First Adventures in Paris

Coming “home” to Maia and Matthieu’s apartment in Paris was amazing after two weeks on the road. It’s weird that lying by the water, eating fresh seafood and wandering aimlessly around beautiful European cities all day for 14 days is exhausting. 

We took a train from Montpellier in the South of France all the way up to Paris, then took a bus to their street, Rue De Birague. There’s a cute, quintessentially French park right by their apartment with a fountain and old men in trench coats feeding pigeons, and Victor Hugo lived right around the corner.  

Carrying all of our luggage up six flights of narrow, winding stairs was no fun, but I forgot all about that when I entered their apartment. It’s beautiful. Black stairs wind up through their front door past a bookshelf filled with hundreds of books; at the top marble steps lead up to an adorable bathroom with a footed tub. The room I’m sleeping in, which is usually Matthieu’s music room where he keeps his five guitars, faces out over roofs and balconies, and when I swing open the windows I can hear church bells every hour. Black and white framed photographs of India hang on the walls all through the apartment, taken by Maia’s mom’s friend in India. In the living room, Matt’s hundreds of cd’s, mostly blues, are lined along a wall. Three small glass balls hang from string over the kitchen table, and when the sun shines through the window they cast rainbows through the room. Also, you can see the Eiffel Tower in the distance from their kitchen window.

(View from the bedroom window in M&M's apartment)

After we settled in a bit and had showers, Maia’s mom, Diane, picked us up in her car and drove us to her apartment. Maia acted as my tour guide from the passenger seat, pointing out the River Seine, Notre Dame, the most expensive restaurant in Paris, the city’s most famous ice cream with a snaking line of tourists in front of it … I teared up – I couldn’t believe I was actually here. Finally. Maia teared up, too. She feels all my emotions since we’ve been basically glued together for weeks.

 Diane’s apartment is even more spectacular than M&M’s. She has a hammock in her living room. We had tea and sandwiches, tarot readings and did some fun magazine personality quizzes.

My first whole day in Paris was a Sunday; Maia woke me up with coffee and croissants, and we went straight to the open market by her house. The weather has been like Fall the last week, so I’m in heaven. Everyone was wearing pants and long-sleeved shirts and scarves, and some people were even wearing jackets. There was a light breeze, and it’s been a little overcast, but not nearly like the Mistral in the South.

The market is like a farmer’s market on steroids. I couldn’t see where it ended from where we entered the square of white tents set up in perfect rows. People, mostly men, yelled out what they were selling -fruits, vegetables, fish, beef, clams, jackets, jewelry, shoes, exotic sculptures, soap, herbs, and paintings. Maia bought mangos, peaches, onions, garlic, tomatoes, cilantro, and figs (for me!). Last night she made a salad with mangos, figs, cilantro, onions, olive oil and some spices I don’t know. She also made dank guacamole. The last few nights I’ve looked forward to 9 p.m. for two reasons: One is that I’m still not used to the way French people don’t eat dinner until nine or ten, so I’m absolutely famished by the time it’s ready; and two is because Maia makes amazing food. And we always have wine.

(Dinner by Maia May)

After the market, Maia went to visit her Grandma in Rue De Boulanvilliers, which is where my apartment is, so Matthieu spent his last day off being my tour guide around the neighborhood. I can’t even remember all of the major sites I saw in just a few hours, but some of them were St. Michel, Notre Dame, the Louvre, Pont des Arts (the bridge with all the locks on it), and Quai Malaquais, which was probably my favorite. It’s a strip on the opposite side of the river to the Louvre where vendors have stands and stands of really old books, records, posters, and furniture. Down the street a bit I felt like I was in a movie because a band was playing the kind of music you expect to hear in Paris – something like this:

We only got lost once, (Matthieu is a WONDERFUL guide, but neither of us is a human compass like Maia), and on the way back we went through the gay/Jewish neighborhood. In one part, some Jewish guys dressed in orthodox garb were standing in the street asking people who walked by, “Are you Jewish?” I don’t know why, but probably for something having to do with the Israel-Palestine conflict. It’s a lot more prevalent of an issue here since there’s such a large Jewish community in Paris. Anyway, I didn’t know Israeli food was so damn good – Matthieu bought me a falafel at a place where you stand outside and one of two bearded guys comes up to you with a notebook in hand and asks you what you want and gives you a number; when your number is called you hand your receipt to the guy behind the counter and he whips it together without even looking. The falafel was way better than Aleka’s, I’ll tell you that.

(The best tour guide)

Back at the apartment, while Matthieu and I waited for our counterpart to get home (it was the longest the three of us had been separated at all since I arrived, and I think we were suffering from mild separation anxiety), Matthieu introduced me to Jacques Brel, Barbara, Leo Ferre, George Bressens, and other famous musicians, and then he jammed out for a while on the guitar.

I let Maia cut my hair. I haven’t had a professional hair cut in more than five years; I always let my friends do it, but only after being pestered by friends and family about how my ends look like hell, and then I give in after hearing this from four or five people. This time, though, it was my decision, and I didn’t even flinch when I heard the sound of the scissors over the bathroom sink. In fact, it’s the first time in five years I haven’t secretly cried after caving in and letting a friend cut my hair. In the spirit of new beginnings, my hair is three inches shorter.

(Hair cut!)

That night, around nine o’clock, I sat drinking a glass of white wine and reading La Farme des Animaux by George Orwell when Matthieu yelled to me from the kitchen. “Flea! Viens! Come here! Vite!”

I ran to the kitchen where he was pointing out the window. There, the Eiffel Tower was sparkling with a trillion lights and shining a spotlight over the city. “It sparkles every hour,” he said.

I can’t wait until seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle, shopping at open markets, taking the metro, and drinking good wine and cheese feel like a normal part of life for me.