art and endives

Today, my friend and I discovered the number 27 bus. We spent the rainy morning in the apartment, eating breakfast, getting travel tickets on-line, eating lunch and jabbering, but finally it was time to go and see some art and culture. As we left, we checked the itinerary of the local bus on the map at the stop. Mind-boggling - this is the best bus route in the world, surely, through the Latin Quarter, down the Boulevard St. Michel and over the Seine in front of Notre Dame, then along and by the Louvre, the Rue de Rivoli and the baroque Paris Opéra (All together now: "The Pha - a - antom of the Opera is there, inside my mind!") and other fantastic and beautiful streets. We got off on the Boulevard Haussman, named for the man who laid out the design of Paris we still enjoy today - and there, on the Boul. Haussman, the biggest department stores of Paris, Galeries Lafayette and Au Printemps. Imagine, a store called In the Spring.

But art and culture first; we found the Musee Jacquemart André, a mansion transformed into a small museum. Lynn, incidentally, almost always enjoys a greatly reduced price at exhibitions and in travel, either as a professor or as a mother of 3 children or more. I wonder why Canada has never considered those little bonuses. 

There was a beautiful exhibit called "From Siena to Florence: the Italian Primitives" - Fra Lippo Lippe, Fra Angelico, Montegna and more. As we went around, Lynn explained the biblical allusions because I simply have no idea - that St. Jerome is always portrayed in a grotto with a pen because that's where he lived while he wrote a version of the Bible, for example. We discussed all the faces of Mary, some beautiful and modern - one where she looks exactly like Uma Thurman - and some distended or bulgy or plain. The baby too - sometimes fat and joyful, sometimes extremely odd, a dark, naked little bundle of prescience. 

There was a beautiful Fra Angelico "Last Supper," in which I couldn't find Judas. "Well," said my friend, "I would guess he's the one without the halo." And sure enough, there is one disciple without the halo.

"But why didn't the others notice that he didn't have a halo?" I asked her. "Then they'd have figured out that something was going wrong." But I don't think this is a good Christian question.

We also toured the mansion itself and enjoyed especially the two bedrooms, one for Madame, and one for Monsieur, which is beautifully appointed with luxurious satin bedcovers and mirrored screens. "Decorée par Madame," it said, "après la mort de Monsieur." 

"That's because Monsieur wouldn't let her near the place," said Lynn, "while he was alive."

It was time for a snack. We sat at a sidewalk cafe as the crowds and traffic swirled by, and decided on the famous Poilane bread with melted cheese and ham. I wanted a coffee, but Lynn pointed out that unless it was a little espresso, I would be noticeably North American if I drank a cafe au lait with a ham sandwich at 4 p.m. It is just not done. So we both had beer and watched the parade of humanity, then found the spectacular Number 27 back. Oh no, I've blocked out the time we spent shopping first - walking briskly through Au Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, which are enormous and impressive, but nothing was on sale and everything was expensive. We went instead to one of Lynn's favourite stores, HandM, which is my idea of torment. She found three great tops while I stood sweating and suffering in the overheated noise and tumult of the HandM basement. I sat down on the edge of a low display table at one point and an officious assistant bustled over to tell me to stand up. I may never go to HandM again. But three lovely inexpensive tops - it was worth it, I'm sure.

Incidentally, the public transportation system here is great - very long accordeon busses that can expand when needed, with many doors equipped with sensors. You are required to swipe your pass or punch in your ticket at whichever door you enter, so there's hardly ever a bottleneck. Plus, of course, the amazing parking lots of "vélibes" - hefty bicycles available for a very small price, that can be rented with a swipe of a card at one point and left anywhere else in the city at another - so brilliant. I can't wait to figure out how to use those. Plus the efficient métro. Many get around on the thousands of Mobylettes, some with two front wheels for greater stability, and the great majority of the cars, by our standards, are small. 

Along with most of Paris, we stopped to buy meat at the butcher and vegetables at the grocer on the way home. In the late afternoon you see both women and men in business clothes with bulging bags of fresh food that they've just bought on the way home from work. Lynn, in ten minutes with I as souschef, made veal scalopini in fresh cream and braised endives with Emmenthal. For an entrée, I made my first French vinaigrette and poured it into the two hollowed–out halves of an avocado. Then the chops and endives, followed by cheesecake, chocolate, fruit. I don't eat veal at home, but here I happily will eat what I'm given, and it was all very delicious. In Toronto, I have a glass of wine at 5 and eat something or other at 6. Here we start the apéritif at 7 and eat a simple sublime meal at 8.30. And beforehand, I have not snacked on a single thing - especially not the half bag of tortilla chips and salsa that keep me company at home. 

This is why Frenchwomen don't get fat. There's money to be made in this concept - why doesn't someone write a book?

Yes, we really are here

Madame Blin having a beer on the Place des Vosges; her friend at Notre Dame; la Place des Vosges itself, with spring trees.

The little apartment here has shutters. Every morning, I open the shutters, pushing them back to see the day, and every night, I pull them shut them again. There is something primal about opening and shutting shutters. 

They're shut now. It's bedtime. 

the Monday walk

I woke up laughing this morning, remembering something that happened yesterday. Lynn and I were having an aperitif in the living-room when I remarked on the birds singing loudly outside, and we both stopped to listen. I was gazing out the window at the old buildings that house cars at the end of the courtyard, and said to her, in French, "They must have been stables at one point." But the word for "stables" is very similar to the word for "squirrels," and what I said was, "They must have been squirrels at one point." Lynn thought that I was musing that these French birds must once have been squirrels, and her face went blank with confusion.  I've been laughing about that ever since, and about many other things too.

Last night, Lynn and I stopped talking, finally, at 11 p.m.  We had discussed, among a million other things, our old friends, parenting, growing old, cancer, her work, my work, marriage, singleness, families, money, real estate, retirement, facial hair, face creams, good shopping, the end of the French university system and who is worse, Sarkozy or Harper. She remembered watching Joan Baez on Ed Sullivan in 1968 with our friend Henry Green, who was proud of his giant Afro. "My God, " cried Henry, staring at the screen. "What has she done to her hair?" Joan Baez had cut her long, long hair, and the planet shook.

Today, we considered visiting museums or art exhibits but decided just to get outside - the day was glorious, and rain is forecast. First, for two thrifty shoppers, we had to locate a Monoprix. I used to think Monoprix was the equivalent of Woolworth's, but it's now an inexpensive and yet sublimely stylish kitchen-wear/toiletries/clothing store. It is imperative, when you are female in France, to wear beautiful underwear. It's just a law here, and I am willing to comply. So Monoprix came through with some beautiful but very reasonable frilly, lovely, pretty, delicate, lacy, pale mauve lingerie. 

But we stayed on for ages, fingering dishes and pieces of clothing, all well-designed, well-made and cheap. I bought a silk scarf which I wore for the rest of the day, blowing silkily around my face.  It is also imperative, in Paris, to wear a scarf knotted so skilfully around your neck that I asked Lynn whether scarf tying classes are held in school for French children. I don't know how to knot with skill, but I do know that the right scarf can be flung on any which way, and looks fine.

Then Lynn led me to a discount shoe store nearby and here, a miracle - I who thought there would be no shoes in my giant size found a whole wall of discounted shoes in size 41. I bought a pair - my children will kill me - of imitation Birkenstocks for $25. They are gold. I now own a pair of golden pseudo-Birkenstocks. This makes me happy. 

We had a quick lunch at home, salad, bread and cheese, including a Roquefort as delectable as candy and my friend's salad dressing, which she makes right in the bowl, stirring salt, then vinegar, then Dijon mustard, then oil, and that's it, and it's incredible - my taste buds are already transformed as they always are in this magical country, savouring, quivering over every morsel - anyway, after I had licked the salad bowl, we set off on a big walk.  Over to the Boulevard St. Michel, which I used to haunt in 1965 when I lived here at the age of 14 - packed, even this early, with tourists - down to the Seine shining in the sun, the stunning rows of creamy buildings with their filigree balconies on either side, the boats passing under the bridges, and there, to the right, one of the most perfects buildings in the world, Notre Dame Cathedral. This time she reminded me of the Taj Mahal, which I visited a few years ago - another building so perfectly proportioned, detailed, satisfying, just simply beautiful, you could just stand and savour for hours. 

There was a long line-up to go inside and the sun was still warm, so we kept walking, along the Ile St. Louis with its narrow crowded medieval streets, over the bridge to the Place de la Bastille, then to another of the landmarks of Paris, la Place des Vosges, the oldest square in the city - built in the early 1600's - the incandescent green buds on the trees in the middle courtyard glowing in the sun. It is imperative to stroll all around the elegant Place des Vosges when in Paris, imagining the pre-revolution ladies in their long gowns and parasols doing the same thing. So we did, and then sat for a beer which the ladies could not do, and then walked along the Rue de Rivoli, back over the bridge near Notre Dame, past le Boulevard St. Germain, to our quartier. 

Stopped for grocery shopping - loved the big basket of fresh baguettes right by the cash, on the way out - and then home to cook, pork chops in a balsamic vinegar reduction made by Lynn and white asparagus in butter and lemon made by me, with a bottle of Crozes-Hermitage we bought on sale for $11. (At home, I might have for supper a poached egg on grilled cheese toast with a glass of plonk.) We laughed and jabbered, and now, at nearly 10 p.m., have settled for silence and work, she again marking papers and I recalling my day for those of you not fortunate enough to be here too, right now.

It is hard to believe how incredibly lovely this city is, how around every corner is another vista, another ancient building or monument, reminder of the thousands of years Paris has flourished. We stop constantly with our map and are often lost, partly because the city is an unbelievable jumble of streets in all directions, and partly because the only person in the world with a worse sense of direction than mine is Madame Blin. But we made it out, around and home, and now she's wearing her new black patent shoes and I my new gold Birkenstocks, the dishes are done, our bones are tired, and if it rains tomorrow and we have to go to a museum and then perhaps for a tiny bit more shopping, we will be none the worse.

****************************************************

I have received several emails from Canada about Wayson's book, which is already, though just released, on several best seller lists. Thrilling and well-deserved success! I'm reading it slowly at night, savouring it, so thoughtful, humourous, full of grace - a stunning book that makes us fall in love with the writer, at least, those of us who weren't fortunate enough to be in love with him already. His book launch is at Ben McNally's bookstore right about now and I wish I were there. May your book continue to soar, my dear friend.

I sent word yesterday to another dear friend, my technical genius friend Bruce in Vancouver, that for some reason I could not send emails from my Mail and had to switch to my Yahoo account, which made emailing much more complicated.  Bruce figured out how to change an account number to allow mail to exit; I made the changes, and voila - mail zooming out from Mail. It's good to have smart, helpful friends who understand Macs. 

And also smart, helpful friends who understand the need for frilly underwear and Roquefort. 

L'aventure commence

Well, mes amis, where to begin? Or, as we say here, où commencer?

Today Parisian Christians are carrying greenery - it's Palm Sunday, my Catholic friend Lynn informed me, so at least I know what day it is. I have been here for three days, which feels already like three weeks.

My arrival on Thursday was rocky, to say the least. The flight was nearly two hours late, so, after a sleepless night tossing on the plane, when I arrived at the apartment I'd rented (and at last located in the rabbit warren of doors), there was no one there. The concièrge was supposed to be waiting inside with the key. I stood in the dark hall with my hundred pounds of luggage - two fifty pound bags but no cell phone - and nearly wept. Finally I knocked on the neighbour's door and an elderly lady let me use the phone and leave a message. 

When the key lady finally arrived an hour later, as she opened the door, she announced that the electricity was broken in the flat. Soon the electrician and his assistant arrived with a ladder and much talk of fuses ... and I realised that the phone didn't work either or the internet. Luckily the sun was shining, because for a while there, my sense of humour disappeared. I could barely see the apartment through jet-lag and concern, but did realise that it's  in the absolutely best location, in the heart of the Latin Quarter but on a non-touristy street, the flat itself bright and pretty and facing a courtyard, so surprisingly quiet. 

Once I'd figured out how to buy and use a phone card in the phone booth down the street, and had made contact with my friend Lynn and the man who knew about the internet, I took my woozy head for a walk. The apartment is five minutes from the famous Panthéon, the glorious dome and structure where many famous citoyens are buried, and then I walked another few minutes to the Jardin du Luxembourg. It was dusk, the beautiful city and its ancient buildings glowing in gold light, and full-on spring here, trees and flowers in bloom, the streets crowded, the cafés packed, smoke and laughter spilling out onto the sidewalks ... and I thought, maybe I'll stay after all. 

Because for a while there, the thought of five months in this pandemonium was overwhelming.

By the next day, I could see more clearly, and here two strokes of luck: young Denis arrived to fix both the phone and the internet, and my friend Lynn arrived to stay with me after her conference. Lynn and I have been best friends since our first meeting in 1967 in a modern French literature class at Carleton University, she 18 and I 17. (She is a year older as I like, frequently, to point out.) Lynn and I became actors at Carleton and professionally, but then she went to France for a year to work with Jean Vanier at L'Arche, where she fell in love with a Frenchman and stayed to raise a family of five French children, none of whom now, as adults, live in France. She has lived in France since 1970, is now a Professor of Linguistics at the University of Montpellier but was in Paris for work - and now has almost a week off. 

So Madame Blin has been my introduction to France. She is showing me how to shop for food and wine. There's a market down the street on the Rue Moufftard, where we immediately bought bread, yellow tulips and "gariguettes" - especially delectable strawberries. At the wine store she selected two delicious bottles for a total of 7 Euros - just over $12. Many things are very expensive here, but wine and flowers are not. So far the culinary highlights of my trips have been: a solitary croque monsieur at a sidewalk cafe, watching the French buy their baguettes on the way home from work; my first frog's legs at a local restaurant -  tender, like little ballerina chickens; and lunch today, which Lynn and I bought ready-made at the market and ate here at home with a bottle of $6 Bordeaux - roast suckling pig and roast potatoes and ratatouille, followed by four cheeses ("This one is a little young yet," she said, "it's better in the summer,") and lemon cheesecake, followed by a stroll around the neighbourhood.  I nearly wept for joy, for the first of many times to come, I'm sure. She and I have not stopped jabbering since 8 a.m. this morning, except for now - she is marking papers, and I am writing ecstatically to you.

One more thing, for now: yesterday I gave a talk on my book at the Maison de la Culture Yiddish de Paris.  The small room was full, thirty or so people listening attentively even to my fractured French. I apologised in advance, and when I fumbled for a word, everyone leapt to my aid, even arguing about the right word. After the talk came a series of focussed questions about Gordin's life and work, including several so dense I had to ask them to repeat more slowly. It was thrilling to introduce my great-grandfather to a whole new continent. 

Afterwards, to celebrate, Mme. Blin and I went to the sale at Au Bon Marché to look for shoes. She found a pair, but there were few in my size 41 or 42 - like boats to these petite Frenchwomen, and anyway, very expensive, even on sale. But afterwards we went to the Grande Epicerie, a vast hall next door full of delicacies from all over the world, to buy food for dinner. And that is what matters most.

A bientot

"At last!" you and I are both saying. "Get that woman out of here."

It's cold and pouring with rain; what a perfect day to flee Toronto. I'm eating the last leftovers in the fridge, have washed my sheets, face cloths and comforter, put my nightgown and the last clothes into a garbage bag to stuff into the basement - will have lunch with my daughter, and then Sam is coming and we'll get the subway and bus together to the airport. The weight limit per bag is 50 pounds, and I think I'm under with my two. But just. That means I'm taking nearly 100 pounds of stuff with me.

But a lot of that is gifts and books! Really! And yes, a pair of shoes or two.

And while I check in with my hundred pounds of stuff, the new family will open the front door and begin their life here.

Wayson came over late last night, fresh from several interviews, including a long one with Carol Off for CBC's "As It Happens" that will air April 6 - I hope I can get it by podcast. Everyone who has read his new book "Not Yet" raves about it; I have my copy for the plane.  In the midst of the million things he is doing right now, he brought me a gift - a Moleskin notebook of perfect travelling size. He brought letter stickers and affixed a b and a k to the front, and then stuck several of his "wise saying" cards throughout, also for me to read on the plane. And I wanted to cry and say, "I won't go, I'm staying right here, where there is such love."

I feel myself being ripped away from the familiar - my children, house, neighbourhood, friends, routine. That's exactly why I am going. But I have lived here a long time, and I'm 58 and settling in for comfort, so I feel this change to my core. This trip is about stretching, waking up, being out in the air, out in the wide world again.  My stomach is wobbly. I know, I'm not going to Kuala Lumpur, for God's sake, or for five years - five months in Western civilisation is not a giant leap into the unknown. 

Yet it is.