I’m sitting in Le Fumoir. I wrote about this restauarant/bar awhile back, and though I had lunch with my Dad here right before he left, I haven’t been here to write for ages.
Aaand…haven’t really written in ages either.
At one point I tried to be really diligent about making sure I had a new post up every week, or always had a story to tell. My recent lack in dedication to the blog is less rooted in being short on stories, and more in just doing whatever I feel like doing, everyday, for the rest of my time here. Although, I will admit discovering Mad Men definitely had something to do with it.
In the spirit of doing whatever I want, tonight that means Le Fumoir after work. For under 5 euros, you can sit in the bar and have a glass of their Wine of the Month, and it’s bustling tonight. I’m sitting on a banquette, and to my left an effortlessly trendy young couple are telling stories about fishing on their respective vacations, and on my right, an elderly couple, in their seventies are on their way out. I love older French women – they so often look like they are going to get into a vintage Rolls Royce and go somewhere heartbreakingly glamorous. This woman is no exception, she had her short white blond hair styled and set into place, and was wearing an outfit that I am confident no seventy year old woman would dare to try and pull off elsewhere – red lips, a teeny fitted white halter top, and a matching white skirt that grazed the floor as she left.
The last couple of weeks have been stellar. The castle tour weekend was absolutely awesome, and it was probably a good thing that it was just my Dad and I in the car, as we basically missed turn offs and exits any time we were go
ing anywhere. In a few words, we saw three or four castles, roamed street markets, went to a wine fair, pulled over for warm baguette sandwiches made in village bakeries, dodged wild boar on the highway, and listened to jazz as we took in the views of the French countryside.
But it has been back to reality for a little while now. Work is slowly starting to pick up again, and I have been spending a lot of time putting my writing together, so that I can try to find work in a creative environment when come home. I’ve told most of my friends in the city about my plan to return home, though I haven’t told my boss yet. I think that I am probably more worried about it than anyone else will be, but I still don’t want to have the conversation.
Sidebar: There is now a table of four sitting next to me, and a completely respectable looking French guy in his 30’s is SLURPPING the hell out of his cosmopolitan-looking drink. I will never feel unrefined in here again.
Anyway, other than telling my boss the plan, I am checking things off the to-do list. This weekend I got lost on my bike on the north side of the Seine (I live on the south side) and had an awesome night picnic on Pont des Arts with some friends. Good food, nice wine, good friends and hysterically funny conversation. I am not sure that anything will ever make me feel more assured then hearing other people’s stories of living in Paris. My experience with bills and banks isn’t unique, and some have had it far worse than I have…Actually, I’ve been really lucky. For example…
The other day, I was riding the bike to work. I have the pleasure of riding down the Boulevard St. Germain to work every morning (which is kind of a major thoroughfare). Late as usual, I was rolling up to an intersection and made the split second call to run the red light, just as the cars started moving from the opposite side. But I made it.
Shortly thereafter, I saw two French policemen standing to the side of the road. One of them squinted at me, the other waved me over with the point. You know the one – YOU. OVER HERE. NOW.
No need for a translation.
Merde. MERDE! was all I could think as I slowly rolled towards them, the clicking of the chain slowing and then stopping, signaling the beginning of the end.
The whole thing went down in French, and I stumbled my way through it. Genuinely nervous, I answered as wide-eyed as I could.
“Do you know why we pulled you over?’
Obviously.
No! Gosh sir, what did I do?
“Are you a French National?”
Only when sneaking into museums.
Canadian.
“Vous ne respectez pas les feux rouge au Canada???’
Um, as a matter of fact…
I mean, of course sir. Yes, yes we do.
After a little bit more back and forth, and a lot of smiling, he thankfully let me go. As I rode away (90 euros richer) they told me I was lucky they liked Canada.
Yeah – but what’s not to like??? I wanted to answer.
A lot of my time is spent thinking about going home, as it is more or less one month away, so it’s in that weird ‘have-to-start-planning-for-but-not-really-real-yet’ phase. I still have lots to do here, and soon I will be tying up loose ends, while trying to squeeze as much awesomeness as is humanly possible out of Paris before I go. I think I am off to a good start: tomorrow I am going to one day of a festival called Rock en Seine, and I am hoping to go to the Champagne region in a few weeks with some girlfriends to do the factory tours (AND tastings!)
Will try to do a recap this weekend, but if I don’t, it’s only because I’m sitting on a terrace drinking coffee or reading in a park somewhere instead.
xo
JM
