November and December

Rain in Paris isn’t quite so romantic or lovely on the verge of winter. Every day this week I wake up to gray skies and misty rain; I’m currently wearing two pairs of socks and leg warmers with the heater in my apartment blasting. It’s only dipped down into the 30s once, and stays around the mid-40s on average – it was 7 degrees last Friday in Plattsburgh. I’ve turned into such a baby. People were warning me in the beginning of Autumn when I bought my relatively light, suede kilo shop jacket that I’d be cold in the winter. “Nah, I’m from Vermont. You don’t know cold here.” Now it’s not even below freezing and I find myself lusting after furry sweaters and puffy jackets in shop windows whenever I venture outside.

I’m currently reading A Moveable Feast, sketches of Ernest Hemingway’s life in Paris in the twenties, (Liz sent me a diligently duct-taped box of books to read this winter for Christmas because she’s the best friend and loveliest human in the world and knows me so well). He describes Paris this time of year: “All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops …” It’s rather bleak, but in a beautifully melancholy way that I strangely revel in, anyway. Plus, more Christmas lights appear along every rue each day.

It’s normal for a travel blog to taper off eventually, especially as the writer becomes accustomed to a life in a new place; I have little adventures all the time, but at this point my life I Paris is so normal to me that keeping an online, public blog is more like keeping a journal of my daily life for everyone to read, and I guess that’s a bit strange for me and doesn’t seem like it’d be interesting for anyone to read. I’ve had a few people ask me to write a new post, though, so I can write about some of my mini adventures in the city, since I am still discovering Paris anew all the time.

Ben arrived in Paris October 30 – I left my apartment at dawn the day after arriving home from Germany the night before.

He’s seen a lot of Paris at this point, of course. He's always up for little adventures, which is why I love him. We have yet to go to Versailles or inside the Loubve, but he’s seen all the other main attractions of Paris and then some; we even ventured inside the Notre Dame on a Sunday when a service was happening. Men in white robes chanted in Latin beneath stained glass windows, and Ben drew 666 on my forehead with holy water. Such a sacred experience.

Le Petit Ceinture

One Saturday we walked along Le Petit Ceinture, an abandoned railroad that runs through the heart of Paris. Graffiti decorated the stone walls along the train tracks overrun with plants and decomposing yellow and orange leaves. I stepped along the tracks instead of the pavement most of the way, taking those awkward steps you have to take when you’re walking down stairs that are a weird width or on stepping stones that seem like they were placed by dwarf people.The Little Belt was seeing the variety of wild herbs growing along the walls – yarrow, mullein, comfrey, plantain … it was a wild apothecary, and all I could think about was all the tinctures  I could make if only I had jars and bottles.

I slid on piles of melted candle wax left over from Nuit Blanche when the tracks were lined with candles for the night as part of an art exhibition. The best part of

We ended up wandering to an enormous pavilion market dedicated solely to music. Tables were piled with cardboard boxes of records, cds, cassette tapes, posters of Bob Dylan, Miles Davis, Kiss. Books about music history and vintage headphones sat unceremoniously on plastic fold-up tables. One table was filled with old movies on dvd. I found It’s a Wonderful Life in French. I really wanted it, but it wasn’t close enough to Christmas time yet to justify such a festive purchase. Plus, imagining George Bailey dubbed with a French man’s voice ruined the prospect. Sixty three percent of why I even watch that movie is for James Stewart’s voice.

We could see all of Paris from the top

A week before Thanksgiving, holiday festivities became acceptable, though. Ben, Sara, Vera and I walked the Christmas Walk at Champs-Elysees. Christmas music played on speakers as we made our way past stands selling potential, rather generic Christmas gifts for loved ones – pine cone wreaths, pottery, exotic teas, candy, hats, jewelry, soaps. I sipped hot wine, which I ended up having to chug when we got to the ferris wheel because the drunk carnies wouldn’t let me take it up with me.

At the top we could see all of Paris – the Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, the Grand Palais … I didn’t buy any Christmas gifts there. Ben and I did holiday shopping at Montmartre instead.

One of my favorite places Ben and I have explored thus far is Le Cimetiere de Montmartre. It’s weird to walk through a cemetery in a city. It’s different from cemeteries back home – many graves aren’t marked by a simple tombstone, but by what resembles a tool shed big enough for a couple shovels, usually with one or two stained glass windows inscribed with a scripture. Some of these “tomb sheds” are more intricate than others – a few resembled miniature Temples of Delphi; one woman’s loved ones had a majestic statue erected in her likeness, a young version of herself, standing like a queen with rays of light shining from behind her in gold on onyx pillars. I felt as though I were standing before an Italian goddess. She was obviously very loved.

Cats – hundreds of cats – silently crept around tombs, guarding us closely and keeping a safe distance. Black, gray, calico, striped, many of them pregnant. Someone had built small wooden coops stuffed with hay, probably for them to give birth in and sleep in. Crows cawed loudly overhead as we slowly meandered along the cobblestone path examining statues, strange French names, notes written in sharpie on miniature guitars and ballet slippers as offerings to loved ones who had passed on.

Ben strummed his guitar as we walked, and I thought about how long it must have been since the place had heard music; I imagined that if there were ghosts or spirits they were probably dancing and happy. Dusk was falling when we decided to make our way out to walk home through the Red Light District.

Ben approached a fluffy orange cat who was eyeing us, and I knelt to take a photo. The little guy bounced over to me directly and rubbed his purring body against my black pants lovingly. I pet him, even though I’m incredibly allergic to cats. How could I not? Petting a fat orange cat is worth risking an asthma attack if the cat seems lonely enough. He followed us 20 feet or so, then sat down and watched us walk away.

Mom and Bill are going halfsies with me on a plane ticket to the States so I can be with my family for Christmas. I am beyond ecstatic. My flight is to Montreal, so I’ll probably take a bus down to Plattsburgh and get picked up there. It’s going to be so strange being back in Plattsburgh after being in Paris, especially knowing that I’m going home to Paris in hardly any time.