Art appreciation

Paris has hundreds of wonderful museums. No surprise there. Some of my favorites are the smaller museums - especially the ones with gardens. I stopped by the Rodin Museum the other day. I didn't even go inside, preferring to enjoy the gardens and the beautiful day. Here is an example of the art on display outside:


The second graders were visiting the Rodin gardens too:


The fifth graders were drawing the sculpures at the Antoine Bourdelle Museum:


And ninth graders were outside the Beaubourg museum busily studying their class notes for the excursion of the day:

From the sublime to the ridiculous

OK, the definition of sublime is a very subjective one. In my opinion, I had a sublime lunch yesterday. I LOVE fresh oysters on the half shell. Not everybody does. And it's a curious preference from one who grew up in land-locked Colorado. So you can imagine my delight when I discovered a wonderful tiny restaurant that specializes in fresh oysters direct from the grower in the west coast of France (Arcachon). I am even happier when the oysters come at an affordable price. The lunch special? 14 oysters + foie gras + wine for 18 euros! Delicious!!


Super fresh oysters


Delicate foie gras with a perfectly matched (sweet)wine


"La Cabane a Huitres" near Montparnasse

Oh, and the ridiculous? I stumbled upon the shop below on my way home: une épicerie américaine (American grocery store) where you can buy things you really miss from home.




Yes, they have everything from Jif peanut butter to Oreos, Aunt Jemima syrup and Pace Picante Sauce. Refried beans and Duncan Hines cake mixes. They even have Shake 'N Bake and Hamburger Helper! So the next time I'm in the mood for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead of fresh oysters for lunch - I'll know where to go ;-)

My old neighborhood

Yesterday I wandered through my old neighborhood. I was curious to see if much had changed since I left there in 1978. The building and apartment where I lived looked exactly the same from the outside. The square in front is also still the same, with school kids playing during recess. The butcher shop and the bakery still occupy the same corner although they have gone considerably upscale and now sell a lot more than the simple meat and bread that I remember.




Finally, I visited the playground where I used to take my son Philippe when he was a toddler. The playground is in exactly the same place although the swings and slides have been upgraded.

Sunday afternoon

Sundays are family days in Paris. The markets are very busy before 1:00PM when everyone goes home for a big lunch. In the afternoons, people take to the streets for walks, bike rides and roller blading. Last Sunday was no exception, even though the weather was gray and quite cold. Here are a few shots taken on Sunday:


Nice boots! Parisian women really do dress differently than Boulderites.


No need to cook, just pick up a roast chicken to take home . .


Roller blades anyone?


Ah, j'aime Paris!

New phone number

I now have a French phone number. It was a very easy process; I went to a local phone store and purchased a new prepaid sim card for my Blackberry. Voila! Now my friend Odette can call me back without calling the U.S. first.

The phone number is quite a mouthful. In numbers it looks like this: 06 73 80 08 92. But when you say it, it comes out like this: zero six, soixante-treize, quatre-vingts, zero huit, quatre-vingt-douze. That’s because the French have an odd numbering system. The number “sixty” = “soixante”, but “seventy” = “soixante-dix” or sixty plus ten. “Eighty” = “four twenties”, and “ninety” = “four twenties plus ten”. That means that “ninety two” = “four twenties plus twelve”. Get it? Anyway, trust me – it’s a mouthful!

Numbers aside, I am delighted to be back in Paris. I feel so at home here. And while many things have changed since I lived here in the ‘70s, many things have not changed. I am taking lots of photos and will be posting more soon. In the meantime, here are just a few:

Leaving FNAC with brand new books


Fromagerie (cheese shop) near my apartment


Fresh fish anyone?

Alarm

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep . . . . I awaken on my first night in my Paris apartment to the sound of an alarm. But what is it? There is no bedroom alarm clock. And it’s not a scary “get-out-NOW-the place-is-on-fire!!” kind of sound. I lie in bed contemplating my options, but I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep if this continues.

I get up to and wander through the unfamiliar rooms trying to isolate the source. I follow my ears – it seems to be coming from the kitchen. The cooking timers on the stove and microwave are silent. Then I look up and notice a flashing red indicator on the top of the tall refrigerator. Aha – the freezer door is ajar and the flashing red light and beeping sounds show me that the freezer temperature is too warm. I press the alarm button and the close the freezer door. Silence. And the freezer temperature immediately begins to fall.

Problem solved. And now back to sleep

P.S. Check out the size of this fridge (and the placement of the source of the alarm). I won't be cleaning the top of this anytime soon!

Starting over

When I first created this blog in March, 2010, I was starting over – embarking on a voyage of rediscovery shortly before my 60^th birthday – alone. I bought a one-way ticket to Paris, hoping to stay for at least six months – a year if possible. I was leaving behind family and friends. My marriage of 40 years was over, my two sons grown and independent. I had no job, no home, few possessions, and nothing holding me back. 

I had no plan for this trip. I wanted to follow my nose – au pif (oh peef) as the French say. Free to travel wherever and whenever the spirit moved me. No set itinerary, no advance reservations, no idea where I’d end up. 

And I did travel, did enjoy myself, did make new friends – and slowly came to heal my heart. I took some first steps at writing and photography, and was rewarded with kind and indulgent encouragement from friends and family.

And yet, after a year, my solitude began to weigh heavily. Traveling alone was no longer fun. I would go out each day to explore, only to return to an empty apartment and solitary dinner. I enrolled in an internet dating site – if only to find the occasional dinner companion. 

Then I met Patrice – a retired Frenchman who fulfilled most of the requirements on my wish list. Our attraction was sudden and intense, and within a very short time he convinced me to move in with him. For three years we spent every moment of every day together. We enjoyed similar interests and traveled extensively, both near and far. But our outings involved more advance planning and I was no longer able to follow my nose “au pif” as I once did. I gave up my freedom of movement in exchange for the security of a committed relationship. 

After three years those constraints began to weigh on me and I found that I longed for the freedom I once enjoyed. There was no blow up, no major dispute, but I knew that my path was pulling me in another direction. 

I have now left Paris and have returned to the U.S. - alone. I do not know where this path will lead, but I will continue to write and to take photographs. I hope you’ll continue to follow this blog as I explore life and love in the last third of life.