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.
No comments:
Post a Comment