Paris has a way of making me smile even when everything feels like poo.
Today on my way home from the Arab market where I get my fruits et legumes every Wednesday….ok how can I just gloss over the Arab market? I’ve been going for a couple months now after having learned that I can buy more fresh vegetables than I can carry for 8 Euro, and so now I’m friendly with some of the vendors, and we all know that I have an Arabic name. Let me just say that it might be better to not have an Arabic name when at an Arab market if you don’t want your name shouted every time you pick up a brussel sprout. These men’s voices are probably the loudest I have ever heard in my entire life. Amirrraahh! Otherworldly loud. But the market is good because I brush up on my Arabic (hum de la) and of course the cost effective fresh produce, all under the aegis of Aziz and Ayman, who act as my protectors. They look out for me when I wander farther down, they shout to the other vendors and they give me a better price. At the market they roast chicken over open spits and try to out-shout and out-bid each other and flirt shamelessly with every woman who passes by. They’re characters.
So on my way home from little Lebanon, a horde of young Irish, Heineken guzzling boys in bright green soccer jerseys board the train, some donning animal costumes, all singing their hearts out. First a song about being on the “one road”, a piece about it not necessarily being the ideal road, but their chosen road. I suspect this is a good drinking song. At first it was help, Lord Jesus, but they won me over within three stops. When we came in view of the Eiffel Tower it was “Thar she is boys!!!” and time for a new song. They made the cutest remarks, and when you looked around the train that they had managed to inundate with beer fumes, everyone couldn’t help but smile and giggle. So then, and only because I had a headache, a Spanish band enters THE SAME CAR. So the Spanish band starts, a lovely, gentle song about the usual corizon and esperanza, and it was “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!” from our Irish boys. So then a Spanish-Irish fusion ensued, with the guitars and the passionate lyrics and “BUMBA LAY OHHHH!” from the guys in green, throwing out random lyrics a la Enrique Iglesias. When they finally got off the train and there was no more shamrock I was kinda sad. This is how you know a soccer game is eminent- men in jerseys sing.
The metro is pretty wild actually, and not always in a good way. I have seen men flip on poles, heard beat boxing in French (which is scary) and then the violent stalking episode that happened last night. On my way home from BHV this man from Pakistan wouldn't stop following me. I changed trains several times to get away and he would act like he wasn't getting off the train then follow me behind people at the last minute. I was civil at first, told him I have a boyfriend but he was focused. Finally I shouted, "Why are you following me?" and he answered evenly, "Because you're lovely." Believe me, I have lived a lot of life and I don't scare so easy and this guy scared me. I forgot my French, like maybe help there's a weirdo who won't go away! might have been handy. My mouth went dry and I finally lost him and sprinted all the way home. This was very unsettling, this isn't my city, I'm new here. I actually had the thought, "Maybe this is my last day on Earth." There was a sinister something in his eyes I dare not put a finger on.
Last entry I was just settling in, had moved to the 16th avec the fabulous Caroline, into a nice apartment. Since then I’ve visited Normandy and Claude Monet’s house in Giverny, on a bike tour. That was one of the best days here so far, the quaint little market with smoked herring salad and cheeses from heaven, like cumin gouda. Then I went to the Loire Valley where there are dozens of old castles, with my sweet Romanian friend Serban. We spent the day hunting down chateaux and picnicking on the Loire, watching hot air balloons. Those castles are unreal. I love visiting them, I love Versailles, which I decided is on steroids compared to Giverny, but I love the quaint French towns more than anything.
Seto is what we call my Persian grandmother. She was visiting a friend in Geneva and so I went to see her a couple weeks ago. This was an interesting visit because Seto finally told me a little about her experience with the Iranian "Revelation", (and to pronounce this like her, you must employ a thick rolled r) which then turned into a story about how her father died the day the Revolution began in earnest, and her life never being the same since. My family never really talks about the tumultuous circumstances I was born into in Tehran, and I’m still unclear except I know well that the “bloody Imams have all my money” and "Khomeini was a big monkey", that there was fire and rioting, and that I was rushed out of Dodge. I also learned some very interesting things about my father, more on that later.
I discovered a forest at the end of Longchamp, my street, which is so pretty and seems like an enchanted fairytale forest until you look at the ground and realize you are walking on nothing but condoms and condom wrappers. There are also strange men in the forest that like to follow you and play peekaboo. Not sure what it is with the creepy following around business in this city.
I met a guy about a month ago. He is tall and alarmingly good looking, French but fluent in English, school in London. He was very sweet and would call often, he would give me detailed accounts of his day and of the time we were apart, wanting to explain what had kept him away. He would arrive early (anyone who knows me knows this makes me pee my pants), I asked for a wine once at dinner that they didn't have and the next time he came around he brought me a bottle of it. He was very affectionate, a gentleman, we would smile little silly smiles at each other. Ok so I needed a little time to adjust to purple Dolce and Gabbana sweater with tight jeans and pretty dress shoes, but then the other side of that we must remember, is that suit with cuff links and cologne happens. Suits and cuff links make me sweat. You don’t get much of that in LA. He was perfect. Then all of the sudden, nothing. Really, absolutely, glaringly, vehemently- nothing! After not hearing from him for about a week, I text, "Busy week?" and the response was oh yeah, blah blah busy, how are you? And nothing else. I hate busy. I really don't like it. Oh yeah, look at me, I'm so important, and just so- busy! I don’t get it. So then my ex calls, he’s in London and wants to get together. Fml. I want to know what happened to French boy. No luck in the love department. None.
Went on a Black Americans in Paris/Belle Epoch walking tour of Pigalle and Montmartre, where Josephine Baker made her debut, where Edith Piaf slept on benches and sang for bread, where F. Scott Fitzgerald, Langston Hughes, Cole Porter, even the Prince of Wales came to drink and listen to jazz. I love historical tours it’s so interesting to go to these places but also a little sad, that for example, what was at one time Bricktop’s famed watering hole where Hemmingway and the Lost Generation would frequent is now a... pharmacy. Saw old brothels and Degas’ painting studios. Went to the Moulin Rouge and been zipping around Paris on the back of a motorcycle. Now that's fun.
Huh? School? Oh yeah. It’s good, almost over with if I can satiate the Egyptian, then I get a month off and am planning Italy for Christmas. Things are good, I’m happy, Cairo’s happy. All that is missing is the love thing, which can be heart wrenching and terrible so maybe I’m better off.
