Mai/May 2011
Tonight is a Hemingway night. It's Paris and it is raining outside. Earlier, at the
fruitier (fruit shop), after the long bus ride through the puddle of a city, the prim nosed lady at the counter quipped that my bag of apples came to 1,80€. “I don't know if I have that much.” but lo and behold, there it was in my
porte-monnaie (wallet). I was as surprised as anyone, for this is Hemingway's Paris where ends barely meet. How he could afford to eat oysters and drink so much
liqueur, who knows. I suppose post-war Paris was just different.
That little sack of hard bright apples fit perfectly in the crook of my arm. The lady with the nose seemed relieved that I didn't need another sack to carry it. As I stepped out from under the awning and around the queues of people waiting for their
baguette I remembered when I used to work at that gallery down in Bigfork. The people at the grocer used to call me the “girl who never wants a sack.” Watching a girl juggle an armful of groceries must be good enough entertainment in a small town.
But this is a big town and there is always something to see. An old man bundled in a trench coat and plaid was struggling to mount his bike as he crossed the street, one foot on the ground, the other hobbled on the pedal. He was having a bear of a time. His eyes bulged with the effort and his hands were knuckled gray over the handle bars. Was he was smiling or grimacing? I wanted to laugh for his sake but wasn't sure if he thought it was a joke.
But back to the apples and going home. Below my place is a bar where only men hang out. It is the
Bar de l'Avenue. They are always there, watching
football (soccer) on the TV that hangs in the corner. The barman stands behind the
zinc*, wiping tall beer glasses with a great square
torchon (dishcloth). He spins the glasses with just a few fingers inside because his hands are too big. The men hunch deeper into their leather jackets when the score gets bad, their
cigarette smoke drifting out onto the sidewalk tables. On the other side the
cordonnier (leather worker) leans on the door frame of his shop, arms crossed. He avoids my gaze ever since I didn't want to pay him what he asked of me to fix my broken purse.
To get to my place you walk through a dark corridor where the wall's paint is peeling and the smell of mold hangs somberly. I punch in the code on the doorpad in the inner courtyard then push the carved wooden door into the narrow passageway of the foyer. It always smells musty and fishy. Up four flights of creaky wooden stairs where my foot, short as it is, hangs over the edge of the steps. After the spiral I can hear the lady in her apartment facing mine listening to her
maghreb (North African) music, which she doesn't turn off until the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes I stumble over at 4am, telling her its just “
trop fort” for crying out loud. She politely turns it down. The next night it is the same story all over again.
My studio is small and dingy. Yes, dingy would be a good word for it. Just the place a writer would write a novel. A place where a misstep puts a hole in the floor, everything sits crookedly, and crawlers need to be removed from the bathroom or bed every day.
It is only seven o'clock and I should go out and enjoy this city as gray drifts into night. The Louvre is open late but I feel like staying in. It is the moment to justify turning on the lamp by the window to augment the bare bulb in the wall. Maybe I'll open the window a crack to listen to the rain.
The patter of raindrops falling on the neighbor's terrace gives a little company. As the night grows so do the sounds. The toll of church bells reverberate along the stone buildings of the boulevard and the “bom-pah bom-pah” of sirens bounces down the street. The sound of French sirens is so endearing, the opposite of their task. After the ambulance passes, the whizz of car tires cuts efficiently through pools in the street.
I've fished out one of the apples and savor the crunch of it. It is crisp and tart, cleaving away decisively.
It's a good night, you know. Paris is not always so kind. Many people come visit but much fewer come to live. There is a reason for that.
Hemingway wrote, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”
In saying this, he answered my hopes and fears. It is good to be here. While it is sad to go there is no need to fear. Paris is such a place that even if you leave, its personality will grow in your soul like an apple seed, rooted and determined to never leave your memory of experience.
Living in Paris is not always easy yet it is rich. It is a gift and I'd like to think I have learned a thing or two along the way. Now it's black outside and there is nothing to see except my own reflection in the glass. It's time to close the window. Goodnight.
*The
zinc refers to the traditional practice of using zinc for bar counter tops.
If you would like to explore my neighborhood:
1. Click this link:
Google Maps.
2. Enter in:
88 Avenue de Saint-Mandé 75012 Paris, France
3. Select Street View.
