First day in Paris. Well, technically, it’s our second day. But we spent yesterday, after landing an hour early at CDG, stumbling around and trying to stay awake. I nearly plunged to my death outside the door of our flat, where the stairs start about three inches from the door. But we managed to stay alive and even feed ourselves. Steve and I took a three-hour nap in the middle of the day, in the not-king-sized bed. (Bernard, the flat owner, promised it was king sized. It could have been a futon for all we cared, after flying all night in coach.)
But after a nearly full night’s sleep, we felt much revived and ready to actually walk places. There was no coffee anywhere in the otherwise well-stocked pantry (four types of olive oil and coffee filters, but no coffee), so Steve went in search. What he found: Starbucks. It was the only thing open at 8:00 a.m. Meanwhile, I had managed to make him scrambled eggs in a saucepan (again, they have a standing mixer and a washer/dryer, but no frying pan). We felt very European.
Our Excel spreadsheet agenda called for only the Notre Dame and the Île Saint-Louis, so we did both. I was prepared to go through the motions at the Notre Dame but when I walked through the doors, I actually felt some old Catholic stirrings. Maybe it was the incense – that stuff just transports me back to kneeling on a hard prayer bench. Maybe it was the enormity of the place, and its impressive ancient-ness. But I got a lump in my throat that I couldn’t dislodge until I paid 5 euros to light a candle.
Let’s see – what else? Steve and I had lunch at some brasserie off Boulevard Saint-Michel, where there’s about a zillion college students. One such student brawled with a waiter, who she called “a little shit.” The French was rapid-fire, but from what I could glean, the little shit water didn’t acknowledge her quickly enough. There was an actual physical tussle. It was very exciting. Our waiter went to grad school in Cleveland, but he appreciated my attempts at French.
Then, we walked over to the Luxembourg Gardens, whereupon Steve was promptly pooped on by a pigeon. That sort of cut short our jaunt, although he was a good sport and went to Metroprix so I could buy some hosiery and other important provisions.
I have some preliminary observations about Paris, au cas où vous êtes intéressé.
1) The whole thing about French women being reed-thin is bullshit. It’s just straight-up not true. Parisian women come in all shapes and sizes, though I will say I haven’t seen an obese Parisian woman (or man) yet. So no, French women may not get fat, but they also don’t all look like Carine Roitfield.
2) So far, I haven’t seen evidence that every French woman is innately stylish. They do all wear scarves, however. And, I should add that we haven’t been to Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré yet.
3) French women (and men) do strut around like they own the joint.
4) French women make the most of what they’ve got. If they have curly hair, they let it be curly. If they have straight, fine hair, they’re usually rocking a pixie, or it’s stuffed into a ponytail. I didn’t see a lot of elaborate, tortured hairstyles, except on Americans.
5) Except for shopkeepers and waiters, I don’t know what people do for a living here. Mostly, people sit in cafés and smoke. Or perhaps that’s because we’re in a very touristy area, which is already driving me slightly mad.
the swift kick 