Today I decided to take a break and begin the delectable process of reading the blog Orangette from it's very beginning. And after a few minutes I happened upon this post about Paris and her love of it.
Prose poem for Paris, inspired by an ugly tart
"Oh Paris, your pastry is perfect. I’ll eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Paris, you kept me up until 3am and made me shy on the phone. You laid a blanket in the park and spread it with saucisson sec and fromages qui puent and we drank Champagne at two in the afternoon on your big day. Paris, I watched the eight o’clock news alone in your apartment and ate chaussons aux pommes in line at the movies, and I bought your small modern packages delivered by the small trucks that block your ancient streets.
Oh Paris, you gave me skirts with rabbit-fur trim and danger-sexy designer bags on sale. You told me I looked like Cleopatra. You said j’ai envie de te faire l'amour and you brought me croissants in the morning, and oh Paris, you looked away when I walked your streets red-eyed, holding a wad of Kleenex. You made me say stupid things and stay too long and we were so lonely together, you and I.
Paris, now you’re making me write like Allen Ginsberg in "America."
Oh Paris, Sundays in Seattle aren’t the same"
- Orangette August 2004
Somehow she captures my sentiments. Exactly.
So I am in love with french. I am in love with France. And I am most definitely in love with Paris. Somehow Vancouver doesn't even begin to compare.
After all the conversations where people told me that I would appreciate Vancouver more once coming back, make me feel a little bit disappointed, because I most definitely miss the winding cobblestone streets, the daily markets with their fresh cheese and candy stalls, and the gorgeous feeling of speaking french all the time.
Gah.
I need a little french love in my life right about now.
So thank God for Fridays and long weekends, because the day is almost over and I will be getting a tiny bit of french love with a glass of wine over dinner with some of the people I love the most in this world; My family.
Santé!
Friday, July 31, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I am back
So that's it, is it? Two months in Europe and then it's over? Just like that?
Well thankfully for me, I fell in love, so it just can't be the case.
Oh wait just one moment. Hold your horses, my friend. Did you think I was referring to a MAN?
Now really, why would you ever think such a thing? (Other than the tiny fact that I do happen to Adore (with a capital A) a lovely french accent and might have an infatuation with men from other cultures, and that I am a hopeless romantic myself...)
Me and Olivier in the south of France
But carrying on... If you so insist. I will tell you "our" story. But, of course, starting with our first encounter.
And before I begin- Do. Not. Even. Start. To. Think that this will be some monotone drone-like love story. This is in fact LOVE we are talking about. Not a word you just throw around, now do you? With or without a man, love can involve passion, and riffs, and everything else involved in a torrid affair. Even rocky beginnings...
So pay close attention.
To be frank, me and France didn't exactly start out on the best of terms... No, I would definitely say we did not. Because in fact, I arrived in Paris ready to pick up my lovely blue backpack, and lo and behold, the luggage ring stopped before my bag arrived. For about a minute I stood there, in shock, thinking that there must be some sort of mistake. It couldn't possibly be. No it just couldn't be. My luggage. Did they. Oh no. That could never... happen... to... me....
Funny thing, that logic. It was SHIT.
... Because I most definitely did not have my backpack (later to be named Olivier. Pronounced, of course, with dee frrrrenche accentttte)
... Because I most definitely spent my first day wandering through Paris with a plastic bag full of all my lovely carry-on things.
... Because I ended up brushing my teeth for 5 days with a teeny weeny tooth brush in a bag that had the label "we care" on it. Which of course caused me to wonder whether they cared enough to GET ME BACK MY F-ing BAG!!!!!!!
So yes. I arrived in Paris. Sans baggage, and avec un sac en plastique. I arrived at la gare du nord located in an area I wouldn't exactly consider to be the most magical and romantic part of Paris...
A little park near the train station
I also managed to arrive on a Holiday. A day where people in France are renowned to strike and make a fuss (actually when do the french NOT make a fuss... that would be a better question). So there I was, hot, sweaty, jet-lagged and carrying a plastic bag overflowing with all the nonsense I decided to take on the plane.
Yet, somehow I made my way up to Monmartre, got propositioned by some young man, took in the views of Paris, and then with a sigh of relief got on the TGV direct to Strasbourg.
A photo taken by a lovely old parisian man at les buttes de Monmartre
It was a quick first encounter and not one that sent sparks flying, or butterflies a-fluttering. But who knew? Who knew that they very soon would be.
Cause I gotta tell you, this heart hasn't stopped fluttering since I had to leave on that jet plane.
Well thankfully for me, I fell in love, so it just can't be the case.
Oh wait just one moment. Hold your horses, my friend. Did you think I was referring to a MAN?
Now really, why would you ever think such a thing? (Other than the tiny fact that I do happen to Adore (with a capital A) a lovely french accent and might have an infatuation with men from other cultures, and that I am a hopeless romantic myself...)
Me and Olivier in the south of France
But carrying on... If you so insist. I will tell you "our" story. But, of course, starting with our first encounter.
And before I begin- Do. Not. Even. Start. To. Think that this will be some monotone drone-like love story. This is in fact LOVE we are talking about. Not a word you just throw around, now do you? With or without a man, love can involve passion, and riffs, and everything else involved in a torrid affair. Even rocky beginnings...
So pay close attention.
To be frank, me and France didn't exactly start out on the best of terms... No, I would definitely say we did not. Because in fact, I arrived in Paris ready to pick up my lovely blue backpack, and lo and behold, the luggage ring stopped before my bag arrived. For about a minute I stood there, in shock, thinking that there must be some sort of mistake. It couldn't possibly be. No it just couldn't be. My luggage. Did they. Oh no. That could never... happen... to... me....
Funny thing, that logic. It was SHIT.
... Because I most definitely did not have my backpack (later to be named Olivier. Pronounced, of course, with dee frrrrenche accentttte)
... Because I most definitely spent my first day wandering through Paris with a plastic bag full of all my lovely carry-on things.
... Because I ended up brushing my teeth for 5 days with a teeny weeny tooth brush in a bag that had the label "we care" on it. Which of course caused me to wonder whether they cared enough to GET ME BACK MY F-ing BAG!!!!!!!
So yes. I arrived in Paris. Sans baggage, and avec un sac en plastique. I arrived at la gare du nord located in an area I wouldn't exactly consider to be the most magical and romantic part of Paris...
A little park near the train station
I also managed to arrive on a Holiday. A day where people in France are renowned to strike and make a fuss (actually when do the french NOT make a fuss... that would be a better question). So there I was, hot, sweaty, jet-lagged and carrying a plastic bag overflowing with all the nonsense I decided to take on the plane.
Yet, somehow I made my way up to Monmartre, got propositioned by some young man, took in the views of Paris, and then with a sigh of relief got on the TGV direct to Strasbourg.
A photo taken by a lovely old parisian man at les buttes de Monmartre
It was a quick first encounter and not one that sent sparks flying, or butterflies a-fluttering. But who knew? Who knew that they very soon would be.
Cause I gotta tell you, this heart hasn't stopped fluttering since I had to leave on that jet plane.
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