Love... and Goodbye

Hello my friends,
And welcome to the last installment of "Rock in Paris". It's been quite a journey, and I appreciate you all joining me along the way.

As I am being picked up for the airport at 6 am, it appears that I won't be sleeping tonight, and it's just as well since I leave with mixed emotions. A part of me is ready to return Home, to see Henry, and friends and family, and have a greater purpose beyond selecting where I will have my espresso today, and whether I'll take the croissant or pain au chocolat with it. But a part of me desparately wants to hang on to Paris for all that it meant to me, all that it has done for me.

I came to Paris uncertain of what would transpire, yet clear that something would. And it has.

This blog has been about my physical adventure more so than my mental and emotional one, yet beneath the layers of foie gras and creamy pastry that I've so much enjoyed writing about, has been a soulful journey. In addition to all of the wonderful moments I've described, there have also been moments of lonliness, sadness, times I felt anxious, followed by inevitable self-loathing for having these feelings while in Beautiful FRANCE, for chrissake! In those moments, G-d and I had some pretty deep conversations... Perhaps one day, I'll share the depth these conversations, and the spiritual experience I've had spending 28 days esentially alone in the world's most romantic city. For now, I'll give the highlights.



I spent the last two days in the French Riviera laying on the beach. As I've mentioned, it's been a bit chilly in Paris so this was a much needed reprieve. I spent my time in Nice, aka, "Miami". Really, there is no difference except that in Nice, more people speak English. After my first day in the sun, I took a stroll along the Promenade. Winding around the coast, the promenade lines beaches, hangs over cliffs, engulfs the marina, and traverses to nearby towns. Along my stroll, I came across the base of the Chateau which rests high atop a hill. A staircase boasting what must be a thousand stone steps escalates to the top. Though I wanted ice cream, the mountain called my name, and I reasoned that climbing would allow me 2 scoops - and a sugar cone.

As I climbed, my thighs burned as the winding steps, first tall and steep, then short and long, led me to an uphill dirt path. I almost cried, "uncle," but ice cream beckoned as my reward. When I rounded a corner, birds greeted me in song. They chirped various tones in harmony, welcoming tired bodies with sweet serenade. They flew high above plush green carpets, and through tall leafy trees that towered over tiny pink and red flowers sprinkled throughout. Paths slithering through the expansive parks housed painted green benches where couples napped, or people read. In one corner, a jungle gym amused children, and in the other, a snack bar for all. Indeed, my ice cream awaited me. I savored my Pistachio as I wondered this green haven, getting lost in the delightfully hidden paths. Each seemed to lead to a different lookout point where you can catch a glimpse of the marina, or the whole of the stone beach, or just the park winding below.

I began my last day in Paris also with a Park. I jogged to my favorite spot in the city, which you may remember from my first blog entry is a rare stretch along the Seine that is surrounded by luscious rose gardens. As the first day began there, so should the last. It was a beautiful day here, warm and blue. After nestling my toes in the grass one last time, I wandered in and out of shops, to my favorite cheap spot for steak/frites, and after packing, for a cruise along the Seine. It seemed the only fitting ending to this journey - the only way to take in this entire city in one gorgeous swoop.

As the boat cruised, I noticed the bridge where I ate my Pita Grec, the underhang where I wrote in escape of the rain. I took in each site, breathing the memory into my heart, willing it into my bloodstream so that its effect pumps through me forever.

Yes, this city has become a part of me. But how could it not? Paris' beauty captures the heart. Its mystique intrigues; its allure seeps under the skin like a fever. Paris plays with all 5 senses. It teases you. The way the Eiffel Tower seems to suddenly pop its head out of nowhere as you walk the city... Paris flirts with you, making you beg for more. It is a long-distance love: the one that got away, but whose sweet kisses remain in your mind forever. This is why we love Paris. For I am convinced that at the end of the day, we each just want to be loved.

Several of you have asked me if I've gotten lonely while here, and the truth is - yes. No matter how independent someone is, or how much someone enjoys his or her own company, the fact is that at the end of the day, as the song says, people need people. Through communication, we process; through relationships, we grow. After 2 weeks here, I was just getting to the point where I needed people. I had needed the first 10 days or so just to decompress; to center and stablize and get down to the business of healing me. But then I was ready to interact; I needed to communicate. If I were staying longer and actually living here, it would have been time to go out and make some friends - join a french class, an ex-pat knitting club perhaps, find the young Jewish organization. So, the timing of my cousins' and Holly's visit was perfect. However, when they left, they took Communication away with them.

And so, I set about the last week in Paris with the intention to make friends. It was really the one thing I hadn't done in this living-here-experiment, and it was something I really, really wanted to do. Last Tuesday, I finally met frenchmen I liked talking to!!! But... they were 85. All the same, for several hours on my favorite street, Rue Montorgeuil, I enjoyed a lovely conversation with George, Maurizio, and Louis. George is the spitting image of my grandfather 10 years ago, and oddly, Maurizio bears a striking resemblance to my grandmother. We discussed world travel, George Bush, the war in Iraq, and industries we're trying to attract to Cleveland. Louis even offered to join me in the Riviera, and though it was the best offer I've received this month, I declined.

I then went to the open market across the street from my apartment where I saw Benjamin who works twice a week at the Italian stand. Benjamin and I always smile at each other, but his english is not that great.
That day, when I approached, Benjamin said, "I jog."

Huh??!!?? "You jog?" I ask.

"Yes, I jog." He confirms.

We go back and forth like this until we figure out that he means, "I smile." SMILE... aha! How nice! He seems me and smiles. So I get an idea (a la "Eat.Pray.Love.") Benjamin seems to need a bit of polish to his English and I sure could use help with French. "How about if we meet for coffee and speak English and French," I propose. The next day, we have an entire 2 hour conversation in which I only speak French and he only speaks English. It's fabulous and we meet up briefly again as well.

That night, I then had my first French set-up... well, kind of. Jennifer Rossley was kind enough to set me up on a friend-date with her fabulous American friend Michael, who's been living in Paris for 7 years. He picks a trendy asian-fusion spot where we munch on pepper-crusted tuna sashimi, sweet quail with candied bananas, and a bottle of Red. The conversation flows with the wine, and we end up at a second wine bar after dinner. He fills me in on French idiosyncrasies, while I catch him up to speed on Jennifer's love life. Then we each share our own foiled love tales. It even turns out that he strangely enough had dinner with my boss a month ago (small world), so he knows all about Cleveland+! It feels like being with friends at home, and for this, I am beyond grateful.

I then shared my evening in the Riviera with a frenchman and his neice, a wonderful plane ride from Nice to Paris with an Australian girl who's just graduated with her PR degree and is traveling for the next 2 years, and tonight, I was blessed with an englishman at the bar who kept me up until 2 am, proclaiming his never-ending love for all things Mid-West, spouting more facts about the Mid-West than I'll ever care to know. When he blurts out a full-on comedy routine about the "Show-me State" of Missouri, I decide that I've just made a friend for life. We exchange emails. In fact, I exchange emails with all of them. Even Maurizio and George. And this brings my time here to life. The thing is, I easily could have come and gone here, without anyone noticing my existence. But making our mark is important. It makes our lives rich - and meaningful. Mattering to people matters. As I said, when it comes down to it, Love is all we really want and need in life.

This is one thing I love about Parisians: they express their love openly. They aren't afraid or embarrassed to show the world that they love someone. Quite the opposite - they're proud of it! And why shouldn't they be? If a loved one died tomorrow, would we not regret that we didn't give that one last kiss? Thus I love the double-kiss here. Kiss. Kiss. Cheek. Cheek. And I adore the same-side seating. Walk by any cafe, couples and friends are not face-to-face across a long table - they snuggle. They get intimate. Michael shared with me this difference too, that unlike America, here, it's "okay" for male friends to show affection toward one another. And why shouldn't they? Love matters. Mattering to someone matters. For this reason, I'm grateful that I did meet a few people here who mattered to me, and to whom I hope I mattered - even if for just a moment. When the laundromat attendant recognized me on the street with a touch of my hand, I felt somehow validated. I hold some space in her being - even if miniscule.

So as I write this final blog entry, an hour before being picked up for the airport, I sit with mixed emotion. I am looking forward to getting back to a place where there are people I love who need me, and I need them. But I am sad too. There were so many wonderful moments - many of which I wrote about, many of which I didn't for these blogs were getting long as they were! Moments like just happening upon The Festival of Bread outside of the Notre Dame one day... The FESTIVAL of BREAD!!!! Hot free baguette barrelling out of ovens - could I be luckier? Or how I randomly found the movie theater on a cold rainy day and had the distinct pleasure of seeing the Shrek preview - in French! Or, my embarrassing attempt to do laundry with French machines? Or how as I took my final walk along the Seine, I came upon a chalked heart with "Je t'aime" (I love you) in script inside. My heart swelled with this sweet gesture. Then I noticed another heart about 20 feet up. "Que Dire?" (What do you say?) My heart beat a little faster. 20 feet up, another - this time with arrows pointing to the Louvre. I looked back and saw a string of blue chalked heart on the bridge, the national assembly, as far as my eye could see. I decided to follow them to trace their beginnings. "I love you a little," said one, "I love you a lot," said the next. "How long will I love you?" "1 year" "2 years" "10 years"... Enchanted, I am now practically racing from heart to heart to read the prior, thinking, "I'll marry you!" when I nearly bump into a woman racing down the sidewalk with blue chalk in her hand and the words, "Je t'aime!" embossed all over her shirt. THIS is how she is choosing to tell the man in her life that she loves him. Could I have gotten any luckier than to witness this?

These moments of happenstance sprinkled magic along the journey. And, these are the moments that changed me. These moments only occurred because I went with the flow and allowed life to unfold. I don't know about you, but I often try to control my every moment at home. My brain spins backwards with worry about the past, then forward with anxiety about the future. I often can't make decisions because my brain is so clouded with crap! But here, I could just be. Sure, my mind tried at times to race backward or forward, but for the most part, it quieted. It let me be. And in that space, beautiful experiences arose. I became enchanted with the surprise of what was to unfold next. Love for life emerged. Joie de vivre.

I write to you in my final hour in Paris with the prayer that I maintain this peace when I get home tomorrow, when I get back into my routine. There will be work to do, and bills to pay, but I pray that my mind remain open. I hope to remain free and in the flow, because this Joie de Vivre thing that the French do, it's good... I'm happy "here".

I will leave you with one not-so-deep, but meaningful moment here for me. I FINALLY got my Starbucks order correct here in FRENCH!!! For those of you who have had Starbucks with me, you know that my order is difficult enough in English. Triple grande non-fat, one sweet-and-low, no foam latte. Try saying that 3 times... or just once in French. It took 4 weeks, but I finally got it - and a very approving look from my familiar barista. So here it is: Une Grande latte ecrime, avec une autre dose d'espresso, sans mousse.

And with that, the sun has risen and I must get my things ready for the shuttle to the airport... that comes in less than 1 hour. Thanks again for reading my blog. You have no idea what it has meant to me to write it, for you to read it, and to receive your encouragement along the way. It has been Love to me, in so many ways.

For the last time,
A bientot,
Carin

The Loire, the Politics and the Nightclub

Bonjour mes amis!

I am pleased to announce that Holly's birthday was a BLAST. We began the day with a jog through Paris. One thing to note is that Parisians don't jog. In fact, they don't seem to exercise at all. Here, you don't see gyms, or workout clothes for sale. As the book I am reading points out, ugly jogging pants offend the beauty of Paris... Regardless, Parisians' slim figures still boggle my mind. I know - you're thinking they walk everywhere. Perhaps. But they also take the Metro, drown their meat and fish in buttery cream sauces, use only whole milk, sip coke (never diet), eat baguette for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and enjoy their wine throughout the day. We're clearly doing something wrong in the States.

All of that aside, Holly and I got over the fact that people glared at our jogging outfits with disgust, and began her birthday with a jog. I knew exactly the route I wanted to take. We entered the Louvre through its eastern courtyard, which empties into the the main entrance, where I.M. Pei's glass pyramid greeted us glittering against the early morning sun. It pointed a perfectly straight path for us through the Tuillery Gardens, the Concorde and the Champs Elysees, directly to the Arc de Triomphe. At one point, we rested near a pond where a white pelican danced for us as if on stage. Sheer bliss.

Her birthday was a gorgeous day, with crystal blue skies and radiant sun. After our jog, we dressed for summer elegance in white linen, flowy tops and oversized sunglasses. We felt... well, Parisian, and relished in it. After a bit of birthday shopping, we went to Montmarte (not to worry - we took the Metro this time), where we lunched on sweet salads with warm goat cheese and several glasses of crisp white wine. After some ice cream and a stroll, we enjoyed more wine before clumsily making our way back to the apartment, where Holly promptly... PASSED OUT! After several hours, (in addition to a slight buzz, she still had jet lag,) I tried waking her, but she shooed me away. Famished, I finally gave up and went for Chinese takeout. There, I met an unemployed 33 year old french economist who explained to me the merits of not working in France. This was quite an education. He apparently makes 80% of his previous salary, therefore affording him the ability to indulge in 2-3 movies a day and as much Chinese takeout as he wants. As he pointed out, with such a good life, why would he work? He has a point, but I still don't understand how this is good for France's economy, so I shoot off questions, which he considers rudely American, so thankfully, Holly rescues me just in time, appearing at the Chinese restaurant doorway spry and on the hunt for me - and food. Turns out that she also awoke famished, and realizing that she only had one hour left in her birthday, she decides that she MUST see the Eiffel Tower. And so we left the unemployed movie-going, Chinese-eating economist, went for yummy pizza, and set out for the Eiffel Tower at 12:45 am (technically no longer her birthday, but all the same.) We hopped onto the Metro, noticing fewer and fewer people at each station. Well as it turns out, this is because the trains stop at 1:03 am, which is precisely the time when the last train drops us off at the Eiffel Tower, which we cannot see, because as it so happens, the Eiffel Tower turns off its lights at midnight! Who knew?!? Well this makes us laugh hysterically. We end up at a cafe for dessert where I sing to Holly as she makes a wish on a toothpick posing as a candle, (the French are not so into birthdays, we found out,) before heading home for the night.

The next day, we set out for a trip to the French countryside to meet a potential business contact Holly found online. Vianney invites us to his home and insists that we stay the night with his family in Vouzon. Though I am a bit hesitant about sleeping in a stranger's home, trapped without transportation should we need to run for our lives, this journey is about living freely and fully, so I agree to go. I am so glad that I did. As it turns out, hospitality is just a thing Europeans do. Vianney, his wife, Sylvie, and their daughter, Caroline, are lovely, lovely people who opened their home and hearts to us. Insisting that we see more of France than just Paris, they drove us through the countryside, taking us to the small town of Blois, and to Chambord, the largest Loire Valley chateau where the French government still hosts galas for foreign prime ministers. The couple cooked us an extravagant four course meal with three bottles of wine that began with Champagne, followed by moist meaty fish swimming in a buttery shallot sauce so good that Holly and I sopped it up with bread until there was no more, and ended with an array of fresh goat, brie and Roquefort cheeses. And this isn't even the best part...

The best part was that for the first time in France, I REALLY got to practice my French! Sure, I walk into bakeries every day and masterfully order my croissant and coffee, sure I can ask for directions and prices, and make small talk with the gent next to me at a cafe. But usually, my awkward French is met with English response. Few people here actually let me speak French. But in Vouzon, our host family barely spoke English. Though this worries me at first, it delights me in the end. Often, we carry on conversation in French and I become the translator back to Holly. It becomes, "Frenglish" if you will, and this is beyond delicious! This is sheer joy. I am actually able to carry on a real conversation. We even discuss politics - Bush, and the war, France, and its economics. Actually, after my conversation with the movie-going, Chinese-eating unemployed economist, I am now very interested in French politics, and the economics of Socialism. Vianney and Sylvie can't wait for Sarkozy's new labor policies to take effect. Like many of the French, they feel France has become stagnant after 20 years of socialism, and its current 35 hour work week - stuck in its pretty, yet stoic history, as if trapped in a beautiful painting, unable (or unwilling) to advance with modern times... and therefore, unable to compete globally. For hard-working honest businesspeople, this is naturally a concern. When back in Paris, Holly and I begin to notice that even the architecture reflects their concern. In London, you find many modern buildings amidst the historical landscape. Striking a balance between preservation and advancement, the British seem to use their country's rich history as a foundation from which to evolve and grow into the future. You don't see this as much in Paris. In stark contrast, it seems to be grasping onto its glory days. As a tourist, this is what makes us adore Paris. It is romantic. It is an escape. It is an illusion. This works for tourism, but not so much for global economics. A Frenchman I met today told me he's worried that Paris is becoming like Venice - a tourist trap rather than a leading European capital. Interesting... However, one thing to note is that Parisians do seem to enjoy life more than we do - they spend their evenings with friends and family, rather than blackberries and the office. Vianney and Sylvie want better labor policies, but they don't want a 60 hour work-week. Can there be balance somewhere?

The last bit I will share about my time with Holly is that on Saturday night, we finally went clubbing! Though on the plane to Paris, Holly sat next to (get this-) a French RAPPER who filled her in on the hot spots for Parisian nightlife, his suggestions either got lost in translation, or he enjoys a different type of club scene than we do... Fortunately, Vianney told us where to find the "IT" club. (Apparently, this is where Sarkozy held his inaugural bash!) With an hour long line at midnight, and a bouncer who seemed to randomly discharge perfectly adorable people, this club was clearly THE place to be. But getting in would be a challenge. Holly found us a cut through the line, but then we had to get through the bouncer. In front of us, VERY cute girls who told the bouncer they knew so-and-so inside were shooed away like flies. So I panicked - If they knew someone and were sent away, I figured there was no way that Holly and I were getting in. I used my best thinking and quickly unbuttoned my jacket and fluffed my hair... We got in!! Haha!! Inside was a loud psychedelic maze - a gaudy mix of disco balls, velvet, and pink and purple fluorescent bulbs bouncing smoky, hazy light off the stone walls. It was as if Austin Powers regurgitated all over the place and never returned to clean it up... More than 1000 Parisians packed the club, dancing in go-go boots and thick headbands to a horribly cheesy DJ who mixed the Greatest Hits of the 60's and 70's with what must be current French rock, but sounded more like the Monkeys dubbed in French. Though Holly and I swore we were in the Twilight Zone, we loved it, and danced until 3 am, at which time, there was STILL a 30 minute line to get in...

On Monday, Holly left and I joined my cousins, Stacy and Scott, for a road trip through the Loire Valley. The first order of business was to get out of the city in our rented car. If you've ever driven in a foreign country, you understand this challenge. Not only could we not understand the road signs, but they each seem to point in contrasting directions for the same destination! This remained true for the next 2 days. And to top it off, within 5 minutes in the car, a troop of 3 policemen on foot (yes, on foot,) pulled us over. They immediately let us go, and thankfully, Scott, our resident historian and driver extraordinaire, has a great sense of direction. Though we had a few frustrating mishaps - a missed exit here, going the wrong way on a one-way street there, he masterfully found our way out of the city, to all of our intended destinations, and back to the car rental counter in Paris last night.

While in the Loire, we took it all in. Fields of red poppies, expansive farms and vineyards engulfed us, then would disappear as the road narrowed into small villages where medieval homes were built into the caves of the mountains, and "small" chateaux stretched high above towering trees. We followed the Loire River and watched it shape the towns. The first day, we visited Villandry, a chateau in the western portion of the Loire, known for its expansive gardens. Scott is a gardener and as Scott and Stacy have been planting tomatoes and peppers, strawberries and flowers, Villandry was a must-see. More than 9 gardeners design intricate geometric landscapes of hundreds of vegetables and flowers semi-annually, changing seed with the season. While there, we collected rose petals for our scrapbooks - soft memoirs in fuschia, blood red, tangerine, and sunshine yellow. We marveled at their beauty over dinner - a leisurely meal with four courses including foie gras, duck, veal, steak, a luxurious array of soft cheeses, and decadent creme brulee. We ended the day at our bed and breakfast in Amboise, an intimate inn decorated in soft buttery yellows that was built in the 16th century and now rests on a pond surrounded by roses and lavender.

The next day, we enjoyed flaky croissants with homemade jam for breakfast before heading to Chenonceau, a chateau first built before the 11th century, then given as a gift from Henry II to his mistress in 1547. Its interior was stunning with hand-made tapestries adorning walls that stretched high to gilded ceilings. Bridging the river below, a long tiled gallery lit by more than a dozen arched windows once served as a ballroom for royalty, and a hospital during World War II. We then visited Monmoussau winery in Montrichard, where we toured the caves in which they make "Traditional Method" sparkling wine, (aka: Champagne, but in France, only Champagne made in Champagne can be called Champagne) and then enjoyed tasting sweet and brut wines on their sunny hilltop patio which overlooked green pastures freckled with Spanish-rooftop cottages below. After a lunch of omelets, steak, and crepes, we ended our tour of the Loire with a stop at Chateau du Clos Luce, the home in which Leonardo da Vinci spent the last 3 years of his life; now a museum paying homage to the extraordinary man, featuring recreations of his pre-dated machines, famous paintings, and rooms in which he lived and worked.

As you can tell, it has been a very busy, yet wonderful week. After 10 days of traveling and spending time with friends and family, I am now back in my Paris apartment, ready to relax and enjoy my last week here. I plan to go to the French Riviera on Sunday and Monday, so I'll try to send a short blog before leaving. Until then, I hope you have a wonderful few days. Please be well and send greetings to all back home.

All my love,
A bientot,
Carin

Eating and Riding My Way Through London

Bonjour Mes Amis,

I hope this blog finds you well. I'm just back from a few days' holiday in London, where I rode my way through the city on every mode of transport: foot, bus, boat, wheel and tube. I did everything touristy and loved every minute of it.

I arrived in London to a glorious day. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and the air warm. I don't know if I've mentioned it, but the weather in Paris has been a bit damp, cool and gray, so needless to say, London's warm weather was a welcome change. I was ready to explore, but first, I had to check into my hotel. Naturally, I decided to stay in Notting Hill. As a die-hard romantic, and champion of cheesy chick flicks, the town intrigued me, and fortunately, I was not disappointed. As I ascended from the subway, white row houses draped in cast iron terraces greeted me like a rainbow after the rain. Mohawked students and Burberry-donned yuppies hurried past the antique shops and florists, coffee houses, and bookstores. This was my kind of neighborhood.

I quickly showered and changed, and took off for my day. Notting Hill is about 2 miles northeast of city center, and there seemed to be a diagonal path through Kensington and Hyde Park that would take me there. All about efficiency, I entered the park, but once I did, both my stride and time seemed to slow down. Acres of plush green grass carpeted the earth making a playground for tumbling babies and barefoot children. Families and couples and napping people peppered the landscape with blankets and picnics as far as I could see. I could have stayed there all day, and I almost did - getting lost along the crossing pathways, stopping for 20 minutes here, 10 minutes there to sit and stretch my face to the sun. But my stomach growled and I was ready for a snack. I noticed, then, that all of the picnics surrounding me were catered by the same chef: Harrods. And though I had no intention of visiting the department store while in London, it seemed to be calling my name.

I entered the store through the perfume department, an impressive site on its own. Marbled columns cradled the gilded ceilings from which delicate chandeliers hung. Topiaries of soft pink roses filled the room, accenting the lavendar and vanilla aroma throughout. But this was not what impressed me most. Rather, and not surprisingly, it was: the market. From pastries to meats to fresh cut flowers and herbs, your senses awake here. Endless and exquisite, one can only float through Harrods market, as if on a magic carpet ride around the globe. Sushi chefs in black kimonos serve plump gorgeous salmon and tuna sashimi amidst a backdrop of japanese writings, screens and fans. In the next room, scents of garlic and tomato escape into the air as thick Italian men in tall chefs hats sling pizzas into wood-burning ovens. Next door, a bubble-gum-pink 1950's soda shop serves sundaes in short tin cups along a long formica counter. Room after room, aroma by aroma, the market enchants and delights. It is Disneyworld for adults. Small World - The Food Version, if you will. Even the donuts are perfect - Krispy Kreme, of course, moving along a conveyor belt from the oven, through a shower of thick icing arriving in your hands just in time to melt in your mouth.... mmmmm

When I finally left this haven, I found that my double-deck chariott conveniently awaited. Yes - I mean those tour busses that circle the city while a cheesy guide tells bad jokes and shares detailed information about every building in sight. Mind you, it has never occurred to me to take one of these busses, but my parents recommended it. And if my parents, who are South Beach-loving active folk recommend sitting on a bus for an hour, it must be good. But, it was expensive - 22 pounds (or $44), so when the driver winked my way and offered me the trip for half price, I knew it was meant to be. And it was! I rode that bus for an hour and a half! I befriended the driver and guide, enjoyed the sun, and saw more of London than I could have ever seen in 48 hours walking there. The bus then dropped me off at London Tower, just in time to catch the last River Cruise - a ride that came free with the bus tour! As I sailed off toward Westminster, I watched the sun lower and delighted in the divine timing. Famished, I later disembarked to find the nearest Carnaby Street pub where I stuffed my belly with what else, but hand-battered fish, crispy chips, mushy peas and a pint of house ale. Needless to say, I left the pub ill, but deeply satisfied, wondering what all those fools are talking about when they criticize British cuisine...

I woke the next morning to walk Portobello Market before meeting my cousins, Stacy and Scott, at their hotel. After a long, long embrace and a quick cleaning-up, we all set about for a day of site seeing. We wandered London leisurely, exploring historic streets and stopping in cobbled courtyards. Scott was our resident historian, teaching Stacy and me about the history and churches and wars won there. Ready for dinner, but each wanting something different, we (of course,) ended up at Harrods. There, we shared a cheese plate, drank a glass of wine, Stacy and I dove into a chocolate sundae, and Scott relished in his $30 salty (corned) beef sandwich and pickles. We ended the evening with Avenue Q, a saucy adult-only version of Sesame Street that is a MUST-see if you have not already. History, Harrods and a Hilarious show! I love this city....

Day 3 in London was short and we had a long list of things to do. 1. Drop luggage at train station. 2. Breakfast. 3. Watch changing of the gurads. 4. Ride the London Eye. It was going to be tight, but we could do it. We arrived at the changing of the guards in time to get a front row spot for the marching band. Soldiers in red flannel coats and tall furry hats forged past us while playing the trumpet, the trombone, the drums. Enthralled with the pomp and circumstance, we waited for more... and waited... and waited... With our front row spot for the band, seems we had a last row spot for the ceremony. We heard some shouting and shuffling of feet and peered on tiptoes to see. A man in an electric wheelchair offered for Stacy and me to stand on his platform for a better view, and though at first we hesitated, we then hopped on - he offered, right!!??!! From there, we could see the soldiers standing and waiting. A lot of circumstance - gone was the pomp. So with an Eye to ride, and planes to catch, we proceeded along a royal park toward the river.

Approaching the Eye, it overwhelmed us. A huge ferris wheel hosting 30 or so glass pods that each hold 25 guests, the London Eye towers over the city. It is grand - taller than the skyline, slim and sleek, rotating so slowly that it seems to stand still in time. For Stacy and me, this was a must-do. Not only because it offers the best views of the entire city, but also because it is remiscent of the time when I (age 11) bullied her (age 8) onto a rickety wheel at our local mall, and then abandoned her as she screamed for me. I'm not proud of this moment, but it has become one of our favorite jokes to laugh about as adults. The joke, though, was of course on me as today at 32 and 29, it is me who is morbidly afraid of heights, and clung to her arm ranting, "whose stupid idea was this?" (it was mine) as we ascended higher and higher into thin air.

As we descendend from our pod, we hurried to the train station so that I could make my flight back to Paris, where I now write from a cafe below my apartment. My friend Holly arrived this morning and is napping upstairs. Stacy and Scott proceeded to Amsterdam and will join us here later this week. In the meantime, Holly and I will celebrate her birthday tomorrow and hopefully get into some trouble. I've yet to check out the Paris club scene and with a partner in crime, I'm looking forward to a few fun-filled days...

Until next time, mind the gap and have a wonderful day.
A bientot,
All my love,
Carin

Getting Lost.. and Finding Paris

Bonjour!
Welcome back. Thanks to all of you who wrote me back, or posted notes on the blog. I love hearing from you, so please keep them coming.

So, it is day 7 and I now own 3 French scarves. Yes, 3. I just can't help it. When you are here, you are struck with this deep desire to one of them. To not just be in France, but to be French. To be part of this culture so lovely, so pretty, so picture-perfect that I will buy as many scarves as necessary just to play the part. Well yesterday, the most incredible thing happened... One of them actually thought I was one of them. I swear. Here's how I know: he asked me for directions. Directions! A frenchman asking me for directions! French people do not ask a tourists for directions.... Have you ever heard of anything more delicious? Of course I could not oblige - I didn't even understand where he wanted to go, but the important thing is that he asked. This was a moment of sheer joy.

Contrary to my desire not to be one, I have become quite the tourist since we last spoke. I've been to the Louvre, Le Jardins du Tuilleries. The Louvre is one of those places you must go see when in Paris and I cannot comment on it any better than guidebooks. The Mona Lisa is small and the crowds to see her are large. You'll leave wondering "why is this painting so special?" and though there are theories, I still question. To me, there are more beautiful paintings and sculptures there, and it is the architecture that is most spectacular - the haunting castle, the expansive estate, the overwhelming glass pyramid entrance. But then again, I am an architect's daughter, so what can I say? The Tuilleries Garden is something to see, but I've discovered that I prefer picnics off the beaten path - on park grass between the Tuilleries and the Champs, over an antiquated bridge.

On Monday, I decide to go to Montmarte, an old artists village atop a hill overlooking the city. Its cobblestone streets still wind around the hill, while painters and sketch-artists fill the town square, making this little town homey and majestic. Naturally, this is a place I must visit. It seems a bit far to walk, but I remember my pact (see last blog), and the pain au chocolat that I enjoyed for breakfast, and I set out on this trek. Besides, I have maps and guidebooks - I can't go wrong.

Well here's the thing about maps and guidebooks... they show you which streets to take, but they do not describe the types of neighborhoods you'll be walking through. (This requires experience, which I now have, and could therefore advise any of you approrpriately. However,) Somewhere along the way, I find myself in the 'hood. If you know Detroit, think 6 & Woodward. If you know Cleveland, think Hough. This is where I am. Blocks back, I realized that I had wandered out of tourist territory - gradually, the boutiques became clothing marts, the cafes - fast food cafeterias, and the shops - temp agencies and Western Unions. This was a real lower-middle class Parisian neighboorhood, where I now imagine is where the majority must live - honest people who work in banks, and hotels, restaurants and markets. I felt foolish and embarrassed for having assumed that all Parisians were like the priveleged few who sip cokes and smoke all day at cafes near my apartment. I am (of course,) lost in this thought without realizing that the streets have now become flat-out raw. Sex shops offering a peep show for 2 Euros have replaced the Western Unions, and where there were banks, are now cell phone, wig, tattoo, and tabacco stores all with their metal gates open, pushing their wares on the streets with neon pink and green cardboard hand-written signs. The streets reek of rotted fruit and tar. Pregnant women pushing strollers, teenagers in huddle, and old men selling cigarettes all crowd the sidewalks, making it difficult to walk through. I desperately want to take a picture of this scene - to remember and show this other side of Paris that Frommer's somehow leaves out, but I think better of it. I clutch my bag and hurry my pace. The thing is, I no longer see signs for Montmarte, and this worries me. A wonderful thing about Paris is how well marked the sites are. When close to a monument, church, or museum, arrowed street signs point exactly toward your destination, making it nearly impossible to get lost. In this moment, however, the signs for Montmarte have disappeared, and this does not seem like a wise spot to stop and ask for directions - or to pull out my map. (Note: I feel ashamed to say this, as though I should be tougher, more coarse, like I should be more interested in experiencing this other side of Paris, but when you are lost, and you don't speak the language, exploring the grittier side of unknown cities is not something you want to do.) Fortunately, I see a Metro station, and the beauty of Metro stations is that above their entries is always a map. Aha - I see where I missed my turn. Go left 2 blocks... gold!... a sign for Montmarte again, pointing me exactly.... toward a dead end. Hmmm.... okay, I use my best sense of direction (which any of you who have driven with me know is non-existent,) and continue. A jog to the right, a jog to the left, and the incline begins.... yes! Incline is a good sign when going to the High Hill of Paris. So I climb, and as I do, I notice that the quaint bakeries, well-kept apartments, and sidewalk cafes return... as does a homogenous yuppie population. And though I am glad to no longer be lost, I can't help but think about how segregated we humans still are, and wonder why we are each handed a particular lot in life. I may have been a wimp going through it, but I'm grateful that my journey took me where it did, through a part of Paris I never would have seen or believed otherwise.

I do make it to Montmarte and I love the town with all of my soul. It is exactly as the guidebooks promise, and better than I imagined, but unfortunately it starts to rain.

After a glass of wine to regroup in a lovely cafe, the adventure continues when I meet the epitome of the stereotypical pushy frenchman, Stephane... who not only tries to pick me up for the evening, offering me "much satisfaction," but also asks me to marry him. Though I am not the least bit interested in being satisfied by Stephane, it is now a terrential downpour, and he offers to show me how to use the Metro, so I go. We end up across the Seine from my apartment in a charming area of the Latin Quarter that I had not yet seen. It is crowded, and bohemian, and filled with cheap, mouth-watering Greek food. I do not want to dine with Stephane, but the smells of pepper and garlic and lamb are making me drool. The question is.... how do I ditch Stephane and proceed as quickly as possible toward the next gyros? It's impossible. So, I go home (Stephane-less and gyros-less)... But, I am thrilled to report that I returned this afternoon for a "pita extra grec", which means gyros overflowing with frites and cucumber sauce. I ate this salty delight on a lamp-post lined bridge overlooking the Seine while a street musician serenaded me with his accordian. It was, as expected, heaven.

One thing that we've yet to discuss is the difference in living somewhere vs. just visiting there. One major difference is the need to buy house-things... like soap, toilet paper... feminine products. It would seem that this is not such a big deal. Go to store, see what you need, and buy. BUT, when you don't speak the language, this is a bit disarming. You want soap, but the package says, "douche". Well, in our country, there is a difference between soap and douche! Not so here. Here, Douche is shower soap. Note to self. To be sure, I buy both a bar of soap, and the liquid douche. When I unwrap the bar, engraved in italic letters are the words, "Toilet Soap". No joke. And I was worried about the douche.... Toilet paper is also different. Here, toilet paper mostly comes in pretty pastel colors like baby blue, pink and peach. I'm not sure why this is so, but toilet paper the color of cotton candy grosses me out. Moreover, it is impossible to tell if you are buying 1 ply or 2. I know my french numbers, and they are absent. The good news (especially for Holly who will need to use it,) is that I bought wisely: 2 ply, white. The only one white they had.

Speaking of shopping, I will wrap this blog entry by telling you about my favorite street in Paris. I discovered "Rue Montorgueil" on my second day here. It is just beyond Les Halles, formerly the significant open market of Paris for 8 centuries. The only remnant, Rue Montorgueil is a slice of old world markets - butchers displaying large carcusses on hooks, cheese shops offering huge wheels of aged cream, vegetable stands with peppers and eggplant in perfect pyramids. This is what a market is supposed to be. Scents of freshly baked bread, oversized lillies, and raw shrimp hypnotize your senses as you stroll. It is literally arresting. For those of you who know that the open market is my favorite place on earth, you can only imagine how thrilled I was to find Rue Montorgueil. I was even more thrilled when it showed up in the book I am reading (thank you Amanda), as the writer's favorite street in Paris too. She gave me the tip to go in the morning when the street is ablaze with vendors setting up shop. It is great fun and something I recommend to anyone coming here soon.

That is all for me for now. Thanks again for checking in and sending me notes along the way. This is an incredible journey which is only possible because of the loving support I've received from family and friends. A bientot!

Bonjour Mes Amis!

Hello my friends! And welcome to my blog. I know that some of you have been worried about my lack of communication. No worries... the internet in my apartment is, how you say in English... not working. :)

So it is Day 4 and frankly, I wish I had written prior because there is simply too much to include in one entry, lest I bore you to tears and you never return. So, I will do my best to keep it to only that which really matters, and reserve some of my general observations for later entries.

So where to begin? Let's start with my apartment. It is beyond adorable. Teeny tiny, and adorable. It fits my couch (which also doubles as my bed), a restroom with a heavenly deep bathtub, a dining room table (which also serves as my kitchen counter, and conveniently, my chopping block), and a small kitchen, whose refridgerator I've discovered does not work. Of course, I only discovered this AFTER buying wine, grapes, and (you guessed it,) cheese. This has caused a most unfortunate stench that for the life of me, I cannot wash away from my grapes. Oh well, c'est la vie.

The apartment rests above a cobblestone square of cafes and restaurants in a neighborhood I can only liken to Greenwich Village. Streets are lined with seductive bakeries and charming cafes, lush boutiques, and bars filled with fabulous, gorgeous people casually sitting outside sipping espressos and cokes as if they have nothing else to do with their day but sit and enjoy. (ahh, to be French). The neighborhood is artsy and funky and has a significant gay population, which to me only adds to the charm. Not so for Tony, the Italian Frenchman who lives across the alley and tries to converse with me whenever my windows are open. If only Tony knew how good he has it...

After my nap on Day 1, I wondered the neighborhood and found that I am very close to the Bastille. While sitting on the Opera steps, enjoying the Harie Chrishna (sp?) chants, the gentelman next to me strikes up a chat. He is a musician who does not like Paris because of the smell (I think - remember, language barrier,) but wants to show me a part of Paris that does not smell. Only 2 minutes walk, I am told. Of course, I am a bit hesitant to walk off with this stranger, but something tells me to go ahead. There's too many people out for him to try anything funny. Besides, it is an adventure and day 1, so I go. We proceed to the "ports", where I am met with a delicious fragrance mix of roses and sea salt, and I am instantly glad that I came. Rich mahogany houseboats line the green water, while fuscia and peach and yellow roses provide shelter from the rest of Paris. Lovers nap and picnic in the grass and I long to ditch the Frenchman so that I can stay and write in my journal. I somehow manage to do this successfully and enjoy the rest of the afternoon with my feet in the grass, relaxing and writing, reading and napping. Once, I am woken by a chorus of schoolchildren singing about the Champs Elysses. This is among the most beautiful moments of my life.

I must also mention that on Day 1, I enjoyed the single most delctable morsel of food that I've ever had the privelege to eat. A chocolate almond croissant whose name does not even slightly do this flaky, buttery, chocolatey bit of heavenly delight any justice. Mmmm....Who needs men when there is pastry?

The next day I wonder off in the other direction and shop, forgetting that I have an entire month to spend my money here. I just couldn't help it. The women dress so superbly here that it is a fever to look half as good as them. Flowing linens, fitted coats, sturdy bags. And the scarves... Parisian women wear scarves brilliantly. And not all the same, either. A myriad of colors, fabrics, knots, and yet each seems to be wrapped perfectly around a long delicate neck. I decide (of course), that I must have one. After checking out a few street vendors and boutiques, I find myself in discount store where everything is cheap, and this pleases me. Scarves for 7 euros - not bad. So even if I end up unhappy with my purchase, who cares... it was only 7 E... Mind you, this is actually $10, but in our little playland that we call Paris, I see 7, which seems closer to 5, and this is surely a price I am willing to pay to be fashionable. I choose a yellow satin one - regrettably. While it indeed brightens my face, it is also 2 feet too long, and blows frantically in the wind, like a balloon, or a parachute, really, flapping at my eyes, and getting caught in my lipgloss. Needless to say, the yellow parachute now rests comfortably in the closet and I continue my search for the perfect french scarf.

The other accessory that is so clearly chic (though I will not buy,) is le chien -the dog. It would be impossible not to miss Henry here, for the dog du jour, is of course, the Yorkie. Fortunately, I have already found the posh pet boutique near my apartment to spoil my baby with french souvenirs upon my return.

Also near my apartment is the Jewish quarter. Though I don't go to synagauge regularly at home, there is something magical about going when abroad, realizing that you are part of this larger family oceans cannot separate. I could not find a synagauge in the phone book, so I wandered onto the "Jewish" street and happened upon a small sheul still in session. I peeked my head through the window (no doubt looking like a terrorist or freak tourist,) and (yet) was invited in. I found my place with the 2 other women behind the "mechitzah" - a sheer white sheet that hung about 2 feet from the wall. The rabbi was in the middle of his sermon and I listened intently for words I understood. "Quarante" (40), "Moshe", "Aaron". Stringing these words together, I decided that we were discussing Moses leading the Jews through the desert for 40 years. Not understanding much else, I absorbed my surroundings. The sheul was small - a storefront no bigger than 200 square feet. Every inch of wall space filled with bookshelves holding siddurs and machzors and talmud, posters with hebrew sayings and photographs of our ancestors. About 30 men were packed in chairs, facing every which way while children ran through crevices laughing and screaming. No one seemed to mind. This was their home, and for a brief moment, they shared it with me, and I am grateful. I am worried, though, for the women haven't spoken to me at all. Quickly realizing that I (language barrier) have nothing to offer to the weekly chat session, they talk with each other while I watch them. They are beautiful, of course, and I long to speak their language for one moment of acceptance here. As I watch them and listen to the sermon, I suddenly realize that the congregation is standing and chanting a hebrew prayer - finally! Something I can say! Of course, it is a different melody than I am used to, but to this, I can add. When we sit, another woman joins us, and an older man pokes his head behind the sheet and begins pulling crackers and chips from a cabinet behind us. Suddenly, the congregation is chaos. Coke and juice and potato chips flying onto plates and being passed behind the sheet into my hands. I pass the plates along - halleluyah! A role I can play! I am needed! And when the wine cup comes, I pass it too. Each of the women sips, then passes it to the next and I watch, sad that I am left out of kiddush. But after the last one sips, she passes and offers it to me, and I blush with grace. So it is to be Jewish. Oceans apart, language aside, we are all one. I thank them profusely (in French) and stand to leave. "Shabbat Shalom" I turn and add. They smile. Big. Perhaps it is because they too felt accepted, or because they too felt the sameness of our people, or perhaps because they realized that I am indeed Jewish and not a terrorist, or a freak tourist barging in...either way, they repeat in unison, "Shabbat Shalom." I practically skip home.

I have been walking a lot here. In fact, I've yet to take the Metro, and frankly, I may never. Since my diet to date has consisted entirely of pastry, bread, cheese (fresh - not from my fridge), chocolate, wine and grapes, I think it wise to continue walking to get where I want to go.

So yesterday after sheul, I walked to the Eiffel Tower and back. About 7 miles total. You'll note that this is the first (and only) "touristy" thing I've done thus far. I am sorry to admit that I was a bit disappointed with the Eiffel Tower. Don't get me wrong - structurally it's spectacular. Standing beneath the tower, its high neck and vast breadth are inspiring. Just try not to look around you, and you will remain starstruck. Surrounded by droves of people forming lines wrapping back to the Seine, and intermingled with ice cream, crepe, popcorn and waffle stands, and a singing carrousel, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd stepped into Epcot, or even EuroDisney, but certainly not the real Eiffer Tower, for the real Eiffel Tower (in my dreams, at least), is the epitome of romance. Long-lost lovers reunite here, running toward each other, embracing at last just as the pidgeons take flight above them... Right? The Eiffel Tower in my dreams is not a ride at Cedar Point. The Eiffel Tower in my fantasy has no room for screaming children whose shirts are dripping in chocolate ice cream stains. Ahhh... reality... Fortunately, looking up, and once above, there is only awe.

Along this route, I strolled along the Champs Elysses, something I've looked forward to doing again since my visit here half a lifetime ago. Don't be disappointed, but this again was a major disappointment for me. From the Concorde, the avenue is gorgeous; lined with plush leafy trees and rose garden parks that gently embrace families and students and lovers. Lost in thought and fantasy, I am suddenly rudely awakened by a neon GAP sign and loud packs of pushing people. I'm usually one who loves crowds, but the transition is so abrupt, that I almost trip. I move along, sure that soon I would be upon the elegant Champs Elysses, the romantic avenue of all things lovely, of Louis Vuitton and Hermes, but not so; instead, I am met by McDonalds. Perhaps it was so jammed because I went on touristy Saturday, so when Holly and Stacy are here, I'll give it another shot. But until then, I will stick to the quaint and funky streets whose inviting cafes and beautiful boutiques ooze the Parisian elegance I adore.

Unrealistic fantasies aside, the reality of the neighboorhoods, the parks and trees, the gardens and architecture, the history, and culture and people are fascinating and breathtaking. I am incredibly grateful and enjoying every moment. There is nothing more delightful than reading at an outdoor cafe listening to syrupy french that you need not decipher to be soothed by its sexy sound. It is serene and surreal. As if I've walked into a painting and it is so much better in here.

That is all I will say for now, so that I leave something for my next blog. Thank you to all of you who have emailed to say hello. Keem 'em coming, as I miss you all. And finally, to my mother and all of you who are mothers, have a happy and blessed Mother's Day.