Crosby Stills and Nash in Paris

Sometimes I feel like a journalist or social anthropologist - an outsider going places and watching others with a notebook in hand. And sometimes I do things or go places just because I think I should expand my boundaries and explore new things. I felt a little like that last night.

I noticed that Crosby Stills and Nash were playing in Paris. Hmmm, I recognize the names, but I am notoriously deficient in my knowledge of contemporary music and the music of my contemporaries. I can count on one hand the number of rock or pop music concerts I've attended. I've actually attended more classical music concerts than rock or pop. I'm not very good at remembering the names of classical composers or artists either. It's embarrassing.

My sons are well aware of my musical deficiencies and are incredibly patient when I ask for the umpteenth time: "what's the name of that group again?" It's Bob Marley, Mom. Oh yeah, I knew that . . .

A few years ago my sister treated me to an Eagles concert in Denver. Wow! What a treat! But again I felt more like an anthropologist than a music lover. Of course I recognized and enjoyed the songs once I'd heard them. I don't live under a rock after all! ;-) But I'm really bad at identifying musical groups with the names of the songs that they've written and made famous.

So last night I decided to enlarge my musical education by wandering by the Olympia theatre around showtime. I hadn't bought a ticket ahead of time, I trusted that I could pick up a ticket at the last minute - and I did. Even though the show was sold out, there is usually someone with an extra ticket to sell - especially if you need only one. I lucked out, and got a great seat at a discount price.

Now I can at least recognize Crosby Stills and Nash if they cross the street in front of me, and yes, I could sing along with at least a couple of songs; but the largely French (and largely male) audience was clearly more familiar than I was with the songs they played.

Bicycling in Paris on Sundays

I went for a long ride on Sunday. You can really appreciate Paris as seen from the banks of the Seine when cars are not allowed.

Bicycling in Paris - II

I woke up this morning having second thoughts about buying a bicycle. How many times will I ride it in order to amortize the purchase? And what will I do with it when I have to move out of this apartment at the end of August? I didn't ride it yesterday when I went out, I took the bus for a trip that wasn't that far. It would have been easy to get there on the bike. . .But I was kind of dressed up, wearing white pants . . .

This morning I was determined to go for a ride, and I spent many long minutes trying to wrestle the bike back into the elevator. I got it up here, I should be able to get it down! I got plenty dirty in the process - good thing I wasn't wearing white pants.

Once I finally got outside I had to face again that irrational fear. Where does it come from?? How can I blithely get on a plane and travel to a foreign country all alone when the simple act of getting on a bicycle scares me? Where does that caution come from?

One image that came to mind today was of my first bicycle. How old was I? Six? Eight? Anyway, I remember the bicycle well - it was really ugly - black and red, used, a boy's bike, and a little big for me. But I loved it. I felt a tremendous freedom on that bike. (this was back in the days when kids actually played outside - no "play dates" back then . . .) I was also quite a daredevil. I remember very clearly pushing the limits - standing up on the frame, no hands, etc. However, I also remember one day showing off - "look ma, no hands!" and just then I fell off the back. Fell on my head. (No helmets back then either). Scalp wounds bleed a lot. Did I get stitches? Go to the emergency room? Maybe, I don't really remember. I do remember a lot of blood. And I also remember someone (my mom?) saying: "See what happens when you show off?!"

So it took me a long time to try to ride hands free again. And it was only last year at a mountain bike clinic with Carol, that I started relearning some of the 'tricks' that I could do when I was eight . . .

So that is what I'm doing these days. Enjoying Paris, but also asking questions, pushing my limits, learning more about myself.

And now I can park my bike in the 'cave' where it will be more accessible. Much easier than wrestling it into that elevator! I just take it down these stairs:



p.s. I had a good ride! I got my heart rate up, and had a good workout.

Bicycling in Paris

I woke up on Sunday morning thinking: What a good day to go for a bike ride! It's not too hot, not too cold, not too many cars in Paris; many streets blocked off for pedestrians, roller bladers, and bikes.

I've been thinking about this for a long time. I even got a Navigo pass because I read that you can use your Navigo pass to check out bikes at the Vélib stands.

And I've been practicing! I've been making strides in overcoming my irrational fears when I rented bikes in Ravenna, Switzerland, and Annecy.

So today is the day for my Vélib initiation. I set out with my Navigo pass, my credit card, and a bottle of water. Sunscreen? Check.

Vélib' (a contraction of the French words "vélo" (bicycle) and "libre" (free)) is a program whereby the city of Paris has installed over 1200 stations throughout the city with over 16,000 bikes available to pick up and drop off anywhere. The first half hour is free, and the charge is only 1 euro per half hour after that. The program is a huge success and I've seen people of all ages riding them. It's time for me to start!

There is a Vélib station right near my apartment and I go there full of anticipation. I'm excited and ready for some exercise. I hold my Navigo pass up to the machine and follow directions. Nothing happens - the bikes refuse to unlock. I try again, following the directions in English this time. Again, nothing. And no one around to ask for help. I decide to walk to the next station. Maybe there will be someone around, an experienced user, so that I can figure out what I'm doing wrong.




The next station has more more people around, and I ask a friendly looking woman for help. She tries to help in somewhat accented French, but again, no luck. She has a receipt, a white ticket - but the machine still refuses my credit card and she doesn't know why. It turns out that she is a tourist here too.

Finally, another young man arrives and I again ask for assistance. He tries going through the steps, following the instructions. Again, no luck. We finally conclude that my American credit card, lacking a smart chip (called 'puce' in French) is the culprit.

No bike ride for me today. :-(

Fast forward to Thursday: I really would like to get this bike thing sorted out. I've explored the idea of getting a French credit card with the requisite smart chip, but that will be nearly impossible. What to do? I've also looked online for longterm bike rentals - with no success.

Then suddenly, an inspiration: Craigslist! I look up bikes for sale and find one at the right price and within walking distance of my apartment. I write to the seller who responds immediately. Within 30 minutes of going online, I've met the seller, checked out the bike and concluded the deal! Woo hoo!

I now have a NEW BIKE to explore Paris!!

Here it is in front of my apartment building:


Oops! Here it is wedged into my tiny elevator (I live on the 5th floor). Maybe I haven't thought this through?? But I'm happy!!

My Sister - update

My sister left the hospital today. Whew. There were some very anxious hours for my mother and my niece when my sister suffered serious post-surgical complications that landed her in the ICU.

However, my sister is one tough cookie, and I am in awe of her resilience. She has suffered a 100 times more blows (both literal and figurative) than I have, and yet she continues to surprise us all by picking herself up, dusting herself off, and living to fight another day. She is an inspiration.

I've had it easy, I think. I've lived a charmed life and things have mostly gone very well for me. She's had a much harder time of things and sometimes resented living in my shadow. I was the more conservative (i.e. cautious) one, the "good girl"; while she tested the limits at every turn - often with unfortunate results. We didn't get along when we were younger, but as we've grown older we've come to appreciate each other's gifts and unique paths. We now have a very close bond and I've shared secrets with her that I've shared with no other. I admire her courage and tenacity in the face of adversity, and she is happy that I've broken free of self-imposed constraints.

I spoke to her on the phone via Skype and was relieved to hear her sounding much better. She reiterated her wish to see me follow my dreams here in Paris. She reminded me that in following my own dreams I am an inspiration to others to do the same. So it is with her blessing that I enjoy my stay in Paris.

Here is a picture of the four of us:

I'm the oldest and that's my spunky sister on the far right.

I love you, Jan, and wish you a speedy recovery!

My sister

Tuesday morning. I sit here in the peace and quiet of my Paris apartment. My time is my own. I have nothing on the agenda today. No plans. I can and will do anything I want. No worries.

Well, I do have bills to pay. Finances to juggle. But I can meet my needs.

In the meantime, back in Denver, my sister is in the hospital - again. She's just had her third major neck operation, after two back operations and a hip replacement. The problem with all of these operations, besides the obvious impacts on her health, mobility, and finances, has been her almost continuous use of pain medications. Her ever-higher tolerance to narcotics creates an escalating battle to manage her post-surgical pain.

It's not a pretty sight to see her completely out of her mind in pain and in withdrawal; one feels so helpless. The nurses get nervous: "If I give her a higher dose she won't be able to breathe". But if she doesn't get enough she screams and thrashes. It's frightening.

I was with her for the last few surgeries - I took the night shift after my mother and niece Pammy finished the day shift. It was painful for me but helpful for my sister.

I'm not there this time and so the burden falls on my mother and my niece - as it always does. For my mother it is another cross to bear, and she wears herself out spending the day at my sister's bedside and then going home to spend the evening and night at my father's bedside.

While I sit here in Paris as free as a bird.

Where do our responsibilities to each other begin and end? Where do we draw the line and take care of ourselves first?

My mother clearly takes care of everyone else first. And I struggle with the example that she sets.

Do I sound torn? Feeling slightly guilty for my freedom and my great good fortune? Yes. But I'm not ready to come back. I have a life too! And I'm only beginning to see what it means to me. I am 60 years old and I feel like my life is just beginning.

I suddenly have an image of myself as a two-year-old: stamping her foot, her arms crossed, shouting NO! as she tests her independence. Maybe I missed this step somewhere along the way?!

Anyway, I'm not ready to come back. I need this time for myself. So, until my mother or niece or sister call me up begging me to return, I'm staying put.

Musings

I just reread my last two postings and noticed that I wrote "music playing in the background". Twice. Why bother to mention something so innocuous, so banal? I suspect that many of you have music playing in the background. But in my former home I did not. My significant other didn't like music playing in the background and so I accepted that without question, without confrontation. He also didn't like candles. So no candlelight dinners for us! This is not a complaint, not an indictment of him. I probably didn't even know what I wanted. If so, I never made my wishes known. There was never a confrontation about something so trite.

Perhaps this is another lesson learned from my mother who has spent 60 years accepting the primacy of my father's wishes over her own?

Did I have to come all the way to Paris to notice these things? I don't know. Maybe. Now I have the time and the space and the music playing the background to write and to discover what is important to me.