French Letters 004

Back from the USA as I continue my ping-pong volley across the Atlantic. Montana to Virginia to Paris in 1½ giant steps, trying not to give the appearance of a bon vivant, but neither a mechant vivant.

Back to the Marais I left less than a month ago, to take advantage of a friend’s generosity before her apartment is rented for the coming year. Back, it seems, to where I left off weather-wise, a steady drizzle and bone-numbing cold. The kind of day that makes you wish you were in London! The kind of day where even reprobates like myself carry, and use, an umbrella. The kind of day that gives you an excuse to have a glass of wine at 10am, returning from the marche bedraggled, besodden (not yet besotted), yet fortified with brie, bleu d’Auvergne, several odd-shaped chevres, a lettuce for one Euro, twice the size of the one at the Leesburg Farmer’s Market that cost $5.50, assorted olives, farm butter cut from a 20 lb. block, walnuts for the salad, and a tradition noix, a bagette festooned with nuts.


For several decades and more the friend mentioned above has with exceptional generosity made various digs around the city available for visits of varying length. I first signed on as a cat-sitter, but when Petit Gris and Chat Botte departed for their grande somme in that great sandbox in the sky, I became just a sitter.

This friend has asked nothing in return save the occasional request to transport small items unavailable in France. In earlier days when our homeland didn’t require securing, this was a chore of no moment, but now with miscellaneous agents rummaging through tightly packed valises, how does one explain 5 changes of underwear and 15 packages of Butter Lover’s popcorn? Bounce (the stuff women put in dryer’s to make freshly laundered clothing…bounce?...) caused a raised eyebrow or two in voyages past. Yet miraculously this trip the 3 pounds of bacon and two loaves of raison bread did not set off bells at either end of the trip. I had visions of replacing the infamous Richard Reid – the shoe bomber -- as the diabolical chemist who discovered the volatile connection between pig and raison, and terrorized the civilized world therewith.

I was treated to one mild day where the sun considered making an appearance then demurred. Then we were back to damp and dank. Stayed on the 96 bus past St. Germain des Pres when drizzle turned to serious rain. Near Montparnasse a group of 8 Spanish teenage lasses (i.e. teenage lasses speaking Spanish) ascended, surrounding me with intermittent giggles and comments on my hat (which Europeans appear to associate with gangsterism).

As I was clearly the center of attention, I felt the need to do something, and so began humming, semi soto voce the Beatles “Yellow Submarine,” quite uncharacteristic for one who eschews public displays of anything. Soon they were all in the act (much louder than I), including an enthusiastic 6-year old several rows away, whose mortified grandma tried unsuccessfully to shush him into silence. It sounded something like “dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine, dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine"...reprise.

As the bus approached its terminus at Montparnasse and I descended, the happy chorus followed, like nubile serpents trailing St. Patrick out of Dublin. For a moment I wondered whether I had acquired this appendage for some extended period, but the sound dwindled, and as I turned they were waving good-bye. Not only in Paris, but not too often elsewhere.

Today snow is predicted, but the sun is out casting brilliance and warmth across the Marais. But wait, I see a cloud...it's now snowing, I swear...a full 10 minutes from sunshine to neige.

…the adventure continues…