Losing something two days in a row? Now that's a different story.

It's true.  Not only did I lose another earring, but I lost my cool.  Where did it go?  I really meant what I wrote last night.  What happened?

It was a beautiful, sunny morning.  Well, not morning really, because the morning here is actually totally dark. It's bizarre.  Maybe I don't remember life in Chicago, but is it still dark at 8:15 a.m?  I don't think so.  So, it was a beautiful, sunny LATE morning.   I'd been enjoying myself in the cafe next door to my apartment.  (I mentioned the place once.  It's where I cheated on Quirky Girl.)  The owner's name is Olivier.  Shouldn't every cafe owner in Paris be named Olivier?  He's incredibly patient with my French and even though he speaks some English, he's very passionate about me learning to speak French.  The two others in the cafe this morning?  Not quite as patient or passionate.  But that's okay!  I spoke French with Olivier, Spanish with Angelito and Italian with ????  I don't think I know his name.  He's there almost every morning and we speak Italian when we want to tease Olivier.  I'd remember his name if it was some great Italian name, but he's Moroccan.  (I think.)  Here's the deal.  Lots of Italian restaurants in Paris hire Moroccans.  They look Italian, they learn to speak a little Italian, and voila, you've got the ambiance of an Italian restaurant in Paris and no one has any idea.  (Except me, now.  And you.)

So, I finished my language lessons at the cafe (let's face it....my Italian and Spanish aren't that great either) and headed off on my bike to school.  I saw an interesting shop and decided to check it out.  It's a studio that this girl opened  five months ago.  She has lots of random supplies and people come use her space and her supplies to CREATE.  Brilliant idea!  She also sells stuff.  Stuff like earrings.  And I decided I needed stuff.  Stuff like earrings.  So, at 11:54 a.m. I bought two pairs of earrings.  (Made out of recycled materials.  Hmmm...)  I love them.

I'm a girl, so as soon as I got to school I put a pair on.  And, I'm not a girl, because I don't hesitate to ride my bike when it's freezing.  So, at 6:45 p.m. I bundled up with extra sweaters and scarves, and headed home.  Don't ask me why I decided to check my ears when I got a block away from school, but I did.  And, what do you know?  I'd lost an earring.  Panic.  Searching.  Frustration.  More panic.  More searching.  I stripped down on the street to see if it got stuck in something when I'd bundled up.  Nope.  I went back to school to see if it fell off there as I was bundling.  Not there either.  So, I started searching for the calm, cool girl that sent the blog about freedom last night.  If I couldn't find the earring, I'd hoped I could find her.  I bundled back up, headed back out and tried to think about freedom (with a constant eye on the pavement as I pedaled).  And what do you know?  Just as I was chilling out, laughing a little and tyring to decide if I could somehow add the pendant of this new misfit to the hoop of the other one, I saw it in the street!

I'm still trying to figure out what kind of lesson I've learned from this one.  Don't buy anymore earrings?!  I don't think that's it.  (But, who really needs more earrings?)  And now I'm thinking of some quote that I have no idea where it came from.....maybe one of those Flavia cards from the 80's?  Anyway, it's something like, "If you lose something, let it go.  If it comes back, it yours to keep.  If it doesn't, it never was."  Well, at least that's what I thought it said.  Until I googled it a second ago.  It really says "If you LOVE something...."   Grazie, Flavia (or whoever said it), but I kind of like my version.

Losing something isn't always the end of the world

I lost one of my big silver hoop earrings that I bought in Mexico.  I lost it in Zurich.  I guess that makes it memorable, anyway.  So if I'm sad about the earring one day, at least I can find a little joy in the fact that it's somewhere in Zurich.  That's better than just losing it at home or while riding my bike or down the drain in the bathroom.  I lost it in Zurich.  It's got a nice (ear)ring to it!

As you can imagine, I was rather upset (at first).  I was just settling in on the train back to Paris when I realized it was gone.  Panic.  Searching.  More panic.  Frustration.  More searching.  Then.....I thought of Quirky Girl.  Remember her?  My favorite barrista from the (Quirky Girl) cafe?  I'm quite sure that she's never worn two of the same earrings.  Maybe it's because she always loses one (like me) and instead of just throwing the other one away she makes a pair out of the two lonely ones missing their partners.  It's a nice idea, isn't it?  Who said our earrings had to match?  So, I calmed down a bit and stopped searching and panicking and feeling frustrated and found a little peace in the fact that I might just start wearing the misfits.

Then, all of this thinking about the Quirky Girl reminded me that I haven't updated you on her for a long time.  After the first month or so I confessed to her that I was blogging about her.  I wasn't sure what she'd think, but when I asked if I could post her photo and she agreed, I decided she probably didn't have a problem with the blog.  (One of these days I'm going to figure out how to attach pictures and you can meet her.)  Anyway, she asked for the blog address.

At some point I wrote about finding another cafe and being in London and wondering if she missed me.  In the wee hours one night, when I definitely shouldn't have been awake, I got an email from an address that I didn't recognize.  It said, "Of course, Quirky Girl misses you.  Philippe, the very proud Quirky Girl's husband."  I didn't think he should have been awake at that time either, until I found out that he's a writer!  And writers are often awake during the wee hours.

So, I went back to Quirky Girl Cafe to tell her that I got the message and  to find out more about Philippe!  She gave me the titles of some books for sale at FNAC (the French Barnes & Noble) and I went and bought one.  And guess what it's about?  Italy!

A few days later I went back for tea and she gave me another book.  This one was inscribed, "Tenley, Here is the real story of the now legendary Quirky Girl (and mine, of course).  A souvenir from Paris and the QG Cafe.  Philippe Jaenada."  Would I be happier with a pair of shoes from Paris?  Or the perfect scarf?  Or a funky bracelet?  No.  I couldn't be happier than I am to have this book from a man I've never met but feel some sort of connection to after receiving an email at 2:38 a.m.  Thank you, Philippe.  It's the perfect souvenir from Paris.

And the best part of all is that the cover has a picture of the QG.  She's wearing big glasses and a big white fur hat.  Her red leather coat is buttoned once at the breast and she appears to be wearing nothing more than this coat, some white underpants and a blue strand of beads.  Her hair isn't pulled back the way it is everyday so I can't see the earrings.  But I like to imagine that she's wearing one big silver hoop in one ear and something different in the other one.  Maybe the lesson here is instead of finding panic and fear in the loss of something, search for the freedom.

It rings my bell

When I lived in Ada, Michigan my favorite restaurant was Yesterdog.  It was in Grand Rapids in a neighborhood called Uptown.  Why do I feel like it was even listed in the Preppy Handbook?  I don't think it could've been, but it must have just been the same time of life and for some reason I've connected the two.  (If I was in Grand Beach I could check.  I happen to have two Preppy Handbooks on the bookshelf.)

One of my favorite things about Yesterdog was the approach.  You were driving down a regular street and the pavement suddenly turned into brick.  For some reason, at age 16 I used to say, "It's like living in Paris."  I'd certainly never been to Paris.  In fact, I hadn't been much further than Grand Rapids.  I don't remember learning anything about Paris at school.  I don't remember seeing any movies about Paris.  Where does a hick from Ada learn that there are cobblestone streets in Paris?  (You're right.  In Uptown they were brick.  But I guess it was the next best thing.)  So, you're driving along and you feel the bump and rumble of the bricks under the tires.  "It's like living in Paris," I'd say.  Every single time.

And now what do I say when I ride my bike home through Place de la Bastille?  The regular paved street suddenly turns into cobblestone.  This time it's real cobblestone.  I feel the bump and rumble under the tires.  It actually rings my bell.  "It's like living in Paris," I say to myself.  And then I laugh (out loud).  "I AM living in Paris," I say.  Every single time.