Blah blah Paris in the springtime

H's Turkish friend asked me last week if I love Paris, and I said I don't know. It's lovely but it's noisy and chaotic even at night. He said he loved the noises of night most of all, he probably couldn't sleep without it. What he couldn't stand is the Parisians.

A couple of weeks ago the mercury made a big surge from 7 degrees to 15 and then 20. In a matter of days Parisians went from winter coats to t-shirts, and the men raised their Nespressos to that time of the year when ladies' stockings come off. I'm trying to avoid clothing stores because cute spring outfits won't be practical while hitchhiking in India... or are they??? It's a question that's been keeping me up nights.

April showers bring May flowers and, coincidentally, tourists.

Time to be colorful and pretty.

A three piece jazz band outside Metro Abbesses, in front of the big love mural.

But I think we skipped spring this year and went straight to summer. At the end of March we went wake boarding with some friends a few kilometers south of Paris... well, the boys did. I wasn't allowed to go because I couldn't swim, so we girls stayed in the grass and caught some sun.

In the last few weeks I've tried to learn how to bike (I got to borrow one at the forest in Vincennes, and then again at the abandoned streets of Mandrezat), played frisbee, we jogged, like, twice, and I've been trying to get H to go with me to the pool above the apartment so he can play lifeguard now that I've decided to face my swimming demons.

I've also been trolling guided tours with fellow Pinay-in-Paris, Mimi. They've been very interesting, or like we say, heeentresting, and the interaction with people beats walking around with a guidebook. Now my head is cluttered with more useless trivia, because I refuse to be that smug know-it-all at the party... that person's such a douche. I prefer letting people talk and mentally fact-checking what's said, just like Robocop, except I scan for bullshit.

Having a cup of chocolate at Angelina with a Singaporean waitress from York we met at the tour.

There was one tour I joined where the guide talked about maids' rooms in the Haussman buildings, and then she segued to me that she knows there are a lot of Filipinos working as domestics in Paris, and I gave her a confused "uh-huuhhh..." Because I honestly didn't know what to say to that. "Great to know?" "Show me to my people so that I may free them?" "Heeeentresting?"

Wedding pictorial all over Paris, this one at tres chic Place Vendome.

Last week we went to the south to help J-M finish his house. I did some plaster drilling (power tool time!) but I got sick after because we had wine, rhum, some cognac, beer and barbecued canard and sausages outside until 2am and it got really cold even with the bonfire. I think overindulging my inner glutton worsened the situation. I drank everything they put in my glass until I couldn't sass them anymore because I couldn't remember any French.

The weather was lovely during the day, I stayed out in the field behind the house to read Kerouac's "On The Road", and tried to stay clear of 4 year-old Gaël's radar because spring fever makes him force everyone to play football with him.

My other French teacher, Gaël.

We took the little man to the brocante (flea market) on May 1st, the one day when anybody in France can 1) go out and sell anything in the street, and 2) sell lilies of the valley free of tax.

I like to muguet, muguet.

It's traditional for women who receive a tiny sprig or bouquet of lily of the valley (muguet in French) on May Day to give a kiss in return. I got two, but I didn't know about the kiss until late so all I gave back was a thank you. Gaël got two toy cars from the market thanks to H, and wasted no time playing with them. We thought we lost him a few times, but it turned out that all we had to do was look down to see him playing in the gravel. I was battling a slight fever while he tried his luck at the carnival games.

After 5 days in the quiet south, our last night was marked by a spectacular light show courtesy of Mother Nature. The majestic storm exposed the wide black fields behind the house that had become so familiar to me; it barreled closer towards us with every flash, while the low drumming thunder bellowed louder as the tempest drew near. On the road back to Paris the next day, it looked like winter all over again. It was only after we turned on the news back home that we found out the storm we were watching rained hail on a village and destroyed a school. That's spring for ya.

Mid-Spring, flowers make room for the leaves. H stood under the rain of petals 
and said in a little girl voice: "Romantic, nooooh?"

I'd been getting some text messages from friends of the previous owner of my French number (Bouyges Telecom recycles phone numbers, apparently) to go to Cannes for champagne and dancing at a certain Julien's yacht during the film fest. I've considered calling back and asking if the invitation could extend to me since I was the one who got the invite. I'm inclined to think it's a divine message reminding me I was supposed to write something worthwhile during this sabbatical... or to gatecrash a yacht party, and/or.

The Abbey Bookshop at the Latin Quarter, delightful English book store,
where children's books sit next to the sex shelf.

Having coffee with Mimi in front of the Medicis' Jardin du Luxembourg.

Brewskies at the Quai de Seine after dinner with H's college buddy who's working on a graphic novel.
I didn't have any because it was Black Saturday, and the bells of the Notre Dame 
rang almost all night to remind me not to indulge.

A couple of weeks ago I got a call from a neighbor who wanted company while sunbathing, so I went up to the little garden on the rooftop with a priceless 360 degree view of Paris. I had a book with me but I never got to read it because we started talking about how our lives had turned out. We are both dealing with the fairly recent loss of our fathers, in very different ways, but it would be inaccurate to say that it's the biggest issue I'm struggling with right now. I do confess that it was one factor that derailed me from the pipe dream that was my former career. But, my big dilemma is how to get back to who I wanted to be, after losing precious years just coasting along. Once upon a time I wanted to be relevant, and I would like to think I was, until I became a drone. A word machine.

I told her I came to Paris hoping I could use the free time to pen that long-awaited, mind-blowingly original screenplay I was supposed to write straight out of college. Thirteen years later, all those notes scribbled on the backs of receipts and ketchup stained McDonald's napkins are still waiting for me to turn them into my ticket to worldwide recognition... or maybe not.

The thing is, I have all these crazy ideas that could lead to something, but nine times out of ten could be a dud. I am shivering-in-my-boots afraid of not living up to my own expectations of great, or even just good enough. I'd been told in college that I had potential, but it might as well be potential for crap too; or a potential to be like the middling Jose Chung from the Men in Black episode of the X-Files, who was so ridiculously unaware, it was sad. Afraid of coming up with the germ of an idea like, let's say the TV series Heroes, and coming up with the TV series that became Heroes. I am so afraid of my potential for mediocrity that I still can't work up the guts to stare at the blinking cursor on my computer and write a simple storyline.

The Sacre Coeur at sunset, as seen from our building.

So last week I used a free pass to the Cinémathèque Française (which usually costs 5 euros) and worked up the guts to see my old cinema gods Robert Wiene, Henri-Georges Clouzot, F.W. Murnau, Fritz Lang, and other early expressionists. There was a Stanley Kubrick retrospective and the creepy twins from The Shining appeared from behind the elevator doors to seal me in, while Malcolm McDowell smirked at me from the ticket I was carrying.

One of the interactive displays was Emile Reynaud's Théâtre Optique, or light theater. It's very rare because the dejected inventor of animation threw most of his equipment into the Seine in reaction to the birth of film. That's just how we artists are, I suppose.  The Cinémathèque is not a big museum, during the German occupation many of their acquisitions were nearly wiped out, but I wish I could show you the wonderful things I saw that made me want to write again. If only I could get my voice back from the peso-per-word hack that I have become over the decade.

Now a hotel, this was where the Lumiere brothers first unveiled their revolutionary cinematographe, the contraption that started a riot at first screening, led Emile Reynaud to ruin, and part of which was featured in a friend's film thesis presentation. It's odd that I used to just read about these things, stockpile knowledge finally pays off. 

Semaine Sainte

Manila during Holy Week is a lifeless desert, quiet and calm, and very hot. Most offices, restaurants, and shops are closed from Wednesday afternoon, only to open again on Easter Sunday. There is a mass exodus to far-flung hometowns, exotic beaches, and Hong Kong theme parks. 

In contrast, Parisian restaurants are open.

So are all the shops.

My family usually stays in Manila for the traditional "visita iglesia" and stations of the cross because my father got a kick out of driving on the abandoned streets of the typically gridlocked city. Last year it felt strange, because tradition (birthdays, Christmas, new year's day) tends to magnify my father's absence. This year it felt even stranger because I did it alone, in a city I scarcely know. But when one is alone and lost, one can only turn to tradition.

The men in white capes shield the "couronne" from snap-happy tourists.
To the right, on top of the red cloth are the nails and cross fragments.

On Friday morning, my lovely husband printed out church maps for me and dropped me off at the Notre Dame de Paris in Ile de la Cite, where I stayed in line for about ten minutes only to realize that there was a separate entrance for those who want to see the crown of thorns. Time was not wasted though, because I sneaked in a rosary while sandwiched between groups of loud Spaniards.

Once inside, I lined up at the center aisle which turned out to be  the line going towards the thorns.  I made it just in time for the 3pm service (in French, English, Spanish, Italian and German) and an usher gave me a guide. In a matter of minutes I was singing in French too. And then suddenly, I was in front of the relic.

When my mother was here, we went to Sainte-Chapelle to see the church built just to house the crucifixion relics. She had hoped to see the crown of thorns, the fragment of the cross and the nails that St. Helen was said to have recovered from Jerusalem. But the church only reveals it to the public on certain holidays and first Fridays of the month, so she wasn't able to see them. 

The faithful kiss or wipe their fingers on the glass that exposes the Thorns.

The service lasted an hour. I got a seat around the back and stayed until the end, when a woman I helped out with the sequencing of songs wished me Bonne Pâques - Happy Easter.  

Next, I went to the oldest church in Paris, the Sainte-Julien-le-Pauvre, which stood  just across the street and behind the oldest tree in Paris. 

The church of Saint Julian the Poor, who talked to a deer, killed his parents,
then met Jesus on a boat and became a saint.

They were holding a funeral service for Jesus, hence the wreath of roses in front.

When I came it was practically empty.

The church itself is an artifact.

A few streets away at the Saint-Severin, the rosary was being recited in French.

It was all quiet at the Saint-Etienne-du-Mont. It used to be the abbey of  St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris. King Louis XV ordered the erection of a big basilica for her relics (adjacent to the church) and rededicated the existing church to St. Etienne. But later secularization turned the basilica into the Pantheon - a mausoleum for notable French men and woman (Marie Curie), and it was back to the old church for St. Genevieve. 

Sadly, many statues were destroyed by revloutionaries,
and St. Genevieve's relics were thrown in the river or burned.

The cross is covered in cloth.

The shrine of St. Genevieve, patron saint of Paris.
On the left is her tomb, visited by John Paul II during World Youth Day.

I had some trouble finding the Notre Dame du Liban because until then, I had been relying on the sight of church towers to guide me when my map reading skills failed. The church was under an apartment building, and definitely not what I expected a church facade to look like.

People come in with bouquets of flowers, or buy some from a florist just outside the main church entrance.

The churchgoers here are mainly Lebanese Maronites.  

Who would have known this could be under an apartment complex?

There was also a TV crew.

Further down the road was the Church of the Val-de-Grâce, one of the jewels of French architecture. The inscription on the portico reads: "To Virgin Mary for the occasion of Jesus' birth," or something to that effect.

After the Church of St. Genevieve was turned into the Pantheon, the former church's organ was transferred here.

On Rue Mouffetard, the ancient road leading to Italy, is the Church of Saint-Médard.  Click the link for an interesting account of its history. 

The church that stands here now was allegedly built in the 7th century;
an earlier church in the grounds made circa 500 was destroyed by the Normans.

It's behind the trees in this pretty plaza.

A Latin mass was being said when I arrived at the Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, the royal parish of the kings of France.

This beautiful structure in front of La Louvre was built in the 6th century by the Merovingians, but there is little evidence of their influence.

Two blocks away is St. Eustache, where Louis XIV took his first communion, Mozart held his mother's funeral, and Moliere got married. It's a very beautiful church, with heart-shaped glass on the windows. Guide books prominently feature the statue L'Ecoute in front.

There was a service and a choir sang after each reading. 

St. Eustache was a Roman soldier who converted to Catholicism and life punished him repeatedly for it. Now, I'm not very religious (in fact I raise my eyebrow at the over zealous) but I do practice a personal faith. Catholics in France are an endangered species, and when I tell people that I'm abstaining and I have Holy Week vows to fulfill, I get strange looks. This is a country that has outlawed the wearing of niqabs and burqas in the name of modernity, after all. Of course, it's nothing like early Christians suffered, or what others suffered in the hands of Christians - but it's hard to explain my outdated beliefs in the face of doubt or ridicule, even apathy. 

For now at least, I am free to exercise my ideology; but with religion becoming less and less popular, I'm not sure how long before churches become mere tourist attractions and relics themselves - and prayers reduced to mere whispers in caves.

Pole-arity

The first few months of marriage forces you to look at yourself through a harsh mirror. You are pushed to face your partner's uncensored judgement, fair or otherwise. Arguments could stem from the most innocent gestures, questions, facial expressions; things you don't even expect to start a row. My husband and I, for example, have had emotionally and mentally draining clashes over the following:

• the right distance between person and horse when said horse has its back towards aforementioned person
• a mysterious noise coming from the vacuum cleaner
• Chinese or Italian

If you are married or live with someone, you might know what I mean. When I was single I never squandered a thought on equino-homo distance, mysterious vacuum noises, or took time deciding between Chinese or Italian. Life was much easier. When something went wrong I could chalk up the frustration on an uncooperative ATM machine, the wrong moisturizer, obtuse office protocol - THINGS. H says I never blame myself for anything - which is wrong in so many levels. I am very hard on myself when I know I am at fault, and I admit it too... it's just that I'm hardly ever wrong about anything! Which is why, on the very rare occasion that I am wrong, I apologize big time. (If you know me well, you would know this to be true.) This brings me to what happened recently, something I'm inclined to only half blame myself for.

Paris' streets are lined by poles of different sizes ranging from about 3 to 4 feet high, irregularly spaced and painted brown so that, if you are walking in the dark or carrying something that obscures vision from 3 feet and below, you just might bang into one... square on the crotch. But we'll get back on this later.

One day, I got a call from a neighbor who asked if I could s'il tu plaît pick up his children from school because his wife is just on her way back from Tunisia and he is organizing a play at the Theatre de la Ville. Friendly neighborhood couch potato that I am, I went to pick the two little girls up.

First I went to get four year-old Ä, who ran straight at me when she saw me entering the crèche maternelle. Then I took six year-old Ś, who initially beamed about a magic box she made dans l'ecole, then wailed about something she misplaced 5 minutes later. And I mean WAIL in the original sense of the word. Her yowling and caterwauling could have rivaled any in Greek tragedy, and it took me a while to understand what it was about. Trying to solve the crisis, we traced the places she'd been, but the marron sac was nowhere to be found. Tired of carrying little Ä up and down the crèche I told Ś it was time to give up, and perhaps she could have a better chance of finding it if she asks around school the next day. Here my own tragedy begins...

Getting the two girls outside school grounds was chaos. Little Ä, who had been in good spirits while her big sister cried, began crying when I got her big sister to stop. So I let the little one walk on the pavement cracks like she wanted, until some cars started coming by and I realized it would take us forever to get home if I had to pull her back each time a car passed by. I snatched her up despite her theatrical protestations and got her to laugh in a few seconds. This small victory was undone a few seconds later when, jealous of her big sister's consolatory juice box, she started throwing another hissy fit.

Meanwhile Ś, who was usually in a contrary mood, was finally in good spirits and was gamely repeating the English words I was teaching her (and if you know French children, this is a mean feat). To my relief, Ä noticed her tears amounted to diddly-squat and stopped crying. It was at around this time when we were shouting some random English word and both girls were laughing that yours truly's nether regions crashed into a certain vicious, and practically invisible, Parisian street pole.

It was a good thing that Ä's feet were not in the way, but maaaaaannn there are no words to describe the pain. My initial reaction, which I think is quite Pinoy, was to laugh hysterically. Oddly, the girls laughed with me without knowing why. It took me a few seconds to wrap my head around the pain, then we kept walking. The rest of the march home was a battle of wills between me and Ä who kept wanting to run. I couldn't let her loose on these streets full of crazy, stressed-out Parisian drivers, so in between sidewalks I would let her run wild, and then run after her when she strayed too close to the curb. On the last pedestrian crossing I carried off struggling four year-old while my lower body throbbed in pain.

When I finally got them home and in their rooms I heard the doorbell, it was their mom. They were out of my sight for 15 seconds, and when I came back, Ś had given Ä a full makeover. The little tyke was in a princess gown with crooked gray eye shadow, lipstick, and red stripes all over her face that I believe were supposed to be blushers. It reminded me of my crash course in makeup 9 months ago.

But going back, those metal poles are dangerous! I ached for a full week after that. And though I may be at fault for having avoided the ones that came before the killer blow, it's impossible to see if you are carrying something that can obscure your vision, and hard to calculate if there's a next one since they are irregularly spaced. Damn you, pole!

This foray into the world of babysitting had me thinking hard about my ability to raise children. Can I handle tantrums? Can I be patient 24/7? I am living with a full-grown man and my patience grows thin with him sometimes; so what does that portend? Of course I love the two girls to bits, they can be very sweet. But they can also be difficult to handle, especially with the language barrier.

Leaving the girls that evening, I was surprised that Ś had begun using English on me. Their mom told me the two girls really like me and hope I could come by more often. They are very sweet girls when they are not being drama queens (which their parents have accused them of many, many  times), but for now I think I have my hands full with the little boy pretending to be my husband. And I bet if you asked him, he would say the same.

Two rings from the princesses - which cut my circulation so I gave them back.

Charot Cake

In Pinoy street lingo, "charot" means flirty. I bought some carrots last week at the street market thinking I could make something healthy within the week, but you know what they say about the road to hell. We were asked out to dinner and lunch plenty of times this week so I needed to think of something to do with the fruits and vegetables I hoarded before they start to rot. The eggplant was turned into a gratin with some bread crumbs that were dangling perilously close to the expiration date; the tomatoes were chucked into a bowl of romaine with bell peppers, chicken, parsley, grapes, mango cubes, oranges and wine vinegar, while the remaining tomatoes will be tossed in with some fresh mozzarella and basil (by tomorrow or else!) for a traditional salad; extra mangoes will be transformed into jam while some will end up on a pizza I'm making tomorrow and the overripe bananas will find a new lease in life as cake as soon as I buy more eggs. Meanwhile, the carrots were enjoyed for three nights straight after I transformed them into a moist cake. The first night we shared it with a friend who came over to play video games, the second day I had it for breakfast, and today H was dead set on eating the strawberries before they got soft so I let loose the whipped cream and set our diet back 2 weeks. 

Malanding cake.

And I'm not sorry!