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.