Jours of Our Lives: 4) Settling In

 

Illustration by Elizabeth Cannon

Part of an ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.

I'D READ IT, heard it countless times before, but I didn't get it. Everyone talked about how great the Marais was, and I thought what's the big deal? But now that we've been here two weeks, I'm in the know. We love the Marais! We love our Perche apartment and the building it's in--even though it took us a week to figure out how to turn on the lights in the hall at night whenever we needed to go downstairs. A neighbor finally showed us.

Perche

The streets around us have become familiar. We do most of our grocery shopping on the rue de Bretagne, at the supermarket with the $3 bottles of wine we like. The Jouannault Maitre Fromager, at No. 39, is where Jim whiffed the stinky smell of cheese. His "something sure stinks around here" line will haunt him forever, so it's perfect that this is where we buy our fromage. At No. 25 is La Fougasse, where I buy delicious brown cereal bread and little ficelles that are the perfect size for us. The shopkeeper there is a small dark-haired woman with heart-shaped lips. We've tasted her tartelettes of Provence, pizza, chevre, and Roquefort with mouth-watering success. There's something about a little round of pastry filled with savory ingredients that locks my eyes to them before my nose or tastebuds have even gotten a chance. I simply can't buy bread without also buying one of these miniature pies. On the other hand, I've shown great muscle by turning my back to the pastries and chocolates.

 

via boulangerie-patisserie-paris3.com

I needed to lose weight before I left home and just couldn't do it. Now each day I get up thinking I'll be thinner. Each morning, no luck. Oh, I might have lost a pound or two. I'm not really dieting, but I'm not eating many sweets. I'm semi-watching my cheese and fat intake though not cutting them out. Each night I have wine but not that much. I'm eating well, though not over-indulging. I hope this reasonable way of eating will work.

We've gotten to know the BHV very well. I have been busy as a little worker bee organizing Our Stuff to what I'm calling "modular units." It's not that there's any less of it, but the various categories are grouped together in smaller carrying bags and cases. I'm particularly fond of tool boxes. Easier access, packing ability, and less weight are the obsessive/compulsive results. Why does it make me so happy to do this?

 

BHV

Still no exercise besides walking, no French lessons but one, and I need them. I'm trying and want to be fluent, but my ability to form sentences has flown right out of my head--along with vocabulary and basic structure. My mind has been fried for months with our transition, but I think I'm recovering.

We have had one real day of being out in the city, though we didn't leave our apartment till two o'clock. First we went by the computer shop to check on the printer. I had to be sure it wasn't salvageable before we bought another. It wasn't, so we threw it in the trash can.

Later we rode the Metro to the Rue du Bac, where we feel happy and at home. We stayed at the Hotel Saint-Germain in this neighborhood four years ago, when we were on the last leg of our six-week trip with the girls. We have so many happy memories from that stay. Mother came and joined us, and I have a wonderful picture of our three generations sitting on the sofa in the stylish lobby. There was a white French Bulldog that we loved to cluck at and rub. Jules was his name. Jim and I paid the hotel a visit, and Daniel was manning the desk as before--but now Jules had a new pal, a black and white companion.

 

Hotel Saint Germain at 88, rue de Bac

We walked down the handsome rue, enjoying the avenue, and turned right. I had a mission at the Musee Maillol, which is one of my Paris favorites. I'd seen the Frida Kahlo/Diego Riviera show there years before and bought one of the posters. It was now framed but back at home, and I wanted Frida to travel with me around France. So I bought myself another poster. While we were there, we toured the rather kinky exhibition of Christian Schad, and I do mean exhibition.

 

Musee Maillol

Jim had been dying to see the Matisse/Picasso show at the Grand Palais, but we couldn't try until today, plus we didn't have tickets. We rode the Metro to the magnificent Place de la Concorde just at twilight. The sky was washed in blue and pink, the Eiffel Tower sparkling. We crossed the many streets to the Champs Elysees, and precisely at 5 o'clock the white lights threaded through the trees up and down the street all lit at once. It was a moment exquisitely delivered and unplanned for us--with the Arc de Triomphe framing the twinkling boulevard at its end. Yes, this was Paris!

The Palais was crowded, but we got in. Jim managed it free with his Writer's Guild card and telling the cashier that he was working, and he was. I always prefer Matisse to Picasso, although there were some Picassos I greatly enjoyed, and of course, many Matisses. But what made the show was its set-up--a conversation between the two artists. That's the notion that was so interesting, although it's hard to see any art with people herding through. A crowd like that makes me want to flee, and we did.

That night I actually took time to read for pleasure--My Blue Notebooks by Liane de Pougy, one of the famous Paris courtesans from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. This was Paris, after all, and it had been a good day in the city.

Once we were in bed and lulling to sleep, Jim coughed his head off. He was suddenly hacking and sick.

 

Beth Arnold

Paris

December 16, 2002

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Unless otherwise indicated, photos by Beth Arnold.

Beth Arnold lives and writes in Paris, where she produces her "Letter From Paris" new media project. 

For more on artist (and couturier) Elizabeth Cannon, click here.