HJS

Joel-

Well, our time in Paris is at an end! It has been a wonderful time for both of us. We have seen so many things and learned so much. More than anything it was fascinating to be in the middle of a large city for such an extended period of time. I am used to the openness of California and the expansiveness of California cities. This was very different. No wonder Parisians dream of the ocean. They even set up a little mini-beach on the Seine for everyone to get their sunbathing and sand fix!

We’re sad to say goodbye, but excited to see London for a few days before flying back to California. London is a much more expensive city, but the art museums are almost all free! We may not be able to post again, but thank you all for reading!

Au revoir!

One of the guide books we brought on this trip had a quote from somebody–I forget who–who said that he couldn’t claim to know Paris: He’d only lived here 20 years. This consoles me.

At the beginning of our trip, when we waited in S.F.O. for the midnight flight to London, a group of Icelandic ladies headed for the layover point in Reykjavik were decked out in U.S. “cowboy” gear. They had big, colorful, foam Stetsons, neon-colored bandanas tied around their necks, and rhinestones everywhere else. As they posed with plastic revolvers for the cameras in their tour group, Joel and I smiled and hoped they knew there was more to our country.

With just a few days to see a city, it’s difficult for a traveler to experience more than the activities deliberately designed for tourists. With a few weeks, you see more, but what have you really seen? I may know where the real Parisians hang out, I may know what to order and how to dress and what to do to blend in, but what does that get me, other than some cool stories to tell at parties and the general knowledge that different cultures exist?

Just as those Icelandic sweeties probably don’t understand the intricacies of U.S. culture, politics and the American spirit, I can’t–even after six weeks here–claim to “know” Paris. Why do Parisians walk so close behind each other on the street? Why do they eat tiny fattening meals instead of big healthy ones? Why do people seem so prudish in their manner and dress, and then make out like teenagers in public parks? All I have is a long list of observations; ascribing meaning to them all, and piecing them together to form a general theory, seems presumptuous and premature. Maybe after six years; not after six weeks.

I’ll go home with my list of observations. Or, rather, I’ll go to Korea with them, and make another list. Then maybe, when my hair’s a little grayer, I’ll understand more.

For now, I’m satisfied with this first trip to Paris, and excited by all the changes in perspective it’s allowed–many of which probably won’t be apparent until the years reveal them. We’re sad to be wrapping up this trip, though, and even though we’re thrilled at the idea of eating real Mexican food in a week, we’re devastated at the thought of leaving this place, which was beginning to feel like home. Yesterday we stood on the roof of the Galleries Lafayette, taking in the view for an hour. This is our city, somehow, even if we can’t yet claim to know it. We can’t wait to come back.

Joel–

Parisians love cinema: It’s obvious when you look at any event schedule. First run movies, film festivals, thematic arrangements, you name it. A big theater down by the Opera was playing West Side Story for the last two weeks. What a treat! The French seem to love any kind of movie (not just those made here), but the fact that the government subsidizes the film industry must confer a tiny sense of ownership to French appreciators of French cinema! The idea of publicly funding cinema in the same way the government funds the construction of a park or public work of art threw me at first. But why not? What could be more public than a film? A park might only be enjoyed by a community, but a film could potentially be enjoyed by a geographically unlimited population. Fantastic! In a country that loves movies this much, this kind of a public work probably isn’t a very rough sell.

Speaking of French cinema, we revisited the Centre Georges Pompidou and were able to see the Jean Luc Godard Retrospective. He “directed” the show himself. It was exciting to see themes from his films along with the mechanics and history of moving images explored in a three-dimensional space. At first the language barrier seemed like it would be a problem, but since images themselves are always his primary subject matter, it was almost liberating not to be forced to lean on words (although we probably missed a lot of jokes).

We’ve had lots of chances to find our favorite spots in the city. I think my favorite is a little circular park just off the street in the Latin quarter. It’s right in front of the Sorbonne (University) and very small, but vegetation removes it from the street almost completely. Inside the wall is a circular pathway with benches. The light here is just incredible, touching all kinds of surfaces, making so many colors. There’s even a replica of the old Romulus/Remus/Shewolf statue hidden in the bushes. A lovely spot! Places like this along with large public spaces have us really thinking about the idea of shared space in general. Paris is a great example of urban planning (especially over the last 150 years), and it’s amazing to see how human beings interact with each other in different urban conditions. The metro is a sardine can, while La Villete (park) is open and liberating. It becomes visibly apparent how different generations have chosen to deal with the problems of cultivating health and welfare in densely populated conditions. Fascinating!

Well, it’s getting late, so I’ll end this!

Goodnight!

And it’s not what you think. It’s not that they have better genes, or that they’re masters of self control, or that they simply will themselves skinny. It’s because they smoke all the time! Here we’ve been going crazy trying to figure out how these tiny little people are always standing in line at McDonalds, buying ice cream, cheese and chocolates at stores and generally eating everything we’ve avoided for the past few years. Do they all throw up in the bathroom? I actually thought that for awhile. But no: they’ve just traded one health problem for another.

I never read that book (French Women Don’t Get Fat), but some friends who did told me the basic idea is that they don’t pig out–they eat what they want, but in moderation. I’ll buy that, but I’ll also bet that whoever pushed that premise didn’t expect too many people to come here and actually try it. We didn’t pig out for long, honest. Yeah, I know I was really excited about Camembert when we first got here, but after the first few picnics, “moderation” became our rule, too. Still, we gained weight.

For awhile, we felt confused and sorry for ourselves (well, as sorry as you can feel for yourself in Paris). What were we doing wrong? Nobody exercises very much here; how are they pulling this off? Then, after a few cafe visits, it hit us. Nearly every smoker we’ve ever known would rather smoke than eat. Coffee and cigarettes, coffee and cigarettes… they live on that, somehow. And in a culture that encourages the combination, it’s no wonder everyone’s so skinny. They eat that fattening stuff, and they eat it in moderation, but it’s a moderation that is so much smaller than moderate you could only pull it off if you were subsisting on some other habit. And they are.

We may be Francophiles, but we’re not interested in taking up their diet plan, so we’re going back to our California ways to lose these unwanted souvenirs. It’s probably not much; we tried weighing ourselves on the scale in the Jardin du Luxembourg, but when we got back to the apartment and did the calculations from kilograms to pounds, it said that I was 97 pounds and Joel was 121! It might have been a little off. Anyway, our clothes still fit, but we feel puffy, so we’re cutting out cheese for the rest of the trip and trying to marry our vegetarian lifestyle with a national diet based on duck fat.

I’ve also decided to scandalize the neighborhood and run, sweaty and bare-legged, in public. I’ve only done this a few times here, wearing athletic pants in late June’s spring-like weather. The looks I got from Parisian women scared me off at first, but I was skinnier then. Now I’m desperate to run, so this morning, I got out my little shorts and ran down the canal–ow! ow! ow! on the cobblestone–managing to get a good four or five miles in. After a month here, I feel brave enough to be a fool.

Parisian women seem incapable of sweating, and when they see me flailing toward them, panting and red faced, the horror on their faces is unmistakable. After a month of living in the neighborhood, though, I feel a certain right to my little space on the sidewalk, and admittedly, a tiny little pleasure in being so unladylike. This morning, I even mustered a particularly superior “paH-don” when I squeezed my sweaty frame between two perfumed fancy ladies toting shopping bags. He he.

But just as we’re figuring out little solutions and settling in as residents, we realize we’re not. Today is the beginning of our last week here; next week at this time, we’ll be back in London, and the week after that, we’ll be visiting family in California before moving to South Korea. We’re not actually Parisians, but we could be. It’s a nice feeling.

–HEATHER

**ONE MORE THING: As you may remember, we’re not exactly technical experts, and we figured out how to use this blog and photo gallery “on the road” after our brother-in-law, Guinness, set them up for us. Anyway, we JUST discovered that people have made comments on our photos on Flickr. Thanks! We knew about the ones on this blog, but not the ones there. Boy, we’re dumb. So thanks for the comments, and yes, Bethie, the pig was marzipan. (The diet moderation started AFTER that day.)**

The neighbor’s still being generous with the WiFi, so I thought I’d hop on and share a funny story that JUST happened to us! It’s a little after midnight here, and we’ve had a long day of walking (to La Villette–a story in itself. Remind me some day.) We cooked up Joel’s favorite Paris meal: cheesy pasta, and enjoyed it with Joel’s beer and my wine.

After he finished his post (see below), Joel decided to have a cigar. He’s only allowed himself a few this trip, and since we bought this one today and had it cut at the shop, he needed to smoke it tonight.

Less than five puffs in, my dear husband let out a desperate “Oh no!” I’d just recovered from the fear of losing our deposit over a water spill in the kitchen (ask my sister, Angie, about the time I set my phone cord on fire), so I winced as I asked what had happened.

Joel had dropped his cigar out the window. Our fourth-story window.

He put on his clothes and I ran down with him in my flip-flops and the Hawaii beach cover-up that I wear as a housedress. We fumbled for the key to the back door we’ve never used. Finally, on the last try, the 300-year old door creaked open. We got down on our hands and knees. We searched. We giggled. Joel was ready to give up, but I insisted on staying. That was a 6.50 smoke–one he really wanted.

Joel made up for his clumsiness with a really brilliant idea: shine the halogen IKEA light out our window upstairs. He went up to make it so while I stayed in the courtyard, trying to look like I wasn’t planning to invade the window that the downstairs neighbor kept peering out of. When he turned on the light, it was right in front of me. He’s enjoying it now.

* A title given to him by his brother-in-law, Tom “T-Bone” Underhill

JOEL–

Like most places, walking is the best way to see Paris. Along with the notorious sights, you find fantastic things that you never would have otherwise seen. Paris is full of little alleys, passageways and secrets. You experience all kinds of different spaces — big, open skies, quiet grottos, and crushing throngs of human flesh — all in an afternoon. There’s a little door under the Pont au Change. The door, only about six feet high, opens into the masonry of the bank. Around are flowers, potted plants and a doormat. Someone lives there! Right in the bank of the Ile de la Cite — 15 feet of masonry, cobblestone, pipe and who knows what else, separating the occupants from the feet of millions of humans! The owner (Heather’s note: I swear, it was Johnny Depp!) came out to water his plants as we watched the sun go down over the river.

We were told by the owner of our apartment that the doors in Paris are a wonderful treat. Walking is really the only way to see them. It seems that no two are alike, really making you think about what a door is in the first place. Some of the oldest doors are in the Marais. This area is the only part of the old city that was untouched by Haussman in the 19th century and contains some of the oldest buildings and streets. The Knights Templar had a quasi-fortress/city of their own in this area during the Middle Ages. This is where the streets are the tiniest with tall walls that turn the sky into a thin crack overhead. You could really get lost in there! Its in this area that Heather and I have gotten hooked on fallafels!

Walking has given me a great chance to see many churches. Religious architecture is a very big part of the city. Every few streets has its own church, some monumental in scale like Notre-Dame Cathedral or Saint Eustache, and some smaller, but just as full of ideas made visible. There’s nothing like stepping out of the blazing sunlight into a cool, dim quiet. The hustle and bustle of the world passes away behind you. Truly peaceful. Some of the churches are filled with colored light, but it is much different than sunlight. The blue of stained glass in the early afternoon is absolutely, infinitely deep. I was able to look at work by Alfred Manessier at the Centre Pompidou and the stained glass of these churches was obviously a huge influence. It was amazing to see the same effects in both stained glass and paint.

Anyway, there’s lots to think see and think about!

Au revoir!

They were great!

HEATHER —

Oh, I forgot to tell you all: The other day, when we were waiting in line to get into Versailles, a pigeon pooped right on the bare shoulder of a teenage girl standing in front of us. She–the girl–was mortified, but she couldn’t reach her shoulder, so she just panicked and begged her parents to help her. Her mom fumbled for a napkin, but her dad wouldn’t let her wipe it off until he took a picture–two, actually, to get it right–with his digital camera. They were German, the people behind us were Chinese, but we all laughed with the same accent.

I think I already mentioned that I was a pigeon’s target myself this trip. I knew exactly how the poor girl felt. It comes as a warm flash–not all that wet, but warm. It must have felt really warm for her, with such an audience.

We got lucky with the neighbor’s WiFi for a minute, so I’m going to post this while I can, and save the rambling for later. Joel might try to post something, too… we’ll see!

HEATHER–

As old Sacramento Kings fans, we weren’t exactly devastated when France lost to Italy in the double-overtime last minute of the World Cup Finale. We’re used to disappointment. Parisians took it better than us, I think. Considering the raucous after parties we’ve experienced after every win, we had a fleeting fear that a loss might elicit the same level of emotion–this time, with riots instead of impromptu parades. But when the Italian player kicked the winning goal and his teammates surrounded him to celebrate, all we heard around us was gentlemanly applause.

They were depressed, of course. When we went out for beer, the guy at the late-night market was looking pretty droopy. But no one was angry or nasty or violent. Maybe they were like that in other parts of town, but in our neighborhood, they took it well.

The next day I went on a walk down through the Tuileries and along the Champs-Elysées, where they had set up bleachers and big-screen TVs and flanked the street with flags. A man noticed me looking at the remnants and put his hand to his heart. “We are all very sad here right now,” he said. I told him I saw the game and that I was sad, too. But he lives in Paris–arguably the most beautiful city in the world, and one in which it’s near-impossible not to live in the moment. He’ll get over it. As soon as happy hour the next day started up, you could feel the joy returning to the streets.

Speaking of fearing riots, yesterday we went to Versailles. Having seen it, I kind of wish I’d lived during the French Revolution–I’d love to get a shot at those royals. What excess. Imagine rooms where every wall is made of fine marble, topped with intricate designs of thick gold that frame more marble, this time sculpted in the form of your loved ones, with extravagant marble floors at your feet and priceless statues, clocks and furniture all around. Joel compared it to an endless crescendo of a Mozart symphony–everything is the “best,” the grandest, the most awe-inspiring. But with no buildup, no inch of empty space in which to breathe, it’s like dining on chocolate syrup.

Our guidebook was wrong about the price; the headphones are mandatory now, meaning it’s 13.50 each, rather than the 7.50 we’d expected. This meant we had to pass up the Mexican restaurant next to the train station, and if that sounds like a small sacrifice, imagine being a 12-hour plane ride away from a real bowl of salsa. There are places that offer, of course, burritos for 12 E a plate, but though French “burritos” have a pleasant taste all their own, they’re not like the ones back home. Still, we’ve never had Indian food this good, and we’re certainly not suffering. But you weren’t feeling that sorry for us, were you?

Today we went to Saint-Denis basilica, where all the royals are buried. They had the heart of Louis XVII on display–a recent intrigue, since they only proved a few years ago that the body they had was actually his. Poor little guy. He was only 10 years old; he died in prison in the midst of the revolution. It was interesting learning his story after witnessing the obvious arrogance of adult royals. Maybe he would have grown up to be a pig, too, but he never got a chance.

We’re in McDonald’s again, and our battery is running low. It might be a few days before we post: Bastille Day is Friday! That’s their equivalent of the Fourth of July, and the way they celebrate, we’re keeping our schedule clear for good times! We’ll let you know how it goes…

Here’s a news story we just found about the upcoming France/Italy finale: http://abcnews.go.com/Sports/wireStory?id=2163423

Cross your fingers for a French victory, just so we can have the thrill of parading with them in the streets. Allez les Bleus!