bicicletta:beecheecletta, bici:bc, velo:vaylow

This morning when I went out to get my bike it was locked in by some construction workers.  Really.  They built a little blockade around it and they were breaking up the concrete underneath it.  I walked right up like I owned the bike, which I kind of do, and told them in my best French that it was my bike and I needed it.  They said I couldn't have it. At least that's what I thought they said.  So I said some more stuff that I'm sure made about as much sense to them as the stuff they said to me.   I really didn't want to take the metro.  Yes.  The metro signs are cool.  And some of the stations are even cool.  I especially love the giant billboards down below.  But, I hate the metro and I really wanted to ride my bike.

I wasn't sure if they were joking when they said I couldn't have it.  I haven't mastered the intricacies of the language well enough to actually understand a little teasing. So, I held my ground (which I still had!  They were the ones standing in a big hole)  and said something that made one of them ask me if I was Spanish.  I said no, but I said that I spoke Spanish.  We continued a bit in French and then one of them said he would help me get my bike out for one euro.  At this point, I got the joke.  I handed over my keys and he unlocked the u-lock and gave the keys back.  I said that there was another lock and he said it would be another euro.  I'd actually have been willing to pay this to stay off the metro.

He got the bike unlocked and had to lift it over the blockade and hand it to me.  So, my bike was set free and I was set free and thanked them with a "grazie mille."  That's when one of them said, (in Italian), "Why didn't you just say you were Italian in the first place?  This would have all been much easier."  Arrivaderci!

I just couldn't 'shoes' what I wanted to do

I didn't think I'd fall for it.  I went to the cafe this morning looking for advice on what to do all day.  I said I'd just do whatever they suggested.  I threw a few ideas out there.  Museums with a high concentration of watercolor paintings, little towns an hour or so away on the train where I could just go for a walk, galleries, dance performances?  "You name it,"  I said.  I just wanted something to do.

What they couldn't understand was why I wasn't going shopping.  People actually come to Paris this time of year for the sales.  They're huge.  Every store has signs about the discounts.  SOLDES!  That's what they're called in French.  Which is really kind of funny because "soldi" means money in Italian and reduction (of money) in French.  The sales started a couple of weeks ago and I think they last for six weeks.  Then it happens all over again in July.  It's kind of like the day after Christmas for six weeks twice a year.  Anyway, I told them that I wasn't much of a shopper and that when I do shop it's usually for second-hand clothes which is called d'occasion in French which I love the sound of.  I really have the perfect clothes for every d'occasion.

Okay, so I didn't really just accept the first suggestions offered by my cafe mates.  The Louvre seemed a little too predictable.  Musee Rodin?  Been there.  The Petit Palais?  It sounded better and it was suggested by a man wearing a Barbour and round tortoise glasses, both of which he has probably owned forever.  I'll go.

And for the evening?  Olivier showed up with a little booklet that comes out once a week with updates on theatre, cinema, expos, enfants.  Why did it take four months for this gem to fall into my hands?  (And I still haven't stopped to look up enfants.  Kids for sale?)  Anyway, I asked him to find me a dance performance.  He went to the dance section and handed me the book.  I said, "No.  Just pick something and I'll go."  I can hardly tell the difference between the name of the show, the name of the theater and the name of the street, so it would be much easier to follow instructions.

Voila! By 11:30 a.m. my day was planned and I set off on foot to find the Petit Palais.  What I'm realizing is that you really see a lot more on two feet than on two wheels.  I'm becoming quite familiar with stoplight surroundings on my bike since it seems I'm sitting there for hours,  but the rest of Paris is still kind of whizzing by.  So, a seven-hour walk was just what I needed.  But....that's how they got me.

I could successfully walk past almost everything.  Then I saw a window full of wing tips, looked up, saw the name, Albaladejo, and said au revoir to the Petit Palais and bonjour to Frederic (it looks and sounds better with the accents on the "e's".)  I bought one of my favorite pairs of shoes from this shop in Madrid 8 years ago.  Then I saw the store in Paris 6 years ago, but I didn't buy any.  Came back to Paris in May of 2010 and couldn't find the store.  Came back in September 2010 and couldn't find the store.  And on a grey day in January of 2011 the store found me and I found two really cool pairs of shoes.

As for the rest of my day?  I walked.  It's fun to walk swinging a shopping bag from a store you've been searching for for 8 years.  As for the dance?  I decided to go find the theater and see if I could buy a ticket early for tonight's performance.  Yes.  I could buy a ticket early, but it would be for Tuesday's performance because there were none left for tonight.

So, how am I going to tell the gang I didn't take any of their suggestions?  I think they'll understand.  Just in case they won't, I'll spend the rest of the evening translating this piece from Dr. Seuss into French:

You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes. (your  Albaladejos)

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.

You're on your own and you know what you know.

And you are the one who'll decide where you'll go.

Oh the places you'll go.

Scoot around the world

I haven't actually scooted that much.  But I'd have to say I'm one of the biggest fans of Vespas, mopeds, Lambrettas and little motorcycles that I know.  I don't think I can describe it without sounding really nuts, so I'm not going to try.  Just let it be known.....I love the things.

Did I mention my quick trip to Belgium in December?  Sometimes when I'm facing a weekend alone in Paris I just don't want to do it.  It seems long and lonely and cold.  So, I call a friend and jump on the next plane or train and go for a visit.  (I'd jump on a Vespa if I had one.)

In December I fled to Brussels.  It was my third visit.  But it was my first Vespa ride.  Mamma mia!  I don't know how to say that in Flemish or I would.  We went for a two-hour ride with two two-hour smiles.

I guess I have the same attitude about scooters as I do my convertible.  Wear warm clothes and  have fun. That's what Santa Claus does, right? And that's what we did.  Brussels by 1983 Vespa with an adorable Spanish girl, Christmas decorations and purple shoes was right up there with the moped in Cozumel, the scooter in Croatia and the moto in Procida.  I'm still waiting for the Lambretta in Italia!

A Sweet Life

I've made a mistake.  It's a good one.  Les Petites Ecolieres, my home away from home, is in fact, Les Petits Ecoliers.  What's the difference?  One is the name of the French porn that I mentioned before.  And the other simply means "The Schoolboys".  As pleased as I was to have become a regular at the porn cafe, I'm more pleased to have become a regular at the cafe for the schoolboys.  I'm happy to have been welcomed (although some of the drunks don't really like me) and surprisingly enough, I seem to be learning a little bit from these boys.

A few days ago, the discussion was about happiness.  What does it mean to be happy?  One conclusion was that you have to be either really stupid or really smart to be happy.  If you're really stupid, you don't know any better and you just float through life being happy. ( Is that a bad thing?)  And if you're really smart, maybe you've figured it all out.  I'm not sure there are many of those.  That left the rest of us in the middle.  Are we happy?

According to one important member of the group, he's pleased to have one little bit of happiness a day.  It's enough.  And it really doesn't have to be much.  If he collects all of those little moments along the way, he looks back and feels happy.  It's quite a nice idea, really.  Don't worry about when the next happy moment will come and  don't dwell on the unhappy things that have come and gone.  Just keep collecting the little bits of joy and in the end, you'll have happiness.

These little schoolboys are kind of smart, no?

It gets better.  I spent nearly two hours in the cafe that morning and talked about two hours worth of other nonsense (that I probably didn't understand because it was all in French).  Loads of customers came and went and I stayed planted on my stool for the next lesson.  Olivier worked around me clearing tables and washing dishes.  On one of his trips back to the bar he had a little tube of sugar tightly wound to indicate that only half had been used and it was still fresh and reusable.  It struck me as odd.  In the first place, who can use only half a tube of sugar?  I can only hope that this was the leftover from the consumption of a tube and a half.  Also, how much can half of a 3 inch tube of sugar be worth?  Then came the lesson.  He keeps a jar of sugar behind the bar.  He took the lid off, unwound the nicely wound little tube and poured it in.  It was far less sugar than could fill a one minute timer for BOGGLE, but he poured it in and said, "It's like happiness.  If I keep getting a little bit everyday,  in the end I'll have enough to make a cake."

Most hidden treasures are in the basement

I knew if I went back to Chicago and some of you knew about the huge Monet exhibit that was in Paris while I was in Paris and you knew that I didn't go, you'd think I was nuts.  Actually, I'd kind of think I was nuts, too.  So, I went.  I mean, I tried to go.

Don't ask me how I got Musee de l'Orangerie in my head, but I did.  I'm a member of Musee d'Orsay and with that comes a membership to a few other things.  One of which I thought was where the huge Monet exhibit was.

Well, there's a huge Monet exhibit at Musee de l'Orangerie, that's for sure.  But I didn't see it at first.  I waved my membership card and headed downstairs.  There were no big posters or fancy signs directing me to the special exhibit, I just thought I'd find it.  I didn't have a lot of time, so I whizzed through the galleries passing Renoirs, Picassos, and Gauguins like they were in my living room.  I just wanted to find the Monet.  I felt like a real tourist that needed to cross something off the list.

When I couldn't find the exhibit, I asked for help.  I was directed back upstairs.  When I got there, I saw a sign that said,  "Please remain silent."  What?  At an art exhibit?  I honestly thought for a minute that maybe Monet was so important in Paris that he deserved it.  I entered.  Slowly and quietly.  Yes, there were huge Monet paintings, but not a huge Monet exhibit.  They were gigantic.  I thought this was just the opening to the rest of the show.  And I thought it was super cool because the building seemed to be made for these paintings.  There were curved walls with giant paintings going from one end to the other and curving right along with the wall.  Again, I walked through the room quickly, looking for the real  treasures.  It only led to another room, more curved walls and more huge paintings.  And then, there was no way out.  I could only walk back through the two rooms that had already been walked through on the way in.  Where was the exhibit?  I asked.  In French.  And I was told, in French, that this space was built for these paintings and the whole 'please be silent' thing was part of it all and that the special exhibit that I was looking for was actually at Le Grand Palais which would be closed by the time I got there.  And.... the exhibit would be packing up by the time I got home from Italy.  C'est la vie.

Anyway,  I was thrilled to go back downstairs and enjoy this museum filled with all of the guys we've heard of in one room, for no special occasion.  They're just together there because it's a museum in Paris and they're always there, in the basement.  They're not part of a special exhibit that I have to see just because I'm here. I can come back any time I want to and flash my membership card and hang out with them.

Cheers

I don't want another hot tea.  I don't want another cold peach Lipton.  I don't want Diet Coke.  I  don't want water.  And I don't want wine.  But, I do want a little more time at Les Petites Ecolieres.  That's my neighborhood cafe where they still don't know my name, but they call me La Americana.  And I like that because every cafe should have an Americana.  (Or is that an Americano?)

Anyway, today I really felt like I have a little home away from home.  I've been going there most mornings for the past month or so.  Sometimes I go after work, too.  There's actually not much of a difference in the clientele.  They're drinking wine at 7:00 p.m. and they're drinking wine at 8:00 a.m.  No kidding.  You've got the occasional guy coming in for a cappuccino and you've got the more than occasional guy (and gal) coming in for a glass of wine before work.  Actually, it's probably not before work.  It's probably just before they leave to go to the next bar down the street.

What finally clicked today?  I went in the morning and had hot tea.  That's when I decided I couldn't have another one.  I'm not sure what I'm going to do tomorrow morning.  I'll worry about that later.  Anyway, this evening I had my first private English lesson.  I was coming from a museum and going right past home.  I had an extra 30 minutes.  Should I go up the 110 stairs just to kill a little time, or should I go see Olivier at Les Petites Ecolieres?  Olivier seemed like a better choice.  First I wanted to check to see if he was alone.  If he wasn't, I would have just waved.  I pulled up with my bike and he saw me and he was alone.  I gestured that I'd go lock my bike and I'd be right back and he gestured that I could bring it inside.  Voila!  My home away from home.  A place where I can go kill 30 minutes and bring my bike in?!  Might I remind you I'm in a Parisian cafe?

But still, the problem of the beverage.  I didn't want anything.  Are the guys on Cheers always drinking something, or sometimes do they just stop to say hi?  Then I remembered the cold milk with mint that I'd had at a house in Italy.  Olivier just happened to have the two necessary ingredients (neither of which complement wine very well, so I'm not sure why he has them).  Stir it up with a sexy stirrer and I felt like a real grown-up stopping in my neighborhood cafe for an aperitif.  Yeah, yeah, it was a mint milk.  And it was in a giant tumbler.  Tomorrow I'll ask for a different glass.  But I hope it still comes with the nude lady.  I saw a rainbow of them just like her behind the bar.

And one more thing.  I had to google how to spell Les Petites Ecolieres.  In addition to finding the correct spelling, I think I've found the origin of the cafe's name.  It's a 1980 French porn. It sounds better in French, un film pornographique francais.  And it's my home away from home where I drink milk after school.

I can't hide, some things I just don't know

Call me the biggest dork in the world when you're done reading this if you want to.  In the meantime, just read it.

I've decided to start taking my camera with me every time I leave home.  I was especially happy to have it one rainy day last week.  It was the kind of day most people would take the train instead of ride their bikes and they certainly wouldn't be stopping along the way to take photos.  I suppose that's where the desire to call me a dork begins.

So, I was pedaling down Boulevard Beaumarchais.  It's a beautiful street lined with huge trees on both sides.  I was stopped at a red light. (I really was.)  Then I saw this tree.  It was gorgeous!  A million shades of green and shiny in the rain.  And......it looked just like camouflage.  Okay.  I always thought camouflage was just a pattern made out of the colors of nature and if you wore it you'd kind of blend in.  Who knew that it was actually designed exactly after one of these trees in Paris?!  (I suppose you did.  And I suppose you also knew that these trees are probably all over the world.  Maybe even in Chicago and I just never noticed them.  Whatever.)  Since it seemed I'd have hours to kill waiting for this light, I took a picture so I could show you just how well you'd blend in if you wore your camo in Paris.

And the amazement doesn't stop there.  It's true.  I've always wondered about the grey camouflage.  Guess what?  The next day when it wasn't raining, the trees were grey.  Don't think for a minute that I won't be spending my last few months in Paris looking for the blue trees. 

A Seine-sational Soiree

A rock concert.  On a boat.  On the Seine.  I wouldn't say that I actually enjoyed the music.  But,  I'd have to say, riding my bike up to a bright red boat along the Seine, locking up and crossing the gangplank is something I'll always remember.  I'm probably getting a little old to say that it was awesome, but it was awesome.  In fact, I haven't had my hand stamped for a long time and when I passed it to the doorman I was a little nervous that he hadn't seen one like that lately and he might just pass it back.

The concert was a little competition.  There were five groups performing.  I knew a couple of guys in one of the groups.  They're adorable (17 and 21, maybe) and they invited me, so I went.  I'd have to say, of the five groups, my friends were the best.  When you enter you're given a handful of little styrofoam balls.  There are five tubes along the wall with dixie cups at the end of each.  Each tube has a band's name on it and you drop in your balls to vote for your favorite band.  I'll admit, for all I know this is totally common at home and of no interest on a French blog, but it was new to me.  And don't forget, it was a rock concert.  On a boat.  On the Seine.

There's not much else to tell.  I think I was most entertained by the long, sweaty hair being thrown around.  I just kept thinking about the three-year-old boys that I know and wondering how they ever go from being those sweet little boys banging on toy drums in footie pajamas to these tattoed, long-haired rock stars in black t-shirts.  Then I asked myself.  Is it any different than a ringleted six-year-old girl playing house with an Easy-Bake Oven turning into an almost dreadlocked 40-something going to a rock concert on her bike on the Seine and stopping for McDonald's at midnight?  Maybe not.  

It's not easy to pretend you don't speak French

I told you a few days ago that I always start my conversations with strangers telling them that I don't speak French very well and then continuing a lengthy conversation in French.  The last time I wrote it, it kind of made me laugh.  Well, when you tell a police officer that you don't speak French (without the "very well" part) you probably shouldn't continue in French.

It's true.  Less than a week after I found out about the 90 euro bike ticket, I was stopped by a couple of COWS. (That's what I call police officers on bikes.  Cops on Wheels.)  After going through yet another red light and beginning my journey down a one way street the wrong way I heard some frantic whistle blowing.  Wait, that sentence should start with "After looking around for policemen, then going through yet another red light..."  Apparently I didn't do a very good job of looking for the officers.  The whistles were for me.

I panicked.  I decided to say that I didn't speak French thinking that they might not know what to do with me.  Luckily, they didn't speak English.  Stupidly, I offered Italian and they didn't speak that either.  They asked if I understood the rules of the road and gestured to the one way street.  I pointed to the train station that I had almost illegally reached and said that I didn't know how else to get there.  Then I'd realized that I was speaking French and it was actually hard not to.  That was a strange one.  Finally I'd had the words that I'd wanted on the tip of my tongue and I couldn't use them.

A bit more gesturing and a pat on the arm (who do you suppose did the patting?) and I was released.  They told me that I had to go around the block and they stopped traffic to allow me to make a legal u-turn.  Off I rode stopping at the next three red lights, with 90 euros in my wallet, and enough time to catch the train to Versailles for a lunch of lentils and fish wrapped in bacon!

An Epiphany that will last a lifetime

Sometimes I think I can only find little village life in little villages in undeveloped parts of the world.  Last week I found it in Italy. 

I hate to admit it, but when I was home for Christmas I was at an Olive Garden (it's true) and we googled "Epifania". Sometimes I think our little phones and ipods have all of the answers, but it took`more than a trip to the Olive Garden in Michigan City to learn about this one. It took a trip to Italy to find out what really goes on for the Epifania. 

Christmas trees keep being lit, Christmas music keeps being played, and people keep eating Pandoro and Panetone (those are the boxed cakes that I always thought were fruit cake until I tried one and two and three and now know that I will miss them when they are gone).  The Christmas spirit lasts until January 6 when the Italians have another day off and Befana comes.  Befana is kind of like Santa Claus.  Other than the fact that she's an ugly old woman and until I just regoogled it, I would've said she was a witch.  She comes on a broom and leaves stockings with treats for the kids. But that's not the best part.

All over Italy they have gigantic bonfires.  GIGANTIC!  It's the only day of the year that you are allowed to burn brush.  Some people do it in their yards and have little parties.  (Like a bonfire for New Year's Eve in Grand Beach.)  Farmers do it in their fields.  Small towns do it in their town centers.  I wanted to write piazza there, but I didn't actually see one in a piazza.

Fortunately for me, the bonfire was a night early in one little town and I was lucky enough to be driving by and see the spray painted sheet tied up between two trees announcing that the fire was on the 5th at 20:00.  We stopped for the lighting!   Befana was stuffed like a scarecrow at the top of a 20-foot pile of brush.  (She's burned to burn the bad things of the old year and wish for the best in the new year.) They lit the bottom in several different places and then it took off.  It was awesome.  Different people from the neighborhood came with food and hot wine and set up card tables and chairs to make a night of it.  I was on my way to a friend's house to eat yet another Pandoro and watch "Il Diavolo Veste Prada" so we didn't stay long.  But on the way back it was still burning and we stopped to feel the real heat. 

In the middle of nowhere I saw another little sign that said Befana was arriving on the 6th at 14:00.  It was nailed to a telephone pole on a tiny little street by a creek.  Exactly where she was arriving, I didn't know.  But, the next day I heard a bit of noise around 14:00.  I went outside to check and there was a parade of tractors pulling floats and playng music.  The neighbors gathered again with a card table and hot wine and Befana handed out presents to the kids!  If you were behind the parade in a car, you had no place to go.  It was a one lane road in the middle of nowhere.  How they picked this spot for her arrival is beyond me, but I'm glad I was there!

That night we went to town.  Their bonfire was in the big lot next to the church. It was in the same place that the market comes and sets up every Wednesday and Saturday.  Again, the hot wine.  But they also had cotton candy and crepes.  I think this holiday was made for me.

Two days later (two rainy days later, I might add) the fire was still smoldering.  And four days later, when I got back to Paris and unpacked my suitcase I couldn't identify the smell.  Then I had my own epiphany....my clothes still smelled like Italy on the 6th of January.  And I couldn't have been happier.

"He got two tickets to ride and he don't care"

A lot of you have seen my disgustingly dirty little dictionaries.  Many of you have asked why I don't get new ones.  There's something about a nice, dirty, well-used one.  If you've ever thought a new one might make a nice gift, don't think about it anymore.  Part of the reason they are so dirty is the cross-referencing.  Once I look up a new word, it always leads me to something else and I can't stop myself.  Just like I can't stop myself at a red fire.

A red fire?  It's easy to figure out in context, but a bit more difficult without.  So, I already knew what the guy was trying to say, but I came home and cross-referenced anyway.  He was talking about a red light.  So, first I went to the "t's" for traffic. (Did you think I would go to the "l's" for light?)  When you get there it leads you to "traffic lights."  The word for that in French is "feux."  Then, instead of just stopping and being content with the fact that traffic lights are feux, I had to look up feux.  And.....voila!  What is a feu?  (no x on that one)  It's a fire!  What is a red fire?  It's a red light.  This guy would have been better off with no cross-referencing and sticking to the fact that traffic lights are feux instead of going to the next step and making his own translation.  Although, it's quite sweet, don't you think?

So, I was running in the rain this morning and I was pretty sure I passed a guy that had been pulled over on his bike.  You know the feeling you have when you're sitting in your car on the side of the road and the police are behind you in their car and you feel like everyone going by is looking at you, so you scrunch down a little in your seat to hide?  Well, there's nowhere to scrunch when you're on your bike in the rain and the police are behind you in their little truck with the blue light flashing. You just stand there getting soaked and hope it"s over soon.  The last thing you're hoping for is a dumb American girl to come up and start asking you questions.  But, you win some, you lose some.  Or in his case, you just lose some.

I had to know what happened.  So, in my normal fashion I said that I didn't speak French very well and asked if he spoke English.  He said, "Yes, a little" like they always do.  And then, as usual, I continued in bad French anyway.  Yes.  He really was pulled over on his bike.  He'd gone through a red fire.  It was 90 euros!  That's $120 for a bike ticket.  He warned me that if it ever happened to me to lie and say that I don't have a driver's license.  You can get points taken from your driver's license for a bike offense exactly the same as for a driving offense.  But, you don't need a license to ride a bike, so you lie.  That's just about when the three officers got back out of their little truck to present him with his ticket and I said, "Au revoir.  Be careful."

As you may have guessed, I promised myself on the way to school that I would not go through another red fire.  I've been looking at the people for three months just sitting there and I've always thought, "You're crazy.  There's no traffic.  Just go."  Well, I had decided to become one of the crazies.  But, it didn't work.  At the second light this morning (No, I'm lying.  I'm not kidding....it was the FIRST one!) I stopped and looked and then went through.  This was seconds after I'd reminded myself I wasn't going to do it anymore.  In fact, I'd left early to give myself extra time for all of these red fires.  The second light, I went through.  The third light, I caught myself and laughed and stopped.  It's not an easy habit to break.

I've decided that I've got to turn this into a game.  (I'm accepting suggestions.)  Count in French while I wait?  Pull out my camera and take a few pictures while I wait?  Have a list of new words in my pocket to learn while I wait?  The cross-referencing would keep me busy enough.

I hadn't come up with the game yet for the ride home and I caught myself going through the fires again.  It's bizarre.  I was cracking up.  So, near the end of my ride I decided to talk to the guy on the bike next to me while we waited.  The usual, "I don't speak French very well blah, blah, blah".  I just wanted to know if it was common.  Apparently, it is.  He's the first guy I asked and he's paid two 90 euro tickets.  We waited for the fire to go out and he said, "Au revoir.  Be careful." I kept my eye on him and he went through the next three fires.  He always looked back and smiled.  He got two tickets to ride and he don't care!