This language barrier is very interesting.  Yesterday I could not remember to speak in the few phrases I could; instead, English just kept popping out. Unlike Spanish, which I “get” the gist of and in a few days of immersion, I can communicate—French escapes me.  Imagine my happiness and surprise this morning.  First, nothing is open before 10am and few things are open at all on Sundays.  So my morning was desolate.  Thank god I could brew a cuppa coffee in the studio before I set out in the cold drizzle. I have my melitta dropper and ground beans.

About a mile and half from here, there was an open boulangerie.  I went in for a hot expresso, but was so delighted to hear the music was hip hop and I recognized the lyrics.  Now, seriously, that is not my Sunday morning aural preference, but I was truly happy to hear English.  I lingered.

I also was delighedt to spot three mosaics by Space Invader, the graffiti artist who lays down tile mosaics instead of spray paint—in the shapes of ol’ skool video game characters. Very cool.

Then I was freezing so I started bus hopping with map in hand. No particular place to go—just a foray to try to create a three dimensional map of Paris in my mind.  Four routes later, I was still not getting the lay of the land, so I broke down and bought a ticket for the “hop on, hop off” bus—local company, not Gray Line’s big red bus. Finally, I had warmth, great views and narration with French music.  Oh, lovely day.  I was more than pleased NOT to hop off in the rain.  By tour route #3, there was no escape from the cold. People were streaming on to buy tickets wherever the bus stopped—most soaking wet; the bus was SRO a couple hours after I boarded.  

Two conversations overheard that tickled me.  First an obviously well-healed middle aged American couple got on and sat facing me.  She, in Burberry coat and scarf ,with big rings and very cunning green patent leather flats and perfect hair; him in a cardigan, slacks and a flashy ring.

Her:  Let’s get off at Notre Dame.  Him, “Will we see Quasimodo?”

Her:  Looking frantically through tour book and map, “See what?”

Him: Quasimodo?

Her:  Looking more frantically at things in her lap.  With some despair in her voice, “Is that a building or is it a monument?”

Him (with no apparent mirth):  “Quasimodo.  It is what it is.  The question is, will I see Quasimodo if we get off at Notre Dame?”

Her:  Looks more frantically through tour books.

The second was a group of no fewer than 35 college boys (in black nike slacks and Black vests with a coat of arms and name of some college along with 4 adults dressed the same.  The boys all headed for the top deck where they proceeded to sing drinking songs, college songs and old favorites in Italian.  Hilarious how many people got off the bus after a few minutes with that choir.  I rather enjoyed their energy.

 I finally hopped off near the Palais and walked home to get warmer clothes. Realizing it was close to 5pm and the buses would stop in a half hour, I decided to detour and stop at the one little open Mono Marche for provisions:  Mancheco, Jambon de la Mer (which I thought was tuna—it is not) a little square of duck pate, two pears.  No bread!  

Luckily a few blocks away I noticed the gelato stand had baguettes for sale.  A more careful look determined that store was not a gelato stand, but a boulangerie de bonbons—bakery of sweets.  At that moment all I really wanted was dry feet and a cup of hot tea.  I knew, however,  that without lunch and only an apple, a thin slice of ham and coffee for breakfast that I would hungry later in the evening. I didn’t want a mandatory outdoor outing if the weather got worse.  

I had carried my nylon, foldaway grocery bag in my purse (London created some strong habits), and I felt very sophisticated when entering my building with the secret code to street door and interior door with pink nylon grocery bag---when I almost bumped into a man going the other direction.  He was as surprised at the door opening before he pressed the button as I was to hear myself say:  “Pardon. Excusez moi.  Bonsoir.”  I can’t say I understood his response, but I said, “Merci” and went up the stairs.

So a quick internet search turns out that Jambon de la Mar is Pollack with crab flavor.  Now I have zero appetite.  I knew we call Tuna “Chicken of the Sea,” so I incorrectly guessed that Ham of the Sea was tuna.  Oh, well.

I plan to grade some more papers and see if I have energy for an outing to see the hourly twinkle lights on the Eiffel Tower.  It is a short Metro ride away and a sight I can’t miss.  This is some nasty rain, however.  I did not sleep well last night between the noise of many folks coming up the wood and tile stairs, the bed which is adequate but soft, and the disorientation of waking up multiple times unable to navigate the space in the dark.

Tomorrow morning I am taking the Tour of Black Paris which should be fascinating.  It includes places where American intellectuals, like W.E.B. Du Bois and James Baldwin , lived and worked and played in Paris.  It also covers spots from the self imposed exiles Miles Davis, Josephine Baker and other musicians who found refuge from American racism in Paris during the 20, 30s, 40s, and 50s. It will do my soul good to be with Black folks again who ( just guessing—based on how little interest most white folks have in Black history) will be the majority on the tour. 

 

This is my Metro station two blocks away.

Close up

Walking toward the Opera House.

From the left bank in the Latin Quarter

From under the Eiffel Tower

So, before I lay my head down tonight, I have to map out an efficient Metro route to the meeting spot and figure out the warmest clothes combination to comfort me in the morning.

Bonne nuit, mes bon amis.