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.