Londres et Paris

I love London. It’s not a matter of English being spoken there, or the cabs, or the fact that there I can cross the street without fear of being run over because my mum taught me look right look left look right again, or that I saw people bike couriers there and it reminded me of San Francisco, but just…it is so calm. Even when it is busy, it is a calm busy. It isn’t constantly running to get ahead to nowhere. I am always waiting until I get to go back there—at least this time I have a date! The eighteenth of August, I will be in London until the early afternoon of the nineteenth, when I fly back to the states. I plan on Tate Moderning it up, and getting a high tea if at all possible, because I might as well. I told my mum I was going to sit in the bar at the museum alone all night and she freaked out. I will only do that if someone will come chill with me. Let me know if you are down, or in town. The latter might be a necessity for the possibility of the former.

We took the Chunnel train to Paris after a day and a bit of adjusting to the time change. I wasn’t so into Paris while I was there, but looking back on it, I loved it. I think maybe I just need to go back there on my own or with friends to explore a bit more. Our apartment had the misfortune of being a beautiful space decorated by people with poor taste. We had not only a naked lady on the mirror in the hall, but also one painted on the tile in one of the bathrooms. The floors were original for the building (so, about one hundred years old) and were not in great condition, which made walking very…loud. So imagine my surprise and delight when I hopped from hall rug to a Macchu Picchu rug! What are the chances? That room was so mine. Also, it was carpeted. The little balconies off the bedrooms had red geraniums and other plants in pots. It was lovely, and there were curtains that blocked light so I could sleep in. In the three and a bit days I was there, we went to museums and drank a lot of coffee and I learned I hadn’t forgotten nearly as much French as I had thought.

My first afternoon there, we went into the wineshop downstairs to get some wine (duh) and pate, etc., for dinner. We were talking to Claude, the man who runs the shop, when three of his forty-something friends boisterously entered, a little drunk at five in the afternoon. They were talking in French, then switched to English after Claude told them we were Japanese, and one of them suggested that my clothes would look better on the floor and my paper be better off in his pockets. After discovering we were Californians, it was suggested that I surf Paris with him all night. At some point in all this, he picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and ran down Rue Etienne Marcel about half a block before bringing me back and dumping me to the ground. Comments on the festivities were made, and he realized I was there with my parents. But embarrassment? Of course not! I believe I broke his heart when I told him I had no phone number, and was leaving Saturday for Berlin. Quel tragedie!’

If you are in Paris, go see Claude at the wineshop at 5 Rue Etienne Marcel. He is a nice guy, and he has two daughters living in California. And go to the brasserie and café next door, and get a café crème. They are delicious, and they come with a little truffle on the saucer.

Also, talk to the cabdrivers in French, if you know French. They are so happy to help you out, talk about Arnold Schwarzenegger, and pollution—and it really helps you feel better about being a designated translator when you end up where you were supposed to go. If all else fails, je ne sais pas ou tu ne parles pas anglais.