What do you do when your apartment building is on fire?
What do you do when your apartment building is on fire?
Halfway through a rich, smooth mug of coffee, the building emitted a slight shutter similar to that first movement aboard a train prior to leaving the station. Next several industrial strength doors slammed. Keep in mind, that both Gayle and I are wrapped in our terry robes, our biggest decision is whether to take another bite of a flaky chocolate croissant or another sip of our heavenly brew. Puzzled, I modestly peered out the window to see an immense red truck labeled Sapeurs Pompiers de Paris.
Then four silver capped black Pompiers began pulling out hose and looking in my direction. Gayle is frantically looking in our dictionary and tells me that Pompiers is French for fireman. I remind her that Sapeurs sounds like sappers that were used in World War II to clear minefields and disarm bombs. I quickly came to two hasty conclusions: a bomb has been found in our building undoubtedly to blow up two American tourists or our building is on fire. Gayle immediately wonders if perhaps we should being doing something other than looking out our windows. Something in the order of packing, getting dressed, and preparing for a hasty evacuation.
I on the other hand know that this is news in the making! The Selby blog will be on the cutting edge if we survive. As my mind swirls with waves of self importance, it hits me that they are looking our way because I am still leaning out our window, my robe slightly parted, taking pictures with my digital camera. Hey, I would look too!
They got back to business and started running hoses to the next apartment over. Three large reels of hoses snaked in 100 foot coils. They were bracing for that moment that all firemen live for, a hose bursting with water pressure and somewhere to shoot it. But the tension slid from their shoulders, hats started coming off and long heavily gestured conversations started. One of the fireman/demolition experts even drew out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. The fire was out. I suspect it was caused by trying to jam “une baguette traditional” into a toaster.
Later that day, when we logged onto the internet from our mobile office in a park close to our favorite falafel shop we read these headlines, “Paris Hotel Fire Kills at Least 20 People” By JAMEY KEATEN, Associated Press Writer “PARIS - People screamed to be rescued from flames — some even jumped from windows — as a fire roared through a Paris hotel early Friday…” Thankfully there was no mention of my parted robe, camera or window gymnastics to get you guys the whole scoop. Even more appreciated was the fact that this happened somewhere else! Our hearts go out to those who suffered and perished!
PS: We are off on our first long distance excursion to Beaune Monday and Tuesday. No computer but will blog when I return. I have one waiting to go but Gayle nneds to correct my horrible grammer!
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Why French Women Are Sexy?
Why French Women Are Sexy?
The clouds stuck to us like cotton candy to a child at the fair. I decided to spend some quality time studying the French women to try and determine where the sexy allure originates from. Good news, I have solved the mystery and potentially saved American women countless sums on cosmetics and implants. The source via Bob (in French “Bubb”) the oracle, comes from the mouth. French women tend to purse their upper lip. Much like you or I might do if we notice a loved one with dog do-do on their shoe. One good look at that and “ooh” naturally comes out of our mouth. The French language is full of that nasal “ooh”, even “yes” in French comes out, “oui” which ends in the upper lip contracting on itself. If you do this enough times you strengthen that upper lip thereby fostering that pouty, and mysterious mystique that French women ooze. So when you next visit Paris and a beautiful French women looks at you with an enigmatic expression it might be because you look “ooh” good or it could be that you have dog poop on your shoe!
As I mentioned in my last blog report, our internet access in our apartment has gone on holiday. After a brief foray to the market near our house, I strapped on my “green monster” backpack and inserted our 20 pound Dell laptop. The bad news is I think I have gained a kilogram, the good news is that the backpack has me on an impromptu exercise regime out searching for that free wireless internet location. We started walking through the Jardin Des Plantes, the garden of plants which logically also houses a cat house and a monkey house. This is not the pouty lip cat house.
We ran across a class of French kindergarten kids walking in the alpine garden. Alpine garden in France is basically the contents of a Sequim Sedum pot. As we got closer I heard the teacher say. “Enfants, jsdfjoieioidjdn, lsjfifiu, skjejre,….” The kids replyed, “Une fleur, madksdfkn, kjdsfjd, kdkjd” Not being a French speaker I think that conversation goes, “Children what is this?”, reply “It’s a flower Mrs. Tjemsland!!!” I may have missed a few of the finer points but that is the gist of it. The class them moved to another spot and I heard the teacher say the same thing and the kids replied, “It’s a flower Mrs. Tjemsland.” I sense a bright future for the notable French bureaucracy.
Our historically favorite market street is the Rue Mouffetard. Currently our new favorite is the Rue Poncelet. But we all want to spend some time walking in histories footsteps, so we had to browse the Mouffetard. It was charming, though a little drizzly. At some point we got hungry and decided upon a busy little sandwich maker whose store was so small that a cute little 6 seat café looked vast in comparison. Students were hovering all around the shop waiting for fresh made galettes. Students are blamed for most of the civil unrest in France but they have an uncanny sense of fair food at fantastic prices. Since we didn’t see any gendarmes (police). I figured we’d found an economic, gastronomic find!
Several times we have run into a sea of blue gendarmes with Plexiglas shields, tear gas dispensers, football helmets with view screens and other riot paraphernalia, and yet we have seen no rioters or unrest. The flics (cops) are all lined up, front to back, or shoulder-to-shoulder, looking grim and serious much like a French waiter when you ask for the bill. When asked what is happening, we are told that the students are not happy with some law. The law apparently is, “if you wait long enough, the riotous students will come!” After a long wait, trucks appeared and the flics were whisked from the streets. Why did they leave? “It’s time for lunch of course!” It’s interesting to note that during this near riot, the busy Parisans, only slightly veered their course around this cordon of blue.
Back to Galettes. Galettes are tasty buckwheat crepes, these being filled with handfuls of emmenthaler cheese, ham, eggs, mushrooms, lettuce and tomato. By the time it’s done, it’s like a two handed ice cream cone wrapped in foil and paper towels. I was pleasantly full and my protein/fat meter was pegged. I sensed my doctor in Port Angeles contemplating a fresh battery of tests. I am way beyond hardening of the arteries and am now working on hardening of my feet and legs.
I suppose you’re wondering about the green machine strapped to Bob’s back. At the end of the Mouffetard, there is a little shop full of ceramics and colorful dishware from Provence. Because of my temporary extended girth, I decided to stay outside and find someplace to sit. As I sat there knowing my plastic was doing all the work in that shop, I decided to pull out my laptop and try the airwaves. Voila, I found a free internet connection and we was able to update the last blog and send a few messages out. You will see a picture of me frantically abusing someone’s internet for a few minutes. It’s for a worthy cause; I need to keep you all informed. Well Ta Ta for now!
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I’m Not Late I am Tati
I’m Not Late I am Tati
He definitely stood out in the park next to the Abbey Migne. Crisp cobalt blue overcoat and fine linen khakis among the Parisian students, orthodox Jews with their skull caps, mothers and children gesturing wildly with each other, one eye alert to their child’s antics. Alec, as we call him, was doing that watch thing again. Rhythmically shaking his arm, pulling back his coat sleeve and carefully drawing his cuff linked sleeves back exposing a gold Cartier watch. Then carefully drawing each layer back into their natural position. Another shake, another repetition.
After two weeks of surveillance, I knew that he was nervous, no, more than nervous, he was scared. Thinking back I should have called for support. It’s just too easy to loose somebody in the bent streets of Paris’ Marais district. It was the last time I would see Alec vertical. He had some serious friends!
Great, I still have another one of the falafels to eat. I snapped out of my Walter Mitty moment as we sat in this little park deep in the Marais. Today was primarily dedicated to people watching and one serious “quest”. Besides our taste bud tingling falafel/abbey moment we went for the ultimate splurge… a hot chocolate at Café Les Deux Magots where Hemingway and literary company hung out. Actually it’s more of a molten chocolate that coats the tongue and sends it to chocolate heaven. Heaven in six euro doses!
The Quest
Gayle and I have frequent “quest items” that we journey in search of. Today it was sheets for Dave and Linda and inexpensive toiletries for us. We were told that Tati’s was the place. Oui, it’s the Big Lots of Paris. No atmosphere, no service, no real order, just bargains! Once we had our bags and started our entry into the Metro, a lost Parisian stopped Gayle and asked for directions to Tati. Gayle, living in Paris, helped her quite nicely! Merci Beaucoup!!! Do I feel a book coming, “My Life in Paris Searching for the Perfect Dog” by Gayle Selby.
Toilet Training
Let’s be clear here, there are not enough public toilets in Paris. This being true, we invoked the Rick Steve’s method of using cafés for necessary relief. Now this is not a simple matter. After considerable thought and planning we have discovered the proper etiquette in this process. First you walk slowly by a busy café, looking through the people, the windows, into the back area. Find the toilet access door, which is often by the bar. It’s best to look as touristy as possible. Wear that silly hat, backpack, waist belt and camera. This makes you invisible to the French. Now drop out of sight of the café and hand your fellow traveler your touristy belongings.
Walk back to the café and enter via the most circuitous route. This walk is a bit different, you must walk erect, eyes forward, seeing no ones eyes, eyes darting left and right to find the portal of relief. Each step must be high as if you’re walking up a series of short steps. It’s more of a prance, a dance, something a French poodle would do after a bath. This is a walk of purpose in France, no one will hinder your progress.
When you access the toilet, a telephone booth with running water, finish your business and turn toward the sink. If you are lucky there will be a rod protruding from the basin with a colored oval object attached. It looks like that thing inside an older American toilet. Grab it with both hands and rub it slowly, back and forth, enjoy the moment. This is the French version of a bar of soap. Voila, you have now mastered the art of finding relief from all those coffee crèmes.
Note: This is late as we are having internet connection problems
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A New Friend and Disaster Averted
Creteil is an unusual village, wrapped around the Marne River and it’s watery children, it’s a series of quaint homes, footpaths, and bridges. We decided to leave Paris, the buzzing motorcycles and cross walks that are identified kill zones for cars vs. people, and walk in the country which is only a short metro trip away. You can see this in our pictures and some of the lovely and historic homes that dot the countryside.
At one location there were three people talking in front of a series of “WOW” homes. Gayle walked up to the lady and asked her if this was her home. She said yes, and a formidable conversation in French and broken English started for 10 minutes or so. As a non-French speaking visitor these conversations are a bit strange. Imagine standing amid these lovely homes, waterways on all sides, cobblestone streets lined with tall budding trees, and you hear sporadic words such as “Poor English”, “Mercer Island”, “Deux Chats” (two cats), “20 Years”, “Not Pretty”, “Juice”, and “New York”. These fragments turned out to mean that Jeanine, our new French Friend, speaks very poor English (not true by our French speaking standards) has a friend on Mercer Island near Seattle, has lived in this home on the banks of the Marne for 20 years which is protected by two cats, is having construction done which as we all know is not a pretty sight, has visited New York also, and wouldn’t we like to join her for juice.
We sat outside under a covered patio and discussed the best cheeses and how to smuggle them into the states. Apparently she has given this considerable thought and has hung them under her clothing at critical places and has shrink-wrapped them in her luggage. “We do this for customs and to fool the chiens (dogs) who smell everything.” You see we are becoming French as we are taking this cheese business very seriously. I am thinking about wearing two camemberts under each arm, which should confuse les chiens at the airport! We left with an important note to our Fromager (cheese seller) on how to package our cheeses for clandestine travel!
Disaster Avoided, barely
On our train ride back, we decided to visit the Gare de Lyon train station and purchase our reservations from Paris to Avignon, which is only 40 days away. When we got to the ticket counter the lady explained to us that there are no tickets available on that day except in the evening. She said she could get us there the day before though. Have you ever had one of those moments when every hair on your body jumps up and starts doing jumping jacks? We have a car to pickup and 10 other people counting on us! Before I could cut off my ear or throw myself in front of a train (laden with rounds of Brie) she mentioned that we could purchase 1st class tickets instead of our planned 2nd class seats and mingle with the celebrities such as Pat and Marty Miller who are expected on that train! Voila, we are saved! The only thing which jumped in front of a train this day was a pocket full of euros.
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Church and Cheese Heads
We started our second week in Paris at the 9 a.m. service of The American Church, Paris. It’s a beautiful old church right on the Seine attended by English speaking expats and visitors to this wonderful city. We were warmly greeted following the service by one of the pastors and enjoyed the “coffee hour” after service. Even at church, the coffee is served with a pitcher of warm, steamed milk!
From there we went on to what is becoming our favorite shopping street: the Rue Poncelet. There we replenished our supply of the “best” coffee in Paris at the Brulerie de Ternes… they have a blend called “tostada” that is especially for the “matin” (morning)… rich in flavor and not the least bit bitter (Juan Valdez, watch out!) For those of you who would like to try some of your “caveman” French, this is the best place I’ve found to try it out… Right across the street is a famous cheese shop that serves up cheese from all the regions of France. We bought raw milk Camembert from Norman cows, bleu cheese from Auvergne, doux (mild) chevre from “j’ne sais ou” (I don’t know where) and the best Emmenthaler that Bob has ever tasted. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were from Wisconsin… if the “cheese head fits”, wear it! (see pictures).
When we came up out of the Metro at the Arc de Triomphe, there were only a few cars in the roundabout circling it… very odd indeed, until we remembered that the Paris Marathon was snaking it’s way through Paris, to end at this most appropriate of landmarks… many of the faces we saw at the end of the race didn’t exactly look “triumphant”, but we did see some runners with medals.
On our way back to the apartment for a “siesta” mid-day, we stopped at a Patisserie in our neighborhood in search of dessert for later. A beautiful piece caught my eye and to my amazement, what ensued was a long discussion (in French) with the friendly proprietress about the ingredients contained in it… I felt “almost French” as we discussed it’s merits and I apologized for my language short comings… We couldn’t resist doing a little tableau, before consuming our treasure.
We ended our day right where we started: back at the American Church for a free classical piano concert. The final piece, “Pictures at an Exhibition” by Moussorgsky evoked vivid images, considering the great art we have seen and have yet to see.
As we left the church and crossed the Seine, the heavens opened up and we could see why Paris is called “the city of lights”…
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