getting a little tired of the same dumb, loud American cliché. Seriously, there's more than one stereotypical American. Perhaps this is how Parisians feel about the American Frenchman; beret, baguette, bicycle, romantic.
The next day, I went to a café prepared to act like a proper Parisian. I knew what I wanted before I sat down and when the waitress came up I rattled it off confidently and without hesitation. However, she was so uncommonly nice, I couldn't maintain the no smile, shrug your shoulders, it's not my problem mentality that Olivier Giraud insisted on during the night before.
I'll need more than one hour to learn how to become the Parisian he described…then again, I dont want to become the Parisian he described.

There is only one person looking at the painting.

I saw Mona Lisa today. She is the only work of art in the Louvre that has a sign with an arrow in every doorway. I expected her to be small so her medium sized frame was not disappointing. When I rounded the corner from the grand hall of Italian paintings and beheld her encircled by all nationalities holding cameras, phones, and ipads to her face, I nearly cried. 

I’ve never been a huge fan of Mona Lisa. She’s always gotten more publicity than I thought she deserved. However, when I saw her there surrounded by people who only seemed to look at her through their screens, I was overcome by the horrible beauty of the scene and I felt pity for her and for the fools around her.

***Disclaimer: as I continued my observations of Mona Lisa and her visitors, I realized many people took time to look and to return her gracious, acknowledging eyes with smiles of thankful appreciation.

It was not the first time I’d seen the old man with the rolling cart feeding the birds. This time, I stopped to take pictures of him with Centre Pompidou in the background. Crouching down, I realized he was holding one of the sparrows and examining its wing. Oh that’s sweet. He knows his birds, I thought innocently. But my curious eyes widened in horror as the little bird’s mechanical chirps of grievance became screams of terror when he took out a plastic sack and tied the poor animal in it. I think I’m gonna be sick. Nevertheless, I lingered, figuring if I cant learn to stick out a bird suffocation, there’s no way I can become war photographer. There were two other witnesses, but they seemed less emotionally affected. Fortunately for us, the bird man decided to explain to his audience what he was doing. <The bird was still chirping>

He said the bird was ill and he was taking him nearby to be treated. 

Il n’est pas pour manger?

No, il est malade.

As the couple and I walked away, we smiled and (with great relief on my part) talked about (en français) how we thought the bird was going to be suffocated for a meal but that it was quite nice of the man to take his little bird friend to…wherever he was taking it to be healed.

My days are almost always loosely structured, flexible to change for the unexpected, good or bad, and adjustable to impulses. I have found this to be the best way to live in Paris.

Thursday: two things unexpected and one impulse.

First thing unexpected. 
I did not expect my 9:30 am final visa appointment to last two and a half hours. It would have to be the Louvre or the Diane Arbus exhibit at Jeu de Paume before picking up les enfants at three. I passed the glass pyramids and headed through the Tuileries.

Impulse.
As I walked through the Tuileries taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower stretching to the magnificently clouded sky, I was arrested by the sound of dogs barking. Heavy barks, not yaps belonging to so many of the squashable dogs I see on the streets. There were six big dogs, two little dogs, one man, two women, and almost a baby. Instead of continuing to the exhibition, I stretched my hands and heart toward the happy group.

Second thing unexpected.
When I returned to the apartment, I met Elisabet's Swedish friend and two large (vraiment, très grand) bags of freshly plucked apples. knowing the number was bound to impress, I almost counted them. However, my time is limited on this earth and I decided those minutes would be better spent writing here than counting eggs apples.

A gypsy boy writing
his name for me.

After class on Wednesday I wondered down rue de Rivoli and into BHV [bay-ash-vay], to sink my fingers into the colorful yarns for sale on the fourth floor, thinking.
Not yet. I will make a scarf but not yet.
On my way out the door, I noticed the price tags of the scarves and hats that were already made. It was tempting.
Not yet.
My naked ears reminded me how cold it was. We crossed the Seine and took shelter in one of the reading rooms in Shakespeare and Company. In an alcove near the old piano, two children sat on either side of a man reading Babar. I had forgotten what it was like to be read to like that. The girl sat, almost stood, on the edge of the bench with her hands pressed against the flat, red cushion. Her head was cocked in a strange, forgotten sort of way while her eyes wandered into that land open only ourselves.
I remember feeling like that.
I walked by them and settled in a corner  against stained cushions that made me feel ill. I tried to ignore them as I set about my homework.

Every time I leave Esbly, I am running. There are two ways to look at this.

Good
I am running to something not from something.
Bad
The last train is at 9 (and that is the one I run to).
Good
It's difficult to pull myself away from bright Emilie.
Bad
I always almost miss the train.
Good
I've always arrived just in time.
Bad
One day, my luck will end.
Good
It's a nice little workout.
Bad
Somehow, I've always just eaten.

After a Saturday chatting, crafting, sitting by the fire, and an evening watching a movie and baking pizza with Emilie in Esbly, I glanced at the clock mid-bite, hoping that God had slowed the time down that evening. 20:44. nope. I rapidly thanked Emilie for the afternoon, heartily wishing (perhaps too heartily) I could've helped clean up, and headed out the door. Knowing I had somewhere between 7 and 10 minutes to catch the nine o'clock, I settled for a manageable jog rather than the lung-tearing sprint of two weeks ago after a thrift market cruelly tempted me from the straight and narrow. Though I strolled the last 30 meters, I still entered the train car with the accustomed labored breathing. Mounting the stairs—I always sit in the upper level—I joyfully realized something to add to my short list of Why Cold Weather's Good: I'm not boiling in sweat under my coat.

I was one of his helpers.
(See my boots, Mom?)

 Thais and I left the apartment with three objectives: buy a crêpe for lunch, visit the photo week exhibition, and find a café to sit at and write our letters. Within the first five minutes we stopped for our crêpes. Fromage, oeuf, champingon crêpes warming our hands and our hearts, we continued our walk towards Hotel de Ville where I thought the photos were exhibited. Objective #1: check.
We never found the exhibition.
We didn't write our letters.
The afternoon took a different turn when we discovered that the exhibition was not at Hotel de Ville and when we asked questions, no one knew what we were talking about. Centre Pompidou was close. Surely someone working in the museum will know. But we never made it into the museum. We were waylaid (as were at least a hundred others) on the large, sloping, cobblestone area just in front of the museum intrance. A comical character shuffled within his stage, outlined by rope, preparing for his show. Thais and I took a seat at the front of the quickly growing crowd. We must have watched him for close to 45 minutes, laughing intermittently. After the show, we quickly realized how cold we were and wished only for a heated café. Although we were not at a loss for café choices, nothing quite fit.

Angelina's.
I dont know who thought of it first but it was a brilliant idea. We headed down Rue de Rivoli to la Maison Angelina which sits opposite Jardin des Tuileries. There was a line. However, after spending 15 minutes walking there, imagining our experience in the celebrated tea house with that infamous chocolat chaud in hand, it was too late to be satisfied by less. So we waited. Looking back, knowing now what it's like to lounge under the chandelier sharing melted chocolate in a pitcher with a friend, I would gladly wait three times as long.
La serveuse brought us teacups, saucers, two small bowls of cream, and a well-sized pitcher of hot chocolate. I think I wrote half a letter. Until the head waiter told us they were closed, Thais and I sat contentedly and idly in our cushiony chairs slowly and oh so happily filling our cold bellies with rich, thick, warm chocolate.

“Who do you want to ride with?” piped Josiah expectantly as we approached Peter Pan’s Flight and a disappointingly melodramatic Peter Pan and Wendy.

“Can I ride with you?” I asked, deciding as “Wendy” made a huffy face not to waste my time waiting for a picture with her and the chubby Peter Pan.

“Sure,” he replied matter-of-factly, taking my cold hand into his tiny, satisfied, warm one.

My first trip to a Disneyland was the not-so-scary Halloween Party at Disneyland Paris. Used to the thrill of roller coasters at Six Flags Over Texas, I quickly discovered that one of the problems with Disneyland Paris is that most of the rides are geared towards young children…should have known. Luckily, I went with a family of two young boys so when my 21 year old head got in the way, I looked to the two boys and lived vicariously through their excitement. The most bizarre ride was It’s a Small World. We floated through a maze of dolls of all nationalities singing in English about the size of the earth while bright lights of every color burned my retinas, adding to the headache created by the synchronized whirring of mechanical arm waving, leg kicking, lip miming, head bobbing, body spinning figurines crowding each scene. As we passed the African fetishes and approached a mermaid who sounded as if she needed help with a clot in her throat, I thought this is the last ride I would choose to get stuck in.