Tilley Hat

I lost my favorite hat yesterday. Aargh. I was riding the metro, engrossed in a book (Tales of a Female Nomad, by Rita Goldman Gelman) I got to my station and jumped up, not realizing until I exited the car that I didn't have my hat. I immediately jumped back on the train and started searching for my hat but I couldn't find it. I rode for three more stations, searching, but never found it. I am desolate. I LOVED that hat. I bought it in Camden, Maine over ten years ago and have worn it to protect me from rain and sun everywhere from Colorado to New Zealand, from Peru to Glastonbury.





I have felt somewhat self conscious wearing my hat in fashionable Paris. I think I've always been intimidated by the French notions of style. I've felt that my shoes were never pointy enough, my blouses never tight enough, my skirts never short enough. So as I walk around Paris in my jeans, Merrell lightweight hiking shoes and Patagonia layers (it's been cold here), I fear that my appearance shouts "American" - even though the clothes I've brought have been perfectly comfortable and perfectly appropriate for the weather conditions. I felt equally self conscious about my hat, in spite being complimented twice on the street. One French woman asked where she could find one like it in Paris, and another said it looked Brazilian and sexy. No one seemed to find it as dorky as I felt. And it has served me well, providing light weight sun protection as well as keeping me and my glasses dry in the rain.

Anyway, I'd become quite attached to the hat; but I have taken its loss as a message from the universe that it is time to let go of some old stories, and to develop a new look as I write a new story for myself. My first purchase? Some silly socks.


What did you expect? Dior?

La Cabane a Huitres - again!

I went to the Cabane a Huitres twice this week. I went by myself on Thursday, my laptop computer in hand so that Francis could listen to an NPR article by Eleanor Beardsley on January 1st, 2007 featuring him.

When Francis learned that I was American a couple of weeks ago, he immediately trotted out an envelope from NPR with a letter and CD recording of the program. Unfortunately, Francis doesn't have a computer so he hasn't been able to listen again to his program.

I promised to bring the computer, along with a printout of the transcript, and Eleanor's contact information. You can hear the story for yourself here:
Here is my own photo of Francis shucking oysters:


I went again on Friday. But not alone this time. My friend Colleen from Boulder had to come to Paris on business. She and Lisa came early for a mini vacation. When Colleen arrived, she reminded me how much she loves oysters, having grown up on the East Coast. She has also been following my blog, and of course I wanted to introduce her to Francis and his oysters. Here is a photo of Colleen and Lisa:



I realized this morning that all of these oyster stories are not just about the oysters. Nor are they about Francis and his Cabane a Huitres. For me, oysters are inextricably linked with Charlie and our 40 years together. We both grew up in landlocked Colorado and never imagined eating something so foreign. We discovered them together and the story of our romance is interwoven with stories of oysters. Perhaps if I stay here long enough, I can create a new story about oysters - one that doesn't have Charlie in it.

My Mother

I spoke to my mother via Skype on Mother's Day. Isn't Skype wonderful? Who could have imagined the ease with which we can now communicate electronically? When I first came to Europe in 1972, the only means of communication was via letters sent to American Express offices. The first order of business upon arriving in each new city would be to head straight to the American Express office, hoping to find a letter waiting. The anticipation while standing in line was agonizing. Would there be a letter for me?

Now I don't have to wait for letters from my mother, she has a new computer and has figured out how to use Skype. My mom wasn't online on Sunday, so I used Skype to dial her phone number. She answered on the second ring. She doesn't get out much these days; she's tied to my dad's bedside, providing around the clock care with just a few hours of occasional respite. I used to offer a few hours of respite for her before I left, going over on Sundays, watering plants, and giving her a few hours of time off. Sometimes she would just sleep, the endless routine of caring for my father taking everything out of her. Other times she would go and visit her sister, a task almost as demanding as caring for my father. Sometimes she would just go to the grocery store, waiting for someone to come over and stay in the house so that she could go out for even the smallest of errands. My father doesn't like to be left alone in the house - not even for a minute. "What if the house catches on fire and I can't get out?" he pleads.

My mother has put others' needs before her own ever since she was married at 17. I was born when she was 18 and by the time she was 23, she had four children and a husband who never changed a diaper. I can't imagine how she did it; her own young adulthood evaporated amidst the wailing demands of 4 small children. But the women in our family are strong, we can take it, we don't complain. This notion of stoicism runs deep in my veins. And so I remained in a "marriage" that wasn't good for me for far too many years; refusing to leave even though nothing was holding me back - just my own belief that I was strong, that I could take it, that I wouldn't complain. But I wasn't telling the truth about what I was feeling - not even to myself.

Now I have left. I am free. And even though I am not in Denver to help my mother, she is surprisingly supportive of my freedom. She is one of my biggest fans, reading my blog, wishing me well, and letting me go.

Thank you Mom. I love you.

Mother's Day - U.S.

Happy Mother's Day! to all of my U.S. readers, friends and family who are mothers.

Today is just a normal Sunday here in France. Mother's Day is celebrated on the last Sunday in May in France, so it won't be until May 30th this year. I'll let you know what happens then . .

In the meantime, I hope to talk with my own mother and my sons via Skype today. Ciao!

Why Paris?

"What does Paris mean to you? Why did you come here?" Lisa asks over a glass of St. Emilion. We are sitting indoors at "Au Sauvignon" my favorite wine bar on the rue des Saints-Pères in Paris.

I struggle for words to describe what Paris means to me. How can I compress a love affair of 40 years into a few meaningful sentences? But she presses on and I try to respond to her question: Paris is about Romance.

Romance? What exactly does romance mean to you? she asks.

Uh, Paris is a place where people can kiss openly in the streets, I stutter, you know, those photos of people kissing? . . . My mind flies to those black and white photos by Robert Doisneau


But this isn't really what Paris means to me. My story is much more complex, much more personal. I begin to explain to Lisa what THIS wine bar means to me: I can see the rue du Four from where I am sitting. I can see the hotel where Charlie was staying in 1972, I can remember the day when Inge dropped me off in front of his hotel, telling me that she knew that Charlie and I would get back together sooner or later, so it might as well be sooner . . .

But wait, the story starts a few years earlier; with our marriage in 1968, our divorce in June 1972, my graduation from college in August 1972 and the adventure planned with my best friend Inge as we purchased one way tickets from Denver to Paris, departing on September 1st, 1972. The surprise is that Charlie also purchased a one way ticket on the same plane - quitting his job and selling everything and following me to Paris.

Inge and I left Paris shortly after arriving here. We went to Germany to pick up a Volkswagen beetle that her sister had left behind in Freiburg. Charlie stayed behind in Paris. He didn't speak French and he didn't know a soul. The story of our personal romance in Paris continues from there and includes many many chapters. I'll be exploring some of those stories in these pages . . .

And so Paris is full of romance and full of memories. I'm here trying to sort them out, to understand them, to get over them, and to start anew.

I walked Lisa back to her hotel and as I walked past the Champs de Mars towards the metro Motte Piquet, old memories swirling through my mind; I happened to look up and I saw:

May Day

The First of May is a big holiday in France. It is the "fête du Travail" or "Labor Day" which we in the U.S. celebrate on the first Monday in September. People were bummed this year because the fête du Travail fell on a Saturday and they didn't even get a long weekend.

The labor unions typically march in big parades on May Day, but I didn't go see them. I was busy exploring my new neighborhood. Even more popular than parades, are the bouquets of "muguet" (lily of the valley) that you see everywhere. The first of May is the only day of the year when anyone and everyone can set up a stand to sell the fragrant little plants. They are reputed to bring good luck and EVERYONE buys them.

Here is what they look like:


I was going to buy some from this wide eyed little girl:


But before I could do so, this fellow arrived and gruffly took away her earnings:


It seemed pretty exploitive to me, so I waited until I found a friendlier seller with prettier plants . . .



I kept some for myself, and gave some to my friend Odette. She goes in for surgery on Friday and I think she could use some good luck.

Ballet

On my way home from my oyster lunch, I happened to notice that the Ballet de l'Opéra was featuring an "Hommage à Jerome Robbins" for Friday evening. I had no plans for Friday evening so I inquired about tickets. The performance was almost completely sold out, but they had a few remaining tickets with "limited visibility". The ticket was really cheap - only 10 Euros - compared to the 87 Euros that I paid for the last ballet that I went to!

When I arrived, I discovered that I would be sitting in a "Baignoire" on the main floor. "Baignoire" means "bathtub" in French! Here's what it looked like:


This is the view that I had from my seat in the baignoire:

I could only see the left side of the stage, so I had to wait for the dancers to come in and out of my line of sight. I didn't mind too much though; I had a great view of the orchestra.

Here's what the interior of the Opera looks like:


And here's the domed ceiling which was painted by Chagall:


Here's where you can go to have your glass of champagne during the Entr'acte (intermission):


Finally, this is the outside of the Opera building as we were leaving:


p.s. Someone asked me how it felt to be alone in Paris. Last night I realized that I felt your presence, dear Reader, as I recorded these sights and sounds. I imagined the funny things that we would be saying to each other as we watched and listened together . . .